Kat2212

Way Over 18 | Canadian | Loving Fan Fiction | Capt Syverson

[mirrormauve]

faultlines

simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader | soulmate!au | 18.8k (oops)

Ghost didn’t want a soulmate, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either.

cw; soulmate!au in which soulmates share scars, references to self-harm, lots of talk about scars, angst, fluff, references to domestic abuse and past violence, references to simon's past, descriptions of pain, military inaccuracies, miscommunication, touch aversion, reallllly slow slowburn, ghost being sort of really bad and weird at affection

Simon didn’t remember how he got every scar on his body. 

The big ones, the important ones, sure. He remembered them all too well, even through the haze of pain and fatigue that often hung thickly around their reception. 

But there were too many to account for. To remember the particulars of each slash and burn and gunshot wound was a losing battle. He’d long since given up on keeping track of them. Little lines on the sides of his fingers, stretchmarks on the backs of his biceps, winged fans of a burn on the side of his thigh, a pale line along the point of his elbow that he might as well have been born with.

There were ones from further back, too. Scars that time and pain had eroded the precision of the memory, but not the feeling. Cigarette burns on his forearms, a necklace of animal teeth on his side, a craggy line across his hip, accompanied by the shadowy memory of hand reaching for him, and not being quick enough to duck out of the way. 

They all meshed together into the hard patchwork of scar and muscle his body had wrought itself into.

Almost none of them could be helped, out of his control, out of his hands.

They were a catalogue of his life, a story traced on his skin.

Stamped, more like. Branded. 

Survived. 

And soulmates shared scars. 

Their hurt was his; his hurt was theirs. Literally or metaphorically, he wasn’t quite sure. Simon had so many, spent so much time in pain, it was impossible to know if any of them didn’t belong to him originally.  

He didn’t like the thought of someone sharing his scars, having felt what he did. Possessive of them and the pain in a strange way. 

It’s ironic, then, that he should be able to find his soulmate more easily than the average unmarred person, and wanted to do nothing of the sort. Simon dismissed the whole thing as drivel a long time ago, anyway. If they did exist, if they weren’t just incredibly rare instances of luck, Simon was sure that he hadn’t been afforded one. 

There was guilt, too, settled somewhere deep inside him, that someone had to endure it alongside him. It was easier to believe he’d been left out of the whole thing. 

Better he was alone. 

The likelihood of finding that person was slim. It almost never happened. Eight or so billion people swanning around the planet would do that. A one in eight billion chance. 

A grand, cosmic joke. The unfairness of it drove some people crazy, drove them to do insane things to increase a probability that couldn’t be altered—to know that person probably existed somewhere and yet know that they would probably never run across them.

A trend of self harm cropped up online every few years, healed over self inflected wounds posted in forums of people seeking their other, fated, half. The presumption being that they were being desperately searched for in turn.  

Idiotic. Determined. Fallibly human.

And taboo. Most saw it as circumventing fate. 

Violently frantic for the thing Ghost had been unwillingly given. A way to find them, or, at least, easily identify them. And he never would. 

But, sometimes, he wondered. 

He tried to picture the imprint of a person somewhere out in the world wearing his wounds, suffering his losses. The thought would circle his brainstem in an unrelenting loop, a bright fish whispering around the perimeter of its bowl before it dissipated in lieu of something more pressing. 

It was always there, though, waiting to be grappled with again. 

He always came up blank. Nothing but a shadow in his mind where a person should be. Fitting, typical.  

It was a cruelty he couldn’t imagine, somehow. Someone being fatefully, inescapably afflicted with him. 

Simon didn’t want a soulmate anyway, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either. 

If there was someone out there, someone wandering around with his scars on their skin, he was certain they hated him already. 

He didn’t particularly believe in fate; life had taught him not to. He believed in himself, his capabilities, planning and contingencies. And Simon didn’t relish the thought of something he couldn’t control, someone holding the other end of his corded, deformed soul, like a leash they could tighten and use to yank him to his knees. Compromised, vulnerable. 

It wouldn’t happen; the margin for discovery was so small it was practically nonexistent. 

He blamed Soap, then, for tempting fate.

Ghost listened to Johnny yammer on, the sound of his voice louder than usual in the rattling dark belly of the transport plane home. The glow of green light, the roar of engines, the jangle of gear. 

It was an irritating, and sometimes endearing, quirk of Johnny’s that he couldn’t stop talking in the post-op cortisol and adrenaline drop, his words a smeared haze of jumbled thoughts spoken aloud for hours afterward.

The notion of a soulmate was at the front of Soap’s mind, not for the first time. He’d always seemed to enjoy the idea of it, and find some comfort in it, particularly after a close call. There was someone waiting for him, somewhere, after all, it couldn’t all come to nothing yet.   

Simon glanced out the window, watched the sea below morph into land. 

A yellow network of light winked below, a sea of reverse stars swimming in the black.

“Lucky that way, Lt,” Johnny declared with finality, finally winding down, sounding exhausted. “Findin’ ‘em will be easier.” 

Ghost glanced over, the first time in nearly an hour that he’d acknowledged the conversation beyond a hum and a nod. “What do you mean?” 

Soap gestured to his scarred chin, then his temple. “Know ‘em straight away, wouldn’t I?”  

Simon’s own thoughts spoken out loud; his hopes to never see his own scars reflected back at him turned on its head. 

Johnny made it sound like a good thing, instead of the nightmare it was. 

No, he thought for the nth time in his life, not that, not for him. 

But he’d always had an extraordinary knack for beating the odds. 

.

.

.

The base was a constant flurry of activity, a relentlessly buzzing hive of people. There were very few places that skirted away from the general chaos of life on a military base, but Simon had catalogued them all—the field behind the barracks when drills were not being run, the concrete service walkways beneath the base, crowded with spiderwebs and dust, the cool, sterile medical wing, and, the orderly administration offices. 

Each place had caveats. 

The service walkways were the most reliably quiet, but Simon hated being underground, hated the claustrophobia of it, like some part of him would always be clawing at black earth, and so usually avoided it. 

Soap had found him smoking behind the barracks once and now regularly joined Simon there. 

The medical wing could be crowded and frenzied, depending on the day. 

The administration offices were practically serene in comparison. Neat file folders, tidy desks, windows that let in the watery, gray English sun. Square offices with their doors propped open, conference rooms bathed in the light of glowing intel reports, data convergences, and map overlays, uniform gray walls and floors. 

The admin wing only occasionally spasmed into restless activity if an emergency op was underway or about to be, and if that happened, Ghost was usually already swept up in it himself, probably already long gone. 

A spare office stuffed away at the end of the hall with the name plate removed technically belonged to him. A mostly unused space he sometimes finished reports in but, more often than not, sat empty. 

He preferred to haunt the corridors, observe the more peaceful, inner workings of the military, breathing in the quiet air for five minutes at a time. It gave his perpetually over taxed nervous system, his forever-in-fight-or-flight-mode body, to relax, if even it was only an increment or two. The lightning was softer, the constant bark of orders and drills, the snap of gunfire, the general loudness of the rest of the place, was muted and far away.

Simon knew of all of the staff and their precuilarities—names, ages, birthdates, minor feuds among each other, immediate family members, previous posts, favorite foods, habits, complaints about the building’s irregular temperatures and the pervasive scent of diesel. It wasn’t information he necessarily collected on purpose. Gleaned over years of half heard conversations, glimpses of photos on desks. They, like the medical staff, didn’t often change, not like the revolving door of soldiers and operators. 

It was a regular, routine, quiet place. 

So it would be difficult for even the most oblivious person not to notice when the familiar order of the place was interrupted. 

Soft, dandelion light flooded the hall from a doorway that had always before been shut tight.

The scent of an unfamiliar perfume lingered in the hall in a feathery streak, oakmoss and lavender. It settled hard in his lungs, made his footsteps slow slightly, caution prickling at the back of his neck. 

The click of ceramic being sat on wood, the soft shuffle of files, tapping of computer keys emanated from within the now open office. The faintest notes of bubblegum pop floated by, at odds with the chill, still air. 

Inside, you were hidden behind two massive computer monitors, the very top of a pair of lilac headphones just visible over the rim. Plants in colorful painted terracotta pots lined the window to your left absorbing what they could of pale winter light, a thick blanket was thrown over the back of a chair in the corner, a jumble of bright, hand crocheted squares. A brass floor lamp with a circular shade sat behind your desk and drooped forward like the antenna of a giant radio, or a bug, casting a delicate halo of light around you like a protective ward. 

There was something. . .lambent that emanated around the room, that had nothing to do with the ridiculous lamp. 

Simon hovered in the doorway, in the shadow of the dim hall, just to get a glimpse of your face. Start a mental file on you, begin his careful catalog. Something to match the color and light to. 

It was a surprise to you both, then, when you glanced up and caught him at it. 

You stood hastily, headphones sliding down your neck when the cord jerked taut, the tinny sound of pop echoing loudly from them until you slammed your fingers down onto the keyboard and silence descended abruptly. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t see you there. Can I help you with something?” 

Simon could only stare at you, a curl of dread snaking its way between his ribs. 

Johnny was right, then, he would know his own scars anywhere. 

He would know his own face anywhere. 

He would, apparently, know you anywhere. 

Your face was a faded mapping of his own, the same scarring traced with a lighter hand. The same crack over your lips, a line drawn across your cheek, a faded check through your brow, the bridge of your nose bisected, the outline of webbed burn scars crosshatched at the edge of your jaw and shoulder. A jagged, thick line crossed your throat. 

Despite his legacy marring your face, you were pretty. Beautiful, even, with curious, cautious eyes, one side of your mouth pulled up into a half grin that tugged at the line across your cheek and somehow didn’t ruin the brightness of it. 

You were watching him watch you with a tentative gaze, brows drawing slowly together the longer he stood there staring at you, breathing around the newly minted cavern under his lungs. 

His eyes met yours again, and as soon as the realization settled in, something clicked violently into place inside his chest, like a missing rib bone had suddenly slotted into the cage around his heart. 

Pain bloomed hot and tight across his chest, so acute he covered his side, expecting to find a knife inexplicably lodged there. He grunted mutely. The discomfort receded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a vast hollow just beneath his breast bone. Cavernous, lurching, undone. 

The hollow hardened into a solid brick of pain. 

Nausea swept into the back of his throat. 

“Are you okay?” 

He was frozen in the direct line of fire. Your eyes swept over him, fingers curling around a folder on the edge of your desk which you thumbed nervously. You began to lift your other hand, an aborted half movement toward your face that you dropped at the last second. But you didn’t avert your gaze. You looked past the mask, past him, and into his eyes. 

You saw him. 

Simon was not to be seen.

Ghost didn’t get caught, didn’t freeze. 

Didn’t feel like an animal trapped in a cage, pinned and weak and panicked. 

Not anymore. 

He was a ghost, a shadow, a silent—

The silence unspooled, thin and fragile as unraveling lace. 

Your smile widened, a slow, confident thing that stretched across your face crookedly, pulled at your scarred skin as you tilted your head. It was, maybe, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

“Sir?”

Amusement threaded your voice; a laugh curled like a sleeping animal in your throat. 

Instead of answering, he faded back into the hall.

As he retreated an uncertain realization prodded at the back of his mind. One wonderful contingency. 

You had not felt the shift, the world turning horribly on its axis, the pain that radiated hot as a wildfire. 

You hadn’t recognized what he was. 

And he was going to keep it that way. 

.

.

.

It felt like there was a hook in his chest, slipped right between his ribs, a constant painful tearing that landed him again and again outside your office door. Like he was a fish on a line, and you held the reel in your fist, totally oblivious to it. 

He didn’t love you, that’s not how the soulmate bond worked. You were tied together, for some reason, though that reason remained to be seen. Resentment was all he felt, a burning desire to chew his leg out of this trap, to grip the line that bound you and run a knife through it. 

Better yet, through you. 

Sever the tie as cleanly as a blade through an artery. 

One sure way to free himself was your death. 

It was unusual, but it happened—headlines of a soulmate killing their pair because they couldn’t tolerate the connection. It was taboo, considering how rare the bond was. The link suffocated them, instead of comforting them. 

Simon understood the urge.

He thought of your office, the way your back was angled half toward the door, how easily he could slip in and slice your throat open. He had seen and done worse, but the thought of you lying in a pool of blood, let alone at his hands, was so abhorrent and wrong that he doubled over as an acute, sharp pain pinched between his ribs, like someone wriggling their fingers between the bars to claw at his insides. 

Which irritated him. Things like that didn’t bother him, not anymore. At the very least, he was better at handling discomfort than this. 

It did start him thinking about someone else doing it, though. Slipping quietly into your office and nudging a knife between your ribs, pressing a silenced pistol against your temple, Ghost left to find your cold corpse. 

It was wrong. 

He could feel your life wrapped around his fingers, tangled in little ribbons around his wrists. A pulsing, glowing, bright thing.  

The resentment doubled because he should not care. He didn’t know you, trust you; your death should mean nothing. You should mean nothing.  

Still, he found himself walking the administration wing again the following day, even though the sun was out and it’d be nice to sit behind the barracks and smoke and listen to Johnny rattle on about something or the other when he inevitably showed up. 

Your door was open again, gold light spilling into the corridor, the low flutter of too loud music in your headphones accompanying it. 

Simon would never admit it to himself, but he also needed to know that he could remain hidden from you. The shock of your eyes finding his still hadn’t left him. It had never happened before—not on an op, not about the base, not out among civilians. He blended in, he remained invisible, but you saw him, sensed him, and he needed to know if that was something he had to adjust to. Planning was survival, and you were an unknown factor he needed a method for handling.  

Simon stepped close to your door, out of the beam of light. 

Your office was bathed in soft, cream light but not from your antenna bug lamp. 

Your back was fully turned toward the door, face tilted into the scarce winter sun streaming in the window as you leaned back in your chair. Your eyes were closed, headphones over your ears as he suspected they were. 

Fuuucking hell. 

Couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, back toward the entry point of the room. 

Your life hung there, trusting, fragile as spun crystal. 

He waited, but you didn’t turn, didn’t seem to know he was there. Something in his shoulders uncoiled, tension slowly replaced with an odd sense of calm. The pain in his chest eased for the first time in twenty-four hours, fading to a tender ache. 

Your lunch, half eaten, laid abandoned on your desk. The blanket that had been on the chair in the corner was swaddled around your shoulders. 

You yawned, eyes still closed. 

He waited for you to sense him, glance up, but you seemed unaware of him. He wouldn’t admit it then, but he half hoped you would. 

Ghost backed away, left you to your peace. 

The weight in his chest intensified again.

He hated you for it. 

He went back the next day. 

And the day after that.

.

.

.

Anchor might be a better descriptor. 

Hook was too violent.

Simon knew what it felt like to have a hook between his ribs, and this feeling was not that. 

He was satisfied, after weeks of observation as late winter turned to a wet spring, that you did not have a preternatural sense of his presence. In the process, he learned other things. 

You hated the cold, and your office always seemed to be chillier than you would prefer, blanket perpetually tucked around your shoulders. He watched you fiddle with the radiator one morning, bottom lip caught between your teeth, sigh, and resign yourself to it. He waited for you to complain to your coworkers like everyone else did, to call maintenance to fix it, but you didn’t. 

You liked to sit in the sun, however you could, squinting against the glare of it against your computer screens just to have it on your skin. 

You hunched over your desk, and clearly had pain in your neck and back because of it. 

You often stayed later on base than many of the staff and walked out of the building alone late at night. 

You didn’t drink tea, but politely accepted the tea several different coworkers made for you with the very good intention of showing you a proper cup. You drank every drop as you chatted with them, even though you clearly detested it. It didn’t show, but Simon could tell. He didn’t like that he could, that it was instinctual and nothing else. 

They were also plying you with shit tea, of course you weren’t going to like it. He watched as one bloke let it steep for a full fifteen minutes and then presented you with what must have been the bitterest lukewarm tea to ever pass through the base. An older secretary took the opposite approach and handed you a cup of barely brewed tea with approximately four tablespoons of sugar in. 

Absolutely bloody foul. 

Horrific crimes committed in your name, and you swallowed them with a smile. 

And you smiled a lot. From the tiniest twitch of your lips when you were alone, to a grin so big he could see all your teeth, that your eyes squinched closed. 

You nearly always had headphones on—wired earbuds dangling from the collar of your shirt as you walked down the hall, or over ear headphones looped around your neck at your desk, usually pop, occasionally 70s rock or alternative spitting from the speakers. 

You talked a lot, and your voice carried. One of those truisms about Americans, you could be heard long before you were seen even if you weren’t being particularly loud. He didn’t need to be close to hear you, and he found himself thinking one afternoon good. It would be easier to keep track of you. 

He liked your voice, anyway, liked your laugh, liked to hear you say English phrases in that accent of yours that made them sound ridiculous. 

You could likely give Soap a run for a world record of useless chatter. Anyone who walked into your office was subject to your stream of consciousness if they lingered long enough. 

Lonely, he might have called it. But you were new, to the base, and to the country. Your only connections were those you were attempting to craft with stuffy intelligence officers who sometimes seemed to regard you as below them. 

He found his thoughts drifting to the sound of your voice once he’d left you for the day, replaying things he’d heard you say in the period of observation he allowed himself, like the tune of a lullaby. It calmed him. 

The resentment in his chest festered like a badly healed wound. You were nothing but a distraction, a thorn stabbed into his side, stealing his focus from nearly everything that was more important. 

That used to be more important. 

Now his every thought was asterisked by you. 

Distracted. 

He didn’t do well with it. 

He didn’t like that he could feel the newly rended hole in his chest corroding and throbbing when he wasn’t near you, suffocating him. He’d felt worse in his life, so he could mostly ignore it. 

Simon decided that the nature of the bond was at least neutral. You were not a threat.  

He was tired, anyway, of constantly thinking about your back to the door, your headphones playing too loudly. 

After you left one evening in mid spring, he moved your desk. 

Simon sat in your dark office for longer than he should have, letting the pain ease out of his chest. 

It was enough to be where you had once been. 

That was as close as he cared to be. 

He fixed the radiator before he closed the door again. 

.

.

. 

He went by Ghost, you learned eventually. 

His was a redacted, blacked out name in the files on your computer, so Ghost seemed less a name than a description. You briefly scanned the ops he had been on. It was a horrifyingly long list, most of them totally classified or excised beyond comprehensibility. And those were only the missions you could see, likely his involvement in many ops had been scrubbed entirely. 

It was clear that he was good at his job, though it left you to wonder what he had been doing in the administration wing of the base, let alone peering into your office like a silent wraith. 

It should have been terrifying to find him looming in your doorway. His massive frame had blotted out the corridor behind him. Mostly in black, a skull mask covering his face. You hadn’t been able to see his eyes in the low lighting. But you had only felt curiosity, apprehension, a delicate wrenching in your gut. 

Something that a different person might liken to butterflies. Absolutely absurd, but nonetheless true. 

Fear, afterward, of course, that you’d missed some kind of order or request. 

It had also been a while since someone stared so openly at you, since you’d felt the urge to duck your head, obscure the scars littered across your skin. You never had before, and you wouldn’t have started then. You wore them proudly. Most bore their soulmate’s scars better than their own, and you were no exception. 

It had become a rarity, really, in recent years that anyone spared you more than a glance. Being surrounded by military personnel who had seen worse, might have had worse on their own skin, meant you didn’t stand out.

When you mentioned the incident to Laswell, worried that some kind of disciplinary report, during your first month at this post no less, was headed your way, she had only shook her head. “That’s just Ghost. He probably didn’t say anything. You get used to it.” 

The base, especially among the operators, was filled with odd personalities with even odder quirks, so you decided not to question it. You had only nodded, and said, “Okay.” 

Laswell had smiled. “You’ll do well here.” 

You suspected you were being watched in the weeks following the incident, though you couldn’t say why at first. The suspicion was confirmed when you arrived one blissfully sunny spring morning to find your office warm and your desk moved. Your other furniture was rearranged neatly around it. You rounded it, dropping your bag as you went, half expecting to find a note. 

There was nothing, and you started to rotate it back, a bit irritated, when you paused and sat. The new angle gave you a clear view of the door and window. The sun hit your face without causing a glare on your screens. The monitors had been lowered ever so slightly so you could easily see over them.

You left your desk in its new position. It was better that way. 

Ghost appeared in your office that afternoon as suddenly as he had left it. 

You sensed that he’d been there for a long time when you finally noticed him in the doorway, that you were only seeing him because he wanted you to.

You smiled and turned away from a report. A welcome reprieve for your strained eyes and hunched back. 

“Hi. Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?” 

This time, he stepped into your office, grasped your offer with both hands. 

The room seemed to shrink and adjust to his size. He was more massive than you remembered, in height and breadth. His eyes didn’t leave yours, a deep blackened honey brown half hidden by skull. Neither of you looked away.

“Have I passed?” 

His head tilted ever so slightly. When he spoke his voice was like an iron rod shoved down your spine. Deep and jagged and rough, it settled between your ribs, in the pit of your stomach. “Passed?” 

“Your test?” 

“Think I’m testin’ you?” 

“You moved my desk.” 

He didn’t answer for a long moment, still not dropping your gaze. The silence lasted so long you began to think he wouldn’t answer at all. “Practically had your back to the door,” he said eventually, as though that explained it. 

It conjured the image of Ghost creeping around the base in the dead of night to adjust offices into more tactical configurations and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep the giggle in your throat from bubbling out.   

You nodded and then shrugged instead. “I guess I don’t think about things like that.” 

“Should.”

“Maybe.” 

“Especially in the field.” 

“I don’t do field work.” 

He nodded slowly and finally took his eyes off yours, glancing around the room again. When his lashes caught the light, you saw that they were a light blond. 

“Welcome to sit,” you offered, taking up a pen and a pad of yellow paper. “Ghost.”  

He didn’t sit, but he didn't leave either. When he remained mute and motionless, you looked back at your report and continued working, resigned to the new addition to your office. 

Minutes passed in silence, with only the scratch of your pencil over paper, the tapping of computer keys, for company. 

All at once, the room sighed, and when you looked up, he was gone. 

Ghost was strange, slightly off putting. 

You liked him.

Maybe, you thought, he’d come back. 

.

.

.

Ghost visited regularly after that. 

Sometimes he simply stood at the door and watched you work. 

His boots were so silent that you often didn’t know he was there until he was leaving again. It felt as though he often melted into nothing but shadow, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling. 

You didn’t feel watched, so much as observed, minded.

But the lengthy silences began to wear thin, so you started talking to him.  

Talked at him, more like, about anything that came to mind. 

The shit weather and how cold you always were. Recounted phone calls with your sister and noted things you’d seen on your commute. You told him of your slightly creepy neighbor who would follow you occasionally down high street when you did your weekly shopping trip, but that was probably harmless.

You were sure he wasn’t actually listening, his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance as he stood statuesque in the middle of your office.  

The visits were occasionally broken up by operations that could last days or weeks, once up to a month. Time passed either way, but you found it passed more easily when you could reliably count on a visit from Ghost. Hearing his voice in staticky communications wasn’t the same. A blinking green dot on a map that you tracked just a little more closely than the others. 

Ghost sat down for the first time toward the middle of a particularly miserable and cold spring afternoon. He sighed as he did, the only sign of any feeling. Almost a resignation in the soft cut of it. 

You didn’t comment on it, just chatted as you usually did, buoyed in a way that you could not explain. 

He started to bring you coffee, done up to your preference, always when you were hitting the midday lag. 

In exchange, you left offerings at the edge of your desk. Baked goods, protein bars, chips, sweets— which disappeared when you looked away from him. You noted what went first so you could invest in it. Chocolate went more frequently. 

But Ghost, whether he was listening or not, made you feel less alone. The ache of loneliness in your heart eased, and maybe that said more about you than him. 

If he was around, he usually slipped in while you ate lunch. He didn’t eat with you, the mask never moved, but you began cooking extra in the evenings, leaving tupperware containers at the edge of your desk in addition to brownies wrapped in waxpaper, chocolate chip cookies sprinkled with sea salt. “Don’t have to,” he always said. 

“Want to,” you answered, and then received the empty, clean container from the day before as though it were an offering.

Your office always smelled like tobacco and tea for hours after he left, a comforting combination that you began to wish you could bottle. 

He didn’t appear one day at his usual allotted, precise time. You figured something came up or he finally got tired of you, but he turned up instead late in the afternoon.  

“Sorry,” he said as he sat, without explanation, a paper cup of coffee steaming at the edge of your desk like it appeared there by his will alone.  

“Oh,” you answered. “You didn’t have to—“

“Did,” he said simply. “‘ave you eaten?”

“Yep. Got something for you, too.” 

He settled back. “Neighbor still botherin’ you?” 

You blinked in surprise, the slightly creepy neighbor had not spoken to you in a few days. “Oh. . .I—You were listening.”

He tilted his head. “‘Course I was, bird.” He leveled you with a look. “So?”

“Not recently. Not in a couple days.”

“Good. Let us know if he does, yeah?”

Then he sat back and waited, shoulders relaxed as though attending a sermon, but content with silence anyway. 

When you glanced up from a report a while later, for clarification on a mission detail that he happened to be on, his eyes were closed. 

It felt akin to having a wolf willingly curl up in your lap, blood wet maw dripping peacefully onto the floor.

.

.

.

When you turned from watering your plants one innocuous spring day, you found Ghost entering your office with a different mask on. A soft black balaclava. You could see his eyes and brows, the bridge of his nose and the thin, bruised skin beneath his eyes.

You froze and then smiled at him, tried hard not to stare. His eyes were always pretty but now you felt you could actually see him. Blond brows and lashes, his irises were lighter, amber honey in the yellow light of your bug lamp, as Ghost had called it one afternoon without a shred of humor. 

It was raining, and the dim light made the small space cozier than usual. The patchwork blanket was around your shoulders, a ward against the chill bleeding beneath the window. 

In his usual chair, you’d laid a gift. 

He pointed to the blanket you had carefully folded there earlier. 

“It’s for you. I knitted it.” 

He froze, hand half extended toward it. You swept past him around your desk again, inundated with the scent of black tea and cigarettes as you went. His was alternating black and dark blue squares to your brightly colored purple and teal. “Just in case you were cold. You’re always so buttoned up after all,” you joked. “And you fixed my radiator this winter. So it’s a thank you, too.”

Ghost only moved it to the back of the chair. You hadn’t expected him to take it, really, but his gloved fingers lingered on it for a moment, rubbing the fabric gently. “How d’you know it was me that fixed it?” 

“Who else would have?” 

He grunted. “You knit?” 

“When I can’t sleep,” you answered. “Keeps my hands and brain busy.”

His brows furrowed, and seeing even that small movement felt like seeing him naked, like seeing something he didn’t want you to. You averted your eyes, heat crawling up your neck. 

“Can’t sleep?” His fingers slid off the blanket and he sat.

You shrugged. “Must seem silly to you. You see it with your own eyes. But some of the reports. . . stick with me.” 

Ghost considered this for a long moment. “It’s not.” 

“What?” 

“Silly.” 

The way he grunted the word made you laugh. 

“Could I ask you something, Ghost?”

“Reckon you just did.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Am I allotted only one question?” 

“Just two.” 

It was. . . funny. You giggled and shrugged. “Guess I’m shit out of luck.” 

“And out of questions.”

You laughed again. 

He surprised you by laughing too. If a low, graveled grunt counted as a laugh. You certainly counted it, a cache of swollen pride bubbling in your stomach. “Go on, then.” 

“Where are you from?” 

The levity vanished. His brows lowered. “Why?” 

You shrugged. “Just curious. I’m not good with all the accents yet. Just can’t place you.” 

He relaxed back into the chair again, but didn't answer. 

The pinch of his brows, the tense line of his jaw, remained, his expression considering as he tilted his head back. 

“Why do you come here?” You asked instead. 

This question he answered readily. “It’s quiet.” 

“That’s one way to tell me to shut up.” 

He blinked and lowered his chin to meet your eyes. “Not the kind of noise I mean.” 

You decided not to take offense at being called noise. 

You snorted and reached beneath your desk, taking some pride in the fact that Ghost did not tense anymore than usual when you did, withdrawing your lunch. 

“Hungry?” You asked.  

“Tryin’ to see my face?” 

You smiled. “Never,” you answered, “Not sure I want to see what you’re hiding under there.” 

The rain tapped against the window as you popped the thermal lid off.  

“Why are you here?” He asked as you folded your legs beneath you on the chair and tucked the blanket around them. Ghost rose without asking and twisted the knob of the radiator beneath the window a bit higher.

You waved your fork, indicating the office. “Fairly positive I work here. But perhaps base security is more lax than I thought.” 

He sighed, a long suffering sound. “England, smartarse.” 

You smile and dig your fork into last night’s spaghetti bolognese. The steam caressed your face in a warm puff as you lifted a bite. “I’m on loan to Laswell.” 

“On loan?” He asked as he settled back into the chair, broad shoulders pressed to the wall behind him, against the blanket. It slid over his elbow a little, curled over his forearm. He didn’t move it. 

When you lifted your gaze to his, his stare was piercing, brows lowered, furrowed. You imagined he must be frowning.  

“Temporary replacement for whoever used to be in this office,” you explained. “She needed someone quickly, who she could trust.” 

Ghost folded his arms across his chest, something more tense than usual in the movement. “How long are you on loan for, then?” 

You shrugged, twisted your fork into the noodles. “It’s unclear. So, for now, indefinitely.” You smiled, “Hopefully not through another winter, though, I don’t think I’m cut out for the rain and cold.”

His shoulders eased, but only marginally. If it weren’t for all the hours he’d passed in your office, you weren’t sure you would have caught it at all. 

“From somewhere warm?”

“Warmer than here. Especially in the winter.” 

“Must be nice, that.” 

“Has its perks. But the summer is its own kind of hell.” 

“One you enjoy.” 

“But of course. I like feeling like I’m baking alive.” 

He snorted again.

You ate in silence for a bit. The quiet had become comfortable between you somewhere along the way, silken and gentle. 

When you were scraping the last bit of sauce from the bottom of the container, Ghost said, “Manchester.” 

“Hm?”

“Where I’m from.”

His voice was low; he wasn’t looking at you, eyes trained on the door instead. 

“Manchester,” you repeated, trying to place it on the map of the UK in your mind. “And do you all sound sort of like—“

You were about to say like you have gravel in your mouth but he makes an affected noise, that stiff grunt again. “Are you laughing at me?”

“It’s your fucking accent.”

“My accent?” You asked incredulously. “Have you heard yourself?” 

“Got a thick one, bird.” He imitated your voice. “Manchester.” The sharp rhotic r sound was like a gunshot in his mouth, each letter enunciated to the point of being butchered. 

You scoffed, not bothering to fight your smile. “Takes one to know one, I guess.” 

“Suppose it does.” 

“Fucking Brits,” you said, without any venom. “I can’t do anything right according to you all.” 

He tilted his head, something predatory in it. It made your heart flutter a little. “Who’s tellin’ you you can’t do something?” 

You sighed, long suffering. “My coworkers. Can’t make tea, apparently. I don’t care for it and everyone keeps insisting I just make it wrong.”

“They make it wrong too.” 

You groaned. “Not you too.” 

Ghost rose to take his leave as you snapped the lid back onto the now empty container. 

“I’ll show you how to make a proper cup sometime.” 

You paused, a warm surprise sweeping into your chest, and decided not to linger on this solitary acknowledgement that Ghost would return to your office. “Big fan?” 

“I love tea.” 

It made you laugh. “Of course, English afterall.” 

He nodded, just once, and started toward the door. “Ghost?” You called. 

Ghost turned and you slid another tupperware container across your desk. “For you.” 

He stared at it, for a moment too long, as he always did, like he was telling himself to leave it. “Didn’t have to.” 

“I know.” You nodded at it again and then then ducked behind your computer screens. “I always want to.” 

Ghost moved so silently that you didn’t hear or see him take it, but when you looked up again he and the container at the edge of your desk were gone. 

.

.

.

It should be a good thing. 

You would be gone soon enough, none the wiser of who Ghost was. Of what you were to each other. 

But it didn’t sit well. It was a new thing to nag at the back of his mind, finding your office empty, you becoming a ghost in your own right. He hated the ache in his chest, the thought of you so far away. He could only assume you’d be stationed back in the US.

The thought festered, burrowed. 

“Laswell.”

She jumped, hand going beneath her desk before she spotted Ghost in the corner of  her office. She sighed and closed her eyes, fingertips rubbing her eyes instead. 

“Ghost,” she sighed, “Don’t do that.” 

Simon said your name, and Laswell lowered her hands to look at him. “How long has she got?” 

“What do you mean?”

“Said she’s on loan. I want to know how long.”

Laswell considered him; Ghost waited. He wouldn’t explain himself, and Laswell knew that. 

“Maybe as long as a year.” She tilted back in her chair and asked anyway. “Why?” 

Ghost didn’t answer, slipping back out of her office and down the hall. 

You were still in your office, hunched over the desk, lavender headphones pulled down around your neck. He watched you for a long moment, eyes tracing over scars that belonged to him. It was jarring each time to see pain he experienced threaded over your skin. It made him feel exposed by proxy.

As he watched, you lifted a hand and rubbed your neck with a wince, fingers lingering on the long scar slashed at the base of your throat. The grimace faded from your face and your expression receded into the impassive, blank, focused slate it always settled into as you continued working. 

When he sat down in your office, you just shot him a tired smile and continued working. 

He walked you to your car around midnight. 

“Tell us if you’re here this late again,” he said, not looking at you. 

“Ghost,” you said. “It’s almost enough to make me think you like me.” 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he answered. 

You just laughed. 

.

.

.

“Tea?” 

You jumped, just as Laswell had, only your hand didn’t go beneath the desk. Nothing there to reach for, he knew, your vulnerability like a beacon, or a stain. 

It would need remedied. 

But first, this. 

It was the sixth time in two weeks that you were at your desk well past when everyone else had gone home.  

“Jesus Christ.” 

“Unfortunately not.” 

You laughed; his shoulders eased. “Ghost,” you said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” You tilted your head. “I’m starting to think you’re spying on me.” 

“What’re you still doing ‘ere?” 

“What are you doing wandering around our wing after hours?” 

Not a line of questioning he was keen on following. That just being near a place you had been earlier in the day was enough to loosen that fucking tether in his chest. That he was worried incessantly about you being alone at night.

“Offerin’ to make you a tea,” he answered. “Obviously.”  

“Obviously,” you echoed. “Of course.” 

“You’re supposed to tell me when you’re stayin’ late.” 

“Ghost,” you said seriously, lifting your brows, “I’m here late again today.” 

“Hilarious, you are.” 

You giggled again. “Are you really offering to make me tea?” 

He nodded. “C’mon then.”

You smiled and shrugged the blanket off your shoulders. He waited while you locked your computer and stood.

Simon allowed you to lead toward the breakroom where he’d observed the many cups of tea you’d politely swallowed from well meaning coworkers, who left it to steep for too long or too short, added too much sugar and milk, or left it totally plain. 

The overhead lights were too bright, a blue-white glare that made you frown and squint. Your nose scrunched up in distaste. There were circles beneath your eyes, exhausted loops that matched his own.  

“So,” you prompted, leaning against the counter, “How does one make a proper cuppa?”

“Not bad,” he said of your accent, lifting the electric kettle from the hook to fill with water. “Little posh.” 

“I’ve been practicing.”

He grunted, and put the kettle on, before rooting through the cabinet above the sink for tea bags. A grim selection awaited him, but he’d make due with what was available.

“Ah, so you boil the water. I was under the impression you could just stick it all in the microwave.” 

He involuntarily made a pained sound. “Fucking hell,” he muttered, “That your usual method?” 

You bit the inside of your cheek, poorly concealing a laugh. “I scandalized a data analyst with that joke.” You cup your chin in your hand, peer up at him from beneath a thick fringe of lashes. “I do know how to boil water, I’ll have you know.”

“Got a head start then.” 

You laughed again, shoulders shaking. Simon watched the corner of your mouth curl, and it eased something in his chest. You were painfully close, the woodsy, floral scent of your perfume curled in the air. Your elbow brushed his. He didn’t know how you could be unaware of the bond at that moment, when being that close to you felt like being lit on fire. He wanted to reach for you so badly that he had to clench his fist closed to avoid it. 

If someone were to ask him to move away from you right then, it would end badly. Bloody. 

The thin, needle sharp connection ached, begged. 

Simon ignored it.  

When you glanced up, he looked away. He could feel your eyes on his face, and didn’t mind the scrutiny in it. He didn’t mind you watching him, and wondered what you saw. 

“I like being able to see your eyes,” you said, just as the kettle clicked off. 

He met your gaze, disarmed by the declaration. Your features had softened, melted into a dangerous fondness. “Why?” 

“You have pretty eyes,” you shrugged. “And it’s hard to see you with the other mask.” You shifted, watching him lift the kettle, pour the hot water into a mug and over the teabag he’d dropped into it. 

“You can tell me to fuck off, if you want,” you began carefully, fingertips drumming nervously against the counter. “Why do you wear it?” 

Simon watched the teabag bob on the surface of the water, thin amber trails unfurling, coloring the water slowly brown. “Five minutes,” he nodded at the tea. “Don’t touch it. None of that dunking shite.” 

“Yes, sir,” you agreed. “Five minutes, no touching.” 

He huffed, and your smile widened. You bumped your shoulder against his. The contact only lasted a second or two, but the relief it provided was so intense that he nearly choked on it. 

The pain, softened by your proximity, returned immediately, crept down into the soft ligaments between his bones. He felt the loss in the roots of his teeth, the middle of his chest; it was like losing his breath in a different way, being suckerpunched in the solar plexus, knocked on his ass.

“To hide my face.” 

“Your identity, you mean.” 

“My identity,” he agreed.

“Why?” 

He released a long, slow breath, and thought about telling you to piss off, maybe even just to see how you’d take it. Were you as good as your word? Would you let the subject drop? 

Instead, he said, “There are a lot of bad people in the world, bird.” 

You pursed your lips, fingers toying with the teabag string, flicking the tab at the end with your nail. There was another question swimming in your eyes, but you let it go unasked, dropping your eyes from his instead. 

“You’ve seen more of them than most,” you said. “I would guess.” 

“Part of the job.” 

Your mouth curled a little, lashes fluttering against your cheek. “Hm. But y’know something? I think I’d know you anywhere,” you said, without a hint of shame or irony. “It’s all in your eyes.” 

Before Simon could respond, you hid a yawn in your sleeve and rubbed your hand over your face, exhaustion layered in thick rings beneath your eyes. “Even if this is gross,” you indicate the tea, “At least it will keep me awake.” 

“I take offense to that.” 

You laughed again. “Hm. Sorry, Lieutenant.” You leaned in, “It smells so nice, so why does it taste like shit?” 

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll make you a coffee if it’s shit.” 

“You’re kind.” This time when you leaned your shoulder against his, you left it there. The empty soreness like a bruise inside his ribs loosened again. For the first time in a while, he was left with the absence of pain.  

When the tea was done steeping, he did yours with a bit of honey. There was no way you’d take it plain and like it, but he drew the line at milk. Especially the blasphemy that was the military issued powdered milk in a canister that sat on the counter. Abso-fucking-lutely not. 

“There you are,” he said, “Cup of tea.” 

“A proper cuppa,” you tried again. It was a little less posh this time. 

He huffed. “Better all the time.” 

“And I have you to thank.” 

Your face creased as you took the cup between your palms, an unreadable expression flitting across your features. Then your mouth twisted to the side, a sure sign you were attempting to keep some emotion or thought in check. 

Your shoulder was still pressed heavily against his. 

“Thanks, Ghost.” 

“”S just tea.” 

You shook your head and lifted the cup, blowing gently on the surface before you took a tiny sip. He watched your face, watched your throat move as you swallowed, the flickering web of your lashes. A step up, at least, from all the shit tea from your coworkers that make your brows tense in an effort to conceal a grimace. “One good thing has come of this,” you said after a moment of contemplation. 

“What’s tha’?” 

“I know how to make tea for you now.” 

“Like it?” 

“I love it.” 

You briefly tilted your head onto his shoulder, then pulled away entirely. The flood of discomfort was worse than before. His muscles spasmed around it in a violent convulsion. “I mean that really.” 

He breathed out, through it. “I don’t take honey.” 

You studied the contents of the cup, tilting it one way and then the other, like something important laid at the bottom of the porcelain well. 

“Noted.” 

Sure enough, the next day, a hot cup was waiting for him, which he drank as you chatted from behind your computer, decidedly, pointedly, giving him the privacy to do so. 

.

.

.

Things settled into a pleasant rhythm. 

A regimented, regular existence that you had long ago learned to embrace. The base became home more than the tiny apartment you rented and spent only enough time to sleep, bathe, and cook in. 

You timed your days to the ebb and flow of the base, to visits to your office, debriefings and conference rooms, the restless energy of so many people in one place moving. You breathed around absences, the pockets of emptiness that sometimes cropped up. The loneliness that felt like an unfillable pit in your stomach. 

People often saw your scars and thought not to bother. Why would fate have marked you so heavily if you weren’t meant to find your pair? The scars meant nothing, really. They were no more significant than anyone else’s. Your chances of running into your soulmate was no higher than someone who had accrued no scars from their bond. 

You were a stopping off point, a bit of fun, but not someone to invest time and effort into, not when the reminder that someone else might come along and render it all moot was so visible, so literally in their face. To look at you was to be reminded of that bond waiting in the wings, for them and for you, and that you could only ever be temporary. 

It made friendships hard too. Some were jealous, others thought there couldn’t be room for anyone else in your life. You were important to no one.

It had been proven to you time and again, and you weren’t sure what kept you hopeful that someone would one day see past it. So when Sergeant Davies stuck his head in your office one Friday afternoon long after Ghost had departed your office for the day, and asked you out, you found yourself saying yes. 

“Would you like to go out sometime?” He asked, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Just round the pub for drinks?” 

“Oh,” you said. “I—” 

It had been a long time since anyone took interest in you. You’d only talked to him a few times before, but Davies was handsome in a boyish way and sweet and you liked him well enough, you found yourself hesitating for half a second. To your horror, your mind flashed to Ghost, stomach lurching painfully, a knot of tension fisting itself in your chest. 

You looked at his usual chair, empty now, seeing his large frame sprawled there anyway, thighs spread wide, arms crossed over his chest, eyes steady and focused, locked onto you with an intensity and constancy you still weren’t used to.

Heat bloomed in your lungs, crept up your neck. You glanced away, back at Davies waiting at the door. 

“Yeah,” you answered firmly. “Sure.” 

“Brilliant,” he grinned. “How about tonight?” 

Your belly gave another sour squirm that you ignored; it had just been a long time, that was all. “I’m free.” 

“Brilliant,” he said again. “I’ll text you.” 

“Okay.” 

His grin was crooked and self satisfied as he exited your office. 

So you found yourself walking off the base with Davies later that evening. You found yourself laughing and hopeful in a local pub that you hadn’t gotten the chance to explore yet, busy as you were, the base a tide that tugged you back again and again. Like a magnet, you wanted to be there. 

And all of it came to nothing, the moment Davies saw the extent of the scarring when you took him home. It wasn’t just your face, it was your hands and arms and chest and belly. Your whole body was marked, dogeared for someone else. He looked down at you in your bed, his head framed by your ceiling fan and you saw the moment it clicked. The moment it wouldn’t work. 

“Someone out there is really looking for you,” he said. “You’re lucky.” 

“No more than anyone else,” you countered. “You know that’s not how it works.” 

“I know,” he said, pulling on his shirt. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” you said before he kissed your cheek and retreated. 

Still, you didn’t sleep, just laid on your side, half undressed, staring out at a sky that slowly lightened, stars fading, wondering if perhaps your truest fate was to be lonely for your whole life. 

You didn’t hate your scars, or your soulmate. But sometimes you thought it would be easier if you didn’t have one at all. 

.

.

.

Monday. 

There was a knife in Simon’s pocket. 

Not unusual in and of itself, he carried several at all times, slipped into his sleeves and belt and boot. 

The one in his pocket, though, was for you.

A gift, a contingency, and an offer all wrapped in one. 

The knowledge that it was yours was an uncomfortable weight in his chest. It meant admitting he cared enough to procure it, test it, hand it over. 

It wasn’t quite your typical lunch hour, but Ghost was headed to your office anyway. It was sunny, for once, and he expected to find you taking an early break anyway, leaning back in your chair with your headphones on, absorbing the rare rays. 

And, he wanted to be done with it, to stop tapping his pocket repeatedly, checking the blade was still there, like it might have run away. 

Soap had noticed his fidgeting as they all sat through a briefing on intelligence reports with Laswell that morning. Ghost had forced his hand still, exuded a forced calm, but Johnny’s eyes hadn’t turned away. 

When he arrived at your office, deliberately rustling against the doorjamb so as not to startle you, you glanced up and smiled tightly and his plan vanished. 

Something was wrong. The blinds were closed, your office an unusual sea of gray air. Your shoulders were caved inward protectively, your expression wan and closed. Your smile didn’t reach your eyes, your voice was rough when you said, “Hey, Ghost.”  

Simon took his usual seat, watching you type something, decidedly not looking at him. He watched you, the set of your mouth and eyes. He waited for your chatter to begin but it didn't. 

“All right?” 

“Hm?”

“You’re quiet.” 

“Oh, only one of us is allowed to be quiet?” You joked, but it came out a bit brittle, and worn.

There were, he noticed as he looked at you, circles beneath your eyes. “What ‘appened?” 

You looked up again, and shook your head. “I’m just tired.” 

“Try again.” 

Frustration crept into your features. “Who said I want to tell you?” With that, you ducked behind your monitors.

Simon waited, but you did not reemerge. 

He stood, and rounded your desk. You glanced up then, leaning back when you found him so close. “Jesus, Ghost—” 

“Nice weather.” 

“I can see that.” 

“And you aren’t out there sunnin’ yourself? Something horrible must have happened.” 

Your mouth twisted to the side and you glanced away. “I. . .I’m just being dramatic.”

“C’mon, then.” 

You blinked up at him. “Where are we going?” 

He didn’t answer, but you rose anyway when he tilted his head toward the door. Simon snagged the blanket you’d knitted for him months ago from its place along the back of his chair, finally with a proper purpose, and carried it over his arm. 

“Lunch.” 

You grabbed it and followed him down the hall. Simon shouldered open an external door and held it open for you, the scent of your skin, the warm brush of your body so close to his as you ducked under his arm like a beacon, a light he wanted to follow. 

Carefully, you nudged your shoulder against his as you walked. The familiar sharp, sweet pang whenever you brushed too close together settled in his chest. He wondered if you felt it too, if you felt that sickly flutter in your chest, or if his suspicion that he was holding one end of an untethered bond in his hand was right. 

Just his luck. 

Didn’t matter though. 

He ticked his elbow out a little, and after a moment, you pushed your hand against the inside of his arm. His shoulders loosened; his jaw unclenched. The pain in his chest settled. 

The absence of the ache was intense; he was so used to being in near constant pain. 

“So, what are we doing?” 

“Walking.” 

“I can see that.” 

“Why’re you askin’, then, bird?” 

You huffed but didn’t ask anymore questions as he led you down one concrete pathway. 

The sky was a flawless robin’s egg blue, only a wispy, thin line of cloud on the very distant horizon. The distant shouts of drill instructors snapped in the warm summer air. Your shoulders drooped as you walked, eyes fluttering closed for a few seconds at a time as you tilted your face to the sun, inhaling deeply. 

He led you around the last building in a long line of barracks and brought you to a halt. The only thing beyond was a chainlink fence that marked the edge of the base. A faint breeze coated him in the smell of your skin, settled deep in the well of his lungs. He took a breath, watched your lashes flutter. 

Your thumb stroked a pattern against the inside of his arm, lazy and slow. “You’ve got a soft spot for me, Ghost.” 

He didn’t deny it. 

“What are we doing back here?” 

Ghost pulled away from you with some effort and spread the blanket over the grass. He sat on the concrete steps that led to the back door of the unused barracks.

You sat on the blanket, started to open your lunch and then flopped back in the sun instead. “A usual haunt?” 

“Sometimes.” 

“Secret’s safe with me.” 

“Mind if I smoke?” 

“No.” Then, “I won’t look.”  

He grunted in acknowledgement, rolled the bottom of his mask up, carton of cigarettes and lighter pulled from the depths of a trouser pocket. Simon watched the rise and fall of your chest, tracing the latticework of scars over your face. They looked better on you, he decided. Not as noticeable as his own, faded and light, pencil through wax paper instead of the thick groves of his own. 

They glinted a little in the sun, like the scales of an iridescent fish. 

Your eyes remained peacefully closed, soaking up the sun like a long deprived plant. Sweat beaded along your forehead, and when you pushed up your sleeves, Ghost was reminded that all of you matched all of him.

He recognized a burn mark on your forearm that belonged to him, a cut that wrapped halfway around your wrist. He was pretty sure the burn mark was from a mishandled flare, the wrist scar from a rope that had gotten tangled and burned him. 

Simon wanted to reach down and cup the side of your throat, feel the soft, sun warmed skin beneath his fingers. He wondered if your scars felt the same as his own, rough and grooved. 

Probably not, they were imitations, ungenerous sketchings of his own. 

He’d like to map them all against his own, find out if he bore any of yours. He wouldn’t have noticed something small that you might have collected yourself. A childhood fall, a careless burn while cooking. 

He watched the delicate flex of muscle in your forearms. Your shirt was a little askew, more faded marks left like a tracery of veins on your chest and collarbone and shoulder. It was fucking awful, a wrenching feeling in his chest, to know all that had been inflicted on him, had fallen on you too. 

He wondered about the pain again, imagined you writhing with terror and agony and confusion, every gunshot wound and burn and slash he received an echo inside you. Cigarette burns dotting your arms and wrists when you were just a child, months of pain without end when he was captured and tortured and his life was irrevocably changed. 

Simon wanted to ask, needed to know just how much damage he’d inflicted. But the words stuck in his throat. A fear of knowing, if he asked about the pain, maybe he’d hear other things too, how much you must hate him and didn’t know it was the man in front of you your hate should be directed at.

When he stubbed out his cigarette on the heel of his boot and rolled his mask back down, you blinked into the sun and exhaled, long and slow, and then sat up, leaning back on your palms. 

“What ‘appened?” He asked.

Your mouth twitched into your usual, if a bit more sheepish, smile. “You’re like a dog with a bone, you know that?” 

“Affirmative,” he said. 

You rolled your eyes and set up straight, brushing your palms together before reaching for your lunch. “I brought something for you.” 

“Stalling.” 

“Pushy,” you countered, giggling, rummaging around in your bag. Your smile faded as you pulled free one of the usual containers, what looked like lasagne within. He watched the edge of your mouth curl, the scar slitted along one side pulling at your expression. “I went on a date this weekend.” 

Ice slid down his spine, curled in a viscous circle in his gut. “Bad date?” 

“No,” you said, shaking your head adamantly, staring down at the container in your lap. “No, it went really well.” You glanced up at him and then dug in your bag again, passing another one to him along with a fork. “Until he saw my—” You fidgeted with your sleeve and then yanked it down. The other followed suit. “My marks. My scars.” 

“He’s a prick.” 

“No, he wasn’t,” you shook your head. “It’s happened before. They see the extent of it, and it’s like something biological clicks. I’m off limits.” You sat your food to the side and wrapped your arms around your knees. “Even though I’m no more likely to find mine than anyone else.” 

You looked very small, and alone at that moment. 

“I know it’s not my soulmate’s fault,” you said quietly. “I know that. I know that. And I don’t blame them for it. But sometimes I get so lonely I just—I wish—I wish I didn’t have one. Sometimes I wish I could hate them.”

The chill spreads outward.  

It was confirmation enough. If you knew, you would hate him. All that repressed, sentimentalized resentment would come bubbling up the moment you were actually faced with the person who so fundamentally changed the course of your life. 

He looked at his scars winking in the sun on your skin and felt a self hatred so intense it nearly made him flinch. He wished he could crawl out of that grave and kill them all over again, slower, just for this. 

You glanced up and smiled tightly. “But I’m a hopeless romantic, and dramatic. It was just disappointing. I always have hope someone will see past it.” You ran your hand over the blanket and unfolded yourself to finally begin eating. “This helped, though,” you said. “Thank you, Ghost.” You nodded at the food in his hands, averted your gaze again. 

And even though you could easily glance at him, Simon pushed up his mask and popped open the lid of the lasagne still warm between his hands. 

You ate together for the first time, in silence in the sun. You closed your eyes, kept your face pointed up and away, a cool breeze ruffling your shirt sleeves. 

“Have you found yours?” 

Simon looked at you, the edge of your jaw, the soft shadows your lashes cast over your ruined cheek. “Don’t think someone like me is meant for one.” 

You nodded. “Me either.”

.

.

.

He walked you back to your office. 

You felt better, settled, but he sort of just had that affect on you, you were coming to find. 

Ghost smelled like sun and freshly mowed grass and cigarette smoke. His shoulder kept touching yours, something in your chest lurching each time, like a rib bone had come loose and was knocking against your heart and lungs. 

Ghost carried the blanket back, folded it and set it carefully along the back of what had become his chair. 

You sat and turned, expecting to find him already silently gone as was his way. 

Instead, he was very close and depositing something on your desk. 

Matte black, compact, deadly, cold to the touch. 

A folded pocket knife sat at the edge of your desk. Ghost loomed over you, his shadow curling around your edges. 

He slid it toward you, watched you fold your fingers around it. For a long moment, each of you was holding it. “What’s this?” You asked when he released it, gloved fingers sliding across your desk, back to his side.  

“A knife.” 

“Oh, really? I've never seen one before.” 

He rolled his eyes. “It’s for you. I’ll teach you how to use it.” 

“Why?” 

“In case you need to.”

“Is this about me staying late?” 

“No.” He did not elaborate. 

“You know I received firearm training. I can shoot a gun. Isn’t a knife a little—” 

“But you don’t carry a gun.” 

“No,” you agreed. “I don’t.”  

He nodded as though that explained it. “Right.” 

You considered it, flipped it open. Deadly, shiny blade newly sharpened and oiled and well cared for. It was odd to be given a weapon, and yet unsurprising where Ghost was concerned. You glanced up, watched his dark, intense eyes flick over your face. You weren’t sure what he was looking for, but his brows knitted the longer you stared at each other. Concern, weariness.

“Okay.”

His shoulders loosened. “Tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow,” you agreed. 

.

.

.

If you thought you would receive one lesson in knifework and be done with it, you didn’t know Ghost very well. 

You only ran drills first, as though Ghost were making sure the physical fitness exam you had to pass once a year was up to scratch. You proved again and again that you could run without getting too winded, disassemble, load, and fire a service weapon. When he was satisfied with that, the real training began. 

You practiced with a rubber blade that bruised when stuck into your ribs. He did not go easy on you. You left the gym battered and bruised, sweaty and just a little bit resentful. But you could break a wrist lock hold, grapple and use your body and size to your advantage. The goal he repeatedly told you, was not to turn you into a fighter or a soldier, but give you an opportunity to get away, to run away.  

What kind of danger he imagined you getting into between the base and your apartment you couldn’t begin to imagine. But you enjoyed spending time with him, enjoyed being in the gym. You found yourself laughing when you were repeatedly slammed into the mat, knife wrested from your fingers. It was fun. And, it was good for you, you decided, even if you thought his intense insistence was a tad dramatic. 

Ghost was a bit dramatic about certain things, you were coming to learn.

This was one of them. You were, you thought with warmth, one of the things he was a bit dramatic about. For whatever reason, you’ve been tucked under his wing, into his shadow. 

On the third week of relentlessly brutal training, you arrived at the base gym, empty as it always was, to find him holding a length of rope. 

You eyed it warily and shifted from foot to foot, amused despite the discomfort. “What do you imagine is going to happen to me?” 

Ghost didn’t answer as you set your bag down and pulled off your sweatshirt. The room was warm, close and humid, the scent of left over dregs of soldiers clogging the room for most of the day. The scent of plastic, lemon disinfectant, and sweat is thick on the air, but when you stepped toward Ghost, his familiar comforting smell of tea and cigarettes washed over you in a vacuous, orbital cloud. 

You looked up just as his eyes slid away from you, blond lashes catching the light, skin pink around his eyes. You’d swear it was a blush if you didn’t know better. “Ghost?” 

“Better to be prepared, yeah?” 

“For what?” All the same, you turned with a sigh. 

After a painfully long moment he stepped close and pressed the dark material around your wrists. His body was warm behind yours for that brief moment even without touching you, like the glow of a heat lamp that made the rest of the room feel cold by comparison. 

His gloved fingers were carefully delicate against your skin. It sent sparks skittering up your arms. What would his bare skin feel like against yours? 

Rough, warm. Safe.  

It’s a thought that had curled its roots into your mind the first time you fell to the mat together and you felt his weight against yours, brief and heavy, but comforting somehow. It wasn’t supposed to be, he was playing predator, it should have been panic inducing. 

Stupid, silly. 

If your most recently failed date had shown you anything, it was that feeling anything for anyone that had seen your scars was a failing venture. And Ghost had seen more of them now, than most. Maybe you should start wearing a mask. 

“What’s the goal today?” You asked, feeling a little like you couldn’t breathe. His warmth and scent and the weight of his presence was overwhelming in a way that made you want to curl into him, gladly suffocate. 

“Same as always,” he answered drolly. “To get away.”

“Hm. I keep thinking you’ll challenge me,” you teased.  

“Not a game, bird.” 

“But what am I meant to do? I can’t fight.” 

“Get out of the bindings. Get to the door.” 

“Is that it?” 

You would swear he’s smirking. “Simple enough, aye.” 

It wasn’t easy. 

For the third time in a row, you landed hard on your back. 

Ghost’s weight was heavy against you, before it lifted away. Your sweaty skin stuck to his hoodie.

Your breath comes in hard, deep pants. Your wrists ached and panic had begun to set in. 

“On your feet.” 

Clumsy as a newborn deer, you stumble to your feet. You had to be faster than him, incapacitate him. “You won’t be getting away from me,” he’d said once, “so you’d have a chance.” It was a compliment; one that said you were doing good. 

It didn’t feel like you were doing good now. 

By the sixth time, you felt raw and helpless, wrists caught at an odd angle beneath you. It wasn’t fun; it wasn’t sparring. You couldn’t manage to wriggle out of the bindings and you were useless at anything he’d taught you without your hands. 

“You’re hurting me,” you gasped. 

He released you immediately and the pressure in your wrists eased. It hadn’t been pain, not really, just panic, just exhaustion. 

But you knew instantly that you’d made a mistake, that he would not take it that way. 

“Shit.” 

.

.

.

The window was open and you were not in your office. 

Simon paused in the doorway, noted your bag on the chair in the corner, the patchwork quilt trailing over the arm of your desk chair and spilling onto the floor. His was gone from the chair. You’d been wandering off without him recently. 

He turned and marched back down the hall. An administrative assistant pointed toward the external door. “Getting sun, she said,” he said. “Sir.” 

Ghost nodded and shouldered the door open. He found you behind the barracks, lying on his blanket, staring up at a patchy sky, slices of blue peaking from between low hanging gray clouds. 

When his shadow fell over you, you opened your eyes and squinted up at him. “Ghost, you’re blocking my sun.” 

“Not much sun to speak of.” You grimace and frown at the sky. “You weren’t in your office.” 

“Sorry, should have left a note.” You patted the blanket next to you. “Sit.” 

Simon sat on the concrete steps. “Where’s your lunch?”

“Forgot it.” 

Worry sprouted, blossomed along his veins, ubiquitous as the pain that accompanies it. 

“Canteen,” he said. “Let’s go.” 

“It’s okay—“

“Wasn’t a suggestion.” 

“You’re bossy,” you said but didn’t move, chin tilted up, eyes flitting shut again. “I’ll have a big dinner.” 

He sighed and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, content enough to wait you out and smoke. The clouds continued to gather, putting your beloved sun to rest for the moment. The air grew steadily thicker with humidity. 

“Gonna rain,” he commented. 

You ignored him, eyes squinching closed harder, like you could will the sun to return. He watched you, made himself look at the bruises on your wrists and forearms, he knew there were matching ones on your ribs. They were harmless, just the usual consequence of sparring, but the ones around your wrists—that’s a mistake he won’t soon forget. 

When a fat raindrop landed on your arm, you sat up with a grumble. “Ready now?” He asked, pulling down his mask again. 

“I can see you won’t leave it alone.” 

“Affirmative,” he said. 

You rolled your eyes and started to get to your feet, pausing when he held out a hand to you. You stared for a beat too long before gripping his hand in yours. 

Even through his gloves, it was like being electrocuted. 

You released his hand as soon as you could, eyes skirting his. “Your lead,” you said. “I haven’t had the privilege.” 

He grunted, followed you closely back inside. 

As Simon’s misfortune would have it, Johnny was still in the canteen. 

He lasered in on the pair of you immediately, a grin growing across his face as he approached. “Ach so this is where you’ve been off to LT.”

Ghost herded you into line, a raucous group of new recruits halting their conversation to ogle you before their eyes flicked to his and away, conversation continued at a more subdued level. He shifted closer, between you and them, though you didn’t seem to notice.

“Haven’t been off anywhere,” he grumbled. 

“Who’s this then?” 

You smiled and offered your hand and name. “It’s nice to see that Ghost has bad manners with everyone.” 

“John MacTavish,” Soap said, all charm as he practically bowed. “Call me Soap.”

“Soap,” you giggled. “I’ve seen you in my reports.” 

Soap’s gaze flicked over your face, sharp eyes making the quick calculations that had made Simon hope he wouldn’t be in the canteen. “Are they yours?” 

“Sergeant—,” Ghost said sharply, a warning in his voice. 

But you only laughed and touched your cheek with obvious pride as the line moved up. “No. None of them belong to me. They’re nice though, right?” 

Simon went very still, swore his heart rate slowed. You held out your arm, showed off a sliver flash.

“Very becoming, lass.” 

You smiled again and gestured to your own chin, the side of your head. “Yours?” 

“Aye, all mine.”

“Ah, luck.” 

“Lucky indeed.”

Johnny’s eyes shifted to Simon’s, brows raised, with a look that said he knew. Simon glanced away, gritting his jaw so hard it ached.

 “Am I going to get food poisoning from this?” You asked as a tray was handed over, eying warily what was ostensibly mash, peas and carrots, mystery meat. 

“Probably not,” Johnny answered cheerfully. “Been mostly fine.” 

“Yes, but I think you military people might have tolerance to low levels of poison.” 

“That’s for sure, bonnie.” 

“Bonnie,” you said, giggling. “Are you calling me pretty?” 

Soap covered his heart, balancing his tray with one hand. “You wound me. Simon only keeps us good looking bastards around.”

“Simon,” you said softly, glancing up at him. “I didn’t think anyone knew your name.” 

Ghost didn’t answer for a moment, glaring daggers into the side of Johnny’s head, ignoring the way his heart was clenched so tight it felt like it was in a vise. Simon, his name on your tongue—  

“It’s need to know,” he snapped. 

Your expression folded and you glanced away. “Right, of course. Sorry.”

Simon clenched his jaw so hard it clicked as Johnny shot him a look. “This way, lass,” he said, leading you toward a spot in the corner of the mess. 

“Oh,” you said weakly, “That’s all right. You don’t have to—”

Ghost couldn’t help but notice the anxious look you threw him, the thin line your voice had transformed into. 

Soap wasn’t listening, already talking your ear off, pulling out a chair for you. You smiled and sat and Simon was left to silently watch it unfold. 

.

.

.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap muttered when they’d safely returned you to your office where a contingent of lesser analysts awaited you. The corridor leading away from the now closed door seemed impossibly long. “D’ya know how many people would kill to meet their soulmate? You’ve got yours right under your fuckin’ nose and haven’t even told her yer name!” 

“She doesn’t need to know.” 

“Yer name?” 

Ghost leveled Soap with a stare. 

Soap gaped at him. “Steamin’ Jesus. You aren’t plannin’ to tell the lass at all?” 

“Stay out of it, MacTavish.” 

Johnny followed him down the hall, outside into a bleak, gray drizzle. “You know it can kill you?” Simon kept walking. “Simon.” 

He stopped, glanced at Soap with a warning in his eyes. “Do ya?”

“It won’t.”

Johnny continues anyway, urgently. “There’s a pain, they say, under the ribs when—“

“Stay out of it, Sergeant,” Ghost growled, that very pain growing as it always did as he moved further and further away from you. “It’s nothing.” 

“It‘ll corrode,” Johnny said to his retreating back. “She’ll feel it eventually.”

Simon ignored him. 

But he wondered as he walked away, if he died, if you’d feel the corded snap of his life floating away from yours.  

Somehow, being that sort of ghost, didn’t sit well with him. 

.

.

.

Johnny, predictably, did not stay out of it. 

He regularly and reliably began to show up in your office. More than once, he looped Garrick into accompanying him. Ghost had watched as the same realization Soap had snapped into place on Gaz’s face, and knew it was only a matter of time before Price knew too. 

Luckily, they were the only three on the entire base that could make the connection, that had seen his face, so at least it was done with. None of them said anything to him about it, but there were a lot of worried glances being exchanged. 

Ghost felt the edge of his sanity begin to wear thin the longer it went on, not that there was much left of it in the first place.

The disruption, the infiltration, the distraction grated until his insides felt raw with irritation. He hadn’t wanted anyone else to know, not because he was ashamed, but because you were his, and you didn’t deserve to be burdened by that. He would shoulder that horrible belonging for both of you. 

But the way you’d tenderly touched your cheek remains burned into his memory. The soft look in your eye. The gentle way you and Soap always spoke of soulmates whenever they came up, reverent and tender. 

You enjoyed their company, Johnny and Kyle, and seemed all the better for it. It was clear immediately how much you liked both of them. How much you desperately needed friends. 

Ghost was loath to admit there was a seed of jealousy wriggling in his belly. The easy way you got on with them proof enough that a wire had gotten crossed somewhere, that you were more cursed by him than anchored by.

Then, the gifts left at the edge of your desk began to extend to the lads and not just himself, and it felt vaguely as though he were losing a vital piece of himself to it. 

Then, you stopped coming to the gym. You were gone, office dark, before he could walk you to your car. You went on another date. 

He didn’t know what to do with any of it.

One Tuesday at the end of July you were in your office, but Soap was there before him, tearing into a packet of crisps, lounging in Simon’s chair, patchwork quilt flattened beneath him in a heap. It was hot, and humid, a fan in the corner working overtime, window propped open.

You were happily listening to Johnny explain the ins and outs of football. A match was playing on your computer screen which you’d turned back so both of you could see. 

Your eyes found Simon’s when he paused in the doorway, and you waved him inside, an unsure smile twitching at the corners of your mouth. “Hi, Ghost. Do you keep up with soccer, too?” 

A groan from Soap. “Bloody Americans.” 

“Sorry, sorry. You keep up with footie too, mate?” 

“Horrendous,” Ghost said flatly.

Your smile faltered then brightened again. It didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You should hear my Scottish accent. Soap said I offended every one of his ancestors.” 

“Aye and you did lass,” he said solemnly. “Yeh—” 

“Sergeant,” Ghost interrupted loudly. “Aren’t you due for PT?”  

“Ach, right,” he muttered, getting to his feet, “Thanks for the reminder, LT.” 

“Oh, Soap,” you said, “Hold on.” You rummaged beneath your desk for a long moment, then passed him a brown paper bag full of cookies. “Your favorite, as requested.” 

“You sweet on me or something, bon?”

You rolled your eyes and said, “Out of my office.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Ghost took Soap’s vacated seat, watched you avoid looking at him as you moved things needlessly around your desk, twisted your monitor back around and muted the match. 

The silence was suffocating. 

“All right?” 

You froze, then shuffled the papers together and slid them to a corner of your desk. “I wanted to apologize.” Your voice hitched a little. 

He blinked, taken aback. He didn’t like that you could surprise him. “For what?” 

You bit your lip, fidgeted again. “Your name, I guess. You didn’t want me to know.” Your mouth twisted to the side. “And your team bothering you here—” 

“You’re apologizing for Soap?” 

Your brow furrowed. “Well I encourage it—”

“No.” 

“No?” You shook your head, “and that day in the gym—” You opened and closed your hands anxiously. “I think I upset you.” 

He stared across the room, toward your big, sunny window, all those little potted plants that have flourished through the summer months. Your bug lamp seemed to droop in the heat, sad and watchful. He’d hurt you, and you’d taken the blame. Something horrible lurched in his belly, heavy and unforgiving. “Didn’t. I should have been more careful.” 

“Right,” you said carefully. “So if it’s not that, why are you—” 

He shrugged, watched one of the emerald leaves sway in the warm breeze. “I like you to myself,” he admitted. “Not the best at sharing.”  

“Oh,” you said, voice tender. “Oh.” 

“Mm.” 

“I’ll make space.” 

He didn’t quite understand what you meant by that, but he liked the way it sounded. Space for him. 

“You’ll come to the gym later, yeah?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good.” He stood, deposited your knife, which he’d snagged early in the morning to clean and sharpen, back onto your desk, along with the new box of tea because he noticed you were out the night before. “And don’t tell bloody Soap.” 

“Aye, LT.” 

He chuckled. “Take care of that.” 

“Teach me how?” 

He nodded. 

“Thanks for the tea. I used the last bag yesterday afternoon.” 

“I know.” 

Your smile was soft, your fingers touched his. He breathed a little easier. 

“‘Course you do.” 

.

.

.

Simon couldn’t stop thinking about pain. 

His body functioned at a constant low level of pain, had for years. Maybe it had his whole life, so he tended not to notice it. But the ache you caused had only seemed to grow over time, tendrils spreading to the furthest reaches of his body, the tips of his fingers, the backs of his knees, places he didn’t think could hold pain. 

The intensity increased too, until he could no longer ignore it. It was like a whine, like a child begging to be seen to. 

He kept thinking of your voice, too, dreaming of it. You’re hurting me. Panic ridden, laced with fear.

You said he didn’t, after,  but he didn’t relish the thought of the possibility. Accidentally hurting you, hurting you on purpose. He thought of his mother, doing her best with a brutal man. He was afraid of unknowingly stepping into a cycle, to find himself standing above you one day, drunk, mean, angry. 

You’re hurting me.  

It echoed like a heartbeat. Inevitable. 

You might collect his scars, but he would not add to them with his own hands. He’d rather die; he’d rather be burned alive; he’d rather crawl out of a grave a hundred times over. 

He was afraid of it. Afraid that every terrible aspect of this bond between you could only bring you pain. 

His father loomed in the recesses of his mind, all the violent men he’d ever known, every bloody fist. Simon’s scalp ached, the memories swam behind his eyes. Long nights, wild animals, dead girls. 

There was one person who had a preoccupation with soulmates who was likely to know, who badgered him regularly about eroding the bond, about bond tears and pain. Simon could know, once and for all, if he was the cause of the indirect pain, at least. His own imposed on you, pushed into your skin like a punishment. He could cross that off his long list of sins. 

Johnny, when Simon finally tracked him down, was sat in the armory cleaning a rifle. He watched over his Sergeant's shoulder for a long moment. The methodical movement soothed him, brought his heartrate down a little. 

“Johnny.” 

Soap jumped and glanced around. “Spooky fucker. Should put a bell on ye—” 

“Does she feel it?”

“What—”

He exhaled long and slow. “My pain. If I’m shot tomorrow, would she feel it?”

Soap glanced around, brows raised. “Ye don’t know?” 

“Say I don’t.” 

“No, the lass doesn’t feel it.” Soap turned his wrist, pointed to a scar that was lighter than some of the others, a pale tracery that slipped from the inside of his elbow to mid forearm. “Not mine. Watched it fade in one mornin’. Didn’t feel a thing.” 

Ghost looks at the scar, and Soap lets him. “Tha’ why you haven’t—”

“No.” 

“Why?” 

“Deserves better.” 

Johnny nodded, continued cleaning the rifle. “Thing is, LT. She doesn’t. That’s the point.” 

Well, at least he only had to worry about becoming his father. 

Fucking perfect. 

.

.

.

Two months deployment.  

The pain in Simon’s chest was agonizing, a constant fire. He couldn’t sleep, pain meds did nothing for it. 

He could only wait it out, wait until he was back on base and hope you were in your office, that the solace of your presence in that warm yellow light would be waiting for him. The pain would recede. He needed a plan, though. Clearly it wasn’t fucking viable to just let it go on. It was too distracting and only getting worse. It was no longer something he could ignore. 

Maybe, he didn’t really want to.

Maybe, Johnny was right. 

He half convinced himself that the lancing ache was so bad because you’d been posted somewhere else the last two months and you were further away than ever. Your office would be empty. This was just an agony he would have to learn to live with. 

Finally, though, they were going home. Intel secure. One last building to sweep. Empty. A loaded silence that made the back of his neck prickle. 

Not as empty as they thought. 

Soap steps quickly into the last room ahead of him, gaze sweeping from one side to another before he lowered his weapon and stepped forward. 

Ghost followed quickly, lowered his gun when he saw what Johnny had. Civilians. One curled around the other, sobbing so hard she made no noise. 

When she lifted her face, Simon sucked in a startled breath. She looked like you, only without his scars. There was a mark slowly bleeding into place on her temple, one that matched the gunshot wound of the woman beneath her. 

The wail that suddenly pierced the air was distraught, horrible, a lurch and a bang. 

Soap was there, kneeling, looking for wounds that Ghost knew didn’t exist. Horror froze him for the second time in his life, your face swimming behind his eyes. 

“I thought you said they couldn’t feel it,” he barked. 

“What?” 

“Soulmates.” 

Soap looked at the pair with fresh eyes. 

“They can’t, LT,” Soap said without glancing at him. “It’s no’ that. It’s just—” 

Grief. The unbearable snapping of a fated cord. The tether in his own chest pulsed, ached. He thought of it breaking cleanly in two, as though it never existed, your light snuffed out, leaving him in total darkness again. 

It wasn’t pain she was feeling, it was the absence. 

“Ghost,” Johnny said sharply and Simon finally snapped out of it, went to his side. 

It wasn't worth it, he thought. None of this could be fucking worth it. He was left with the sinking sense that all he could ever do was hurt you. 

All the same, he felt an urgency to go home. To return to your side. To feel your pulse under his fingers. 

Just to be sure. 

It took them a long time to get her to leave the body. 

.

.

.

Task Force 141 was deployed for nearly two months. 

September and October passed slowly, in starts and fits that seemed to drag. 

You developed a pain in your side, a stitch from taking it too hard in the gym you assumed. But nothing seemed to help it. The pang became a prick became a small misery that the base medical staff couldn’t pinpoint the origins of. 

You missed Ghost, and Kyle and Johnny, tolerated the terrible tea your coworkers made for you, went on another series of failed dates, and finally became friends with your cross-hall apartment neighbor. Months of baked goods and hellos finally coming to fruition. Pieces of a life were falling together. 

Finally, they were coming home. You left your offer that night with the assurance that they were uninjured, that Ghost, and likely Soap, would be in your office by noon the next day. 

But Simon still managed to reappear as he always did, silently and without warning. A shadow crossed your back as you were locking your office near midnight, a hand grazed your back. You followed the series of steps you’d been taught months ago. Foot back, elbow out, knife in hand, open, turn—

Your wrist was caught by the flat of his palm, fingers of the opposite hand yanking it from your grip.  

You blinked and breathed out heavily, relieved. The tight tenderness in your side leveled off for the first time in a month. “Ghost,” you murmured, lowering your now empty hand, “You aren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow morning.” 

“That disappointed to see me?” 

No. Never. But he was still in full tactical gear. The skin around his eyes was still layered with eyeblack, exhaustion and an acid tension rolling off him in a thick wave. His gaze was heavy, but steady, assessing you in turn. He smelled like diesel and cigarettes and gun powder. You lifted your chin. “Surprised to see you. Glad to see you.” 

He only flipped the knife around and held it out to you. “Nice work.” 

You smiled as you took the blade and stored it again. “You’re making me paranoid, I think.” 

“Good. Paranoid keeps you alive.” 

His eyes flicked over you, looking long and hard, though for what you couldn’t be sure. He stepped closer, until you were forced back against the door. He towered over you, corralled you back against the cool wood. Soft, dark eyes like wells of ink in the shadow of the hood pulled over his head, searched long enough that you began to worry something was wrong. 

You reached out and rested your hand on his forearm. His body was so taut you could feel the tremble of exhausted, overwrought muscle. “Ghost,” you said gently, carefully. “Are you okay?” 

He inhaled deeply, so hard and fast it sounded pained. 

He looked at you again, eyes sliding over you slowly, like he was orienting himself, finding steady ground on which to stand. 

“Why don’t you cover ‘em?”

Your belly clenched. “Cover what?” you queried, silently begging him not to ask that question. 

“Scars.” 

You went still, looking down at your skin. You had rolled up your sleeves earlier in the evening when furious typing had required it. They glinted silver in the low light of the hall. Pretty and delicate as dragon scales. 

It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before. 

Still, you fought the urge to cross your arms. You hated when he stared at them. 

“Why would I?” You rubbed your wrist. “I don’t want to. They belong to my soulmate.”

He glanced away from you, his jaw tight beneath the mask. “You actually believe in that shite?” His voice was harsh, aggressive in a way he had never spoken to you before. “It’s a bloody children’s tale.”  

You bristled, felt something hard and mean well behind your breastbone in a tight knot. The pain that had been kicking you in the ribs lately reared again, made you wince and cover your side. “Well,” you snapped, gesturing to yourself with your free hand, “these aren’t mine, so I guess I have to.”  

He scoffed and you felt your heart lurch, hurt settling in your gut, twisting an invisible knife that much deeper. You tried to side step him but he didn’t move, a terrible, solid wall of muscle and—anger? Irritation? You couldn’t tell. “What the fuck do you care? Maybe you’re ashamed of yours,” you said roughly, “But not all of us are.” 

His brows furrowed and he shook his head again. “Oh, come off it.” 

“What?” 

“You’re tellin’ me that if you came face to face with the bastard that did this to you, you wouldn’t hate him?” 

Indignation burned a righteous path up your throat. “You don’t get to do that,” you said lowly. 

“You didn’t deny it,” he said. “You would.” 

“No,” you interrupted vehemently, swallowing around the word like gravel in your throat. “No, of course I wouldn’t. It wasn’t done to me, it—” 

But Simon was determined, his mind set. 

“He hurt you, changed the course of your bloody life, whether you want to admit it or not. You’ll hate him for it, love.” 

“For something he went through?” You asked incredulously, defensively. “Do you know how scared I was?” 

Ghost’s eyes went blank, his stare suddenly flat and far away. His gaze drifted from yours, the weight of flinty amber lifted. “Of him,” he said viciously, like something terrible he’d always known had been confirmed. 

“No,” you snarled again, not sure why Ghost was fighting you, not sure why he cared about your scars suddenly. “You aren’t listening. For him.” Your ribs ached, your breath came in short bursts. He was too close, the clashing sensations of safety and agitation calcifying the tension between you into a solid, immutable wall. 

You inhaled shakily through the sudden distress. Your lungs hitched and spasmed before you could suck in a proper breath, feeling faint, glad for the wall behind you. 

He blinked, looked down at you again. “Hey—” 

“I was so scared I would lose him before I ever got to meet him. Ever since I was a kid I’ve had scars. Cigarette burns and scratches, bite marks. I used to hope he was older than me, so it wouldn’t have meant that he—so that he wouldn’t have been—” Agitation rises like a tide, all the nights you’d sat awake watching scars bleed into your skin. Your parents had been unable to look at you in the morning, wondering what the future held for you. What kind of person that child would grow up to be. 

The same fear Simon seemed to be holding onto so tightly. 

You stumbled over his concern, something prickling at the base of your neck. 

“Once,” you continued shakily, “they just kept showing up, day after day, for months. I didn’t know what was happening and there was nothing I could do. I thought he was going to die and I couldn’t help him. I was so worried and all I could do was watch.” 

You met his eyes, saw something so raw and wretched there that you flinched back, closed your eyes, breath caught. 

You aren’t sure when you transitioned to using he instead of they. 

It suddenly didn’t feel like you were talking about someone you hadn’t met yet. 

You thought of how strangely intense he was about you. How you had felt so strongly about him immediately. How the only bit of his skin you’ve ever seen has been around his eyes; the delicate veins at his wrists.

You thought of him making you tea and teaching you to defend yourself. You thought of him walking you to your car and pulling you into sunny days. You thought of all the cups of coffee and boxes of tea, the gentle way he handled the blanket you made him from cheap cotton like it was spun gold. 

You thought of Johnny asking after your scars the first time you met him. How not long after you’d been personally introduced to the rest of the 141 for no discernable reason. How they checked on you. How they were probably the only people that knew what Ghost’s face looked like. 

“No,” you whispered, pieces of a terrible puzzle sliding together in your mind. 

You opened your eyes.  

“Ghost?” you asked softly, tentatively lifting your hand. 

He jerked back. “Don’t do that,” he warned.  

You stepped closer, knowing you were playing with fire, that he might burn you, lash out like a dog with its leg in a trap. 

But if he was yours—

If he was yours, you would not be the one to inflict more hurt on him. 

He did not want this, he did not want you, that much was clear. 

You closed your hand and let it fall, pushed your fist against your heart instead. “I see you,” you said gently. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” 

“You don’t understand,” he rasped.  

“You survived.” You backed away. “That’s enough. To know you’re okay.” 

The empty spot in your chest ached, seemed to grow tendrils that wrapped around your heart. A bond so close and not latched. Because you haven’t seen him. He has to let you in.

“When you’re ready. If you’re ever ready. I'm here.”

He finally returned his gaze to yours. 

“Did it hurt?” 

“Did what hurt?” You tilted your head but he didn’t answer, just stared at you with big, moon dark eyes, brows pinched inward, eyeblack creating a tiny white line there. “Oh, you wouldn’t know, I guess.” You shook your head, “No I was just scared. Just worried. It didn’t hurt. You’ve never hurt me.” 

He moved so quickly and silently that you jumped when his hand curled around your wrist. Light enough that you could pull away if you wanted.  

“You don’t have to. You never have to. I don’t want to take anything else from you.” 

Ghost hesitated, his chest rising and falling quickly. “Do I have any of yours?” The question was quiet, almost reverent.  

You nodded, “‘Course you do. I fell out of a tree when I was a kid. Gave me a nasty scar on the back of my elbow. I landed on a rock.” 

His eyes flicked away, like he was trying to imagine it. You twisted your arm, showed him the thick line of scar there, totally different than the lighter version of his on your skin. “See? You’ll have that one in the same spot but lighter. Maybe not even visible, since you’re so pale.” 

Your breath caught when he stepped closer, the pain in your chest was so intense it made breathing difficult.

“It’s not fair to you.” 

“What isn’t?” 

“To bloody leave it. Hurts, yeah?” 

You didn’t admit to the spasming in your chest; it wouldn’t help anything. “When have you ever cared about fair?” 

He made a pained sound. “Don’t.” 

“I’m okay. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t want anything from you.”

“You’re supposed to need things from me.”  

He peeled his gloves off, tucked them into his back pocket. The hall was still and silent aside from your combined ragged breathing. It sounded like you’d been running a marathon. “Ghost—” 

“Simon,” he said. “Please, call me Simon.” 

You closed your eyes, felt his hands graze your collarbone, your throat, before anchoring on your jaw, tilting your face up. “Look at me, sweet’eart.” 

“I can’t.” Your voice trembled, tears clogging your throat. 

“Can.” 

Very gently, he leaned down and pushed his forehead against yours. 

You shuddered and swallowed and stepped closer. Simon curled his arms around you, pulled you into his chest. He was so broad and tall, you felt swaddled against him, warm and secure. His scent wrapped around you like ribbons holding you together. “No point dragging it on, yeah? No point you being in pain.” 

“How long?” 

“The whole time,” he admitted after a moment. His voice rumbled against your cheek. It felt like home. “First time I saw you.” 

“You have had this pain for almost a whole year—” 

“Not your fault,” he interrupted, one massive hand sliding down your spine. “Not your fault.” 

You huffed, hooked your fingers beneath his tac vest. “I’m sorry anyway.” You pulled back, felt his arms tighten around you for a moment. He didn’t want to let you go. “Is there anything you need to take care of? Reports or debriefing or something?” 

“No.” 

“Would. . . would you want to come to mine—” 

He reached under your arm and plucked your keys out of the lock before you could finish, guiding you down the hall, his hand never leaving your skin. 

You had never seen Simon outside the base, you realized suddenly, and everything felt vastly more fragile. It also felt as though that hollow pulse in your chest would tear if you were asked to walk away at that moment, something real and physical would tear and drop out of you, an irreparable part of your soul. 

You weren’t sure how you drove home, Ghost huge in your passenger seat, your hands shaking each time he shifted his grip on you. 

In your apartment, you hesitated, not sure where you belonged in your own space anymore. Simon looked strange in your tiny living room, among soft blankets and years of collected books and knicknacks. An all consuming shadow. You wondered if this would end like all those dates, just another failure, another loss. 

When you started to step toward the lamp, Simon’s fingers curled around your wrist to keep you by his side. “No.” 

“Just turning on the lamp.” 

He released you.

As you stepped away, a hollow pulse in your chest retched with pain that made you gasp and clutch the edge of the sofa. It felt real, like something was breaking, jagged edges clawing at the inside of your skin. You wondered what Ghost’s self imposed distance might have done to the bond. There were stories, albeit few, of corrosion. The bond literally rusting out, slowly poisoning the soulmate and their pair. 

“Come ‘ere,” he muttered. “Sit down.”

When his palm cupped your elbow, the world became softer. Like purr instead of a shriek. He guided you onto the sofa. 

Your hands shook when he released you, making quick work of the lamp. The room flooded with soft yellow light. He glanced around. Art on the walls, forest green rug over hardwood floor, molding you had painted a delicate gold. You felt embarrassed of it all suddenly. 

“God,” you muttered. He didn’t seem to feel the pain at all, which made your chest ache in a different way and guilt pool heavily between your bones for it. You didn’t want him to be in pain, but you felt as though you were breathing water, choking on your own lungs. “How have you dealt with this?” 

“Worse now,” he said, though you felt it was his version of a kind untruth. 

He sat next to you, reached for you, then faltered, unsure. You closed the space, folded your fingers between his. The scars made a fucked up little mirror when you looked down at your hands. They matched exactly. “I’m sorry.” 

Simon didn’t answer, but stayed close to you, letting you hold his hand. Even the smallest amount of space between you seemed to burn, a brazier that flared hot and demanded attention. But it was better; just having his bare hand in yours helped. 

“Nothin’ t’be sorry for.” He said after a few minutes of uneven breathing, eyes trained on your hands, thumb running over the back of your fingers. 

“You don’t want me.” 

It wasn’t a question. 

He glanced up, something razor sharp in his eyes. You flinched a little, but his hand tightened on yours. 

“You don’t have to—We don’t have to bond,” you tripped over the last word. “It’s okay.” 

“Obviously it’s not, bird.” 

Your heart sunk and you glanced away. A one in eight billion chance was sitting under your nose for months, and he wanted nothing to do with you. He was being forced into it.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured again. “Ghost, I’m—”

“Simon,” he corrected.  

“Simon,” you echoed. 

He curled his hands around your wrists, lifted your palms to the bottom of his mask. He let your hands settle at the base of his throat, eyes never leaving yours. “I didn’t want you,” he said plainly. “I never wanted you to know.” 

You swallowed and nodded. “I’m s—” 

“No.”

You closed your mouth with a click of your jaw. You don’t expect a speech and he doesn’t give you one. “You deserve better,” he said. “But I’m all you get.” 

His knee touched yours. Your faces were tilted together, so close that the only thing you could see were the soft depths of his eyes reflecting the gold light.

It didn’t feel close enough. 

You wished it were all different. 

That he didn’t feel forced, that you were what he wanted. 

“I deserve you. Isn’t that the point?” 

He watched you for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face, then nodded. 

“Go on, then.” 

Your throat felt tight as you tugged the mask upwards, heart lurching when you recognized the same scar on your throat on his. You pushed the fabric over his chin and mouth, up until you could pull it over his head. 

You looked at him, the same scar over his mouth, along his cheek, the bridge of his nose was nicked, the outline of burn scarring crossed the edge of his jaw and neck. When you looked past that, you saw him. Crooked nose, thick, furrowed brows, dark eyes you’d loved for a long time cast darker by the black around them, light eyelashes and hair, longer on top and curling. 

Something seemed to. . .snap then. A warmth broke between you, filled that awful, dark, pained well in your chest. It hurt, but the pain was brief, like stitches done by a seasoned medic. 

Breathing was easier. You could feel the pulse of him without the threat of imminent pain. It was a warm, comforting, safe thing in your lungs. You inhaled, attempted to stand, to give him a bit of space. “Should be able to separate now. Shall we test it—” 

You didn’t get a chance to move away, tugged suddenly from your seat and into his lap. You fell heavily against his chest, wrapped tightly in his arms, foreheads slanted together. 

“No,” he said, sounding, for the first time since you’ve known him, breathless. “No.” 

“I don’t want to.” 

“Good.” 

“Can I touch you?” 

“Can do anything you like to me, bird.” 

You stroked the side of his throat, felt him shiver. “Well, I won’t. Not anything.” 

He made a content noise of agreement. 

You touched his jaw, his cheek, the tail of his brow, the faded check through it that you’d never noticed matched your own. His arms tightened around you in increments until the pressure forced you to take shallow breaths. “You’re beautiful.” 

“Lookin’ in a mirror, are you?” 

“Sort of,” you answered. “A little.” 

His hands shifted, anchored on your hips, and pushed you back a little. 

Disappointment that it was over so soon pinched at your throat but you backed off, attempting to slide from his lap. His hand caught at your hip. “Stop trying to bloody move.” 

“What—” 

He was only taking off the vest, which probably should have been left at the base. It dropped heavily to the floor as he pulled you against his chest. It was warmer, softer like that, thick muscle coiled beneath your cheek when you rested it against his shoulder, heartbeat hard against yours.  

“No more pain?” 

“None.” 

“Good.” 

You pushed your face against his throat, felt him tense and then uncoil. One large hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you there. You brushed your lips against his pulse point, felt a scarred flutter against your mouth, a muted grunt.

“You’re all I want,” you admitted quietly. “I think I knew. I think everyone knew. I’m sorry,” you finally said, “that I’m not who you need.”  

His hand squeezes your neck and then he’s pushing you down against the cushions, pressing one massive thigh between your legs, hauling you closer like it could never be close enough. The space between your bodies would always be too large, because you couldn’t climb into his chest, nest among his veins. 

It would have to do then, his hand tilting your jaw up, his eyes searching yours as you part your lips. 

“You are, sweet’eart,” he said simply, mouth brushing yours before he kissed you properly. 

He tasted of black tea; his eyeblack rubs off on your temples. 

Already, he was leaving pieces of himself behind with you to mark safe.

“Simon,” you murmured against his mouth. Just to say it, just to be rewarded with a shudder.

The kiss slipped into something more desperate, your hands felt the skin of his back, your own scar on his elbow, and you thought, maybe, you could become what he needed.  

if you made it this far thank you for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!

[flowersforbucky]

forever is a feeling

white wolf!bucky x reader

prompt: "you always make things feel a little less heavy" from this post

word count: 10.2k

warnings/tags: 18+ mdni, smut, unprotected p in v, oral (f&m receiving), enhanced!reader with healing and calming powers, references to trauma, minor angst, minor injury, talk of bucky’s recovery and deprogramming, mention of alcohol, mutual pining, slow burn-ish, reader is afab, no use of y/n, fluff, friends to lovers, slightly proofread but excuse any errors i’ll fix them later :)

author's note: started this months ago and then got distracted by other wips. figured i would finally finish it up! first time writing for white wolf/wakanda bucky is long overdue. this bucky era has a special place in my heart.

big big thank you to @starsoverbrooklyn for all of her encouragement with this 🫶🏻

my masterlist 🖤

Sundays had grown to be a day of familiar comfort and routine.

No matter what happens on the other six days of the week, you always rest a little easier at night when you remind yourself that Sunday is coming.

Sundays aren’t the only day that you see him. In fact, you see him almost every day. You see him on weekdays when you help with his sessions with Shuri, and you see him on Saturdays when you step out of the front door of your cottage that sits at the edge of the woods, less than a quarter mile from his hut directly across the field. But those days are filled with obligations - countless hours spent attempting to undo everything Hydra put inside his head, and just as many hours spent tending to all of the crops and livestock.

But on Sundays, his posture is a little less tense. He breathes a little easier. His smiles reach his eyes. Sundays are the one day that you insist that he forget all of his responsibilities, even for just a little while. You always make enough breakfast for the both of you, and take it over to his hut in the hand-woven basket that you bought at the market in the heart of Wakanda when you had first arrived here at Steve’s request, over half a year ago.

After eating until you’re both stuffed, you help him pull his hair into the partial up-do that he’d grown fond of. When you first started helping him with this, you could always tell - no matter how hard he tried to hide it - that he felt discouraged at being unable to do such a mundane task on his own. It wasn’t until maybe the dozenth time that he fully relaxed, nearly going limp when you brushed your fingers through his long locks so that you could free it of tangles before pulling part of it into a low ponytail. You noticed the way his shoulders slouched in a way that they hadn’t before, indicating that he was at ease. You smiled to yourself, secretly wishing that you could continue the ministrations without coming across as too forward.

“Might ask you to do that for me even after I get a new arm,” he sighed when you finished securing the small elastic tie around his hair.

Then, you refill the picnic basket with supplies from around his hut, depending on what the plan for the day is. On days with milder temperatures, this includes a book for you and a journal and pen for him. The two of you will go on a short walk to a nearby clearing, where there’s a giant willow tree with plenty of shade. You read, and he journals, as Shuri suggests to help with memory retention and emotional processing. On hotter days, you’ll pack drinking water, a couple of towels, and sunscreen (because yes, super-soldiers can get sunburns - a lesson that Bucky had learned the hard way), and trek to the base of a small waterfall in the woods that no one seems to know about except the two of you.

No matter what the day’s agenda is, the basket always gets loaded with a plethora of snacks. Various berries and cheeses, some fresh baked bread from the market with preserves for dipping, and a couple different cured meats. When you’d first referred to the spread as a charcuterie board, Bucky looked at you as if you had grown a third eye.

“Was charcuterie not a thing back in your day?” You teased, taking a bite of a giant strawberry.

“I think you’re forgetting that ‘my day’ was The Great Depression,” he snorted. “If it wasn’t peanut butter or potatoes, it wasn’t on the menu.”

You wish you could say that today feels anything like Sundays typically do. There’s a heaviness that weighs on your shoulders today; a growing sense of dread at knowing you’re going to be leaving this place that has become a sanctuary to you. At knowing that you’re going to be leaving him - even if it is just for a few days.

You should be use to it at this point. This isn’t the first time that Steve has called to let you know that him, Sam and Natasha need your help with some mission in a faraway country. It’s been over a month since you had returned to Wakanda from the last mission you’d helped with, so you knew it was only a matter of time before Steve reached out again. You weren’t surprised when T’Challa showed up at your cottage yesterday morning to tell you that Steve had been in communication with him to let him know that they would soon be on their way to Wakanda to pick you up.

Today. Sunday.

Not surprised, but still disappointed. You feel guilty to even admit it. As glad as you are to see your friends, you’ve grown to hate leaving more and more each time.

You worry for Bucky when you’re away - to the point that it makes you sick to your stomach, sometimes. But you know that he’s safe here, so you go. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if something happened to Steve, Sam, or Nat and you weren’t there to help them because you couldn’t bear to be away from Bucky long enough to go with them.

But that doesn’t mean that you don’t miss him every minute that you’re away, or that you don’t long to be back in your small cottage, or beneath the willow tree, or leisurely strolling through the town’s market, or swimming in the lagoon below the waterfall with him.

He's quiet. He had gradually grown to be comfortable around you over the last half year, opening up and becoming more talkative as you spent more time together. But today feels heavy. He might not bluntly say it, but you can always tell that he dreads you leaving as much as you do.

“I could stay, you know,” you offer quietly as you dry the last of the dishes from dinner with a hand towel. You’re usually the one who does the cooking for your shared meals, since your cottage’s kitchen is slightly more equipped than Bucky’s hut, but tonight, he had offered to cook for you for a change. “I don’t have to go this time.”

You stand in front of his small sink, staring out of a window that has the perfect view of the lake by his hut. The sun had started to set, making the water appear to dance in hues of red and orange.

“That’s true,” he agrees with a sigh. “You don’t have to go. Steve can’t make you.” You hear him rise from where he’d been sitting at the small dining table in the middle of his hut. His feet shuffle against the ground, closing the small amount of distance between you. He leans against the edge of the counter, standing just inches from you.

“But he wouldn’t ask you to go if it wasn’t important. So you probably should.” His voice is gentle yet firm, though you swear you can hear a hint of reluctance slip through. As if, just maybe, he's trying to convince himself as much as he’s trying to convince you.

“He asked me to be here, too,” you point out. You finally break your stare on the sunset, shifting your gaze to him. You find that he’s already looking at you, an indecipherable expression on his face.

“And I’d much rather be here.”

Much rather be here with you, you almost say, but bite your tongue on the last two words. You hope that, by this point, it goes without saying.

There’s something that always holds you back from being too direct with him. You chalk it up to not wanting to put pressure on him to respond in any particular way. The last thing you want to do is potentially cause him any kind of emotional turmoil when he’s in the thick of healing.

The side of his pinky finger brushes against yours where your hands rest on the edge of the countertop. It’s a feather-light touch; barely there. You can’t even tell if it was intentional, but it still sends a chill up your arm despite the humidity inside the small hut.

“I know you would,” he says with a soft smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’d rather you be here, too. But you’ll be back in a few days, and we’ll go to our waterfall.”

Our.

“Swimming? On a Wednesday?” You ask in mock disbelief, trying to brush off the way your heart just skipped a beat.

“Swimming on a Wednesday,” he promises. “As long as you make it back to me in one piece.”

You move your hand not even a quarter of an inch, so that your pinky overlaps his. You long to grab his hand in yours completely, but physical touch isn’t something that happens very often between the two of you outside of his sessions with Shuri. When he gets overwhelmed and anxious, you’re always there to take his hand in yours and exert waves of calming energy to help ground him.

You know how his hand feels in yours - but not outside the walls of Shuri’s lab. Not when no one else is around. You don’t know how it feels to hold his hand, simply because you want to hold his hand.

He doesn’t pull away. You wonder if he’s thinking of taking your hand in his, too.

You clear your throat, realizing that you’re just staring at him. You look away, glancing back to the sun that has nearly set beyond the horizon.

“Thank you again for dinner,” you tell him, pulling your hand away from his as you take a small, reluctant step towards the door. “I should go finish packing. Steve will be here to get me any time now—”

Before you can finish your sentence, he pulls you into him, wrapping his arm around the back of your neck. You’re momentarily stunned, going completely still. When you’ve processed that he’s hugging you for the first time, you melt into the embrace. You wrap your arms around his midsection, reveling in the feeling of his chest against yours.

“Please be safe,” he murmurs into your hair. “Promise me.”

As much as you hate to pull away, you do so enough to look up at him. You nod, blinking rapidly to fight back the threat of tears. “I promise.”

••••••

“I brought you a fresh bag of peas.”

You crack open your eye that doesn’t have a lukewarm bag of sweet peas placed over it. Natasha peers down at you, another bag of frozen peas clutched in her hand. You’d been holding the current bag to your swollen eye for the last few hours, not even caring about the fact that it’s now room temperature and no longer helping the pain that radiates from your temple.

“Which one of you has a thing for peas?” You sit up with a groan, your body stiff from the aftermath of a fight with a cartel member in Colombia and several nights of sleeping on the jet. You accept the ice cold bag from her, bringing it up to your injured eye in place of the melted one. “What’s wrong with regular ice packs?”

“Peas are rich in fiber and antioxidants and they function as perfectly good ice packs,” Sam retorts over his shoulder from where he sits in the pilot seat of the jet. “We don’t exactly have a lot of freezer space here. We can’t be too picky.”

You both ignore him as Natasha takes a seat beside you. She has a small gash along her cheekbone, but she’s otherwise unscathed. You had offered to heal the laceration for her, but she had insisted she was fine and didn’t want you to use any of your energy on such a minor cut. You had already used your powers to heal Sam’s fractured fibula, and you had a possible concussion to worry about - which, unfortunately, your powers cannot help. You can only heal other people, not yourself.

“How’re you feeling?” She asks for the fourth time in the last two hours.

You give her the same answer as the first three times. “Like I was hit in the face with a piece of steel rebar. How do I look?” You remove the bag of peas from your eye, revealing your engorged brow bone for emphasis.

She doesn’t try to hide her grimace. “Like you were hit in the face with a piece of steel rebar.”

You huff a laugh, once again covering the knot next to your eye with the makeshift ice pack. “I’m okay,” you sigh. “I'll probably have this tumor on my forehead for a few days, but I'll live.”

“You better,” she smirks, a mischievous glint appearing in her eyes. She leans in close to you, lowering her voice so that the two men sitting in the jet’s cockpit can’t overhear. “Or I know someone who will never let me, Sam, or Steve hear the end of it. Matter of fact, we’ll still never hear the end of it, even with you sustaining only minor injuries.”

You furrow your brows at her, the movement causing you to flinch slightly. “What are you going on about?”

You might be sleep-deprived and possibly concussed, but you’re not a complete idiot - as soon as the words leave her mouth, Bucky's face flashes through your mind. You’re sure that she’s referring to him, but why she’d say that with such an…amused expression is beyond you.

“Steve stopped by Bucky’s hut when we first got to Wakanda a few days ago,” she begins to explain. Her expression softens as her smirk fades. Your stomach suddenly feels like a ball of nerves at the thought of what she might say next. You lower the bag of frozen vegetables from your eye, no longer caring about the swelling as you stare at her in anticipation.

“He worries about you when you're not there,” she hums after a pregnant pause. “There was a moment that I thought he was going to ask Steve to tell you to stay. I didn't say anything at first because I didn't want to distract you from what we needed to do in Colombia, but…you’ve been distracted, anyway.”

You avert her gaze, choosing to stare down at your boots instead. She isn’t wrong - you have been distracted. Even more so than usual, and the plump knot next to your eyebrow proves it. You had hoped you were doing a better job at hiding it, but Natasha is trained to read people like open books, so it doesn’t come as much of a surprise that she was able to deduce that even though you’ve been physically present, your mind has been thousands of miles away - back in your own little slice of heaven: a valley in eastern Africa with a one-armed, blue-eyed super soldier.

“I suppose I have been,” you breathe. Normally, you’d probably try to deny it. You’ve never attempted to verbalize your feelings for Bucky to anyone - there’s a part of your brain that tells you saying it out loud makes it real. And it being real scares you.

Maybe it’s just the head injury and lack of sleep, or maybe it’s what Natasha just revealed to you about Steve’s visit with Bucky prior to the mission, but you find it hard to hold back those feelings right now.

“I worry about him, too. He’s made a lot of improvement, but I can’t help but worry about him when I’m not there. It gets worse every time I have to leave. I worry about how his sessions with Shuri are going and if he’s needed me, I worry about if he’s been having nightmares, I worry about if he’s needed help putting his hair up…” You trail off, shaking your head at your rambling.

Nat doesn’t try to interject with any thoughts or opinions. She watches you with a look of sympathy, letting you know that it’s okay to say whatever you need to say.

You shrug. “And I just…miss him.” Your voice quivers, but there’s an immediate sense of relief that washes over you as soon as the words leave your mouth. It felt good to say it so plainly.

You just miss him.

“If you miss him, you should tell him,” she says softly as she places her hand over yours and gives it a comforting squeeze. “If I had to take a guess, I would say that he's missing you just as much.”

“Maybe,” you agree. “I’d like to think so. But I don’t want to put anything on him that he isn’t ready for. Emotionally speaking, that is.”

She’s silent for a moment, contemplating your words.

“He’s his own person with free will again,” she reminds you delicately. “He can decide what he is or isn’t ready for. I think you should give him the opportunity to do so.”

You suddenly get the feeling that she’s isn’t referring to just telling him that you’ve missed him.

“We land in Wakanda in five!” Steve yells from the cockpit. A fresh wave of relief - mixed with some nervousness, and some excitement - comes over you.

You take an easier breath knowing that you’ll soon be back in the place - and with the person - that feels like home to you.

••••••

The first shower after returning home from a mission is what you imagine heaven feels like.

Sure, the shower stall in your cottage is quite possibly the smallest one you’ve ever seen, and the water pressure is underwhelming, but after days of taking whore’s baths with baby wipes on the jet, it feels luxurious.

Still, there’s a part of you that wishes you were washing off in the cool, blue water beneath the waterfall right now - like you and Bucky had talked about before you left. Unfortunately, you had returned home from Colombia later than expected this evening.

The sun was already sinking when the jet touched down in Wakanda. By the time you unpacked, night had settled over the valley. You’re sure Bucky has had another long, draining day - hours in the fields in the intense heat, followed by the mental strain of a deprogramming session with Shuri. As much as you long to see him, you tell yourself it can wait until morning. He’s probably already asleep.

So you take your time in the shower, standing under the weak stream until it runs cold. Afterwards, you dress in only a loose fitting t-shirt and a pair of underwear. It’s your typical bedtime attire - though your cottage has power, there’s no central heat and air. Even with the fan on full blast, nights are exceptionally warm this time of year.

You’re bringing water to a boil for a cup of tea before bed when a knock at your door startles you. Three quick, sharp raps.

There’s only one person it could possibly be. No one else ever comes to your cottage, especially not at this hour.

“Hey,” you greet as you open the door. “We got back later than expected or I would have—”

“What happened to your eye?” He interjects.

Truthfully, you’d already forgotten about the injury. The swelling has already started to go down, and the pain is now nothing more than a dull throb. You felt confident that your face would be back to normal by tomorrow morning, but he notices the unusual lump by your temple as soon as the door swings open.

He steps through the doorway, not waiting for an invitation to come inside. “Who did that to you?”

“Oh,” you breathe, shaking your head. You take a few steps backwards, into your cottage. He closes the door behind him. “Don’t even worry about it. I got clipped by a piece of steel rebar that a cartel member chucked at me.” You laugh awkwardly, trying to play it off.

His hand comes up, thumb brushing the high point of your cheekbone, careful to avoid the injury. He inspects it closely, his gaze sharper than his tone.

While he does, you take him in - the tired slouch in his shoulders, the shadows under his eyes, hair slightly greasy like it hasn’t been washed in a few days.

“Did you get this checked out?” His voice is tight, the concern sitting heavy in it.

“I promise I’m fine, Buck,” you say gently. “It already looks much better than it did a few hours ago. It’s nothing that a little ice and ibuprofen can’t help.”

He exhales through his nose, and reluctantly drops his hand from your face. Behind you, the tea kettle begins to hiss as the water reaches a boil.

“Tea?” You ask, hoping he’ll be content enough with your response. “It’s rooibos. I was just making myself a cup before bed.”

He looks like he wants to press the subject further, but he doesn’t. Instead, he gives you a slight nod and forced smile as he takes a seat at your dining room table. He waits in silence as you pour the hot water into two mugs. Then, knowing he likes a splash of milk in his, you grab the carton from your fridge before placing his cup on the table in front of him.

You pull out the chair directly across from him and start to sit down when you notice his gaze - a brief flicker downwards before settling back on your face. You follow it and it dawns on you that you aren’t wearing pants.

Your cheeks warm at the realization. “I’ll be right back,” you mumble before dashing in the direction of your bedroom to throw on the first pair of lounge pants that you can find.

He has seen you in less than a t-shirt many times. Every time the two of you go to the waterfall, or when you take a dip in the lake in front of his hut to cool off during the day, you wear a swimsuit or sometimes a sports bra and athletic shorts. Your skin is more covered now than in those instances, but there’s something about being behind closed doors that makes it feel more…intimate.

When you return, he’s still sitting there, the mug clutched in his hand, his gaze following you as you move back into the kitchen.

“You okay?” You ask in hopes of breaking the tension that lingers in the air as you take a seat across from him. “You look a little tired.”

His eyes flicker away from you, settling on the drink in his hand. He lifts his shoulders in a small shrug. “Long day. I was in the lab with Shuri for the first half of the day, and then worked in the fields until sundown.”

You can’t shake the feeling that there’s something he’s holding back. He looks like he had a long day, yes, but something tells you that there’s more to it than that. You cock a brow, waiting for him to continue.

“And I didn’t sleep very well while you were gone.”

“Because of nightmares?” You ask softly.

He shakes his head once. “I’m used to those. I just worry about you when you’re not here.”

The admission takes you off guard. It’s not said as a confession meant to guilt trip you for going away - it’s just the truth, simple as that.

You glance down at your own mug, your fingers tightening around the ceramic. “I don’t sleep well when I’m gone, either,” you admit. Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Even when the days are long and exhausting. It’s like something is missing.”

“That’s why I came over tonight,” he murmurs. “Didn’t want to wait until morning to see you.”

Your throat suddenly feels dry, and your face warm. You take a sip of the drink in your hands, just to give yourself something to do while you try to formulate a coherent response. When you sit the mug back down, your legs shift beneath the table, accidentally brushing against his.

Neither of you move away.

“You missed me, then?” Your tone is light and teasing enough for him to deflect if he doesn’t want to give an honest answer - but you secretly hope he does.

The corner of his mouth twitches into a half smile. “Yeah. I did.”

It’s not a joke, nor deflection. Just another simple truth.

You look down at your tea to keep yourself from smiling too big. “Well, I’m back now. Are you still willing to take a day off to go to the waterfall tomorrow?”

He clears his throat, then sits up a bit straighter. “About that…” he starts with a breathy laugh. “I’ll have the next few days off. From sessions with Shuri, anyway. She thinks I’m ready to see if the deprogramming has been successful. We plan to test my trigger words this weekend.”

You’re taken aback. It’s obvious by the way your eyes bulge in surprise. Of all the things to come home to, you didn’t expect this news.

This is what he’s been working towards for over half a year. At first, it felt so far away. You know there have been many times that he doubted he would ever get to this point. You’ve felt it from him - the anxiety and skepticism surrounding his ability to overcome what Hydra had forced inside his brain.

But you’ve also felt his hope. His yearning and determination to have complete control of his mind and body again. And because of that, you never doubted that he’d get here.

“That’s incredible, Bucky,” you tell him earnestly. “How do you feel about it, though?”

You want to give him the opportunity to verbalize his thoughts, but you already know the answer. Your leg still rests against his beneath the table, the touch bridging just enough of a physical connection between you so that you can feel it - he’s scared. Terrified.

He shrugs again, shaking his head. “I don’t know if I’m ready. But then again, I don’t know if I’ll ever feel ready.”

Under the table, you nudge your knee against his, sending a quiet pulse of calming reassurance through him. The knot in his chest loosens just enough for you to feel him relax.

“You don’t have to go through it alone,” you murmur. “I’ll be there to help however I can. However you need me to.”

His eyes flick up to yours, and for a moment the lines in his face ease. He doesn’t say thank you, but the gratitude is there - in the way his shoulders lose some of their tension, and the way his leg stays pressed to yours.

The two of you stay like that for a while, sipping tea in companionable silence until both mugs are empty. You relish the feeling of being back in his presence, and think about how glad you are that he decided to knock on your door tonight - you know that you’ll sleep better tonight than you have in days now, too.

••••••

When morning comes, the air is heavy with the scent of wet earth and the low, muted light of an overcast sky that promises rain. Still, when Bucky shows up at your door with a packed bag, neither of you think about canceling your plans to venture to the waterfall.

He seems to be in better spirits than last night. His blue eyes shine a bit brighter and he appears well rested. He adjusts a bag slung across his shoulder - presumably holding towels, water and some snacks.

“You ready?” He asks, glancing over you with a smile that reaches his eyes.

“I’ve been ready,” you chirp, brushing past him to exit your cottage. You woke up too early this morning, thanks to both the humid air in your bedroom and the anticipation of spending the day with him. Beneath your tank top and shorts, you already have on your swimsuit.

“So sorry to keep you waiting,” he snorts, the faintest hint of a Brooklyn drawl making an appearance in his voice. It’s rare, but it gives you a fuzzy feeling every time it happens. Like underneath all of the decades of trauma, the charming boy from Brooklyn is still there.

Though the trail to the waterfall is narrow, you still manage to walk side by side, your left arm nudging his right every now and then. By the time you’re able to hear the rushing of the water, you both have sweat-slicked skin due to the high humidity.

“Do you think we’ll get rained out?” You ask, pulling your tank top over your head when you reach the edge of the water. You glance up at the sky, which has turned several shades darker during the walk to the waterfall.

Bucky maneuvers his own t-shirt over his head. His muscles are taut and skin is tan from hours of manual labor under the summer sun. It’s a sight you should be used to at this point, considering how often you see him shed his shirt for a dip in the lake following a long, hot day of working in the fields.

Yet you aren’t used to it. You doubt you ever will be.

“Most likely,” he shrugs, stepping into the pool of water. “Oh well. We’ll be wet, anyway.”

With his back turned to you, you shimmy out of your shorts as he wades deeper into the basin. By the time you dip your feet in, he’s already waist deep.

Despite the muggy weather, the water is surprisingly chilly - more so than usual. You hiss as goosebumps erupt across your skin, but you don’t stop until the water reaches your shoulders and your feet struggle to touch the sandy ground at the bottom of the plunge pool. Soon, you’re closer to the base of the waterfall than Bucky, who still stands stomach deep a few feet behind you.

You hear him snort behind you. You glance over your shoulder to find him watching you with a smirk on his face.

“What is it, White Wolf?” You hum. “Scared of a little cold water?”

That earns you a different look - part challenge, part warning - and then he’s wading after you, the water swaying around him. By the time he reaches you, you’ve splashed him twice.

“You’re asking for trouble,” he says, his voice low in a way that makes your stomach flutter.

“You’ll have to catch me first,” you fire back as he playfully lunges at you.

You’re laughing when his hand closes around your wrist beneath the surface. His skin is a warm contrast to the cold water. He reels you in with slow, unhurried strength until you’re chest to chest, your toes brushing against his beneath the water.

He lets go of your wrist, moving his hand to the small of your back to pull you even closer. Through his touch, his emotions hit you all at once. There’s tension, yes, but beneath that there’s something softer. Warmer. Hesitation mixed with a hint of longing.

“Caught you,” he murmurs.

Suddenly, Natasha’s voice echoes in your mind. He can decide what he is or isn’t ready for. I think you should give him the opportunity to do so.

Your eyes find his. You can feel the way they search yours, just waiting for a signal. You tilt your head slightly, not closing the space but not stepping back either, letting him see that you won’t pull away.

“You did,” you hum softly. “What are you gonna do now?”

He stares at you for a moment, something akin to mischief in his eyes. Then, he makes the first move. His nose brushes against yours before his lips finds yours in a kiss that’s slow yet sure. Miles above you, the sky breaks and the first cool drops of rain collide against your skin.

Neither of you seem to even notice it. The roar of the waterfall drowns out the rest of the world, leaving only the pittering of rain and the subtle hitch of his breath when your hand comes to cup the side of his neck.

His hand stays firm at the small of your back, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. You wrap your legs around his waist, supported only by him as you float in the water. His tongue sweeps along the swell of your bottom lip and you part your mouth, just enough to let him in. Every little movement is intentional and slow, like he’s trying to commit the feel and flavor of you to his memory.

A low rumble rolls through the air, so faint at first you barely notice it over the rush of the falls. But then a harsh clap of thunder cracks overhead, so sudden and sharp it makes you both flinch.

Bucky pulls back just far enough for your foreheads to rest together, his breath brushing your lips in short, steady exhales. The rain has picked up, falling harder now, crashing against the water’s surface in countless ripples.

You’ve thought of how his lips would feel against yours more times than you can possibly count. Now that you know how it feels to kiss him, you don’t want to stop. You can feel it from him - he doesn’t want to, either.

But you have time. Time for more days like this - spent kissing beneath the waterfall. And once the coming days are behind you, you have every intention of spending your days doing just that.

You’re the one who breaks the silence. “We should probably head back,” you murmur, even though part of you aches to stay here and close the space between you again.

A small pang of disappointment jolts through him, but beneath that, there’s understanding. He nods, and gives you a small smile.

“You’re probably right,” he sighs. He drops his hand from your back and brings it to your temple. He then grazes his thumb along the still slightly elevated knot beside your eye. It no longer hurts, and looks significantly better than it did yesterday, but is still faintly visible.

“You already got hit in the face with a piece of steel rebar this week. The last thing I need is for you to get struck by lightning, too.”

••••••

You’re restless.

Tonight, the air in your cottage is uncomfortably warm and the crickets outside chirp far too loudly. The light from the full moon pours in through the cracks of your curtains, making the small room annoyingly bright. You aren’t sure what time it is, but you’ve been tossing and turning for hours without a wink of sleep.

At the forefront of your thoughts is two distinct things: Bucky’s upcoming deprogramming trial, and the feeling of his lips on yours.

The first thought gnaws at you, nauseating and unrelenting. If the deprogramming proves to be unsuccessful, you dread the aftermath. The mere possibility that it could result in him being triggered into the Winter Soldier is enough to make your skin clammy and heart rate skyrocket. You’d do everything in your power to help him, of course. Okoye, Ayo, and the rest of the Dora Milaje would, too. You’re confident enough that, together, you would be able to prevent him from hurting himself or anyone else.

But it’s not the threat of physical violence that plagues you tonight. It’s the thought of how an unsuccessful trial would affect his mental health. How it could possibly undo months of effort and reset so much of the progress he’s made, all in a matter of minutes.

That, and how retraumatizing it would be for him to once again experience the loss of his bodily autonomy and his memories - even for such a temporary amount of time.

But when your thoughts start to spiral, you think back to yesterday morning. To how it felt to be entangled with him in the water - your legs around his waist, his hand caressing your back. The feeling of his lips moving in synchronicity with yours as raindrops cascaded down your faces, a cool contrast to the heat of his skin.

The memory of his touch, taste, and scent are far from being unpleasant or unwelcome thoughts - but they are thoughts that keep you awake, nonetheless.

You roll onto your back and stare up at the shadows that dance across your ceiling in the moonlight, exhaling in defeat at your inability to fall asleep.

Maybe some fresh, nighttime air would help calm your mind.

You don’t bother putting on shoes before stepping outside. As soon as you open the front door, the night breeze feels like a balm against your clammy skin. You start to sit down on your front porch step when the faint orange-red glow of a small fire catches your attention.

Even from across the field, you can tell he’s looking at you. He sits in a wooden chair in front of his hut, a few feet away from the campfire. The firelight dances across his features, highlighting the amused smirk on his face. He raises his hand, offering you a gentle wave.

It’s a simple gesture. An innocent acknowledgement of your presence. But you can’t deny the inexplicable pull to walk across the pasture and join him when his gaze continues to linger on you.

You’re both awake at this hour. Why not be awake together?

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you step off of your porch, putting one foot in front of the other as you walk towards him. As you get closer, his smirk shifts to something softer.

You come to a stop when you’re standing right in front of the fire. You glance around, looking for something to perch on, but don’t see anything other than the chair that he occupies.

“Come here,” he murmurs, his voice low, roughened by the late hour. He shifts slightly, his single arm resting across the armrest as though waiting for you.

Your brows lift in hesitation. “There’s only one chair.”

His gaze holds yours, unwavering, the corner of his mouth twitching with the hint of a smile. “I know.”

You hover in place for a moment, the grass brushing against your bare ankles, heart thudding louder than the crickets. “You sure?” you ask softly, almost testing him.

He tips his chin toward his lap, his voice a gentle command. “Yeah. Sit.”

You draw in a breath, hesitating only a heartbeat longer before stepping closer. The chair creaks as you ease yourself down into his lap, careful at first, your hands brushing against his shoulders for balance. He’s solid beneath you, and warm to the touch from his time sitting beside the fire.

His arm comes around your waist instinctively, pulling you against him. Even with only one arm, his hold is firm and steady, keeping you pressed close.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The night hums around you. The fire pops, and his blue eyes watch you from so near that the flames shine across his irises. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest under your palm.

He’s anxious. You can feel it radiate off of him in waves. You don’t have to ask. One touch of his skin and you know that he’s awake this late for reasons similar to you.

You bring your hand to his chin, cupping his jaw in your palm. His eyes flutter shut at the touch, before you even release the slightest bit of calming energy. When you do, his frame relaxes beneath you.

“Thank you,” he whispers, nuzzling the scruff of his beard against your palm. “You always make things feel a little less heavy.”

“Less heavy?” You hum, moving a stray hair away from his face and tucking it behind his ear for him. “Even when I’m sitting in your lap?”

He opens his eyes, looking up at you again. “Especially when you’re sitting in my lap.”

You can’t help but smile at his words. You stay like that for a long moment - your hand against his cheek, his arm curled tight around your waist - before you let your fingers fall, brushing against the collar of his shirt. He looks away from you, his eyes settling on a glowing ember in the dwindling fire in front of you. A sudden jolt of nerves overcomes him once more.

“What’s wrong?” You murmur.

“Would you…” He clears his throat, his voice low and unsure. “Would you want to stay with me tonight?”

The question takes you by surprise. In all of the months that you’ve lived so close, you’ve never stayed the night with one another. There had been many instances where he’d had nightmares in the middle of the night - you’d hear the yelling from across the field and come over just long enough to check on him and help calm him down to sleep. But you always returned back to your place.

This is brand new territory. It’s a simple request but it carries weight. Weight that has little to do with physical closeness and a lot to do with the fact that he trusts you enough to want you with him during such a vulnerable time.

“Of course,” you answer, and you mean it with every fiber of your being. “Of course I’ll stay.” You brush your thumb across his cheekbone, coaxing him to meet your eyes again.

The faintest hint of a smile ghosts across his lips, shy and uncertain, and the sight alone makes your heart buzz. You can’t help but to lean in, closing the distance to press your mouth to his.

It’s soft, and slow, and warms you more than the fire beside you. You want nothing more than to melt into him as your lips move against his, but you know that now isn’t the time to let things escalate.

It’s late. Tomorrow is a big day for him, and he needs to go into it with a clear head.

“We should probably try to get some sleep,” you whisper when you pull away. He nods, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on your waist until you start to stand up.

The inside of his hut is familiar, but the energy is different tonight. Tonight it feels quieter. The dim glow of the fire outside seeps faintly through the window, painting the small space in muted gold shadows.

His cot is small - narrow and worn, with the blanket at the foot folded neatly like it hasn’t been used in weeks. He sits down first, leaning back on his elbow. When you climb in beside him, the mattress dips beneath your weight, and suddenly the space feels impossibly small - but not in a way that’s suffocating. In a way that’s comforting.

You curl into his side without thinking. His single arm comes around you, tugging you closer until your cheek rests against the solid plane of his chest. His skin is warm, even through the fabric of his shirt.

“Comfy?” he murmurs at last, his tone gruff but softened by exhaustion.

“Mhm.” You smile against him, eyes fluttering shut. “I think your bed is my new favorite place.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, almost disbelieving. His fingers brush absently over your shoulder, a touch so gentle you know he’s barely aware he’s doing it. “You’re terrible at lying.”

“I’m not lying.” You tilt your head enough to catch his gaze. “I feel safe here. With you.”

The words settle over him. He swallows thickly. When he speaks again his voice is quieter than before. “Haven’t had anyone say that to me in a…very long time.”

You reach for his hand where it rests against your side, lacing your fingers through his. “It’s true.”

He hums in response. You feel it, deep in his chest. A sound of contentment.

“Goodnight,” he whispers.

You press your lips lightly against his chest, right over his heart. “Goodnight, Bucky.”

Within minutes, his breathing evens, steady and calm. At peace against him, sleep finally finds you, too.

••••••

The air is cool when night falls, heavy with the scent of damp earth from an afternoon rainstorm. The Dora Milaje stand silent along the perimeter, their spears grounded but still accessible at a moment’s notice.

You keep to the sidelines, your hands clasped in front of you, heart pounding loud enough that you’re sure someone hears it. You ache to be closer, but you think it best to give him some space right now. He knows you’re close by, and that you aren’t going anywhere. The way you had squeezed his hand before reluctantly dropping it only moments ago told him as much.

Ayo steps forward, her voice calm and void of any emotion. “Are you ready, James?”

He gives one curt nod in confirmation, though the tension in his posture gives away his apprehension. He’s sitting on the ground, his form rigid as though already bracing himself for this to go disastrously wrong.

Ayo speaks the first word in Russian, but you have them memorized well enough to know exactly what she’s saying. It rings through the silence like a stone dropped into water.

Longing.

You see the twitch in his shoulders, the sharp rise of his chest as he inhales. He waits for it - for the familiar darkness to crawl up his spine, for his mind to become something that isn’t his own. But nothing happens.

Rusted.

He clenches his fist. His teeth grind together. Still, nothing. His breathing quickens, but it’s from anticipation rather than loss of control.

“It’s not gonna work,” he grunts and you feel your heart break a little. You take an involuntary step forward before stopping yourself. Ayo continues.

Seventeen. Daybreak. Furnace.

One by one, the words come. You hold your breath after every syllable, your pulse racing a little faster with each word.

His eyes dart up to Ayo’s, wide and glassy. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. His whole frame trembles now, not with the Soldier’s emergence but with the mounting storm of relief and disbelief.

Tears brim in his eyes. He shakes his head minutely, as though trying to convince himself this is real.

Finally, the last word falls.

Freight car.

Silence follows. You could hear a twig snap from within the woods around you. Bucky lets out a sound then, ragged and low, a sob that erupts from the depths of his chest. His tears spill freely, unstoppable, his whole body wracked with them.

Ayo lowers her chin, her voice firm but gentle. “You are free.”

He drags in a shuddering breath, tears wet on his cheeks, and the first word he speaks is your name. It’s broken on his lips, barely more than a whisper, but it shoots straight through you. You’re moving before you can think, crossing the distance between you and dropping to your knees in front of him.

His glossy eyes find yours. When you reach out, cupping his face, he doesn’t hesitate - he collapses forward, burying his face in your chest, his one arm wrapping around you.

He’s sobbing against you but you don’t flinch. You let him break, let him unravel, knowing this is his first true taste of freedom in over half a century. Your own eyes well up with tears as you hold him close.

“You did it,” you say through the tears. “You did it, Bucky.”

At some point, Ayo and the rest of the Dora Milaje wordlessly retreat into the night, leaving you and him alone by the firelight. You continue to hold him, rubbing comforting circles on his back, until his sobs cease and he pulls back to look up at you.

“Thank you,” he says, voice breaking. “For.. all of it. For being here. For staying.”

You shake your head, gentle but firm. “You don’t have to thank me, Bucky. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

His expressions softens and you catch a glimpse of the boy he was before all of the trauma. It’s unguarded - something he hasn’t been in a very long time, but now can be.

“Come on.” You smile, nodding your head in the direction of the path back home. “Let’s go celebrate.”

••••••

You aren’t quite sure if it qualifies as a celebration, but it’s the best you could do on such short notice.

Earlier today, before even knowing how his deprogramming trial would go, you baked him a cake. A strawberry cake, made with fresh picked strawberries - his favorite fruit.

The rest of the supplies you already had on hand: a large quilt to lay on, two glasses, and a bottle of sparkling wine that you had bought at the market last week. It crosses your mind that the super soldier serum may not even allow him to feel the effects of the wine, but it pairs nicely with the fruity cake so you pack it into the picnic basket, anyway.

“I didn’t know you could bake,” Bucky says with an amused smirk when you pull the small Tupperware of pink cake out of the basket.

“I don’t claim to be a professional, by any means,” you snort. Next, you pour some of the light colored wine into each of the glasses and pass one to him. “But it turned out pretty good, if I do say so myself.”

“Not a professional, huh?” He grins at you for a second longer before forking a bite of the cake into his mouth. He chews for a second, his eyes closing as he savors the flavor. Then, he nods in appreciation as he goes for a second bite. “Could have fooled me.”

You laugh, your cheeks warming at the praise. You dig into your own slice, and the two of you eat and sip on wine in comfortable silence beneath the night sky. It’s dark, save for the stars above you and the campfire that burns next to his hut a few yards away. When he swallows the last bite of his cake, he clears his throat. You turn your head to look at him, but he’s looking up at the sky.

“I’ve been thinking…” he starts, his voice unsteady. “Steve asked you to do this. To be here. To help me through this.” He twirls the stem of the now empty wine glass between his thumb and forefinger. “And you have. You fulfilled your promise to him. So.. where do you go from here?”

You blink, taken aback. That was the last thing you were expecting to come from his mouth. “Where do I…go from here?” You ask dumbly.

He turns his head to meet your gaze, his expression uncertain. He clears his throat again, almost like he regrets speaking, and his thumb rubs anxiously over the rim of his glass. The light of the fire flickers across his face, catching on the sharp line of his jaw as it twitches, like he’s trying his hardest to get the words out.

“Yeah,” he says, quieter this time. “I just wasn’t sure what your plans are…going forward. If you’re going to go with Steve and Natasha now, or…” He trails off with a shrug. “Or if you’re going to stay.”

You can’t help but think that his voice sounds almost hopeful towards the end. You shake your head, still taken off guard by the unexpected question. Truthfully, you hadn’t given much as to what comes next for you. Since you got here, you’ve just been taking it day by day. You never expected for the two of you to grow as close as you have. You never expected to dread being away from him for even a day. You never expected for Wakanda to feel like home.

But it does. Because of him.

“What do you want me to do?” You ask him delicately.

He opens his mouth, but no words come out. By the look on his face, he knows exactly what he wants to say, but just can’t bring himself to say it.

“I want you to do what makes you happy,” he says after another moment of loaded silence, his voice only a notch above a whisper. “Whatever that is.”

Your stomach flutters at his words, but it isn’t with fear or worry. Your heart feels like it might burst because you know exactly what the answer to his question is.

And it’s sitting right beside you.

“Whatever makes me happy?” You echo softly. You lean in a little closer. “You want to know what makes me happy?”

His brows knit together, a hint of uncertainty appearing across his features, and then he nods.

Instead of answering, you set your glass aside, shifting closer until the quilt rustles beneath you. Your hand finds his, prying the empty glass gently from his grip and setting it down beside yours. Then, you bring your hand to the side of his face, your gaze unwavering from his.

“You make me happy, Bucky,” you murmur. “Being here with you makes me happy. I’m not going anywhere. Not without you.”

He’s the one who closes the remaining distance between you. It’s tentative at first, slow and hesitant. But when your lips begin to move with his, his hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss until you’re both light-headed for reasons completely unrelated to the wine.

When you finally break away, your foreheads rest together, his nose still brushing against yours. His voice is hoarse when he speaks. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” you whisper back. Then, with a quick glance in the direction of your cottage, you work up the courage to let your next words slip out.

“It’s getting late,” you say softly. “It’s been a long day.” You pause, a sudden bundle of nerves settling in the pit of your stomach before you continue. “Do you want to stay at my place tonight?”

His breath hitches. His hand is still at the back of your neck, fingers twitching against your skin like he can’t quite bring himself to let go. “I do,” he hums, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Hand in hand, you cross the quiet stretch of grass in between his place and yours. When you reach your front door, he’s behind you, his breath warm at your ear.

The door shuts behind you with a soft click, and the cottage suddenly feels even smaller than it usually does, the air charged with electricity. His lips find yours again, urgent this time, and you let yourself melt into it, threading your fingers into his hair.

But then you pull back, just enough to look at him. His chest rises and falls heavily, his hand trembling slightly where it grips your hip.

You can feel it - his longing and desire. But you can’t continue without reminding him of what he has now - choice.

“Bucky,” you murmur, your palms cupping his face, steadying him. “We don’t have to do this tonight. We can stop right here, if you want. We can just go to sleep.”

Immediately, he’s shaking his head. His gaze burns into yours. “For the first time in…God, I don’t even know how long, I get to make my own choices. And this is what I choose.”

Your heart clenches, the weight of his words settling over you. “Then let me take care of you,” you whisper against his lips.

He exhales shakily, nodding.

You guide him back toward the bed, pushing gently at his chest until he sits. His eyes follow you, pupils blown wide, as you climb onto the mattress with him. Your hands skim over his shoulders and chest, the tension in his muscles seemingly vanishing with your touch. You straddle him, easing him back until he’s lying flat, his head sinking into the pillow.

You kiss him slow, teasing, then trail your lips down his throat, savoring the way his breath hitches. His hand comes up to your waist, tentative, like he’s still not sure he’s allowed to touch you. You guide it higher, pressing his palm against your chest.

“Touch me,” you murmur. “As much as you want.”

The sound he makes is half-groan, half-sigh, and it goes straight to your core. He lets you undress him piece by piece, eyes fixed on you the whole time like he’s afraid if he looks away you’ll vanish.

By the time he’s bare-chested beneath you, you pause just to look at him. You smooth your palms over him slowly, deliberately, like you’re memorizing him.

“You’re beautiful,” you whisper.

He shakes his head, a disbelieving huff of a laugh escaping him, but the pink blush that blooms across his cheeks betrays how much it means.

You lean down, pressing a trail of kisses down his chest and stomach. He shifts under you, eyes following every movement. When you reach the waistband of his pants, you glance up at him. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” he rasps, voice breaking. “Yeah, it’s more than okay.”

You ease him free, fingers brushing against the length of him, and he groans, his head tipping back against the pillow. He’s already hard, already leaking, and the sight of him laid out before you makes your pulse race.

You straddle his thighs, one hand wrapping around the base of him as you lower your mouth over the head. The sound that tears from his chest is raw and guttural. His hips twitch before he forces them still, like he doesn’t want to risk pushing too much on you.

You take him deeper, slowly, savoring the weight of him on your tongue. His hand fists the sheets beside him, knuckles white, before finally reaching for you. He rests his palm lightly against the back of your head, not guiding, just grounding himself in the sensation of your mouth on him.

“God,” he groans, his voice ragged. “Feels so good. Don’t - don’t stop.”

You don’t. You work him steadily, your hand stroking in rhythm with your mouth, your tongue circling the head each time you draw back. His chest heaves, his muscles tense, and when you glance up, the sight of his jaw tight, his eyes dark and locked on you, nearly undoes you.

When he starts to shake, when the words coming from his lips dissolve into broken pleas, you finally pull back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You crawl back up his body until you’re straddling his chest.

His eyes widen, his lips part, and the hunger that breaks across his face tells you he understands exactly what you want next.

“Is this okay?” you ask one more time, your voice low, teasing.

“God, yes,” he growls, his arm locking around your thigh to pull you closer. “Let me take care of you now.”

And then his mouth is on you, hot and desperate. His tongue sweeps over you and your head falls back, a cry spilling from your lips as you rock against him. He moans into you, the vibration making your whole body tremble. His eyes are closed, brows furrowed in concentration like he wants nothing more in the world than to pull every little whimper and whine that he can from you.

You ride his face, grinding down against his mouth until your thighs quake and your breath breaks into ragged sobs of pleasure. When you finally pull back, trembling, his lips are slick and his chest is heaving. You kiss him hard, tasting yourself on his tongue, before easing yourself backwards once more. He grips your hip, his knuckles white with the effort of holding on, as you sink down onto him.

You take your time, rolling your hips, finding a rhythm that has you both moaning. His hand digs into your waist, urging you to move faster, harder, but you keep control - leaning over him, pressing your palms to his chest to pin him down when he tries to thrust up into you.

“Let me,” you whisper against his lips. “I’ve got you.”

His response is a choked, desperate, “Please.”

You ride him until you’re both undone, him coming just seconds after you, and then you collapse onto his chest, breathless and shaking.

He wraps his arm around you immediately, pulling you tight against him, his lips pressing over and over into your hair like he can’t stop. For a long moment, the only sound is your heavy breathing and the steady beating of his heart under your ear.

“Just wait until I get my new arm,” he says breathlessly, breaking the silence. “Then I can love you how I really want to.”

You can’t help but laugh at that. This is a side of him that you could easily get used to - carefree, teasing, unguarded.

“Two arms, one arm, no arms…” you breathe, nuzzling your face against the bare, sweat-slicked skin of his chest, “You love me just fine. I’m lucky to have you. As you are.”

He hums into your hair. “Guess that makes us both pretty damn lucky, then.”

thank you so much for reading 💖 comments and reblogs are always appreciated! dividers by @/strangergraphics

[vunblr]

Knight of Briars (#3)

Pairing: Knight! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Tags: Time travel. Medieval AU. 50's AU. Slight Angst. Fluff. Smut.

Warnings: Mild Violence. Maybe I'll add more in the future.

Summary: A knight from another century crashes -literally- into a florist’s life and turns her world upside down.

Word Count: 6.1k

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

The street outside the shop wasn't like any street he had ever known: too wide, too clean, and yet unbearably loud despite the sparse crowd, cut through by monstrous metal carriages that moved without horses and coughed smoke into the damp morning air.

One passed close enough that the wind of it tugged at his tunic.

He started walking.

His gaze roamed over everything: the glass fronts of the shops, the painted signs, the wires strung between buildings like black veins against the grey sky. And the people.

Lord, the people.

Men in strange short coats and narrow hats. Women with bare legs, bare arms, painted mouths, walking alone as though the world had not lost its mind.

Another contraption rolled past him.

A man balanced on a device with two impossibly thin wheels, propelling himself forward with his own legs pumping at metal arms near the ground. No horse. No visible engine or magic. Just the man and the skeletal black frame beneath him, moving at a speed no human should manage on foot.

Bucky stopped dead.

The thing came at him with no reins, no visible means of being controlled beyond the rider's boots working those narrow metal arms. Its wheels were impossibly thin, its bell giving a sharp little trill that cut through the street noise like a thrown knife.

The rider leaned around him at the last possible moment, coat flapping, one hand lifted from the handlebar in furious accusation.

"Watch it, pal!"

Bucky turned with him, tracking the motion, the insult, the impossible narrow-wheeled thing as it shot past his shoulder close enough that he felt the brush of air against his sleeve. His boots moved half a step off the curb before his mind had decided anything useful.

A horn blared. A flat, mechanical scream that didn't belong to any animal he'd ever heard.

He turned back just as one of those horseless carriages -wide and green and shining like a beetle's carapace- bore down on him with two round eyes burning pale through the grey morning. For a heartbeat, he stood rooted to the ground, unable to make his legs obey.

Then, a hand closed around his left wrist.

The contact went through him like a struck bell, and his whole body answered before thought could intervene, muscles jerking in the direction of the grip, boots scraping over wet pavement as he stumbled backward.

Pain lit up his ribs, white and vicious. The green beast roared past close enough that its wind slapped cold against his face, horn still bellowing as the driver shouted something filthy through an open window and did not stop.

Bucky hit the edge of the sidewalk hard enough to jar his teeth.

The woman struck him in the arm a second later with her free hand. Not hard, exactly, but sharp enough to snap him back to his senses.

"What is wrong with you?"

He stared at the place where the carriage had been, watching it disappear down the street.

The traffic kept moving as if nothing had happened.

Another one followed behind it. Dark blue this time. Smaller. More of them farther down the road, parked along the curb like sleeping beasts, their windows reflecting pieces of the sky in impossibly clear glass.

His wrist was still held.

He looked down at it.

Her fingers were wrapped tight enough to blanch the skin beneath her own knuckles. She seemed to realize it at the same moment he did and let go at once, as if his skin had burned her.

Her mouth moved. Red. That impossible red, angry now.

"Do you have a special wish to die this morning?"

He heard the words. Understood them individually. Could not make them gather into meaning.

His hands were empty. He had no sword. No shield. No idea what kingdom this was, what laws governed it, what god had built machines to transport people without horses as though it were the most natural thing in the world, people walking past in their strange attire as if nothing remarkable had happened.

His chest worked once.

Then again.

The breath would not settle.

He tried to force it down into the place where his discipline lived. The old place. The trained place. The place that had carried him through broken ribs, frozen marches, cells too dark to measure time in, men asking questions with tools because words had failed to satisfy them.

It was there.

He could feel its shape, familiar as the weight of a sword, but he simply could not reach it.

The street stretched wide before him, slick and grey, full of motion. The wires overhead trembled in the wind. Somewhere nearby, unseen machinery thudded and clanged. A woman laughed. A dog barked. Another horn sounded in the distance, and his shoulders flinched before he could stop them.

----

She saw the flinch.

It was small, almost nothing, just the quick betrayal of his shoulders at the distant horn, but it made whatever else she had been about to say die behind her lips.

Her question was still there between them, and he had not answered it.

Not that he was ignoring her. Not exactly. Men ignored women in a variety of ways, and she had developed, over the course of owning a business and being alive in general, a fairly extensive catalogue.

This wasn't that.

This man was not ignoring her.

He was… not there. Not properly.

He stood six inches from her on the sidewalk outside her own shop, broad and filthy and absurd in those boots, and looked past her with eyes that had gone distant in a way that made the back of her neck prickle.

The color had drained from his face.

The bruise along his cheekbone looked darker for it, purple-black against the sudden pallor. The cut above his brow, which she had almost forgotten in the general catastrophe of him, had opened again somehow; a thin line of red slipped down toward his temple.

His body was trembling.

Not dramatically. Nothing anyone passing by would notice unless they were close enough to see the tiny, involuntary shiver running through his hands. Through his jaw. Through the tendons in his neck, standing out like rope under skin.

She saw it because she was standing too close.

Because she had grabbed his wrist and felt the shock.

Because for one terrible second, when the car had come at him, and he had simply stood there, she had known with absolute certainty that he was about to die in front of The Sweet Briar before the shop had even opened for the day.

Her own heart was still beating in her throat.

"You could have been killed," she said, quieter this time.

He did not answer.

His gaze flicked once to the street, then to the cars, then upward to the wires, then back to the place where the green car had disappeared around the corner. Too much. That was what his face said now, beneath the stubbornness, beneath the absurd severity of all that knight-of-the-realm nonsense.

Her anger lost its footing.

Damn him.

Damn him for being frightening, and rude, and possibly insane, and then standing there looking like a lost thing that had wandered too far from wherever it belonged.

"Mr. Barnes," she said carefully.

His eyes moved to her face. Not focused, at first.

She lifted both hands a little, palms angled toward him in what she hoped was a calming gesture.

"Listen to me," she said. "You need to come back inside."

His jaw shifted.

"No."

Of course.

Of course the man who had nearly been flattened by a sedan five seconds ago still had room in him to be obstinate.

She took a breath and counted to three.

"Fine. Stay out here. Get yourself killed. But do it after lunch hour, so at least my customers don't have to step over you to buy lilies."

Something passed across his face. A flicker. Not amusement, exactly, but something close to it. Then his attention cut past her shoulder.

She followed it automatically.

A patrolman was coming down the opposite side of Camden Street from the corner near Levinson's pharmacy, where the sidewalk opened into a clear view of the street in front of her shop.

He must have seen the bicycle swerve. Must have seen the car skim by close enough to make two women outside the bakery gasp into their gloves.

And now he was looking directly at her companion.

At the strange clothes. The long hair. The bruising on his face. The blood at his brow. The size of him. The way he stood there, pale and shaking and not quite oriented toward the world around him.

The patrolman adjusted his cap and crossed the street at an angle, long strides eating up the wet pavement with purpose.

Oh, wonderful.

Perfect.

Exactly what the morning needed.

She turned back to Mr. Barnes.

Something in him changed. The trembling did not stop, but it went underground, forced beneath a sudden hardening of posture. His shoulders squared. His chin lifted. The lost look vanished so quickly that if she had not been watching, she might have thought she'd imagined it.

A mask, she realized.

No. Not a mask.

An armor.

He didn’t have one, so his face became it.

"Don't," she said under her breath.

His eyes did not leave the approaching patrolman. "Don't what."

"Whatever it is you're about to do."

"I am doing nothing."

"You're standing like you're about to challenge the entire police department to single combat."

His gaze cut briefly to her, offended despite everything. "I don't know what that is."

"That," she said, pointing with one discrete motion of her head toward the uniform, "is a policeman. He keeps order. He asks questions. He carries a gun. And if you call him a knave or try to throw him to the floor, this morning is going to get much worse for both of us."

The word gun did something. His eyes narrowed slightly.

"A guardsman."

"Close enough."

"Yours?"

"What?"

"Is he yours?"

She stared at him. "No, he is not mine. I don't keep policemen."

The patrolman was halfway across the street now. She had perhaps eight seconds before he reached them.

Eight seconds to decide whether to tell the truth -which would sound insane- or lie.

This strange, injured man appeared in my locked stockroom. He says he's a medieval knight and believes I'm a witch. Oh, and he almost died because he doesn't understand automobiles.

Yes, officer, please take him somewhere kind.

But there was nowhere kind, and that was the problem.

She knew enough about the state institutions to know that. A man like him was not gently escorted to a warm bed and a sensible doctor. A man like this would get handcuffed if he startled the wrong person. A cell if he argued. A hospital ward, if someone felt charitable. An institution, if someone with authority decided his mind was more inconvenient than treatable.

The officer stepped up onto the curb.

"Morning, ma'am," he said, though his eyes stayed mostly on Barnes. "Everything all right here?"

She smiled.

It was not a good smile. It arrived quickly and had too many teeth, the kind of smile that fooled absolutely no one but was required by the social contract.

"Good morning, officer."

Barnes looked at her.

She felt it rather than saw it, the sudden sharp turn of his attention. Suspicious. Assessing. Probably wondering if she was about to have him arrested, detained, executed, or whatever else knights expected from guardsmen in impossible cities.

She kept smiling.

"Had a little scare, that's all."

The patrolman's gaze moved over the man beside her again, slow and professional, cataloguing details. "Looked like your friend here nearly stepped in front of a car."

Friend.

The word hung there, wrong and convenient.

Barnes's expression did not change, but she could feel his objection forming between his brows like a gathering storm.

She stepped on it before it could speak.

"My cousin," she said.

The patrolman blinked. So did the man beside her.

She did not look at him.

"My cousin," she repeated, silently kicking herself for the flimsy excuse even as she committed to it. "From up north."

The patrolman's brows lifted slightly.

"Up north."

"A little town near Mount Katahdin. Very remote, really. Hardly any roads to speak of."

Behind her, he drew a slow breath through his nose. She could feel judgment radiating from him like heat from a stove. She ignored it.

"He came in early this morning, he’s looking for a job, you see," she continued with a bright tone. "He's had a long trip and hardly slept. He’s a stubborn backwoodsman with no sense around traffic. He was bewildered by the view, and then that bicycle startled him, and- well. You saw what happened.”

"I saw him walk into traffic."

"Yes. He does that."

The patrolman squinted at her, and she immediately regretted having a mouth.

"I mean," she amended quickly, "he doesn't usually do that. Obviously. That would be very troubling as a habit. He's just tired. Disoriented. And he took a fall yesterday, so he's not entirely himself."

The officer's gaze went to the bruise on Barnes's cheek, then the cut above his brow, lingering there with professional interest.

"A fall."

"From a horse," she said.

That, at least, felt thematically appropriate.

Barnes's head turned very, very slowly toward her.

She gave him a look that she hoped communicated several things at once, including but not limited to: be quiet, I am saving you, and if you ruin this, I will personally murder you with a pair of pruning shears.

Miraculously, he said nothing.

The patrolman studied him for a long moment.

"That true, sir?"

His eyes moved from her to the officer.

A pause. Too long. Much too long.

Then, with grave reluctance, "I was unseated."

Her eyes nearly closed with relief.

The patrolman seemed to accept this, or at least failed to find the obvious hole in it quickly enough to press. Maybe it was too early in the morning for him, too.

"Looks like you ought to have a doctor look at that."

"He will," she said firmly.

"I do not require-"

"He will," she repeated, louder, and smiled harder at the patrolman. "As soon as I get him inside and settled. He also needs a change of clothing, as you can see. Can't have him walking around looking like he lost a fight with a hay wagon."

The officer looked between them, considering.

The moment stretched.

Someone across the street had stopped pretending not to watch. Mrs. Kaplan from the bakery stood with one hand on her door, eyes bright with the terrible appetite of neighborhood gossip that would fuel conversations for a week.

No.

Absolutely not.

She could not have this become a story before mid-morning.

The patrolman finally nodded once, seeming to decide the situation was odd but not dangerous.

"Best keep him out of the road, then."

"That is very much my plan."

The man's gaze flicked to Barnes one more time. "You take care, sir. City streets aren't forgiving."

He looked at the road, then back at the officer, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet and oddly sincere.

"No," he said. "They are not."

Something in his tone made the patrolman pause, a flicker of concern crossing his features. But then he simply tipped his cap to her.

"Ma'am."

"Officer."

He moved on, though not quickly. She watched him walk back down the block toward the pharmacy, glancing back once before he reached the corner.

Only when he had turned out of sight did she let the smile fall off her face like an abandoned coat.

He was staring at her.

"What," she said flatly.

His expression was unreadable again, which she was beginning to suspect meant he was feeling several things at once and had decided none of them were fit for public display.

"Your cousin," he said.

"It was the first thing that came to mind."

"From up north."

"It seemed plausible."

"It did not."

"Well, he bought it, didn't he?"

"Did he?"

She looked toward the corner where the patrolman had disappeared. Then at Mrs. Kaplan, who was still watching from the bakery window like a hawk spotting a rabbit. Then at the two women whispering near the bus stop. Then at him, standing there like a brawl in human form, bleeding gently onto the collar of his impossible shirt.

"Maybe," she admitted.

A horn blared somewhere down the street, and he flinched.

Small, contained and brutally fast.

But she saw it.

His jaw clenched afterward, as if he could trap the reaction between his teeth and kill it there.

She sighed, feeling what was left of her anger drain away and leave behind something uncomfortably close to pity. And the very reasonable desire to shove him back into the street herself and let nature finish what the sedan had started.

But beneath all of it was the fact of him: pale, shaking, hurt, completely unmoored, and looking at Camden Street as if it were a battlefield he'd stumbled onto without armor or weapons or any idea which side he was meant to be fighting for.

"Inside," she said.

His eyes narrowed.

She pointed at the shop door behind them.

"Now."

"I told you-"

"I lied to a policeman for you, Mr. Barnes, so unless you'd like me to call him back and explain that you are not, in fact, my cousin from up north, you are going to walk through that door, sit down somewhere that is not my begonias, and let me clean the blood off your face before Mrs. Kaplan decides to come over here and ask questions I cannot answer."

He stared at her.

For one second, she could almost see the refusal rise in him, proud and immediate and utterly stupid.

Then another car passed, and he did not look at it; that was how she knew it had frightened him. Then, he turned toward the flower shop without another word.

The bell above the door gave its bright chime as he stepped back inside.

She followed, locked the door behind them, and flipped the sign to CLOSED with more force than strictly necessary.

----

Bucky heard the bolt slide into place with a soft, final click.

A small sound. Ordinary, probably, to her. To him, it landed with considerably more weight. The sound of a cell door, a gate closing, an exit sealed.

He turned his head to her.

She reached up and drew down a strange fabric stretched between narrow wooden slats that clattered softly as it descended, stopping halfway down the window. Not a curtain, exactly. Something that rolled and caught on a mechanism he couldn't see.

He noticed everything, apparently, except the things that might keep him from nearly being killed by horseless carriages.

"Come on," she said and walked past him toward the rear of the shop.

There were, at present, too many questions in his head. They had gathered in his head like crows on a battlefield fence, black and loud and waiting for something to die.

So he followed.

The shop looked different from behind her.

That was not a thought he should have had.

It arrived anyway, unbidden and unhelpful.

Her skirt moved when she walked, a soft, hypnotic sway that drew the eye, brushing the backs of her knees with each step, and below that, the bare skin of her calves caught the morning light filtering through the half-drawn shade.

The sight shouldn't have affected him the way it did.

He'd seen far worse immodesty in camp followers, tavern girls who unlaced their bodices for coin, even a countess once who'd been shameless enough to receive him in his own chambers in nothing but a loose shift that left very little to imagination.

But this felt different somehow.

Deliberate in its casualness. Ordinary in its brazenness.

As if every woman in this godforsaken century simply walked around like this, and he was the fool for noticing.

He wrenched his gaze toward the nearest bucket of flowers with such determination that he might as well have been preparing to duel it.

Roses.

White ones, their petals just beginning to unfurl, with the faintest blush of pink at the heart of each bloom. Innocent. Chaste. Entirely safe to look at.

Unlike certain other things in this room.

She reached the back room and stepped aside, pointing toward a chair beside the worktable.

"Sit."

He looked at it with immediate suspicion.

The chair was made of metal. Thin silver legs bent in a precise curve, holding up a seat covered in some smooth green material that was neither leather nor cloth. It shone faintly under the light overhead, reflecting the ceiling in a way that seemed unnatural.

Bucky stared at it for a second too long.

"It's a chair," she seemed fit to clarify.

"I can see that."

"Wonderful. Then use it."

He should not have.

There were several reasons he should not have.

For one, it was unwise to place himself at a disadvantage in a room he did not understand, with a woman he did not know, in a century that seemed very committed to making a fool of him at every opportunity.

For another, it was utterly inappropriate.

There was no servant. No matron tucked into the corner with her embroidery and her sharp little coughs to remind them of propriety. No chaperone at all to lend respectability to the fact that this woman was about to put her hands near his face, possibly his body, while the two of them were alone behind a locked door.

A decent man would object.

A prudent man would leave.

He sat.

The metal chair gave a faint protesting creak beneath his weight but did not collapse, which was more than he had expected from something built with legs that narrow. The act of lowering himself was unpleasant. His ribs had apparently chosen this moment to remind him -in exhaustive detail- that they had been cracked before the universe had lost its mind and had not improved during the intervening catastrophe.

His breath caught despite his best efforts.

She noticed. Her gaze flicked down to his side, then back up, too quick to be called staring and too sharp to be accidental.

"You hurt your ribs?"

"No."

She gave him a look that suggested she had heard better lies from children.

He met it stubbornly.

A pause.

"Yes," he admitted.

"Thought so."

She turned toward a small wooden cabinet mounted low on the wall and crouched down. From inside, she pulled out a metal case. Small, rectangular, with a hinged lid and a painted red cross on the top.

A coffer, his mind supplied automatically, though it was made of metal rather than wood, and far too uniform in its construction to have been hammered by any smith he knew.

She set it on the worktable and flipped the latch.

The cross should have been reassuring.

It was not.

Inside were bottles, tins, folded cloths, strange implements he had no names for. She began sorting through them, and he watched her hands move.

Competent hands. Not delicate, though they looked as if they could be when they wanted to. She knew where things were, even in the disorder. She found a clean cloth, a small brown bottle, and a roll of white bandaging and set them on the table.

He cleared his throat and she glanced over her shoulder.

The words should have come easily. Courtesy did, when one was raised with enough of it beaten in by tutors and lords and the general expectation of civilized behavior.

He had thanked lords he despised, maesters who'd prodded at wounds, servants who'd brought water, boys who'd held horses, women who had done far less for him than lie to an armed city guardsman.

Still, it took him a moment.

"For what you said to the guardsman," he began carefully. "Outside."

Her hands stilled completely. She turned to face him, the cloth still held loosely in her fingers.

"The policeman," she corrected gently.

"The policeman," he repeated, the word still feeling foreign on his tongue. He met her eyes. "For that. You have my thanks."

Something in her expression softened. The wariness didn't disappear entirely, but it eased.

"You're welcome," she said simply.

She set the cloth down on the worktable and leaned back against it, her hands bracing on the edge behind her. The posture was less guarded than before.

"Though for the record," she added, and there was the faintest hint of amusement in her voice now, "you made that more difficult than it needed to be."

He shifted in the metal chair, wincing slightly as his ribs protested. "I said very little."

"You said it with the face of a man about to fight." She tilted her head, studying him.

“I was inquired by a law enforcement."

"You were asked whether you fell off a horse." She crossed her ankles, settling more comfortably against the table. The motion drew his eye briefly to those impossible shoes before he forced his gaze back to her face.

"I was unseated," he corrected with careful dignity.

She blinked at him for a moment.

Then her lips curved into something that was almost a smile, warm in a way that made something in his chest tug unexpectedly.

"Fallen, unseated…" she said softly, waving her hand.

The strange thing was, he almost wanted to explain. Wanted to tell her that it was not the same thing at all.

That falling could be clumsy, careless, the result of poor seat or a man who didn't know his business. Being unseated meant impact, skill, another man's force meeting yours at the exact angle required to take you from the saddle despite everything you did to prevent it.

There was dignity in the distinction.

But she was looking at him with something gentler than he'd seen from her yet. So he did not explain. He was, as she had said, trying not to make things more difficult than they needed to be.

Also, and more pressing, he was hungry.

The realization came with embarrassing force now that he was seated and no longer fighting for his life against bicycles and automobiles. He had not eaten since before the tournament.

Had meant to, after. Had meant to remove his armor, find bread and stew at the tavern down the street, and perhaps sleep for half a day if his luck could be persuaded toward mercy for once.

Instead, he had put on a cursed ring and been thrown into a florist's back room nearly six centuries from where he belonged.

His stomach gave a low, traitorous growl that echoed in the stockroom with all the subtlety of a church bell at matins.

The woman paused mid-motion.

He closed his eyes briefly.

Lord.

When he opened them, she was looking at him with something that might have been concern or exasperation or both.

"When did you last eat?"

He considered lying.

His stomach, apparently tired of his pride, made the answer unnecessary by growling again, louder this time.

She set the cloth down with a soft sigh.

"Right," she said. "Blood first. Food after."

"That’s not-"

"Mr. Barnes."

He stopped.

Her tone had changed. It was the voice of a woman who had discovered the exact amount of patience she possessed and found him standing at the far edge of it with his boots on.

"You are bleeding, you nearly got killed by a car, and I have already lied to a policeman before midday.” She gestured at the chair, less sharp than simply direct. "Sit still and let me clean that before you pass out and make this morning worse than it already is. Then, we'll figure out food."

He was opening his mouth to object-

"Please," she added, and something about her tone reached him. So he leaned back in the metal chair and said nothing.

She seemed to take that as victory.

Perhaps it was.

She stepped closer, and the air between them shifted. He caught her scent more clearly now: flowers, yes, but also something faintly powdery and sweet that he couldn't name. Soap, perhaps. Or some cosmetic concoction women of this time favored.

The cloth in her hand was damp; he could see the darkness of moisture against the white fabric.

He kept perfectly still.

She bent toward him, close enough that her breath would have touched his face if she'd spoken, and then her fingers touched his jaw.

The contact was brief, impersonal, the gesture of someone accustomed to arranging things precisely.

It went through him like a strike of flint.

His breath caught with the sudden, with the unwelcome awareness of how close she was. How warm. How the neckline of her dress sat just low enough that if he dropped his gaze even slightly-

He locked his eyes on the ceiling and kept them there.

"Hold still," she said quietly.

He was already still. Rigid as a man in armor, every muscle tense by the maddening fact that her thumb was resting just below his jaw, her fingertips cool against the edge of his beard.

The damp cloth touched his brow.

Cool. Clean. It stung where the cut was, a sharp little bite that he barely felt through everything else.

What he felt was her.

The bend of her body as she leaned in. The brush of her skirt against his knee. Brief, accidental, gone before he could react. The small crease of concentration between her brows as she worked, utterly focused, utterly unaware of what the simple act of touching him was doing.

She tilted his face slightly toward the light.

His jaw shifted under her hand, and the movement made her fingers slide -just barely- along the line of bone and muscle beneath his ear.

Heat crawled up the back of his neck.

This was absurd.

She was cleaning a wound. Nothing more. She had shown him no interest beyond the bare minimum of human decency, and even that had been grudging. She thought him mad, or damaged, or some combination of both. She had called him cousin to a lawman to avoid further inconvenience.

And here he sat, breathing too carefully, thinking about what it would feel like if those hands moved with intent instead of practicality. If they slid into his hair. If her thumb pressed just a little harder against his throat. If she leaned closer and-

Fuck.

He was acting like some green boy again.

Worse. He was acting like a man who hadn't been touched by anyone in far too long, and whose body had decided now -of all the godsforsaken moments- was the time to remind him of it.

The cloth moved to his cheekbone, gentler now, following the edge of the bruise.

"It's not deep," she said after a moment. "Won't need stitches. Just needs to be clean."

"I've had worse." He managed.

"I don't doubt it."

She stepped back, and the absence of her touch was immediate and disorienting. She studied her work, then reached for the brown bottle, uncorking it with a soft pop.

The smell hit him immediately. Sharp. Medicinal. Something that burned the inside of his nose and made his eyes water.

"This is going to sting," she warned.

"I can-"

She dabbed it on before he could finish.

It did not sting.

It burned like the fires of hell had been distilled into liquid form and applied directly to his face.

He did not move. Did not make a sound.

His hand, however, gripped the edge of the metal chair hard enough that he heard the frame creak.

"Sorry," she said, and she actually sounded it. "It's awful, but it'll keep it from getting infected."

He managed a nod, not trusting his voice.

She corked the bottle and set it aside, examining the cut again, and then stepped back fully, putting a respectable distance between them, and he could breathe again.

Then his stomach growled. Again. Loud and shameless.

She paused.

He watched something shift in her expression, watched her think. Her gaze went to the little corner table where the tin of those dried herbs sat, and her mouth pressed into a thoughtful line.

"I don't have much here," she said slowly. "It's a stockroom, not a kitchen. Tea and stale biscuits in some corner, mostly."

He opened his mouth to tell her it didn't matter, that he required nothing-

"Wait here," she said abruptly.

Before he could object, she was already moving toward the front of the shop, pulling a key from somewhere in her skirt and unlocking the door.

"Don't touch anything," she added over her shoulder. "And for God's sake, don't go outside again."

The bell chimed.

The door closed.

He sat alone in the stockroom, surrounded by buckets of flowers and incomprehensible objects, with no earthly idea where she had gone or whether she would return.

For a brief, ungenerous moment, he considered the possibility that she had simply gone to fetch the authorities after all. Left him here to be collected like a stray dog.

He could not have blamed her if she had.

But he stayed.

Partly because his ribs ached and his legs felt unsteady, and the metal chair, absurd as it was, held his weight. Partly because the door to the street terrified him in a way he was not prepared to examine.

And partly -mostly- because some quiet, exhausted part of him had decided to trust her, and he was too tired to argue with it.

Time passed. He did not know how much. Somewhere beyond the walls, the muffled sounds of the impossible city continued: horns, voices, the rumble of those horseless carriages.

Then the bell chimed again, and he heard the click of her heels through the shop. She reappeared through the storage door with a brown paper sack clutched in one hand.

"Here," she said, crossing to him and holding it out. "Eat this before you fall over."

He took it cautiously.

The sack was warm. And the smell…

God, the smell.

Something rich and savory drifted up from inside, meat and bread and something he couldn't identify, and his mouth flooded with saliva before he'd even looked inside.

He opened it.

Within was a strange construction: two thick slices of bread pressed together, and between them, slices of roasted meat layered with melted cheese, what appeared to be a cooked egg, and some green leaves he didn't recognize.

He turned it over, examining the oddity from several angles.

"It's a sandwich," she said, watching his confusion with poorly concealed amusement. "Roast beef. From the diner on the corner. You eat it. With your hands."

A sandwich.

He had never heard the term. Never seen meat and bread arranged in such a deliberate, portable fashion. In his world, meat was served on a trencher, or in a pie, or skewered over a fire. Not... stacked.

The smell did not care about his confusion, and his stomach growled a third time, traitorous and insistent, and he abandoned his examination in favor of simply eating.

The first bite was a revelation.

Warm bread. Tender meat, properly seasoned. The richness of the cheese, the unexpected softness of the egg, the crunch of whatever green leaves she'd called them.

It was, without exaggeration, one of the finest things he had ever tasted.

He ate with more control than he felt, forcing himself to chew, to pace himself, to not devour the entire thing in three bites like a starving animal.

She watched him for a moment, then turned away to give him privacy.

He was grateful for it.

When he'd finished -every crumb, every scrap, the paper sack reduced to a crumpled ball in his fist- he set it down carefully and cleared his throat.

She turned.

"Better?"

"Yes." His voice came out rough. "Thank you. That was..."

He didn't have words for what it was.

A sandwich, apparently.

"...generous of you," he finished.

She nodded, accepting it, and for a moment neither of them said anything.

The silence stretched, not quite comfortable but not hostile either. Finally, she crossed her arms over her chest in a way that was becoming familiar.

"So," she said. "What are we going to do with you, Mr. Barnes?"

He looked at her standing there in her scandalously short skirt and her impossible shoes.

"I don't know," he said honestly.

Next Chapter

dividers by: @/honeyluvsw

[catierambles]

Once in a Blue Moon Ch. 31

August became almost overbearing since she and Napoleon mated, even though he had pushed Napoleon towards admitting what she was to him to begin with. Well...more overbearing than usual. She knew it wasn't jealousy, at least she thought it wasn't, but he was...needier than usual. Stopping her in rooms or pulling her into his to kiss her breathless, his large, strong hands grabbing at her, pulling her against him, almost tearing her clothes from her body in his rush to get her under him. Not that she was complaining, mind you. She never refused him, never rebuked his advances, always met him in his desperation. Clinging to him as he drove her to the peaks of pleasure and over, tangling her fingers with his when he held her hands above her head.

It was...intense.

Her phone chimed at her early one morning, August grumbling behind her, and she reached for it, bringing up the app for the front door camera and seeing a few people she only vaguely recognize on the doorstep. Squinting, she saw the media van from the company Jonathan liked to use in the driveway.

“Why are they here?” She asked.

“Princess?” August asked and looked over her shoulder at her phone, his hand sliding over her stomach. The door chime came through her phone again right before the notification banner appeared on the screen.

Leon: I’ll handle it.

They watched through the security camera in the entryway as Napoleon went down the stairs at a decent speed while buttoning his suit jacket closed and fixing the cuffs, running his fingers through his hair briefly before opening the door.

The smile on his face was pleasant, but controlled, as he looked out at the media team that had taken them by surprise.

“Olivia Rogers, yes? With Dayglow Media?” He already knew the answer, but inwardly delighted in the surprised look he received.

“Um...yes.” She said, “Mister...”

“Napoleon Solo,” He said, extending a hand, “Head of Public and Media Relations for the Pack Council. We’ve never met professionally or personally, but I figured it was only a matter of time.” She hesitated, but reached out to shake his hand. He didn’t fail to notice the way she wiped it against her pant leg when it fell back to her side. “How may I help you this morning, Ms. Rogers?”

“We were hoping to speak with Mrs. Graves.” She said, “Her husband arranged for an interview to assuage the concerns of the congregation. There have been rumors circulating about a possible divorce and the affliction she’s been struck with.”

“I bet he did.” Napoleon said, “However, he failed to notify her of that arrangement so she is, unfortunately, unprepared. Also unavailable. I would be happy to schedule something at a later date, however.”

“I mean, we’re here now, and—”

“As I said, she’s unavailable.” The small smile never left his face.

“Mister...Solo, was it?” She asked and he gave a nod, “Is there a reason why you’re keeping us from talking to her? Among others, there have been rumors that she’s being held captive by multiple wolves. That they evicted the Pastor from his home in order to control her.” His eyes went to the small camera trained on him and his smile widened a touch.

“Ms. Rogers, if you had done your due diligence as reporter, you would found that legally, the house belongs entirely to Samantha—pardon, Mrs. Graves. Jonathan Graves was not unceremoniously booted onto the street with nothing but the clothes on his back; he was given ample opportunity to grab essentials before leaving. Divorces are messy. Or, they can be, and Mrs. Graves had every legal right to ask Pastor Graves to leave the marital home until the divorce was finalized. As it is hers, as I’ve said, and as you would have found...again, had you done your research.” Napoleon said.

“So there is a divorce pending.”

“I am comfortable in telling you: unequivocally, yes. The paperwork has been filed and believe me when I say, there is no hope for reconciliation. She has expressed to me quite plainly that she wants nothing more to do with him or their marriage.”

“And the rumor that she’s being held captive by—”

“A rumor, nothing else, and an unsubstantiated one at that. She’s not “being held captive” by...anyone. She’s well aware that she can leave at any time and go wherever she pleases. Mrs. Graves is exactly where she wants to be and who she wants to be with.”

“It would be better if we could hear this from her.”

“And for the third time, Ms. Rogers, she was not made aware of this appointment beforehand so she is unavailable at this time. Again, I would be more than happy to schedule a formal sit-down at a later date. Please have someone from your scheduling department contact me and we will go over a day and time that would work best for both parties.” He reached into his breast pocket as he spoke, pulling out a slim case and sliding a business card from it, holding it out to her between his fingers. She stared at it a moment before taking it, giving a tight signal to the cameraman who lowered camera with a glower. “Have a wonderful day, Ms. Rogers.” With that, he closed the door in their faces, throwing the lock a little harder than was strictly necessary so they could hear it and it’s tone of finality. Hearing steps behind him, he held up a halting hand until he heard the van pull from the driveway and fade away.

Turning, he pulled Samantha into his arms as she went to him, holding her close and catching how she trembled slightly.

“Thank you for handling that.” She said, looking up at him and he gave her a gentle smile, leaning down to kiss her softly. “Why were they here?”

“Jonathan sent them. After seeding the idea that you’re being held captive.” Napoleon said, “Unsurprising. Dayglow Media is basically a tabloid with a holier-than-thou coat of paint.”

“Maybe I should have talked to them.”

“It’s better this way, trust me.” Napoleon said, “The fact that they were here with no warning was planned, I promise you. Trying to catch us off guard.”

“But we’re not doing anything wrong.” A pause, “Are we?”

“Not in the slightest.” He reassured her, “But they were probably hoping you and the others would be acting like the “demons” they think wolves are and they’d have a better story than “Pastors wife divorces him”.”

“Do you think he’ll come here?” She asked and he saw the flash of fear that passed over her eyes at the thought.

“He may.” Napoleon admitted, “But he won’t be allowed anywhere near you and you will always have at least one of us around if he is here. You’ll never be alone with him.”

“I know.” She said and her eyes closed, deflating in a sigh. “I know. You’ll all protect me. He can’t hurt me.”

“Ever again.” Napoleon said, “Samantha, August shared with me that you were...young when Jonathan married you.” She just nodded. “I did ask, he didn’t give the information unprompted, and I would have asked you, but I didn’t want to pull up any potentially painful memories until I was sure. I had my suspicions.”

“Thank you.” She said, her eyes still closed, and he leaned in, pressing his lips to her forehead.

[catierambles]

@wa-ni , @masked-lost-girl , @kingliam2019 @ouroboros113 @peaches1958

@identity2212 , @wtfdudesblog , @plaidcat4815 @mrsevans90 , @foxyjwls007

[buckysgirlll]

OPPOSITES ATTRACT

FEATURING: mob!bucky x sunshine!reader

SYNOPSIS: on your way home from work, you spot a stray dog and decide to help it from the pouring rain. little do you know you caught the attention of the scary, unapproachable mob boss and now that he’s got his sights set on you, he never plans to let you go. based on this request.

WARNINGS: 18+ MINORS DNI — alternate universe. fem!reader, oblivious!reader, sensitive!reader, age gap (reader is early20s & bucky is late30s) reader works a normal office job, pet names such as “baby” , “babydoll” & “sunshine” , reader hates cursing, reader adopts a puppy (teddy) stalker!bucky, mention of steve being bucky’s head of security, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, bucky hides his identity for a while, eventual smut, kidnapping, blood, guns, murder, reader gets injured, happy ending, no use of y/n

AN: this is a mini series that should have 1-3 parts. if there’s any more, you guys will be updated.

bucky barnes masterlist ༻ navi

001. the night where it all started

002. tbd

003. tbd

[metal-armed-muse]

BAD HABITS

DAD’S BEST FRIEND BUCKY X F!READER

SUMMARY. What’s so bad about Bucky Barnes? The fact that he watches you or calls you kid while he does it?

WORD COUNT. 12.2K WARNINGS. age gap, dad’s best friend, bucky calls reader ‘kid’ but she’s 25, MDNI, smut, forbidden relationship, guilt, mutual pining, first time, virginity loss, oral (f receiving), unprotected pnv, breeding kink, cum play, possessive language, bucky is obsessed with reader’s stomach, soft aftercare, porn with plot sprinkled, no use of y/n. FROM KIE. The summary makes it seem like he’s some sleazy asshole, he’s not. I tried real with the title and summary, and that’s all I could come up with. Sigh.

Kid. The word has always been there between you, too worn-in to sound accidental now. Kid at nineteen, when you came home during college break and saw him for the first time, sitting at your father's dining table, quiet and so beautiful it annoyed you for three straight days. Kid at twenty-one, when you brought home cheap wine and he took the corkscrew from you while you were mangling it, his fingers brushing yours, that you almost dropped the bottle opener entirely. Kid at twenty-four, when your dad started leaving tools here and Bucky started appearing in your kitchen with excuses thin enough to see through.

Kid, so he could look away.

Kid, so you'd stay safe.

You've been watching him for six years now. Learning the way he takes his coffee, the tells when he's had a bad night, how he'll rub at his left shoulder where metal meets flesh, like the junction still aches. You've seen all of it, studied all of it.  Sometimes you think about making a list, just to prove to yourself how pathetic you've become. Line item number one: he takes his coffee black but adds sugar when he thinks no one's looking. Line item number seventy-three: the nightmares are worse in winter. You could write a dissertation on Bucky Barnes and never run out of material.

You've watched him go from your dad's traumatized war buddy to something resembling human again. Watched him learn to laugh at your dad's shitty jokes and argue about sports teams and pretend the nightmares didn't still wake him up sometimes.

Watched him, lately, watch you back.

It's different the way he watches you. You don't think there's a name for it, or if there is, it is too scandalous to say out loud. His gaze will catch on your mouth when you're talking, or track the movement of your hands, or linger on the strip of skin between your shirt and jeans when you reach for something on a high shelf. Then he'll look away fast enough to give himself whiplash, and call you kid again like the word's a shield against whatever he's been thinking. It's one of those 'say it enough times, you'll start believing it' situation.

The first time you caught him staring at your mouth, you'd forgotten what you were saying mid-sentence. Just stood there like an idiot while he blinked and looked away. Your dad asked if you were feeling okay. You weren't. You haven't been okay since you were nineteen and saw him for the first time.

What's killing you now is that you don't know what happens next. You've played out a dozen scenarios in your head — him kissing you against the kitchen counter, you finally calling him on his bullshit, the world ending before either of you has to acknowledge this thing happening between you two. But you can't predict Bucky Barnes. He's controlled but also has triggers you don't know from stories he won't tell, and trying to guess his next move is like trying to catch smoke.

When you let yourself into your apartment on a Tuesday and hear him at your sink, you're not even surprised anymore. This has become routine. Your dad forgets his stuff more often than not, Bucky shows up to collect them, the excuse wearing thin each passing day. Both of you pretending this is normal.

"Kitchen," he calls before you've closed the door.

You don't question why he's here before you're even here. To be honest, it makes you happy, to see someone else — no, to see him. The henley he's wearing enhances his biceps, you almost want to chew through it. You've seen him in this shirt before. You know you have. But every time feels like the first time, like your brain can't quite process the reality of him. There's grease smudged on his jaw that he's completely missed while washing, all you want to do is let your fingers touch him under the guise of removing it. His hair's getting long, and you have approximately thirty seconds before you do something stupid like offer to trim it for him.

"Where's dad?"

Bucky glances at you, a fractional hesitation before he shuts off the water. "Got held up at work." He reaches for the dish towel — the one you've told him a hundred times not to use for his greasy hands — and starts drying off. "Said he'll grab the bike next week."

"Right. Next week." You drop your bag on the counter, not surprised once again. Your dad's been saying next week for three weeks now. At this point, the bike is practically furniture. Why does he leave his things over here if he never cares enough to get them back himself? 

"Well, he's busy." 

"So, he sent you?"

"He didn't send me, I offered," he says. The way he's looking at you now makes your aware of your heartbeat, the steady thunk it used to be is now replaced by this erratic energy that has nowhere else to go.

The kitchen suddenly feels too warm. Or maybe you're too warm. Maybe you've been too warm since the moment you walked in and saw him standing at your sink. You shrug out of your jacket, feel Bucky's eyes track the movement, watching the fabric slide down your arms, every inch of your skin waking up under his gaze. When you look back at him though, his eyes are fixed on the ragged towel at his hand, like they weren't on your skin this whole time. 

The grease on his face is starting to bother you. Though, bother would be a big word. You just want to rub it off. Why? You don't know. Maybe to get your hands on him. "You've got something on your face," you tell him.

His hand rises automatically, searching for the stain in the wrong place. "Where?"

"Other side. No — here, just —" You step closer, and immediately realise this is a mistake. You know it's a mistake even as you're doing it, but your hand's already there, thumb swiping at the smudge on his jaw.

Bucky goes still, that's the only way to put it. A whole-body freeze, every muscle locked down. You're close enough now to see his pupils dilate, to count his eyelashes if you wanted to, which you absolutely do not want to. That's what you keep telling yourself. Liar, something in you whispers. You've wanted to count them since forever. You've wanted to note every detail of him and keep them somewhere safe.

There's a faint knowing of the world running in the background, but nothing else seems to matter when he's still not moving. And neither are you. "Got it," you say, but you don't step back.

"Thanks." 

Your thumb's still on his jaw, his stubble rasping against your skin. You can feel the texture of it, slightly coarse. Suddenly, you're struck by the intimacy of knowing how his face feels under your hand. This is the kind of knowledge that belongs to girlfriends and wives, not to the daughter of his best friend who's been harbouring increasingly inappropriate thoughts for years. You can feel his pulse jumping in his throat, like he's been running. Neither of you is moving. Neither of you is even breathing if you're entirely honest. There's a slow dance of his eyes, from your own to your mouth, then back to your own. Yours do the same, mirroring him in the most minute way possible. There's about three inches of space between your mouth and his.

"This is a terrible idea," Bucky says as he leans in, which in turn makes you lean in. The distance closes in itself by excruciating degrees. 

"The worst." The two words from your mouth are swallowed by his own, the space between you both narrowed to a negative as his lips touch yours. The first graze of it is gentle, testing. Like he's afraid you'll shatter or bolt or realize what a stupid thing this is. But you've been waiting for this. There's months — no, years — of watching, wanting and pretending you weren't doing either, years of lying to yourself that you could be satisfied with just existing in his orbit, and gentle just isn't going to cut it. You fist your hand in his shirt and pull him closer, breaking whatever thread of control he's been clinging to.

Bucky makes a low sound in his throat and kisses you harder, hand coming up to cup the back of your head, metal arm sliding around your waist. The metal is cool even through your shirt, a shock of temperature that makes you gasp into his mouth. He tastes like coffee and mint gum, the taste so unique because it's him. When his tongue sweeps into your mouth, you forget how to think in complete sentences. Language becomes optional, unnecessary. Who needs words when you have this, have him finally, finally touching you the way you've dreamed about. Your free hand finds his shoulder, gripping hard enough to feel the shift of muscle under skin, as he backs you up until your hips hit the counter.

The kiss turns messier and desperate. His beard scrapes your chin, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling small sounds from you. You'd be totally embarrassed if you had any capacity to think. But, you're drowning in it, in him, in six years of wanting finally combusting into this.

The limbo of the kiss, the existence narrowed down to the dance of your lips is mercilessly interrupted by his phone buzzing in his pocket.

Bucky tears his mouth away from yours with a curse that would make your father blush, his forehead finding residence at your temple, both of you panting. You can feel his breath on your skin, uneven, matching your own. His hand shakes slightly as he fumbles for his phone.

"It's your dad."

The words are a bucket of ice water, waking up fear and shame, squashing any leftover desire. Guilt crashes over you in waves. This is your dad's best friend. Your dad's traumatized war buddy who he trusts completely, who he invited into his life, into your life. And here you are with swollen lips and shaking hands, having just had his tongue in your mouth. 

Bucky steps back, puts physical distance between you before he answers the phone. The loss of his warmth feels physical, like something's been ripped away. "Yeah?" His eyes are still on you, pupils still blown, gaze oscillating between your parted lips and your pleading eyes. "No, just wrapped up. Heading out now." A pause where he could take a deep breath, but doesn't. "Yeah, she's good. I'll tell her."

When he hangs up, the silence that follows is excruciating.

Expectant eyes search his face, his mouth, guilt threading through your own features as you take in his. Whatever you'd expected him to say, it wasn't this, "I should go," Bucky says

"That's it?" The words tear through you, frustrated and angered by his choice, his decision. "That's all you're gonna say?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know. Maybe any sentence that doesn't make me feel like I imagined the last five minutes."

His jaw clenches and unclenches. You can see him thinking, the gears turning behind his eyes, weighing what he should say versus what he wants to say. He looks like he's choosing his next sentence carefully. But when it does come out, it doesn't seem all that careful. "You didn't imagine it."

"No? Great. Very comforting." You cross your arms, looking like the very kid he claims that you are. "So what, you kiss me like that and then just leave?"

Bucky doesn't quite meet your gaze as he grabs his jacket and starts his way away from you, stillnot looking at you. 

"Why?" You prod. 

"You know why." Finally, he looks at you, whatever you see on his face makes you want to hit him or kiss him again. Pain, maybe. Regret. Want that he's trying desperately to bury and failing. Not trusting your body to keep its distance, you put some between you, stepping back. Bucky sighs, and runs his metal fingers through his hair. "Your dad's my best friend. I'm too old for you. This is — we can't —"

"I'm twenty-five, Bucky."

"I know how old you are. You think I don't know exactly how old you are? You think I — Fuck!" The frustration in his voice borders on anguish, like the knowing is what's killing him.

"Then what's the problem?"

"The problem is that your dad would kill me. The problem is that I've got no business touching you. The problem is that I can't —" He runs his hand through his hair again, and you think he might pull it off if he's not careful. "I need to go."

Bucky walks out, leaving you standing in your kitchen with kiss-swollen lips, racing heart, and anger. You're furious. At him for kissing you and leaving. At your dad for existing. At the whole goddamn universe for making this so complicated. At yourself most of all, for still wanting him even as he walks away.

A week. Seven days of you jumping every time someone knocks on your door, checking your phone obsessively like he's going to text you, half-expecting Bucky to show up with another tissue-thin excuse about tools or motorcycles or whatever.

He doesn't.

Day two, you convinced yourself you hallucinated the whole thing. Day three, you stared at your kitchen counter trying to remember the exact spot where he'd backed you up against it, like if you stand there long enough you'll be able to conjure the feeling of his hands on your waist.

Your dad picks up the bike himself. Mentions Bucky's been busy with some job for Sam, says it casually, disinterested. That means he has no idea anything's changed. You smile, nod and try not to think about the way Bucky's mouth felt on yours.

It doesn't work.

You replay the kiss in your mind so many times it starts to feel like fiction. But, you can still feel the ghost of his metal arm around your waist, still taste coffee and mint when you close your eyes.

On day seven, you've nearly convinced yourself to show up at his apartment and demand answers.

But he shows up at yours.

It's Tuesday night, exactly one week later. You're in old sweats and a tank top, halfway through a pint of ice cream you're eating straight from the container. 

The knock is an inconvenience at this time, perfectly ruining your plans of rewatching Brooklyn 99, turn your mind off and eat the damn ice cream. You almost don't open, 9 PM is hardly any time for visitors, hoping that person takes the hint and fucks off.

The second knock comes up more insistent, a hurry in the air, forcing you to pad towards the door, ice cream in hand. 

And there's Bucky. 

Bucky, who looks terrible, dark circles under his eyes, wearing an expression like he hasn't slept in days. He looks how you feel, which is both gratifying and heartbreaking. His hair is damp. It takes you a moment to understand it's drizzling. Drizzle would be a stretch, for the raindrops are the size of a pomegranate pearl, dropping down with vigour. 

"Hey," he says.

"No." You start to close the door, even though all you want to do is haul him inside, towel off his hair, dry those strands that are matted together. 

His boot hits the doorframe, an obstacle in your plans, a test on your self-preservation. "Wait —"

"I don't want to hear it, Bucky. I really don't." You try to push the door close anyway, mustering up the courage. But he's stronger than you physically, stronger than your thinning anger, which is dissipating by the second. "Move your foot," you try somehow. 

"Not until you let me talk."

"Why should I?"

"I don't know. Maybe you're a nicer person than I deserve."

A smile starts to break into your features, but you quickly tone it down. He's not playing fair, showing up here looking lost and using that voice. "Flattery's not gonna work."

"I'm not trying to flatter you. I'm trying to apologize."

You stop pushing on the door, the bare minimum you could do without showing all your cards. "Then apologize."

"Can I come in?"

Now, that would be a tremendously bad idea. If he comes in, you're not sure where else he'll be coming in. 

"You can apologize from right there." 

Bucky's quiet for a moment, studying your face. You try not to show your true feelings,keep your expression neutral, unaffected, like your heart isn't actively trying to beat its way out of your chest. "I'm sorry. For leaving like that. For not calling. For —" He looks like he's frustrated with himself, abruptly stopping the sentence. He takes a deep breath before continuing, "for all of it."

"Okay." You still don't open the door wider. "Apology received. Have a good night."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Shut me out. I know I fucked up, but —" He runs his hand through his hair, the water droplets cascading down his skin. You hate that you find it endearing, that even now, even angry and hurt, you're memorising the way the water runs down his temple, the exact shade of misery in his eyes. "Can we talk? Please?"

The 'please' is what does you in. You've never heard Bucky Barnes say please about anything, the sheer novelty of it makes you hesitate just long enough for him to see the weakness in your armor. "Five minutes," you tell him, stepping back.

You close the door behind him as he enters. When you turn around, he's closer than you expected, your back hitting the door with the need to put distance between you both. "You said you wanted to talk," you remind him, voice breathier than you'd like.

"I can't stop thinking about it." His gaze drops from your eyes to your lips. "About kissing you. About how you tasted. About the sound you made when —"

Feigning indifference seems like the only way out of this. "Okay." You try to sound unaffected, like your pulse isn't racing, like you haven't been thinking about it too. Obsessively, unhealthily, to the point where you can't focus on anything else. "So you've been thinking about it."

"That's not okay."

"No?" You raise an eyebrow, daring him. "Sounds like a you problem."

Bucky takes a step closer, trapping you between him and the door, the distance feeling anything but threatening, not having felt this alive in seven days. "I've been trying to do the right thing. I know that sounds like garbage from where you're standing."

"It does have that smell."

His lips curve into a smile. You wish you were immune to that, to his smile, to him. His hand comes up, hovering near your waist but not quite touching. "Your dad trusts me. He's trusted me for years. And here I am, showing up at his daughter's apartment, thinking things I've got no business thinking."

"What kind of things?" 

"Don't ask me that."

"Why not?" You're goading him, and you both know it. "Afraid you'll tell me the truth?"

His hand finally makes contact, just a light touch on your hip, just over the fabric of your top. "I've thought about you in every room of this apartment. I've thought about you when I shouldn't, in ways I definitely shouldn't. I've tried to stop, and I can't, and it's driving me out of my mind."

"You should suffer a little. You left me standing in my kitchen like what happened meant nothing."

"It meant everything." His other hand finds your waist, both of them spanning your hips, and you wish you weren't wearing anything, just so you could feel his hands on your skin. "That's the problem. If it meant nothing, I could've walked away and stayed away. But it meant everything. I still tried to stay away — tried to do the right thing, but here I am."

His breath comes out hard, he's so close you can clearly see the flecks of gray in his blue iries, which are turning black by the moment. You can smell the rain on him, soaked strands falling in front of his face, begging to be brushed away from his eyes.

"Stop calling me kid," you tell him.

Bucky's hands tighten on your hips. "I didn't call you that tonight."

"Not tonight. In general."

Bucky doesn't respond, but his hands move a fraction, the metal in his arm grazing your skin, cool even through your thin tank top.

"Say my name."

He hesitates like the word might burn him. You watch him struggle with it, something like pain or hurt flickering across his face before he utters, "sweetheart."

"That's not my name."

"Please." His voice is rough, pleading. 

"Say it, Bucky."

"Please don't make me."

The vulnerability in it catches you off-guard. "Why not?"

"Once I say it, that's it. I can't take it back. Can't pretend this is something I can walk away from."

"So you do want to walk away still?"

So soft, so fragile, your name leaves his mouth. It sounds different in his voice, shaped by his accent, rough with want. You've heard your name a thousand times but never like this.

"Was that so hard?" Your own voice is softer now, your hands somehow having found their way to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket.

"Yes." All that want he's been trying to bury, is written across his face in sharp relief. His eyes are almost black, pupils blown wide, grip on your hips tight enough to bruise. "You have no idea how hard it is."

"Saying my name is hard?"

"Saying your name while I've been watching you, wanting you, knowing I shouldn't touch you. That's hard."

"You want me?" The question comes out barely above a whisper.

"Don't ask me that." It sounds like it's being dragged out of him. "Please."

"Why not?"

"You know why."

"No, I don't."

Bucky makes a sound that just might be the frustration in him seeping through, but his eyes are full of want. "Yes. Fuck, yes, I want you. I want you so much it feels like it's killing me. Happy now?"

"Not yet," you tell him befote smashing your lips into his. Anything but gentle, absolutely no testing the waters thing he did the first time. This is want distilled into action, six years of waiting and pretending all combusting at once, every fantasy you've ever had, every late-night thought you've tried to suppress, finally made real. Your hands fist in his damp hair, tightening his grip on your hips, bruising. When you bite his lower lip, he groans into your mouth like you've wounded him.

"We shouldn't," he speaks against your lips, but he's doesn't pull away, not even close. "Your dad —"

"Is not here." You pull back just enough to look at him. "Do you want to stop?"

Bucky looks at you like you're asking him to cut off his other arm. "No."

"Then stop talking about my dad while you're kissing me."

That startles a brief laugh out of him. Without wasting another second, he's kissing you again, walking you backward through your apartment. You're vaguely aware of furniture and doorways, of his jacket hitting the floor somewhere, of your ice cream forgotten on the counter. None of it matters as much as the slide of his tongue against yours, the taste of him, the way his hands are mapping your waist like he's memorizing you.

When the backs of your knees hit the couch, you try to pull him down with you, but Bucky resists. His hands find your hips, steering you around until you're standing and he's sitting, thighs spread wide to make room for you between them. The position puts you above him, taller for once. On his face, theres a crack in the armor where you can see straight through to the want underneath.

He looks up at you, and you've never seen him like this. Vulnerable doesn't seem like the right word for Bucky Barnes, but it's close. It's in the way his hands rest on your hips, loose enough that you could step away if you wanted. In the tilt of his head, exposing his throat, how he's letting you see him want you without the usual defenses. It makes you feel invincible and terrified both.

"Still time," he says.

"For what?"

"For you to tell me to leave."

You reach down, fingers sliding into his hair. The strands are cool and wet against your palm. When you drag your nails lightly against his scalp, his eyes flutter close. "I don't want you to leave."

Bucky leans forward, resting his forehead against your stomach. The intimacy of it steals whatever breath you have left. His hands tighten on your hips, thumbs stroking small circles through your tank top, the warmth of his breath you can feel through the thin fabric.

"Should've done this right," he mutters into your stomach. "Should've taken you to dinner. Somewhere nice. Not just shown up at your door like some —" he stops, breathing into you, the warm breath wet against your skin even through the flimsy cloth. 

"Like some what?" You prod. 

"I don't know. Obsessed asshole with no self-control."

That makes you laugh, earning a smile from him that you feel against your stomach. "I don't want dinner," you say. 

"You should want dinner. You should want the whole thing — flowers, romance, somebody who isn't —" He sighs, not able to finish what he was going to say. If he says it, it will be real. 

"Who isn't what?"

"Too old for you. Too —"

"Bucky." You tug his hair until he looks up at you, mouth parted, so gorgeous. "I don't care about any of that."

"You should."

His hair is soft under your touch, your fingers playing with them as you speak. "Well, I don't. And for the record, I hate fancy restaurants. They never give you enough food, and everyone whispers."

His mouth quirks into the fondest of smiles. "That's your objection? Portion sizes and volume?"

"I'm serious. I went to this place once where they served a single scallop on a plate the size of my head. One scallop. I'm supposed to eat one scallop and pretend I'm satisfied?"

"Sounds terrible."

"It was. I stopped at McDonald's on the way home." It had been a date, actually. Some guy from your office who'd taken you where the menu didn't have prices and the portions were insulting. You'd been hungry, bored and wishing the entire time that you were with Bucky instead.

Bucky's hands slide under the hem of your tank top, fingers finding bare skin. "No famcy restaurants where they serve a single scallop. Noted."

His touch almost derails your thoughts, you have to work to keep your voice steady. The rough calluses on his fingers drag against your skin, leaving trails of fire. "Anyway, you're here now. That's worth more than some overpriced shit."

"Is it?" There's doubt clouding his eyes, you can see clearly. 

"Yeah. It is." You just hope he understands how much you mean this. 

His hands move higher, taking your shirt with them, bunching the fabric above your waist. The metal hand is cool against your overheated skin, cold enough to make you gasp. Bucky stops his touch on its tracks. "Is it cold?"

"A little."

He starts to pull back, his touch leaving you becoming a physical thing you feel the loss of. Catching his wrist, you hold the metal hand flat against your stomach. "Don't."

"You sure?"

"I like it." The contrast, the warm flesh on one side, cool metal on the other, makes your skin feel alive. You've thought about his arm before, late at night when you shouldn't. Wondered what the metal would feel like against your skin, wondered if he'd let you touch it, trace the plates. "Feels good."

His grip tightens, both hands spanning your waist now, the slight tremor in his fingers you feel more and more each passing second. Like he's overwhelmed by being allowed to touch you like this. Like he can't quite believe you're real. The next thing you know, Bucky is leaning in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss just above your navel.

The wet heat of his mouth against your skin makes your knees weak, almost wobbling. He does it again, lower this time, tongue tracing a path across your stomach that has you gripping his shoulders for balance. His stubble scrapes your skin, adding another layer of sensation you've never felt. When he bites down gently on your hipbone, a soft gasp leaves you, like there's not enough oxygen in this room for the both of you, especially not with the way he's pressing these kisses. 

The silence while he's kissing your stomach is too much. You need to fill it with something before you combust entirely. "Been thinking about this?" Your voice comes out breathy.

"Yes." Bucky doesn't even attempt to lift his head, continuing his way across your stomach, hands holding you steady.

"How long?"

Bucky's mouth stills against your skin. For a second you think maybe he won't answer, maybe he'll pull back, and this is it. But almost soft as a whisper, his words come. "Long enough to feel ashamed about it."

"How long is that?"

"Remember that barbecue last summer?" His lips brush your navel as he talks. "You were wearing that black top, and you bent over to grab a beer from the cooler? Yeah, I spent the next twenty minutes trying not to stare at your ass."

"That was July."

"I know when it was." His hands slide higher, taking your shirt with them. He pushes the fabric up and over your head, dropping it somewhere behind you, leaving you in just your bra from the waist up. The air feels cold against your exposed skin, but Bucky's gaze is hot enough to burn. "Been drivin' me crazy for months."

You remember that day. Remember catching him staring and thinking you'd imagined it. Apparently, you hadn't. Bucky looks at your bra, but decides against it, pushing it up too, just shoving it out of the way, pulling you down into his lap. The position puts you straddling his thigh, friction of his jeans against your sweats making you acutely aware of how wet you already are. Embarrassingly wet. He's barely touched you and you're already soaked through, probably leaving a damp spot on his jeans. 

Bucky's mouth finds your breast, and whatever coherent thought you had left scatters like startled birds. He sucks your nipple into his mouth, tongue working the sensitive peak. Your hips roll forward involuntarily, the pressure against your clit perfect but not nearly enough, chasing more friction, grinding down on his thigh.

"That's it," he murmurs against your breast, switching to the other side. "Take what you need."

His metal hand cups your neglected breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, the cool touch making you gasp. He seems to like that reaction, doing it again with more pressure. Having him like this, puts all your fantasies to shame, your fingers threading through his hair to hold him close.

You didn't know it could feel like this. This consuming. Every nerve ending in your body is focused on the wet heat of his mouth, the cool press of metal, the friction building between your legs. You're making these small desperate sounds you can't control, hips moving faster now. Bucky groans against your breast like watching you get off on his thigh is the best thing he's ever seen.

"Bucky —" You're close already, wound too tight, and it's almost embarrassing how fast he's gotten you here.

"I know." He bites down gently on your nipple, soothing it with his tongue. "Can feel how wet you are through your sweats. Gonna cum just from this, aren't you?"

The words almost send you over, but before you can, he lifts you off his lap, laying you down on the couch. You barely have time to process the change before he's hooking his fingers into your waistband, dragging both your sweats and underwear down your legs in one smooth motion. Your bra which was previously pushed atop your breasts, is discarded too, and you're naked. Completely naked while he's still fully dressed, and somehow that makes this hotter. There's this moment where neither of you moves, stuck in a limbo, where he just looks at you, sprawled across your couch. You watch him take in every inch of exposed skin. You watch him watch you. 

"Jesus," he breathes.

"Are you just gonna stare, or —"

Bucky kisses you, cutting off whatever sarcastic remark you were about to make, mouth insistent, tongue tasting yours. When he pulls back, you try to follow, chasing him, but he's moving down your body.

He kisses your jaw, your throat, the hollow at the base of your neck where your pulse is racing. You wonder if he can feel how fast your heart is beating, if he knows what he does to you. He takes his time with your breasts again, like he can't quite believe he gets to touch them. His mouth blazes a trail down your sternum, mapping the soft plane of your stomach with lips, teeth and tongue.

When he reaches your navel, his tongue dips inside, circling, your back bows of the couch in response. "Bucky, please —"

"Patience. Wanna look at you first." His hands are on your thighs, pushing them apart. The first brush of cool air against your wet core makes you shudder. You should be self-conscious about this, spread open for him, the position in itself making you vulnerable, but the way he's looking at you makes you feel like a goddamn masterpiece, killing any embarrassment before it takes root. 

His finger traces your slit, so light it's almost not there, and you try to cant your hips up for more pressure. Bucky's metal hand presses down on your lower stomach, holding you still.

"Stay," he says, like you're a misbehaving dog and not someone who's writhing for breath beneath him. It's not quite a command but close enough to make you clench around nothing. 

Bucky explores you with devastating thoroughness, tracing the shape of you with one finger, learning what makes you gasp and what makes you whimper. He spreads you open with two fingers, just looking. "She's so pretty," he murmurs, almost to himself. "So fucking pretty."

He leans down to lick a stripe up your center, tongue flat and broad, and you forget how to breathe. Even the first touch of his mouth is too much, when you're already so worked up, so close from grinding on his thigh. The wet heat of his tongue against your clit makes you cry out, not even embarrassed about how loud you are. Let the neighbors hear. Let the whole building know. He seems encouraged by the sound, doing it again with more pressure. He eats you out like it's the only thing he wants to be doing. Like he could spend hours between your legs and die happy. His tongue works your clit in slow circles, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention that has you squirming. When he closes his lips around the sensitive bud and sucks, you nearly come off the couch entirely. "Oh god — Bucky —"

He slides one finger inside you while his mouth stays focused on your clit. Your fingers on his hair tug them harder with each pass of his tongue, almost scaring you with how tight you're pulling and whether you're hurting him. You might actually rip his hair out, but you can't bring yourself to care because it feels too good. None of that even seems to cross his mind as his finger curls, finding that spot inside you that makes your whole body tense. He works it mercilessly while his tongue keeps that same steady rhythm.

You're pretty sure you're babbling now, saying his name and god and please in an endless stream, nails of your one hand — the one not currently buried in his hair — grasping his flesh shoulder, hard enough that it has to hurt. Again, Bucky doesn't seem to care. If anything, he doubles down, adding a second finger and increasing the pressure of his tongue. He's going to ruin you for anyone else. Not that there's ever been anyone else to compare with, but after this, you're done for.

You can feel the release gathering in the clench of your thighs, in the way every muscle in your body goes tight. Bucky seems to sense how close you are, his free hand gripping your hip to hold you steady as he keeps that relentless pace. "C'mon," he says against your clit, the vibration of his voice sending shockwaves through you. "Let me taste it."

The orgasm crashes over you, your whole body seizing as pleasure tears through you. With your hands, it's never been like this. Never this intense, never this all-consuming. This feels like you're coming apart and Bucky's the only thing holding you together. You're dimly aware of crying out his name, your thighs trying to close around his head, the way your inner walls clenched rhythmically around his fingers. Bucky works you through it, tongue gentling but never stopping, drawing out every last aftershock until you're pushing at his head from oversensitivity.

When he finally pulls back, his chin is glistening. He looks obscene, debauched, like something out of your dirtiest fantasy. The satisfied look on his face would be smug on anyone else. On him it's just honest satisfaction, like getting you off was the highlight of his month. "You good?" His voice is rough.

Words seem far away right now, you can barely remember your own name. You just nod, boneless, wondering if it's possible to die from pleasure.

Bucky crawls up your body, settling his weight on top of you carefully. Even wrecked with want, he's careful not to crush you. When he kisses you slowly, you can taste yourself on his tongue. It feels filthy and intimate at the same time, sending a fresh wave of arousal through you despite having just come. "That was —" You still can't form complete sentences. "You're really good at that."

He grins against your mouth. "Yeah?"

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late." Bucky is smiling, you realize this might be the most relaxed you've ever seen him. Happy. He looks happy. When was the last time you saw him look happy? "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."

"Since July, apparently."

His thumb traces your lower lip, smearing spit. "July's when I stopped being able to pretend."

"What changed?"

"You looked at me." He says it simply, like it explains everything. "Just me. After that, I couldn't pretend anymore that I didn't want you looking at me like that all the time."

You've been looking at him since the day you knew him. You don't tell him that, those demons can stay where they lay. You pull him down into another kiss, slower this time, trading breath and heat. When you finally break apart, you can feel how hard he is against your hip, still fully clothed and probably painfully uncomfortable.

"Your turn," you tell him, reaching for his belt. Bucky catches your wrist, slowing you down, thumb stroking across your radial pulse, eyes pleading, saying everything his mouth can't. The gentle touch is at odds with the hunger in his gaze. You feel your pulse jumping under his fingers, giving away how badly you want this.

"I want to," your voice is barely a whisper. You need him to know, to understand that this isn't one-sided, that you've been wanting this just as long. That seems to be all the permission he needs. He releases your wrist and lets you work his belt open, the metal buckle clinking as you pull it free. Your fingers are shaking slightly, adrenaline and want making them clumsy. His jeans follow, while he watches with those hooded eyes, like this is some kind of religious experience.

When you get his shirt off, you take a moment to just look. God, he's a masterpiece. You've seen him shirtless before, but never like this. Never laid out for you, never yours to touch. There are scars you knew about, the ones you've seen at pool parties and barbecues, the ones your dad mentioned in passing when he thought you weren't listening. But there are others you didn't know, smaller ones scattered across his ribs and chest, a puckered bullet wound near his collarbone. Each one tells a story he's never shared, pain he's survived, and you want to learn every single one. The place where metal meets flesh is a work of terrible artistry, plates and skin fused in ways that probably hurt more than he'll ever admit.

You lean in and press your lips to his shoulder, right where metal becomes man. Bucky goes very still. Like he's holding his breath, waiting for you to recoil, to change your mind. "You don't have to do that."

You don't respond him with words, just another kiss to the seam, the metal cool under your lips, then lower, across his chest, the skin warm, the contrast intoxicating.You work your way down his body, following the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath his boxers, wanting to map every inch of him with your mouth, memorize the way he tastes. Bucky's hand leaps to tangle in your hair, gentle but insistent nonetheless, pulling you back up. 

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. But if you put your mouth on me right now, this is gonna be over embarrassingly fast," he answers. The admission goes to your heart and cunt at the same time, the idea that you affect him that much doing things to you. 

That makes you pause, a laugh threatening to bubble out of you, but you keep it contained. "How fast we talking?"

"Thirty seconds, maybe." He doesn't look embarrassed about the admission, though there's a slight red tinge to the tip of his ears. That blush, that tiny hint of vulnerability, makes you want him even more. "I've been half-hard since I kissed you in the doorway, and I've been thinking about this for months. So unless you want me coming down your throat before we even get to the good part, you're gonna have to wait."

The bluntness of it sends heat racing through you, right between your legs, warmth spreading over the apples of your cheeks. Glancing down to not meet his eyes, you're met with the unevenness of this situation, suddenly very aware that you're naked while he's still got his boxer briefs on. "That's not fair."

Bucky manoeuvres you, hands on your hips, guiding you back down to the couch with a gentleness that contradicts his size. "Life ain't fair, sweetheart." 

Bucky's body looms above you as he settles between your thighs. The breadth of his shoulders blocks out the light from the lamp, casting shadows across his face that make him look almost dangerous, but he's soft to you. You watch him shove his boxers down, cock springing free, curved slightly towards his stomach, thick and flushed, bead of precum spilling over the tip. It's bigger than you expected, thicker, and for a moment anxiety spikes through your arousal. His flesh hand wraps around himself, working his cock, while the metal one is braced against the couch, framing your head. And you realise this is quite possibly the hottest thing you've ever seen.

"Like what you see?" You'd assume it was asked out of cockiness if you didn't know him better. You know him better, and there's genuine curiosity in his question, mixed with almost boyish shyness. 

"You already know the answer to that."

"Maybe I wanna hear you say it."

"You're fishing for compliments now?"

"Is it working?"

"Yes," you admit, earning a bright eyed and genuine smile from him,transforming his whole face, making him look younger, happier, and you want to be the reason he smiles like that forever. "You're gorgeous, okay? You're so hot it's actually annoying."

"Annoying?"

"Yeah. You walk around being all broody and hot, and I'm supposed to just — what? Pretend I don't notice?"

"You can notice me all you want, sweet girl."

Sweet girl. You like the sound of it, somehow much more intimate that anything he's ever called you. It's not really an accomplishment because all he's called you before is 'kid'. 

Bucky laughs, a sound you want to bottle up and listen when your days get dark. His fingers are between your legs again, two of them sliding inside easily, thanks to your orgasm from earlier, still wet, still open. But the stretch makes you gasp anyway, an open-mouthed silent cry, that he swallows for himself with a kiss. He works them slowly, watching your face, conflict playing across his features. Want versus restraint. Need versus caution.

"You're so tight," he mutters, almost to himself, fingers pumping in and out. Each slick sound makes your face burn, embarrassingly loud evidence of how much you want this. "Gonna have to take my time with you."

"I can take it," you tell him, voice fracturing with need, the ache to be filled by him. His cock stands proud against his abdomen, jerking with every motion of his fingers, taunting you. You want to feel the weight of him inside you, splitting you open, claiming you completely.

"I know you can." He curls his fingers, finding that spot inside you that makes your back arch, and does it again just to watch you squirm. "But I'm not gonna hurt you. Not if I can help it."

He leans down to kiss you, slower this time, thorough, his tongue plunging into your mouth, remnants of your own juices lingering, while his fingers keep that steady rhythm. You're climbing toward another orgasm already, your body wound tight and responsive. Bucky breaks the kiss, only to pepper a few more on your jaw, the corner of your mouth, breath coming in hot. 

"Have you taken cock before?"

The question catches you off-guard, the blatant crudeness of it. Stilling beneath him, you will your breath to come, his fingers slowing on your cunt not being of much help. 

"Baby." His free hand comes up to cup your face. The tenderness in the gesture makes your eyes sting. "I need to know. Need to know how careful I gotta be."

The truth sits in your throat, heavy as a stone. You could lie, tell him you've done this a dozen times, that you're experienced and worldly and this is no big deal. But lying to Bucky feels wrong, feels like starting this thing between you on a foundation of sand.The way he's looking at you, open and honest, worry lines framing his face, also makes it impossible. "No," you finally whisper.

His fingers stop moving, just frozen inside you while he stares at you with an expression you can't quite read. Shock. Concern. Fear? "What?"

"No. I haven't."

Bucky starts to pull his fingers out, a pained expression on his face, like the knowledge of it physically hurts him. "Jesus Christ. You should've — I wouldn't have—"

No, no. He can't do that. You catch his wrist, holding his hand in place. "Don't."

"We can't —"

"Yes, we can." You roll your hips, taking his fingers deeper, and watch his eyes go dark, control slipping. "I want this. I want you."

"Your first time shouldn't be — It should be special. Someone who —"

"Someone who what? Takes me to a fancy restaurant and serves me one scallop?" You're babbling now, words tumbling out, desperate to keep him in. "I don't want that. I want you. This is special."

"I'm too old for you. Too fucked up. Your dad's gonna —"

"I don't care about my dad right now." You tighten your grip on his wrist, needing him to see that this isn't some impulsive decision. "I care about you. And I'm not some delicate flower you're gonna break. I can take you."

Bucky looks at you like you've wounded him, like the trust you're placing in him is almost too much to bear. You can see the war happening behind his eyes, and you hope he loses, you hope the walls he'd erected within the past twenty seconds crumble and he comes back to you. "You're all I want, Buck," you press. 

A long sigh leaves him, but finally he says, "you tell me if it's too much." The words sound torn from him, reluctant but resolute. "The second it's too much, you tell me and we stop. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Say it."

"If it's too much, I'll tell you." You pull him down into a kiss, teeth claiming his lips. You bite down, tasting copper, needing him to feel something, anything. "Now stop treating me like I'm made of glass and fuck me already."

That startles a laugh out of him. You wrap your fingers around his length, almost pulling him by his dick, he doesn't seem to care though. The skin is hot and silky under your palm, cock twitching in your grip, precum leaking from the tip. Bucky pulls his fingers free, positioning himself at your entrance. The blunt head of his cock presses against you, even that initial pressure making you tense. "Breathe," he instructs. "Just breathe for me, sweetheart."

You force your muscles to relax, and he pushes in. Just the tip at first, just enough to make you gasp at the stretch of it. It's immediately more than his fingers, wider and so overwhelming you forget how to think in complete sentences.

Bucky freezes, his hard length stuffing you halfway. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Just — a lot."

"I know, sweet girl." His metal hand comes up to cup your face with a gentleness, it in itself bringing you to tears, cool metal against your overheated cheek grounding, keeping you anchored. "We go slow. As slow as you need."

He works himself in gradually, stopping every time you tense, giving you time to ease yourself. It's torturous, this slow invasion, your body struggling to accommodate his size. But his words keep you company, praise, reassurance, sometimes filthy little things he'd want to do once you get used to this. Things about how he'll fuck you in every room of this apartment, how he'll bend you over the kitchen counter, how he'll wake you up with his cock inside you. About how good you're doing, how tight you are, how perfect you feel. When he's about halfway in, tears fully start leaking from the corners of your eyes. You don't think it's from the pain, just from the overwhelming fullness of it, the sensation of being split open, claimed and filled so completely there's no room for anything else. 

Bucky immediately senses the tears and stops, jaw clenching with the restraint of holding himself still above you, trembling with the effort of not moving. "Too much?"

"No." Back of your hand rushes to wipe your eyes impatiently, frustrated that your body's betraying you like this, showing weakness when you want to be strong for him. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."

"You're crying."

"I know I'm crying. It doesn't mean —" You roll your hips, to show him that you can take him deeper, that these are good tears, from pleasure alone and nothing else. At another roll of your hips, Bucky groans. "See? I can take it."

Bucky stays still, his hand finding your lower stomach, pressing down gently. The added pressure makes everything more intense, even fuller. "Can feel myself inside you," he mutters, almost wonderstruck. "Right here. Can you feel it?"

"What?" You're barely coherent, too overwhelmed to process what he's saying. You think he's trying to distract you, the palm on your abdomen pulls you enough from whatever discomfort you might feel from your first time. You welcome it. 

Bucky takes your hand and presses it against your lower stomach, right where his hand was. You can feel it, feel the solid presence of him inside you, the way your body's stretched around him. "Oh my god." The realization is visceral and overwhelming. "That's — you're —"

"Yeah. That's me, fillin' you up, sweetheart." Sounding wrecked, Bucky pushes the rest of the way in. The slide of it, the final inch that seats him fully inside you, makes you both freeze. You just lie there connected, trying to adjust to the reality of this. Through hooded eyes, you look at him. He's focused, jaw tightening as his gaze is fixed on the way your cunt swallows him whole. 

"You okay?" His eyes tear from your place of union reluctantly to look into yours. 

"Ask me that one more time and I'm gonna hit you."

That makes him laugh, the movement jostling where you're joined, making you clench around him involuntarily.

"Can you —" You shift your hips experimentally. "Can you move? Please?"

"Yeah." He pulls out slowly, so slowly that you can feel every ridge and vein, before he pushes back in just as carefully. The slide is easier now, your body adjusting, learning to take him. "This okay?"

"More." You're chasing the friction, hips canting up to meet him. "I need more."

Bucky is so careful, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But when you urge him on with hands, hips and broken pleas, his control starts to slip gradually. The thrusts get deeper, the couch creaking beneath you, until you're making sounds you didn't know you were capable of.

It's never this good when you're alone. Bucky seems to have woken up your body from a slumber you didn't know it was in. Every sensation is not only new but also heightened. 

"So fucking tight," he groans, his hand pressed to your belly again. "Can feel my cock moving inside you. You're takin' me so well, sweetheart. Look at you."

You can't look at anything except him, his jaw is clenched with effort, pupils blown so wide there's no blue remaining, just black, the flush spreading across his chest. The still slightly damp hair falling in front of his face, but he makes no effort in moving it off, the salt and pepper stubble that scratches your cheek everytime he pushes forward, everytime his pelvis meets yours. He's gorgeous like this, desperate and wanting. 

"Bucky —" You're climbing again already, wound too tight to last much longer. "I'm gonna —"

"I know, baby." His thumb finds your clit, circling with devastating precision. "Can feel you getting tighter. Squeezin' me — fuck —"

The added stimulation is almost too much. You're right on the edge, balanced on that knife-point between pleasure and too much. Already at the verge of losing, made worse by Bucky leaning down to suck a mark into your neck while his hips keep that relentless rhythm. "Wanna fill you up," he mutters against your throat. "Wanna fuck you full of my cum. Wanna fuck a baby into you."

"Yes — Please —" You are completely disconnected from your mouth, it being a separate thing only remembering words that are his name, yes and please. 

"Gonna make sure it takes." His thrusts get erratic, control fraying. "Gonna keep you full of me until your belly swells. Until everyone can see what we've been doing."

The image he's painting is filthy and visceral. Your hands fly to his hair, gripping tight, verge of telling him yes to everything when he keeps going. This is not just distraction anymore, the farthest part of your brain whispers.

"Think about it," he groans, hand spanning your stomach again. "You round and full with my kid. These perfect tits getting bigger." His thumb presses harder on your clit, while he bends to take one nipple into his lips, neck straining. "So full of milk you'd need me to help you, need my mouth on you. They'd be so heavy, baby."

That's what sends you over. The orgasm tears through you, whole body seizing as pleasure obliterates thought, ears ringing, not even hearing the way you scream his name. Your inner walls clamp down on him so hard, he curses, loses his rhythm, your nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.

Bucky fucks you through it, chasing his own release. "That's it. Milk my cock. Show me how much you want it. Want me to breed you properly —"

He comes with your name on his lips, hips grinding against yours as he spills inside you. The warmth of it, the sheer volume is startling, pulling soft noises from your wrung out body. You can feel it coating your walls, filling you up exactly like he promised, marking you from the inside out. 

Boneless like you, Bucky balances himself on top of you, forearms braced against the couch, not pulling out. You feel his cock twitching inside you, spurting the remnants of his release, and feel the wet slide of cum down your inner thighs. Through the haze of your orgasm, something clicks into place. The way he'd been fixated on your stomach from the beginning, how his hands always found their way there, pressing, holding and claiming. The breeding talk that seemed to come so naturally to him. He'd been obsessed with it, with your stomach, with the idea of filling you up, you'd just been too overwhelmed to notice.

"You're obsessed with my stomach," you say, still trying to catch your breath.

Bucky lifts his head to look at you, and there's no embarrassment in his expression. If anything, there's pride there, satisfaction. "Yeah. Have been since you wore crop tops all summer."

"All summer?"

"I'm not proud of it." But he's smiling slightly, thumb stroking across your stomach where he's softening inside you. "Couldn't stop thinking about marking you here. Putting my hands on you. Making you mine in every way that matters."

The possessiveness in his tone, the raw need, stirs something primal in you, that wants to be his. The fact that this is your first time ever doesn't concern you, just makes you feel wanted and claimed in the best possible way.

He finally pulls out, and you both wince at the sensitivity. The slide of him leaving you feels like a loss, an ache of emptiness. "Did I hurt you?"

"No." You cup his face, forcing him to look at you. Those worry lines are back, you want to smooth them away. "That was perfect. You were perfect." You kiss him softly. "I'm fine. Better than fine."

He still looks unconvinced, but before he can spiral into guilt, you pull him down on top of you. His weight is comforting rather than crushing, and you wrap your arms around him, holding him close. His arms band around you, face buried in your neck. 

For a while, he stays where you put him, his body heavy over yours, warm and shaking in small, leftover ways he would probably deny if you mentioned them. His face remains tucked in your neck like he can hide there from every terrible, responsible thought trying to crawl back into his head. You can feel the guilt gathering anyway. It keeps making itself known in the careful way he holds his weight off you, the tiny pauses before his mouth touches your skin, the way his arms tighten whenever you shift. The guilt doesn't get to settle in though, because you thread your fingers through his hair and tug gently, pulling him back to look at you. "Stop thinking so loud."

"I'm not —"

"You are." Your thumb traces the crease between his brows. "I can hear it from here."

Bucky huffs a laugh, pressing a kiss to your collarbone before starting a slow path downward. His lips drag across your sternum, then lower, mapping ribs and soft flesh. Each kiss is soft and slow, like he's got all the time in the world to learn what makes you sigh. When he reaches your navel, his tongue dips in the same way it did earlier, circling, and your hips twitch involuntarily.

"Stay still," he murmurs against your skin, quiet want in his tone. His mouth continues lower, across the plane of your stomach, and this is where he lingers. Open-mouthed kisses pressed to skin that's still flushed and overheated, his stubble scraping in ways that make you squirm. Both hands splay across your belly, spanning the width of it, metal and flesh holding you like something precious. He's almost worshipful about it, pressing his lips just below your navel and staying there, breathing you in.

"What are you doing?" Your voice comes out soft.

"Thinkin' about how good you'd look." His thumb strokes back and forth across your stomach. "Round and full. Wouldn't be able to keep my hands off you."

Bucky's orgasm doesn't seem slow him down, he's only edging you towards the start of another one, the words sending signals straight to your core. "You already can't keep your hands off me."

Bucky laughs as he presses another kiss lower, then another, working his way down until he's kneeling between your spread thighs. 

You're about to pull him up, tell him you're still not recovered, but Bucky's not looking at your face anymore. His gaze is fixed between your legs, watching as his cum starts to leak out of you, painting your inner thighs white. "Fuck," he breathes, his fingers gathering the mess and pushing it back inside you. "Can't waste it," he mutters, almost to himself, two fingers pressing deep, pushing his release back where it belongs. "Gotta make sure it takes. Gotta keep you full."

You're boneless, can't do anything but lie there and let him have this strange, filthy little ritual, watching through dazed eyes. The room smells like rain and sex. Your couch is absolutely never recovering, and maybe neither are you. He keeps his fingers inside you with that focused, almost frightening devotion, pushing the mess back where he thinks it belongs, one open-mouthed kiss landing on your lower stomach as he does it.

You reach down and catch his wrist, stilling his hand. "Bucky. I'm not going anywhere. It's not going to leak out in the next five seconds."

He looks up at you, a bashfulness in his face you've never seen on him before, caught doing exactly what he wants with zero shame left to hide behind. "I know. I just —" He trails off, fingers still buried inside you.

"You just what?"

"Like seeing it," he admits. "Like knowing I put it there."

The honesty of it makes you want the next round desperately, and before that thought could take root, you tug on his wrist, pulling him towards you. He withdraws his fingers reluctantly, wiping them on his discarded shirt before crawling up your body. When he settles next to you on the couch, you turn into him, tucking yourself against his chest. His arm comes around you, metal hand cool against your overheated skin.

"So that happened."

"Yeah. That happened." His lips and hands keep mapping your body in small increments, like he's making up for lost time, like he doesn't want to let you go. 

The silence stretches. You count his heartbeats — twelve, fifteen, twenty — before he eventually says, "your dad's gonna kill me."

"Probably." You trace patterns on his chest with one finger, following old scars, the raised tissue telling stories he won't. "But at least you'll die happy."

"Small comfort."

"I could tell him it was my idea," you supply. 

"That'll make it worse. Then he'll kill me for not having more self-control." He catches your hand, stilling your wandering fingers mid-trace. "He trusts me. Trusted me with you. And I just —"

"Fell in love with me?"

The words shatter between you. You've never said them out loud before, never put a name to this thing that's been building since you were nineteen. Bucky goes very still at that, body stopping everything, even breathing. "What?"

"That's what this is, right?" You prop yourself up on one elbow to look at him. "Because if this is just some — I don't know, some itch you needed to scratch, you should probably tell me now before I —"

"It's not." He cuts you off urgently. "It's not that. It's —" The struggle plays out on his face, words getting stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat.

"It's what?"

"It's me being stupid in love with you for the past six months and trying real hard not to be," he finally says. The confession comes out rough, like it's been dragged from deep inside him. "It's me seeing you and forgetting how to be a person. It's me lying awake at 3 AM thinking about your laugh. It's — fuck, I don't know. I'm not good at this."

"Doin' fine so far," you tell him softly.

"I'm old. You just graduated college a few years ago. Your dad's my best friend. I got no business —"

"Bucky." You cup his face, forcing him to look at you, meet your eyes, the intensity in them hopefully squashing any lingering doubts. His eyes do that thing where they won't hold yours for more than two seconds, darting away like he's afraid of what you'll see if he stays. "I'm twenty five. I have a job, an apartment, a 401k that I don't understand but I have one. I'm not some kid you're taking advantage of."

"I know that. I do. But —"

"But what?"

"But I've been to war. I've killed people. I got nightmares that wake me up screaming and a metal arm because I got fucked up and — You should want someone normal. Someone who doesn't have to check the exits in every room and who doesn't flinch at loud noises."

You think about all the times you've watched him scan a room, cataloging threats that aren't there. How he never sits with his back to a door. How he jumped that time your neighbor dropped a toolbox in the hallway. "Should I? Is that what I should want?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I don't." You lean in and kiss him before he can argue, or state reasons why this shouldn't happen. You continueto speak against his mouth, "I want you. Nightmares, metal arm, all of it. I want you at 3 AM when you can't sleep. I want you checking exits. I want all the parts you think are too broken to love."

A frustrated sound leaves him, sounds like a laugh but could easily be anything else. "You're gonna regret this."

"Let me worry about that."

"When your dad finds out —"

"When my dad finds out, we'll deal with it. Together." You settle back against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, its jumping out of his ribs. "Besides, he likes you better than me anyway. I'm pretty sure if it came down to it, he'd keep you and disown me."

That actually makes him laugh. "That's not true."

"It absolutely is. You fixed his transmission. I can't even check my own oil."

"I'll teach you."

"See? This is why he likes you better." You press a kiss to his sternum. "Useful."

"That's me. Useful." You can hear the smile in his voice now, the tension finally bleeding out of him.

"Among other things." Your hand drifts lower, fingers trailing down his stomach.

He catches your wrist, halting its path. "Again? Already?"

"What? You get to be obsessed with my stomach but I can't appreciate yours?"

"I don't —" He stops when you look up at him. Your expression must give away exactly what you're thinking, Bucky's jaw tightens, Adam's apple bobbing on a hard swallow. "Okay, yeah. I'm obsessed with your stomach. Happy?"

"Very." You kiss his jaw. It's hard to keep your hands to yourself when he's laid out beside you like a Greek statue taunting you. "For the record, I'm obsessed with your arms. Both of them. And your shoulders. And this thing you do where you bite your lip when you're concentrating."

"I don't do that."

"You absolutely do. You did it like three times while you were trying to get my bra off."

"I was nervous," he admits. There's a pink tinge creeping up his neck, faint but visible. "Kept thinking you'd realize this was a mistake and change your mind."

"Not a mistake." You tilt your head up to look at him properly. "Best decision I ever made, actually. Well, second best. First best was wearing that black crop top to the barbecue."

He groans. "Don't remind me. I had to hide in the garage for twenty minutes."

"Why?"

"Why do you think?" He shifts, and you feel the evidence of why pressing against your hip. "You bent over to grab a beer and I thought I was gonna die right there."

"Poor baby. Must've been so hard for you." You're not even a little bit sorry. 

"Not funny."

"It's hilarious." You kiss him again, deeper this time. His tongue slides against yours lazily, like you have all the time in the world. When you pull back, his eyes are dark again. "Also, we should probably move to the bedroom. This couch isn't big enough for both of us."

"Can you walk?"

Good question. Your legs feel like overcooked pasta, your body wrung out and remade into someone new. "I — Maybe?"

Bucky sits up, taking you with him, and before you can protest he's scooping you up. "I got you."

"I can walk," you insist, even as you're wrapping your arms around his neck. The automatic way your body curls into him feels like muscle memory you haven't earned yet.

"Sure you can." He's heading down the hallway. "But let me do this."

"Such a hardship, carrying me around naked."

"The worst." He's grinning, and when he lays you down on your bed, carefully, like you're precious cargo. He stands there for a second, just looking at you sprawled across your sheets. You should feel exposed — you are exposed, completely bare under his gaze — but the way he's looking at you kills the urge to cover up.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing. Just —" He shakes his head. "Can't believe this is real."

"Want me to pinch you?"

"Smart ass." He crawls onto the bed, settling beside you and pulling the blanket over both of you. You curl into him automatically, throwing one leg over his hip, and he makes this satisfied sound in his throat. Out of content, maybe. Or possession. Hard to tell the difference.

"Gonna stay?" you ask, even though you already know the answer.

"Yeah." His arm tightens around you. "If that's okay."

"More than okay." You press your face into his neck, breathing him in. He smells like yours. "Bucky?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you too. Just so you know."

For three full seconds, he doesn't move. Doesn't even breathe if you're being honest, his ribs don't move. You're about to take it back, pretend you were joking, anything to break the awful stillness — "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Have for a while now. Since before the barbecue, even. Maybe since I was nineteen and saw you sitting at my dad's table looking all broody and tragic."

"I wasn't broody."

"You were absolutely broody. You still are. It's annoyingly attractive."

He huffs a laugh against your hair, the warmth spreading to your neck, raising goosebumps. "Attractive, huh?"

You bite his shoulder lightly, teeth scraping enough skin to make him hiss slightly. "Everything about you is attractive."

"Everything else like what?"

"You don't cut your hair unless it bothers you, until it falls over your face and blocks your vision, like now. You like it when I ask you things, when I need help… I think it makes you feel wanted, you don't know that I always want you." Your mind goes to your windowsill. "You always fill the bird feeder, even if I forget." 

"You noticed all that?"

"I've been studying you for six years, Barnes. I could talk about you in my sleep."

"That's — That's a little creepy, actually."

"Says the man who just spent ten minutes trying to plug me up with his cum."

A soft laugh vibrates from him as his fingers trace idle patterns on your hip. "Go to sleep, sweetheart."

There are a hundred things you could say. Practical things about what happens now, how this changes everything, whether he'll still come over for coffee on Saturday mornings with your dad or if this makes it weird. But your eyes are heavy, body sated and wrung out, not enough energy to keep the conversation going, even if you so badly want to.

"Buck?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't leave before I wake up."

"Not going anywhere. Not anymore, sweet girl." A soft lingering kiss to your forehead is all you remember, the ghost of its touch following you to dreamland. 

MY MASTERLIST!

EXTRAS. what can i say i love the concept of dbf bucky, i have like 15 more dbf pwp in mind lmao… also no taglist bc this is queued.

[peachesofteal]

KEEPSAKE / MASTERLIST

ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au

One Two Three Four Five Six Seven

[vunblr]

Foundations Masterlist

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Tags/Warnings: Slight Angst. Fluff. Slow Burn. Neurological Damage. Depiction of Symptoms. (Bucky). Smut.

Summary: Bucky is doing his best to build a stable life for his newfound son, rescued from the guts of a Hydra facility. As he struggles with unexpected fatherhood and his own circumstances, he meets someone who slowly becomes part of their lives, establishing a connection he never saw coming.

note: In this universe Steve didn't leave, Tony doesn't know that the Winter Soldier killed his parents, and everything is relatively ok.

Status: Ended.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[inmboeightyfour]

couldn't stop reading sooo i read it all 💕 never a dull moment with these three, 10/10 would recommend! 💝

sidenote: i love what bucky did to that pervert👏

[peachesofteal]

Keepsake previous - masterlist Ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au

You’ve found some footing outside your room.

In the last week, you’ve managed to carve out some sort of existence in the house. There are bookshelves in what you assume is an office, and you’ve found titles there that help occupy your time. Sometimes you even sit on the couch in the living room, eager to escape the same four familiar walls of the bedroom. You come out for meals too, since no one has brought food to your door again, breathing through your mouth as you try to block out their scents.

It doesn’t work.

They’re everywhere.

Their scents, their bodies, even their clothes. You find shirts shoved in couch cushions, jumpers hanging over the back of kitchen chairs or the stair railings. They’re in the living room in the evenings, in the kitchen in the morning, at the table for dinner. One of them is always at breakfast, talking to you even if you don’t respond, keeping you apprised of the day.

“Johnny’s out until the afternoon, chasin’ down a lead. I’ll be here if you need something.”

“Gonna go out for groceries. D’ye need anything?”

“Simon’s on a perimeter walk. Dinnae want to scare ye, but we thought we heard something in the woods last night.”

It does scare you though. The looming threat, the fact that someone wants to kill you, is always in the back of your minding, haunting you like a bad dream. You’re afraid to step foot outside the front door, and whenever you hear them talking in low voices that abruptly stop once you enter the room, you fear the worst. They swear, again and again, that you’re safe, but the worry never goes away, it just lurks in the back of your mind, reminding you why you’re here, why you’re trapped in this house with your mates, a logical, sensible thing turned insane as you balance rational thought with instinct. Your safety is an ever changing thing, crossing lines in your head, trying to do backflips to figure out who you need protecting from.

The outside threat, or them.

Your pills aren’t working.

It’s the fourth morning in a row where you’ve swallowed your usual dosage, one suppressant, one blocker, one painkiller… and felt nothing.

No relief. No numbness.

Nothing, except for the pounding behind your eyes, the nausea crawling up the back of your throat, the never ending muscle cramps.

It’s taking a toll.

“Dove?” Johnny’s voice cuts through the static between your ears, the impossible tug of war you’re playing with yourself. They should be working. Is it because you’re too close to your alphas? Are they being overpowered? Is your body working against them, making you sicker?

Simon says your name, but you ignore him.

Is it even possible? Could their proximity override the effects of your medication? Did the doctor ever say anything about that?

A hand touches your face. It snaps you back to reality and you jerk away, shocked.

Your reaction doesn’t deter Johnny though, whose fingers are brushing across your brow.

“Ye’re warm, sweetheart. Ye feelin’ alright?” You nod, but don’t say anything, tongue heavy like wet cement in your mouth. Johnny looks down at your breakfast plate and frowns. “Ye barely ate.”

“Not hungry.” You croak. You lean away from him. He’s too close, and the urge to crawl into his arms and press your nose to his neck is overwhelming. You think it could help you, he could help you, be a balm, soothe your pain, take it away and-

Stop.

You shoot to your feet. The movement is too swift, too sudden and you sway, your lack of balance automatically moving Johnny forward, his hands on your arms, holding you steady. “Whoa, easy. Ye alright? Do ye need to lay down?”

“I don’t know.” You look away, trying to hide from their gazes, Johnny’s bright and concerned, Simon’s dark and focused. Two walls closing in on you, squeezing you from both sides.

“Maybe ye should go back to bed, try to get some sleep. Or do ye want to lay on the couch?” You shake your head.

“No, no… I’ll go back to bed. I’m probably just tired.” An obvious lie, but you can’t admit to them how badly you’re hurting. Your pride won’t allow it.

“Alright…” Johnny says as his hand slowly moves from just above your elbow to your back. “Let’s go get ye comfortable.” You stiffen, try to pull away but his touch stays firm, grounded at the base of your spine like an anchor, steering you towards the stairs.

You look over your shoulder before taking the first one. You’re not sure why, something pulls you, some sort of gravity, your eyes finding Johnny’s, and then Simon’s behind him. A foul yearning ricochets through your soul, your body, a desire unlike anything you’ve ever felt spreading through your blood.

An infection.

They made you sick.

They’re making you sick, still. Somehow.

Buried deep, the want burns, begs you to lean in, to give up, to give yourself over. To fall into their mercy and their attempts to soothe you, to let them have you. It takes considerable effort to fight it. To gnash your teeth together and refuse to let it out.

You hold your breath all the way up the stairs, letting the fire grow in your lungs until you reach your bedroom, head swimming as you collapse into the mattress. You should tell him to leave, but you can’t. The effort would be too much.

“Jus’ rest.” Johnny murmurs, back of his hand pressing to your forehead again as he brings your blankets up to your chin. “I’ll check on ye in a bit.” You scowl.

“I’m fine. Just tired.” You bite out before rolling onto your side, staring straight ahead at the wall. He sighs as he stands, shakes his head.

“If ye say so.”

You’re full of restless energy when you wake up.

It’s after sunset, the only light in your room coming from the small lamp that’s on your bedside table, hazy yellow light spilling out from behind the shade.

You feel a bit better, more clear headed, but there’s this… unsteadiness under your skin, something volatile and turbulent trying to get out. Your chest feels too tight, your hands are trembling.

Anxiety, you think. Has to be. You’re not immune to it, have plenty of experience with stomach twisting worry, though it’s never felt like this. It’s a new manifestation, a new way of your body worrying, fixating.

The blankets you’re hidden under are too heavy now, constricting, and you sit up, glancing around, looking for something that may have triggered your discomfort.

There’s nothing, except for the empty bedroom.

The bedroom that’s too large, too open.

It’s problem needing to be fixed, and you know what to do.

You pull the mountain of pillows apart, stacking them in misshapen rows around the edge of the bed, effectively creating a wall between you and the door. All the blankets come next, the extra ones, the weighted one, folded and then unfolded, arranged so each hem is ready to be pulled up over your face at any time to hide you from the world. You reorganize too many times, unable to stop yourself from pulling them around the center of the bed, bundling them up into cozy little groups, ready to be laid in, or on, however you want. You rifle through your duffel, looking for more clothes, comfy pants and shirts, their cotton lengths or fleece insides bringing you a tiny bit of peace as you shove them between edges. The bed is smaller now, and you’re enclosed like a castle sitting inside formidable walls. Tucked away. Safe.

But it still doesn’t feel right.

That feeling in your body, the one stretching and straining in your bones, twisting you from the inside out, hasn’t gone away.

You eye the lamp.

It’s too high, you decide. Too tall. It needs to be on the ground, and you place on the carpet at the corner of your bed, just next to the table so the warm yellow glow is somewhat muted.

Better, but still not right.

Maybe it’s the scent. Everything smells like clean laundry, all the blankets and pillows bearing the same lavender, freshly washed smell, the one that you get from the expensive detergent.

Nothing smells like you except for your clothes.

You grab at a blanket and work the edge of it over your wrists, your neck, your face, doing the same over and over with the others. You rub your face on all the pillows, breathing them in as deep as you can, trying to figure out if the contact is making a difference, or if it’s a fruitless endeavor.

It should work.

It should.

You look around. Up. Down. Eyes dragging from each corner to the next, looking for an offender. A reason.

The closet catches your eye.

Maybe it’s too big, you wonder. Maybe the room is too large, too much. Overwhelming.

You crawl off the mattress on hands and knees, shaking hands reaching for the closet door.

It’s dark in here. Nearly empty, but you can fix that. Easily.

You drag everything you’ve assembled on the bed to the floor, pulling it inside the closet piece by piece, lining the walls with pillows, arranging the blankets so they’re perfect for burrowing, snuggling.

Still not completely right, but better. Something is still off, but this is safer, darker. Everything you need.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been buried in the mountain of your own creation when the bedroom door opens.

Could be hours. Could be minutes. Time is a little blurry.

Everything is a little blurry, if you’re honest.

The pounding in your head has returned, a small headache that grew between your temples until it was beating like a drum, forcing your eyes closed, pushing you deeper into your pile of softness. It soothes you somehow, makes things feel not as terrible.

You stay there, curled up, when the door creaks. When there’s a silent pause, and then footsteps, and you don’t move when the closet is opened, the small amount of light at the back of the alpha causing you to wince.

Simon.

Sea salt and leather floods the space, and you realize with dread it’s a part of what you’ve been missing, that itchy, anxious feeling under your skin partially calming as steps closer.

His knees crack as he crouches, lowers himself in front of you, without a word. The silence settles like a tightrope, too dangerous for you to walk, to speak. You watch him inspect you, the closet, the blankets and pillows, watch the calculation unfold in real time.

“This is nice,” he murmurs, running a hand over some of the blankets, “bit small for your nest though.” The horror is immediate. Is that what this is? Is that what you’ve done? It has all the markings of nesting, all the telltale signs, but for some reason, you can't see it. You've nested before, but it's never felt like this. 

No. You’re not nesting. You just needed to get comfortable. The room was too big, too open to them.

“It’s not a nest.” You growl, instinctively pulling a blanket up to your neck. “I was just… I needed to get out of bed.” He cocks his head.

“It’s not? Sure looks like one to me.” Dismay burns in your blood, and your scent turns sour. Distressed. “It’s okay,” he soothes immediately, “you did good, dove. It’s a good nest.” He’s speaking to your biology, your hindbrain, and your omega preens, the instinct inside of you lighting up at the praise. It’s like a knife in your heart, this betrayal of your sense, and the horror only grows as you start to purr, the light vibration coming from beneath your ribs earning you a small smile from your alpha.

Stop.

Stopstopstopstop please stop-

The purring gets louder. Your stomach tosses, bile burning in the back of your throat, but you can’t stop it. You’re paralyzed, immobile, two factions fighting for control, and you can’t do anything but lay there as his hand comes to rest on your ankle, thumb pressing in, down, working against you in a slow circle. “Such a good omega.”

That snaps you out of it.

The praising of your designation is always something that has disgusted you. It’s dehumanizing, reduces you to a role, a biological factor and nothing more. An omega is the same as any omega, when it comes down to it. All driven by need, by instinct, preening and purring and desperate for knots and bites. Animals done to their bones. 

You won't let that become who you are. You can't. 

You kick his hand away and scoot back, deeper into the corner. The purring and pride has vanished, and in its place is a black rooted, snarled mess of fear and anger and pain. There’s a moment where you think he’s going to tighten his grip and hold on, but it doesn’t last. He stands instead, looks down as he towers over you.

“Dinner’s ready.” You shake your head.

“I’m not hungry.” It’s not true. You woke up with an appetite, and even with this situation, this confusion, the anxiety, the pain, everything, it’s still there.

“You need to eat.” You’re about to refuse again, but his eyes narrow. “Do you need me to bring you downstairs myself?” He will, you know it. You don’t doubt he will drag you out of this closet and down the stairs.

“N-no.” You hate the stammer, the proof in it. How it exposes you, shows how scared you are, how unsure. How this entire situation has changed you, took your life and dumped it upside down.

“C’mon then.” He extends his hand, and the part of you that’s growing out of control tries to take it. Your arm twitches, moves like it’s being played by a puppeteer. It’s only once your fingertips almost brush his that you yank back with a scowl. He chuckles. “Suit yourself.” He’s not leaving, not until you’re out of the closet, and you know that. He could force you, bark at you, drag you out. He’s got you pinned to the ropes, no choice but to do as he says, so you reluctantly crawl forward on your hands and knees, unsteady as you start to stand from being curled up all day.

You give the closet one last look before you close the bedroom door, its dark mouth beckoning you, waiting patiently.

It knows you’ll come crawling back before the night is over.

[sergeant-trash-panda]

rainfall - part six

captain john price x female!reader

chapter specific warnings: none

length: 3.4k

your first proper outing, scouting a warehouse used by the enemy, and captain price doesn't make things any easier for you.

part five // part seven

ao3 // rainfall masterlist // main masterlist

You only managed a few hours of tense sleep before you woke, body rising with the dawn, though it took your head—and Price's loud and incredibly annoying alarm—to catch up. Stretching out your back as you sat up, the sheets sliding away, and your eyes popped as it exposed the tip of your thigh.

"How the fuck did you pass basic rising so slow?" Price mocked from the other side of the room, fully dressed and looking as if he'd been up an hour already.

"Turn around." You snapped, yanking the sheets up.

At first, he frowned, confused, and then a smile smoothed over his bearded features. "Why's that, love?" He smirked over the lip of his coffee mug.

"Turn. The fuck. Around." You uttered, drawing out each syllable in a lengthy growl and Price snickered but complied, turning his back.

You slipped out, swiping out your entire duffel, not trusting him to keep his back turned as you disappeared into the bathroom, twisting the lock round tight to get changed. Dressing for the planned day ahead. Plain jeans, t-shirt and a thick jumper. Forced into yet another inappropriate set of underwear for the day and cursing Jenna's name for the hundredth time, hoping the burning of her ears set the bitch on fire.

"You never answered my question, by the way." Price called as you stepped out, kicking the duffel under the bed again.

"What question?" You yawned, fingers twisting through your hair to knot it in a tight braid, sliding some pins through to secure any wayward strands.

When Price didn't respond at first, letting the silence stretch as you pulled out your handgun and went through the necessary checks, leaning back against one of the counters to study your movements. His suggestive gaze dropping down when you twisted to prompt him, heat crawling up your neck.

Without the threads of exhaustion cloying at you, softening your thoughts, you reminded yourself exactly who you were dealing with. Your captain, your boss, the man who shouldn't be asking these questions in the first place. Were all Special Forces this direct?

Price merely crossed his arms over his chest, assessing your stiff stance, his gaze sliding up and down your body as if intent on making you uncomfortable. Humming an affirmative as an offhand, a distraction to the real conversation, the one you were blatantly ignoring.

"Could have you written up for that." Price warned but there was no real bite to it, only a gentle tease. "Inappropriate working condition."

You snorted before you could stop yourself, shoving the handgun into your waistband and draping your shirt, your jumper, over the top to conceal it. Talk about inappropriate.

"Do we know if the meeting is still happening?" You deflected, smoothing your hands down your jumper. Twice. Busying yourself over your boots.

Though you planned on checking out the storehouse, Gaz and Price picked up word of a meeting happening at a local cafe between a courier and one of Dukov's associates.

Price grinned, stepping around the table, your slip satisfying whatever need he had to rile you. "Far as we know." He nodded, "Laswell's been monitoring chatter for any change."

He slipped his phone into his back pocket and you noticed the bulge of his own weapon beneath his button down.

"Then what are we waiting for?" You tugged on the sleeves of your jumper, flicking a glance outside the windows at the puffy clouds, and glanced over at the captain when he didn't move.

Bad move. Bad move. Bad move. Price's grin grew, fixing you under his heated gaze, pinning you to the spot and as soon as the challenge left your lips regret pooled high in your chest.

He only had one word for you. "Lace?"

Taking a deep—half-steadying and clearly irritated—breath, you gripped his gaze as tight as you dared and placed your palms flat on your hips.

"If you think I'm ever going to answer that question, you've got another thought coming."

Price's icy eyes grew bolder. "I've been havin' a lotta thoughts about you, love, not sure you want me havin' any more."

"It's my bloody roommate playing a prank, alright?" You lifted a finger at him, cheeks threatening to combust. "Don't get any ideas."

Price chuckled, a full-bodied, bold smile gracing his cheeks as he swiped the keys from the counter and followed you through the open door. Your gaze fixed on the pavement below instead of the warmth of his smile, waiting for him to lock up and lead the way.

God, this man. The cheek of him. You were so unbelievably flustered already and you hadn't even had a coffee yet, for Christ's sake. "I'm surprised you've never been written up for harrassment before." You muttered as the two of you fell into step with each other.

"How'd you know someone hasn't tried?"

"Please." You shot him a flat look. "If someone like you ever got sent to personnel, the gossip would light the base on fire."

"Hmph." Price pulled a lighter from his pocket, sticking a cigarette between his teeth and the glow briefly ignited his icy eyes. He took a long drag, watching you over the top, and blew the smoke away from you on the gentle morning breeze. "You listen to shit like that?"

"Only when it concerns me." You replied honestly, tucking your already nipped fingers in your pockets. A steady stream of traffic passing you by on the road as you walked towards the centre of the town, glancing down at your shoes.

The incident in Afghanistan briefly flooding your head, wondering if word of your excursion with Price had made it's rounds yet. Though you trusted Jenna, she wasn't the only one there when the lieutenant requested you. Anyone could've overheard in the training centre, saw you enter Price's office. The administrative assistants the worst offenders.

"You talked about it?" Price prompted after another drag of his cigarette and of course you knew what he meant.

"What's there to talk about?"

Price narrowed his eyes. "I read the report, got the cliff notes version." He blew out a puff of pretty white smoke. "You didn't blame the prick responsible."

No, you didn't. Jeffrey had given the instructions, he'd pulled rank on you—being the senior sergeant and all—and though you voiced your objections you let him lead you into the bloody mess.

"We all shouldered the blame by following him." You shook your head unconsciously, "Our orders were to sweep the area, scout for any insurgents, and Jeffrey's instructions were within the bounds."

"Jeffrey took your squad outside the limits of your patrol, you weren't allocated the sector." Price pointed out and you glanced him over. He really had read the report.

"Technically, on a standard sweep like that, any squad is allowed to breach their sector if there's reasonable doubt."

Price flicked his cigarette, a crumb of ash spilling out, the corner of his lip briefly perking. "You're like a walking regulation manual, you know that?"

"Yet, I'm not wrong." Despite the backwards compliment, you smiled.

"Jeffrey didn't have doubts, he had pride, he wanted a score." Price continued anyway, tone brutally honest. "Prick dragged you into it, you should've kicked him to the dirt."

"Surely you of all people know what it's like when you're in the thick of it." You responded bluntly and Price gripped your gaze straight on, your step faltering on the pavement and you averted your eyes. "You put your trust in those around you, you can't second guess them or it might get someone killed."

A momentary pause, the single beat of a heart, before Price answered. "But you did." He remembered and you swallowed, your features falling. "Something in you must've doubted, or those civilians would be dead in the dust."

"Yeah." You tried to work some moisture into your suddenly dry mouth. "And what does that say about me?" You lifted your gaze back to his, finding a drop of sympathy bleeding through the ice. "Still think you picked the right man for the job?"

"Yes." Price didn't hesitate and you recoiled.

"Even if I am a walking regulation manual?" You quoted, hoping it distracted from the shock still pinching your features.

Price's lip quirked as he finished the last of his cigarette, flicking the stub to the pavement and grinding it into the slab with the tip of his boot.

"You don't follow the rules as closely as you think, sergeant." He replied cryptically, leading you round the corner onto a fresh block of buildings. "Else you wouldn't be here."

You narrowed your eyes at him, following his back as he took the lead ahead of you into the town centre. People buzzing about along the morning commute, a few shops lining the main road. Groceries and high street shops with banners in German you couldn't read and Price continued down, the two of you ducking between passersby towards the edge of the town centre. Over where a taller building with a triangular roof stood on the outskirts in clear view of a little cafe with blue awnings and thatch chairs lining the circular tables made of silver veined marble.

Recognising the name of the cafe from the intel in Laswell's file, the hostess smiling at you as she seated you at one of the outside tables. Offering menus though you merely ordered a coffee. The seat providing a full view of the storehouse opposite you and by the time the coffee arrived your target had disappeared inside the thick double doors.

You stirred a single cube of sugar into the curved white mug, smudging the milky artwork atop as the spoon clinked, settling it on the saucer once you were finished. Eyeing the double doors, studying the guard outside leaning against the brick wall. Looking casual, as if he'd just stopped for the puff of his cigarette.

"You're staring." You pointed out blankly as you lifted the mug with both hands, palm wrapped to the warmth as a chill swept down the cobbled street.

Price sniffed, twisting his own dainty cup—a single shot of espresso—whilst his eyes bore into you unashamedly. "I am."

You took a sip—the coffee hot, bitter, on your tongue—and regarded him coolly over the top. "Shouldn't you be watching the door?" You set the mug down with a soft clink, both hands pressed flat around it. Doing your job, like me.

"He's just gone inside." Price reminded you, knocking the fold of his jacket aside as he brought one leg to cross the other. Still staring. "Won't be out for a while."

He lifted the espresso, the tiny cup dwarfed in his big hands, and took a sip. Gaze locked tight on you as he sipped and you shuffled in your seat, rubbing your forefinger along the porcelain idly.

Your jumper doing little to keep out the chill and you ran your gaze down Price's burgundy suede jacket, lined with soft beige fleece and wishing you'd brought something warmer.

"Besides." Price set the mug down. "Found something prettier to look at."

Not this again. You cleared your throat, lifting the mug again and hoping it hid the sudden flush rushing through your cheeks. Taking a longer sip, ignoring the bite of the hot coffee as it hit your tongue, eyes narrowing as Price flashed the quickest smirk.

"Maybe you should focus on the task at hand, Captain." You suggested, settling the mug back in the saucer.

"Maybe." He agreed softly, unreadable eyes tracking your thumb as you brushed it along your mouth, scraping the foam off your lip.

You swallowed. Shifted in the seat again, stopped yourself short of licking your lips. "Dukov's associate, do they have a long history?" You asked, trying to forcibly shove him back on task if he wouldn't go willingly.

Price took a deep breath, leaning back in the chair, a professional edge hardening his rugged features and you released a silent breath of relief. "Few dealings scattered across the past two years that we can trace but nothing concrete." Price answered, connecting some dots in your head. "Our intel suggests they've been using this courier to make deals with business across town, keep the compound supplied."

You nodded, letting your gaze sweep wider across the street, the few market stalls attracting customers on the opposite side. Their awnings billowing in the gentle wind, the occasional brush of a car passing and the hum of other patrons about the cafe the only sound to be heard in the late morning. A gentleman rustling his newspaper to straighten it. Two of the waitresses giggling together as they passed. The hiss, the steam of the espresso machine echoing from inside.

"What do you see?" Price's deep voice slithered into your thoughts, drawing your gaze back to him, his rugged features.

"Life." You answered, taking another sip of coffee, watching the last swirls of foam on the top as you set it back down. "A quiet Wednesday morning."

"And?" Price tapped the espresso cup once, your gaze snapping to the motion, then to him.

"Civilians." You finished, leaning back in the chair, feeling the outline of the handgun wedged beneath your waistband and a familiar uncertainty took root in the pit of your stomach. "Potential casaulties."

"Obstructions." Price summarised and you nodded, a tally of them totalled in your head.

Your gaze flicking to him, penetrating gaze occasionally caught on something behind you, beside you, and returned the question. "What do you see?"

Drawing the icy blue back to you, his lip quirking beneath the beard and he tapped the cup again. Just once. "Something pretty." You fixed on a point across the street. The flutter of a mother's dress as she stood with her daughter, ignoring the flush returning to your cheeks. "Seriously, you got something against taking a compliment, love?"

You flashed him an irritable look and his quirk grew to a small smile, your grip on the mug tightening. "I do when they come from my commanding officer."

"I might be your captain, love, but the rules don't exactly count out here." He smirked and caught the tiniest frown pinching your brows, his head tilting. "Laswell didn't tell ya, did she?"

"Tell me what?"

"What happens on the mission, stays on the mission."

"I know how shadow ops work, thank you." You dismissed sarcastically, if a little petulantly, and Price's smile still grew.

"To protect an operative's record, they are not required to disclose individual actions taken to achieve the mission's target goal." He replied, literally spelling it out for you and you wanted to be insulted but were too distracted by the way he looked at you. Heated. Expectant. As if he wanted something. "Meaning—"

"What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." You interrupted with a sharp twist of your mug. "Walking regulation manual, remember?"

"In a nutshell, love." Price chuckled breathily, "Same rules don't apply out here, not right now, not to us."

"Even so," You shifted in the chair, fixing your gaze on the mug, Sleeves tugged as far down as they could go. "I take orders from you, it isn't right."

"And if I ordered you to take the bleeding compliment?"

You flicked your gaze up, peering through your lashes, finding his eyebrow quirked softly, a strange smile on his lips. "You're mocking me." You exasperated, though your own lip quirked briefly.

"Nah." He shook his head playfully, moving the espresso so he could lean forward across the table, bringing his gaze closer. "I wouldn't dare mock someone as lovely as you."

You began to smile despite yourself but the flick of Price's gaze over your shoulder, back to the entrance of the storehouse, cut you off. Your back straightening, hands releasing the mug.

"Slowly." Price remained relaxed, finished his espresso as if he had all the time in the world and you watched him curiously. Learning. "He's not going anywhere and neither are we." He set the cup down, his attention seemingly focused on you. "Just a man and a woman sharing a coffee together."

You nodded softly, watching Price's gaze tracking the contact over your shoulder, loosening some of the tension riding up your back to take another sip of coffee. Choking on it as rough fingers stroked along the back of your hand, trapping it tight to the table when you tried to snap it back. The mug clinking hard against the saucer, mouth open to chastise him when a clunky voice sounded behind you.

The associate. Your target. Asking to be seated, for a menu, and the host led them to a table opposite from yours. Close enough for you to hear the low mutter of his voice, his companions voice, and no doubt close enough for them to hear you. A shiver dancing down the stretch of your arms and this time it didn't come from the wind.

"Are you cold, love?" Price frowned, concerned, and scraped his chair back before you could respond.

Shrugging off his jacket and standing to tuck it over you, his hands hovering on your shoulders as he tilted his head down to press a kiss to your cheek. His beard tickling.

“Just follow my lead.” He whispered so quietly you almost missed it, returning to his seat as the waitress came over.

“I am happy to move you inside, if you would prefer?” She smiled, speaking in accented English.

“Tha’s kind of you.” Price returned the smile, his cheeks puffing—sitting in nothing but his own thick fleece now—and nodded back to you. “My girl’s just after the jacket, though.”

Your girl? You began to raise your eyebrows but a muscle in his jaw clenched. Follow my lead. God, he really wanted to sell this whole couple thing and you smiled up at the waitress, tugging the jacket tighter around you.

“It’s my favourite.” You lied, returning to Price, tilting your head. “Looks so much better on me, don’t you think?”

Amusement lit up his deep eyes—genuine, not framed for the waitress—and he took your hand up again after you'd slithered it down the sleeve. Fuck, this thing is warm.

“Ya look good in anything, love.” He complimented, lifting it to his lips to press a fleeting kiss to your knuckles as the waitress left you to it and mischief curled the edges of his smile. “M’sure you look good in nothing at all, too.”

You flashed him a look. Piercing. Warning. His amusement growing, brightening the icy blue. Refraining from snatching your hand back even as he returned it to the table, thumb idly brushing across your knuckles.

“Warm enough?” He teased, the jacket big and bulky on your shoulders and unbelievably warm.

The faintest smell of cigar smoke and pinewood echoing in your nose as you wrapped yourself up in it, smiling back in response. “Perfectly."

This time, you took his hand, entwining your fingers across the table. Leaning forward, head perched on your chin as if enraptured by Price’s attention, lost in just him as the morning swam about around you. Passing idle chit chat, making up the lie of your lives so the gentle hum of your conversation reached your target’s ears.

Passing an easy ten minutes before Price paid the bill and you stood, flinching when Price's hand met the small of your back to guide you away from the cafe, down the street. Masking it with a pretty smile, letting him wrap his arm around your waist and tug you closer.

"Shouldn't we be staying, listening?" You whispered as each step took you further from the meeting.

"It's not the meeting that's important, it's the contact." He answered, drawing you off to the side. Slipping out his phone.

Stopping you by a trough of brightly coloured flowers, positioning you in front and you caught on quickly, falling into a relaxed pose in front of the little statuette. Smiling for him, for the camera on his phone, knowing he had it focused far behind you. Still within eyeshot of the target and his companion and when Price lowered the phone to show, you latched onto his arm, peering across. Smiling prettily as if the photo you stared at was of you and not a zoomed in shot of the criminal's coffee date.

This time he wrapped his arm about your shoulders as you continued down the street, pocketing his phone, and you gingerly clung to his waist. Feeling firm muscle beneath his fleece, the hard plains of his back, and another flush blossomed at the base of your neck. Hidden beneath the collar of Price's jacket.

part five // part seven

ao3 // rainfall masterlist // main masterlist

taglist: @readerwriters @identity2212 @private-rdrawsw @shadowstar123

[identity2212]

Read!

[littlefreya]

Lines in the Sand - Part 6

Synopsis: She is one of the best snipers serving in Iraq but she is also suffering from an attitude problem and ironically has a hard time following orders. After an incident in her former base, she is sent to join the Special Forces unit led by Captain Syverson who requires a talented sniper.

Unlucky for her, Captain Syverson is a hard man who likes things by the book and according to order. He ain’t got the patience for troublemakers.  

Pairing: Captain Syverson x OFC (Jessica Gallagher)

Word count: 3,790

Warnings: Smut in future (it’s coming next part!!), sexual tension, teasing,  big dick energy. Captain Syverson is BFD but also kind of a jerk in this one.

A/N: Ok, I promised smut in chapter 6 but I ended up writing 18 pages, so I have to split this in two so it will be readable. The good news is that I am almost done proofing so the sex coming up like later tonight. Please don’t hate me.

Tagging: @sciapod @thiccgeralt @writingaftermidnight @fcgrizi @hows-my-hair @modernscarlett @vania-marie @centaine​ @ohjules​ @oddsnendsfanfics​ @hm-fck​ @ly–canthrope​ @peakygroupie​ @shortstacks-blog​ @hclovers​ @intototaloblivion​ @cataleya12345​ @lifeisingrey​ @mytbel0st​ @goliveeasy17posts​ @agniavateira​

If you wanna be tagged, let me know!

Part 1|Part 2|Part 3|Part 4|Part 5| Part 6 |Part 7|Part 8|Part 9|Part 10|

Part 6 - If I Had a Tail

Keep reading

[littlefreya]

Little Freya’s Masterlist

Hello my pretty little ones, this is where you can find Henry Cavill and all his characters’ related fanfiction, drabbles, imagines and headcanons written by yours truly satan.  

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it or parts of it. Please don’t add your additions or spin-offs to my existing story.

*Most stories contain 18+ content, please read the warnings responsibly and proceed on your own account

UPDATED: April 26, 2024

Keep reading

[identity2212]

It’s time to re-read #Lines In The Sand - the brilliant story that has it all - thanks for writing @littlefreya !

[warmfrequency]

♡ - smut | ★ - angst | ❂ - dead dove; do not eat

disclaimer — everything i write is 18+ and even when it doesn’t contain explicit smut it’s more than likely suggestive because i'm a whore

multi-chapter

all we ever do is say goodbye (ongoing) ★

vignettes of john and his wife in the long aftermath of shepherd’s death

through the plaster (ongoing) ♡ ★

after six weeks of collecting your ever-elusive neighbor's post, what starts as a polite hallway exchange turns into something hard to ignore

one shots + ficlets

at arms length (1.8k) ♡ ★

friends with benefits, john can't let you too close

adrenaline (3.1k) ♡

lingerling adrenaline follows you to the safehouse

blurbs + lil things

hard of hearing!price

secretary!reader

older!neighbor!price

caught stealing

king!price x princess!reader ❂

alpha!price x omega!reader

[peachesofteal]

for all of us who can't bear to read anything but CoD fanfiction (due to the 141's fat tits) do you have any all-time favs?

Such an awful, sick affliction. I made one of these lists a while back but couldn't find it so you’re in luck because I have plenty of favorites and I’m happy to share them (in no particular order. I KNOW I'm forgetting at least ten fics I've read and loved but I have a goldfish brain today, forgive me):

And please, read the tags/warnings. Your consumption is your own responsibility.

Neon Medusa Too sweet not to share Ghost and Red Fox Alford plea The Willow Maid Exfiltration The Arrangement Civilian Asset See no evil Squeeze me I squeak MildLimerence Mine & Yours Saltwater Metanoia to you I can admit (that I'm too soft for all of it) white flag blood on my shirt, rose in my hand totally platonic Surviving you Dog all that's said in the lowlight birdsongs or advice and symphonies for your children Happiness songs that sound like sea foam down to the marrow roommate gaz Chink in the Armour Man-sized Hummingbird don't leave me locked in your heart Listening In Situationship-verse The Scottish Cabin in the Woods

Spoils of War Where Your Feet Pass Neighborly and/or not The Rear Window jigsaws pictures in frames, kisses on cheeks sirius c Spoils Cabin Fever / part one lotus flower the lies we tell Who Dares Win babytrap anthology The Hard Way Of Sea Foam and Iron bury me beneath the basswood tree Wicked Harvest Tiger balm baby blue Keeper/Kept Something Sweet Stay Away appetite

[thezombieprostitute]

Primarily sorted alphabetically by Actor. Please let me know if any of the links don't work.

Andy Barber

Ari Levinson

Cole Turner: Blooms & Blossoms / Deep Breath (Snippet) / Labrador Retriever Cole Turner

Colin Shea: Havanese Colin Shea / Medicine (Snippet) / Roomies (Snippet)

Curtis Everett

Frank Adler: Add it All Up / Breakfast Conversation (Snippet) / Worth It

Jack O'Malley

Jake Jensen

Johnny Storm

Lloyd Hansen

Mace

Ransom Drysdale

Robert Pronge/Mr. Freezy: My Man's an Undertaker / Price of Success (ft. Ransom Drysdale)

Steve Rogers

August Walker

Geralt of Rivia: Tech Tuesday

Hellraiser!Mike: Tech Tuesday

Napoleon Solo: Distractions (Snippet); Mon Bijou (ft. Ransom Drysdale)

Syverson

Walter Marshall

Bucky Barnes

Charles Blackwood: Tenure (ft. Curtis Everett, Ransom Drysdale)

Chris Beck

Destroyer!Chris: Waited for You (Snippet) / Why Bother?

God the Bounty Hunter

Hal Carter

Jefferson/Mad Hatter

Lee Bodecker

Nick Fowler

Steve Kemp: Last Night

Jonathan Pine

James Conrad: Paper Thin (Snippet) / Temptations

Loki Laufeyson

Helmut Zemo: See Right Through You

Joaquín Torres: So Relaxing (Snippet)

Kraven the Hunter: Can't Stop (Snippet) / The Hunt

Sam Wilson

Steven Grant: Museum Tours

Harald Finehair

Leon Kennedy: Agent Kennedy (Snippet)

König: Grocery Store Meeting (ft. Lance Tucker) / Reflection (Snippet)

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick: To the Rescue / Frosty Windows / Surprise (Snippet)

Mordecai (Borderlands): Done This 100 Times

Bouquet Event Masterlist

Charity Auction

Grumpy Days

"I need kisses"

Kidnapped (Gus Williams, Jonathan Pine, Lloyd Hansen, Ransom Drysdale)

Receiving Affection (Curtis Everett, Jake Jensen, Mace, Steve Rogers)

Tech Tuesdays

"Tell me I'm pretty"

Alpha to the Rescue

At the Gym (SStan character)

Too Old? (CEvans Character)

[thezombieprostitute]

Tech Tuesday: Syverson

Notes: Reader is plus sized female, nicknamed Darlin', married to Syverson after he retired from the military.

General Warnings: Anxiety, Fertility issues, Insecure reader. Individual chapters will have more specific warnings.

Story

Part 1; Part 2; Part 3; Part 4; Part 5; Part 6; Part 7; Part 8; Part 9; Part 10;

Asks

[nastybuckybarnes]

Littlest Dove - Nine

Pairing: John Price X Reader

Summary: After a drunk night on the town turns you into the only unfortunate witness to a horrific crime, you quickly find yourself in a bit over your head. The bad guy doesn't like loose ends, and the good guys wanna do their job. There's always collateral in some form... isn't there?

Warnings: injuries, language, minor angst, fluff, not edited nor proofread - good luck

Word Count: 2K

A/n: y'all don't understand how much i fw running on these sentences. i hope you guys can read it the way i'm writing it and it doesn't trigger anyone lol also SORRY it took so long i've got so much on the go teehee

~*~

For a man in his forties, Captain John Price gives a cold shoulder that would impress a teenage girl. 

He ignores you for two and a half days, offering nothing more than a grunt in response to any question you’ve dared to ask him. 

It isn’t until you’ve finished your rations for the night and are heading to the bathroom to redress your wound that he finally breaks his silence and calls your name. 

Your real name, not the one they gave you.

You step toward the table he’s turned into a desk, fidgeting when he doesn’t look up from a paper. 

Finally, after what feels like hours, he sets the sheet down and looks up at you. 

“He says he didn’t ask. That you went to him. That true?” 

He doesn’t need to elaborate. You know what he’s talking about. 

You feel like a kid confessing to wetting the bed as you nod sheepishly. 

He heaves out a breath that must weigh a thousand pounds and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

A hundred thousand thoughts and questions are running through his mind like silly little dachshunds chasing their tails. But the one that sticks out is:

“So you heard us?” Though it’s posed as a question, it’s a statement. 

A cold hard fact. 

You still hesitate for a moment before nodding again, and Price lets out another sigh. 

The night that was supposed to be magical and wonderful ended with a cold dose of reality for you. 

As if that weren’t bad enough, you actually volunteered for the bloody gig anyway. 

He pulls off his glasses and opens his mouth to speak, but you interrupt him before he can get a sound out. 

“Listen, you don’t need to explain anything to me, okay? I…” you stop for a moment, eyes looking anywhere but his face. “Just let me know what you need from me.” 

With that, you turn and walk away from him with the crumbs of your dignity falling through your fingers. 

Price can’t do anything besides watch as you retreat into the bathroom. 

The door shuts a little harder than you meant, and you quickly press your back to it and cover your mouth with your hand to stifle your sobs. 

You lost it. 

All of it. 

Everything. 

Your life.

Your friends.

Your maybe was kinda sorta blossoming almost-romance with John. 

Your teeth grind together and then your fist is hitting the wall and the sound is echoing through the small bathroom. 

You regret it as soon as you do it. Not so much because of the pain. No, nothing even comes close to the fire licking its way up your side. 

You moreso regret the noise, because now…

Knock knock knock

“Everything okay in there?”

You hold your breath and squeeze your eyes shut, almost like if you try hard enough, you’ll disappear. 

You’re tempted to try clicking your heels. 

You don’t, though. 

And you’re still there in the bathroom when you open your eyes. 

Still stuck in the tiny bathroom when Price knocks on the door again. 

“Yeah.” You regret the word even more than you regret smacking the wall, because your voice cracks and breaks and shatters as soon as you use it. 

And then the door is open and John Price is standing there, staring at the scene in front of him. 

His sharp eyes are analyzing, taking note of every inch of the room until they zero in on the blood staining your hands.

“What happened?” 

You shake your head and swat at him, turning away to hide yourself as much as possible as he crowds your personal space. 

“Get out,” you croak, glaring at him with teary eyes. 

The sight shoves splinters into his heart and he finds himself reaching for you instinctively, frowning when you turn away further. 

“You’re hurt. Let me see your hand.”

Okay.

You stick your bloody hand out, middle finger raised, and the man lets out a tired sigh. 

He takes hold of your wrist and inspects your hand carefully, long fingers turning it this way and that. 

His thick brows pull together when he finds no visible wound.

“Where are you hurt?”

“None of your business.” It’s childish and you know that, but right now he is the last person you want to accept help from. 

“Actually, it is my business. Keeping you safe is my job right now.” A big bear paw finds your shoulder and spins you to face him, and then his eyes are firmly fixated on the nasty gash on your side. 

“Bloody hell.”

You turn your face away in shame, hiccuping over soft sobs as he turns your body to face him a little bit more. 

He crouches down and inspects the wound carefully, trying to be gentle. 

It’s clearly infected, and one glance at the blood-soaked rag on the counter tells him why. 

“You should’ve told me about this as soon as it happened,” he whispers, eyes as gentle as his hands as he looks up at you. 

He doesn’t want to scare you. 

He’s not mad at you for getting hurt, but he certainly isn’t pleased you hid it from him.

“I’m fine.”

He rises to his full height, looking at you with firm eyes. 

“Stay here, I’m going to get the med kit.”

He’s only gone for a few short breaths, and then he’s back and washing his hands under the cool water. 

“‘M going to clean and sterilize it. It’s already infected, we want to try and clean it and stop the infection before it can spread any further.”

You’re not sure why this makes you cry harder, but for some reason it does. 

“Hey, shhhhhh, look at me. Look at me.”

Reluctantly, you bring your eyes to his. 

He takes both of your hands in his and gives them a squeeze. 

“You’re gonna be okay. It’s gonna sting a bit, but you’ll be okay. I need you to be brave for me. Can you do that?”

You nod tearfully, and he gives your hands a firm squeeze in thanks. “I’ll try to be quick.”

And then he’s opening the med kit and rifling through the contents. 

“Lean back.” One hand is pushing on your shoulders until they bump the wall, and the other hand finds your hip, keeping your lower half in place and stretching the skin of your abdomen enough for him to work with. 

“Can you take a deep breath for me?”

You breathe with him, squeezing your eyes shut as you exhale. 

There’s a splash of cold on your skin for a moment before the area erupts in flames. 

You jerk away instinctively, but Price’s grip on you is so strong and so firm that you hardly move an inch.

“Almost done. I know it hurts.”

Tears well up in your eyes. 

‘Hurts’ is putting it lightly, to say the least. 

You whimper when something cool is suddenly soothing your burning skin. 

“This should help.”

It does. 

So much so that you manage to peel your eyes open and glance down at him through your wet lashes.

He’s focused on the task at hand, bushy brows furrowed as he tries his best to be as gentle as possible. 

The last thing he wants to do is hurt you any more.

A small, foolish little part of you wishes you weren’t in so much pain so you could really bask in the feeling of his hands on your bare skin. 

The thought is silenced by Price wrapping you up and turning to wash his hands. 

“I’ll change that in twelve hours, and we’ll need to monitor it closely to make sure the infection doesn’t spread.” The way he speaks is so final and factual that you don’t even nod. You just watch him dry his hands and shut the water off. 

He turns back to you and leans against the sink, crossing his heavy arms across his chest. 

He doesn’t say anything. 

Neither do you.

You just flick your eyes between his boots and his face, never lingering on one for too long. 

Finally, he breaks the silence. 

“You need rest. Come on.” And then he’s leading you out of the bathroom and toward the makeshift little bed on the floor. 

He helps you out of your bloody shirt and into something clean, and when he’s turning to leave you’re grabbing his wrist. 

“Don’t leave me. Please.”

He stares at you for a long, calculating moment. 

Time seems to slow down as he fights an internal battle, Ruth’s voice nagging in his ear. 

But then your bottom lip starts to wobble and his decision is made. He’s helping you to the floor and following soon after, ignoring the alarm bells blaring in his head when you sigh softly. 

He helps you lie down on your good side and settles instinctively behind you, ignoring his racing heart when you scoot back a few inches. 

It’s sickeningly quiet for a few moments, besides the shrill ringing of ever-present tinnitus.

Your body is stiff as a board, rigid and tense and less than six inches away from the man and it’s making him lose his damn mind. 

He stays physically still behind you, quiet and grounding and watching as you slowly relax with each breath you take. 

No words are spoken as you ease into dreamland, body going lax so much that you’re all but pressed against him. 

And he doesn’t move. 

For a long while, he doesnt move. 

Just stays parked right behind you, hand hovering over you every now and then as he fights the urge to feel your skin. 

He tells himself that he’s monitoring your breathing, making sure your temperature is okay, checking your wound. But he’s not really doing any of those things. 

Deep down, he wonders what it would feel like to give in. To lean over and press his lips to your shoulder, wrap his arm around your waist and pull your body flush against his. 

The longer he spends by your side, the more he grows to yearn for the position. 

Maybe this is his place in the world. 

Wrapped up with you safely in his arms. 

But the safety is shattered by a vibration in his back pocket. 

He’s careful not to move too quickly as he pulls his new phone free, shifting closer to you as he unlocks it and reads the message. 

With a heavy sigh and newfound determination, Price forces himself to his feet and gets to work packing everything up. 

He works quickly, skilled and experienced, and spends just a few moments watching you sleep before he settles in a crouch by your head. 

“It’s time to go, Dove,” he whispers, warm paw landing on your shoulder and shaking you gently until you regain consciousness. 

You frown up at him, drowsy and confused and still half-asleep, but to him you’re awake enough. 

He helps you into a seated position and slowly begins explaining, keeping his voice low and even to -hopefully- keep you semi-calm. 

“We need to leave now. Kyle and Johnny are tailing them, they’re getting too close for comfort.”

You rub your eyes and stifle a yawn as he helps you put your feet in your boots, then tightly laces them up for you. 

You watch him as he handles you with such care, and for a moment you almost think the old Price might be back. The one who holds your gaze for a second or two longer than he should. The one who dusted snowflakes off your cheek and gazed at your lips like he’d never heard words before. 

These are the thoughts that plague your sleepy mind as he helps you into the car and takes off driving through the snow.