If The Sun Don’t Rise | Haymitch Abernathy x Reader
Summary: Haymitch Abernathy was a goner the moment you shot an arrow at his head, narrowly missing and instead effectively striking his heart all the same. His sunshine. His songbird. But the sun never sets on the reaping, and songbirds seldom live to see freedom in Panem.
Or
In which you and Haymitch are one great, big tragedy.
Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Everdeen!reader
Warnings: set during SOTR so, uh, spoilers, reader has a nickname, canon typical violence and death, institutional abuse, alcohol abuse, mental illness, depression, suicidal ideation.
A/N: this is an incredibly impulsive fic so please bear with me. Reader will be written with the implication of being non-white. Largely due to the lack of inclusivity in THG fics, and to the fact that the Everdeen family and Covey are heavily coded as non-white in the books. (RIP movie Burdock and Katniss Everdeen.) However, I will not be specifying any one exact race so everyone is welcome to read!
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
Playlist | writing all over the wall
Table of Contents
Part One, House of the Rising Sun
Chapter One | Let Me Rise
Chapter Two | Lost to the Promise Land
Chapter Three | Lessons in Regret
Chapter Four | My Pulse is Clear
Chapter Five | All the Restless People
Chapter Six | No Stranger to the Wind
Part Two, Ain’t No Love in the Heat of the Sun
Chapter Seven | Meet Me at Your Worst
Chapter Eight | Nobody Sings on Empty
Chapter Nine | Leave Me Here on the Other Side
Chapter Ten | Blinded by the Sight
Chapter Eleven | Before the Dawn of Separation
Chapter Twelve | Never Meant to Cause You Any Pain
⤿ DEAN HEYWARD-DI LAURENTIS was the boy no one could get enough of. The thing was, you just didn't get it... until you did.
!! wc: 2.8k. fluff. fem!reader. enemies to lovers ish. flirting. innuendo. dean being dean. dean fell first and hard. reader lowkey nonchalant w it. COME TO ME MY FELLOW OFF CAMPUS LOVERS. i will die for this series and briar u and the kids series. taglist open. off campus masterlist coming soon. ENJOY.
By the time you realized Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis was flirting with you, it was already too late to do anything about it.
Not because he was subtle, because he absolutely was not, but because Dean flirted with everyone in a way that made him difficult to read at first. He smiled too easily, leaned too close during conversations, carried this effortless warmth around with him that made people naturally gravitate toward him without even realizing they were doing it. Most girls at Briar noticed him immediately, and most of them reacted exactly the same way whenever he walked into a room.
You hadn’t.
That alone seemed to fascinate him more than it should have.
The first time you met him had been at a party during your sophomore year, one of those overcrowded hockey house parties where the music was too loud and the floors were sticky from spilled alcohol, where bodies moved shoulder to shoulder through dim lighting while somebody shouted along terribly to music in the kitchen.
You’d been standing near the back porch trying to escape the heat inside when Dean stepped out beside you holding two beers.
At the time, you only knew of him as one of Briar’s hockey players, though that was nearly impossible not to know considering how often everyone at this damn school talked about that team.
“You look miserable,” he’d said casually, offering you one of the beers.
You glanced at it before looking back at him. “You offer drinks to unhappy strangers at all of your parties?”
“Only the pretty ones.”
You had laughed then despite yourself, mostly because he’d said it so naturally that it didn’t even sound rehearsed.
“That line probably works on a lot of people.”
“It works better when they don’t immediately insult me after.”
“You survived.”
“Barely.”
There was something unfairly likable about him up close. Maybe it was the confidence that was accented by dimples, or maybe it was the fact that unlike some of the other hockey players, Dean actually listened when people spoke to him. Conversations with him felt easy in a dangerous sort of way, the kind that slipped by too quickly without you noticing.
You ended up talking with him for nearly an hour that night.
Then somehow he started appearing everywhere afterward.
Sometimes it was accidental. Other times it very obviously was not.
You’d find him outside one of your lecture halls leaning against the wall waiting for Garrett or Logan only for him to fall into step beside you afterward, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He’d steal the seat next to yours in class despite it being a lecture hall with plenty of open seats.
He'd distract you while you studied, complain dramatically whenever you refused to help him with assignments he definitely could have done himself if he tried hard enough.
And slowly, without either of you acknowledging it outright, he became part of your life.
It happened in pieces so small you barely noticed them.
Dean texting you first whenever something funny happened.
Dean showing up at your apartment with coffee because you mentioned once that you hated mornings.
Dean touching the small of your back absentmindedly when he moved around you in crowded rooms.
Your friends noticing the shift long before you did.
“He likes you,” your roommate had told you one night while you got ready for bed.
You rolled your eyes immediately. “Dean likes everyone.”
“No,” she drawled carefully, “I think he really likes you.”
At the time, you brushed it off.. mostly because the idea felt ridiculous.
Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis was charming in a way that belonged to everyone around him. He laughed with everybody, flirted with everybody, made people feel wanted so effortlessly that it was hard to imagine any of it meaning something deeper.
And maybe that was the problem.
Because you never realized how serious it had become for him.
Not until much later.
Not until the night everything finally cracked open between you.
It happened in late November after one of Briar’s home games, when the campus had already started settling into winter, and the air outside the arena carried that sharp cold that made your lungs ache when you breathed too deeply.
You waited near the parking lot while students poured out around you in loud groups, bundled in jackets and scarves while snow flurries drifted lazily through the streetlights overhead.
You had almost decided to leave by the time Dean finally emerged from the arena.
The parking lot outside Briar’s hockey rink had thinned considerably over the last fifteen minutes, the loud clusters of students slowly disappearing into the snowy dark while the cold deepened around you in sharp, biting waves.
The game had ended almost half an hour ago, but postgame celebrations always dragged on longer after a win, especially when the team played the way they had tonight. They were fast and aggressive and good enough to keep the crowd screaming well into the third period.
You stood near the edge of the sidewalk with your hands shoved deep into your coat pockets, shifting your weight occasionally to keep warm while snowflakes drifted steadily from the sky overhead. They gathered in the sleeves of your coat and melted against your skin, dampening pieces of hair near your face while your breath curled visibly in the freezing air.
Your phone screen lit briefly in your hand.
11:42 PM.
You should probably go home at this point. Plus, why stick around anyway? The only people who stuck around this long were family, significant others, and girls who were hoping to get lucky with a player. You were none of the above.
That thought had crossed your mind at least four times already, especially considering Dean had no idea you were even waiting for him out here in the first place. You could still leave now before he came outside and preserve at least some of your dignity, because standing alone in a freezing parking lot after nearly midnight waiting for a boy who smiled at you a little too nicely was not behavior you were particularly proud of.
Still, your feet stayed planted where they were.
Which was embarrassing to unpack if you thought about it too hard.
The arena doors finally swung open again a few seconds later, releasing another burst of noise and warmth into the cold night air as several players filtered out alongside a few students lingering near the entrance. You looked up automatically, more out of instinct than intention.
Then you saw him.
Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis, himself, walked out laughing at something one of his teammates said, hockey bag slung over one shoulder while exhaustion visibly weighed through the line of his posture. His damp hair curled slightly from sweat beneath the harsh overhead lights, and even from a distance, you could see the fatigue sitting heavily across his face after the game.
Then his eyes landed on you.
And his entire expression changed.
It was subtle enough that most people probably would not have noticed it unless they were looking carefully, but you did.
The exhaustion softened first.
Then his shoulders loosened slightly beneath the weight of his bag, tension easing from him in real time as warmth spread slowly across his features. The tiredness didn't disappear entirely, but something gentler replaced it now, something so immediate and instinctive that it sent an annoying little flip through your stomach before you could stop it.
“There you are,” Dean said once he reached you, his voice roughened slightly from yelling over the game and the freezing night air.
Something about the familiarity of it settled strangely in your chest.
Not the words themselves, but the way he said them, easy and certain, like he had expected to find you waiting for him outside the arena all along. Like your presence beside the rink after every home game had become something reliable to him, something normal.
You tried not to think too hard about why that affected you as much as it did.
Instead, you shoved your hands deeper into your coat pockets and forced yourself to sound casual when you said, “You played decent tonight, Di Laurentis.”
Dean immediately looked offended.
“Decent?” he repeated, adjusting the strap of his hockey bag higher onto his shoulder while he stared at you in disbelief. “That’s what I get after scoring twice? And defending my goalie after he got knocked? And pointing to you after I scored? And cheering G up in the locker room?”
You shrugged, though his grin was already making it annoyingly difficult to hold onto your composure for very long. “You want me to lie and say you were amazing?”
“Yes, actually, that would be nice.”
The laugh that slipped out of you came easier than you intended, soft and visible in the cold air between you.
For a second, Dean just looked at you.
Not in the careless, charming way he usually looked at people, but openly because your amusement was something worth paying attention to. Snow caught lightly in his light hair and along the shoulders of his jacket, while the harsh lights from the parking lot reflected faintly across his face. Despite the exhaustion still lingering around him after the game, there was some playful warmth creeping back into his eyes.
The look on his face made your chest tighten in a way you were trying very hard not to examine too closely.
Without really discussing it, the two of you started walking toward Malone's together.
The arena noise slowly faded behind you with every step, swallowed by the quiet stillness settling over Briar this late at night. Snow crunched softly beneath your boots as you moved side by side down the sidewalk, your shoulders brushing occasionally whenever one of you drifted too close. The roads nearby had mostly emptied by now, leaving only the occasional headlights cutting through the dark or the distant sound of voices carrying across campus.
The snow had started sticking properly sometime during the third period.
Now it dusted across the ground in thin white layers and gathered along Dean’s hair in uneven flakes, catching briefly in his lashes whenever he glanced over at you. The cold had turned the tip of his nose pink, though somehow it only made him look more unfairly attractive.
“You waiting long?” he asked after a moment.
“Not really.”
“Bullshit. That's a total lie.”
You glanced sideways at him despite yourself. “Fine, maybe a little.”
His mouth twitched immediately, like he was trying not to smile too hard at that answer.
Then something in his expression shifted. The teasing faded first.Then the easy confidence.
What replaced it was quieter somehow, more focused, and the sudden intensity of his attention made your stomach tighten unexpectedly.
“You came to every game this month,” he said.
The observation landed softly between you, but your pulse reacted instantly anyway.
You forced yourself to shrug. “I support Briar athletics, I love that my tuition money goes towards the team throwing free shirts into the stands and paying for your overpriced locker room. I figured I should get my money's worth.”
“Bullshit, again.”
You looked away too quickly, trying to hide the smile already pulling at your mouth, but Dean noticed anyway. Of course he did.
“That smile means I’m right.”
“You’re so annoying after wins.”
“I’m annoying all the time.”
“That’s... Actually, yeah, that's true.”
His laugh came low and warm beside you before he nudged his shoulder lightly against yours.
The contact lasted barely a second.
Still, warmth spread slowly through your chest anyway, familiar now in the worst possible way.
Because that had become the real problem with Dean lately.
Not the flirting.
Not the confidence.
Not even the fact that nearly every girl at Briar looked at him like he personally hung the moon.
The problem was that he made everything feel like more than it was. Truthfully, that could have been because, in your heart, you didn't want to believe you'd fall for an athlete's charm so easily. But based on what everyone around you said, you weren't delusional in thinking that it was more than it seemed.
Every glance lingered slightly too long. Every touch carried enough softness behind it to leave you thinking about it afterward. Even his attention felt different from other people’s somehow, steady and deliberate in a way that slowly worked its way beneath your skin before you even realized it was happening.
Being around Dean felt dangerously similar to standing too close to a fire in the middle of winter.
Comforting at first.
Then overwhelming before you noticed yourself getting burned.
And lately, whatever existed between the two of you had started drifting dangerously close to becoming something real.
Neither of you talked about it.
Maybe because acknowledging it aloud would ruin the fragile balance you’d fallen into together.
Or maybe because both of you were too afraid the other person didn’t feel it too.
“You know,” Dean said eventually, quieter now, his gaze fixed ahead on the snowy sidewalk instead of on you, “Tuck thinks I’m in love with you.”
Your entire body nearly short-circuited.
You missed a step slightly before catching yourself again, your head swiveling in a double-take. “Sorry.. what?”
Dean let out a huff of a laugh under his breath, though this time there was tension underneath it that hadn’t been there before.
“That reaction’s making this just a little harder for me.”
You stopped walking for half a second before hurrying to catch up beside him again. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
The simplicity of the answer made your stomach twist sharply.
Snow continued drifting lazily around the two of you while silence settled heavily between your footsteps. Your pulse suddenly felt uneven beneath your ribs, loud enough that you were half convinced Dean could hear it if he stood any closer.
For several long seconds, neither of you spoke.
Then finally, carefully, you looked over at him. “And what did you say?”
Den exhaled slowly through his nose.
The faint smile that touched his mouth this time looked different from his usual ones somehow, smaller and quieter, almost disbelieving.
“I told Tuck he was an idiot.”
“That sounds more believable.”
“Yeah,” he murmured softly. “Except I think he might’ve been right.”
Everything inside you seemed to still at once.
Not dramatically.
Not like movies where music swelled and the entire world stopped turning.
Just enough that suddenly every detail around you became painfully sharp all at once.
The sound of snow beneath your boots. The cold wind brushing against your face. The uneven rhythm of your breathing. The way Dean was looking at you now.
And maybe the strangest part of all was realizing he looked nervous.
Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis, who could walk into any room and immediately own it without trying, who flirted effortlessly and smiled without hesitation, looked genuinely nervous standing beside you on a dark, snowy sidewalk.
Like you had the ability to hurt him.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he added quickly after the silence stretched too long, his voice quieter now, rough around the edges in a way you had never heard from him before. “Seriously, I just…” He broke off briefly, glancing away before laughing once under his breath. “I got tired of pretending this feels casual to me when it doesn’t. And trust me, it's just as crazy for me to say that as it is for you to hear that.”
Your chest tightened painfully at the honesty in that.
Because suddenly the last few months rearranged themselves inside your head into something entirely different.
Dean waiting outside your classes even when his own were across campus.
Dean memorizing your coffee order after hearing it once.
Dean always finding you first in crowded rooms.
Dean texting you every night before playing an away game.
None of it had been accidental.
None of it had ever been casual.
And maybe the worst part was realizing yours hadn’t been either.
“You fall hard, huh?” you asked quietly.
A surprised laugh escaped him then, softer than before, carrying something almost embarrassed underneath it.
“You got no idea.” He drawled, his hands pushing his hair back in more of a 'I-Don't-Know-What-To-Do-With-My-Hands' way than anything else.
The honesty of it hit you harder than anything else had tonight.
Because Dean wasn’t teasing now. Wasn’t flirting. Wasn’t charming his way through another conversation with that easy confidence everyone associated with him.
He meant it.
And standing there beside him while snow gathered slowly across the shoulders of his jacket and melted into your hair, you realized with sudden, terrifying clarity that somewhere along the way, without meaning to, you had fallen hard too.
꩜ summary ━━ you tell clark “i got it.” so many times and he is sick of it.
꩜ content ━━ 2.3k words | fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, reader almost has a full blown a panic attack, clark is super duper sweet, reader has… issues but she’s just human <3
꩜ a/n ━━ i wrote this with a plus size in mind but it’s very appearance friendly! and clark being absolutely obsessed with her. might be a smidge little self indulgent im sorry </3 might also have grammatical errors! this is so personal to me i hope you guys enjoy reading this as much as i liked writing it 🫶
as always comments are very deeply appreciated ♡
masterlist | navi | buy me kofi <3
Clark knows you can take care of yourself.
It's one of the things he admires about you. You and your stubbornness, you and your inability to let people help. You, oh you, who is too scared to let Clark all the way in. So unconsciously, you don’t let him do anything for you, including something small as opening the car door.
Clark finds this out on your first date together.
And boy, you never thought you would be on a date with Clark Kent.
You did imagine it (more than you would like to admit) I mean how could you not? This hulking, tall, 6 '4 broad man that looks like he can throw you around turned out to be the most gentle person you have ever met.
It’s hard not to form a crush.
“I had fun tonight.”
Clark now walks beside you to his car, his height looming and begging for attention. He sounds bashful, and when you turn your head to look at him, you could see how the tips of his ears turn a light shade of pink with him staring down at you.
You softly smile, nervously meeting his eyes, “Me too.”
The walk wasn’t long, and before you could reach for the door handle of his car, his large palm had situated itself there.
You chuckle, “I got it. Thanks, Clark.” placing your hand on top of his to open the door.
Clark’s eyes widened with surprise, his cheeks dusting a light hue at the contact. He was also quite baffled at the fact that you didn’t want him to open the door for you.
He was raised to be a gentleman, opening doors isn’t anything new. Especially on dates. It’s mandatory for him.
He couldn’t even form complete thoughts as the car door opened, your fingers tightening on top of his. You slide in the passenger seat, throwing a cheeky grin at him. You didn’t even let him close the door for you, as you shut it by yourself.
Clark stood outside in the cold night air, staring at you from the window. He cannot believe that just happened.
For once in his life, he didn’t open the door for his date.
The same thing happened when he dropped you off at your apartment. You didn’t even think twice before opening the car door yourself as Clark scrambled out of his seat, racing to open it before you did.
He failed.
But it’s okay, cause you’re pretty and you smell nice, and you’re wearing this giddy smile, eyes a little tired but still sparkling. He stared down at you, with a matching grin and twinkling eyes.
A moment passed, “See you tomorrow?” Clark dumbly asks.
You nod and bite your lip, tummy flipping with excitement and nerves, “See you tomorrow, Clark.”
.
.
.
The past few weeks of seeing Clark has been…nice. He’s sweet, thoughtful and very nice to look at. So when accidentally you snapped at him, you were sure he didn’t want to see you ever again.
The summer heat is nipping at your skin, you had been stressing out about the printer since morning, the ancient machine that the Daily Planet has kept in store for ‘memories’ will be the death of you.
“Fuck— fucking stupid machine, shit—“
“You need some help there?”
You jump at the sudden voice, butterflies appearing in your stomach as you realise who it belonged to.
“This thing is pissing me off.” you grumble, not even looking at Clark, too busy glaring at the printer in front of you.
The man chuckles, leaning against the wall with hands tucked in his pants pockets as his eyes shamelessly trails over your figure.
“You look pretty.” he absentmindedly said.
The sudden compliment made you freeze your banging on the machine. Finally turning to meet his eyes, with a few strands of hair covering your vision. You tucked them behind your ear.
Because of your frustration at the machine, the small printing room has gotten more hot, which made you more agitated. So, you had put your hair up in a very messy bun, hair coming out in all sorts of directions, two buttons on your top were undone, giving Clark a nice view of your collarbone and a tiny glimpse of your cleavage. He swallowed hard as you fully turned to him.
"I'm a mess." you chuckle, hand resting on your full hips, head tilting to the side.
You look hot and bothered, your cheeks a little pink, your smile is teasing, and your hips are tantalising him. It's making his brain short circuit.
You, successfully making Superman weak in the knees.
He shrugs, hand scratching the back of his neck and awkwardly coughs, "My statement still stands."
Huffing, you face the machine again, "Go back to work Clark, or did you come here just to bother me?"
Clark moves inside the tiny room, his huge figure taking in half of the capacity. You could feel his body heat as he comfortably stood behind you, looking over your shoulder. Stomach flipping when you feel his slow and steady breathing.
"Do you know what's wrong with it?"
"If I did, I wouldn't be here, would I?" you accidentally snapped, eyes widening in horror. Oh no, he's going to hate you. "Sorry. I'm just annoyed and it's so hot in here and—“
His deep laugh stops you from continuing, "It's alright," he shakes his head, "I shouldn't have stressed you out more."
You sigh, guilt eating up your senses. You liked having here with you. He brings a sense of comfort, safety, calmness. He doesn't deserve your little outburst.
Clark sensed the air getting thicker with tension, so he clears his throat, backing up from your personal space, "I can call Jimmy to help you out-"
"It's okay, I got it." you rushed out. Hand clutching tightly at the edge of the printer. You cannot fail this. Don't embarrass yourself.
Clark nodded awkwardly, lingering on the door for a second too long, gazing at you with a certain look before hesitantly leaving you in your little room.
As you hear his footsteps retract, your shoulders slumped in relief, the guilt never once leaving your system.
"Stupid fucking machine."
.
.
.
Turns out Clark doesn’t hate you.
You have been going steady and now have created a little routine. The grocery runs has been fun, a routine that you two have made after 1 month of dating. Restocking in your respective place every first Saturday of the month, has been consistent.
“Aw, you two lovebirds are too cute.” the cashier complimented, “You match each other very well.”
Your cheeks turn warm, hands occupied by putting the groceries in the bags. Glancing at Clark to see his reaction, your stomach flutters when you see his adorable dimples. A shy smile stretching over his face.
He clears his throat, “Thank you, ma’am.” eyes shifting to yours. Fond, warm, and very much in a daze.
You quietly giggled, sending the cashier a quick smile before leaving the store.
Clark falls in step beside you, nudging your shoulder, “She said we look like we’re made for each other.” he shyly muttered.
You raised your eyebrows, glancing at him from the side, “She didn’t say all of that.” you smirk.
He shrugs, “I filled in the blanks.” his voice soft.
Your heart stutters.
Two heavy recycle bags settle in your arms as you try to balance them using your hips. Clark immediately took note of your fidgeting, and quickly moved his hand to grab the bottom of the bags, helping you stabilise yourself.
“Clark, I got it.” you grumble.
The tall man sighed, almost ripping the bags out of your hands. If anyone looked for too long it was like he was trying to steal them.
“I know you do, sweetheart,” he deeply sighed, fingers pressing against his eyebrows, “but I can do it. Do you see these guns?” he jokes, flexing his biceps close to your face. You laughed. He’s so silly.
Clark was also carrying his 2 bags of groceries, which is why you do not want him to carry yours. It’s yours. Why would you inconvenience him?
But Clark was adamant, Clark’s other fingers securely tucked in near your wrist where the bag handle is.
You playfully roll your eyes, “Back off, Kent.”
He gasps— loud, dramatic and offended, “I can’t believe you just called me Kent.”
You affectionately rolled your eyes and pushed past him, almost sprinting to the car so that he couldn’t keep up.
Oh, but Clark definitely could.
He chuckled to himself, shaking his head fondly at how stubborn you are. But you’re already opening the back trunk, organising your bags in. He underestimated your dedication, sighing softly with a giddy smile on his face, definitely his girl.
.
.
.
This particular day has been awful.
You’re suffering from writer's block and can’t find to type out any good comments and sentences. Everything you created sounded bleak, bland, boring and Perry has been waiting for a piece from you for days.
When he came to your desk, you gave him a thousand apologies, and Perry looked at you sadly… disappointed, if you would add.
“Should I give this to Cat to cover?”
“No!” you stood up abruptly, chair squeaking and making a few heads turn to you. You could feel a pair of specifically worried eyes on your back, “I got it. I promise. I will have this ready by tomorrow.”
Perry sighed, head nodding slowly, “Alright kid, I trust your abilities but tomorrow is final.” he stated, walking away.
You gripped the edge of your table, fingers twitching and heart suddenly pounding in your chest, “Fuck.” your breathing starts to pick up.
No, no, no. Please, not now.
Your feet moved before you could think and Clark was up on his feet the second he could hear your uneven breathing. Going to the only place he knows you would go.
The air on the roof is cold, the sky is so blue it reminds you of someone. But your chest starts to tighten, your vision starts to blur and sweat is forming behind your neck and hairline.
“Please, please–” sobs start to wreck your body, and your feet are now all wobbly.
Clark could hear everything from the elevator and it made his stomach drop and eyebrows furrow, as he fidgeted in the small metal box, “Why is it moving so slow—” he angrily muttered to himself, fingers aggressively pressing the button level repeatedly. Not caring the weird stares people are giving him.
The rooftop door violently swung open, so hard it almost flew off its hinges and you knew immediately who was on the other side.
“Clark, leave me alone.” you turn, not letting him see you. Your voice sounded so small, it tore his heart in two and he’s supposed to be indestructible.
He takes small steps closer to you, “I’m sorry, pretty, but there is no way I’m leaving you up here alone.”
"I got it, it's okay." your voice trembles, lips quivering.
Clark huffed, standing straighter, "No." he clenched his jaw, he sounded... angry.
You glance at him through your teary eyes, "What–?"
"Stop saying that line."
You scoff, "What line?"
Clark stares at you with wide eyes, like the audacity of you to even question that insane, "Your 'I got it' line."
Your stomach drops as your sniffling continues.
He deeply breathes out, moving to stand directly behind you, hands placed on your hips to turn you to face him fully. His thumbs softly caressing your shirt covered waist.
He leaned down, eyes trying to meet yours, "Look at me." he softly mutters.
Your eyes were fixated on the floor for a couple more seconds before they met his ones. Him and his soft, apologetic, blue eyes. Your breathing slows down.
He stares at you for a moment, searching, evaluating, you don’t even know.
But you would never guess what he was going to say.
"I. Got. You." he states, a pause in between every word. It wasn’t an opinion, it wasn't a joke, it's a statement. A fact. Like the nature of it is embedded in him, "Okay?"
Your lips wobbled, nose twitching and a new fresh of tears making their appearance on your eye line. Panicked eyes staring into his ones, trying to come into terms in what he just uttered out of his mouth.
"I will be here, with you." Clark continues, his hand now moving up to brush your falling tears away, "You can try to push me away but you need to call some reinforcements because I am not budging. You understand me?"
Slowly your arms moves to wrap around him, head tucking in his warm chest. "You got me?" your voice hoarse, his heart sinks seeing you tightly shut your eyes and hearing the hesitance in your tone.
His big arms wrapped tightly around your frame, hands softly caressing your back, "Of course, sweetheart. Always."
“Thank you.”
“My baby.” he sighs, emotional and heavy. His head tucking in your neck as he holds you tighter, “No need to thank me.”
“You make me feel so safe.” your trembling voice continues, a new wave of tears making you choke up.
Clark’s stomach flutters and drops at the same time.
For the strongest man alive, he sure feels pretty useless right now.
Because what has happened before that made you need to say that outloud? He thought it was given? He’s your boyfriend?
He doesn’t dwell on it for long, “I can help you with your paper.” he suggests, pulling your face out of his chest, his large hand on your jaw, thumb softly brushing your skin.
“Clark—“
“I swear to God if you say—“
You giggled. Clark’s eyes widens at your beautiful voice, goosebumps appearing on his skin.
“I was gonna say, ‘Yes, I would love your help’.” your voice turned down to a whisper, “Save me, Clark Kent.”
Clark grins, the tears are still in your eyes, some running down your cheeks but your eyes are a little bit brighter, your voice a little lighter, your breathing evening out and you’re still hugging him.
It makes him melt.
“I got you, baby. Don’t worry.”
Now Clark is making it his sole mission to take care of you.
☆ ruin the friendship (should’ve kissed you anyway)
johnny storm x fem!reader
synopsis — it’s better to ruin the friendship than it is to regret it for all time.
warnings — angst no comfort.. major character death.. yearning and pining.. almost no use of y/n (used once)
word count — 5.8k words
notes — i loved tloasg sm and it got me inspired. first time writing for johnny the loml so soz if bad.
YOU FELL FOR JOHNNY FIRST
you couldn’t quite remember when it happened, not exactly. just one day it clicked.
johnny storm had been your friend for a year, since sophomore year, and when it started that was all it had been. just friends.
but by now it had shifted. every time you looked at him you felt sick, like your stomach was doing somersaults while butterflies fluttered up to your chest.
every time his blue eyes met yours, you couldn’t bring yourself to break the contact. you could stay swimming in the pool of his irises forever.
when johnny smiled, you smiled too. it was infectious, his happiness, his laughter. even if it was the smallest upturn of his lips, your own would follow soon after.
you tried to fight it off, to push it down and ignore it. you hoped it would go away, that it was just some fleeting thought, a one-time crush.
and, yet it didn’t.
you sat in the passenger seat of his sister’s car. johnny’s left hand gripped the wheel loosely, just enough to control it. his fingers drummed against the leather, and he looked over at you with that same stupid grin he would always give you.
his blond hair was messy — likely due to how often he would run his hands through it, often due to stress or in an attempt to look cool — and you wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch it.
you felt ridiculous, having a massive crush on your friend. you wanted to tell him, wished he would feel the same. but you knew, if you confessed, he wouldn’t feel the same.
because at this point in time, johnny storm had a girlfriend. and she wasn’t you.
fat drops of rain collided with the windshield and you watched as they slid down the glass, almost as if they were racing each other down to where the wipers moved in sync to clear johnny’s view of the road.
“can you believe sue actually let me borrow her car?” johnny asked, his voice breaking the silence in the car that had previously been filled with the vague sound of the crackly radio.
you turned away from where you had been watching the september rain to look at him, those blue eyes flickering to you before looking at the road again.
“no.” you answered, completely honestly, and johnny laughed. warmth blossomed in your chest at his chuckle, how his eyes crinkled and his smile seemed to stretch miles wide.
“alright. alright, fair.” he nodded and the smallest, breathy giggle slipped from your lips. “well, she did. and i only had to ask her, like, three times.”
“wow, is that a new record?” you quirked an eyebrow as johnny clicked on the indicator to make a left-hand turn.
“i think so. what was it last time? five?”
“six, i believe.”
“ah. right.”
it had been a couple weeks since you and johnny had been able to hang out one-on-one. funny, the only time you seemed to be able to was when his girlfriend was away.
but a part of you thought that, maybe, it was for the better. because every time you hung out with johnny, you, more often than not, ended up thinking about kissing him.
as the car pulled to a stop in the school carpark, in a space facing the football field, johnny sent you a smirk before slipping on a pair of sunglasses and jumping out the car.
the rain had stopped, glistening drops still hanging to the blades of grass on the field as johnny used the sleeve of his jacket to wipe the water off the hood of the car.
he held out his arms, gesturing as if he was presenting the car to you, then hopped up onto the hood. then he offered you his hand.
you took it, and the moment your skin connected with his you could feel the electric sparks shooting through your body, a jolt that moved up your spine and sent goosebumps over your arms.
such a simple point of contact as he helped you up to sit beside him. then he let go of your hand, and your heart sank.
he looked ahead, where your high school’s football team — which included a few of johnny’s friends — was already running, the match having started before you arrived.
“you can’t even see anything from here.” you snorted, the game continuing in the distance, the players looking the size of ants as the two teams ran around in their red and blue jerseys. “why wouldn’t we just sit in the bleachers?”
“‘cause, ‘s more fun this way.” johnny shrugged, sliding his sunglasses down to the bridge of his nose. “why are you complaining? aren’t i enough company, sweetheart?”
the nickname always sent butterflies fluttering through your stomach.
though, his tone was humorous, his words just teasing jokes, nothing more.
and this was just friends hanging out. not a date, not an invitation for something more like you wanted it to be.
you rolled your eyes and laughed along with his jokes like normal, even though inside you felt anything but it.
and as you looked over to watch johnny, who was laughing at one of his friends who had slipped on the wet grass and fallen on the field, you wanted to kiss him.
you reached over and took his sunglasses from his eyes, sliding them over your own without a word. johnny didn't seem to mind.
"hey, johnny?" you broke the peaceful quiet between the two of you, eyes locked on him. he looked over, lifting his sunglasses to rest them on his head so he could look at you properly.
"yeah?" he asked, curious tone taking over.
god, you wanted to kiss him so badly.
but you couldn’t.
sure, his girlfriend was out of town for the week, but she was still his girlfriend. they were dating, they were together. she was the only one allowed to kiss him, to hold his hand longer than a few seconds, to have him.
but you knew you wouldn’t be able to kiss him even if she weren’t in the picture. johnny was so important to you. you cared about him. you kissing him could break that.
there was always that risk. that he wouldn’t like you back and that you would ruin your friendship. you couldn’t lose that.
so you kept your eyes on the game, kept cracking jokes, sat close enough to him so your arms were touching but not close enough for it to be weird.
staying friends was safe, and safe was good. safe was what you wanted.
you didn't tell him then. you didn't lean in and close the gap between the two of you, letting your lips connect.
instead, you looked over to the football field where your school's team was losing badly.
"can we go get milkshakes instead? this is boring." johnny's head whipped towards you at your words, once again smiling at you.
"it's like you read my mind." he said with a light scoff of disbelief, then slid off the hood of the car, offering you his hand and helping you down like a true gentleman. "let's go."
much later, when you would look back on that day, you’d think you should’ve kissed him anyway.
JOHNNY FELL FOR YOU HARDER
a year later, you had decided a silly crush on the boy who had become one of your best friends was not something you should keep around, so you moved on.
johnny, on the other hand, liked you.
he and his girlfriend from junior year hadn’t lasted long, only a couple months before it crumpled to the ground and was called off -- conveniently just weeks after your football and milkshakes not-date.
you didn’t know that the reason he broke up with his girlfriend was because he liked you.
and unlike you, johnny knew exactly when it had started.
that rainy day after you had left the football game and headed to a nearby diner for milkshakes and fries.
he had slid into the seat across from you in the booth after ordering, and you gave him a soft smile.
johnny had noticed the look you gave him, the way your eyes sparkled in adoration when they connected with his before you looked back down at the saltshaker you had been fiddling with on the table.
and that was the first time johnny noticed you. truly noticed you.
your face, your eyes, your hair, your smile. the way your fingers tapped against the table gently, how you always laughed at his dumb jokes that his girlfriend would roll her eyes at, how your nose scrunched when you giggled.
and when your milkshakes and fries arrived at your table, something changed in johnny, like a switch had suddenly been flipped.
had you always been this beautiful?
there was a hint of guilt behind his thoughts, because he had a girlfriend, and you were one of his best friends. everything about it was wrong.
but, then again, johnny didn't care.
and that led johnny to now. prom night.
his crush had developed into a full-blown, deep affection that never seemed to leave no matter how many girls he flirted with.
"why didn't you just ask her?" ben grumbled from where he sat on the couch and johnny stared at him blankly, his hands freezing where they had been awkwardly fumbling with his tie.
"why are you even here?" johnny shot back and ben rolled his eyes as sue stood up and walked over to her brother. "sue, did your boyfriend have to bring his annoying friend?"
"oh, shh." she pushed johnny's hands away and took the tie into her hands, undoing the knot in the fabric her little brother had ended up with and tying it properly. "you know he's just teasing."
"well, 's not funny." johnny mumbled and sue smiled, patting his cheek before taking a step back.
"he has a point, though, johnny." sue shrugged and he groaned. "you talk about the girl non-stop. why didn't you ask her?"
johnny shrugged, looking down at his dress shoes and stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pants.
"i dunno." he mumbled, a little sheepishly and un-johnny-like.
"five minutes ago he was going on about how in love he is with this girl." ben chuckled to reed from where they sat on sue's couch. "now look at him."
johnny sighed, shooting ben a sharp glare from across the room, before he continued talking to sue.
"she's going with someone else." johnny told her. "some guy from her english class or something."
"that's too bad." sue gave him a frown and a squeeze on the shoulder.
"it's fine." johnny shifted on his feet. "she's my friend. i... don't wanna lose that."
and yet a few hours later he was standing on the wooden floor of the prom venue, disco ball dangling from the ceiling, refracting lights around the room making everything look overly cheap.
johnny's date had wandered off at some point to go hang out with her friends once she realized he wasn't going to dance with her.
instead he was sulking at a table, nursing a plastic cup of fruit punch that he was sure had been spiked by some kids at the dance.
he was watching you. your arms were around the neck of another boy, the corsage dangling from your wrist already wilting as you swayed to the music over the speakers and laughed quietly at something he said.
it sent an ache to johnny's chest, like a dagger to his heart.
you had been pulling away, and johnny had noticed.
he hoped, wished, it was nothing. maybe it was unintentional. everything had been hectic, and everyone was busy with the upcoming graduation and summer and college plans. surely that was it.
a small piece of johnny, hidden away behind layers of faux confidence, doubted it. he wondered if you, somehow, knew that he was head-over-heels in love with you and were purposely pulling away because you didn't like him.
that was exactly what johnny was trying to avoid. he didn't want to ruin the friendship.
then, from over the shoulder of your date, you met johnny's eyes.
he felt his breath catch in his throat because you had noticed him staring, and now you were watching him back.
he couldn't quite read the expression on your face, but the fact that you hadn't broken the eye contact gave johnny some hope that you weren't totally avoiding him.
when you said something to your date and stopped dancing, johnny sat up straighter and let his eyes drop down to his drink like he hadn't noticed.
"hey, stranger." your voice was smooth, like music to his ears, and johnny looked up at you with that grin.
"hi." he stood up quickly and looked around. "where's your date?"
you shrugged. "noticed you moping. came to see if you're okay."
"i'm great, fantastic, even." johnny insisted, a little more of his usual swagger returning the more he talked. it was just you. "though, i do think you owe me a dance."
"do i, now?" you sounded skeptical, but the smile on your lips said otherwise.
"yeah, come on, sweetheart." johnny offered you his hand and held his breath anxiously as he waited to see if you would take it or reject him.
"fine. one dance." you said, letting johnny grip onto your hand and link your fingers, leading you towards the dance floor.
your hands rested on his shoulders, johnny's on your hips, you stood close together, chests almost touching -- mere inches apart.
despite the closeness, and the way you stayed dancing with and smiling at him, lighting a fire inside of johnny's stomach, nothing more came that night.
you danced. just once. no confession, no kiss.
it would've been the perfect moment. soft music, slow dancing, bodies close under the light of the tacky disco ball, yet you were both scared.
johnny wanted nothing more than to lean forward and close the gap, to call you his and keep you with him forever.
he was convinced you were the love of his life, the woman he would one day marry, and you just didn't know it yet.
but right now, at your senior prom before marriage should even be a flicker of an idea in your heads, you were just friends. johnny wouldn't risk that.
he didn't want to make your second period math class awkward, or piss off his ex-girlfriend who he had insisted you were just a friend to. so johnny did nothing.
he'd rather live a lifetime as your friend than have to spend it without you in it.
if only he knew you liked him too. nothing he did would've been crossing a line, and nothing would have been ruined. it would've been the best mistake he could have made.
and even though he was worried and his nerves seemed to be taking over with a mind of their own, he should've kissed you anyway.
YOU WERE THE FIRST TO LEAVE
once your high school graduation had passed, college was the next big step.
you had two choices for schools. one in new york city, and one out of state. both had accepted you, and now you just had to pick.
you could stay in new york with johnny, who was still just your friend, or you could leave and go to college in another state, leaving him behind.
and you chose the latter.
it was better for you in the long run. a better school with a fresh start, away from the boy you were in love with.
the night before you left, some of your friends threw you a going away party. it wasn’t a rager or something crazy, just a few friends, dinner and drinks.
you weren’t sure how johnny found out about it, but when you heard the knock on your door, you stood up to answer it.
“i’ll get that.” you told your friends, still giggling at a joke one of them had made a moment earlier.
as you walked down the hallway, there was another knock on the door.
“i’m coming!” you called out, shaking your head and muttering under your breath. “impatient.”
the lock clicked under your fingers and you pulled open the door to see…
“johnny.” your smile faded as you stared at him, one of your hands on the door handle and the other hanging beside you.
“uh, hey.” his hands were in his pockets, but he pulled one out to scratch the back of his head. “i wanted to talk.”
“oh, um, i’m kinda… busy right now.” you spoke slowly, already understanding the direction the conversation was about to take. “got some friends over. going away party.”
“going away party? who’s leaving?” johnny asked, smiling. you didn’t smile back, just stared at him, drowning in the deep waters of his blue eyes.
you saw it click on johnny’s face, his features reacting instantly. his smile slowly faded, the light in his eyes disappearing and his brows furrowed.
“oh.”
“yeah. ‘oh.’”
“you’re leaving?” johnny sounded hurt. you knew why. he was your friend, your best friend, and you were leaving.
“yeah. you know, for college.” you crossed your arms and kept them close to your body, pressed against your chest as your eyes drifted down to your feet.
“i thought you were staying here.” johnny’s voice wasn’t enthusiastic anymore. there was no charm or amusement, just heartbreak. “i thought we were going to the same school.”
“i know, i—” you cut yourself off. “it’s just a better opportunity. for the future. besides, it’s just a few years for school. i’ll come back.”
you gave him a hopeful smile, pushing the anxiety in your stomach down. johnny looked up and looked into your eyes.
“you didn’t even tell me.”
the pain in his tone sent a jolt to your chest, stabbing you in the heart. you had wanted to leave without him knowing, because you felt that would be better for both of you.
"i'm sorry." you muttered, your eyes searching his frame. his shoulders were tense, hands still in the pockets of his jacket, blond hair scruffy.
johnny was doing the same, because he wasn't sure when he'd see you again. you offered him a smile, the same one he loved more than anything, and he returned the gesture.
"ask me to stay." the words left you before they had even computed in your brain.
you didn't take it back, though. if he asked, you would. because you loved him. and that would mean he cared about you enough to want you.
"i can't do that." johnny replied, and your heart sank. so, he didn't love you back.
you didn't realize his love for you was the whole reason johnny was letting you leave. he wanted you to be successful, to lead the life you wanted. he couldn't hold you back from that, especially not when he didn't know you loved him back.
"why not?" you asked softly, and you took a step forward. johnny didn't move.
"i'm not gonna force you to stay here." he stated.
"you won't be forcing me." you said. of course you would want to stay in new york, especially if it meant he wanted you.
johnny took a step back, and you nodded.
"okay, then. i get it." you told him, taking a step back of your own. "i guess i'll see you when i see you, johnny."
he hesitated. he looked like he wanted to say something else.
it was funny, neither of you wanted to ruin the friendship, and in doing so it was crumbling beneath you.
"yeah." johnny's eyes dropped from yours, to your lips, then moved back to your eyes. "i guess."
you knew this should've been the best time to kiss him. you didn't know when you'd see him again. it could've been a goodbye kiss. a goodbye to him, to this city, to your high school life. you didn't kiss him.
you gave him a hug, though. it was short, nowhere near as long as you wanted it to be. you walked back into the house and offered him a smile from the doorway.
he smiled back, it didn't quite reach his eyes, and wasn't as wide as usual. but you loved it anyway.
and then johnny headed away from the porch, shooting one last glance back at you before you closed the front door.
he didn't want you to stay, he didn't want you back.
you should've kissed him anyway.
JOHNNY LEFT NEXT
it was years later. college had come and gone, and you never went back to new york.
you contemplated it all the time, finding some excuse to go back. you wanted to see him.
it was hard to escape johnny storm.
you had left because you wanted to move on because he didn't love you back, and yet you never could.
especially not when you saw him on tv every other day after he was saving the world.
johnny storm was now a superhero. the human torch from the fantastic four. the world was in love with him; you saw it in magazine tabloids and tv interviews.
but none of them knew him. they didn't love him like you had. they didn't know the boy who drove you to high school football games, laughed when his friends tripped over and bought you milkshakes afterwards.
they didn't know the boy who could make your day brighter with just a laugh, they knew the man who could brighten it by lighting himself on fire.
every time you saw him on the news, hair messy the way you liked it, his smile miles-wide, blue eyes staring into the camera, you missed him. you wanted to quit your job, throw away the whole new life you had created, and run back to new york, to him.
when you had first left the city for college, you had stayed in touch. you called all the time, talked about potential plans for if you came back to new york. but life got busy, and those plans fell through. then the phone calls came less and less. then, by the time college was over, not at all.
the accident came soon after, which was closely followed by the fantastic four.
johnny and his family gained superpowers from a space mission gone wrong
you wanted to call again after that, but you didn't want him to think the only reason you called was because now he was a superhero.
so you tried to push it back, keep the feelings just simmering below the surface. but it was like he haunted you.
you saw his face, that smirk, everywhere you went for four years.
so you started making a plan to go back to new york. maybe you’d be able to see him again, reconnect, even if it was just as friends.
but then galactus happened.
you saw the footage, the silver surfer in times square, telling the fantastic four that earth had been marked for death and would be consumed by galactus.
you saw the fantastic four taking their rocket to try and stop the end of the world. you saw them come back, now with a baby.
you watched reed tell the world that they weren’t able to beat galactus, and johnny clarified ‘not yet.’
you heard sue give her speech on how she would sacrifice neither her son, nor the planet, to appease galactus. it was crazy knowing she was the same woman who had once let you borrow a sweater when johnny had spilled soda all over yours.
you wanted to go back to new york once you knew there was a chance the world was going to end. you had to see him again. you needed to feel his lips on yours at least once before you died.
you never made it to new york. everything was complicated, between everyone fearing for their lives and new york being evacuated to subterrenea, you weren't able to see him before it happened.
the day the news of the fantastic four's defeat of galactus was shared for everyone to celebrate, you got a phonecall.
it was lifechanging. and not in a good way.
"hello?" you spoke first after picking up, and a female voice spoke next.
"hi. is this y/n?" the woman asked.
"yes, that's me." you replied, leaning against the wall and letting the cord from your phone wrap around one of your fingers. "how can i help you?"
"i'm not sure if you remember me, but i'm sue storm. you were a friend of my brother, johnny's?" she asked.
you were so distracted by the word 'friend' that you didn't catch the use of past tense.
"of course, i remember you." you said. you would've remembered her even if she weren't a superhero who had just saved the world. "you're johnny's cool older sister."
sue let out a light laugh, but you heard the sniffle that came next, followed by a whisper from somebody else on the other end.
"plus, you did kinda just save the world." you went on. "thank you for that, by the way."
sue was quiet, completely silent. not a word came from her side of the call.
"is there a reason you're calling me?" you asked carefully. "is it about johnny?"
you heard the sharp intake of breath and sue whispered something to someone else on her side. you felt confused, and the anxiety bubbled in your stomach thinking about what could be going on.
then a new voice spoke, replacing sue's with a man's.
"hello. this is reed richards."
"uh, hi." you said. "i'm sorry but i'm really confused. what's going on right now?"
"uh, we -- well, sue -- thought it would be best if we reached out and told you ourselves." reed said, not making the situation any clearer as your heartbeat grew faster in your chest.
"tell me what?"
"that... johnny's dead."
your entire body froze and your blood ran cold, breath hitching and heart stopping.
"what?" you forced the word out with a struggling breath.
"he, uh, sacrificed himself to stop galactus." reed told you and it felt like the room was spinning around you. you pushed yourself off the wall and headed over to your kitchen, sitting on the counter as a sick feeling brewed in your stomach. "we, uh, thought we should call you and let you know before... before you had to find out on the news."
you stayed silent, trying to wrap your head around the fact that johnny storm, the boy you had loved for what felt like a lifetime, was dead. and you never got to tell him.
the tears began to prick and fall before you could stop them, and you let out a shaky breath before saying, "oh."
you felt stuck in place, like you couldn't breathe. you had been thinking about him for months. you had planned to go back just to see him again. you had been keeping so much hope, just for it to all sink away at this very moment.
"he's..." you had to squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath to stop yourself from bawling uncontrollably. sue's strange behavior made sense to you now.
a shaky sob escaped your throat and you lowered the phone from your ear for a split second.
those thoughts of regret came back, now with more force than ever. johnny was gone. forever. he had died and took your heart with him.
and you had been so scared of ruining your friendship by telling him you loved him, that now you had lost that chance and would never get to see him.
you should've kissed him anyway.
YOU FLEW BACK TO NEW YORK
you hadn't been invited. your phone call hadn't even lasted much longer after sue told you johnny was going to call you.
you flew home anyway, because you felt you needed to. you owed it to johnny.
there was so much you still had to say to him, but you couldn't. he was gone.
the sudden trip was in no way convenient for your busy schedule, in fact you abandoned everything to catch a plane to new york city.
the whole world now knew the news. about the death of the human torch, and his sacrifice for both his family and the entire world. there had been memorials, the biggest one being right in the middle of times square, where he had pushed galactus into the portal, and sacrificed himself.
the first place you went after landing in new york was the baxter building.
you hadn't expected to be let in, let alone sent up to the residential floor where you were met by sue storm herself.
she hugged you, told you it was great to see you, and invited you to stay for dinner. anything to take her mind off of what had happened.
because, while the world had lost the human torch, sue had lost her baby brother.
as you walked further onto the floor, despite his absence, you could see traces of johnny everywhere.
his wallet dumped lazily on the table beside the elevator, a scorch mark on the corner of one kitchen cabinet, framed pictures of him and sue as kids on the wall, his shoes discarded beside the couch.
you stared at them; they looked like almost the same pair of dirty sneakers he used to wear every day in high school. sue noticed.
"he really missed you, you know." she told you as she poured out two mugs of tea. "especially after you left. he talked about you all the time."
"he did?" it sent a pang to your heart.
"yeah." sue gave a sad chuckle, her smile looked similar to johnny's. "god, ben was so sick of it -- we all were, honestly -- but... i'd do anything to hear his voice just one more time."
you nodded slowly as sue wiped one eye and plastered on a forced smile.
"why did you call me?" you asked. the thought had been rattling around in your brain for days, since the call, once you had gathered yourself enough to make coherent thoughts again, that was. "johnny and i... we hadn't talked in a few years."
sue paused before she slid one of the mugs towards you, then sighed.
"he told me he was going to call you after the... the fight." she explained. "he wanted to talk to you. reconnect."
that hurt more than you could explain.
"i... i wanted to, too." you admitted. "i was gonna come back here, to new york. just to see him."
"he would've loved that." sue said, sitting down beside you at the kitchen table. "he... he loved you."
"like, as a friend?" you asked, hoping and praying that was the case, just because it would hurt less.
"no." she stated, and your stomach flipped, making you feel sick. "that boy had been in love with you since high school."
you immediately began to tear up and looked down, shoulders shaking as you tried to hold back from crying.
you covered your face with your hands and just cried into them. that act in itself was enough to tell sue how you felt.
you regretted it more than anything. you should've taken the risk. you should've told him, even when you thought he didn't like you.
you should've kissed him anyway.
at any of the countless times you had hung out together. at that football game, sitting together on the hood of sue's car. at your senior prom when he danced with you. before you left for college.
that had been the last time you saw him in person. and he had loved you back then, back when you loved him.
staying friends was safe, but ruining the friendship would've worked. something more could've come from it.
"i loved him, too." you whispered, wiping your eyes to look at sue, who looked more devastated than you did. "i wanted... i wanted it -- him -- so badly."
"he talked about how much he missed you all of the time." sue said. "we used to tell him to call you, but the great human torch was nervous."
"so was i." you sniffled. "i wanted to call for so long, but... i didn't think he wanted me."
"he once told me--" sue gave a short, sad laugh. "this was back when you were in high school. he told me that you were the love of his life, and you just didn't know it yet."
"i wish i knew." you spoke. "i would've stayed. i never would've left."
maybe if you hadn't left, or hadn't lost touch, or if you had just kissed him one of the hundreds of times you had thought about it, things would've gone different.
you could've had more time. or even had a real relationship -- you could've even been married by now.
"he went to tell you." sue said. " i think it was at the end of high school. he finally got over himself and said he was going to confess to you. then he came home miserable and said you were leaving."
johnny had turned up at your house the night of your going away party... to confess his feelings for you.
all of these revelations, on how everything could've been different. how you could've had the life you had wished for for years if you had just plucked up the nerve.
and now there was no way you could ever fix that. you couldn't change the past, you couldn't bring him back from the dead. now you would just have to regret it for all time.
after your long, several hour long visit to the baxter building that had been spent just talking about johnny to sue, you visited times square.
the memorial was huge. gifts from citizens of new york and fans littered the ground. cards and photos, candles and teddy bears.
there were plenty of people around and you made your way to the front, your eyes landing on the photograph of johnny in his fantastic four suit framed in the middle.
in your hands, you held a photograph of your own. sue had found it in an old photo album.
it was you and johnny, taken at johnny's 17th birthday party. you were midway through laughing at a joke you couldn't even remember now, you just remembered that johnny had told it, and you always laughed.
johnny's arm was slung over your shoulder, his smile miles wide but his eyes weren't on the camera, or the party around him, they were on you. he had clearly loved you back.
and you had been too deep in your own feelings to notice.
you folded the photo and looked over at the newer photo of johnny, eight years older but with the same smile that was still able to bring one to your face, even when you were sad.
then you whispered those four words under your breath, speaking of the chance you would now always regret not taking.
SO HIGH SCHOOL MASTERLIST
steve harrington x fem!reader
summary: you’re jonathan byers’s best friend. you live in hawkins, indiana, and you know everyone in the small town. you work two jobs to help your mom with bills while also managing to be the top of your classes. everything is normal until the day will byers goes missing, and the world as you know it is flipped upside down. and because of that, you form an unlikely friendship with the ‘king’ of your high school, steve harrington.
tags/warnings: steve harrington x fem!reader, use of y/n, mostly canon-compliant reader insert (maybe a few minor changes here or there), swearing, fluff, angst, eventual smut, slow burn, enemies to friends to ??? to lovers, seasons 1-5, mentions of child abandonment/neglect, mentions of dead parents, minor eddie munson x fem!reader, reader lowkey has attachment/abandonment issues, minor miscommunication, i hate murray bauman, writing might be shit idk.
masterlist !
wattpad link , ao3 link
–
PART ONE – tell me ‘bout the first time you saw me
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
PART TWO – you know how to ball, i know aristotle
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
PART THREE – are you gonna marry, kiss, or kill me?
chapter nine
chapter ten
chapter eleven
chapter twelve
chapter thirteen
PART FOUR – i want to find you in a crowd just to hide from you
chapter fourteen
chapter fifteen
chapter sixteen
chapter seventeen
chapter eighteen
chapter nineteen
chapter twenty
PART FIVE – no one’s ever had me, not like you
EPILOGUE – you knew what you wanted and, boy, you got her
–
a/n: this series was originally posted on wattpad on christmas 2025, and i’m writing the last few chapters right now so i thought this was the best time to start posting it on here + ao3! idk i hope you guys like it. and don't worry, this series is basically completely written so i will still be focusing on writing other fics while posting this! more spidey steve is coming i promise you all.
You're shy. Really shy.
Jack think's its adorable.
Jack Abbot notices your shyness long before he realizes he’s in love with you.
At first, he mistakes it for quietness.
Then politeness.
Then maybe exhaustion from long shifts.
But no.
You’re just shy.
Painfully, genuinely shy.
Not incapable of talking—not by any means. You were incredible with patients. Calm during trauma calls. Confident when giving instructions. You could advocate for someone without hesitation if they needed help.
But the second attention turned toward you?
It was over.
You ducked your head when people complimented you.
You fidgeted when too many eyes landed on you at once.
You lowered your voice without realizing it whenever someone asked you a personal question.
And if someone flirted with you?
God.
Jack thought it might actually kill you.
The first time he really notices it is during a staff lunch.
Samira compliments your hair.
That’s it.
Just:
“You curled it differently today. It looks pretty.”
And suddenly you look like you want the floor to open up and swallow you whole.
Your hand flies up to touch your hair instinctively. “Oh—um. Thanks.”
Your cheeks turn pink almost instantly.
You stare very intensely at your sandwich.
Jack watches the entire thing happen from across the table.
Completely fascinated.
Trinity notices him staring.
“Oh my God,” she whispers immediately.
Jack blinks. “What?”
“You think she’s cute.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You are literally smiling at her right now.”
He stops smiling immediately.
Unfortunately, that only makes Trinity laugh harder.
It gets worse after that.
Or better.
Depending on who you ask.
Because once Jack notices your shyness, he starts noticing all of it.
The way you tuck your chin down when he catches you looking at him.
The way you say “sorry” before asking him questions even when you’ve done nothing wrong.
The way your fingers twist together when he stands too close.
And his personal favorite—
The way you completely lose the ability to make eye contact when he compliments you.
It happens accidentally the first time.
You’re both restocking supplies after a brutal shift, exhaustion hanging heavy in the air.
You look tired. Hair messy. Scrubs wrinkled.
Still beautiful.
Jack watches you reach for something on the top shelf before speaking without thinking.
“You look pretty today.”
The silence after is immediate.
You freeze.
Actually freeze.
Jack realizes what he’s done approximately two seconds too late.
You stare at the shelf like it personally betrayed you.
“…What?” you say quietly.
Jack feels something dangerously fond bloom in his chest.
“I said you look pretty.”
Your face goes bright red.
Bright red.
You duck your head so quickly he almost laughs.
“Oh,” you mumble.
That’s it.
That’s your response.
Jack bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to stop himself from grinning like an idiot.
“You okay there?” he asks.
You nod too fast. “Mhm.”
“You sure?”
“Mhm.”
“You can look at me, y’know.”
That only makes it worse.
You make one brief, panicked second of eye contact before immediately looking away again.
Jack is doomed.
Absolutely doomed.
The thing is—
Your shyness never feels immature to him.
It never annoys him.
It’s just… you.
And Jack likes you.
All of you.
The quietness.
The softness.
The hesitation before you reach for his hand in public, even after you’ve been dating for months.
The way you hide your face in his chest when his coworkers tease you.
The way you instinctively tuck yourself into his side in crowded rooms.
He loves every bit of it.
Especially because he knows the parts of you most people don’t.
Because underneath the shyness is someone deeply feeling.
Someone observant. Funny. Fiercely caring.
Someone who loves with their entire heart once they feel safe enough to do it.
And Jack learns very quickly that being the person you feel safest with is one of the greatest privileges of his life.
One night after shift, the two of you end up at his apartment curled together on the couch.
You’re sitting between his legs, back against his chest while some movie plays neither of you are paying attention to.
Jack’s arms are wrapped loosely around your waist.
Comfortable.
Warm.
Safe.
His chin rests on your shoulder as he scrolls absently on his phone.
Then he pauses.
Hums quietly.
“What?” you ask softly.
“You know everyone at work thinks you’re adorable, right?”
You immediately tense. “What?”
Jack grins against your shoulder.
“There it is.”
“There what is?”
“That panic.”
“There is no panic,” you say weakly.
“There definitely is.”
You try to sink further into his hoodie.
“That’s so mean.”
Jack laughs quietly, tightening his arms around you when you attempt to hide your face.
“I said adorable, not pathetic.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“It helps me.”
You groan softly as he presses a kiss against the side of your head.
“You get so shy,” he murmurs, sounding entirely too pleased about it.
You turn slightly, glaring at him without any real heat.
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Yeah,” he says easily. “I am.”
Your cheeks warm again.
Jack notices immediately, because of course he does.
“See?” he says softly, smugness creeping into his voice. “There it is again.”
You hide your face in his shoulder this time.
He laughs properly now, low and warm, arms tightening around you like he can’t help himself.
“You’re cute,” he says into your hair.
You mumble something muffled against his shirt.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Sounded like somethin’.”
You lift your head just enough to glare at him again.
Jack looks completely unrepentant.
Then his expression softens.
Completely.
One of his hands slides up your arm slowly before gently cupping your jaw, thumb brushing over your warm cheek.
summary: The five times Ryland wants to kiss you but doesn't, and the one time he finally does.
word count: 3.6k
champagne supernova masterlist
1: The Library
The first time Ryland wants to kiss you is when he barely knows you. You're a friend of a friend, some barely tangible connection that's nothing in the grand scheme of a person's life, and he thinks he has one or two classes with you but he barely even knows your name. You study geology, he knows that much. You always wear a pendant with some kind of gemstone on it, he's not sure of the significance of it or what it actually is. You seem nice enough from your limited interactions. Now you're all in grad school, things are starting to get serious for you academically and there's a plethora of study groups for this class or that subject that the professors all encourage them to join.
He joins quite a few of them. It might be more to stop him getting lonely than needing to bounce ideas off people. He doesn't tell people that.
His calculus study group always meets in the main library, claiming one of the big tables so everyone has room to spread out. They meet that frequently that everyone now has unofficial seats. Or they usually do. He gets there a little bit later than usual one day only to find out his usual seat, the one right at the end of the table where he can mainly just observe, has been taken by a newcomer. Someone shouts his name, gesturing to a seat closer to the middle of the table. You're sat across from it. He almost leaves right then and there.
He doesn't. He sits down, praying he won't make a fool of himself.
God has never answered his prayers before but he figures it's worth a shot.
He tries his best not to stare at you. It's easy enough when there's a hush in the group, everyone caught up in their own work. It's harder when people are trying to pull him into debates. He's listening to someone's very passionate argument about grass not qualifying as a being a plant (what does that have to do with calculus?) when you catch his eye.
The way the light hits you from the window takes his breath away. You're not even doing anything special, just making notes about whatever scientific journal you have splayed open in front of you but you just look so incredible he's glad he's already sitting down. He's never been particularly forthcoming about dating so the sudden knowledge that he wants to kiss you almost floors him. He hasn't had a crush on someone in years, he'd almost forgotten what it's like.
Someone further down the table asks if he's okay because he's suddenly gone very red. You look up then, catching his eye with a concerned expression. He almost chokes on the sip of water he'd just taken and that gets him even more attention.
He tells them he accidentally swallowed his chewing gum.
No one presses him any further but he catches the small smile on your face as you go back to whatever you were working on.
Oh no.
He's screwed.
He can't even look in your direction for the rest of the hour. When people give their first signs of needing to leave, his bag is already packed and he's out the door without a word to any of you. He can't avoid you forever, he doesn't want to; he just needs to get somewhere where his heart rate can finally start to slow down.
2: The House Party
The second time he wants to kiss you feels like something straight from a movie. People keep insisting to him that the social side of college is just as important as the academic side but Ryland isn't convinced. He was roped into going to a frat party by his freshman roommate and he's still called 'Vominator' in some of the social circles he frequents.
He almost says no to the house party on the spot on reflex. It's another study group, this time in a coffee shop on campus when someone mentions a friend of a friend is hosting a house party and everyone is invited. They go through the group and he's barely paying attention to anyone's answers until it's your turn.
"Sounds fun." Your smile is soft but genuine and your friends all echo similar sentiments. Then all the attention falls on him.
"What about you Ryland?" Rejection is on the tip of his tongue when he makes the mistake of looking in your direction. He dares to think the expression on your face is one of hope.
"Sure, why not."
So now he's stood in a stranger's kitchen with a red solo cup filled with…something alcoholic. He's not sure what's actually in it and he doesn't think anyone else does but no one seems to care much. People certainly keep returning back to the kitchen for more of it. He spotted you early into the night, surrounded by friends and dancing to the beat like it's second nature.
He's toying with the idea of sneaking out and climbing over the back fence when he realises he hasn't seen you for a while. He stretches to try and spot you then drops back down when he realises you're walking straight towards him. You give a little wave, settling near him.
"Hey Ryland."
"Hey." He leans back trying to look casual but then grimaces when his back makes contact with a cup of mystery punch and knocks it over. He bolts up with a yelp.
He hopes you can't see him blushing because of how dim it is.
"Are you having a good time?" He shrugs then realises that's rude. You came over to talk to him, he should at least try and make conversation.
"This isn't really my scene." You nod.
"Me neither."
"Really?" He wants to believe you but doesn't. You looked totally at ease in the centre of the room dancing with friends and strangers alike. He wishes you would dance with him.
"With the right people it's okay. The punch certainly helps." He takes a sip of his cup then winces as the burn hits his throat. You laugh at him, more teasing than malicious, then lean closer to him. "Do you want to dance?"
He can't dance.
"Sure." You take him by the hand, drinks forgotten on the counter top, and weave through the thrum of people until you're almost in the centre of the room. As if sensing his apprehension, you take it slow; keeping your hands entwined as you encourage him into a series of easy moves.
It bugs him that he starts having fun.
When the music changes to something softer his heart stops. You don't let go of his hand, moving closer to him as you lead him into swaying gently to the music. The way his heart is hammering in his chest he's surprised you can't hear it.
He could just lean forward and kiss you. It would be so easy. Just like in the movies.
He doesn't.
The moment is broken by a cacophony of people shouting your name. One of your friends pulls you away and you throw him an apology he can barely hear as the music changes to something much louder and you're pulled away from him.
He leaves not long after.
Coward.
3: His Apartment
The third time he wants to kiss you in when he knows he's in too deep. Study sessions at the flat become a semi-frequent diary filler for the two of you after the house party. You're now friends rather than just acquaintances and small talk turns into something more. The two of you are on similar wavelengths most of the time, conversation flows easier with every extra minute you spend together.
You'd come over under the guise of needing help with your earth systems paper but when you'd arrived you'd pulled a Star Wars box set out from behind your back, insisting the two of you had been working so hard lately you deserved a night off. That's how you end up on the couch, movie paused in the background as you discuss the skewed politics of the Republic. You go silent for a few moments.
"It's late, I should get going." You shift slightly, joints popping quietly from the movement. A glance at his watch shows that it's nearly 1am. When did it get so late?
"You can stay, if you want. Like you said it's late, I'd feel bad making you go home alone at this time." The words slip out before he even thinks about it. His mind fills instantly with domestic thoughts of you in his apartment and he knows they'll never leave his head again. You mull it over for a few moments.
"I don't know."
"No pressure! Just that you're already here." He wants to dig himself a hole in the ground and have someone bury him. He's coming on too strong.
"If it's not too much trouble." Or maybe he's not.
"You know it's not." You blink slowly at him, a sleepy smile blossoming on your face as you stretch your arms.
"Can I borrow some clothes?" His brain short circuits.
"Sure." He jumps up before he can think about it too much, dashing into his room and grabbing an assortment of clothes so you have a few options. He hands them over to you with a soft smile which you reciprocate as you get up to get changed.
You come out of the bathroom wearing one of his science pun shirts and he thinks he's going to die on the spot.
He insists you take his bed, he'd feel terrible having a guest sleep on his lumpy sofa whilst he got to enjoy sleeping on a real bed. You try to protest but you're clearly tired and you give in after a few more pushes, throwing another thank you and a good night over your shoulder before closing the door behind you.
He lies on the couch and tries to sleep. His brain doesn't go quiet until nearly 5am.
You emerge from his room in the morning, rubbing sleep out of your eyes, muttering a sleepy good morning in his direction. He says it back, stretching the sleep out of his muscles and shifting so there's room for you on the couch.
"Coffee?"
"I can make it." He's halfway up when you shake your head at him.
"Ryland, you already let me stay over, please let me make you a coffee." So he does. You know just how he likes it without even asking. It's a small thing but it matters.
You sit down next to him, coffees in hand, and it hits him all at once that this could be his life. He could just lean over, kiss you, and maybe you'd stay forever. He'd wake up to you like this every day for the rest of his life if he could.
He doesn't move. Just watches you as you take the first sips of your coffee.
4: The Cinema
The fourth time he wants to kiss you is when it starts to get annoying. He's such a coward, he could just lean over and do it. It almost feels like it would be easier to do it here, under the cover of darkness where it's basically impossible to have a conversation about it because people would complain that you're ruining the movie.
You bought him tickets to watch Star Trek (the original one!) at the local independent cinema as a surprise. He's a little bit ashamed to say that he cried. It's a film that means a lot to him. He mentioned it to you once right at the beginning of your friendship and it means so much that you remembered such a tiny detail. There isn't even an occasion, you just saw it was on and arranged it.
The theatre is full of fellow nerds, some are even dressed in costume, and the energy in the room is electric. It's inspiring seeing so many couples milling around as well. That could be you and him some day!
You picked good seats, right in the centre of the room, so he has a perfect view of the screen. It's too bad that he's spent an embarrassing percentage of the film watching you out of the corner of his eye instead.
Your hand is resting on the arm chair, occasionally dipping into the box of popcorn the two of you are sharing. Occasionally your elbow brushes against his and it hits him all at once how close the two of you are. There's so many opportunities for him to make a move, any move, that the situation allows for. He could leave his hand in the popcorn a little bit too long in the hopes that he can entwine it with yours, he could rest his arm next to yours in the hopes you'll shift against him, he could lean his head towards you to rest it closer to your headrest. Endless possibilities and he's not indulging any of them.
You lean over to him, waiting for him to turn and face you, then make a funny comment. He snorts with laughter, leaning back against his headrest a little bit too quickly. His glasses catch on one side of his head and the force knocks them forward slightly, leaving them askew on his face. You're both laughing quietly now, even if Ryland's is more embarrassed than anything. He moves to shift them back to their proper place but you beat him to it.
"Let me." You catch his hand with yours, waiting for him to return it to his lap.
You adjust his glasses, smiling as he scrunches his face to make sure they're sitting at the right point on his nose. You're so close to his face that he can hear you breathing. That makes him sound like a creep. You breath nicely.
That's probably an even creepier thought. He casts it aside.
"Excuse me, sorry!" A voice from over his shoulder pulls him away from you. It's just someone wanting to squeeze past to go to the bathroom but it unsettles him as he leans away from you, adjusting so the person can get past without accidentally kicking one of you. When he finally dares to look back at you, your attention is back on the movie. Even when the person comes back, Ryland can't settle. The moment doesn't feel right anymore.
He'll just have to keep waiting.
5: The Restaurant
The fifth time he wants to kiss you feels slightly less pathetic since it happens when he's on a date with you. It definitely feels like this is a socially acceptable situation to want to kiss you.
It at least means that maybe you want to kiss him back.
Hopefully.
It'd be pretty bad going on a date with someone you don't want to kiss. You're not like that.
Dinner is going well. It doesn't feel weird which he worried it would (because of him, not because of you) and it's been fun. You'd picked a nice, mid-range restaurant so neither of you have to pretend to be something that you're not or spend too much money on it. You share a starter, get an alcoholic drink, and talk.
It feels like it could be the beginning of everything.
He hasn't felt this way about anyone for a long time, and he was so much younger the first time that it doesn't feel right to compare. He thinks about you all the time; wondering what you're doing, who you're with, if you're ever thinking about him.
It's already gotten to the point that he's been writing love letters. That's how the two of you ended up here in the first place. It felt safer to word vomit all over some paper rather than to your face then he went and left them somewhere you could see them. A good thing came of it but next time he's definitely going to burn the pages once he's done with them.
Hypothesis: his brain stops functioning rationally (or maybe at all) when you're involved.
It's a theory he thinks is worth rigorous testing, no matter how mortifying it gets.
There's a gentle lull somewhere after your mains but before you've ordered your desserts. The drinks have warmed up both up and Ryland really wants to kiss you. Again. It feels like the whole night has been building up to it and he's ready. More than ready. He's wanted this for weeks, months at this point. He can't go more than three sentences without looking at your lips, it would be so easy to just lean forward and kiss you. There's no way you haven't noticed, he's never been very good at being subtle with regards to anything.
You place your hand down on the table and he dares himself to be brave for once as he reaches over to place his on top of yours. When you touch it's like electricity runs through him as all his nerve ending are alight.
This is it, this is the moment when you become more then friends.
Then, then, the waiter comes over, asking if you want another refill of your drinks or a dessert or something, Ryland can't even say what the poor man is there for. The moment is broken and the haze settling between you dissipates. He pulls his hand away and you retract yours slowly, take another sip of your drink. You finish up dinner and, whilst nothing has changed, the tension between the two of you has gone. The drive back to his apartment isn't tense, but there's no spark in the air like there was in the taxi on the way there. It's yet another opportunity that he's let pass him by.
Damn it.
+1: The Club
Ryland doesn't get jealous. He doesn't. If it looks like he does, it's just because a trick of the light, or maybe he's having a bad day. Of course, it's never a bad day before someone interacts with you in a way that sets his teeth on edge because he's been with you. It's always completely unrelated even it never happens when he's with other people.
So no, he doesn't get jealous.
You're still in the 'will they, won't they' phase much to his chagrin and he's once again forced against his will to partake in the social interaction college is supposedly all about. The house party was one thing. A club is a huge step up from that, in the worst way possible. He's pretty sure the music they're playing doesn't contain a single lyric, it's just a sequence of heavy bass and noises that make his head feel weird.
You can tell he's not comfortable and keep saying it's okay if he wants to leave but he wants to do this, wants to be here, for you. He can almost convincingly grin and bear it. It's something of a mercy when you both finish your drinks and he has an excuse to get off the dance floor. Your friends are all around you so he's sure you'll be fine for the five minutes he's gone to fetch another round.
The bar is impossibly busy, and he tries his best to keep an eye on where you are whilst he's waiting to be served. Everything seems like it's going fine until someone he doesn't recognise approaches you.
He can barely make out the stranger's face but he can make out yours. Your expression starts off polite but it falls away pretty quickly.
He's walking back over to you before he's even ordered the drinks.
Screw it.
You spot him walking towards you and smile at him but it doesn't slow his pace. He moves through the people like a man on a mission and doesn't even hesitate to capture your lips in a kiss as soon as he's close enough to you. To your credit, you don't even seem surprised; tangling your fingers in the hem of his t-shirt and pulling him closer. The stranger makes a comment, something neither of you hear clearly, before he skulks away, disappearing into the crowd.
Now that he's actually kissing you, Ryland doesn't want to stop. If he didn't need oxygen to survive he wouldn't stop. But he does, and so do you, so it comes to an end. You rest your forehead against him. He's quite proud of the fact you seem out of breath.
"Sorry." You pull back as you process his word. Confusion and hurt flash through your eyes. Your chest fills with panic.
"Why're you sorry?"
"Cause now I've messed things up between us."
"Ry, how have you messed things up?" You take his hand in yours, squeezing tightly to ground him.
"Cause I acted all impulsively and I had no right to do that and I didn't even ask you!" He's panicking and the word vomit is happening without him being able to stop it. He might actually vomit soon as well. He really doesn’t need to remind people of his nickname.
"Ry, you don't have to ask me if you want to kiss me."
"You're okay with it?!" You laugh in his face but your face is too full of joy for him to think you're mocking him.
"Ry, I've wanted you to do that for weeks. I thought I was misreading some signals after you didn't at the restaurant."
"Oh thank god." He pulls your close, laughter bubbling in his chest. “Can I do it again?”
“Ry, you can do it whenever you want to.” So he does.
summary: after stratt hires you on as a documentation specialist for project hail mary, you find yourself being more and more drawn to one dr. ryland grace.
pairing: ryland grace x reader
word count: 4.5k
tags: (set on stratt's vat, pre-tau ceti) meet-cute, strangers-to-lovers, forced proximity, workplace relationship, idiots in love, fluff, will they/won't they, documentation specialist!reader,
cross-posted to ao3
What would you do if the apocalypse started?
It’s a stupid hypothetical that you make up when you’re trying to get to know somebody. Something you say at two in the morning at a sleepover, or at work in the break room with absolutely nothing to do. It isn’t serious—never that—until the Petrova line. Until the pending death of the Sun. Until Eva Stratt comes knocking on the door of your high-rise apartment, asking you—really, telling you—to abandon your day job and leave for overseas.
She has you document everything. You take notes on all the major classified meetings. You transcribe conversations between officials, especially the particularly tense ones. When you’re not writing, she has you in front of a printer-scanner, making copies for the bi-weekly organizational debriefings. You went to school for technical writing, and now, it appears that you’ve been placed into the absolute life-or-death version of a dream job. It could be worse. You could be at home, knowing that the next thirty years will spiral into world crises and war over rations. At least you’re doing something.
Her latest project for you—and, allegedly, the most important—is technical writing regarding astrophage. For the past few weeks, you’ve done nothing but compile information from Stratt’s several global microbiologists. It isn’t until the big breakthrough—the “great American scientist” who figured out how to breed the little things—that the ball starts rolling. You’ve been hearing all about him, no matter how unwillingly. There’s plenty of reserved comments from Stratt about how reclusive he seems to make himself. From the scientists, who praise his findings. From the agents, too—a schoolteacher, he’s a schoolteacher, and he dresses like one, too.
The first time you meet him truly is ultimately… gratifying. Dr. Grace lives up to expectations. You’re at the other end of the table when Stratt leads him in: a mousy, blonde-haired thirty-year-old man. Glasses askew, and dark-blue eyes blown wide. It takes a lot of will for you not to tilt your head at the sight of him—the way his eyes dart around the room, his unsuccessful attempt to back himself out of it. It’s… amusing–like watching a baby bird get coaxed out of the nest. What comes next is rather productive. You type fast on your laptop: astrophage, single-celled, Venus, high-CO2, breeding, replication by mitosis. You aren’t able to focus much on him, per say. It’s more his words, his cadence when he talks about the discovery—and the following queries that come with debriefing him on Project Hail Mary. He’s cute. And there isn’t enough time in the world for you to think that.
—
The next time you see him is in the mess hall a couple days after. Clearly, Stratt has him settled in—probably placed him in a nice bunk with another one of the old scientists. He sits mulling over a bowl of cereal, looking almost identical to the way that he did in the meeting room. The greatest change, clearly, is his choice in clothing. He’s got a knit cardigan on, over some punny science t-shirt that you can only vaguely read. Dr. Ryland Grace sits alone. And, he’s in your spot.
Your imagination runs its course. Maybe, he likes solitude. Maybe, he’s still facing the fact that this ship is filled with some kind of Sisyphean effort to try and save the planet. You’re very sure, looking at him stirring his spoon pointlessly in the bowl, that this situation is too big for him. He wants to go home. You’ve got your own tray of breakfast—oats and bottled juice. Clearly, you’re not used to the barrack-like quality of the ship quite yet, or else you’d be able to sit down with just about anyone else. The only downside of your job is that you don’t have very much time to talk—buried in screens and stacks of files. You sit alone, too, most of the time, in this very spot that Grace has decided to occupy for himself.
You approach him slowly, waiting for him to notice your presence on the other end of the table. It’s regrettable that he doesn’t, so caught up on the swirling quality of his cereal. You have to knock your knuckle on the edge of the tabletop. “Dr. Grace,” you hum. He retracts his hand from his spoon like it’s red-hot and stands up to greet you.
“Hi,” he says, pulling his own tray back to make room for yours. “Please, please sit down.” You wonder if he’s going to try and reach out to shake your hand—but he’s back down as soon as you swing your leg over the bench. You follow suit, giving him a polite, tight-lipped smile. Grace hums, eyes squinting as he taps his fingers across the tabletop. “I recognize you,” he says, “You had the, uh, fast hands.” The observation comes out of his mouth disjointed and awkward—but, straight to the point.
“Stratt hired me on as a documentation specialist. Fancy title for making sure that everything gets dated and down on paper,” you tell him. You almost want to light up at the thought of him picking you out in that stuff-full room—but you’ve got to keep your cool. “I’ve been assigned to record all research regarding the astrophage.” Which means you’re going to spend a lot more time together.
“Important work. Historians will love you if everything turns out how it’s supposed to,” Grace nods. In truth, you’d never considered your job in that light. In your head, Stratt had simply wanted documentation as a contingency. If all Hell broke loose, there’d still be the logs that you maintained of all the work of the scientists, the engineers, the researchers… You hadn’t been able, in the rush of it all, to consider what it meant long-term.
“Right,” you chuckle, “And molecular biology’ll make a pretty shrine for you, too.” It’s a silly thought—Father of the Astrophage, on a platinum plaque. The flattery makes him shift in his seat, index finger coming up to push up his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. You have to soak it in a little bit, his nervousness up-close. It’s charming.
The two of you sit in silence for a moment, making ample use of your food by using it to keep quiet. Grace has his cereal, and you your oats. It’s easy. You feel like a little kid again, trying to make a friend in the cafeteria; you’re sure that’s what it looks like, too. You take a moment to crack open the lid of your juice, and Grace takes the opening. “Is this where you would’ve wanted it to end up?” he asks, “When… everything, you know—”
“Went to shit? No, not at all,” you huff. It comes up again. What would you do if the apocalypse started? Except, this time, it’s very clear that neither of you have much of a choice. Yes, it’s definitive now. Grace doesn’t know how he got here, still, despite the briefings. He’s in the middle of the ocean, and so are you; he wants advice. “I think most people hope for a conservationist sort of end. Like, in the middle of the redwoods, in a tiny cabin with a stone chimney, or something.”
He lets out a dry chuckle and stifles it quickly with the back of his hand. “Is that what you wanted?”
“No. I mean, I think I’m where I’m supposed to be now. It’s this or slow, slow death.” For an unquantifiable amount of people, you could add. You find it better not to.
“And, your family—?”
“—knows I’m here, if you can believe it. Stratt’s act of kindness. They think I’m doing administrative work for the U.N., which isn’t a complete lie,” you murmur under your breath. He can only nod solemnly. Carefully, you recall: “She told me that you didn’t… have anyone to contact.”
He doesn’t seem phased at all by the inquiry. “No, no. My parents passed away before I finished doing my doctorate. They were older. I moved to the Bay for my tenure track after that. It was the easiest decision I could’ve made, considering—” He doesn’t have to spell it out for you: he bombed his own career with a single dissertation—it was teaching or nothing at all. And, all things considered, Grace really loved to teach. “I lived alone in the end. No dog, one ex.”
Ex. You think it’s probably too soon—and, too much pressure—to tell him that you don’t have anyone else waiting for you at home, either. In some twisted way, you might want him to be curious about it. To wonder if there’s someone waiting for you at the shore, or if you’re hooking up with one of the pilots on-deck. It’s all a bit of harmless fun. Vaguely, you explain, “I had an apartment, too. Nice place. Took forever to hunt for it, lock down the lease, decorate—and then, nothing. Had to surrender the keys after Stratt made it clear she wanted me on-board.”
—
It’s all been a little bit less lonely since Grace’s boarded the ship. You practically have to be glued together on account of Stratt’s orders. “He should rarely leave your sight,” she tells you over dinner one night, in a cleared navigational deck, “It’s imperative that you have his calculations recorded down to the decimal and uploaded to the database.” Really, it isn’t the hardest task. After that first breakfast, he seems generally comfortable in your company. He floats towards you, seemingly, more than you do him. The greatest tell is his punctuality. Grace makes it early enough to morning meetings so that he can position himself right beside you.
When there’s much more dull conversation being held about different nations providing staff or material, you notice that he has the tendency to get more… distractable. Beneath the table, you can feel his knee brush against yours as he bounces his leg—sole of his sneaker scuffing against the floor. Of course, he doesn’t have nearly as much reason to listen when the conversations turn more diplomatic and less scientific. And, while you’re supposed to pay attention heartily and take your extensive notes, Grace is on the less helpful end of the spectrum.
He likes to pass notes. They vary in topic and seriousness. There’s one particular morning when he chooses to be heavy-handed with them. It starts as soon as the representatives begin to argue. With nimble fingers, Grace slips the note right next to the trackpad of your laptop. Britain is a tool. Britain being the politician from Britain, an older man with too-tight trousers who dissented to almost everything Stratt had to offer. You take the card and slip it between the front cover and the first page of your notebook.
More chatter, and you can already see him scribbling out the next one behind his walled-up hand. You peek over, and he slides it determinedly towards you. Hope they do something other than eggs today at caf. Yes, they’d served it five days in a row. You decided to keep your complaints about it in for the first three days, and broke on the fourth. Grace had heard the bulk of your argument—the grittiness of powdered eggs, and how you’d kill for a stack of pancakes. This note, you slide back over to him. It’s not nearly as taboo as the first, which means he can have it back.
The last one Grace has for you comes a whopping ten minutes later, after he gets pulled into a conversation about laser tech for the breeding tanks. Once that devolves into yet another disagreement, he turns his attention back over to you. This new note, he makes sure to fold in half before lodging it beneath the keyboard of your computer. It takes you another five minutes of conversation lulling for you to open it. You pry the two edges open to read it: What do you do with sick chemists? Helium. What do you do if they die? Barium.
This one makes you snort to yourself too loud for your liking. You brush the index card into your lap with your nose scrunched in realization of how much of a slacker you must look like. This routine of yours is beginning to set itself in most morning meetings, and you’re beginning to wonder if you should start giving him the silent treatment. Grace appears rather proud to have made you laugh, chest puffed out; he tries to hide his smirk by looking down at his lap. If Stratt has an opinion about it, she doesn’t say anything.
—
You’re staring, and you really can’t help it. Grace has his cardigan shedded and strewn across the nearest lab chair. He’s doing an awful lot of calculations, something on astrophage power output that you’ll have to ask him to spell out for you later. The graphic, of course, is no better than the rest of the shirts he’s worn all week. But, the real kicker is the way that the fabric of his short-sleeves are hugging around his biceps. You couldn't have guessed that Grace would be so… fit.
You can’t take your eyes off him now, as he takes a black Expo marker to the surface of the whiteboard. The shirt’s tight. You’re checking him out. It isn’t until he peeks over his shoulder at you that you become all the more conscious of it. It’s a fleeting moment; unwillingly, you peel your eyes off of his and onto your laptop on the desk in front of you. You’re supposed to be compiling a folder to send out to the Payload Systems team. Not… this.
“Sorry,” you shoot out mindlessly. You make an exerted effort to examine the inventory list on your screen and cross-check it with another spreadsheet on the tab over. Busywork. It’s better to look like you’re doing literally anything else.
Grace doesn’t take his eyes off the board as he continues scribbling across it. He lifts the marker off the board a moment: “What for?”
You suck in a deep breath. An apology implies that you’ve got something to be sorry about. You want to leave now—but there’s really no good excuse to. Stratt is off-site, which means that you’re only doing busywork ‘till she’s back with new news. So, you elaborate with an empty “…Nothing.”
“O-kay,” he enunciates. You can’t do anything but return back to your screen with an attempt at dutifulness. Grace stays at the board, head tilted to write some undecipherable combination of greek-letters at the upper-right corner, and you can go back to your previously abandoned work. It’s almost machine-like, the way in which he scrawls the information from left to right, without any hesitation. You write several lines down on the notepad to your left: Hermle centrifuge machine needs replacement. Polypropylene for containment units — CNPC bulk load. And, messily, at the corner of your page, In love with Grace?
It’s difficult to tell. You’re together ninety-percent of the time. You’re clearly attracted to him and his square frames and his dad clothes. He makes you laugh, lets you use his old iPod to listen to Oasis. And maybe it’s the close proximity speaking, but you feel deeply about Grace in a way that you aren’t sure how to describe. Like now, as he caps the white board marker and slides it into his back pocket, before coming over to check on you with quick steps.
“On a scale of one to ten, how illegible is that?” he asks you. You try not to cave as he rests both of his hands on the edge of your desk, toned arms straining right beside you. You squint as you stare at the board, trying to make sense of the numbers.
“I think I can get everything down except for that bottom-half. It’s not your handwriting, just the formulas,” you admit. You’d never been one for complex mathematics, and you need to make sure you can get the equations recorded exactly as they are.
He hums, “That isn’t bad at all. For now, just note the biomass—circled and labeled it wet weight, in tons. If you need to, you can send the number out to DuBois, see if I got the match right, and I…” Grace trails off, picking up the mug that he has set on the desk next to you. He makes an additional effort to peer into your own empty mug, before picking it up with his other free hand. “Will be right back.” He carries them out of the room without another word. Another plus: he fetches you drinks without any asking.
It’s more quiet when he’s out of the room, presumably at the espresso machine just down the hall. In Grace’s absence, you can actually think more clearly about the situation. You know that Shapiro and DuBois have their own version of a relationship—albeit, more or less casual. At the end of the world, nobody really bats an eye about it. All things considered, it’s actually better for morale. You have to wonder if that’s in the cards for the two of you.
It isn’t long before he comes back with the two mugs. First, he places his a safe couple of inches away from your computer. Then, he makes a slow gesture for you to take your mug out of his hands. “Careful. It’s hot,” he tells you softly, running his hand beneath the bottom of the cup to swipe off the possibility of a wet ring. As he gingerly passes the handle into your hands, your fingers brush against one another comfortably. You note, eyes glancing up from the steaming cup, that there’s a faint blush littering his cheeks. But, he’s too intent on the handoff to take his eyes off the coffee to look up at you. Yes, you think, In love with Grace.
—
Once you figure out that fundamental fact, you start to think it over too much. There’s nothing necessarily wrong with your finding. It’s natural, and probably inevitable, for you to have fallen for him. What’s more anxiety-inducing is what you’re supposed to do about it. Under any other circumstances, you’d be okay keeping your mouth shut and letting the opportunity pass you up. But, considering the timeline of the Earth at present, it seems like there’s no time to waste. At the end of the world, it isn’t the sort of thing you should keep to yourself. You should tell him. And still, you’ve been sitting on the idea of it for weeks.
You really hope that Grace hasn’t figured it out, as observant as he is—but it’s really very clear to everyone else on Project Hail Mary. You can tell by the way they watch you both, like it's morning television. Grace rambles on about astrophysics, and you listen. He goes off on tangents about old and wrong college professors, and you laugh. You talk about your life before the project, and he listens with his chin resting on his hand. He asks you questions about what you used to do, where you used to go—like you’re another thing to learn. And everyone fawns.
It’s a good night when you hole yourself in your bunk room. All the engineers and specialists and to-be cosmonauts are all gathered together for drinks and a movie. The simple act of slipping away, letting people assume that you’ve got a migraine or an extra load of paperwork, is easy. It’s in the comfort of your tiny twin bed that you get to listen to the ocean and wailing ship creaks, window propped open to let in the fresh air. It’s strange to think that this room has been yours for so many months; the gunmetal ceiling of it is familiar now.
You get to enjoy this for upwards of an hour, until footsteps come clunking down the hall. You’re sure you know who they belong to. There’s a couple of soft, metal knocks on your door. “Hey, buddy. You sleeping?” It’s Grace’s muddled voice on the other side of the door. “Dinner’s up and everybody’s wondering where you’re at.”
You raise your head off of your pillow, “Door's unlocked. Just come in.” It’s a quick scramble for you to sit up and toss your legs over the side of the bed. As soon as Grace makes it through the doorway, you give him a sheepish smile and a wave.
“Jeez, it’s freezing in here.” Grace’s cardigan is hanging on his right hand. Another tight tee tonight, vintage tour shirt for The Beach Boys. You have to look away as he tosses it on the desk chair adjacent to your bed and as he comes up to sit right beside you. “You know,” he starts, lowering onto the hard mattress, “If you’ve been feeling overworked, I already told you I’d tell Stratt I could handle my own documentation for a week. It’s lab standard, anyway—”
He’s not making it any easier for you. “No, it’s fine,” you insist. It isn’t very easy to tell him that you’re not overworked, that you just have stupid feelings for him. Your refusal only makes him work harder.
Dismissively, he continues, “You can just sit there and watch me work. Read a book or something. A little bit of downtime isn’t going to be the end of the world. And, yes, I know how it sounds given the current circumstanes—but I think you definitely deserve it with the amount of running around that you do.” He’s getting rather impassioned about you resting, so much so that when you mumble out his name—a soft-spoken “Grace”—he doesn’t even pick up on it. He only marches on, “When you think about it, it’d help my research, too. Because if you’re stressed, I’m stressed. And that’s just no good.”
“Ryland,” you blurt. He halts, lips parting and closing. You never call him that, and now he seems very, very dazed. You explain, “I’m not overworked. I just needed a bit of time to think. Alone.”
“Right,” he cedes. “I’m sorry.” You can see his shoulders slump in the slightest, all guilt-ridden about having disturbed you. Grace leans weight onto his sneakers, clearly in an attempt to get off your bed and dismiss himself. Too easily, you reach for his arm to hold him in place.
“No, I want you,” you retract it just as quickly with a blurted, “Here. I want you here.” Grace looks more puzzled than before, but sits himself more comfortably on the end of your bed. Open to listen. You clasp your hands together, “Okay. I’m going to give you a hypothetical… Say, you have a decent life, nothing crazy. Good job at a library. It’s modest, and you’re happy with it. Go You have a good place, good friends. No… partner.” Maybe, the two of you are more similar than you realize. “And that’s okay,” you add, paying no mind to the way Grace’s eyes soften behind the lens of his glasses.
You carry on: “You’ve been okay with that for a decent amount of time. Then… apocalypse starts. You find somebody by chance, who you’d probably never cross paths with otherwise, and you realize that you like being with them. And, suddenly, because the apocalypse has started, you probably won’t have another opportunity to like another person like you do this one. And you really like the one.” You can feel your palms clam up at the confrontation of it all, the vulnerability.
He blinks slowly once. Then, twice. Grace raises a slow index finger up towards himself, eyes peering just over the frame of his glasses, “That’s me.” He states it out like an educated guess, cut-and-dry.
“No, it’s Yao,” you shoot back. “Yes, it’s you, obviously. Who else would it be?”
“Okay,” he says, hand reaching up to take his glasses off. Grace stands up with a deep breath, hand ruffling through his spiky-blonde hair as he walks further away from your bunk. Again, he mutters out a soft, “Yeah, okay,” not far off from how he looks trying to expand out a calculation. Grace taps his foot on the floor, paces left, then right, rubs his palm over the scruff on his face. A torturous lack of response. Then, finally, he turns around. “So, the whole time you weren’t just really into microbiology?”
You have to gawk at him. “Are you being serious?” He looks completely serious, glasses hanging off of his chin, blue eyes inspecting the irked look on your face with doe-like curiosity.
“Well, can you blame me? You’re gorgeous, and you’re also impossible to read.” Gorgeous? He thinks you’re gorgeous. That’s nice. You can feel the warmth bloom in your chest at the implication—but you can’t help but scoff out of pure offense. He puts his hands up in a haphazard shrug. “I mean, now that I know, it makes a lot more sense why you look at me like… that. I wasn’t totally sure.” Now, it seems that he’s making a bit of a game out of it. You don’t care to ask him to elaborate on what “that” looks like.
Stubbornly, you tut, “I’m taking it back. I’m taking it back, and it was completely hypothetical!” You stand up from your spot on the bunk, walking narrowly past Grace to your desk. Briskly, you pick up his cardigan—disposed of on your desk chair—before bunching it up and shoving it towards him.
“No, no, no—you can’t take it back. Cat’s out the bag,” Grace insists teasingly, hands clinging to the cardigan. Before you can completely let go of the woollen fabric, he makes sure, next, to grasp his hands over yours. They’re significantly larger and warm, too warm; with your hands plastered to his chest, there isn’t really anywhere for you to go. You think he must feel the nervousness practically radiating out of you, because he seems to slow down: “Okay, I’m being difficult. I can grovel if you want me to.” Grace’s voice lowers down into a rasp.
There’s a cockiness about it that you haven’t exactly seen from him before. You can’t tell if it’s making you flustered or annoyed—both, likely—and in some bout of courage, you get on your tiptoes to press your lips against his. The cold, metal frame of his glasses nudges against your face as the two of you kiss. Grace takes one hand up to cradle your jaw, and you can hear a quiet, satisfied hum come out of him. It does live up to hypothetical expectation, the way his body melds against yours clumsily around the barrier of the cardigan. It’s very him, and it’s very you.
Grace can barely be convinced, with your hands pushing back against his chest, to let you take a breath of air. Once the two of you split, Grace has a sideways smirk. “I really like you, too. Not sure if I made that clear,” he murmurs. “So, would you come grab dinner with me?”
author's note: wrote this one in response to this lovely ask i received earlier today:
"Omg but like, the reader being so flirty with jack all the time (secretly is in love with him) amd he just smiles and shakes his head but he loves the attention from her then one day she sees him ask dr al hashimi for beers and she assumes he asked her out on a date and she backs off and stops flirting and barely even looks him in the eye because if she does she'll fall apart and abbot doesn't understand why she stopped flirting and tries to give her openings for her usual flirty lines but she doesn't bite anymore and just the she fell first, he fell harder stuff it's soooooogood😭😭"
thanks so so much to the lovely @stuffingbuttsandshit for this message (i fw your username sm) and i hope i did it justice. please never be afraid to send me a request, and thank you for all the support, it means the world !!! also, i'm back into my teaching job tomorrow, so this will be the last of what you'll hear from me for a couple days <3
pairing: jack abbot x resident! reader
word count: 4.1k
warnings: miscommunication/misunderstanding trope! medical inaccuracies, reader is a resident but no mention of age, no specific phsyical attributes to certain gender mentioned, also not proofread!
songs i listened to while writing this: so easy (to fall in love) by olivia dean, easy by the commodores, purple by wunderhorse, when we are together by the 1975
description: You flirt with jack every shift like that's what you spent years in med school studying for. When you overhear a conversation between him and another attending, you decide to pull yourself together and face the music - no amount of one sided love would ever change your relationship. At least, that's what you think.
It started out as a joke at first.
It wasn't a calculated one. Not even a particularly brave one. It was a way to find a bit of fun in the middle of a 12-hour shift that tested every line of the Hippocratic oath that you had taken against your better judgement. It was the kind of dumb thing that slipped out of your mouth during a long shift that should have died an embarrassing death right then and there.
It was harmless flirting. Something to take the edge off. Maybe you should have taken a less, well, serious victim.
"Careful, Dr Abbot," you'd said lightly, half leaning against the nurses station while he was in the middle of catching up on charting. "If you keep looking that good under fluroescent lighting, people are gonna start accusing you of witchcraft."
Jack had looked up from the keyboard he was typing away at with that familiar flat, unreadable expression and the smallest hint of amusement at one corner of his mouth. The entire nurse's station had gone quiet, and if you hadn't known any better, you might have thought an elephant had waltzed into the room and taken his seat in trauma room one. You watched as Mel looked up so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash, which is what made you realise you may have taken it too far, because to be honest, Mel usually passed no heed on your usual antics.
Jack had lifted his eyes to yours, studying you for exactly two seconds, then given one slow shake of his head.
"I could do with a check-up on our food poisoning patient in room 4, doctor y/l/n."
That had been it. No scolding, no shutdown, no sharp reminder of professionalism. You ran the image of that twitch in the corner of his mouth over and over again in your head that night like a teenage girl with a crush on her best friend's brother. Or in this case, more like her best friend's dad.
So naturally, because you were a glutton for punishment and loved the thrill of tethering on the edge of something hopeful, you did it again.
And then again.
And somehow, over the next few months, flirting with Jack became a part of your regular shift rhythm, as natural as grabbing gloves from the wall or stealing sips of stale coffee between traumas. You called him handsome under your breath while passing in the hall. You leaned into his space during chart review just to watch his jaw flex. You told him he was ageing like your favourite bottle of red, which had earned you a long, suffering stare and a low, "Jesus Christ."
You did it at first because it was fun. A way to pass the time. But as the months went on, and you moved from junior to senior resident, the truth behind your incessant flirting became a lot more embarassing than you ever wanted to admit.
You were smart. Too smart. Educated and graduated at the top of your class, saved countless lives on the daily and still had time to feed your tabby cat at the end of it all. So there was no reason why your stupid, dumb brain had decided to fall in love with your attending.
You flirted, because you were in love with him. With Jack.
You had been for longer than you wanted to admit to yourself. Long enough that the whole thing had settled beneath your ribs like a live wire. It was warm, and humming, and a little dangerous. Long enough that it had stopped feeling like a crush and started feeling like something worse.
The problem was, Jack never really gave much away.
He liked the attention, you knew that. You weren't imagining that part. He never stopped you. Never looked annoyed in any serious or real way. There was always that familar tiny shake of his head, that almost-smile, that quiet tolerance that was so stupid adorable and somehow felt more intimate than an outright encouragement would have.
But Jack was Jack.
Steady. Closed off. Impossible to read unless he wanted to be read. So you flirted, and he let you, and you told yourself that that was enough for now. You were a resident, and he was your attending. You weren't naive enough to believe that he would ever take a relationship with you seriously.
And you know, maybe it would have been. If you hadn't caught him mid conversation with Robby's sabbatical replacement, Dr Baran Al Hashimi.
It happened halfway through a nightmare shift when you were running on little else but caffeine and instinct, and the Pitt had that strange, overstretched feeling it got when every room was full, and everyone inside them was talking too loudly. You were cutting through the hall outside the break room with a chart tucked to your chest, already halfway to Trauma Two in your head, when you heard Jack's voice from inside.
It was common to catch Jack in during the day shift, and you wouldn't have stopped if he'd been talking to anyone else. But you caught Al Hashimi's laugh first. Low, and brief, and then Jack saying, "You want to grab that beer later?"
Your feet stopped moving before your brain caught up. There was no hesitation in the question or audible awkwardness. No heaviness to it that made it sound work-related. It sounded easy, casual. Like asking someone out. You wondered if he was shaking his head in that way he did with you.
Al Hashimi said something you didn't fully hear, because by then your pulse had gone loud in your ears. You self-diagnose with mind-numbing tinnitus and prescribe yourself a huge dose of amitriptyline. The ringing grows louder as you watch her smile, small, but warm, and nodded once.
"Yeah," she said. "I'd like that."
And that was it. So, you kept walking before either of them could see you standing there. By the time you eventually got to trauma two, your face was perfectly composed and your stomach felt like it had dropped through the floor. It was ridiculous, really.
Jack had never promised you anything. He had never flirted back in the way you flirted with him. Never said anything you could hold up in your defence. He just let you tease him and seemed to enjoy it. That was not the same thing as wanting you. And Baran Al Hashimi was gorgeous, and strikingly intelligent, and better yet, an attending. You heard that she had worked overseas doing humanitarian work in Afghanistan. She was everything you weren't and more. Of course Jack would want her. God, you didn't blame him.
So, you stitched up a teenager's chin and reassured a frantic mother and signed off on discharge paperwork with steady hands, all while something sore and humiliating tore through your chest and the ringing in your eyes got louder.
Then, because apparently the universe had a cruel sense of humour, Jack found you by the supply closet twenty minutes later.
"There you are," he said.
You looked up automatically and cursed yourself. And there he was. The same broad shoulders, same tired eyes, same infuriatingly unreadable expression.
Usually, by instinct, you would have said something. Nice of you to finally show up, handsome. Missed me? Something stupid and teasing and light enough to keep the whole thing moving. To keep that little nugget of hope that lived between your ribs aflame.
Instead, you just held out the chart in your hand.
"Dana needs your signature on this."
Jack took it, but his eyes didn't leave your face.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine-
You cut in, begging to be finished with the conversation, and forced a small smile. "All good, really."
His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. It was the first time in almost a year that you'd walked away from him without giving him something. And Jack, as it turned out, noticed immediately.
The following night, you called him Dr Abbot during rounds. It came out before you could stop it, a verbal guard you decided to throw up to protect yourself from more hurt that wasn't even his fault. Not Jack, not any of your usual easy little digs. Just Dr Abbot, flat and professuonal and wrong enough that his head lifted from the chart like you'd said something in another language.
He looked at you for a second too long.
Then he said, "You sick or something?"
You pretended to not know what he meant. "Nope."
"Then why are you acting weird?"
"I'm not acting weird?"
Santos, standing two feet away with a pen tucked behind her ear, visibly turned her whole body to watch.
Jack's mouth flattened, unreadable. Shocker. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
He looked like he wanted to say it outright, but with half the team standing around the nurse's station and Lena calling for updates across the room, all he ended up saying was, "Never mind."
But it wasn't never mind, because you kept doing it. You stopped leaning into his space. Stopped giving him those easy openings for banter. Stopped calling him old man, stopped telling him his curls looked good, stopped stealing sips from his coffee and dropping protein bars in his pockets when you passed him in the hall.
At first, Jack felt confusion, which quickly turned into a gnawing annoyance he couldn't shake. By the third shift, with no change from you, the whole thing had become impossible to ignore.
You were charting at the nurse's station when he came up behind you and set a fresh cup of coffee down by your elbow. A sleek, black takeaway cup that looked suspiciously like the one from the new bakery across the street you talked about going to with Santos before shift.
You looked at it, and then at him. Usually, this would have been an easy way in. What, no little heart on the lid? Starting to lose your touch, Abbot? Anything, anything would do.
Instead, you said, "Thanks."
Jack stared at you.
"Thanks?"
You blinked at him. "What?"
"That's all I get?"
You looked back at the screen where your chart lay half full. "It's coffee."
"It's your coffee. Two shots, and vanilla creamer. I made sure they used the barista oat milk you always rant on about."
You kept your eyes on the screen, even though every bone in your body was begging you to reach out and touch his forearm in thanks. "Oh, well, thank you very much, Dr Abbot."
He stood there for another beat, arms crossed, like he was waiting for the rest of it. When it didn't come, he muttered, "Right," and walked away.
Across the station, Santos leaned slowly towards Whitaker.
"This is sooo much worse than I thought."
Whitaker looked nervous. More than usual. "Should we..do something?"
"No," Santos smirked. "Absolutely not. This is premium entertainment."
Javadi, creating a circling motion with her hand towards the direction of you and Jack, said, "That looked like some form of attachment rupture."
Santos pointed at her while still looking over at you. "You are absolutely right."
You ignored them all and kept writing. Any acknowledgement and you'd have to crawl into a hole and die of embarrassment and humiliation. You think that actually might be a better way to go then facing Jack again the way you just did.
Four days go by. Four days of you being perfectly pleasant and professionally distant and absolutely miserable about it. You felt like like a three year old kid sulking in the corner after being refused ice cream for dinner.
Jack still tried, in his own strange, increasingly irritated way, to hand you opportunities you no longer took. You didn't read them as openings anymore, couldn't let yourself slip again into the realm of hoping it meant anything more than trying to get through a shift in one piece.
By the end of the week, Dana got involved.
She caught you restocking suture kits in a supply alcove and leaned against the doorframe with the expression of a woman who already knew the answer and was just waiting for you to say it out loud.
"What'd you do to him, hon?"
You kept your eyes on the shelf. "Nothing"
Dana snorted. "Honey, I know I'm in day shift territory, but I have known Jack Abbot for too long to miss when he's sulking."
"He doesn't sulk"
"He absolutely does. He's just old enough to do it quietly."
You smiled despite yourself. If Jack was here right now, you'd make a joke about old dogs not being able to learn new tricks, or whatever that saying is.
"There it is," she said, poking an accusatory fingernail at your shoulder. "Tell me what happened, kid."
You hesitated, fingers tightening around the pack of gauze. Dana Evans had a way of dragging honesty out of people with nothing but eye contact and a gaze that reminded you of your mother. You make a mental note to call her after shift and apologise for every time you've ever talked back to her.
"You know Al Hashimi? Robby's stupidly hot replacement? I overheard him ask her out"
Dana let out a laugh - no - a cackle. Dana was cackling at you.
You frowned. "Dana! Seriously, I know, it's not like I'd have any chance with him, but I just thought, just maybe-"
"You are a total idiot."
"Dana."
"She was going to a trauma conference with one of his old friends from the military and he asked if she wanted to talk to talk about it over a beer."
Your grip loosened on the gauze, and you turned to stare at her.
"Sorry, what?"
Dana crossed her arms. “Robby asked him to get her thoughts on some presentations he's gonna miss on his sabbatical. He's tryna suss her out, you know."
Your stomach dropped all over again, but this time for an entirely different reason. If your first option was crawling into a deep, dark hole, well, this option would have to be something far worse. Like, being shot from a canon, butt naked, while every one of your ex-boyfriends watched.
Dana's expression softened just enough for you to recognise her natural maternal instinct taking over. "You really thought he was asking her out on a date?"
You nodded, slowly. You ran an exhausted hand over your face, hoping the ground would come and swallow you whole.
Dana shook her head then, taking your shoulder in her hand and rubbing softly, a comforting presence that took you out of your head. "Baby, that man has been halfway in love with you since before Christmas."
You didn't acknowledge it until she was already pushing off the doorframe, walking away with that irritatingly final air of hers.
"What?!"
That made everything worse. So, so much worse.
Because now, you had no excuse. Now it wasn't about Al Hashimi, not really. It was about the fact that if Dana was right, if Jack had wanted your attention all this time, if all those tiny almost smiles and deliberate little openings had meant what you'd wanted them to mean - then you had spent four days acting like a stranger because you were too scared to ask, and too damn immature to think of any other possible situation.
That night, you slipped into the stairwell in between consults to breathe for exactly thirty seconds and maybe lightly bathe yourself in peace. Then, the door opened, and there he was, filling the space with the same steady presence that always made it feel a little smaller, and a little warmer.
He shut the door behind him, and you waited for the onslaught of questions.
"You gonna tell me what the hell your problem is?"
You stared at him over the railing. There was no real heat in his voice, but there was frustration. And beneath that, something else, something tighter.
"Uh, nothing?" You cursed yourself for making it sound like a question you definitely knew the answer to.
"Try again."
"Shouldn't you be working?"
"Yeah," he said. "I should be. But instead, I'm here. Because you've spent four days acting like you don't know me anymore."
Of all the things you expected him to say, that one landed harder than you expected. You looked away. Embarassment was a feeling that you were getting far too used to.
Jack waited a beat, then came down two steps so he was closer, though not close enough to touch.
"You stopped flirting with me." You laughed at his bluntness. He continued.
"You won't look at me. You won't call me Jack. I spent fifteen minutes of my twenty minute break time arguing with a lady in a bakery the other day about how she had to use the milk I brought for your coffee, and all you could say was thanks?"
The obvious edge of offence in that almost undid you. Load the canon now, doctor!
You said quietly, "I heard you ask Al Hashimi for a beer."
Jack turned and blinked at you, and for one second, his face went completely blank. Then he stared at you like he'd just discovered the source of a leak that had been flooding his basement all week.
"That's why?"
You swallowed. "Um, yeah. I assumed, you know. You, gorgeous woman, a beer. Date territory."
"That wasn't a date."
"It wasn't a date."
"No." He let out a breath through your nose. "Robby wanted me to ask her about this conference. We were talking about work. He's cagey about her, taking over his ER and all."
"Oh."
"Yeah," Jack said.
He continued, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Why would that matter, anyways?"
You laughed once, sharp, and utterly miserable. You were so far past the point of humiliation, you might as well get it all out now. "Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously."
You looked at him then, really looked at him. And you saw it, that he genuinely didn't understand. That whatever this had been to him, it had not included the possibility that you'd step back so quickly. That made it worse somehow. Better, too, But mostly worse.
You looked down at the stairwell floor and said, because apparently there was no salvaging you dignity now. Here goes, you guess. "Jack, I don't know how to say this without, just saying it. I-I'm, in love with you"
Then the words sat there. Plain, horrible, real. For a second, that felt like so much longer, neither of you moved.
Jack broke the silence, very quietly, "You're kidding."
Your head stayed staring at the ground. That was it, there was no going back now. You tried to ignore the intense stare you could feel burning two holes through your head.
"You're in love. With me?" he repeated.
Heat climbed your face, and you couldn't believe this was happening right now. Is this not an ER? Does nobody with a GSW want to come through and interrupt your lovely moment here?
"This is deeply humiliating, so, if you could not-"
"Jesus Christ." He laughed once, and your heart fell into your ass and ran fifty miles in the opposite direction.
Then he came down the last two steps and stopped right in front of you.
“You thought that was one-sided?”
Your mouth opened. Closed.
“I flirt with you constantly and you smile and shake your head,” you said weakly. “What was I supposed to think?”
Jack looked at you like that was the most ridiculous sentence he’d ever heard.
“I never stopped you.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“I wait for it.”
You blinked.
His jaw flexed once, like he was annoyed you weren’t getting there fast enough.
“I know what time you usually get coffee. I know when your shift starts from the sound of your shoes in the hall. I know when you’re about to make one of those stupid little comments because your whole face changes before you say anything.”
Your heart was pounding now, hard enough to hurt.
Jack took one more step closer.
“When you stopped, the place felt wrong.”
That did it.
That cracked the whole thing open.
You looked at him and saw it all at once. Every quiet little allowance he’d made for you, every almost-smile, every opening he’d handed you on purpose just to hear what you’d say.
You whispered, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He huffed out a humorless laugh. “I thought I was being obvious.”
You let out a wet, startled little laugh of your own, because of course he had. Of course Jack Abbot thought silently orbiting someone and letting them flirt without interruption counted as emotional transparency.
“You are a disaster,” you said.
“So are you.”
You smiled despite yourself.
His gaze dropped to your mouth for the briefest second before lifting again.
Then, in a voice gone rougher somehow, he said, “Say something.”
“What?”
“One of your lines.”
You stared at him.
Jack looked almost impatient now, but there was something fragile hidden under it too, something he would probably deny to the grave.
“You’ve had one ready every shift for 9 months,” he said. “Say it.”
A laugh caught in your chest.
Then, softly, because it felt different now and somehow still exactly the same, you said, “You know you’re ridiculously handsome, right?”
Jack shut his eyes for half a second.
When he opened them, there was that tiny head shake again, the one that had started all of this.
“Jesus,” he muttered, and then he kissed you.
It wasn’t tentative, or rushed either.
It was the kind of kiss that felt held back for too long, warm and sure and a little bit annoyed, like he was making up for the fact that both of you had apparently been idiots about this. Your hand came up to the back of his neck automatically. His slid to your waist, steady and firm, drawing you in until you had to grab the front of his shirt just to hold onto something.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours.
“You done making assumptions?” he murmured.
You laughed softly, breathless. “Maybe.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“Okay,” you said, smiling. “Yes.”
“Good.”
You looked up at him. “You loveeeeee me!"
Jack’s mouth twitched.
“Don’t start.”
“You do.”
He leaned back just enough to look properly annoyed. “You really want to have this conversation right now?”
“Yes.”
He sighed in that long-suffering way of his, but you could see the amusement sitting just under it now.
“You realised it first” he said.
You grinned. “Yeah, okay, but mine was slow. Yours was like, falling off a cliff into a stream of like, love crocodiles .”
Jack looked at you for a second, then gave in with a tiny shake of his head.
“Yeah, okay ” he said quietly. “Shut up.”
Something in your chest melted completely.
You kissed him again before he could ruin it by pretending he hadn’t said that. This one made him laugh against your mouth, just for a second, and then his hand tightened lightly at your waist and he kissed you back.
When you finally pulled away, there was a muffled voice from the other side of the stairwell door.
“Are they in there?”
Damn it Trinity.
You dropped your head briefly to Jack’s shoulder and groaned. “I hate this hospital.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”
Jack tipped your chin up with two fingers.
“You coming back down?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No.”
You smiled. “Very romantic.”
“I’m not here to romance you. I’m here to stop you making yourself miserable over nothing.”
“Wow.”
“You started it.”
You laughed again, because there it was, that grumpy, teasing edge that somehow made everything feel more like him, not less.
As he opened the stairwell door, Santos nearly fell inward from where she’d clearly been listening.
Her eyes went wide.
Then narrowed. Then widened again.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “I knew it.”
Jack looked down at her with profound irritation. “Don’t you have a patient to bother?”
Santos, unfazed, looked past him at you and grinned. “So I was right.”
Whitaker, standing three steps behind her looking mortified, asked, “About what?”
She pointed at both of you. “Everything.”
Jack muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like unbelievable and moved past her, one hand brushing your lower back as he guided you into the hall.
Not enough to draw attention.
Just enough that you felt it.
And this time, when you looked at him, he was already watching you with that same tiny, impossible almost-smile.
You smiled back. He shook his head once more, like he couldn’t believe you. But he looked pleased.
Description: You and John Walker are nothing more than two idiots who can’t stand each other. But when a mission goes wrong and you fall through cracking ice, he does everything in his power to keep you alive.
Warnings/Tags: Enemies to ‘you saved my life, what are we now?’, hurt/comfort, drowning in frigid water, CPR, body heat. You might fall in love with him. Thunderbolts make a cheeky appearance.
Notes: This was the most voted option for my next fic, it’s uh … it’s a bit long, yeah 🤭. Enjoy 🫶🏼
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You'd lost a stupid bet to Yelena, so stupid you couldn't even remember what it was, but you were currently living the consequences of it.
Which meant being paired on a mission with none other than John Walker.
Yes, the myth, the legend, the annoying, all star american asshole.
You'd managed to avoid being paired with him for a while. After all, the last few missions you were together had ended in setbacks, for the simple reason you two just couldn't get along. We're talking about a history of missed targets, blown covers, a few stray bullets aimed in each other's general direction, and maybe ... one crashed jet.
So Bucky and Yelena avoided it at all costs when planning for missions.
That was until now, all because Yelena had gotten bored. A lost bet landed you back on another jet with him of all people.
Mission site was in the middle of a frozen forest, where sunlight hadn't touched the snowy ground in years. Even inside the jet, you could feel the cold creeping through the metal walls as you got closer to the drop point.
You were sent to retrieve intel from a highly guarded facility that had made enemies with Valentina. Maybe eliminate a few targets if it came to that. Quite standard, even easy if you actually knew how to work together as a team.
The worst part? Their security perimeter stretched for miles. Which meant you had to go through a rough landing between the trees, far away from the base, and then hike through thick snow and unforgiving cold just to get in there.
Any enhanced teammate would've been better than you. Either Bucky or Alexei ... maybe they just didn't want to stroll around for miles with Walker either.
Couldn't blame them.
So Yelena, influenced by Bob surely, thought it would be funny to send you. Now that was the worst part, doing all of it with him.
You didn't even know what it was about Walker that riled you up so badly. Maybe it was his superiority complex. Maybe it was his agressiveness when he didn't like the way you planned things. Or how he never took the blame when things went sideways, even when he'd done something reckless too. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the way he looked a little too good when he was pissed at you, those veins in his neck, chest heaving, strands of sweaty hair sticking to his forehead—stop.
Let's go back to 'You simply don't get along'.
It was easier to hate him than to name ...whatever the hell this was.
"Can you stop doing that? I'm trying to land this thing, or are you looking to crash another plane?" Walker snapped from the pilot seat, not even turning to look at you.
You stopped for a second, realizing you'd started pacing in the back of the jet. It was the only thing keeping your body warm, and your mouth shut.
Until he had to open his.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Is the super soldier getting distracted?" you said sarcastically. "Maybe if you actually paid attention to the plane this time, you won’t crash another one."
"We crashed because you couldn't sit still for five seconds … like right now."
"Wow, you're right. I brought it down with my bad attitude. My apologies, Cap."
You noticed the way his posture tensed on the seat, knuckles immediately flexing on the controls ... why was he so easy to rile up?
And why the hell was that kinda ... No. Stop it.
John didn't know what it was about you that riled him up so bad either. Maybe it was the constant defiance, that bratty attitude he just couldn't allow. Maybe it was how you never followed his orders, even when he was right. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the way you kept running your mouth and he could only think about his mouth on yours to shut you up—no.
He just hated you, that was it.
"Just sit your ass down and put on your belt. We're about to land," he muttered, trying not to sound like he wanted to throw you out mid flight. "I don't know how bad it's gonna be landing into the woods."
You figured it was better to comply, not for him, but because the mission hadn't even started yet and part of the bet with Yelena was to finish the mission successfully, without killing each other in the process.
A lost bet was a lost bet, after all.
You plopped down into the copilot seat beside him, letting your eyes roll as you buckled in. John just side eyed you.
"Good girl," he muttered under his breath, but loud enough for you to hear.
You went upright in your sit, looking at him with disbelief. "What the hell did you just call me?"
All you saw was a half smirk on his face, but before you could unbuckle and force him to say it again, the jet landed harshly into the snowy woods, trees scraping against the reinforced windshield as the aircraft rolled for some distance until it came to an abrupt halt.
You groaned when your head knocked hard against the leather copilot seat. From the corner of your eye, you saw his head snap toward you.
"You okay?" he asked, already unbuckling his belt.
If you really looked into it, it sounded a bit off from someone who had made very clear how much he didn't care about you. But apparently he seemed to have forgotten that for a moment, as he walked over and knelt in front of your seat, fingers working quickly to unbuckle you as he scanned your face for any signs of a concussion.
And for a moment you believed the hit gave you one, because there was no way in hell this was real.
John Walker...being nice to you? Caring?
You blinked a few times at the sight of him crouched at your feet, heart thumping so loud on your chest you were sure he could hear it. John's eyebrows furrowed to your lack of response.
You considered faking the concussion so you could blame your dazed state to that and not to the fact that his large hands rested on your knees like he wasn’t the last person who wanted to touch you.
"I'm good," you finally replied, barely audible, but enough for him to let out a breath he was holding.
Your eyes dropped to your lap, and he was suddenly aware of the placement of his hands. He quickly cleared his throat, standing up to somehow pretend to shrug it off. He grabbed his shield from the floor and tightened it up in his arm, maybe a little too hard so he could control his own heartbeat.
"Okay then … time to go to work."
You cleared your throat too, nodding and trying to ignore the heat that flushed across your cheeks.
Must've been the landing... yeah, just that.
——
The rough landing seemed to had messed with the jet's communication system, leaving you unable to notify anyone back at the watchtower that you'd made it safely.
You barely got two steps outside before regretting every decision that led you to this point. The stupid bet with Yelena. Stupid Bob.
Actually, scratch that ... Yelena was taking the yelling for the both of them.
Even layered head to toe with Valentina's high tech tactical suit, the cold crept in through every seam and zipper. The forest around you was quiet, and too white, just frost covered pines and the sound of boots crunching the snow below you.
And... him.
He walked ahead of you, carrying the map completely unfazed by the freezing air, head high and posture perfect, with that ridiculous bent shield attached to his arm.
"Walker, why do you get the map?" you asked, not even trying to hide your irritation.
"Because I actually know how to read it," he replied without looking back.
You rolled your eyes. Honestly, you didn't even want the map, your crossed arms were staying glued to your chest for warmth. Picking a fight with him was just the most entertaining way to stay conscious.
You walked in silence for about fifteen minutes before you started talking again, not because you had anything relevant to say, but because it kept your jaw moving.
"How much longer?" you asked, not intending it to come out as whiny as it did, but the cold sinking in your bones was making your brain foggy.
"Can't keep up, already?" he mocked. "Want me to take out the Sentry I keep in my pocket? Maybe he can fly us there."
You inhaled sharply, resisting the sudden urge to stab him. No one would know ... right? Mission incident.
Just an incident.
You shook your head, you still needed him to get out of there. That didn't mean you couldn't mess with him a little longer.
So you sniffled.
"You're so mean, John," you mumbled, voice laced with fake hurt.
He stopped in his tracks, shocked about two things. First, did you just call him John? And second ... were you sobbing?
He immediately spun around to check, and Jesus, not a single tear. Just a goddamn grin spreading across your face. His jaw was tight as he turned away, clearly realizing he'd been played.
"You're impossible," he muttered, shaking his head as he began walking again. You laughed.
"I'm actually cold ... not that you'd get it Walker, you're biologically incapable of suffering."
"Can you just be quiet for two seconds?" He groaned. "Maybe shutting up will help you preserve some energy."
"Oh, I'm sorry," you huffed, "Are we saving that energy for all the arguing we're gonna do later?" you were panting now, hating the way your breaths came shorter from the lack of oxygen.
He stopped again, turned just enough to glance at you over his shoulder.
"You good back there, or do I need to carry you?"
There was a part of it that sounded like he actually gave a fuck, but most of it was just him being sarcastic. Or at least that's what you told yourself.
"Oh, please," you scoffed, trudging past him in the snow. "I'd rather get naked here in the cold than be carried by you." He let out a short, dry laugh, and continued trailing behind you.
Yes, fighting with you was entertaining to him too.
The two of you went deeper into the snowy woods for a while, until the trail curved into a clearing. There, a wide, frozen lake stretched in front of you, splitting the path you were supposed to get across. It was lightly dusted in snow, surface thin enough to be a problem but not so fragile you couldn't maybe cross it if you were careful.
If you were careful.
Walker stepped in front of you, eyes scanning the amount of space the lake covered. He cursed under his breath, realizing going around was not an option if he wanted to get this mission done before the night fell and you froze to death.
"I don't like the look of this." He muttered, shaking his head.
It didn't take long for him to get into his I-was-a-soldier-once persona, running through scenarios in his head until he chose the one he seemed to be satisfied with.
Surprise, it was always the same one. He leads.
"Okay ... you're gonna have to stay right behind me. I'll check the ice as I go, you step where I step, got it?" He turned to you, lifting his eyebrows expecting an answer while you looked at him with an annoyed expression.
Yes, you knew it was the safest way to do it, he just didn't have to sound so condescending about it.
"Yes ... got it Walker, thank you," you rolled your eyes, eager for him to just go so you could get this over with.
He sighed, and turned his back to you. He adjusted his shield on his arm and stretched his neck from side to side. You snorted, why was he so dramatic all the time?
"Let's go," he muttered, before testing the first step by tapping into the ice with his boot.
You made your way like that, he gave cautious long steps, first putting part of his weight to test it, then all of it, before he could step forward with you behind him. You kept yourself close to him, as much as you told yourself you didn't enjoy it, the broadness of his back covered you from the chill air and his body was so warm you could feel it through his suit.
You didn't notice when he came to an abrupt halt, lifting his right arm up as a 'stop sign' a second too late, causing you to collide against his back.
"What the– ouch!" You cursed when you crashed into him. He didn't even budge from his spot, it was like hitting a wall. A six foot two brick wall. "Do you mind warning me before stopping like that? you are literally made of concrete," you complained, rubbing your forehead.
"I signed it when I stopped," he furrowed his brows, pointing the hand he kept in the air.
"You are supposed to sign it before you stop, soldier boy. Or how about you just talk like a normal human being?"
"Listen, I think this is a thinner section, so we have to walk through slower, s l o w e r, is it clear enough for you now?" he said, spelling the world 'slower' as he made a walking motion with his fingers on the palm of his hand.
God, stabbing him never sounded like a better idea.
"Jesus Walker, do you even hear yourself when you talk? Just because you're leading doesn't mean you have to be a dick about it." You were almost yelling, completely fuming at this point.
"If you don't like the way I lead," he snapped, gesturing sharply in front of him, "then by all means, go ahead, take the lead. Break the ice if you want. I won't catch you if you drown."
You narrowed your eyes at him.
He didn't expect you to actually move.
But you did. Because you'd rather drown out of spite than let him think he had the final word. So you squared your shoulders and strode right past him without hesitation.
His hand shot out to grab your shoulder. "What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm taking the lead," you shrugged, and he looked at you in disbelief.
"Are you serious right now–"
You yanked your shoulder from his grasp before he could finish. "Dead serious."
You kept walking without testing your steps, John's eye twitched at the sound of your boots hitting the ice. At this point you had forgotten how cold you were, just from the anger at him alone.
"Oh great ... yeah, keep stomping like that. You want me to throw the shield too? Maybe help you break it faster?"
"No, Walker, I don't want your stupid taco shield. Besides, I'm lighter than you."
You kept your pace, ice creaking faintly beneath you, but you ignored it. You were almost halfway through. When his firm hand latched onto your forearm, rougher this time, stopping you in your tracks.
"Stop doing that!" he snapped, holding you firmer so you wouldn't let go. "You can't just walk off and–"
"God, stop stopping me!" you shouted back, twisting violently in his grip. "Let go of me, Walker!"
But this time, he wasn't gonna let you. You exhaled loudly, feeling helpless, so you stomped your foot on the thin ice. Great … you were letting John Walker make you throw a tantrum. He just got angrier at your reckless move.
"I gave you an order!" He finally snapped, making your eyes go wide in surprise to his audacity.
Where the hell does this man get off?
You just stood there in silence for a few seconds that felt like an eternity, his grip still firm on your forearm. Your brows furrowed, chest rising up and down from the confrontation. You swore your head was about to explode.
"You know what, Walker," you muttered, your voice was low because you felt that if you raised it any louder you were about to have a stroke. "Maybe if you used half of the brain inside your big stupid head you would realize you're not the boss of me."
He opened his mouth to talk, but nothing came out. His posture relaxed slightly, letting out a frustrated sigh.
"I'm just trying to keep you alive," he muttered, like he was trying to make you understand something he couldn't quite put into words.
You saw a flicker of something different in his eyes, making you lower your arm to stop resisting against his grip. You wanted to believe him, you really did. Flashes of the way he'd looked concerned about you back in the jet invaded your mind.
But no. You wouldn't give him the pleasure.
"I don't need you to do that," you whispered, and when you noticed a slight falter in his grip, you forcibly pulled yourself back.
The sound of cracking ice didn't even register to him until it was too late. You turned around to continue making your way, planning to ignore him the rest of the mission.
"Wait, stop—" he blurted out, reaching a hand to stop you, but you had already stepped forward.
The clear layer beneath your boots gave way in an instant. Freezing water swallowed you whole as you lost sight on John, who stood on what was left of the ice on the surface.
It wasn't just cold, it was paralyzing.
Your breath got caught somewhere in your lungs, never making it out. You tried to swim up but everything was so heavy, your limbs, your thoughts ... the world. You could only watch as you were dragged down from the light above.
This was it. Your last dumb mission, stuck with him of all people.
John's knees hit the ground hard, scrambling to the edge of the crack you'd fallen in, peering into the dark, freezing water. But he could see nothing.
"Shit—shit ... where are you?” he looked frantically, but there was no way he could get you out like that, the current had pulled you under.
He inmmediatly dropped the shield attached to his arm, the goddamn map, and didn't even think twice before diving in. The cold punched the air from his lungs, but he didn't care, he could take it. You couldn't.
His eyes went wide in the dark, searching through the blurry water for you. Minutes passed, but he refused to acknowledge how long it was taking him to find you, how his enhanced body was already pleading for oxygen.
But then, in the distance he saw something. A figure ... your body, sinking like it didn't belong to someone fighting for their life.
Maybe you weren't fighting anymore.
No. God please … no.
He got to you in three large strokes, grabbed you with one arm, and pushed up, only to be met with thick, unbroken ice above. He cursed, accidentally swallowing some water. He slammed his fist into it once, twice, he didn't know how many it took until it broke wide open, cracks stained with the blood of his hand.
It didn't matter, he would heal.
John bursted through the surface with you held tight to his chest, coughing, ignoring the cold sinking into his bones as he dragged you into a thicker part of the ice like his life depended on it.
Because it did. Because yours did. But you weren't breathing anymore.
"No no no ... hey, hey, come on–" he groaned, laying your head on his lap, gently tapping your cheek, but you didn’t open your eyes. "Fuck."
He cradled your head to place you flat on the ice, and kneeled beside you. You were still, too still, the image of your limp body broke something inside him he didn’t even know was there.
"Don't do this to me," he muttered, as he started CPR with just one blood stained hand so his strength wouldn't crack your ribs on top of everything else. "Come on. Come on, don't– not like this ... I didn't mean it dammit!"
He shook his head, wet hair splashing cold water everywhere, aggressively wiping his eyes with his free hand, before going down to blow oxygen into your mouth.
"Breathe .. please breathe. You're not–you're not allowed to go out like this, you hear me?"
He kept just kept going, didn't plan on giving up, not on you. Compress, oxygen. Compress, oxygen. Over and over.
Until you finally jerked under him.
Water burst from your mouth in a choking cough, body lurching forward, your hands reaching out to cling on something, anything.
John.
He exhaled like he hadn't since he saw you go under the water and immediately scooped you up against his chest, a large hand placed behind your head to steady you. You gasped as you shivered, and he just felt this excruciating pain in his chest.
"Okay ... okay. You're okay," he mumbled, more to himself than you. "You're going to be just fine."
He just stroked your hair, as he kept muttering 'you're okay' 'you're alive'. You coughed a few more times, clinging into the heat of his chest that escaped the wet fabric of his clothes. That's when you realized he was soaking and shaking too, he'd actually pulled you out.
"You ... you went after me," you blurted out.
John wanted to punch himself in that moment. Repeatedly. Why did he have to say all those things to you? He knew damn well he would go after you every time.
He held you tighter, and placed a kiss on your forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, voice cracking, something you never thought would hear from him, but man was he holding you like his life depended on it.
You wanted to say something else, but your teeth began chattering uncontrollably. You weakly pulled apart to look at him, maybe to let him know you felt your body giving out, maybe to look at him clearly one last time before your eyes began blurring more. And he saw it, he knew.
"No–no don't do that. Stay with me, alright? Listen to me! Just this once."
You're not the boss of me, Walker, you thought.
He finally stood up, pulling you up into his arms, one hand braced under your knees, the other across your back. "We're heading back to the jet. I need you to stay awake for me."
You just managed to nod, curling against his chest.
He left his shield behind, Val would get it back and if she didn't who cares. That wasn't important to him now, you were.
He miraculously managed to make it out the frozen lake without it breaking again, running right back into the forest path you'd already hiked through.
At this point, he didn't feel the cold anymore.
Didn't feel the bite of ice in his clothes, or the burning ache in his chest as he launched himself through the trees. You were trembling in his arms, he knew you were getting worse the longer he took to get you to shelter.
"Hey," John barked, louder than he meant to, like volume would anchor you to him. "C'mon. Say something, just keep talking."
You wanted to roll your eyes and laugh at him. He sounded way too desperate, for someone who couldnt stand you this morning. "You suck," you managed to blurt out, and you felt his laugh vibrate in his chest.
"Good girl," he replied, trying to get you mad at him like he'd done earlier in the jet, just so you talked to him.
Just so you stayed alive out of pure spite.
But you didn't fight him this time, you didn't want to anymore. He could boss you around all he wanted as long as you could feel the warmth of his body. As long as he kept running through the woods, holding you like you were the only thing that mattered to him.
"Eyes open. Stay with me." He groaned, when he didn't get the reaction he wanted. "Just a little longer, alright? Yell at me, go ahead, just keep saying shit. Insult my haircut. Tell me I ruined your day ... anything."
You made a noise, maybe a word, but it sounded wrong. Your head lolled against his shoulder and your lips were turning blue.
"Fuck," he hissed. "You're not dying on me."
The jet was on sight now, slightly buried in snow between the crashed pines. The second he reached the ramp, he stumbled up with you in his arms, kicking the door open. The inside was less cold than outside, but it was not enough.
He laid you gently on the copilot seat, and turned to the controls, desperately flipping switches to get the jet's heating system going, and fiddling with the comms settings to try to get to the team.
"Bucky? Yelena? Anybody, come in–" he barked, looking at you over his shoulder. "We need immediate extraction."
Nothing came back, the signal was still down.
"Goddammit." He slammed the control panel, a let out a string of curses under his breath.
He finally turned to your figure on the seat, and felt his whole chest cave in. You weren't moving anymore, just breathing shallow and slow. He could hear your heartbeat slowing down as you stared at him with half lidded eyes.
The jet had barely warmed up. It was like being inside a fucking freezer. There was no time, he knew what he needed to do.
"Fuck it."
He stripped off his gear quickly. The heat of his body had already dried off most of it. Still, he got rid of his tactical suit, gloves, the compression shirt he wore inside, until he was left in his underwear, body steaming against the crisp air.
He knelt by your chair, then hesitantly placed his hands on your soaked layers.
"Sorry ... I have to do this," he muttered, as his fingers found your suit's zipper. "I know you hate me. I know this is the last thing you want ... but I need you to live more than I need your permission right now."
His hands were careful. Gentle, even as they worked fast. He took off all layers, except for your underwear. His jaw clenched the whole time as he tried to keep his eyes from looking more than necessary.
He then lifted you off the seat so he could sit instead, placing you on his lap. He pulled you as close as he could, chest to chest, arms wrapped around your freezing body trying to trap as much heat as he could between you. He tilted your face gently, tucking it under his chin.
And God, he was warm.
By this point you had stopped shivering, but he knew it meant you were just at the worst stage of it. Your lips were blue, skin worryingly lifeless, and you couldn't quite figure out what was going on anymore.
"I got you," he whispered, kissing your head like he did when he got you out of the water. But that time you'd gotten back to him. Right now you were drifting away. "I've got you. You're gonna be okay."
"John?" His name came out unsure. Like you didn't remember he was even with you. Like you didn't remember you never called him John.
"Yeah it's me ... it's Walker. You hate my guts, remember? ... come on, stay with me," he held you tighter, wishing there was a way to give you all the serum going through his veins, even if it was him dying instead of you. "I didn't mean it. Any of it. You can punch me when you get better. I'll let you."
His hands ran through your back, your arms, rubbing warmth into your skin, trying to coax you back.
"I'll carry you through another mile of snow. I'll lose all the bets to Yelena if it means you get to yell at me one more time."
He didn't know what he was saying anymore. And it's not like you were hearing him anyways, time got strange after that.
You drifted in and out, sometimes aware of his arms around you, sometimes lost in the static of your own head. But slowly, like fog clearing, your mind began to catch up with your body. You felt heat all around you, like you were wrapped in something solid and safe.
And... bare.
Your cheek was pressed to bare skin.
John Walker's skin.
You blinked against the soft rise and fall of his chest, his heart thumping under your ear.
"...you're warm," you whispered, barely audible.
For a moment, he thought he’d imagined it. But you shifted in his grip enough to let him know that you were there, that you were real again.
Thanks to him.
"You're alive," he exhaled. His hand instinctively cupped the back of your head, fingers threading carefully through damp strands. "Jesus ... you're alive."
"You sound surprised," you rasped, lips ghosting a smirk.
"I watched you fall through the ice." His voice cracked on the word fall. "Yeah ... I'm fucking surprised."
"I can tell ... your heart is racing," you mumbled, voice coming out hoarse from your dry throat.
The adrenaline was still screaming through his bloodstream. He wanted to play it off, crack a joke, maybe roll his eyes and say yeah, thanks for ruining the mission, but none of that came out.
"Yeah ... well," he breathed out. "You scared the hell out of me."
There. He said it. Fuck it.
"I thought you hated me."
"I tried to.. . God knows, you make it easy."
That made you huff a shaky laugh. He ignored the way his heart skipped to that. You were laughing again. Alive. In his arms.
"You're not exactly sunshine yourself, John."
John. His name sounded so pretty coming out your lips when you were not dying.
"I know."
That was probably the first conversation that didn't end with you wanting to punch him in the face. Something had shifted.
Maybe almost dying was all it took.
It was like the cold had finally frozen the part of your brain that hated John Walker. Or the heat of his body had melted the part of you that still tried to pretend you did.
You nestled your face closer to his neck, trying to soak in the impossible warmth of his skin. "I didn't mean it either ... you know. All the times I said you were insufferable."
He didn't say anything.
"I mean, you are ... but–" You exhaled. "I think I just didn't want to deal with whatever this was."
You felt his fingers twitch against your back, still careful, like you weren't almost naked in his arms.
"Yeah," he said. "Same."
John looked down at you, still cradled to him like glass. You were watching him now, really watching him, and not with the usual disgust behind your eyes. This time it was something... gentler.
And he was close. Too close. You could feel the heat of him everywhere, arms still locked around you like you belonged there. And his gaze had stopped hiding whatever had been buried under all those arguments and insults.
He tilted his head, eyes flickering down to your lips for a second too long. That's when something snapped inside you. You surged forward before your brain could catch up.
It wasn't cute, not at first. It was cold dry lips, desperate touches, and months of pent up tension crashing together. But then he softened, his hand cradled your face like you were something fragile, and yours clung to his neck like maybe if you held tighter, this wouldn't end.
But it did, because he pulled apart, like he was still holding himself back. He shook his head.
"I want you alive first ... fully conscious," he whispered against your lips. "Not ... not like this."
Of course he wasn't sure if this was real. If this was just some kind of 'thanks for saving me' type kiss. Like tomorrow you would wake up and remember you hated him, and he wasn't sure if he could take that.
You shook your head, you have never known what you wanted more than in this moment. Maybe it was the adrenaline wearing off. Maybe it was the brush with death.
"No," you shook your head. "Ive never felt more alive ... and I'm not wasting another second."
John opened his mouth to argue, but you kissed him before he could. You took all the strenght left in your body to kiss him deeper, until it was less about the anger, the insecurities, and more about everything else you hadn't said yet.
And you showed him, with your hands running through his hair, with your tongue playing with his, that this kiss wasn't a just a thank you, it was an apology ... a finally. Because you still didn’t know what the hell this was, but neither of you wanted to fight it anymore.
You pulled back breathless, but you were still so close that you could feel his chest rising and falling against yours. And then ... you both laughed.
Awkwardly. Like you didn’t know what to do with each other now.
"...What on earth was that?" you whispered, smiling through the adrenaline crash.
"I ...I don't know," he muttered, a little dazed.
You knew you should be panicking, overthinking. You should be denying everything that just happened. Yet still, you're both laughing again, naturally, like you didn't spend the last months wanting to stab each other.
Something loosened inside you, and you closed your eyes. His warmth, John was so damn cozy and soft ... almost unreasonably so.
Until he oppened his mouth again. Because he was still John Walker after all.
"So... what was that about you rather being naked around here than letting me carry you?" He allowed himself to tease you, because he could now.
Because everything you said in your stupid argument came true. You just didn't expect him to rub it in. You opened your mouth in surprise, hitting his chest, but this time it was playful.
"Haha, very funny. What was that about you not going after me if I drowned?" you snarked back.
He chuckled, and god ... it felt so easy now. He didn't have to say something mean back this time, too many months wasted on that.
So he just leaned in and crashed his lips against you.
Because you were cold. Because you were warm. Because your lips were right there and he just saved your life. And he was sick of pretending he hated the sound of your voice.
This time what interrupted your little make out you was the voice of someone else.
"... h-hello? ... guys come in. We got your message, Walker. Already on our way. Are you both okay?"
Yelena's voice coming out the jet’s comms made your tongues freeze mid kiss. You split apart like teenagers caught making out in a janitors closet.
You were suddenly aware of your very compromising position ... almost naked.
"Oh my god ... oh my god, John," you panicked, looking at the pile of wet clothes on the floor. "She's not even gonna let us explain it to her."
"Just ... don't answer yet," he hissed. "Give me a second to ... it's just my face, I can't—" He turned away from you.
"Are you blushing?" You chuckled through your panic.
"No ... It's the cold, shut up."
"Guys, do you copy? Hellooo ... this is Yelena … I swear to God if you two are dead, I'm going to be very upset."
You scrambled upright, before she thought about accessing the jets cameras or video calling, and tapped the console to talk to her.
"This is Walker and uh ... me," you said, voice slightly breathless. "We're alive, mission compromised. But we're... okay."
There was a pause, and you thought maybe you saved your asses.
"Why do you sound like you've been making out?"
You didn't answer immediately.
"Hold on ..." she hurried, and you panicked.
A white light flickered, signaling image was coming through. A fucking video call.
Before you could launch towards the control deck to cut the communication, a hollogram showed the inside of another jet, and Yelena's face. Or more accurately, Yelena's extremely judgmental face. Her eyes went wide, jaw almost falling to the floor.
"What the fuck are you guys doing?"
John cursed under his breath and reached blindly to get his tactical shirt, laying it over your shoulders to cover whatever was left of your dignity. Bob's voice came in behind her.
"Wait, wait ... move, lemme see—holy shit,” he covered his mouth with both hands, in half amusement, half disbelief.
Ava shoved herself into frame next, squinting. "Are you guys... naked?"
Bucky just peeked his head in. "They are."
You covered your face with both hands, muffling a mortified groan. John just tipped his head back and let out the most dramatic sigh of his life.
"I swear to god," he muttered. "We weren't ... we're not—it was hypothermia!"
"And your solution was...?" Yelena teased.
"Body heat, Belova," he snapped, rolling his eyes. "It's called first aid, look it up."
"Well ... clearly you got aided." Ava smirked at you.
Bob's voice chimed in again. "I bet that's not the only thing he—"
"BOB."
Yelena mouthed a sorry to the camera after shutting him up, and gently pushed him to the side. Ava disappeared next to them. Even off frame you could still hear their muffled laughs.
Bucky just scanned your face through the screen. "You okay?"
You nodded, because you were. You finally were. "He's really warm."
John cleared his throat.
"We need evac. She's stable now but still cold. Jet heating wasn't enough, I did the only thing I could."
"Copy that," Bucky nodded, biting his cheek to not say anything. "Reaching your coordinates, just please... put your shirts back on before we get there."
━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━
Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated, thank you so much for reading <3
— three times jack abbot flirted with you without you realizing, and the one time you realized !!
jack abbot x fem!resident!reader 5k+ word count warnings: medical inaccuracies (i researched the best i could), age gap (not specified), reader may come across as “dumb”, but she’s just overwhelmed!! note: first jack writing!! he’s my dream man btw. also, i refer to the characters as i think of them in my head😭 some are first name basis, others are strictly last name because i cannot remember their first names for the life of me.
{ ONE }
the emergency department at two in the evening feels like a beehive someone kicked. monitors chirp in uneven rhythms, stretchers rattle past with loose wheels that squeal against the tile, santos and langdon argue for the tenth time in an hour, and you stand right in the middle of it with a big smile.
you’ve always loved your job. even when it meant eight straight years of school. nights spent bent over anatomy textbooks while your roommates got dressed for the bars. even when med school felt like someone had taken your brain out of your skull and wrung it dry. you loved it. you loved the moment something finally clicked. the way a diagnosis stopped being a puzzle and started making sense.
now you’re a second-year resident and technically a doctor, even though sometimes the word still catches in your throat when someone says it out loud. the emergency department is exhausting and overwhelming and perfect.
“no, look,” you insist, tapping the chart with the end of your pen. “if his potassium was actually that high, he’d look way worse than this. always check for hemolysis before you panic.”
ogilvie blinks from across you. he runs a hand through his tousled hair and nods curtly. “oh,” he says faintly, internally freaking out because he was the top of his class at whatever school he went to and he wasn’t supposed to mess up.
you grin, knowing that feeling all too well. “hey, don’t get down on yourself. with time comes wisdom. you’ll get used to it.” you promise, giving him a comforting pat on the shoulder. you scribble something quick on the chart and hand it back to him before he scurries off.
you’re already turning back to the computer when you pat the counter beside you automatically, searching for something that isn’t there. your hand lands on the cold desk and you frown. “…damn.”
dana glances over. “what’s up, kid?” she tilts her head, looking above the top of her glasses.
“forgot my coffee this morning,” you sigh, already pulling up another chart. “i was already here before i realized.”
“rookie mistake.” she tsks, already looking up at the patient board again.
“i know,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose. “this shift might kill me.” you say casually, fingers clicking against the keyboard again.
three feet to your left, jack abbott hears every word. he’s leaning against the far counter pretending to review a chart he finished five minutes ago. his eyes lift the second you say forgot my coffee. he continues watching you—like always. you’re talking again now, explaining something to a student doctor javadi, gesturing with your pen, hair slightly messy from the start of a long shift. you laugh at something perlah says and the sound carries toward him.
jack used to feel guilty for observing you. it would curl up the nape of his neck and plant itself there every time he realized he’d been watching you for longer than necessary. you were one of the best residents he’d ever seen, so naturally, like any other attending, he kept an eye on you (even though you technically were under dr. robby). still, the first few times he caught himself leaning against a counter across the department, eyes following the way you moved from patient to patient, he’d look away immediately. like he’d been caught doing something he couldn’t quite justify.
now it’s just routine. jack walks into the department and his eyes find you automatically. across the room, down the hall, wherever you’ve planted yourself in the middle of the noise. he tells himself it’s habit. just keeping track of a resident. but the truth is simpler than that.
“abbott.” he looks over, snapping out of whatever trance overtook him. robby, his longtime friend and coworker, raises an eyebrow. “you’ve been staring at her for like…three minutes. blink, brother.”
jack glances back at you. you’re still talking, still smiling, still completely unaware. “…was reading the chart,” he grumbles, scratching the back of his neck.
robby snorts, fingers drumming against the tabletop. they’ve known each other long enough to call bullshit. “whatever keeps you going.”
jack sets the chart down with a huff and pushes off the counter. he taps his pocket, feeling the cold weight of his phone, and murmurs, “gonna make a call.”
robby stifles a laugh, shaking his head briefly before assisting dr. mckay with her patient.
~
about twenty minutes later, you’re halfway through typing a note when a paper coffee cup slides quietly into your line of sight. you pause, blinking like it’s a figment of your imagination, before looking up.
dr. jack abbott stands on the other side of the station, one hand braced on the counter, the other nudging the coffee toward you. he’s wearing a black scrub top that squeezes his juicy biceps, and acting pretty casually for someone who’s not supposed to be working yet.
your eyes flick between the cup and him. “did someone get this for me?” you ask, fluttering your lashes at him subconsciously.
jack stares at you. his mind runs blank. behind you, princess slowly swivels her chair to watch. jack drags a hand down his face. “yeah,” he says flatly. “somebody did.”
you nod thoughtfully. you should ask who or where it came from, but you’re running on fumes. “okay.” you pick up the coffee, pressing your lips against the lid and taking a generous sip. jack watches you drink it like a man waiting for a verdict, his finger tapping against his thigh. your shoulders relax instantly. you hum quietly. “this is really good.”
jack exhales through his nose. “glad you approve,” he murmurs, biting back a smirk. call him a creep, but he’s the only person in the department that can get your coffee order correct down to a T.
you finally glance up again, eyebrows lifting like you’ve only just remembered he exists. “wait,” you say. “you’re here early.”
jack tilts his head slightly, pursing his lips. “that bother you?” his voice is lower than before, causing butterflies to erupt in your stomach.
“no,” you say quickly, ignoring the tingly sensation in your stomach. truth be told, you’re never bothered to see him. “you just usually come in later.”
he shrugs, crossing his arms over his broad chest. it’s a losing battle to keep your eyes on his. “couldn’t sleep.”
dana snorts from behind you, shaking her head while dialing a number on the phone. she bites her tongue, choosing peace for once. jack doesn’t take his eyes off of you, ignoring dana’s antics entirely.
you groan sympathetically. “that’s the worst. i always have melatonin with me if you need it.”
jack’s mouth twitches. a flush forms from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. still, his gaze stays glued on you. “i’ll keep that in mind.”
with a smile, you turn back to the computer, already clicking through charts again, and attempting to calm your nerves. you grip the poor coffee cup, hoping jack doesn’t notice your skin is hot to the touch.
finally, he begrudgingly leaves to assist on a patient down the hall. when he’s out of sight, dana, who stands besides you, leans closer. “you know he bought that for you, right?”
you frown at your chart. “abbot?” you glance up at her, brows furrowed. she nods her head, widening her eyes like ‘wasn’t it obvious?’ you glance over your shoulder toward the hallway he disappeared down. “yeah, but he’s just nice. he’d do it for anyone.” you insist, scratching the top of your head.
dana stares at you like she’s trying to solve a complex neurological condition. “sure…” she finally says.
you just shrug, taking another sip of your coffee because that has to be the reason. right? why else would he buy you the coffee? you close your eyes, shaking the thoughts out of your head because…no way. meanwhile, somewhere down the hall, jack abbott is absolutely losing his mind.
{ TWO }
hour five is always the worst, in your opinion. close enough to the middle of your shift that you should feel motivated, but not quite there. not enough to push you through. just enough time for the exhaustion to settle in your bones and stay.
you’re in bay four with a chart tucked under your arm. the elderly woman on the stretcher looks small under the hospital blanket, silver hair falling loose around her shoulders. her ankle is already swelling beneath the thin sheet and she keeps apologizing every few seconds for something that wasn’t her fault.
“hey,” you murmur gently, crouching slightly so she doesn’t have to crane her neck to see you. “no apologies. gravity gets the best of all of us.”
she laughs softly at that. “i tripped on the rug,” she explains again. “my daughter keeps telling me to get rid of it.” her lips pull downward as she continues. “but it’s just so beautiful.”
you nod while carefully pressing along her ankle, fingers gentle but firm as you check for tenderness. “nothing wrong with enjoying art,” you say lightly. your thumb presses along the swollen joint and she winces just a little. you soften your touch immediately. “even if it occasionally decides to fight back.” she smiles in response.
behind you, jack stands close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes yours when you shift. robby got pulled into something more serious ten minutes ago, and jack (who once again is here before the start of his shift) stepped in without much explanation besides a quiet, i’ll help you with this one. you didn’t question it.
jack watches the way you explain each movement before you touch the patient. the way your voice softens slightly when she winces. the way your hands move with that careful confidence that only comes from repetition. you’re good at this. he already knew that, but still.
“alright,” you say after a moment, straightening slightly. “i’m gonna order an x-ray just to be safe, okay?”
the woman nods, commenting something about you being a doll. then, her eyes flick between you and jack. a slow smile spreads across her face. “aren’t you two just the sweetest together.” you both freeze. “such a nice couple,” she continues warmly. “working side by side like that.”
your brain stutters. “oh-” you start, laughing nervously. jack’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t flinch. you shoot him a quick look before turning back to the patient. “we’re not-”
the woman waves her hand dismissively. “no need to explain, dear.”
jack lets out a quiet chuckle behind you. it’s low and amused and extremely unhelpful. you clear your throat, suddenly very focused on the color of your pen ink. “we just work together.”
the woman hums like she heard you and chose not to believe it. well,” she says sweetly, glancing at jack, “he looks at you very nicely.”
your face heats instantly. you pretend to adjust the blanket around her ankle so you don’t have to respond. jack goes very still beside you. the room stays quiet for a beat before you say, a little too brightly, “okay! we’ll get that x-ray and see what’s going on.”
you scribble something on the chart and step toward the door. jack follows. the second you’re out in the hallway, you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath. “oh my god.” jack laughs softly in response. you glance at him. “you could’ve said something.”
“about what.” he feigns innocence.
“the couple thing.”
jack shrugs, hands slipping casually into the pockets of his scrub pants. “didn’t seem necessary.”
you stare at him. your eyes are wide and mouth agape. “it was embarrassing.”
jack tilts his head slightly, studying you for a second longer than necessary. then he says, voice low and teasing, “i didn’t mind playing your boyfriend for a few minutes.”
your brain stalls. you stare at him like he spoke a different language. jack watches the exact moment the words land. the faint color climbing up your neck. the way the floor tiles suddenly call your attention. his mouth curves slightly.
you clear your throat once again. he definitely didn’t mean it like that. jack abbot is many things, including a vigorous flirt. he’s just trying to fluster you. “i’m sure you’d do it for anyone,” you say weakly, turning toward the nurses’ station, “i-i,” cough, “have to, to go do something.”
jack moves to the side, motioning for you to walk. “go ahead,” he murmurs, but he’s smiling.
{ THREE }
the ambulance bay doors swing shut behind you with a hollow metallic clang. outside, the air is colder than it looked through the glass. it slips straight through the thin fabric of your scrubs, raising goosebumps along your arms almost instantly. your hands brace against the cool metal railing and you stare out into the dark parking lot like it might answer the questions still bouncing around your head.
the case had gone bad fast. too fast. one minute the patient had been talking. the next minute the room filled with voices and hands and alarms screaming over each other. someone calling for another unit of blood. someone else pushing meds. robby barking orders across the bed. you’d done everything right.
your shift ended an hour ago. by now, you should’ve been cuddled up with a hot cup of tea and your favorite fluffy socks and maybe a nice book. but after…that…you couldn’t leave. you offered to help the transition into the night shift and assist with some cases. it was enough to keep your mind off of it until now.
your jaw tightens. you take another slow breath, trying to push the noise out of your head. the ambulance bay door opens again behind you, but you don’t have the strength to turn around. heavy footsteps approach, steady and familiar, until someone stops beside you.
jack rests his forearms on the railing beside you. for a second, neither of you speak. he glances sideways, taking a deep breath. the brisk air burns his throat. you’re staring straight ahead, shoulders tense, lips pressed together like you’re trying very hard not to let the thoughts spill out.
jack knows that look. he’s spent way too long memorizing it. “hey,” he says quietly, bumping his shoulder against yours. you hum in response, which is about the most energy you can spare. jack watches you for another moment. “you did good in there.”
you shake your head slightly, inhaling sharply. “we lost him.”
jack sighs, nodding. “sometimes we do.”
you stare harder at the parking lot. “that doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck.” you mutter, tears pooling at your waterline.
that pulls the faintest huff of a laugh out of him. “yeah,” he says. “that’s the official medical term.” you shake your head, a small smile threatening at the corner of your mouth before it disappears again.
the wind picks up slightly. you shift your weight. jack’s eyes fall to your arms. they’re crossed loosely over your stomach, bumps covering every inch of skin. your shoulders hunch just a little to tell that you’re shivering. he straightens slightly. “hold on.” he says with a tight-lipped smile.
you glance at him. “wha-” but he’s already pushing off the railing before you can finish. you watch him disappear back through the ambulance bay doors with a small frown. he probably got sick of watching you mope. you scoff, kicking yourself mentally because he’s the chief attending and you’re standing here burdening him with your emotional issues.
about a minute later the door swings open again. jack steps back outside to find you in the same position as before. this time, something dark is slung over his arm. you blink as he walks back over and holds it out. a gray zip-up sweatshirt lies in his extended hands.
you stare at it, not moving. “what’s this?” you ask, even though it’s pretty obvious. you’ve never seen him wear the fabric. you’ve only watched him saunter through the automatic doors, eyes intense, and sweatshirt in his hand as he prepares for the night shift.
jack lifts an eyebrow, motioning his hand toward you. “take it.” his voice is low and raspy.
you hesitate. “i’m fine.”
jack gives you a look. the kind that clearly says you’re absolutely not fine. “you’re shivering.” he simply states.
you glance down at your arms like you only just noticed. “…maybe a little.” your hands rub up and down against your arms. jack doesn’t move. the sweatshirt stays extended toward you. after a second, you sigh and take it. “thanks.” when you pull it on, the scent of musky cologne and him fill your senses. you breathe deeper, the smell like a drug. your brain catches up a bit later. “wait—are you gonna be cold?”
jack snorts quietly. “i’ll survive.”
you zip it up the rest of the way, the sleeves a little long over your hands. you fold your arms again, but this time it’s inside the sweatshirt. “thanks,” your voice is softer.
jack shrugs like it’s nothing. “don’t get used to it.”
you glance sideways at him. “you’re very grumpy for someone doing something nice.”
“i’m always grumpy.”
“debatable.”
jack looks at you. his eyes bore into yours, memorizing every detail he can of you. your shoulders have relaxed slightly. the tight line between your brows is gone. mission accomplished. “you should go home now.” he starts softly. “the day shift is all gone and we can handle the rest from here.” he urges.
after a moment, you clear your throat and nod. “i’ll bring this back tomorrow.”
he shakes his head. “keep it.” he says it like it’s no big deal. like he’s not your boss and he’s not lending you a sweatshirt in an oddly intimate way. before you can argue, he says, “you forget things,” he’s already turning toward the door. “figure this way you’ve got a spare.”
you stare at him and just laugh. “that seems like a terrible system.” your shoulders move as you giggle. after the night you’ve had, this is the funniest scenario ever.
jack glances back over his shoulder. his mouth curves slightly. “works for me.” he disappears back inside before you can respond. you stand there for another moment, wrapped in his sweatshirt, staring at the ambulance bay doors.
your fingers curl into the sleeves, fabric bunching around your hands, still warm from him. it sits heavier on your shoulders than it should. you exhale slowly, shaking your head to yourself, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips.
he’s probably just used to this. used to residents stepping out after bad cases, quiet and shaken and trying to hold it together. used to knowing exactly what to say, what to do. how to fix it just enough to get you back on your feet.
you huff out a soft breath, pushing yourself off the railing. “yeah,” you murmur under your breath, already turning toward the doors. “he’s just good at his job.”
{ + ONE }
the bar is loud. a different type of loud than you’re used to. instead of the sharp, frantic noise of the ER, it’s the warmth of conversation and light jokes. robby makes a toast, glasses clink, and drinks are tipped back. the day shift claimed a long stretch of tables near the back. someone dragged two together at some point. chairs are half pulled out, people shifting and talking over each other like no one’s had a full thought all day and now they finally can.
you’re next to samira with one leg tucked under your chair, and your drink sweating in your hand. “i’m telling you,” samira says, covering her mouth to giggle before she even gets the words out. “dr. robby is hot.”
you gasp, choking on your drink before barking out in laughter. “i mean…i can see it.” you say quietly. she raises an eyebrow. you pause. “ok…of course he is.” you rephrase. “he’s just not my usual type.”
beside you, perlah and princess chuckle, pretending that they aren’t eavesdropping.
“what you mean is,” samira takes a swig of her drink before finishing. “he’s not jack abbot.”
you swear you almost drop your glass. “keep your voice down!” you hiss, looking over both shoulders to see if anyone heard.
“it’s not like it’s a secret!” she argues, barely containing her laughter. “you both like each other and you’re both too dense to see it.”
“i would know if someone liked me.” you insist, swirling your straw around in your glass. the ice cubes clink with each stir.
she rolls her eyes, nudging you with her elbow. “yet, you’re the only one who doesn’t.” she huffs out a laugh, shaking her head.
the conversation shifts again after that. someone across the table starts complaining about charting, whittaker gets louder, joy says something dry that makes half the table go quiet for a second before laughing. this is the part of the job makes everything else feel worth it.
you’re sitting quiet, listening to the chatter of samira and the occasional arguments of the med-students when a cool breeze brings goosebumps in its wake. you shiver, peaking over your shoulder.
jack abbott steps inside, pausing just past the threshold. he wasn’t planning on coming. it’s his night off. he told himself he’d stay home for once, maybe get a decent night’s sleep. maybe do something that didn’t revolve around the hospital. then robby mentioned called and drinks. then mentioned you’d be there, and here he is.
he scans the room once, finding you easily. he almost physically stumbles when he processes you. you’re laughing at something samira said, head tipped slightly back, hair down around your shoulders instead of tied up like it always is. you traded your scrubs for a pair of jeans and a simple top that fit you in a way that should be illegal.
jack exhales slowly. right. this was a mistake. he runs a hand over the back of his neck, debating turning around and walking right back out. instead, he straightens slightly and makes his way over. he doesn’t go to you first. mostly because he’s nervous and he’s sporting a semi-hard that needs to go down.
he stops by the end of the table, nodding at everyone, and engaging in conversation with robby. dana gives him a knowing look that he pointedly ignores. “thought you had the night off,” she says, blatantly interrupting robby.
“i do.” he crosses his arms.
“and yet.” dana motions to the room and where he stands.
jack shrugs, casual. “heard there were drinks.” dana hums like she doesn’t believe him for a second. she glances past him, toward you, and then back. jack pretends not to notice. he lingers there longer than necessary, letting himself get pulled into the edge of a conversation he’s not really listening to. how could he listen when you’re there looking like that?
he’s aware of you in a way that hinders his ability to interact. the sound of your voice cutting through the noise. the way you gesture when you talk. the way you lean into samira, laughing at something under your breath. he drags his gaze away, but it always comes back. he’s metal being pulled into your magnetic field.
finally, he pushes off from the end of the table. he circles the group until he’s right behind you. he can hear you clearly now, even smell your perfume.
“you always this loud?” he asks, voice cutting cleanly into your conversation, “or is this a special occasion?”
you freeze. samira’s eyes go wide for half a second before she bites her lip to keep from laughing. slowly—slowly—you turn your head. up close, he looks even better than he did from across the room. you can see his features clearly. the stubble beard he bother shaving, his salt and peppered curls, and that hardened look that always melts you. could he be anymore perfect?
your brain stutters. “i’m not loud,” you retort, which is immediately a lie.
jack raises an eyebrow. “no?” he asks, voice low, amused. “could’ve fooled me.”
samira lets out a quiet snort beside you. you shoot her a look before turning back to him, narrowing your eyes slightly. “maybe you’re just eavesdropping.”
“maybe you’re just easy to overhear.”
you open your mouth, then close it. you can barely breathe the way he’s still looking at you, never mind forming coherent sentences. you swallow. “what are you doing here?” you ask, tone lower.
jack shrugs, one hand settling on the back of your chair. your back brushes his fingers when you lean closer. “thought i’d see what you all look like outside the hospital.”
your stomach flips. samira makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like oh my god. “and?” you ask, lifting your chin slightly. “what’s the verdict?”
jack’s gaze drags over you in an antagonizing slow manner. it starts at your face, and dips before coming back up. your breath catches.
he hums. “undecided.”
samira chokes on her drink. “i need another round,” she blurts, already sliding out of her seat. she grabs princess and perlah by the wrist and drags the with her before you can even process what just happened.
traitors.
you’re suddenly very aware of the empty chairs beside you, and the fact that jack doesn’t move away. if anything, he moves closer. “so,” you say, clearing your throat, trying to ignore the way your heart is picking up speed. “night off?”
“yeah.”
“and you chose to spend it here.”
“seems that way.”
you huff a quiet laugh, glancing down at your drink (because if you don’t you’ll stare at him arms). “we’re honored.”
jack’s mouth twitches. “you should be.” he lowers his voice to a gruff sound. that has to be his bedroom voice, you think. you look back up at him, rolling your eyes, but there’s no heat behind it.
he watches you for a second longer than necessary before finally dropping into the chair samira abandoned like it was always his. your knee brushes his and neither of you move. you take a sip of your drink just to give your hands something to do. jack doesn’t look away. he leans back slightly in his chair, one arm draped behind you like it belongs there.
you clear your throat. “so,” you say, glancing at him, “you just haunt bars on your nights off now?”
jack huffs quietly. “only the ones you’re in.”
your brain trips over itself for half a second. you recover fast. mostly. “that’s…concerning.”
“yeah,” he nods. “i’ve been told.”
you shake your head, trying not to smile into your drink. the liquor warms your throat, giving you some much needed confidence. neither of you move. you glance down at your glass again, tracing the rim with your finger. “they’re short on night shift,” you say after a second. “again.”
jack’s attention sharpens. he notes the way your voice lowers. you don’t want anyone else at the table to hear. “yeah,” he nods, pouring himself a beer from the pitcher on the table. “we are.”
you look up at him through your lashes and he has to adjust his pants. you stall, questioning if this is the right time or place to talk about this. finally, you exhale. “i was thinking about maybe switching over for a bit,” you continue, shrugging one shoulder. “just temporarily. try something different.”
almost immediately, he replies, “you should.”
you blink, stifling a laugh. “that was fast.”
he doesn’t even try to backtrack. “you’d be good over there.”
you tilt your head slightly. “you don’t even know what i’d be like on nights.”
“yeah, i do.”
your brows lift. “you’ve never seen me on nights.”
“don’t need to.”
you bite the inside of your cheek to calm yourself. you feel tingly all over. “you’re very confident.” you say, avoiding eye contact with him.
“i’m usually right.”
“debatable.”
“not about this.” there’s a quiet certainty in his voice that makes it hard to brush off.
you shift slightly in your seat. “i just-” you sigh. “i don’t know how robby’s gonna feel about it. i feel like he’s gonna think i’m abandoning day shift or something.” you ramble. “and-”
jack leans forward now, thick forearms resting on the table. “robby won’t be mad at you,” he interrupts with no room for discussion.
you glance at him. “you say that like you speak for him.”
“i’ve known him longer than you,” jack replies easily. “he’s not gonna hold you back.” you nod slowly, but your not convinced. “he likes you,” jack adds.
your lips twitch. “he likes everyone.”
jack shakes his head slightly. “he admires you.” he corrects himself.
your eyes flick back to his. there’s something in his tone that makes your chest tighten again. you look down quickly. “i just don’t want it to be weird,” you say, softer now.
jack watches you for a second. then leans in just a little more. “it won’t be,” he says. he’s close enough that you can feel his breath fanning against your skin. your breath catches. after a moment, he straightens again. “we can talk more about it over dinner.” he states in a matter of fact tone.
you nearly choke. your brain tries to file that under professional—it doesn’t match. “…what?”
jack’s mouth curves slightly. “dinner,” he repeats, like it’s obvious. like you’re the one lagging behind.
you stare at him. that didn’t sound like just a friendly request. your heart starts picking up. “like…with the team?” you ask, clinging to logic.
jack’s gaze doesn’t waver. “no.”
your stomach drops. “…just us?”
“that’s usually how dates go, no?” he smirks. there’s no hesitation.
everything clicks at once. the realization flashes across your eyes in series of memories. the coffee, the sweatshirt, the way he shows up early, and the way he watches you like you’re the only thing in the room. your breath catches. “you’re asking me on a date?” you ask like you had to say it out loud for it to process.
jack’s smile deepens. “took you long enough.”
your heart stutters. “wait-” you sit up straighter, staring at him. “you’re serious?”
jack leans in slightly, voice low. “i asked you to dinner.”
your pulse jumps. “i thought you meant like talking about the shift-”
“we can talk about the shift,” he nods, taking a sip of his glass. his eyes flick down to your lips for a split second before coming back up. “doesn’t have to be the only thing.”
oh.
oh.
your face heats. you look away, then back, like you don’t know where to land. “you’ve been-” you shake your head slightly, almost laughing. “this whole time?”
“pretty much.”
you huff out a disbelieving breath. “i thought you were just-” you stop yourself.
jack raises an eyebrow. “just what.”
you groan, dropping your head into your hand for a second. “i don’t know…normal.”
that actually makes him laugh real low. “this is me being normal?”
you peek at him. “apparently not.” you lower your hand slowly, looking at him again. your heart is still racing, but you don’t hate it. “you’re bold,” you say quietly.
jack’s mouth curves. “only when it counts.”
your stomach twists again. you shake your head slightly, smiling despite yourself. “and you just assumed i’d say yes?”
“no.” he shrugs simply.
the honesty catches you off guard. “then why ask?”
jack holds your gaze. “because i wanted to.” he murmurs. “figured you were worth the risk.”
you stare at him for a second longer, tilting your head like it might help you figure him out better. “…ok.” it slips out before you can overthink it.
jack tilts his head slightly. “ok?”
you nod, a little more certain now. “yes, i’ll go out with you.”
a boyish grin takes over his face. it may have taken months of what he thought was obvious flirting, hundreds spent on overpriced coffees, and more self-control than he’d ever admit out loud, but he got there. now you’re sitting in front of him, cheeks warm, eyes a little wide, finally seeing him the way he’s been seeing you all along.
Summary: Bucky Barnes has learned to live with certainty. With assumptions that feel safer than hope. Loving you is something he does quietly, carefully, from the edges of your life - convinced that your heart already belongs to someone else.
Wordcount: 6k
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader (no use of Y/N)
Warnings: angst, no happy ending, miscommunication, death, gunshot injury, emotional pain and trauma, unrequited love, just this is sad okay?
A/N: I think you can all thank @buckytakethewheel for this one, since it was her request. Also, we can all aknowledge that I can't do drabbles. And yet, I tried, believe me I tried... Also (bis), I'm never listening to that song ever again. Nope. Thank you Marta, you ruined it for me. I'm gonna go cry in that corner if you're looking for me.
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Bucky believed in simple equations. Not because the world stayed simple, but because his mind needed something clean to hold when everything else slipped.
You loved Steve.
He did not learn that from a confession, or a stolen kiss caught in a doorway. He learned it the way he learned most things now: from fragments, from half-seen gestures, from the shape people made around each other when they thought no one watched. A hand on an elbow as you stepped down from the quinjet. A smile that arrived too fast when Steve’s voice carried across the training room. The way you said his name like it belonged to you.
Bucky stood at the edge of those moments and let them arrange themselves into certainty. It felt safer than hoping. It felt like a rule, and rules kept him from breaking things.
He told himself it did not hurt.
It hurt anyway.
He watched you the way someone watched winter roll in: knowing it would come, knowing it would stay, pretending the cold surprised him each time it seeped through the seams. You moved through the compound with a kind of quiet intent that made the corridors seem less sterile. You made jokes that fell flat against the concrete and then you smiled anyway. You treated the staff like they mattered. You listened when people spoke, even when what they said did not deserve your attention. You did the small human things, the ones Bucky still mistrusted himself to do without ruining.
He did not tell you any of that. He did not tell anyone any of that. He kept it close and wordless, like a blade.
On paper, it made sense. Steve had always drawn people in. Steve had always been something to believe in, something to follow. There was a steadiness to him that survived wars and time and loss. He carried the kind of hope that made other people feel braver just by standing near it. If you wanted a future, if you wanted warmth, if you wanted someone who did not have to wrestle his own hands into obedience each morning - Steve was the obvious choice.
Bucky did not begrudge him that.
He told himself he did not.
He watched the two of you after briefings sometimes, when everyone spilled out of the room and into the hall like a released breath. Steve moved toward you without thinking, always angling his body to block you from the press of others, always making space. You leaned in close when you spoke to him. You touched his shoulder once - an absentminded tap, a grounding gesture - and Bucky felt the phantom of something splinter in his chest.
He stayed out of the way. He learned to be excellent at staying out of the way.
That was, he told himself, what love was supposed to look like from someone like him.
He loved you in the margins. In the seconds before dawn when the compound still slept and the cafeteria smelled of clean metal and burnt coffee. In the way he washed his hands longer than necessary after missions, because he knew you noticed when he did not. In the way he checked the secure doors twice when you went out, because he could not stop his mind from mapping danger onto every street you walked.
He loved you without permission. He loved you without expectations. He loved you like an oath he had never been asked to swear.
In the mornings when sleep refused him, he ran. He ran until his lungs burned and his legs shook, until the rhythm of impact turned his thoughts into something duller. Sometimes you ran too, earlier than most of the others, your ponytail or loose hair snapping against your collar, your breath visible in the cold air outside the training wing.
You never made a show of noticing him. You simply matched his pace when your route crossed his, as if it had always been the plan. Some mornings, you did not speak at all. You ran beside him in companionable silence, your footsteps a second heartbeat to his own.
Bucky told himself it meant nothing. He told himself you did this for everyone. You were kind. You were the sort of person who eased up next to someone alone and made their solitude less sharp without ever naming it.
Still, his chest tightened each time you appeared.
Once, you slowed as you neared the end of the track, your shoulders rising and falling with controlled breaths. You tilted your head toward him as if you meant to say something. Your eyes lingered on his face for a moment too long.
Bucky’s mouth went dry.
Then you smiled - soft, private, like a secret you did not mind sharing - and said, “You’re up early.”
It was nothing. It was less than nothing. It was the kind of phrase people threw at each other every day. Yet his body reacted like it had been touched.
He answered with the only thing he trusted: distance.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he said, and his voice sounded rough, like a door dragged open.
You nodded, like you understood. Like you knew the shape of sleeplessness and had decided it did not make him strange. You wiped sweat from your temple with the back of your wrist and said, “If you ever want company, I’m around.”
Company, you said. Not comfort. Not help. Not anything that implied he was broken.
Bucky stared at the track beneath his shoes and forced his lungs to work. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to say, I always want you around. He wanted to say, please don’t stop showing up. Instead he gave you a brief nod and something like a smile that probably looked more like a grimace.
You did not seem discouraged. You simply fell into step beside him as you walked back toward the entrance, close enough that the warmth of you reached the edge of his senses.
That afternoon, he heard Steve laughing in the common room, and he saw you leaning against the arm of the couch with your knee tucked up, watching Steve like the world made sense when he talked. Bucky kept walking. He did not slow.
He learned to measure his own affection by what he withheld.
It was not only Steve. It was everything Steve represented. Normal. Safe. Whole.
Bucky carried the opposite of whole inside him. He carried winters that never ended, rooms without windows, voices in languages he wished he did not understand. Some days, he woke up with his hand around the handle of a knife he did not remember picking up. Some days, he looked in the mirror and saw a man shaped like a stranger.
When he stood near you, he felt his edges soften in ways that terrified him. He felt capable of wanting. Wanting meant risk. Wanting meant reaching. Reaching meant breaking.
He had already broken too much.
So he watched. He listened. He put his feelings into action because action felt less dangerous than words.
He started leaving an extra protein bar in your locker after training days when you pushed yourself too hard and forgot to eat. He did it anonymously. He told himself you would assume it came from anyone. He fixed the buckle on your tactical vest when it jammed, his fingers quick and careful, never lingering. He offered you the last clean towel once when the laundry system malfunctioned and half the team complained.
You took it with a grateful look that made his throat tight.
“Thanks,” you said, and your fingers brushed his metal wrist by accident. You did not flinch. You did not recoil. You simply squeezed, once, as if his arm were no different than anyone else’s.
He could not breathe for a moment.
Then you walked away, and he stood there with the imprint of your touch like a burn.
At the next briefing, the conference room filled with familiar tension. Monitors flickered with satellite images, heat signatures, red circles marking points of entry. Natasha spoke with crisp efficiency. Sam leaned against the table with the easy vigilance of someone who never truly relaxed. Steve stood at the head of the room, hands braced on the edge, eyes scanning the team.
You arrived a minute late, cheeks flushed from jogging down the corridor. You slipped into the chair beside Steve without thinking. You leaned in to whisper something, and Steve angled his body toward you in answer, his posture natural, intimate.
Bucky’s jaw tightened.
He kept his face blank. He kept his hands still.
Steve’s eyes met his across the table. There was no accusation in them, no pity, no anything Bucky could point to and name. Only that steady, impossible understanding Steve always carried - like he saw the world and chose hope anyway.
Bucky hated that understanding most of all.
The briefing moved on. Objectives, extraction routes, contingencies. Bucky listened, because he had to. His mind catalogued angles and distances and the likely smell of smoke. But part of him tracked you the way it always did, the way it had started doing without his permission: the twitch of your fingers when you got impatient, the way you tapped your pen against the folder, the tiny crease between your brows when you concentrated.
Steve said something about the plan needing adjustment. You shook your head, too quick, too sure.
“We can do it,” you said. “I can do it.”
The confidence in your voice struck Bucky like a physical force. It was not arrogance. It was conviction. You looked at Steve when you said it, and Steve nodded, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Alright,” Steve said. “I trust you.”
Bucky’s stomach turned. He told himself it was professional. He told himself it was about the mission. He told himself he cared because he always cared when teammates put themselves at risk.
He did not tell himself the rest.
Afterward, as people filed out, you lingered at the doorway with Steve. You laughed at something he said, your shoulders loosening. He reached up, a reflexive gesture, and brushed a stray strand of hair back from your face.
Bucky froze.
It was brief. It might have been nothing more than a habit - Steve always had been gentle, always had used touch like reassurance. But the gesture landed in Bucky’s chest with the finality of a closed door.
You looked up at Steve, and the expression on your face softened into something that made Bucky’s pulse stumble. You said something Bucky did not hear, because the blood rushed too loud in his ears. Steve answered, still smiling.
Bucky turned away before anyone could notice his staring.
In the hallway, he moved with purpose, his boots quiet against the polished floor. He did not allow himself to look back. Looking back was dangerous. Looking back was how you ended up reaching for things you could not have.
He told himself again. You loved Steve.
And because he believed it, he behaved as if it were a fact carved into stone.
That evening, he found himself in the training room long after the others left. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. The air smelled of sweat and rubber mats and the metallic tang of weapons cleaned and put away. He wrapped his hands in tape with methodical care, even though he did not need to. The ritual calmed him. The repetition steadied him.
He hit the heavy bag until his knuckles throbbed and his shoulders burned, until the anger he refused to name turned into fatigue.
When the door opened, he did not turn. He heard your footsteps - lighter than Steve’s, quicker than Sam’s. He knew you by the sound now, and that knowledge made him feel both ridiculous and exposed.
“You’re going to tear your hands up,” you said.
He kept his eyes on the bag. He forced his breathing even. “I’m fine.”
You came closer. He felt you before he saw you, the presence of you filling the empty space behind him. “You always say that.”
He swallowed. He stopped hitting the bag, because if he kept moving, he might say something that would ruin everything.
He turned slowly.
You stood a few feet away, arms crossed loosely over your chest, brows drawn together in concern. Not the professional kind you offered in the field. Something more personal. Something that made his nerves tighten.
“Is something wrong?” you asked.
The question was simple. Too simple. If he answered honestly, he would not stop. He would spill everything he had kept locked away. He would tell you how your laugh echoed in his head long after you left the room. He would tell you he counted the minutes until he saw you again, and then pretended he did not. He would tell you that he thought of you when the nightmares came, because thinking of you made the rooms in his mind less dark.
He did not have the right. Not when you belonged to someone else. Not when you had Steve’s gentle hand brushing hair from your face as if it had always been allowed.
Bucky’s throat tightened until speaking felt like forcing words through ice.
“I’m just… tired,” he said, and the lie tasted like metal.
You stepped closer, slow, cautious, as if you approached something skittish. “You don’t have to do this alone,” you said quietly. “You know that, right?”
He almost laughed. The sound got stuck in his chest and turned sharp.
Do this alone, you said. As if loneliness were a choice. As if solitude were not the only safe thing he had left.
He looked at your eyes and saw sincerity there, pure and unguarded. It made him want things he could not allow himself to want.
He forced his gaze away, down to your hands. They were empty. No ring. Nothing obvious. And still his mind filled in the gaps anyway, built the story he needed to stay in his place.
He nodded once. “Yeah.”
You hesitated, like you wanted to say more. Like you had walked into this room with something heavy held behind your teeth. Bucky waited, heart hammering, fear and hope twisting together until he could not tell them apart.
You opened your mouth.
The intercom crackled overhead, the sudden harsh sound shattering the fragile moment. “Team Alpha to the operations room,” a voice announced. “Team Alpha, report immediately.”
You flinched, just slightly, and Bucky saw the reflex in you - the way your attention snapped toward duty, toward your team’s name. You exhaled, frustration flickering across your face.
“I should go,” you said.
Of course you should.
Bucky nodded again, too stiff. “Yeah.”
You lingered one more second, as if you waited for him to stop you. He did not. He could not. He watched you turn toward the door, your shoulders squared, your steps purposeful.
At the threshold, you paused. You looked back at him.
For a heartbeat, your expression softened into something almost… almost…
Then you blinked, and it vanished behind that familiar steady composure. “Don’t stay up all night,” you said, trying for lightness and failing just a little.
Bucky’s chest hurt.
“I won’t,” he lied.
You left. The door clicked shut behind you, and the training room felt colder.
Bucky stood there in the artificial light, tape hanging loose from his hands, the heavy bag swaying faintly in front of him. He stared at the spot where you had been as if staring could bring you back.
He told himself he had done the right thing. He told himself he had protected you - from him, from what he was, from the disaster of wanting.
Outside the training room, the compound continued as usual. Somewhere, Steve’s footsteps moved toward the operations room, steady and sure. Somewhere, you moved too, because you always moved toward the places you were needed.
Bucky stayed where he was. He listened to the hum of the lights and the distant echo of voices. He let the quiet settle over him like snow.
He did not notice, not yet, that you had almost said his name like a confession.
The days between the briefing and the mission passed with a strange, fragile calm.
Bucky noticed everything, the way he always did when he pretended not to. The way you lingered after conversations, as if you were waiting for something to settle. The way your eyes followed him more often than before, thoughtful, searching. The way you seemed distracted during training, missing cues you never missed.
He told himself it was nerves. He told himself missions did that to people.
The morning of deployment arrived wrapped in steel-grey light. The quinjet waited on the landing pad, engines humming low and impatient, the sound vibrating through Bucky’s boots and into his bones. The air smelled like fuel and cold metal, sharp and familiar.
Steve and Sam were already there, running through last-minute checks. Sam’s voice carried easily, joking about something Bucky didn’t catch. Steve smiled, that calm, steady smile he always wore before missions, like reassurance made flesh.
Bucky adjusted the strap of his rifle and headed toward the ramp.
“Bucky.”
Your voice stopped him.
Not loud. Not urgent. Just his name, spoken the way you spoke it when you meant it.
He turned despite himself.
You stood a few steps behind him, helmet tucked under your arm, fingers curled a little too tightly around its edge. Your posture was straight, mission-ready, but your eyes betrayed you. There was something in them he had not seen before - or maybe something he had seen and refused to name.
“Can I talk to you?” you asked.
His first instinct was to say yes. His second was to run.
He glanced past you, toward the quinjet, toward Steve and Sam waiting inside. Steve looked up briefly, checking on them, then went back to the console without comment. The casual trust of it twisted something in Bucky’s chest.
Now, he thought. Of course it would be now.
He nodded once. “We don’t have much time.”
You stepped closer, lowering your voice, as if the open air itself might listen. “It won’t take long. I just… there’s something I need to tell you.”
There it was. The weight behind your words. The careful way you chose them. The tension in your shoulders.
Bucky’s stomach dropped.
He had rehearsed this moment without realizing it. He had played it out in his head on sleepless nights, always ending the same way: you apologizing, explaining, choosing someone else with kindness that hurt worse than cruelty.
Steve, his mind supplied automatically.
He did not blame you. He had never blamed you. But he could not stand to hear it spoken aloud, could not stand to watch it become real in sound instead of assumption.
He cut in before you could continue.
“It’s okay,” he said quickly, too quickly. “You don’t have to.”
You frowned, confusion flickering across your face. “I don’t-”
“I know,” he added, softer now, forcing calm into his voice like a hand pressed to a wound. “You don’t owe me anything.”
Your mouth parted slightly. You took another step closer, close enough that he could see the faint shadows beneath your eyes, the crease between your brows. “Bucky, I’m not… this isn’t about owing you.”
He looked away.
If he met your eyes for too long, he would lose whatever fragile resolve he had left.
“I get it,” he said. “Really. You don’t have to explain.”
There was a pause. A heavy one.
“Get what?” you asked.
He swallowed. His jaw tightened.
“Steve,” he said quietly, the name feeling heavier than it should have. “You and him. I know.”
Silence fell between you, sharp and absolute.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath. The engines hummed. Somewhere inside the quinjet, Sam laughed again, unaware. The wind tugged at the edge of your jacket.
You stared at him.
Bucky forced himself to keep going, because stopping now would mean listening.
“You don’t need to tell me,” he said. “I figured it out. A while ago.”
Your fingers loosened around the helmet. Then tightened again.
“That’s… that’s not-” You stopped, shook your head slightly, like you were trying to realign your thoughts. “Bucky, you’re wrong.”
He let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “You don’t have to spare my feelings.”
“I’m not trying to spare-” You broke off again, frustration bleeding into your voice now. “Why would you think that?”
Because it made sense. Because it fit. Because believing anything else was too dangerous.
He shrugged, a small, helpless motion. “It’s obvious.”
Your expression shifted, something like hurt flashing across your face before you masked it. “It’s not,” you said firmly. “You’ve misunderstood.”
He shook his head once, decisive, ending it before it could unravel further. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Do what?” you demanded softly.
Explain yourself to a man who had already decided he was not part of the equation.
He met your gaze then, just for a second. Long enough to see the emotion there, raw and unguarded. Long enough for doubt to flicker at the edges of his certainty.
He crushed it.
“We’re about to deploy,” he said. “This isn’t the time.”
Your shoulders sagged, just slightly. The fight seemed to drain out of you, replaced by something quieter. Something that hurt to look at.
“I wanted you to know,” you said, your voice lower now. “Before.”
Before what, he wondered distantly. Before you made it official. Before you said it out loud to everyone else.
“I know,” he said again, gentler this time. “It’s okay.”
It wasn’t. But he needed it to be.
You searched his face, like you were trying to find a crack, a place to slip the truth through. He gave you nothing. He stood still, solid, closed.
Finally, you nodded.
“Okay,” you said, the word carrying far more weight than it should have. You lifted your helmet, sliding it on with practiced ease, your expression settling into something professional and unreadable. “Then… okay.”
You turned toward the quinjet without another word.
Bucky watched you go, the familiar ache spreading through his chest like cold.
He told himself he had spared you an awkward confession. He told himself he had done the mature thing, the respectful thing. He told himself that love, real love, sometimes meant stepping aside before anyone had to bleed.
As he followed you up the ramp and into the quinjet, the doors closing behind him with a heavy finality, he did not see the way your hands trembled slightly as you buckled in.
He only knew this: whatever you had wanted to say, it was no longer his to hear.
The operation should have been routine.
It should have been a clean in-and-out: one abandoned facility, a handful of armed men too confident in old security systems, a hard drive extracted from a locked room, and then the familiar rush of leaving before anyone had time to understand they had been stripped bare.
Bucky told himself, as the quinjet cut through clouds, that routine was a lie. There was no such thing. Not anymore. Not with his hands, his history, his luck.
Still, the first hour went the way it always went when Steve led. Orders came quiet and clear. Sam moved like wind through tight spaces, the edge of his wings catching light in brief flashes. Steve’s shield struck with a clean, definitive sound, a punctuation mark that ended arguments.
And you…
You did what you always did. You were where you were needed before anyone asked. You covered angles without making a show of it. You kept pace with them, not trying to prove anything, not asking for praise. You fought like someone who had already decided the cost was worth it.
Bucky watched you too often.
He called it situational awareness. He called it team cohesion. He called it anything but what it was: the instinct to keep you alive that had grown into something feral and absolute.
He did not look at Steve when he thought it. He did not let his mind touch the memory of you on the landing pad, helmet in your hands, words caught behind your teeth.
He buried it under mission parameters and the crisp snap of comms.
They hit the perimeter just after sunset. The facility sat low against the landscape, concrete and steel half-swallowed by scrub and shadow. It had been decommissioned years ago, but it still carried the scent of purpose - old electricity, oil, dust that tasted like metal.
Bucky moved through the breach behind Steve. The hallway swallowed sound, forcing them into a careful kind of silence. Their boots barely scuffed the floor. Their breaths came slow and controlled.
“You got right,” Steve murmured, voice barely a ripple in the comm.
“Copy,” Sam replied.
Bucky shifted his rifle, feeling the weight settle familiar in his hands. “I’ll take rear.”
You did not argue. You never did, not about things like that. You simply nodded and fell into position without being told, close enough that Bucky caught the faintest warmth of you through tactical fabric and cold air.
It unsettled him every time. It steadied him too.
They cleared the first wing quickly. Two guards, distracted and bored, went down without a shout. Sam’s wings folded tight as he slipped through a maintenance corridor. Steve moved like certainty made human, shield raised, eyes scanning.
You stayed near Bucky more than you stayed near Steve.
He told himself it was practical. He told himself it was because Bucky covered blind spots better.
He did not tell himself anything else.
They reached the server room at the facility’s core. The door was reinforced, the lock older than modern scanners but stubborn in its own way. Bucky knelt to override it, fingers moving with quick, precise certainty. His metal hand did not tremble. His flesh one did, faintly, and he hated that you might notice.
“Almost,” he muttered.
“You’re doing great,” you said softly, as if you understood exactly what it cost him to say anything aloud.
The words hit him harder than any bullet ever had.
He looked up despite himself.
Your eyes met his through the dim light, and there was no teasing there, no casual friendliness. There was something open. Something steady. Something that made his breath stutter.
Then the lock clicked.
Bucky stood too quickly, as if he could shake off whatever had just happened in his chest. He pushed the door open and let the cold air of the server room swallow the moment whole.
Inside, the machines hummed. Blue lights blinked in rhythmic patterns, indifferent to human panic. Sam pulled the drive. Steve kept watch. Bucky took the left corner, muzzle trained on the doorway.
You stood between them and the corridor, a barrier of will more than muscle. Bucky saw the tension in your shoulders. The readiness. He saw the slight turn of your head, always listening.
He wondered what you had wanted to say on the landing pad.
He wondered what you would have said if he had not cut you off.
He wondered if he had already ruined something without knowing it.
Then Sam’s voice crackled in the comm. “Got it. We’re green.”
Steve nodded once, that small gesture that always meant now.
They moved out.
The return route should have been faster. It should have been easier. The guards had been cleared. The path had been mapped. All that remained was leaving.
They made it to the central hallway when the facility groaned.
Not the sound of machinery, not the hum of a failing system. A groan like something old and angry shifting in its bones.
Sam’s head tilted. “You hear that?”
Before anyone answered, the lights flickered.
And then the facility erupted into motion.
Red emergency lights stuttered on. Sirens began to wail, harsh and sudden, tearing at the air. Doors slammed shut in sequence, locking down corridors like teeth snapping closed.
Bucky swore under his breath, shoulders tensing.
“Plan B,” Steve said, already moving. His voice stayed calm, but Bucky knew what lay beneath it: the instant calculation, the readiness to improvise.
“They tripped a silent alarm,” Sam muttered. “But it’s old. It’s… weird.”
“It’s bait,” Bucky said, and he hated how certain he sounded.
The corridor ahead coughed out smoke.
Not from fire. From canisters. Dense, choking, turning the air into a grey wall. Through it, shapes moved - shadows with rifles, silhouettes that knew the building better than anyone had briefed them on.
Hydra.
The word did not need to be spoken for it to become a weight in Bucky’s gut.
His hand tightened on his weapon. His pulse surged, old instincts rising like a tide he had never truly drained.
Steve’s shield snapped up as the first volley came. Metal rang. Bullets sparked. Sam lunged forward, wings flaring, knocking one shooter down hard enough to rattle bones.
Bucky fired into the haze, aiming by sound and memory, by the pattern of movement he could feel more than see.
You moved with him.
You stayed on his flank. You watched his blind side. Your presence anchored him in a way he could not afford to need.
“On your left,” you warned sharply.
He pivoted, fired, saw a man crumple.
“Good,” Steve’s voice came through, tight. “Keep moving.”
They pushed forward in a tight formation, cutting through smoke and sirens and the sudden, ugly familiarity of Hydra tactics. Bucky tasted copper and old fear. He forced his mind to stay on the present: on Steve’s posture, on Sam’s quick aerial sweeps, on your breathing beside him.
You did not sound afraid.
That terrified him more than fear would have.
They reached an access door that should have led to the exterior. Steve slammed into it shoulder-first.
Locked.
Sam cursed. “Alternate route’s-”
A blast went off behind them, close enough that the shockwave punched the air from Bucky’s lungs. The floor trembled under their boots. Dust rained from the ceiling like dry snow.
Steve’s eyes flashed. “Vent shaft. Now.”
They ran.
They moved fast, faster than any normal human could manage, but the building seemed determined to fight them. More smoke. More gunfire. A corridor collapsed ahead, forcing them to cut through a storage room stacked with old crates.
Bucky ripped one open with his metal hand, searching for an exit.
“Here!” you shouted.
A maintenance hatch. Narrow, but usable. You dropped to your knees and yanked it open, the metal screeching against its frame.
Steve went first, shield angled. Sam folded his wings, forcing them tight. Bucky followed, rifle slung, hands gripping the ladder as they climbed into the shaft.
You climbed last.
Bucky heard your breath behind him, steady, unbroken.
Above, the hatch at the far end cracked open into the night.
Cold air rushed in like mercy.
Steve shoved it wide and climbed out, hauling Sam after him. Bucky followed, bracing his hands on the edge and pulling himself up into the open.
For a second, the world went quiet.
The sirens were muffled beneath the earth. The night air smelled clean compared to smoke and metal. Stars hung faintly above, indifferent.
They had made it.
Sam exhaled hard. “Tell me we’re done.”
Steve’s shoulders loosened a fraction. “We’re done.”
Bucky turned back instinctively.
You were halfway out of the hatch, hands gripping the edge. Your face was smudged with soot. Your eyes were bright. You looked up at him as if you had been searching for him specifically in the chaos, as if he was the thing that meant safe.
Bucky’s chest tightened.
He reached down without thinking and took your forearm, pulling you up the last distance.
Your fingers closed around his wrist.
Not his hand. His wrist. Metal and all.
You did not hesitate.
You stood, close, too close, and for one irrational heartbeat, Bucky thought: Say it. Say something. Anything. Before-
A single shot cracked the night.
It came from behind them, from a dark angle near the facility’s outer service road. A lone figure, half-hidden, rifle raised with the kind of patience Hydra trained into its men.
Bucky saw it too late.
The bullet hit you.
Not in the chest. Not clean. It slammed into your abdomen with a dull, sickening impact, and your body jerked.
Your grip on Bucky’s wrist tightened, reflexive, desperate.
Then your knees buckled.
Bucky caught you.
He caught you the way he had never let himself imagine catching you, arms snapping around you, pulling you against his chest as your weight collapsed into him. For a second, he did not understand what had happened. His mind rejected it. The world narrowed down to the feel of you in his arms, sudden and wrong.
Blood warmed his hands.
His hands.
His flesh hand pressed against your side and came away slick. His metal one curled behind your back, supporting you as you slumped, head falling forward against his shoulder.
“No,” he breathed, and the word barely existed.
Steve’s shield flew, a dark blur slicing through the night. There was a distant grunt, a body hitting ground, the threat ended in an instant.
It did not matter.
Bucky dropped to his knees, pulling you with him so you did not hit the ground hard. He cradled you as if he could keep you intact by force alone.
“Hey,” you rasped, voice thin. “Hey… Bucky…”
Hearing his name from your mouth like that - weak, strained - shattered something inside him.
He fumbled for the comm. His fingers shook. “Med evac,” he snapped, voice breaking. “Now. We need-”
Sam was already moving, barking coordinates. Steve knelt beside you, hands hovering like he was afraid to touch and make it worse.
Bucky’s mind screamed for action. Pressure. Tourniquet. Bandage. Anything.
But it was the abdomen. The wound was deep. The blood kept coming, warm and unstoppable, soaking through your suit.
Bucky pressed his hand harder, as if he could hold the life inside you by sheer stubbornness. “Stay with me,” he ordered, and the command sounded wrong, sounded like something he had no right to say.
Your eyes fluttered, trying to focus. You swallowed, grimacing, and your fingers found his jacket, clutching as if he was the only solid thing left in the world.
“Bucky,” you said again, and there was urgency in it. Not fear. Not pain. Something else.
He leaned closer, because he could not not. “I’m here,” he said, voice rough, wrecked. “I’m right here.”
Your breath hitched. Your hand slid up, trembling, and for a moment your fingers brushed his cheek, a featherlight touch that made his entire body go still.
“You’re-” you whispered. “You’re going to hate me.”
His throat closed. “Don’t,” he tried to say, but it came out fractured.
You shook your head weakly, and the motion made you wince. “I tried,” you breathed. “Before we left. I tried to tell you.”
Bucky’s mind flashed back to the landing pad. Your helmet in your hands. Your voice saying there’s something I need to tell you.
And his own voice cutting you off.
I know.
“I’m sorry,” he said, because he did not know what else to offer you. He did not know how to fix anything. His hands, his hands were always too late.
Your eyes filled, not with tears that fell, but with that glassy sheen that terrified him. “Don’t be,” you whispered. “Just… listen. Please.”
He nodded, frantic. “Okay. Okay, I’m listening.”
You drew a breath that trembled all the way through you. Your fingers tightened at his collar, pulling him closer with what little strength you had left.
“I love you,” you said.
The words hit him like a clean, impossible blow.
Bucky froze.
Your gaze held his, steady even now, even with death creeping in behind your eyes. “Not Steve,” you whispered, the name like an afterthought, like a misunderstanding you had never understood. “Never Steve. It was always you.”
Bucky’s mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
His heart thundered against his ribs, too loud, too frantic. His mind scrambled to form words, any words, but they tangled in panic and disbelief and the unbearable, crushing weight of time.
You kept going, as if you knew he could not speak, as if you had expected his silence all along.
“I thought…” Your breath caught. “I thought you didn’t want to hear it. I thought you were pushing me away because you couldn’t… because you weren’t ready.”
He shook his head hard, too hard. “No,” he tried, and the sound was raw. “No, I-”
He couldn’t. He couldn’t get it out. The words lodged behind old fear, behind the instinct to swallow everything that mattered.
Your hand slipped from his cheek, falling back to his chest. Your fingers pressed there, as if you wanted to feel his heartbeat.
It was too fast.
Too alive.
You smiled, small and broken, and somehow still tender. “It’s okay,” you whispered, and the echo of his own earlier lie stabbed him. “I just… I needed you to know.”
Bucky’s vision blurred. He tightened his arms around you, as if he could hold you to the earth. “Stay,” he begged now, the command gone, replaced by something helpless. “Please. Please stay.”
Your eyes softened. “I’m tired,” you breathed, voice barely audible.
“No,” he said again, and this time it was a refusal, a protest against the universe itself. “No, no, no-”
Steve’s hand landed gently on Bucky’s shoulder, grounding him, steadying him. “The evac’s coming,” Steve said, voice low, strained. “Hold on.”
Bucky could not look at Steve. He could not look away from you.
Your breath came shallow. Your fingers, still against his chest, trembled, then stilled.
Bucky leaned down until his forehead pressed to yours. He tried to pour his love into the contact, tried to force the truth into existence through skin and warmth.
Say it, his mind screamed. Say it now.
His lips parted.
Nothing.
It was as if the words did not belong to him. As if they were a language he had once known and lost in a winter he could never escape.
You blinked slowly. Your gaze drifted, then fought its way back to his face. “Bucky,” you whispered again, softer this time, almost not there.
“I’m here,” he choked. “I’m-”
You exhaled. A long, thin breath that sounded like relief. Like surrender. Like letting go of something heavy you had carried for too long.
Your eyes stayed on his for a heartbeat longer.
Then they unfocused.
Your hand slid down from his chest, fingers loosening, falling limp in the space between them.
Bucky felt it.
The exact moment life left you.
His arms tightened reflexively, crushing you to him as if he could pull you back by force. “No,” he whispered, and the word was so small it barely existed. “No, no-”
He rocked once, barely, like a man trying to soothe a nightmare into ending.
Sam’s boots hit the gravel nearby. The whir of rotors grew louder, chopping the air. Voices shouted. Hands reached for you.
Bucky did not let go.
He stared at your face, at the quiet peace that had settled there, at the softness still lingering in your mouth as if you had died mid-smile. He waited for your chest to rise again.
It didn’t.
Somewhere deep inside him, something went cold and still.
My love is winter, he thought, not as poetry, not as metaphor, but as a simple truth that turned everything into ice.
My love is lost.
And he stayed on his knees in the gravel and night, holding you like a promise he had never learned how to speak, while the world kept moving around him as if it had not just ended.
Synopsis: Rivals turned undercover partners, you and Leon Kennedy fake a relationship during an Umbrella operation. Only to realise the hardest mission isn’t survival, but choosing each other.
Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Fake Relationship, Forced Proximity, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Emotional Vulnerability, Miscommunication, Action/Combat, Protective Leon Kennedy, Rivals to Equals, Confession Scene.
Warnings: Gun Violence, Injury, Blood, Emotional Distress, Arguments, High-Stress Situations, Feelings
Words: ~17k
A/N: im just going to ignore the infection on leon's neck in the new trailer :') (pls capcom dont play with me rn)
The Division of Security Operations headquarters never slept, but it also never felt alive.
Steel-panelled walls reflected fluorescent light in a way that flattened everything, faces, voices, victories. Even the air felt regulated, filtered until it lacked personality. The kind of place that existed to remind you that emotions were liabilities and efficiency was king.
Which was ironic, considering how personal things always got.
The leaderboard hung at the far end of the operations floor, suspended like a silent judge.
Agents gathered as the system refreshed, boots echoing against polished floors, conversations tapering off mid-sentence. There was always a crowd when post-mission reports finalised. Half anticipation, half fear. Careers shifted on that screen. Egos bruised. Grudges sharpened.
You stood with your arms folded, posture casual in a way that took effort. Like you weren’t waiting. Like you didn’t already know exactly who you’d be fighting for space with.
The board flickered.
For a split second, everything went dark.
Then the names snapped into place.
#1 — YOU
#2 — LEON KENNEDY
The reaction was immediate.
A low whistle cut through the room. Someone muttered, “Jesus, again.” Another agent laughed softly, like they’d just lost a bet.
You didn’t smile.
Smiling would’ve felt like gloating, and gloating around Leon Kennedy always came back to bite. Instead, you exhaled through your nose, jaw tightening just enough to hurt. Relief tangled with triumph, knotted together in a way that never quite felt like a win.
Across the floor, Leon stood a few feet away. Too close. Close enough that you could feel him without looking, like static in the air, irritating and unavoidable. He didn’t react. No sigh. No curse. No flicker of irritation that would’ve been satisfying to see.
He just stared at the board, hands loose at his sides, shoulders squared like this was exactly where he expected to be. Second.
That was the thing about Leon. He never looked bothered. Which only ever made you want to bother him more. Finally, he turned his head. Not fully. Just enough to acknowledge your existence.
“Congrats.”
The word was clean. Controlled. Devoid of warmth. Not a compliment, an obligation. You turned on him immediately.
“Wow,” you said, voice light in a way that wasn’t. “That sounded painful. You okay?”
A few agents nearby froze, suddenly very interested in anything that wasn’t the two of you. Someone cleared their throat. Loudly.
Leon’s eyes slid to you then—really looked. Blue, steady, unreadable. Like he was cataloguing you, the way he always did, as if you were a problem he hadn’t solved yet.
“I’ll survive,” he said. “I usually do.”
There it was. The implication. The reminder. That he didn’t need the board. Didn’t need the validation.
You scoffed. “Right. Keep telling yourself that.”
Your heart was beating faster than it should have. You hated that. Hated that he still had that effect. You told yourself it was just rivalry. Professional friction. Two agents chasing the same metrics.
Except metrics didn’t make your blood boil. Metrics didn’t make you remember every mission where he’d overridden your call. Every briefing where he’d questioned your judgment with that infuriating calm. Every time he’d acted like you were a variable to manage instead of an equal.
Leon gave a short nod, not concession, not respect. Closure.
Then he turned away.
As if the conversation hadn’t mattered.
As if you hadn’t mattered.
Your fingers curled before you could stop them. You remembered the first time you’d tried to talk to him. Fresh out of training, adrenaline high, stupid enough to think camaraderie was a given. You’d said his name.
He’d walked straight past you. You’d decided then that he was an asshole. Every interaction since had only reinforced it.
The operations floor slowly returned to life as agents peeled away toward briefings, the tension dispersing but not disappearing. Not between you and Leon. It never did.
As you headed toward the briefing room, you caught his reflection in the glass wall ahead. Same expression. Same calm. Locked down so tight it felt deliberate. Like a wall he wanted you to slam into. And God help you, part of you wanted to break it. Just to prove that something under there could crack.
You squared your shoulders and kept walking. You didn’t care. You absolutely did.
The mission briefing chime cut through the operations floor with surgical precision.
“Conference Room A. Five minutes.”
The reaction was immediate and universal.
Groans rippled through agents who hadn’t moved fast enough to make themselves scarce. Chairs scraped back. Tablets were snapped shut. The loose, post-leaderboard tension evaporated, replaced by something sharper, more disciplined.
You moved with the crowd on instinct alone.
It wasn’t until you were halfway there that you realised exactly where it was taking you.
Conference Room A.
You grimaced internally.
The room was large by design, tiered seating, wide tables, enough space to accommodate egos as well as bodies, but it had a habit of shrinking whenever certain people occupied it.
You stepped inside and scanned for an open seat, already bracing yourself.
Of course.
Leon was already there.
Middle row. Dead centre. Prime vantage point of the screen and the handler’s podium. Perfect posture. Perfectly composed. Like he’d planned it that way.
There were empty chairs scattered throughout the room, but they might as well not have existed. Too far. Too obvious. Too cowardly. The only viable option, the one that didn’t scream avoidance, was the seat beside him.
Unavoidable. You took it. You dropped into the chair with more force than necessary, the legs giving a brief, sharp screech against the floor. Leon didn’t look at you. Didn’t need to.
The tension snapped into place the instant you sat down, tight and immediate, like a wire pulled too far. You felt it in your shoulders. In the way your spine straightened despite yourself.
Conversations around you faltered. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough that you noticed the sudden lack of noise in your peripheral hearing. Someone a few rows back leaned in to whisper something to their partner. Another agent glanced at the two of you, eyebrows lifting before they very deliberately looked away.
No one wanted to be involved. The air felt thick. Pressurised. Like it might rupture if either of you pushed too hard.
Leon crossed his arms, posture relaxed but closed. Casual in the way that required discipline. Control. You leaned back, ankle resting on your knee, adopting your own version of indifference. Two opposing stances. Same message.
The handler entered, and the room snapped to attention.
Lights dimmed. Screens flared to life, flooding the space with satellite imagery, data streams, mission headers scrolling in clean, clinical fonts. The low hum of equipment filled the silence left behind by agents who suddenly remembered how to listen. For a few minutes, it was almost normal. Almost.
“Umbrella-affiliated assets have increased activity along the European biotech circuit,” the handler said, laser pointer gliding across the map. “High-profile events. Private funding galas. A lot of noise. Very little traceable movement.”
Leon leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the table.
“Which means the actual exchange won’t happen on-site,” he said. Calm. Certain. “It’ll be routed through a secondary node. Off-grid. Clean.”
You didn’t look at him.
“Or,” you cut in, eyes still fixed on the screen, “they keep it local because no one expects them to risk exposure in a room full of donors and diplomats.”
The room stilled. You felt the shift before you saw it, attention pivoting, subtle but undeniable. Leon turned his head slowly. Deliberately.
“That would be sloppy,” he said. No heat. No edge. “Umbrella isn’t sloppy.”
You let out a soft, humourless breath. “Neither are shell corporations hiding in plain sight,” you replied. “Especially when they’re backed by people who think money makes them invisible.”
A pause. Leon’s mouth twitched. Not irritation. Amusement.
“That’s an assumption,” he said. “Arrogance isn’t a reliable variable.”
You turned then, meeting his gaze head-on. “It is when arrogance is the only reason they’ve survived this long.”
For a split second, his eyes held yours. Then he smirked. Not big. Not obvious. Just enough. And it pissed you off instantly.
A few agents shifted uncomfortably. Someone cleared their throat. The handler didn’t intervene, never did. Not when it was the two of you. They’d learned better. From somewhere across the room, barely under someone’s breath, came a muttered, “God help whoever has to work with them.”
It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t annoyed. It was resigned.
You saw Leon’s reaction out of the corner of your eye. The faint tightening at the corner of his mouth. Not anger. Something closer to agreement. Like the comment confirmed something he already knew. The rivalry wasn’t subtle. It never had been.
Leadership knew it. Field agents knew it. Even analysts who avoided combat zones like the plague knew better than to put the two of you on the same assignment without contingencies.
And yet. Here you were. Side by side. Again.
As the briefing continued, the friction didn’t ease, it deepened. You filled gaps Leon dismissed as irrelevant. He dismantled assumptions you made with surgical precision. Neither of you raised your voice. Neither of you yielded an inch.
It wasn’t about ego. It was about being right.
Leon shifted beside you, the movement small but unmistakable. Intentional. Close enough that you could feel his presence without looking. Close enough to feel like a provocation.
You refused to glance at him.
The handler cleared their throat sharply.
“Enough,” they said. Calm. Firm. “Both of you.”
You leaned back in your chair, jaw tight, eyes still forward.
Leon didn’t move at all.
Except for that damn smirk that hadn’t quite faded.
The briefing ended the way most did.
Not with resolution but with an abrupt cutoff and a roomful of people pretending they hadn’t been holding their breath.
The lights brightened. Screens went dark. Chairs shifted as agents remembered how to move again. Conversations started up too fast, too loud, like noise could erase what had just happened.
It couldn’t.
Agents filed out in a rush, boots striking the floor with sudden urgency. No one lingered. No one made eye contact longer than necessary. The tension was something physical now. Something that could snag you if you weren’t careful, wrap around your ankle and drag you down with it.
You were halfway to the door when the handler’s voice cut through the noise.
“You. Kennedy. Stay.”
Your spine stiffened.
Of course.
Leon stopped beside you without looking at you, like he’d been expecting it. Like this was just another outcome he’d already calculated. You hated that most of all, that nothing ever seemed to catch him off guard.
The rest of the room emptied fast.
Too fast.
Even the analysts who usually hovered with questions and clarifications suddenly remembered pressing deadlines and non-existent meetings. The last agent slipped out, the door sliding shut behind them with a soft, almost polite hiss.
Click.
The sound echoed.
Silence flooded in, heavy and deliberate.
The handler didn’t bother with theatrics. They never did. They stood at the head of the conference table, hands loosely clasped, posture easy in a way that only came from authority earned the hard way.
They looked unimpressed.
Calm. Experienced. Patient in the way of someone who had watched far worse people implode and lived to tell the story.
Their gaze flicked to you.
Then to Leon.
Like they were reviewing two familiar problem variables in a report they already knew by heart.
“You’re going to hate this assignment,” they said evenly. “So I’m going to give it to you quickly.”
Leon’s shoulders barely moved. No reaction. No protest.
You crossed your arms tighter, already bracing for impact.
The handler tapped the remote.
The screen behind them changed, maps and data streams replaced by a glossy event flyer dripping with gold accents and forced elegance.
THE KENSINGTON BIOTECH BENEFIT
A private gala supporting global medical innovation.
You scoffed quietly.
The kind of event that smelled like money, power, and immunity.
“Umbrella-adjacent shell companies have been laundering research funding through three different foundations,” the handler continued. “One of them is sponsoring this gala. Donors, executives, foreign ambassadors. Wealth. Influence. Enough plausible deniability to make a prosecutor cry.”
Another click.
A timeline appeared. Then a guest list, names blurred, titles redacted, power implied without explanation.
“Tonight,” the handler said, “their data broker makes a handoff. We believe it includes proprietary files and field logs. Evidence of illegal trials. Off-book transport routes. Personnel rosters.”
Your focus sharpened despite yourself.
“Where’s the handoff happening?” you asked.
Leon beat you by half a second.
“And how do we extract it without tipping the room?”
You felt irritation spark immediately. Predictable. Of course he’d jump straight to logistics, like this was just another clean operation and not a nest of vipers in tuxedos.
The handler’s eyes flicked between you again, cataloguing the tension like it was another asset to manage.
“The handoff is digital,” they said. “Encrypted drive. Stored temporarily on a secure device in the VIP lounge. The broker uploads it to an off-site server at 23:00. We need the device before then.”
Too clean.
You frowned. “So we infiltrate. Grab the device. Disappear.”
“Correct,” the handler said. “Which is why this is an on-site operation. No drones. No external breach. Umbrella’s countermeasures are tight.”
Leon’s jaw flexed once. Barely noticeable. You caught it anyway.
“Then we’ll need invitations,” he said.
“Already handled.”
The handler clicked again.
The screen changed.
Two names appeared. Two immaculate profiles. Wealthy. Connected. Polished to perfection.
A couple.
Your stomach dropped.
You read it once.
Then again.
And again.
Couple profile.
You looked up slowly. “No.”
The handler didn’t blink. “Yes.”
You let out a short laugh, sharp, humourless. “Absolutely not.”
Leon still hadn’t spoken.
His eyes were locked on the screen, but his posture had gone rigid in a way you recognised. The same way it did right before a firefight. Before something went wrong.
His jaw was tight. Mouth set into a flat line.
If a bullet had been aimed at his head, he would’ve looked exactly like this.
“The guest list is exclusive,” the handler continued. “Couples only. It’s not charity, it’s a filter. Singles draw scrutiny. Couples imply stability.”
You leaned forward, palms slamming onto the table. “Send literally anyone else.”
“There is no anyone else,” the handler replied calmly. “Not for this.”
Your temper flared hot and fast. “Why? Because we’re top-ranked?”
“Because your skill overlap is ideal,” they said. “One of you excels in social manipulation and close-quarters infiltration. The other excels in threat assessment and extraction under pressure.”
You opened your mouth.
“Don’t,” the handler said sharply. “You’re both excellent. Together, you’re efficient.”
Leon finally spoke.
“And if we refuse?”
Low. Controlled. Dangerous in its restraint.
The handler didn’t soften. “Then we miss the handoff. Umbrella keeps their data. People die later because we didn’t do our jobs now.”
Cold. Final.
You clenched your jaw. “So your plan is to shove us into a ballroom and hope we don’t kill each other.”
“My plan,” the handler said, “is to send two professionals into a controlled environment with a clear objective. Your personal feelings are irrelevant.”
“They’re not irrelevant if they compromise the mission,” you snapped.
Leon glanced at you then.
Brief. Sharp.
Unreadable.
He didn’t defend you. Didn’t agree. Didn’t disagree.
He just stood there, calm, contained, infuriatingly above it, like he always did.
You wanted to shake him. To crack that composure just once.
The handler watched you both like someone observing a storm they’d already charted.
“If you can’t play nice for one night,” they said evenly, “you don’t deserve that leaderboard.”
The words landed hard. Because they were true.
Because the leaderboard wasn’t just numbers. It was proof. Of every sacrifice. Every cut corner. Every fight you’d survived to get here. You felt the hook sink deep.
Leon didn’t react outwardly, but you saw it. The subtle lift of his chin. The tension in his throat as he swallowed. Pride caught him too. The handler shut off the screen.
“You’ll attend as Dr. and Dr.,” they said, sliding dossiers across the table. “Long-term couple. Convincing. You will touch. You will smile. You will sell it.”
You stared at the dossiers like they were weapons. Leon picked his up with careful precision. Of course he did.
“This is not optional,” the handler said. “Get the device. Get the data. Come back.”
They looked at you both.
“Try not to embarrass me.”
The door unlocked with a hiss.
You didn’t move.
Neither did Leon.
The truth settled ugly and heavy in your chest.
You weren’t being asked to work with Leon Kennedy. You were being forced to pretend you wanted him.
The training wing smelled like disinfectant and old sweat, cleaned often, never enough. The kind of smell that clung to the back of your throat no matter how many times they scrubbed the floors. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, cold and unforgiving, washing everything in a sickly white glow that did no one any favours.
The DSO didn’t do cozy. It did functional. It did survive.
A door slid open at the handler’s badge swipe, revealing a smaller room tucked off the main mat space. It was laid out like an interrogation room that had tried—and failed—to pass itself off as an office.
One table. Two chairs. A stack of folders.
And a tablet already lit up with a form that made your soul leave your body on sight.
You stared at it like it had just insulted your family.
“Sit,” the handler said.
Leon took the chair opposite you immediately. No hesitation. No comment. Of course he did. You waited half a second longer, purely out of spite, then sat, crossing your legs and folding your arms like the tablet might try something.
The handler slid two clipboards across the table.
“You’ll fill these out together,” they said. “Your cover is long-term. Married. High-value donors with private ties to the foundation. Security will look for inconsistencies: names, habits, timelines. If you don’t align, you’ll set off alarms before you hit the champagne.”
They pushed a third folder toward Leon. “Apartment layout. Memorise it. If someone asks where the bathroom is in your home, you answer without thinking.”
Leon scanned the paperwork with that infuriatingly calm focus he brought to bomb schematics and ambush routes. No sarcasm. No commentary. Just silent efficiency.
You hated him a little extra for it.
“I’ll be outside,” the handler added. “You have forty minutes. Try not to kill each other.”
The door shut.
Click.
You and Leon were left alone with the lie. For a moment, neither of you moved. Leon’s eyes stayed on the paperwork. Yours stayed on him.
You grabbed the top sheet and skimmed it.
How did you meet?
When did you move in together?
Anniversary date:
Pet names used in public:
Pet peeves:
Shared routines:
Preferred terms of endearment (optional):
Your jaw clenched.
“This is ridiculous.”
Leon finally lifted his gaze. “It’s standard.”
You scoffed. “Standard. Right. Because nothing says ‘authentic marriage’ like a fill-in-the-blank worksheet.”
He picked up his pen. “How did we meet?”
The bluntness threw you for a second. “Wow. No warm-up? No foreplay?”
Leon didn’t blink. “Focus.”
You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Prague.”
His pen paused midair. “Vienna.”
You stared. “I’m sorry, did you just veto my city?”
“Vienna makes more sense,” he said evenly. “Diplomatic circuit. Donors. Embassy galas.”
“Prague is beautiful,” you shot back. “Historic. Romantic. Exactly the kind of place two rich idiots would pretend to fall in love over overpriced wine.”
Leon’s mouth flattened. “It’s cliché.”
“And Vienna isn’t?”
“It’s believable.”
“So is Prague.”
He exhaled slowly, like he was counting to ten. “We need a story that holds up under scrutiny.”
“And we need one that doesn’t sound like it was written by a man who alphabetises his spices.”
A flicker of annoyance crossed his eyes. “I don’t alphabetise my spices.”
“Wow. Growth.”
The argument escalated almost instantly. It was petty. You both knew it. It was also loud, because neither of you was willing to lose the first detail. Like it mattered. Like this wasn’t all fake anyway.
Leon tapped the page. “Vienna. We met at a benefit dinner. You spilled a drink on me.”
You barked a laugh. “Of course I did.”
“It’s memorable.”
“It makes me clumsy.”
“It explains why we talked.”
You bristled. “Or you bumped into me.”
Leon raised an eyebrow. “That makes you the victim.”
“And?”
“It makes me the asshole.”
You smiled sweetly. “Finally. Something accurate.”
For a second, his mouth twitched. Barely. Gone as fast as it appeared.
“Anniversary date,” you said quickly, flipping the page.
“November,” Leon said without hesitation.
“Why November?”
“Forgettable.”
“Wow. Romantic.”
He didn’t react. “The fifteenth.”
You paused. “That’s weirdly specific.”
His gaze flicked away. Just for a fraction of a second. “It’s fine.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You absolutely have something on the fifteenth.”
“No.”
“Uh-huh.”
You wrote it down anyway.
Pet peeves.
You read the line and looked up. “This is where you put ‘people who talk too much,’ isn’t it?”
Leon folded his arms. “It’s where we put things we can answer quickly.”
“Oh. Then write ‘emotion.’”
“What’s yours?” he countered.
“Men who think silence counts as depth.”
His pen stilled. “You hum when you’re thinking.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
“That’s not a pet peeve.”
“It is when it’s constant.”
Heat crept up your neck. “You’re creepy.”
“Observant.”
Next line.
Pet names used in public.
You stared at it like it might explode.
“No.”
“We need something.”
“Something neutral.”
“Babe.”
You physically recoiled. “Absolutely not.”
“Sweetheart.”
“Try again.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Honey.”
Leon grimaced. “That’s worse.”
“It’s normal.”
“It sounds like a threat when you say it.”
You gasped. “Rude.”
“Pick one.”
You exhaled hard. “Love.”
He froze.
“What?” you snapped.
“It’s… British.”
“We’re in London half the year. Write it down.”
He did.
Your stomach did something annoying.
You shoved the clipboard away. “Done?”
Leon flipped to the apartment layout. “No.”
He started listing details like a man preparing for war. Door directions. Furniture placement. Appliance locations.
“You’re insane,” you muttered.
“It’s my job.”
The way he said it stopped your next insult cold. Before you could unpack that, the door hissed open.
“Time,” the handler said. “Training.”
The training room was louder. A raw, grinding decibel that felt less like sound and more like physical pressure against your eardrums. It was hotter, a dense, clinging heat that rose from the mats and bodies and pooled against the ceiling. This place was brutally, viciously honest in a way the slick corridors and polished debriefing rooms of headquarters never dared to be. Here, pretence was the first thing stripped away.
Every sound was amplified, thrown back by the barren walls: the scuff and slap of boots against padding, the meaty thud of bodies hitting the mat, the sharp, bitten-off bark of instructors.
This was where elegance went to die. Where you were reminded what you were underneath the tech and the tactics: flesh, bone, and flawed instinct.
Leon shrugged out of his jacket as if shedding a second skin. The movement was economical, unshowy, the muscles in his back and shoulders shifting in a deliberate roll beneath his dark shirt as he pushed his sleeves to his elbows. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t need to. His indifference was a practiced weapon, and he wielded it perfectly.
You hated that you tracked the motion anyway. Hated the way your eyes followed the line of his forearm, the shift of his weight. A silent catalogue of the enemy.
Mirroring him was a reflex, but you made it aggressive. You rolled your shoulders back until the joints gave a soft pop, tilted your neck until it burned. Your pulse was already climbing, a drumbeat of pure, undiluted adrenaline bleeding into your veins ahead of the impact. This wasn't nerves. It was a craving for collision.
“Close-quarters,” the handler’s voice cut through the din from the edge of the mat. “No distance. No weapons. You’re going to be in each other’s space until one of you breaks or the clock does.”
Lucky me.
Leon turned to face you fully, and the overhead lights carved him out of the gloom. The sharp, unyielding line of his jaw, the steady, metronomic rise and fall of his chest. His eyes swept over you once. Not dismissive. Not curious. Assessing. Coldly, clinically reassessing a variable he already had quantified.
“Try to keep up,” you said, the words grating out, already furious at the glacial calm on his face.
The corner of his mouth twitched. A phantom of a smirk, there and gone. “Show me.”
The first clash was less a fight and more a detonation.
You lunged without preamble, a silent, violent blur closing the distance before he could settle into a textbook stance. He reacted not with surprise, but with a speed that felt like an insult, catching your leading arm, redirecting your momentum with infuriating efficiency. Your shoulder slammed into the wall of his chest. Solid. Immovable. The impact reverberated up your neck, rattling your teeth.
You hooked his leg; he countered your hook. You twisted for leverage; his grip shifted, strong, calloused hands locking like manacles around your wrist and forearm. He stepped into you, using your own forward drive to uproot your balance.
The mat rushed up to meet you. You hit with a force that punched the air from your lungs in a sharp, humiliating wheeze.
He followed you down, a controlled avalanche. One knee braced near your hip, his weight a deliberate, undeniable pressure. One hand planted beside your head, caging you. The other pinning your arm with machined precision.
Too close.
His heat enveloped you, a living, breathing furnace. You could feel the coiled tension in the muscles of his arms and chest as he held himself back, a restraint that was somehow more arrogant than full force. His breath, still steady, washed over your cheek.
“Yield.” A single, quiet word, dropped into the scant space between your mouths.
You bared your teeth, a soundless snarl. “Dream on, Kennedy.”
You bucked, shifted your hips, used the micro-second his weight adjusted to hook your leg and roll. The world flipped, ceiling lights streaking, his form a blur of controlled motion, and suddenly you were on top, your forearm braced against the solid column of his throat, your knees digging into the mat on either side of his ribs.
Beneath you, his chest heaved once. A deep, aborted expansion. For a suspended heartbeat, neither of you moved.
Sweat slicked your skin where you pressed against him. The mat was warm and smelled of defeat. Leon’s hand came up, his grip closing around your wrist, not to throw you, not to hurt. To test. To measure the resistance. He was already adapting, his body learning yours even as yours screamed to reject his.
Your pulse was a roar in your ears, a chaotic counter-rhythm to his terrifying calm.
You shoved off him as if burned, scrambling to your feet before the strange, charged stillness could solidify.
“Not so perfect,” you spat, your breath coming in gusts you hated.
Leon sat up smoothly, as if rising from a lounge chair. As if your reversal had been a predicted, inconsequential sub-routine. “You’re fast.”
It wasn’t praise. It was data entry. And you hated that the distinction felt so vital, and that it landed somewhere in the uncharted, dangerous space between contempt and something else.
“Again,” the handler barked.
The next round was worse. Longer. More intimately brutal. It was a war of pressure and proximity. He caught a strike and used it to drive you back into the mat, his shoulder pinning you down, his forearm a bar of iron across your chest, not crushing, just absolutely controlling. You could feel every breath he took. You kicked out, twisted, your hands scraping against the corded steel of his arms as you broke free.
“You fight angry,” he muttered, the words a low vibration in the scant space between your bodies as you circled again, panting.
“You fight like a robot,” you shot back, your voice raw.
“You’re predictable.”
“Only to someone arrogant enough to think they’re smarter.”
“I think you’re reckless.” His eyes were chips of ice in the heat.
You lunged again, if only to wipe the assessment from his face.
He caught you, of course he did, but this time you were ready. You rolled with the momentum, dragging him down with you in a tangle of limbs. The mat shuddered. The grapple became a raw, grinding struggle for dominance, a silent conversation of strain and resistance. Your knee found his side; his elbow bracketed your ribs. Sweat-slick skin slid against damp fabric. Neither of you would yield an inch. The sheer, stubborn will of it was a third entity in the fight.
By the time the handler called the reset, your skin was sheened, your lungs burned, and your muscles trembled with fatigued fury. Across from you, Leon’s breathing had finally deepened, still controlled, but unmistakably heavier. His shirt was plastered to the planes of his back, darkened in a long, damp streak down his spine.
You refused to acknowledge it. You refused to even look.
“Live-fire simulation,” the handler called, gesturing to the adjacent door. “Now.”
The next room was a labyrinth of moveable walls, strobing lights, and disorienting sound cues. Training pistols, heavy with marking rounds, were thrust into your hands. No room for error. No room for anything but the drill. You and Leon moved through the doorway as a single, fractured unit. No words. No signals.
You took point on instinct. He covered the angles you couldn’t see, his presence a shadow at your six. It felt profoundly wrong, this seamless coordination, how your strides synced, how you pivoted around a corner and he was already there, clearing the blind spot. It felt like a betrayal of the mutual contempt that had been your only common ground.
A target snapped up from a left-side port.
You pivoted, weapon rising, finger finding the trigger -
Leon moved.
No shout. No warning. A pure, unthinking kinetic shift.
He stepped into your line of fire, his body turning, his shoulder angling to intercept the shot that wasn’t even real. A blunt, physical declaration.
Protective. Automatic.
The training round smacked into the hard plate of his vest with a dull, final thwack.
Your finger froze. The world narrowed to the spot of neon paint now blooming on his shoulder, to the broad back that had just placed itself between you and a theoretical threat.
“Reset!” the handler’s voice was distant, irrelevant.
Leon stepped away immediately, his posture snapping back into that flawless, impregnable control as if the last five seconds had been edited out. As if his body hadn’t just made a decision his mind would never consciously permit.
You stood rooted, your pulse a frantic bird in your throat, staring at the mark on his vest.
The venue rose out of the city like a monument to excess.
Marble columns framed the entrance, pale and flawless, each one tall enough to make a statement about permanence, about money that didn’t worry about time or consequence. Crystal chandeliers glittered beyond the glass doors, scattering light across polished floors in a way that felt deliberate, curated to impress and intimidate in equal measure.
Inside, an orchestra played something classical and unobtrusive, strings swelling just enough to fill the space without demanding attention. The music threaded through conversations held in low, confident voices, people who had never had to check over their shoulders when they spoke.
This place wasn’t just expensive. It was insulated.
You stepped inside and felt it immediately: the invisible barrier between the people here and the rest of the world. Consequences didn’t reach this far. They slid off champagne flutes and tailored suits, drowned under polite laughter and charitable donations.
Umbrella executives were everywhere. Not obvious. Not branded. Just… present. Men and women with immaculate posture and smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes. People who knew exactly how much power they held and exactly how well it was hidden.
You straightened instinctively, not because you needed to, but because the room demanded it. Tonight, you weren’t an agent.
The dress was a calculated piece of armour. It clung and moved in a way that looked effortless, the kind of confidence that came from knowing every movement would be watched and finding satisfaction in it. Hair styled, posture relaxed, expression composed. Lethal, but not visibly so. Danger tucked beneath refinement.
Leon stood beside you, and the contrast was almost obscenely perfect. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t noticed. The tailored suit fit him like a second skin, draping over broad shoulders and a lean frame with an almost insulting elegance. It was dark, understated, and it made him look disarmingly respectable, the kind of man donors instinctively trusted. The earpiece was invisible, his edge concealed beneath a veneer of sophisticated calm. He looked… safe. Predictable. It was the most effective disguise he’d ever worn.
No weapons. No tactical gear. Just a man who cleaned up a little too well. Neither of you looked like agents. You looked like you belonged.
Leon’s eyes swept over you as you adjusted a strap on your shoulder, his gaze lingering a fraction longer than strictly operational. When he spoke, his voice was a low, private rumble. “They didn’t mention the dress.”
You kept your eyes forward, scanning the crowd. “It’s not in the briefing notes, Kennedy. It’s called a uniform.”
“It’s a distraction,” he said, and there was a trace of something in his tone, not warmth, but a clinical sort of acknowledgment.
Before you could retort, the second you crossed the threshold fully into the ballroom, his hand settled at the small of your back.
It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t awkward. It was proprietary.
His palm rested there with a pressure that was both grounding and possessive, his fingers splayed just above the curve of your hip. His thumb brushed once, a slow, deliberate stroke against the delicate fabric, and your entire spine went rigid in response. The heat of his hand burned through the silk, a brand you felt in every nerve ending.
He leaned in, his breath disturbing the hair near your temple. “Easy,” he murmured, his voice a velvety counterfeit of intimacy. “Smile.”
You did, a perfect, glazed curve of the lips. Under your breath, barely moving them, you hissed, “If you leave your hand there any longer, I’m billing the DSO for emotional damages and a dry-cleaning bill. Your palm is sweating.”
Leon didn’t look at you. His hand didn’t move. If anything, his fingers pressed more firmly, pulling you a millimetre closer into the orbit of his body. “Relax, sweetheart,” he said aloud, his tone soft, affectionate, convincingly doting. “You look breathtaking.” The endearment was a bullet wrapped in velvet.
A nearby couple glanced over, their smiles fond and approving.
Your jaw ached from clenching. “You sound disturbingly natural. I think I might throw up.”
His mouth curved, a private, dangerous flicker. “That’s because you’re holding your breath. They’ll notice the lack of oxygen before they notice the lie.”
“Maybe if you weren’t manhandling me.”
“My hand’s not moving,” he replied, his calm an infuriating counterpoint to your tension. “You’re just hyper-aware of it. Mission focus, remember?”
You hated that he was right. The awareness was a live wire running from the point of contact straight to your core. Publicly, you were seamless, an elegant couple drifting into the flow of the gala, bodies aligned, steps synchronised. Privately, it was a silent war of attrition.
Leon guided you toward the bar with infuriating ease, his hand a constant, navigating pressure. He nodded politely, offered brief, warm smiles. You felt every shift of his fingers, every minute adjustment of his grip.
An Umbrella executive, tall, with cold, appraising eyes, glanced your way.
Leon’s hand shifted. His fingers spread, pressing more fully against your spine as he angled you subtly, protectively, closer to him. His head dipped, his lips near your ear. “This is ridiculous,” you muttered, your own gaze locked on the executive.
“Focus,” Leon murmured, his voice a low vibration you felt in your bones. “He’s not just looking. He’s calculating. Smile at him. Like you find him tedious.”
You tilted your head, letting your gaze drift over the man with the lazy, disinterested contempt of the truly privileged. You offered a faint, dismissive smile. The man’s gaze lingered, then moved on, satisfied you were no one of consequence.
Leon exhaled, a soft sound that feathered against your skin. “See? That’s the point.”
You glanced up at him, your cheek nearly brushing his jaw. “Don’t get smug.”
“I’m not smug,” he said, raising a hand to effortlessly snag two champagne flutes from a passing server. He handed one to you, his fingers brushing yours. “I’m effective.”
“You remembered the champagne,” you noted flatly, taking the glass.
“I remember things,” he replied, his eyes scanning the room over the rim of his flute. “Drink with your left hand. Your ring’s on the right. It flashes under the lights.”
You froze for a half-second, a tiny, betraying stumble in your composure. Then you switched hands smoothly, the crystal stem cool in your left fingers. “Stop paying attention to irrelevant details about me.”
“Can’t,” Leon said, his voice dropping back into that confidential murmur as he guided you away from the bar. “That’s the job tonight. Every detail is relevant.”
The orchestra swelled as the evening deepened. The air grew thick with perfume and false camaraderie. Leon’s hand remained on your back, a constant, maddening presence. You became a connoisseur of its pressure, firmer when navigating a crowd, lighter but no less present when stationary, his thumb tracing an absent, subconscious arc that made your breath catch.
As you moved, you saw the illusion take hold. The casual glances from guests, the approving nods from older patrons, the way security teams assessed you as a unit and then dismissed you. They bought the story. The elegant, connected, slightly bored couple.
The realisation was a cold trickle down your spine. Because it wasn’t just them. It was him, too.
He moved through the charade with a terrifying, fluid ease. His touches, his murmured words, the way his body curved around yours in a crowd, it all looked effortless. Like it cost him nothing. Like the simmering hostility that defined your every interaction had been switched off, replaced by this seamless, galling performance.
You were starting to resent how good he was at it.
A guest intercepted you near the edge of the ballroom, an older man with silver hair and a practiced smile, glass of champagne cradled loosely in one hand. His eyes flicked between you and Leon with open curiosity.
“Forgive me,” he said pleasantly, inclining his head. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” Leon smiled before you could respond, warm and unhurried. “Of course. This is my wife.” The word still sent a strange jolt through you.
“And you are?” the man asked, turning his attention to you. “Involved in the foundation as well?”
You opened your mouth to speak. To think of something fast before you started spilling word vomit.
“She is,” Leon answered smoothly, his hand settling at your back again. “She led the data consolidation project for the Helios Initiative last year. Streamlined the entire reporting pipeline. Saved the board six figures and a lot of embarrassment.”
You stilled. Just for a fraction of a second. The man’s brows lifted, impressed.
“She has a talent for finding inefficiencies people prefer not to admit are there,” Leon continued, tone light, almost fond. “She’s very good at seeing patterns others miss.”
Your heart stumbled. The guest chuckled. “Dangerous skill.”
Leon’s thumb brushed your spine once, subtly. Familiar. “Only if you’re hiding something.”
The man laughed and excused himself moments later, drifting back into the crowd, already satisfied. You remained where you were, gaze fixed ahead, the music suddenly too loud in your ears.
“How did you know that?” you asked quietly, once you were certain no one was listening.
Leon didn’t look at you. “You did it during the Marseille op,” he said simply. “Flagged the discrepancy in the shipping logs. Everyone else missed it.”
“That was years ago,” you said. “I remember,” he replied.
There was no pride in his voice. No edge. Just fact.
You leaned back into his touch, your shoulder blades pressing against his chest as you pretended to point out a painting. Your voice was a razor in the velvet dark between you. “They’re eating this up. It’s almost pathetic.”
“Yes,” Leon replied, his chin nearly resting on your shoulder. His breath was warm on your neck. “They are.”
He gave you nothing else. Just the steady, burning pressure of his hand.
The orchestra shifted, the music melting into a slower, more intimate piece. The dance floor began to fill. Leon felt the shift in the room’s rhythm a moment before you did.
He turned to you, his expression softening into something convincingly expectant. He extended his hand, palm up. Not a question. A quiet command in the language of the evening.
You stared at his offered hand, at the faint scars across the knuckles you knew the origin of. Then you placed yours in it, your cool fingers sliding against his warm, calloused palm. “You step on my feet,” you whispered, “and I’ll make a scene they’ll talk about for years.”
A ghost of a real smile touched his lips. “Noted.”
He drew you into him, one hand returning to its familiar place on your back, the other closing around your hand. The world narrowed to the space between your bodies. You could feel the fine wool of his suit under your splayed fingers, the solid muscle beneath.
“You dance like you fight,” you accused as he led you into the first steps.
“Precisely?” he murmured, his eyes holding yours.
“Stiffly. Like you’re waiting for an attack.”
“You’re leading.”
“I am not.”
“You’re anticipating my lead and resisting it. It’s the same thing.” He adjusted his grip, his hand on your back firming, guiding your turn. “Stop fighting the rhythm. Let it happen.”
You bristled. “I don’t just let things happen.”
He leaned in, his lips a breath from your ear. His voice dropped, losing its polished edge, revealing the rougher truth beneath. “You do. You always have. You anticipate the strike. You brace for the impact. You’re doing it now.”
The direct hit silenced you. The banter evaporated, leaving only the truth of the movement. You were bracing. Against him. Against the music. Against the unnerving synchronicity.
Somewhere in the next turn, the resistance broke. Not with a surrender, but with a mutual, unspoken recalibration. Leon’s guidance became less a direction and more a suggestion. Your following became less a resistance and more a mirror. Your weight settled, your steps aligned. He shifted; you matched. It became effortless. Fluid. A silent, perfect dialogue of motion.
It felt exactly like the rare, terrifying moments in the field when everything went to hell and instinct took over, when you moved not as two separate entities, but as a single, coordinated organism.
Your breath hitched. You felt his do the same, a stutter in his otherwise controlled chest. Neither of you spoke.
The music carried you, and his hand on your back was no longer a point of conflict. It was an anchor. His other hand held yours, not with performance, but with a simple, undeniable connection. You were suddenly, acutely aware of every point of contact: his thigh brushing yours, the heat of his palm, the steady beat of his heart against your own racing one.
The song began to wind down. Security was tightening; you could see the increased scrutiny at the edges of the room.
Leon’s voice was a raw scrape against your ear, all pretence of gentleness gone. “They’re locking the perimeter. Broker’s in the east wing. We need to move.”
You nodded, your forehead almost touching his chin. The final note hung in the air. Applause scattered through the room. Couples began to separate. Leon didn’t let go.
His hand remained on your back. His fingers were still laced with yours. In the dim, chandelier-lit haze, for a heartbeat that stretched into an eternity, you just stood there, locked in the echo of the dance and the glaring, inconvenient truth it had revealed.
You were still holding on. And so was he.
Finally, he released your hand, the absence feeling like a sudden chill. His palm slid from your back, leaving the ghost of its heat imprinted on the silk. You took a half-step back, the ballroom noise rushing back in.
“Next time,” you said, your voice strangely thin, “warn me before you decide to be competent at something.”
He looked at you, his blue eyes stripped of their usual ice, something darker and more complicated swirling in their depths. “You didn’t need a warning. You kept up.”
He turned, offering his arm again, the picture of the attentive partner. After a stunned second, you slid your hand into the crook of his elbow, your fingers trembling slightly against the fine cotton.
Conversations continue, a tapestry of polished lies, but your senses have already pared them down to a meaningless drone. Your focus narrows, homing in on the anomaly. Across the room, an Umbrella scientist, a man with the pallid complexion and careful detachment of someone who spends more time with data than people, has stopped moving.
He isn't staring. That would be amateur. His attention is a series of precise, surgical observations: the way you stand with your weight slightly forward, not relaxed back; the subtle, the specific tension in your shoulders that speaks of readiness, not repose. His head tilts, a fraction of a degree.
Your pulse kicks, a single, hard thud against your ribs. "Leon," you breathe, the word a ghost against the rim of your champagne flute.
"I see him." His reply is immediate, a low current beneath the placid surface. His posture hasn't changed, but you feel the minute shift in the energy beside you, the coiling of a spring. "Don't look at him. Look at me."
But it's too late. The scientist’s eyes, cold, magnified behind thin glasses, flicker. Not with full recognition, but with the dawning, critical suspicion of it. I know you. From where? The unspoken question hangs in the charged space between you. The danger isn't here yet, but it's coming, a tide you have seconds to turn. Leon doesn't hesitate. He never does.
One moment you are two adjacent entities, sharing a cover story. The next, his arm bands around your waist, pulling you in with an irrevocable certainty. His other hand rises, fingers threading into the hair at your nape, his palm cradling the line of your jaw with a possession that steals the breath from your lungs.
And then his mouth is on yours.
It is not a kiss born of passion, but of pure, unadulterated necessity, a tactical strike executed with devastating precision. There is no cautious exploration, no soft inquiry. His lips meet yours with a firm, undeniable pressure, sealing the world out. It is immediate. Consuming. A forced intimacy that feels more like a claiming than a performance.
The shock of it is a lightning bolt to your system. Every thought, every alarm bell, is momentarily short-circuited by the sheer, overwhelming physicality of him. The warmth of his skin, the faint, clean scent of him cutting through the cloying perfume of the gala, the solid, unyielding wall of his chest against yours.
His mouth moves, and it is not the gentle persuasion of a lover. It is decisive. Convincing. He angles his head, deepening the contact just enough to be unquestionable, his thumb stroking a slow, deliberate arc along your jawline, a gesture of affection that feels, in its practiced perfection, like a weapon. He is building a shield with his body, blocking the scientist's view, rewriting the narrative in the space of a heartbeat: You are not a threat. You are distracted. You are mine.
And you respond. It is the true betrayal. Your body, trained for survival, obeys a different instinct. Your free hand, the one not clutching the forgotten champagne flute, comes to rest against his chest, not to push him away, but to steady yourself. A small, stifled sound catches in your throat. Your lips part beneath his, not in invitation, but in a gasp of pure, stunned reflex that he seamlessly incorporates into the act.
And then, as abruptly as it began, the pressure changes. Leon’s kiss softens, becomes a lingering press, a final punctuation mark. The immediate threat has passed; the scientist, presented with an indisputable picture of private passion, has turned away, dismissing his suspicion as irrelevant.
But Leon doesn't pull back. For three endless heartbeats, he remains there, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours in ragged sync. His eyes are closed, his expression a stark mask of concentration, as if he is listening for an echo of the danger, or perhaps for something else entirely. His thumb continues its slow sweep along your jaw, a soothing rhythm that feels anything but soothing.
You are the one who breaks. You wrench your head back, a shudder running through you. The cool air of the ballroom hits your damp lips, a shocking contrast. Your hand, still splayed on his chest, pushes, a weak, belated attempt to reinstate a boundary that has been utterly demolished.
"Don't," you manage, your voice a scraped-raw whisper. "Don't you dare read into that."
Leon's eyes open. They are dark, pupils blown wide, the usual icy blue swallowed by a storm you've never seen before. He looks at you and for a second, the professional facade is utterly absent. There is only a raw, unsettled intensity that mirrors the chaos in your own veins.
"Trust me," he says, his voice low and rough, stripped of its earlier polish. "I'm not." It is the most transparent lie either of you has told all night.
The silence that follows is louder than the music. He slowly, carefully, unwinds his arm from your waist, his fingers loosening from your hair as if disarming a live wire. The distance between you feels cavernous, charged with the aftershocks of what just happened. You can still feel the imprint of his body against yours, a phantom brand. Your lips are tender, buzzing with a sensation that has nothing to do with the champagne.
Leon clears his throat, the sound harsh in the quiet between you. His gaze darts away, reassembling his composure piece by piece. "He's moving toward the east corridor. The distraction worked."
"Right," you say, the word tasting like ash. You straighten your spine, a soldier coming to attention after a devastating blow. You smooth your dress, a futile gesture. The elegance feels like a costume now, hanging awkwardly on the raw, shaken thing you've become underneath.
He offers his arm again, a formality. You take it, your fingers trembling slightly as they settle on the fine wool of his sleeve. The contact is sterile, polite. A mockery of the intimacy that just fused you together.
You know now, with chilling clarity, that Leon's first instinct was not to create distance, not to signal a retreat, but to eliminate the threat to you by any means necessary. He didn't just sell a cover. He consumed it. He didn't hesitate. And in that breathless, stolen moment, neither did you.
The line has not just been crossed. It has been incinerated.
You keep your chin high, your smile in place, moving back into the glittering fray. But the gala has shifted. The colours are too bright, the music too shrill. Every nerve ending is alive, hyper-aware of the man beside you, of the memory of his mouth, his hands, the terrifying efficiency of his protection, and the even more terrifying echo of your own response.
The gala breathes around you, music swelling and receding, laughter rippling through the crowd, the illusion of safety pressed into every polished surface. But the clock is ticking louder now.
You feel it in the way security shifts positions too often. In the way conversations stall, restart. In the subtle tightening of the room’s rhythm as the night edges closer to whatever Umbrella has planned.
Leon’s hand rests lightly at your elbow as he steers you toward the edge of the ballroom, bodies angled just close enough to sell the cover. His touch is careful now, less possessive than before, more controlled. Like he’s consciously reining himself in. His voice reaches you through the comm, low and steady beneath the orchestra.
“Broker’s device is active. Signal spike just came online.”
Your gaze sweeps the room automatically, cataloguing exits, shadows, patterns. “VIP lounge,” you murmur.
“Yes,” Leon replies. “But there’s a secondary access corridor behind the east stairwell. Two choke points.” A pause. “If we go together, we bottleneck.”
You glance up at him, jaw tightening. “If we split, we lose eyes.”
“We gain speed.”
“And risk,” you counter quietly, lips barely moving as a couple passes too close. “Security’s tightening. They’re already clocking patterns.”
Leon slows just enough to turn toward you. Not fully. Not enough to draw attention. But enough that you feel the weight of his focus settle on you. The chandelier light catches his eyes, sharp, intent, stripped of the softness he’s been wearing for the room.
“Protocol says split,” he says. “Two access points. Redundancy.”
You scoff under your breath. “Protocol didn’t account for Umbrella improvising.”
“It accounts for us adapting.”
“It accounts for you adapting,” you snap back, the edge in your voice slipping through despite your control. “I’m the variable you’re pretending isn’t there.”
His jaw tightens. A muscle jumps once, just beneath the skin.
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it?” You lean in closer, the pretence of intimacy giving your words cover. Your pulse is loud now, insistent. “Because ever since that-” You stop yourself, breath hitching. “Since earlier, you’ve been playing it safe.” Leon’s breath stutters once. Barely perceptible. But you feel it.
“I’m playing it smart,” he says.
You shake your head. “Same thing. Different excuse.”
A server brushes past, tray wobbling dangerously close. Leon reacts instantly, his hand sliding to your waist, pulling you in as he murmurs something affectionate aloud. You force a smile, lean into him, sell it.
The server moves on. Leon’s hand doesn’t. His fingers remain splayed at your side, warm and grounding, the pressure unmistakable.
“Listen to me,” he says quietly now, close enough that his breath warms your ear. “The device will be gone in minutes. If we hesitate, we lose it.”
“And if something happens?” you whisper back. “If one of us gets boxed in-”
“We won’t,” he says too fast.
You pull back just enough to look at him. “You don’t know that.”
For a moment, the argument stalls. You don’t like being away from him. You hate that you know the cadence of his movements. That you can predict his choices before he makes them. That the thought of moving through hostile space without his presence at your back makes your chest feel tight and exposed. Leon looks away first. His hand slips from your waist, deliberately, like he’s forcing himself to let go.
“Two minutes,” he says, voice clipped. “If either of us hits resistance, we abort and regroup at point C.”
“And if comms drop?” you ask.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Then you trust me.”
The words land harder than they should. You swallow. “That’s a big ask.” Leon turns back to you, his expression carefully neutral but his eyes give him away. “You already do.”
You hate that he’s right. The realisation burns low and sharp in your chest.
“Fine,” you say, forcing steel into your voice. “East stairwell. I’ll take the service corridor.”
Leon nods once. No hesitation. No argument. Like this was always the plan.
You separate smoothly, drifting apart like any other couple momentarily distracted by different conversations. His presence fades from your side, and the absence of it is immediate, an ache you weren’t prepared for.
The service corridor is quieter, narrower. The music fades to a distant hum, replaced by the soft whir of ventilation and the echo of your own footsteps. The lighting here is dimmer, more utilitarian, less forgiving. You move with practiced ease, posture relaxed, pace unhurried. Just another donor who took a wrong turn.
A guard stands at the far end of the corridor, back partially turned. He glances up as you approach, eyes narrowing just a fraction too long.
You smile. “Sorry, restrooms?” He hesitates. Just long enough. “Down the hall,” he says eventually, gesturing.
You thank him and keep walking, heart thudding. You feel the weight of the distance now, the absence of Leon’s quiet presence through the comms, the way he usually covers angles you don’t have eyes on.
You reach the door marked AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY and slide the keycard from your clutch with steady fingers. The lock clicks open.
Inside, the air is cooler. Server racks hum softly, lights blinking in orderly patterns. The device should be here, hidden, discreet, temporary. You scan quickly. Nothing. Your pulse spikes.
“Leon,” you murmur into the comm. “Device isn’t here.”
A beat. “I’m seeing the same,” he replies. “They’ve moved it.”
“Where?”
“VIP lounge,” he says. “Security just doubled.”
Of course they did. You pivot toward the exit, and the door slams shut behind you. Your heart jumps. You spin, hand already moving toward the concealed weapon at your thigh. The lock engages with a sharp click.
“Leon,” you hiss.
“I hear it,” he says immediately. “Stay calm.”
“Working on it.”
Footsteps sound outside the door. Two sets. Guards murmuring. You scan the room, calculating. No windows. No alternate exit. The ventilation shaft is too small.
“You okay?” Leon asks, voice steady but tight.
“Yes,” you lie. “Just… boxed in.”
A pause. You can hear his breathing through the comm now, controlled but faster.
“I’m rerouting,” he says. “Hold.”
You close your eyes for half a second, forcing yourself to breathe. You trust him. The guards’ voices grow clearer. Keys jingle. Someone tests the door. Your hand tightens around your weapon.
“Leon,” you whisper. “If this goes loud-”
“It won’t,” he says. “I’ve got you.”
The certainty in his voice steadies you more than you want it to. Seconds stretch. Then, gunfire. Shouts. Chaos, distant but unmistakable. The lock disengages. The door bursts open and Leon is there. Breathing hard. Suit rumpled. Eyes sharp and furious and fixed entirely on you.
“Move,” he says.
You don’t argue. You slip past him, shoulder brushing his as you fall into step, moving together like you never separated at all. As you disappear down the corridor, adrenaline still singing in your veins, one thought cuts through the chaos, clear and undeniable.
You barely make it three turns before the building decides to turn hostile.
It starts as a low chime, soft, almost polite, like a warning meant for staff, not guests. Then the lights above you flicker, the bright warmth of the gala’s corridors stuttering into something colder.
Red emergency strips ignite along the ceiling.
A beat later, the sound hits, an alarm that rises in pitch until it becomes a physical pressure against your skull.
Leon’s head snaps up. “That’s not fire protocol,” he says into the comm, voice already shifting into command mode.
“It’s not us,” you reply, breathing hard as you jog. “We haven’t even touched the-”
“Doesn’t matter.” His tone turns razor-thin. “Umbrella emergency.”
As if the words themselves flip a switch, the corridor ahead explodes with movement. A door slams open. Men in black tactical uniforms pour out, armed, masked, efficient. Not event security. Not rent-a-cops.
These are Umbrella’s.
The sound of the orchestra fades behind the thick walls, replaced by the heavier music of boots and shouted commands. Guests scream in the ballroom somewhere distant, the party dissolving into panic on the other side of a carefully controlled barrier.
Leon grabs your wrist and yanks you down a side hall just as a round cracks past where your head had been. The bullet bites into marble, spitting stone dust into the air.
“Contact!” someone barks. “Target moving, east corridor!”
Your comms crackle with interference, the line spiking and dropping as systems overload. Leon’s grip tightens once, steadying you, not for comfort, you tell yourself, but for speed.
“You okay?” he asks, already moving.
“Fine,” you snap, then add, because honesty feels like weakness, “They’re faster than I expected.”
“They’ve been waiting,” Leon says. “We triggered something they wanted triggered.”
You hate that he’s right. Hate that it means this wasn’t just security tightening. It was a trap snapping shut.
A door ahead locks with a heavy clunk as magnetic seals engage. The hallway narrows into a dead-end stretch lined with service entrances. Red light pulses across steel panels, making everything look like it’s bleeding.
Leon slows just long enough to scan. “No exits.”
“Then we make one,” you say, already reaching for the weapon concealed beneath your dress.
Leon’s gaze flicks to your thigh holster, then to your face. No comment. No surprise. Just that quiet, grim acceptance that you’d both come prepared.
A burst of gunfire erupts behind you.
Leon pushes you forward. “Move.”
You sprint. He’s right beside you, close enough that you feel the air shift with him, matching your pace without effort. You round a corner and slam into a tight corridor that funnels you into a narrow kill zone.
Two Umbrella operatives are already there.
No time for thought.
You fire once, clean shot, shoulder. Leon fires in the same breath, headshot. The second operative tries to swing their weapon up. You’re already moving, stepping in, elbow driving into their throat. Leon catches their arm and twists, disarming with a practiced snap that looks almost casual.
The man drops.
Silence doesn’t follow. More footsteps. More coming.
Leon reloads without looking, hands moving fast and sure. You pivot, back hitting his for half a second as you take position.
Back-to-back.
It happens instinctively.
No discussion. No argument. No ego.
Just movement.
Leon’s voice is low, calm. “Three behind. Two ahead.”
You swallow the adrenaline and check your magazine. “Left side is mine.”
“Copy.”
You hear the click of his gun as he finishes his reload. You don’t need to see it. You know the sound now, the rhythm of him, how long it takes, when he needs cover, when he’s about to shift.
The first wave hits.
A door bursts open to your left. You pivot and fire, dropping one before his boots fully clear the threshold. Another lunges in right behind him, weapon raised. You duck, feeling the heat of a shot pass over you, then slam your shoulder into the wall and rebound forward, knife flashing out of your clutch like it’s always been there.
Leon’s gun cracks twice at your back, perfectly timed, covering you as you close distance.
The man goes down.
Another steps into the corridor ahead, weapon trained. Leon shifts his weight, shoulder pressing lightly to your back, a cue, not a shove. You understand instantly, stepping left as he steps right, breaking the enemy’s line of fire before it can settle.
You fire.
Leon fires.
Two bodies fall.
You’re breathing hard now, sweat slick against your skin beneath the elegance of the dress. The fabric pulls tighter across your ribs with every inhale, a reminder that you’re fighting in clothes meant for champagne and photo ops, not blood and bullets.
And Leon is still in his suit, jacket discarded somewhere behind you, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. He looks like a man who stepped off a runway and straight into a warzone.
He moves like he belongs here.
So do you.
A sharp crack echoes, too close. Stone dust sprays across your cheek as a bullet hits the wall inches from your head. You flinch, just once, and Leon’s hand comes up immediately, palm to your shoulder, guiding you down behind a corner.
“Stay low,” he murmurs.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” you hiss automatically.
Leon doesn’t take the bait. He leans out, fires twice, then pulls back, already reloading. “Cover me.”
You do, because you always do. Because your body already knows what to do when he says it.
You step out, firing controlled shots that force the operatives back. Leon’s reload finishes. He’s up and moving again, switching positions with you so smoothly it feels like choreography.
It hits you mid-fight, sudden and unwanted.
You fight the same way.
Not identical but the same mind. The same instincts. The same calculation running behind your eyes at the same speed. The same ruthless efficiency under pressure.
You both make decisions in fractions of a second.
You both adjust without needing to speak.
You both anticipate.
Mirrors.
The thought is so sharp it almost distracts you.
And suddenly the rivalry makes sense.
Because it was never really hate. It was recognition.
A loud mechanical whine cuts through the chaos, the sound of an internal security shutter descending. The corridor ahead begins to seal off, metal plates sliding down from the ceiling to block the route.
“We’re getting boxed,” you warn.
Leon’s eyes flick. “We go now.”
You don’t argue. You surge forward together, moving fast as the plates descend. A man steps into your path, too late to stop you. You slam into him like a force of nature, knee driving into his stomach. Leon’s elbow snaps into the side of his head, clean and brutal.
You clear him and keep moving.
The shutter slams down behind you with a heavy, final clang.
For half a heartbeat, there’s only your breathing and the distant muffled alarm.
Leon’s chest rises and falls hard. His hair is slightly out of place now, a thin sheen of sweat at his temple. His eyes are bright with adrenaline, sharp as a blade.
You’re too close, face to face in the tight corridor, bodies still buzzing from combat. You can feel the heat of him, the electricity of the movement that just happened between you without words.
He scans you quickly, your face, your arms, the exposed skin at your shoulder. “You hit?”
“No,” you say, then more softly, “You?”
He shakes his head once.
Your comms crackle again. A burst of static. Then the handler’s voice cuts in, strained: “Emergency protocol is fully active. Extraction compromised. Get that device and get out. Now.”
Leon’s gaze meets yours.
And for the first time all night, there’s no sarcasm in it. No rivalry. No distance.
Just certainty.
“We finish this,” he says.
You swallow, pulse still pounding.
“Yeah,” you reply. “We finish it.”
Then you move again together, like you’ve been doing this side by side for years.
Like you were always meant to.
You duck into the service room just as Leon slams the door shut behind you, shoving a metal cart into place with a sharp grunt. The barricade isn’t elegant, but it’s solid enough to buy you time. For now.
The alarms are muffled here, reduced to a distant, angry pulse. Red light seeps through the narrow window in the door, flashing in slow intervals that make the room feel like it’s breathing.
You lean forward, hands braced on your knees, dragging air into your lungs. Your heart is still racing, adrenaline buzzing so loud it drowns out everything else. Sweat clings to your skin, your dress ruined, hair pulled loose from its careful styling.
Leon turns toward you immediately.
“Stay still,” he says, already closing the distance.
“I am still,” you snap, even as you straighten reflexively.
His hands are on you before you can object—efficient, professional. He checks your arms first, fingers firm but careful as they skim for blood. Then your shoulder, where stone dust still clings to your skin. His touch lingers there a fraction longer than necessary, thumb brushing lightly as if confirming something he already knows.
You swat his hand away. “I said I’m fine.”
Leon’s jaw tightens. “Humour me.”
“I don’t recall that being part of the mission.”
His eyes flick up to meet yours, sharp, annoyed, but there’s something else there now too. “You flinched.”
“You were in my line of fire,” you fire back. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not,” he says quickly, hands dropping. “I’m checking my partner.”
The word lands heavier than either of you expect.
You scoff, turning away to pace the small room. “Don’t get sentimental now.”
Leon exhales slowly through his nose. “You’re the one snapping.”
You whirl back on him. “Because you nearly got yourself shot pulling that move back there.”
“And you nearly took a round to the head rushing that corner,” he shoots back without missing a beat.
There it is, the familiar bite. The clash. But it doesn’t sting the way it used to.
You hold his gaze, chest still heaving. “You didn’t have to cover me.”
Leon’s voice is steady, but quieter now. “Yes, I did.”
The certainty in it disarms you more than any argument ever has.
Silence stretches between you, thick with everything neither of you is saying. The room hums softly around you, vents rattling overhead, the smell of oil and metal grounding you in the aftermath.
Your pulse finally begins to slow.
You look at him properly then, not as a rival, not as an obstacle, but as the man who just fought back-to-back with you without hesitation. Who knew when you needed cover before you did. Who moved when you moved, adapted when you adapted, like your thoughts were running parallel tracks.
It clicks.
He never underestimated you.
Not once.
All those arguments. The clipped remarks. The way he never rose to your jabs, never reacted the way you wanted him to. You’d always read it as arrogance. Distance. Superiority.
But standing here now, suit scuffed and tie gone, breathing hard just like you, the truth settles uncomfortably into place.
He wasn’t looking down on you.
He was matching you.
Meeting you at the same level and refusing to drop below it. Treating you like an equal long before you were ready to believe it. Long before you’d stopped mistaking restraint for dismissal.
Leon shifts his weight, eyes still on you. “You good?” he asks again, softer this time.
You nod once. “Yeah.”
A beat passes.
“You fight like me,” you add, almost against your will.
His brow furrows slightly. “No. You fight like you.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” he says.
Another silence, but this one is different. Less sharp. Less hostile. Charged, but steadier.
Leon glances toward the barricaded door, listening. “We’ve got maybe ninety seconds before they reroute.”
You straighten, rolling your shoulders despite the ache settling into them. “Then we’d better move.”
He nods, and for the first time, there’s no tension in the agreement. No need to assert control or prove anything.
Just two agents, side by side, breathing in sync.
The safe room isn’t safe in any comforting way.
It’s a concrete box tucked behind an unmarked service door three levels below street access, the kind of place that doesn’t show up on public blueprints. The air smells faintly of dust and old metal. A single strip light hums above, casting pale, uneven illumination across gray walls and a scarred steel table. No windows. No softness. No distractions.
Just four walls and the aftertaste of adrenaline.
You shut the door behind you and twist the lock twice out of habit, even though the handler swore this location was clean. Leon stands a few feet away, chest rising and falling hard. His suit is ruined, dark smudges at the knee where he’d hit the floor, the white of his shirt stained with sweat and dust. His tie is gone. His sleeves are rolled up, forearms streaked with grime, knuckles raw.
He looks like a man who belongs in a fight, not a ballroom.
You look… less polished too. Your dress is torn at the hem, a thin snag running along your thigh where you’d caught it on something sharp while vaulting a barrier. Your hair has slipped free of its careful pins. There’s stone dust at your collarbone. The only thing that stayed flawless is the shape of your posture, trained, controlled, refusing to collapse.
You cross the room and drop the data device on the steel table. It makes a solid, satisfying clack that echoes in the small space.
Done.
For now.
Leon reaches up and removes the earpiece, rolling it between his fingers before setting it down beside the device. You do the same, tugging yours out with a little too much force. Without comms, the room gets quieter. The silence doesn’t feel empty. It feels loaded.
Weapons come next, unclipped, unloaded, set aside. You place your handgun on the table, then the spare magazine. The movement is efficient, practiced. Leon mirrors you without a word, laying his gear down in clean, ordered lines like he can impose control on chaos by arranging it neatly.
A tremor runs through your fingers when you reach for a chair. You close your hand into a fist before anyone can see.
Leon’s gaze flicks to you anyway.
You hate that he notices everything. Hate that you’re suddenly grateful he does.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks.
The adrenaline is still in your bloodstream, buzzing like a live wire under your skin. Your thoughts keep trying to sprint, to latch onto the next move, the next threat, the next exit.
But there is nothing to chase.
No alarms. No targets.
Just the hum of the strip light and the slow return of sensation: the ache in your ribs, the sting across your knuckles, the bruise blooming at your hip where you’d hit the wall harder than you meant to.
Your body is remembering you’re human.
It’s the worst part, the calm. In the fight, everything had been simple: move, shoot, breathe, survive. Now, with nothing pressing in, the silence forces everything else forward.
The kiss. The way Leon moved in front of you. The way your hands had lingered on his wrist. The way he’d said I’ve got you like it was an unshakable fact.
You take a slow breath and realise your lungs are still working like they expect to be chased.
Leon finally breaks the stillness, voice low. “We got it.”
“Yeah,” you answer too quickly. “We got it.”
He nods once, but his eyes don’t move away from you. There’s something in his expression, still controlled, still restrained, but the edges have softened, as if the adrenaline has melted some of the steel away and left the person underneath exposed in small, dangerous ways.
You don’t know what to do with that.
You turn toward the wall instead, stare at the blank concrete like it can offer you an instruction manual.
Your hands shake again, just slightly. You flex your fingers, forcing them steady. You refuse to let your body betray you, not after everything. Not in front of him.
“Sit,” Leon says.
It isn’t an order. Not really. It’s… practical. Almost gentle.
“I’m fine,” you snap automatically.
Leon’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t argue, he simply steps closer and reaches for the small first aid kit mounted on the wall. You hadn’t noticed it. Of course he did.
He sets it on the table with a quiet thud and flips it open, movements clean and efficient. Like tending wounds is just another protocol.
You watch him for half a second too long.
The light catches the lines of exhaustion in his face. A faint scrape along his cheekbone. A smudge of dried blood at the edge of his knuckles that isn’t his, you think. The muscles in his shoulders shift as he rolls them once, like the weight of the night is settling in.
A tremor runs through his hand as he pulls out antiseptic wipes.
He pauses, almost imperceptibly, then continues like it never happened.
So he’s not untouched either.
That realisation lands strangely. You’ve spent so long imagining him as something unbreakable—smooth, composed, always in control. Seeing the cracks should satisfy you.
It doesn’t.
It makes your throat tighten.
“Give me your hand,” Leon says, still not looking directly at you.
You laugh once, short and sharp. “That’s rich.”
He finally looks up. “Don’t start.”
The tone is familiar, dry, controlled, but it lacks its usual bite. It’s not a challenge. It’s tired.
You should refuse out of principle.
Instead you step forward and extend your hand, palm up, because the alternative, fighting him on this, feels suddenly exhausting.
Leon takes your hand.
His fingers are warm, steady, calloused. His grip is firm but careful, like he’s handling something that matters more than he wants to admit. He inspects your knuckles, the small splits in the skin, the smear of grime.
“You’re bleeding,” he says.
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s blood.”
You roll your eyes. “Congratulations, Kennedy. You can identify bodily fluids.”
A flicker, almost a smile, touches his mouth. It’s gone before you can be sure it was real.
He cleans your knuckles anyway. The antiseptic stings. You hiss and try to pull away. Leon holds your hand a fraction tighter, not letting you retreat.
“Hold still,” he murmurs.
Your pulse jumps at the softness of it.
You hate that.
“You’re enjoying this,” you mutter, trying to salvage something sharp.
Leon doesn’t look up. “I’m not.”
The honesty in his voice knocks the air out of your sarcasm. He sounds… genuine. Like he’s too worn out to pretend.
He finishes cleaning your hand, wraps it quickly, efficiently. The tape catches briefly on your skin, and his thumb brushes your wrist as he smooths it down.
You feel it like a spark.
You hate that you feel it.
Leon lets go, but his hand lingers for a half second too long, fingers resting against your pulse as if confirming it’s still there.
Then he pulls back, clearing his throat, gaze shifting away like he’s caught himself doing something he didn’t mean to.
The silence returns.
He starts tending to his own wounds next, wiping blood from his knuckles, wrapping tape with the same clinical focus. But his hands still shake faintly, the aftermath of adrenaline refusing to fade completely.
You don’t comment. He doesn’t either.
The strip light hums.
Your breathing finally slows to something normal. With it comes the weight of everything you’ve been avoiding since you first saw his name on that leaderboard.
The first time you tried to speak to him.
The way he ignored you.
The silence that followed you for years like a ghost.
It’s there now, in this room, louder than the alarms ever were.
You don’t plan to say anything. You don’t want to hand him another weapon.
But the words break loose anyway, scraped raw by exhaustion and adrenaline and the fact that he just held your hand like it mattered.
“Why,” you ask, voice quiet enough it barely exists, “did you ignore me back then?”
Leon freezes. The strip light hums. Somewhere in the building, pipes creak. The sound feels unbearably loud. His gaze lifts slowly. For once, there’s no immediate retort, no controlled reply. Just stillness.
You swallow, suddenly aware that you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross. “You walked right past me,” you continue, the old anger flaring in your chest like it never left. “I said your name. You didn’t even look at me. Like I wasn’t-” Your voice catches. You force it steady. “Like I wasn’t worth the effort.”
Leon’s throat works as he swallows. He looks down at his hands for a moment, fingers flexing, then back up to you. His eyes are hard, not with anger, but with something else. Something that looks a lot like regret.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quietly.
You laugh, brittle. “Could’ve fooled me.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s choosing each word with care. Like he can’t afford to get this wrong.
“I didn’t know what to say,” Leon admits. The words hang in the air, plain and stark.
You blink. “What?”
“I didn’t know what to say,” he repeats, more firmly this time, like he’s pushing through something stuck in his throat. “You… came up to me. Confident. Like you belonged here already. Like you weren’t scared of anyone.”
Your chest tightens, caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to understanding.
Leon’s jaw flexes. “And I…” He hesitates. It’s subtle, but it’s there, the first real hesitation you’ve seen from him that isn’t tactical. “I didn’t want to screw it up.”
You stare at him, thrown off balance. “Screw what up?” you demand, too sharply.
Leon’s eyes meet yours, steady but exposed. “Whatever it was,” he says quietly. “I-” He exhales, a sound that almost turns into a laugh but doesn’t. “You intimidated me.”
The confession hits like a punch. You’re speechless for a beat, mouth opening and closing like you’re trying to find words that aren’t there.
“Me?” you echo finally, incredulous.
Leon nods once, almost reluctantly. “Yeah. You.”
He shifts his weight, restless, uncomfortable, like he’d rather be facing down a dozen armed guards than this conversation. “I’d just transferred. I was… trying to keep my head down. Trying to be the guy who didn’t make mistakes.”
His gaze drops again briefly, then lifts. “And you looked at me like you expected something. Like you wanted to talk. And I didn’t know what to do with that.”
The room feels smaller. You remember that hallway. Remember the way you’d felt, nervous but determined, trying to be friendly, trying to prove you weren’t just another ambitious agent. You’d thought it would be simple. You’d thought he’d smile. Instead he’d walked away and left you standing there with your pride bleeding out on the floor.
“And you decided ignoring me was the best option,” you say, voice tight.
Leon’s mouth twists. “I thought if I said the wrong thing, it’d be worse.”
“So you said nothing.”
“I said nothing,” he agrees, and there’s no defence in it. Just ownership. “And then you looked at me like you hated me, and…” He pauses, eyes flicking to yours. “It was easier to let you.”
Your throat tightens. Because it’s suddenly all too clear: the rivalry didn’t start because he thought he was better than you.
It started because he was scared, and you were hurt, and neither of you had ever been brave enough to admit it.
The strip light hums above you, the only witness to the truth finally surfacing between bare concrete walls.
You let out a slow breath, hands still, heart quieter now but heavier.
“Leon,” you say, voice low.
He looks at you, waiting. The silence after his confession is different from the ones that came before it. It doesn’t feel sharp or loaded with expectation. It feels… open. Exposed. Like something has finally been set down between you instead of hurled back and forth.
Leon doesn’t move. He doesn’t fill the space with explanations or excuses. He just stands there, shoulders tense, waiting. For you.
You stare at the concrete floor for a long moment, jaw tight, pulse steadying as the truth rearranges itself in your chest. All the years of irritation. The constant edge. The way every victory against him had tasted hollow, every loss unbearable. It clicks into place with an almost humiliating clarity.
“You know what the worst part is?” you say finally, voice quiet but steady.
Leon’s eyes lift to yours. He doesn’t speak.
“You made me better.” The words scrape on the way out. You let out a short, humourless breath. “Every time I saw your name above mine, or just one slot below, it pissed me off. And I worked harder. Smarter. I pushed myself because I refused to be second to you.”
Leon’s brow furrows slightly, but he stays silent.
“And I told myself it was hate,” you continue, forcing the words out before you can second-guess them. “That you were arrogant. Cold. That you thought you were better than me.”
Your laugh this time is quieter. Rougher. “It was easier to be angry than to admit the truth.”
Leon’s jaw tightens. “Which is?”
The room doesn’t collapse. He just watches you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.
“I hated you,” you say, softer now, “because it was safer than wondering why your opinion of me mattered so much.”
The admission leaves you raw. Exposed in a way gunfire never could. Leon exhales slowly, like he’s been holding that breath for years.
“I noticed,” he says quietly.
You blink. “Noticed what?”
“That you were always pushing.” His voice is calm, but there’s something unguarded in it now. “That every time I thought I’d finally pulled ahead, you closed the gap. That when I messed up, you didn’t gloat, you got sharper.”
He shakes his head once, a small, almost self-deprecating motion. “I told myself I didn’t care. That it was just competition.”
You snort. “Let me guess. Lie.”
“Yes.” He meets your gaze fully now. “I measured everything against you. Missions. Scores. Decisions. I never wanted to be less in your eyes.”
The words land heavier than you expect.
Leon shifts his weight, restless. “I mistook the tension for hostility because that was easier than admitting I was… invested.”
“In what?” you ask quietly.
“In you,” he answers, just as quietly.
The air between you changes.
Not explosively. Not dramatically.
It settles.
You look at him finally, as someone standing on the same ground, stripped of armour and pretence.
Equals.
“I thought you ignored me because you didn’t respect me,” you say.
Leon’s mouth tightens. “I respected you too much.”
That shouldn’t undo you.
It does.
Your shoulders sag slightly, tension bleeding out of muscles you didn’t realise were still locked. “We’re idiots,” you mutter.
Leon huffs a quiet laugh. “We’re agents.”
“Same thing.”
For the first time, the humour doesn’t feel like a weapon. It feels shared.
You step closer without fully realising you’ve moved. The space between you narrows until you’re acutely aware of his presence again. You can hear his breathing. Feel the warmth radiating off him.
Leon doesn’t retreat.
His hand lifts slightly, then hesitates, hovering near your wrist like he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to cross that line. The restraint is somehow worse than if he’d just touched you.
Your fingers twitch, an instinctive response.
The moment teeters.
It’s there in the closeness, the shared breath, the fragile understanding humming between you. One step closer. One hand reaching. One choice away from something that feels inevitable.
Leon’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth.
Your heart stutters.
Then -
A sharp crackle tears through the stillness.
Your discarded earpiece comes to life on the table, static bursting from it in an ugly rush of sound. You both jerk back instinctively, training snapping into place.
“-repeat, safe room compromised-” the handler’s voice cuts in, distorted and urgent. “Umbrella units inbound. You need to move. Now.”
The spell shatters.
Leon’s hand drops instantly, professionalism snapping back into place like a reflex. Your pulse spikes, adrenaline surging back through veins that had only just begun to calm.
You exchange one look.
Not rivals. Not enemies.
Partners.
“Guess we don’t get a quiet ending,” you mutter.
Leon’s mouth curves faintly, not a smirk, not yet. Something steadier. “We’ll finish this first.”
You nod, already moving toward your weapon. But as you pass him, your fingers brush his wrist, deliberate this time.
Just enough to promise. This isn’t over.
Then the door rattles under the first distant impact, and whatever comes next barrels toward you both at full speed, truth laid bare, denial gone, and something fragile and dangerous waiting on the other side of the fight.
The first impact hits the door like a warning.
Metal groans. The cart you shoved against it shudders, wheels squealing against concrete. Dust shakes loose from the ceiling in a fine gray drift.
Leon’s eyes snap to the lock. Yours snap to your weapon.
“Move,” he says at the same time you do.
The strip light overhead flickers once, then dies.
Darkness swallows the room.
For half a heartbeat, there’s nothing but the faint red pulse bleeding through the narrow window in the door and the sound of your own breathing.
Then the world explodes.
Gunfire tears through the door in a blistering spray. Splinters of metal and concrete burst inward, sparks flashing like violent stars in the dark. You drop instinctively, hitting the floor hard, shoulder slamming into the table leg as rounds chew the space where you’d been standing a second ago.
“Down!” Leon barks, unnecessary, because you’re already there.
Your ears ring. The air smells like hot metal and smoke. The darkness makes everything closer, sharper. You can’t see Leon, but you can hear him, his breath, controlled but quick, the scrape of his boots as he shifts.
Another impact slams into the door. The cart grinds forward an inch.
“They tracked us,” you spit, teeth clenched.
Leon’s voice is tight. “They wanted us to bring the device somewhere quiet.”
Personal, then.
Not a show of force. Not a random contingency.
A message.
A punishment.
You raise your pistol, steadying your aim toward the door’s window slit. Red light strobes across your hands in pulses. You can’t see targets, but you can predict movement by sound, boots, the clink of gear, the clipped rhythm of someone stacking up for entry.
Leon moves to your side, a shadow in the dark. You feel the brush of his shoulder against yours, close, grounding, real.
“On my mark,” you murmur.
“Always,” he whispers back, and the word lands heavier than it ever has.
The door buckles.
A wedge of light knifes through as the barricade gives. Someone rams it again, and the door bursts inward with a metallic shriek. Figures flood the gap, black armour, masked faces, rifles up.
You fire first.
A clean shot, then another. The muzzle flash briefly illuminates the room in harsh white bursts, enough to catch glints of visor, the sharp edge of a weapon, Leon’s face set and fierce beside you.
Leon moves in the same instant, firing over your shoulder, his shots precise, economical. An operative drops in the doorway, collapsing into the pile of debris. Another stumbles back with a curse.
“Push!” Leon barks.
You surge forward together, slipping through the smoke and chaos. Close quarters now, too tight for long-range. Your shoulder slams into one attacker, throwing him off balance. Leon’s elbow drives into another’s jaw, cracking hard enough that you feel it in your teeth.
You don’t think.
You move.
Someone grabs your arm from behind. You pivot, wrenching free, gun coming up, only to have Leon’s hand catch your wrist, redirecting your barrel a fraction.
“Left,” he snaps.
A shot cracks where your aim would’ve been wrong. A man drops behind you, silent and sudden.
Your pulse spikes, raw gratitude laced with terror.
You’re alive because Leon didn’t hesitate. Again.
More operatives spill into the corridor outside, attempting to funnel you back into the room. You back up instinctively until your spine hits the wall.
Leon shifts behind you.
Back-to-back, without discussion.
The old rhythm returns, but it’s different now. It’s sharpened by something you can’t pretend is just training.
A rifle butt swings toward Leon’s head. You hear it more than see it. You react—knife flashing up, slashing across the attacker’s forearm. Leon ducks and counters, driving his shoulder into the man’s chest, sending him crashing into the corridor wall.
“Leon!” you call, not as a warning, but as an anchor. A check-in. Still there?
“I’m here,” he answers, voice tight.
Gunfire erupts again, closer. A round clips the wall by your ear. Another slams into Leon’s side.
For a second, you don’t register what happened.
Then Leon makes a sound, sharp, involuntary, like his body betrayed him.
He staggers.
Your stomach drops through the floor.
“Leon!” you gasp, turning-
He catches himself against the wall, one hand pressing hard to his ribs. When he lifts it, his palm is dark in the strobing red light.
Blood. Too much.
His face tightens, not with fear, with frustration. With the shock of losing control for even a second.
“I’m fine,” he grits out.
“No,” you snap, voice cracking with something you can’t hide. “No, you’re not.”
Another operative charges, and instinct takes over before panic can swallow you whole. You fire, dropping him mid-step. You move closer to Leon without thinking, body angling to shield him from the corridor.
“Don’t-” Leon starts, but his breath catches, pain stealing the rest of the sentence.
You rip some fabric from your dress, and shove it against his side. “Hold pressure.”
Leon’s eyes flare. “We need to move.”
“We are moving,” you hiss. “But you are not dying in front of me.”
He tries to straighten. He’s breathing harder now, sweat slick at his brow, his usual control slipping at the edges. Disorientation flickers in his eyes for half a second, like his body is threatening to go down whether he wants it to or not.
The sight guts you.
The fear hits fully then, hot and absolute, stripping you of everything sharp and snarky and protected.
“I am going to be so mad if you die on me,” you say, voice raw, unfiltered.
Leon’s eyes rolled before his gaze locks on yours. You could’ve sworn you saw a smirk on his face.
Then his jaw tightens. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, and for once, it isn’t a challenge. It’s a promise.
The corridor fills with footsteps again.
You pivot, planting yourself between Leon and the oncoming threat. Every muscle in your body tightens with purpose. Protective. Focused.
You fire in controlled bursts, forcing the operatives back. Leon pushes off the wall, gritting his teeth, raising his weapon despite the tremor in his arm. You hear the strain in his breath, the way his body fights him now.
“Stay with me,” you mutter, not a command, an insistence. “Match me.”
Leon’s voice is ragged but steady. “Always.”
You move together again, but now every decision is laced with instinctive concern. You take the riskier angles, so he doesn’t have to. You cover him longer than necessary. You bark directions closer, faster, because the thought of losing him makes your vision narrow into something dangerous.
An enemy lunges from the side. You catch him with your shoulder and slam him into the wall. Leon steps in to finish it, but his knees buckle for a heartbeat. Your hand shoots out, gripping his forearm, hauling him upright.
You clear the last attacker with brutal efficiency, and the corridor finally opens, an escape route just beyond the carnage.
Leon sways, teeth clenched. You hook your arm around his back, taking more of his weight than you should be able to, and he lets you.
That, more than anything, tells you how deep this has gone.
You stagger forward together into the dim service stairwell, alarms still wailing, red light flashing, the world still trying to tear you apart.
The extraction is quiet. The kind of quiet that comes after everything loud has already burned itself out.
You barely register the transition from stairwell to armoured transport. Leon’s weight leans heavy against you until medics swarm, voices overlapping, hands pulling you apart with practiced urgency. Someone eases you back while someone else lowers him onto a stretcher. The world narrows to flashes: gauze pressed to his side, blood-stained shirt cut away, a monitor chirping insistently.
You stand there uselessly for half a second too long before someone tells you to sit.
You don’t remember sitting.
You remember your hands shaking when you notice they’re covered in his blood. You scrub them together reflexively, like you can erase the image if you try hard enough. A medic hands you a bottle of water. You take it without drinking.
Leon is alive.
The knowledge settles slowly, like something too fragile to trust all at once. His chest rises and falls, uneven but steady. His eyes flutter open briefly when they stitch him up, unfocused but aware enough to find you where you stand.
He doesn’t say anything.
Neither do you.
Later, how much later you’re not sure, you’re in another room. Cleaner. Brighter. Too sterile to feel real. Leon is propped up on a narrow cot, bandaged and pale but breathing without effort now. The monitors have gone quiet, content to hum along instead of scream.
Your injuries are minor. Someone fussed over them anyway. You let them, numb and obedient, because the alternative was thinking.
Now it’s just the two of you again.
Silence settles between you like a blanket instead of a weapon.
You stand by the wall at first, arms folded, posture rigid out of habit more than necessity. Leon watches you from the cot, expression unreadable but soft around the edges in a way you’ve never seen before.
“You should sit,” he says quietly.
You shake your head and answer as you always do. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t argue but rolls his eyes as he always does.
The adrenaline has fully drained now, leaving behind a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. Your hands are still trembling slightly, even as you clench them into fists and force them still. You feel wrung out, scraped raw, like something vital has been stripped away, and something else left behind in its place.
Leon shifts, wincing faintly, then settles. His gaze never leaves you.
“I scared you,” he says.
It’s not an accusation. It’s not fishing for reassurance.
It’s a statement.
You swallow. “Yeah.”
Another silence. Thicker. More honest.
“I didn’t mean to,” he adds.
“I know.” You push off the wall before you can stop yourself, closing the distance until you’re standing beside him. You don’t look at the bandages. You look at his face. “But you did.”
Leon nods once. “I won’t apologise for getting hit.”
“Good,” you say immediately. “Because I’d never forgive you for it.”
That earns the faintest huff of a laugh, more breath than sound. It fades quickly, leaving the room quiet again.
You don’t sit. Instead, you reach out without fully deciding to, your fingers brushing the edge of the bed. Leon’s hand shifts instinctively, stopping just short of yours.
The hesitation is mutual.
“You don’t have to-” he starts.
“I want to,” you say softly.
The words feel different now. Steadier. Chosen.
Leon’s fingers close around yours, careful, deliberate. His grip is warm, grounding, real in a way that has nothing to do with cover stories or mission parameters. He doesn’t pull you closer. He just holds on, like he’s confirming you’re still here.
You breathe out slowly, the tension easing from your shoulders in a way you hadn’t realized was still there.
This isn’t the gala. There’s no music. No audience. No danger pressing in from all sides. No reason at all, except want.
You step closer, close enough that your knees brush the side of the cot. Leon tilts his head up slightly to look at you, eyes searching, open.
When you finally lean in, it’s slow. Unrushed. Intentional.
Your lips meet his with a softness that surprises you both.
It’s nothing like the kiss before.
There’s no urgency driving it this time. No desperation, no need to convince anyone watching. No sharp angles or calculated pressure. Just the quiet, deliberate meeting of mouths, slow, careful, unguarded in a way that feels far more dangerous.
Leon kisses you like he’s letting himself feel it.
His lips are warm, firm but unhurried, moving against yours with a patience that makes your breath stutter despite yourself. It’s not demanding. It’s exploratory. As if he’s memorising the shape of you instead of claiming it.
His hand lifts to your wrist, fingers closing there gently, thumb brushing over your pulse. You feel it jump beneath his touch, too fast, too loud, and the knowledge that he can feel it too sends a low, unwanted heat curling through your stomach.
He doesn’t comment.
He just deepens the kiss slightly, a subtle shift that draws a quiet sound from the back of your throat before you can stop it. His other hand hovers at your side, not quite touching, the restraint almost worse than contact.
When he finally does settle his palm against your waist, it’s careful. Grounding. Like he’s reminding both of you exactly where you are, and exactly how close you’re choosing to be.
You kiss him back without thinking, lips parting just enough to meet his, the world narrowing to breath and warmth and the steady strength of him in front of you. The orchestra fades. The room dissolves. There is only this, this shared, wordless understanding humming between you.
When you pull back, it’s slow.
Reluctant.
Your forehead rests against his, breaths mingling, close enough that you can feel the faint tremor he hasn’t quite managed to suppress. His thumb still strokes your pulse, absent-minded now, like he’s forgotten he’s doing it.
Neither of you speaks.
You don’t need to.
There’s no declaration. No promise shaped into words. Just the shared understanding humming between you, solid and undeniable.
When you finally straighten, Leon’s eyes are still on you, softer now. Lighter.
“Guess,” he murmurs, “that wasn’t part of the cover.”
You smile, a real one, unguarded. “Guess not.”
The silence returns again after that.
But this time, it doesn’t ask anything of you.
It simply lets you be.
The debrief room looks exactly the way it always does.
Gray walls. Steel table. A screen mounted at the far end displaying mission timestamps and sanitized summaries. The kind of room designed to strip events of their chaos and compress them into bullet points.
You sit side by side. Your shoulder almost brushes Leon’s, close enough to feel without touching. He’s back in clean clothes now, bandages hidden beneath a fresh shirt, posture straight despite the stiffness he hasn’t quite shaken.
The handler stands across from you, expression neutral as ever.
There’s no need to look at each other to confirm anything. You already know what the other is thinking. Where they’ll speak. When they’ll stay quiet. It’s effortless now, like the friction burned itself out and left something smooth behind.
The handler’s gaze flicks between you briefly. Assessing. Noting the absence of hostility.
“Good work,” they add. “Both of you.”
High praise, coming from them.
They dismiss you with a clipped nod and turn back to the screen. The door slides open with a soft hiss, and you stand at the same time, movements synchronized without thought.
Outside, the operations floor hums with its usual low-level chaos. Agents pass, analysts cluster around consoles, voices overlap in familiar rhythms. Nothing looks different.
But it feels different.
You walk together toward the leaderboard without speaking, the silence companionable instead of sharp. The board flickers as you approach, updating, recalculating, doing what it always does after a major operation.
For a split second, the screen goes dark.
Then the names appear.
You stop.
So does Leon.
#1 — YOU
#1 — LEON KENNEDY
Perfectly even.
Tied.
You stare at it longer than you expect to, waiting for something, satisfaction, irritation, the old flare of competitiveness.
It doesn’t come.
Leon exhales softly beside you, something between a laugh and a breath of disbelief. He tilts his head, eyes moving from the board to you.
That familiar smirk appears, not sharp, not challenging. Lighter. Easier.
“Guess we’ll have to settle this another way,” he says.
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