Thea entered the fortress hall to find Dagonet already seated beside Bors. He didn’t look at her—not when she stepped inside, not when Lancelot kept her hand on his arm, and not when he pulled out her chair for her to sit. She wondered how long it would be before he spoke to her again.
Arthur entered the room, and the knights rose in unison.
“Where is the Bishop?” Thea asked.
Arthur’s dark eyes flicked to her, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “He will be with us presently.”
She nodded, and sure enough, just minutes later, the doors opened, revealing Jols as he stepped inside.
“His Eminence, Bishop Naius Germanius.”
The Bishop’s valet entered first, a thin, wiry man who immediately hesitated at the sight of the room. The Bishop followed a moment later, his step faltering as his gaze landed on the massive table before him.
“A round table?” His voice dripped with disdain. “What sort of evil is this?”
Jols merely raised a brow, his expression carefully neutral, though Thea caught the flicker of amusement in his eyes.
“Arthur says that for men to be men, they must first all be equal,” Jols stated.
The valet, clearly more outraged than his master, stiffened and hissed under his breath, “A woman is not equal to a man! Let alone to a Bishop!”
Jols said nothing, merely returning to his place by the door. He knew Thea’s worth. She was worth ten times more than the Bishop and more than many men he had met in his life.
Thea sat six seats away from Lancelot, four away from Galahad. None of the knights shifted closer to fill the empty spaces—those belonged to their fallen brothers. The room felt hollow without them, but leaving their seats untouched was an unspoken tribute.
The Bishop finally stepped fully into the chamber, glancing at the round table with barely concealed disgust. The knights, bound by duty rather than respect, rose to acknowledge his presence.
Thea wished she could have remained seated. She had no respect for this so-called man of God.
“I was given to understand there would be more of you.” The Bishop said looking to Arthur.
A sharp pang struck Thea’s heart as she sat back down. She missed them—every one of her fallen brothers-in-arms. She could still picture their faces clearly, but their voices were beginning to fade from memory. They had been so many once. Now, they were so few.
Arthur answered, his tone steady but firm. Thea had a feeling he would be the only one speaking tonight.
“There were,” he said. “We have been fighting here for fifteen years, Bishop.”
Servants moved about the room, carrying golden chalices filled with wine. A young man paused beside Thea, offering her one, and she accepted it with a nod. As the wine slid down her throat, she noted the richness of its taste. This was no common drink—this was the finest vintage, likely brought all the way from Rome. Of course, the Bishop would ensure he had only the proper wine.
Once the Bishop took his seat, the knights followed suit.
“Oh, of course,” the Bishop said, his voice dripping with feigned admiration. “Arthur and his knights have served with great courage, maintaining the honor of Rome’s empire in this, the last outpost of our glory. Rome is most indebted to you, noble knight, for your final days as servants to the empire.”
Lancelot scoffed, voicing the thought that was on all of their minds.
“Day. Not days.”
Thea’s fingers tightened slightly around her chalice. Days? Why had he said days? Something wasn’t right. Where were their papers? Why was he delaying?
“The Pope has taken a personal interest in you,” the Bishop continued smoothly. “He inquires after each of you and is curious to know if your knights have converted to the word of Our Savior, or…?”
Arthur’s gaze swept across his men, pride evident in his expression. “They retain the religion of their forefathers. I have never questioned that.”
And it was true. Arthur had never forced his men to kneel before his God. He had never demanded that they pray with him. Unlike any Roman before him, and likely any that would come after, he had respected them.
“Of course, of course,” the Bishop murmured. His lips curled in distaste. “They are pagans.”
The Bishop’s gaze swept over the knights, but his eyes lingered on Thea longer than the rest. She noticed Dagonet’s grip tighten around his chalice, his knuckles turning white. He had seen it too.
“For our part,” the Bishop said, his tone laced with feigned civility, “the Church has deemed such beliefs… innocent. But you, Arthur—your path to God is through Pelagius? I saw his image in your room.”
Arthur met his gaze without hesitation. “He took my father’s place for me. His teachings on free will and equality have been a great influence. I look forward to our reunion in Rome.”
Thea knew of Pelagius well. Arthur had spoken of him many times, his admiration clear. Once, he had even written to Pelagius about her. The response had come swiftly, with the philosopher expressing his desire to meet such an extraordinary warrior. The compliment alone had been enough to intrigue her. She had wanted to meet the man ever since.
The Bishop offered Arthur a tight-lipped smile. “Rome awaits your arrival with great anticipation. You are a hero. In Rome, you will live out your days in honor and wealth. Alas… alas, we are all but players in an ever-changing world.” He sighed dramatically before continuing. “Barbarians from every corner are nearly at Rome’s door. Because of this, Rome and the Holy Father have decided to remove ourselves from indefensible outposts such as Britain. What will become of this land is no longer our concern. I suppose the Saxons will claim it soon enough.”
At his words, a gilded box was placed beside him. The knights stood out of obligation—all but Thea and Lancelot.
“Saxons?” Arthur’s voice was sharp, cutting through the heavy silence. Thea felt the same unease coil in her stomach. The Saxons were ruthless, leaving only death in their wake.
“Yes,” the Bishop confirmed. “In the north, a massive Saxon incursion has begun.”
Lancelot scoffed, his lip curling. “The Saxons only claim what they kill.”
“And they do kill everything,” Gawain added darkly.
“They believe themselves to be the perfect race, the perfect warriors,” Thea said, her voice steady despite the weight of her words. “To them, anything else is an abomination.”
The Bishop shot her a scowl, but she refused to shrink beneath his gaze. She would not hold her tongue—not now, not ever.
“So you would just leave the land to the Woads?” Galahad’s voice was sharp, his frustration clear. “I risked my life for nothing?”
No one answered him. The silence in the room was heavier than the walls that surrounded them.
The Bishop cleared his throat and continued as if the young knight had not spoken. “Gentlemen,” he said smoothly purposefully leaving out Thea, “your discharge papers, with safe conduct throughout the Roman Empire.”
He lifted the gilded box slightly, its weight shifting in his hands. Thea’s eyes flickered from the scrolls within it to Dagonet’s face. He was staring at the box, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—his hungry, desperate eyes—told her everything. He wanted those papers, that promise of freedom.
But he would not look at her.
Before she could dwell on it, the Bishop’s voice cut through her thoughts once more.
“But first, I must have a word with your commander,” he announced, pausing for effect. “In private.”
A cold certainty settled in Thea’s chest. Something is wrong.
Arthur’s jaw tightened. “We have no secrets.”
The Bishop’s face twitched in irritation. When he had said private, he had meant private. First a round table, and now this blatant defiance? His lips pressed into a thin line as he slammed the wooden box shut with more force than necessary.
Lancelot was the first to break the tension. Rising with a lazy grace, he lifted his golden chalice in a mocking salute. “Come,” he drawled, tilting the cup toward Arthur before draining the last of his wine. “Let’s leave Roman business to Romans.” With a flourish, he set the chalice down and strode from the hall.
Bors remained in his seat, glaring openly at the Bishop, his fingers twitching as if itching to make a fist. Dagonet, ever perceptive, clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder and gave a firm shove. “Let it go, Bors.”
Bors huffed but stood, muttering curses under his breath as he stalked out.
Thea felt a warm hand press lightly against her back—Lancelot, guiding her toward the door. She let him, but not before casting one last glance at Dagonet.
He still hadn’t looked at her.
“What a pompous ass,” Galahad spat the moment they were out of earshot of the fortress hall. His disgust was palpable, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
“I knew something was wrong the moment we came upon his caravan,” Thea murmured, her voice quieter but no less certain. The memory still sat uneasily in her gut.
“Our seer is right again,” came a low voice from the front of the group. Tristan, ever the observer, barely turned his head as he spoke.
Thea scoffed. “I am no seer, Tristan.”
He glanced at her briefly, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “Could have fooled me.” And with that, he fell silent once more.
Galahad let out a frustrated breath, running a hand through his hair. “Why must we wait? We should just take our papers and leave.”
“It’s Roman ways,” Lancelot said, shaking his head. “They never make anything easy, especially when they hold the power.”
Bors grunted, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of the conversation. “Enough talk,” he said gruffly. “I feel like drinking till I can’t piss straight.” He clapped Dagonet on the back and started leading the way.
“Vanora will be working,” he added, his tone lighter now, laced with the warmth only she could bring out in him. “Let’s get there before all those Roman bastards drink all my damn ale.”
Lancelot chuckled, looping an arm around Thea’s shoulders as they followed. “A noble cause indeed.”
Thea smiled faintly, but her mind was still turning over the events of the evening. Something was coming—she could feel it.
Thea and Dagonet finally have a moment alone to speak, the moment doesn’t go how they had planned.
Arthur had granted his knights leave to rest and bathe while the bishop took his own indulgent respite.
“Make it quick,” Lancelot quipped as he strode toward his quarters. “Wouldn’t want to be late for the bishop’s grand speech.”
His smirk was met with little amusement. None of them had the patience for jokes—not when their freedom hung in the balance. The sooner they received their discharge papers, the sooner they could leave this place behind.
As the knights dispersed to their chambers, Thea knew this would be the best time to speak with Dagonet. But first, she needed to rid herself of the blood that clung to her skin like a ghostly reminder of the battle.
No matter how many fights she had seen, no matter how many more she would face before her life was over, she would never grow accustomed to scrubbing the blood of the fallen from her body—enemy or not.
She stripped off her soiled clothes, tossing them into a heap near the door. Her weapons, carefully placed, rested on the wooden table beside her bed. Her sword would need sharpening soon.
Moving to the small wash basin, she dipped a cloth into the cool water and began scrubbing her skin. The water darkened to red almost immediately, swirling like ink as it carried away the remnants of the day’s violence. She reached for the second bucket of clean water, pouring it over her arms and shoulders, watching as it washed away the last traces of blood.
It took several minutes before she finally felt clean. Pulling on a fresh tunic, pants, and boots, she worked quickly to re-braid her damp hair—only to be interrupted by a soft knock at the door.
Thea moved to open the heavy wooden door, only to be met by Dagonet’s piercing green eyes. He said nothing as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with quiet finality.
“I was just about to come find you,” she began, but the intensity in his gaze made her breath catch. She knew that look—knew exactly where this would lead if she let it.
Reaching out, she placed a hand against his chest, a gentle attempt to stop him from coming any closer. But Dagonet was not so easily deterred. He caught her hand in his own, his grip warm and firm as he pulled her toward him.
“Dagonet,” she warned, though her voice lacked conviction.
He wasn’t listening. They had gone months without a moment alone, stolen glances and fleeting touches the only comfort in the chaos of war. Now that he had the chance, he wasn’t going to waste it.
His lips captured hers before she could protest again, his kiss deep and unyielding. Whatever she had meant to say dissolved the moment his arms wrapped around her, pulling her flush against him. What had started as an attempt to distract her became his own undoing the second he felt her melt into him.
Thea hesitated for only a heartbeat before surrendering, her fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic as she kissed him back. One of his hands pressed against the small of her back, holding her in place, while the other tangled into the damp strands of her hair. A soft moan escaped her lips, and he smiled against her mouth in quiet triumph—only for her to catch herself and abruptly pull away.
“You’re distracting me,” she said, breathless.
“And?” His grin was utterly shameless as he leaned in again, intent on reclaiming her lips.
But Thea pulled back, pressing her fingers against his chest. “I’m serious, Dagonet.”
“What is the matter?” Dagonet asked as Thea sank onto the edge of her bed. He moved to join her, concern etched across his face.
“Bors knows.”
His brow furrowed. “Knows what?”
She hesitated, but when his fingers gently lifted her chin, his thumb tracing the fullness of her bottom lip, she exhaled and said, “About us.”
His touch stilled. “So?”
“So?!” She pulled away, frustration bubbling up. “If Bors knows, then who else does?”
“Why does it matter? We receive our papers tonight.”
“Dagonet.” She turned to face him fully, her voice low and urgent. “What happens if more than just Bors knows? If the Bishop finds out, we could be sentenced to death for this.”
“Then we run.”
“Run where? Back home?” She sighed, standing abruptly. “They would hunt us down.”
“The Bishop is here to give us our freedom,” he argued, his jaw tightening.
“I don’t believe he is. Something doesn’t feel right, Dagonet. We cannot risk it.”
He stepped closer, his voice edged with frustration. “I don’t understand why you keep fighting this. Have you lost your courage? Or your love for me?”
Thea’s eyes flashed as she turned on him. “How dare you?” she hissed. “How dare you even suggest I don’t love you anymore. And I have not lost my courage.”
“Then prove it,” he challenged. “Come with me to speak with Arthur. He is our commander—our friend. He will understand.”
“No.” She shook her head. “Not until I have that paper in my hand. And you have yours.”
Dagonet’s expression darkened, hurt bleeding into his frustration. “I do not understand why we must continue to live in silence. After all these years.” His voice softened. “Thea, I want to take you as my wife. I want a life with you. A family. Can you not see that?”
She closed her eyes briefly, pain flickering across her face before she forced herself to meet his gaze. “Bors and Vanora are not married,” she said quietly. “It is different for us. I am a knight, just as you are. And you know what they told me the moment I was taken in. If any man dared to claim me, if I were to become pregnant—” She swallowed hard. “It would be the end of my life. And his.”
Thea had never seen that look in Dagonet’s eyes before—not directed at her. It wasn’t just anger; it was something deeper, something raw. And though she knew he had every right to feel this way, she couldn’t stay silent.
“I can’t risk losing you,” she said softly.
His jaw tightened. “You don’t think I would fight for you? That I would take on an entire Roman legion just to be with you?”
“Dag—”
“Don’t interrupt me!” he snapped.
She flinched, shocked by the force of his voice. Silence stretched between them, heavy and unyielding. He exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face before turning toward the door.
Slowly, he opened it, his back still to her. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but laced with hurt.
“I would fight for you.” A pause. “Why can’t you fight for me?”
“Dagonet,” she whispered, but he didn’t turn back.
And then he was gone, leaving her alone with nothing but her thoughts—and the tears she could no longer hold back.
Thea had no idea how much time had passed between Dagonet leaving and Gawain’s knock at her door.
“Thea, we are to meet Arthur soon.”
She opened the door slowly, hoping he wouldn’t notice the redness in her eyes. But Gawain always noticed.
“Thea, are you alright?” he asked, his voice quieter now.
She wiped at her eyes and forced a small smile. “I’m not sure.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, with a heavy sigh, she murmured, “We best not keep the bishop waiting.” She moved to step past him, but Gawain caught her in a hug.
The knights weren’t ones to display affection openly, but here, in the quiet of the hallway, with no one else around, Gawain simply gathered her into his arms. The weight of unspoken words settled between them, her walls threatening to break again. She didn’t cry, but he held her as if she might.
“Do you wish to talk?” he finally asked.
She just shook her head.
A familiar voice broke the silence. “What’s this? Free embraces from our beautiful viper?”
Lancelot had stepped from his room, his usual mischievous grin in place. Thea couldn’t help but return it, stepping out of Gawain’s arms.
“If anyone saw me hugging you, rumors would fly,” she teased.
“Let them,” Lancelot replied smoothly, offering his arm.
She rolled her eyes but took it anyway. He pressed a quick kiss to her brow, and just like that, the weight on her chest felt a little lighter.
Gawain shook his head at Lancelot’s antics but said nothing. Together, the three of them made their way toward the meeting room, where they would take their places at the round table and await the bishop’s arrival.
“When we get back, I’m gonna drink till I can’t piss straight,” Bors announced with a grin, clearly pleased with his own grand proposal.
“You do that every night,” Gawain replied flatly, unimpressed.
Bors scoffed. “Aye, but I never could piss straight. Too much of myself to handle down there.”
A collective groan rose from the group, but Bors wasn’t deterred. He waited expectantly for a response, but when none came, he continued, “No, really, it’s a problem! It’s like a—”
“Baby’s arm holding an apple,” the knights all finished in unison, their voices dripping with exasperation.
Bors let out a hearty laugh, clearly entertained despite their lack of enthusiasm. The rest of them just rolled their eyes as they continued toward the fort.
“Bors, you need a new line,” Thea chuckled as she rode beside him.
“Well, you wouldn’t be saying that if you ever saw me! You’d agree,” Bors shot back with a wink.
Thea smirked. “Oh, I do believe I’ll tell fair Vanora about this conversation.”
Bors’ grin faltered instantly. “Now, hold on—” He nudged his horse closer to hers, his voice dropping low. “You wouldn’t do that to me.”
She gave him a knowing look but said nothing, just enjoying the rare moment of having the upper hand.
Bors, however, saw his opportunity to turn the conversation in his favor. “If you tell Vanora, I’ll have to tell Arthur about you and Dagonet.”
Thea’s amusement vanished. She turned sharply to him, eyes wide. “What?”
“You really think I wouldn’t notice?” His voice was quieter now, serious beneath the usual bravado. “Out of all the knights, Dagonet is the closest to me. I see everything, and I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
She opened her mouth to deny it, to brush it off as nonsense, but lying to Bors was like trying to outrun the wind—pointless. Something about him, much like Arthur, always made her stumble over her words when she tried.
“Bors, please,” she sighed, lowering her voice so only he could hear. “We were waiting until we had our papers before telling anyone. If the Romans were to find out—”
“I’m not saying anything,” he assured her before she could finish, his voice softer now, lacking the teasing edge.
She let out a slow breath, relieved, but the damage was done—if Bors had noticed, who else had?
She had over an hour before they reached the fort. Plenty of time to think. And now, she had no choice but to.
“I don’t like him. That Roman,” Galahad muttered as they rode toward the fort, his grip tight on the reins. “If he’s here to discharge us, why doesn’t he just give us our papers and be done with it?”
Thea glanced at him, noting the tension in his young face. Despite the years of war, there was still a trace of the boy he used to be—flickering, dim, nearly extinguished by the Romans and the battles that had shaped him into a man far too soon.
“Is this your happy face?” Gawain quipped, smirking.
Galahad’s expression only darkened.
“Galahad, do you still not know the Romans?” Gawain continued. “They won’t even scratch their own asses without making a ceremony of it.”
Bors let out a short laugh. “Why don’t you just kill him, then discharge yourself after?”
“I don’t kill for pleasure. Unlike some.” Galahad’s voice was steady, but his gaze flicked toward Tristan.
The quiet knight didn’t react—just looked at him with that unreadable expression of his. Then, after a moment, Tristan spoke. “Well, you should try it someday. You might get a taste for it.”
Bors snorted. “It’s in you, lad. It’s in your blood.”
Thea sighed. “Unfortunately, it’s in all of us.”
“No, no, no.” Bors waved a hand dismissively. “As of tomorrow, this was all just a bad memory.”
“Ohhh,” he added, voice thick with sarcasm.
“All of it, Galahad?” Thea asked, tilting her head toward him. “Even us? Will we just be bad memories too?”
She had always called him little brother, and in many ways, he was. But when he wouldn’t look at her, when he urged his horse forward, leaving the conversation behind him, she got her answer.
She understood his longing for home—she felt it too. But unlike Galahad, she could never think of these men as a memory best forgotten. Blood, war, and death had bound them together in ways few could understand. They had fought, bled, and survived together. For better or worse, these men were her family. They always would be.
Maybe, she thought, this was just a woman’s sentiment.
“I’ve often wondered what going home will mean after all this,” Gawain said, breaking the silence. “What will I do? What will any of us do?” He exhaled, shaking his head. “It’s different for Galahad. He still remembers home. He still has a future waiting for him. But me? I’ve been in this life longer than the others. Home—” He paused, as if testing the word on his tongue. “It’s not so clear in my mind anymore.”
Thea understood that too. Home. A word that once meant everything. Now? It felt like something distant, something that belonged to another version of herself.
And yet, it was all they had left to hope for.
“You speak for yourself,” Bors grumbled. “It’s cold back there, and everyone I know is dead and buried. Besides, I have—I think—a dozen children.”
“Eleven,” Gawain corrected without missing a beat.
“And I’m sure there’ll be more on the way after we get back,” Thea teased as she rode up beside them, flashing Bors a knowing smirk.
Bors pointed a thick finger at her. “You listen.” He jabbed the same finger toward Galahad for good measure. “When the Romans finally clear out of here, we’ll have the run of the place. I’ll be governor of my own village, and Dagonet here will be my personal guard and royal ass-kisser. Won’t you, Dag?” He laughed, nudging his closest friend.
Dagonet, ever the quiet one, gave a small shake of his head but said nothing.
“You know, Bors,” Thea interjected, tilting her head. “Perhaps Dagonet might find himself a wife. Maybe even start a family of his own. He might be too busy being a husband and father to be your personal ass-kisser.”
Bors shot her a sharp look, and she just shrugged. They both knew the conversation they’d had earlier was still fresh in their minds.
“First thing I’m doing when I get home is finding a beautiful Sarmatian woman to wed,” Bors declared.
“A beautiful Sarmatian woman?” Bors said sarcastically causing Gawain to raise an eyebrow. “Why do you think we left in the first place?” Bors let out a booming laugh and made a loud mooing noise, shaking his head.
“You do know there’s a beautiful Sarmatian woman riding right beside you,” Lancelot said, nodding toward Thea.
“Why, thank you, my dear Lancelot,” Thea said with a dramatic smile, placing a hand on her chest as if deeply touched.
Bors turned, giving her a skeptical once-over. Then he jerked his thumb toward her and scoffed, “This one?”
Thea arched a brow.
Bors leaned in slightly. “No, my dear, you see—you are not a beautiful woman.” She narrowed her eyes at him.
“You’re a damned viper,” he added with a grin before leaning over and planting a quick, exaggerated kiss on her cheek.
She responded by punching him in the arm.
Bors feigned a wounded look before rubbing his arm with a grin. “But a beautiful viper, at that.”
Thea laughed, shaking her head before slowing her horse to fall into stride beside Dagonet. As she rode back, she caught Bors giving her a wink. She rolled her eyes but smiled all the same as he turned back to Lancelot to finish their conversation.
“And what about you, Lancelot?” Thea asked, glancing at the handsome knight. “What are your grand plans for home?”
Lancelot smirked, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he turned to Bors. “Well, if this woman of Gawain’s is as beautiful as he claims, I expect to be spending quite a bit of time at his house. His wife will surely welcome the company.”
Gawain shot him a dark look, clearly unamused. “Oh? And what exactly will I be doing?”
“Wondering at your good fortune that all your children look like me,” Lancelot replied with an easy grin.
“Is that before or after I split your head open with my ax?”
Lancelot only laughed. “Well, if I could finally convince our lovely viper to wed me, I suppose I wouldn’t need to trouble your household.” He cast a glance over his shoulder toward Thea, who rode between Tristan and Dagonet. “What do you say? Finally going to give me an answer?”
Thea rolled her eyes dramatically. “Lancelot, I love you dearly, but alas, your proposal came far too late. I’m afraid my affection has been lost to another.”
Lancelot clutched his chest in mock devastation. “No! Can this be true? Has our dear viper been tamed by another? Tell me, sister! Who has stolen you from me?”
Thea smirked. “Ah, but if I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
Gawain chuckled. “He’ll get it out of you one way or another. But better you marry anyone else than this vile knight. Or else you’ll be mother to many other women’s bastards as well.”
Thea burst into laughter while Lancelot ignored the jab, his attention already shifting. With a last lingering glance at her, he spurred his horse forward to join Arthur at the front of the group, leaving Thea shaking her head at his antics.
“Open the gate!” A Roman officer on the wall barked the command down to the two soldiers manning the heavy wooden doors. With a deep groan, the gates slowly swung open as the knights approached.
Thea urged her horse closer to Dagonet’s side. “We need to talk.”
His sharp eyes flicked toward her. “What is the matter?”
“Not now. When we can speak alone.”
Dagonet gave a small nod, sensing the weight in her voice, and she pressed her horse forward into the fort.
As they rode into the stables, they were met by Jols, who stepped forward to take hold of Arthur and Lancelot’s horses as they dismounted. Thea caught sight of Vanora and her children waiting just beyond the iron gates that enclosed the stable yard. Smiling, she gave a playful wink to little Gilly, who immediately blushed and hid behind his mother’s skirts.
“Welcome back, Arthur,” Jols greeted, his voice steady as always.
“Jols,” Arthur responded with a brief nod.
“Lancelot.”
The dark-haired knight only acknowledged him with a tense nod, his nerves clearly on edge. The bishop’s presence was an unwelcome weight hanging over them all.
Thea swung down from her horse with practiced ease, leading the animal past Jols. “Jols!” she greeted warmly.
He returned her smile. “Welcome back, Thea.”
“Thank you. Everything quiet here?”
“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Jols assured her, but his gaze drifted past her shoulder. Thea followed his line of sight and immediately tensed. The bishop was descending from his luxurious carriage, Roman soldiers flanking him on all sides like he was some fragile treasure.
Thea let out a quiet scoff. “Ah. May I present the most holy Roman bishop,” she murmured to Jols, her tone laced with sarcasm. “Come all the way from Rome to grace us with his divine presence.”
Jols smirked at her words, shaking his head slightly. “Let’s hope he presents you with your papers and leaves just as quickly.”
She exhaled, nodding in agreement. That was the hope, wasn’t it? But something about this man gnawed at her.
Arthur approached the carriage, ever the dutiful commander. “Bishop, my quarters have been made available to you.”
The bishop barely glanced at him as he descended, his robes pristine, untouched by the filth of travel. “Oh, yes. I must rest.”
Thea clenched her jaw, watching the man’s exaggerated weariness. Yes, because you look absolutely exhausted after reclining in your cushioned chariot the entire way here.
She turned back to her horse, gripping the saddle as unease curled in her stomach. Something about the bishop felt wrong.
You’re being paranoid, she told herself. At least… you hope you are.
Summary: Bucky and the reader have been dancing around their feelings for what feels like forever. An extravagant Stark Gala cracks the surface, bringing simmering emotions to light. But it’s months later, in the quiet of a movie night, that everything finally comes to a head. Tension builds in lingering glances and hesitant words. The air between them shifts—charged, uncertain, inevitable. And just like that, nothing between them is quite the same again.
It was early Saturday morning when you made your way down to the shared living area in the tower. Everyone else seemed to have plans for the day, so you decided to treat yourself to a solo movie marathon. You were just about to make a cup of coffee when the elevator chimed and someone stepped out.
Looking up, your gaze met the piercing blue eyes of Bucky Barnes.
“Hey,” he said when he spotted you.
“Hi,” you replied, surprised. “What are you doing back so soon?”
“Why? Am I interrupting some secret plans?” he asked with a smirk.
Ugh, why did he have to look so good first thing in the morning?
You cleared your throat and rushed to respond. “No! Just wondering. Everyone else is out until late tonight—or tomorrow.”
“I didn’t make any plans. Just got back from working out,” he said, gesturing vaguely to his sweat-dampened t-shirt.
“Oh… well, would you like to join me for a movie marathon? If you want to, I mean. Only if you’re not busy or—” You stumbled over your words, mentally slapping yourself. Get it together!
“Yeah, actually… that sounds nice,” he said, flashing a soft smile before glancing down at himself. “Let me get cleaned up, and I’ll meet you back here.”
You nodded, and he made his way down the hall to his room.
The moment he disappeared, you let your head fall onto the counter with a groan. Why did you have to be so awkward? And now you were about to spend the entire day alone with Bucky Barnes—the man you’d been crushing on for what felt like forever.
You’d been paired together on missions plenty of times, always perfectly in sync. It was like your bodies moved with the same rhythm—no need for spoken orders, no hesitation. You both just knew what the other would do. The trust between you was unshakable.
You used to talk more too—teasing jabs, playful banter, and more than a little flirting. But lately, things had changed. The easy flow between you had become strained, quieter. It all started after the Stark Gala.
Tony had thrown it as a mix between a fundraiser and a celebration of the team’s recent streak of successful missions—not that he ever needed a real reason to host a party.
Everyone was told to dress up, and it wasn’t often you had a chance to get all dolled up. You’d enlisted the help of Pepper and Natasha to get ready. They’d put you in a deep green dress with a high neckline and a low-cut back. It hugged your figure just right, and the fabric felt soft and luxurious against your skin.
Thankfully, Pepper let you wear flats—heels were not your friend. But she refused to let you skip hair and makeup. You had to admit, by the time they were done with you, you barely recognized yourself. And for one night, you felt radiant.
Maybe too radiant… because something about that night shifted things between you and Bucky.
The gala had been a success. From the looks of it, the guests were enjoying themselves, and the fundraiser had already raised more than enough to meet its goal.
You’d been there for over an hour, mingling with guests and teammates. Natasha and Clint were posted near the bar, Bruce was deep in conversation with a few fellow academics, and Steve, Tony, Rhodey, and Pepper were doing the rounds with the big-name donors and VIPs.
Needing a break from the crowd, you slipped out onto the balcony for a breath of fresh air. The New York City skyline stretched out in front of you—glittering, alive, and somehow always comforting. It was a view you never got tired of.
“Nice night,” a voice said behind you.
You turned to see Bucky standing in the doorway, dressed in a crisp suit and tie. He looked… devastatingly handsome.
“Yes, it is,” you replied with a smile. “You clean up nice, Sergeant Barnes.”
A faint smirk tugged at his lips as he glanced down at his suit. “Thanks. Steve made me wear this thing.”
“Well,” you said, letting your eyes linger a little longer than necessary, “you wear it very well. Trying to escape the crowd?”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “Needed some air.”
“I hear that.” He stepped closer and came to stand beside you, your arms just barely brushing as you both leaned on the railing.
“I’ll never get used to this view,” you murmured, eyes scanning the skyline. “It’s beautiful.”
“Beautiful,” he echoed. But when you glanced at him, you realized he wasn’t looking at the city at all. He was looking at you.
Your breath caught, and you quickly turned your eyes forward again, cheeks warming. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him turn away, clearing his throat. “You look very beautiful tonight,” he said, voice softer now.
When you looked up, he had moved closer—so close you could feel the warmth of him. You tilted your head, your eyes meeting his, and watched as his gaze dropped to your lips.
He said your name—so softly it barely reached your ears. You found yourself leaning in, your eyes fluttering shut.
“Buck?” You both jumped apart as the balcony door opened. Steve stood in the doorway, smiling brightly.
“Oh, there you are! Come on, I have someone I want you to meet.” He looked to you. “Do you mind if I steal him for a bit?”
You forced a polite smile. “N-no, not at all.”
Bucky looked at you for a moment longer, something unspoken hanging between you, before nodding and following Steve back inside.
That had been two months ago. And ever since… things had felt different.
Like you were both tiptoeing around something that had almost happened—but didn’t.
And you weren’t sure which was worse: the silence between you now, or the fact that you couldn’t stop thinking about what it would’ve felt like if Steve hadn’t walked in.
Little did you know, Bucky had been thinking about the exact same thing as he walked back into the living area—only to find you sitting casually on top of the kitchen counter, swinging your legs and nursing a fresh cup of coffee.
“Sorry,” you said, looking up. “Figured I’d wait for you to pick a movie.”
“Oh. Thanks,” he replied. “But I think you’d have a better idea of what to watch than I would.”
You shrugged. “Right… sorry.”
“There’s no need to apologize,” he said gently.
Then came a pause. That all-too-familiar awkward silence, heavy with everything unspoken between you.
Finally, Bucky cleared his throat and broke it. “I think we need to talk.”
Your heart skipped. “Talk? About what?” you asked, trying to play dumb even though your stomach had already twisted in anticipation.
“The gala,” he said.
“Oh,” you replied, heat rushing to your cheeks. “That.”
He stepped closer, leaning against the counter across from you, arms crossed casually—but his eyes were anything but calm.
“What do you want to talk about?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even.
“Are you going to make me spell it out?” he asked softly. You looked down at your cup, fingers tightening around it. “No… I just—honestly, I don’t know what to say.”
Your voice was quiet, uncertain. You weren’t sure if he was about to close the door on what almost happened… or open it wider than you were ready for.
Bucky didn’t respond right away. He just watched you, his jaw tight, like he was weighing every word before speaking.
“You kissed me,” you said suddenly, voice barely above a whisper. “Well—almost.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. And you almost kissed me back.”
You looked away. “Then Steve showed up.”
“Yeah,” he said again, quieter this time. “He did.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward now—it was charged. Heavy. Like the room itself was holding its breath.
“I’ve been thinking about it ever since,” he finally said. “That night. You. How close we were.”
You felt your heartbeat pick up and you let yourself admit to him that you have been too.
He pushed off the counter he was leaning against, slow and deliberate, and walked the few steps over to you. You felt your breath catch as he moved to stand between your legs, his hands resting lightly on the edge of the counter, one on either side of your thighs—close, but not touching.
“Then why are we pretending it didn’t happen?” he asked, his voice low.
You bit your lip. “Because I don’t want to make things weird. Because if we ruin this—us—our friendship, the team…”
His gaze dropped to your mouth for a second before returning to your eyes. “But what if we don’t ruin it? What if this is the one thing we actually get right?”
You swallowed hard. The space between you was practically non-existent now, your knees brushing his hips, his presence overwhelming in the best way.
“And what if we do?” you whispered.
His voice dropped rough and soft at once, thick with emotion. “Then I’ll take responsibility. I’ll fix it. I’ll do whatever it takes to make it right. But I can’t keep pretending like I don’t want to be near you. Like I don’t feel something every time you walk into a room.”
You let out a shaky breath, your hands gripping the edge of the counter beside you.
“I don’t think I can ignore this much longer” you admitted.
“Then don’t,” he murmured.
You stayed there for a moment—close, barely touching, the tension between you a living thing.
But neither of you moved to close the distance. Not yet.
Instead, you whispered, “Why now?”
His eyes flickered, searching yours. “Because I’ve spent too long waiting for the right moment. And I think maybe there isn’t one. Maybe this is it.”
Your breath caught.
He didn’t say anything more. Just stood there, watching you with so much patience it nearly broke you open.
Your breaths mingling in the quiet space between you. Every nerve in your body was aware of him—his warmth, his closeness, the way his fingers flexed ever so slightly against the counter like he was resisting the urge to touch you.
So you leaned forward—barely.
He met you the rest of the way.
His lips brushed yours so gently at first it could have been a question. You answered by kissing him back, slow and soft, like a secret finally spoken out loud.
There was no urgency. No wild hands or desperate fumbling. Just a careful, aching kind of closeness—the kind that said, I’ve thought about this, and I’m terrified to ruin it.
One of your hands slid into his hair, fingertips threading through the strands with reverence, while the other steadied itself at the nape of his neck. His breath hitched at the touch, like even that small connection meant something.
His hands moved to your hips, fingers tentative at first—like he was still asking permission even as you melted into him. You jolted a little at the sudden cool of his metal hand against your bare leg, and he started to pull back, concerned, until you gently pulled him back with a quick “It’s okay.”
And it was. Because somehow, even the sharpest parts of him knew how to be soft with you.
You ran your fingers through his hair again, scratching lightly at his scalp. He let out the faintest sound—half sigh, half groan—that made heat bloom in your chest. You smiled against his lips, a flush rising to your cheeks, but the moment shifted again when he pulled you a little closer, anchoring you to him.
Your lips parted in a quiet gasp, and his matched it, like you were both surprised by how much you felt… how much you’d been holding back.
But neither of you took it further. Not yet.
Because this, this was enough.
When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours again, both of you lingering in the closeness, breathless and unsure, but certain of one thing:
Something had changed and there was no going back.
The quiet stretched again, not awkward this time—just full. Full of new possibilities and old feelings finally spoken without words.
You were the first to break the silence. “We forgot to pick a movie.”
Bucky let out a soft laugh, his eyes crinkling in the way you loved. “Yeah… well you distracted me.”
“I distracted YOU?” You laughed. “Oh I’ll remember that for next time.”
“Next time huh?” He looked at you suggestively and you shook your head with a grin.
The tension loosening just enough for your heart to feel light again. He smiled—really smiled—and with that, leaned in to kiss you once more.
It was even softer this time. No more questions. Just the answer.
Summary: Fifteen years ago, Cassidy lost the man she loved—Sam Drake—believing him to be dead. She tried to move on, but his absence left a hole in her heart that nothing could fill. When Nathan Drake shows up at her door with a ghost from the past, Cassidy’s world is turned upside down.
All of these can also be read on AO3 under the same name - LeotaWrites
Cassidy had just stepped out of the shower, rubbing a towel over her damp hair when her phone started ringing on the bathroom counter. She glanced down, a smile already forming when she saw the name on the screen.
“Hey, Nate!” she answered, tucking the phone between her ear and shoulder as she reached for her pajamas.
“Hey, Cass. You—uh—you got a minute?”
Cassidy paused, frowning slightly at the hesitation in his voice. “For you? Always. You okay?” she asked, slipping into her shorts and pulling on a loose tank top.
“I’ve got something to show you. Can you let me in?”
She arched a brow, grabbing her robe and pulling it over her shoulders. “Nate, why didn’t you just ring the doorbell? Or, you know, use the key I gave you?” She laughed.
There was a pause. “You’ll see.” And then the call disconnected.
Cassidy shook her head, tying her robe as she made her way to the front door. “That man is so dramatic sometimes—” she muttered before unlocking it.
The door swung open to reveal Nate, standing with an odd expression—somewhere between nervous and expectant. But it wasn’t Nate who stole her breath.
It was the man standing just behind him.
Cassidy’s heart slammed against her ribs as her vision tunneled, locking onto familiar yet changed features. Long, graying hair. A face more lined than she remembered. A body littered with fresh scars and ink she hadn’t seen before. But the eyes—deep, knowing, and carrying the weight of fifteen years—were unmistakable.
“Sam?” She said in barely a whisper before the world tilted and darkness swallowed her whole.
The second Cassidy’s eyes rolled back, Nate saw it coming.
“Shit—Cass!” he lunged forward just as her knees buckled.
Her body went completely limp, and he barely managed to catch her before she hit the floor. Nate grunted under the sudden weight, shifting quickly to keep her from collapsing entirely. Her head lolled against his shoulder.
Sam took a step forward, eyes wide with alarm. “Cass—”
“Relax, she’s breathing,” Nate assured him, adjusting his grip to scoop her up. “Jesus, she went down like a sack of bricks.”
Sam ran a hand through his hair, exhaling shakily. “Yeah, well, can you blame her?” His voice was hoarse, and there was something almost vulnerable in his expression.
Nate shot him a quick look. “No, I can’t. But you standing there like a ghost, not saying anything at all, isn’t helping either.”
Sam hesitated for a beat, then nodded stiffly. He stepped aside as Nate carried Cassidy through the doorway into the living room. Her head rested against his chest, her breathing slow but steady.
As Nate carried her into the living room, Sam’s eyes traced over her, taking in every detail he had spent years trying to remember, fearing he would one day forget. But there was one thing he hadn’t expected—her hair.
Gone were the long, wild black curls he had once known, the ones he had run his fingers through on long drives, the ones that had brushed against his skin when she leaned in close. Instead, she had a short pixie cut now, soft and effortless, framing her face in a way that made her eyes stand out even more. It was different, but somehow, it suited her perfectly.
“She always did have a flair for the dramatic,” Nate muttered as he carefully lowered her onto the couch. He reached for one of the throw pillows and tucked it under her head before grabbing the knitted blanket draped over the armrest. He covered her gently, his movements softer now, less teasing.
Sam hovered nearby, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He looked… wrecked.
His chest tightened. Fifteen years, and she had changed. Of course she had. He had, too. But as he watched the slow rise and fall of her breath, he knew one thing for certain—it didn’t matter how much time had passed, she was still Cassidy. Still his Cass.
And if she’d let him, he’d spend whatever time he had left making up for all the years they lost.
“Fifteen years,” he murmured, staring at Cassidy like she might disappear if he looked away. “She really thought I was dead.”
Nate sat back, watching him. “We all did, man.” He hesitated before adding, “She never stopped talking about you, you know. Even when she tried to move on… it was always you.”
Sam swallowed hard. “Yeah?” His voice was barely above a whisper.
Nate nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. You showing up just knocked her entire world sideways. Give her a second to process it.”
Sam exhaled, rubbing his hands over his face before letting them drop to his sides. He looked down at Cassidy, his gaze softening as he took in every familiar detail—her long lashes, the faint freckles on her cheeks, the way her lips parted slightly as she breathed.
Carefully, he reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from her forehead. His fingers lingered for a moment before he pulled back, balling his hand into a fist like he was afraid to touch her too much, afraid that this was all some cruel illusion.
“I never wanted to leave her or any of you,” he admitted, more to himself than to Nate.
Nate sighed, shaking his head. “I know, Sam. Give me a few minutes with her to break it gently.”
Sam nodded and began walking to the back door, “I’ll uh- I’ll wait outside”
A few moments later she started to wake to a damp, cool sensation touching her forehead.
Cassidy groaned softly, her eyelids fluttering open to find Nate sitting beside her on the couch, watching her with an expression of equal amusement and concern.
She shot upright—only for a firm but gentle hand to press against her shoulder. “Hey, hey—take it easy,” Nate murmured, pressing a steadying hand to her shoulder as she instinctively tried to sit up.
Cassidy blinked at him, then looked around, her expression groggy and confused.
“Are you okay?” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep.
Nate huffed out a laugh. “You’re the one who passed out, and you’re asking if I’m okay? Yeah, Cass, I’m fine.”
She turned her head slightly, her gaze flickering past Nate toward the rest of the room. For a split second, she looked uncertain, like she was afraid the man she had just seen was a figment of her imagination.
“I— I could have sworn…”
Nate gave her a small, knowing smile. “You didn’t imagine it. Sam is alive.”
Cassidy inhaled sharply.
“I probably should’ve eased you into it a little more.” Nate said sheepishly
Cassidy swallowed hard, her mind scrambling to catch up. Then, like a tidal wave, it hit her. Sam.
“But—Nate, he was shot. I saw the blood. We all did.”
Nate exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I know. He survived, Cass. And he’s been in a Panamanian prison ever since.”
Cassidy’s breath hitched. She turned her head toward the back door, following Nate’s gaze
“He’s waiting outside. He’s really anxious to see you again.” Nate added gently.
She went still for a moment before taking a deep breath. “Give me a few minutes with him, yeah?”
Nate stood, stepping back. “Sure. Take all the time you need.”
As Cassidy pulled herself together and made her way toward the door, Nate exhaled and turned to the window.
Outside, Sam was standing with his back to the house, his shoulders tense, his hands clenched into fists. Nate watched as Cassidy stepped outside, calling his name.
The moment Sam turned around, every bit of tension in his body seemed to vanish.
Nate smirked slightly and muttered to himself, “Well, this ought to be interesting.”
Then he stepped away from the window, giving them their moment.
Cassidy closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself. When she opened them again, she whispered, “Give me a few minutes with him, yeah?”
Nate nodded, pushing off the couch. “Of course. Take your time.”
Stepping outside, Cassidy sucked in a sharp breath as her eyes landed on the broad-shouldered figure standing just a few feet away.
Sam Drake.
He was facing away from her, hands braced against the railing of her small porch as if he needed the support. The man she had loved—still loved—was real, standing here, back from the dead.
“Sam?”
Her voice came out softer than she intended, but it was enough. He turned at the sound, and the moment his eyes met hers, time seemed to slow.
“Hey, Cassidy,” he said, his voice rough, lower than she remembered.
She took a few cautious steps forward, studying him like he might vanish if she blinked too long. He was the same, and yet not. The years had left their mark—new scars, silver threading through his dark hair, a weariness in his posture.
Her gaze fell to the hem of his shirt. “How is this possible?” she whispered. “We saw you—”
“Get shot?” Sam finished, nodding grimly. “Yeah. You did. I did.”
He lifted his shirt slightly, revealing the deep, jagged scars marring his skin.
Cassidy’s breath caught. Without thinking, she reached out, fingers hovering just inches from his skin. But then she hesitated, unsure if she had the right to touch him.
Sam made the decision for her. Gently, he took her hand in his, calloused fingers wrapping around hers. His grip was steady—real. Warm.
Cassidy felt her throat tighten, her vision blurring as the truth finally settled into her bones.
“This isn’t a dream,” she murmured, her voice breaking as she looked up at him.
Sam just shook his head, his own expression unreadable. But his grip on her hand tightened just a fraction, as if afraid she might slip away.
He had spent years clinging to memories of her—of laughter echoing over crackling firelight, of the way she would roll her eyes at Nate’s jokes but always laugh anyway, of the way she had looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. But nothing—not even his most vivid recollections—had prepared him for this.
Cassidy’s brown eyes searched his, wide with emotion, shining even through the unshed tears. How many times had he dreamed of this moment? How many nights in that godforsaken cell had he closed his eyes and imagined her face, only to wake up to the cold reality that she was half a world away, thinking he was dead?
And now, here she was, standing in front of him, warm and real and looking at him like he was something more than a ghost from her past.
“Cass…” His voice was rough, thick with everything he wanted to say but couldn’t.
She had every right to hate him for staying away so long, for letting her believe he was gone. And yet, she was still here, holding his hand like she had no intention of letting go.
A muscle in his jaw twitched as he swallowed against the knot in his throat. He didn’t deserve this moment—didn’t deserve her. But he’d be damned if he let it slip through his fingers.
The dam broke.
A choked sob escaped her lips as she all but collapsed into his chest. Sam caught her instantly, his arms wrapping around her, holding her like he would never let go again.
“Shh, it’s okay, Cass. I got you,” he murmured into her hair. “I’m so sorry it took me so long to get back to you.”
Her fingers fisted into his shirt as her tears soaked into the fabric. “I missed you so much.”
Sam closed his eyes, pressing his cheek against the top of her head. “Me too, sweetheart. Me too.”
Cassidy clung to him, her breath hitching as the last of her tears slowed. The weight of Sam’s presence, solid and steady, eased the frantic rhythm of her heart. She could feel his pulse beneath her fingertips, the warmth of his body pressing against hers, the quiet rise and fall of his breath.
Her mind was still spinning, struggling to process the impossible, but there was something undeniably grounding in the way he held her—like he was afraid to let go, too.
His thumb brushed against her back in slow, deliberate strokes, a silent reassurance that he was here, that this was real.
She pulled back just slightly, enough to see him, her tear-filled eyes locking onto his. The years had changed him, but it was still Sam. Still the man she had lost, the man she had mourned, the man who had haunted her dreams.
Seeing him now, standing before her, made everything else feel surreal—like she had slipped into some fragile dream she never wanted to wake from.
Her breath trembled as she whispered his name, her voice barely above a breath. “Sam…”
It was more than just a name—it was a plea, a confession, a thousand emotions wrapped into a single word. An acknowledgment of everything that had been lost… and everything they might still have left to find.
He tilted his head slightly, his thumb brushing along the edge of her cheekbone, wiping away the last of her tears. There was something in his gaze now, something more than relief or sorrow—it was longing. The same longing she had carried for all those years, tucked deep inside of her. The same yearning she had buried beneath her everyday life.
Slowly, his hand slid to her neck, his fingers threading through the loose strands of her hair. She held her breath, her pulse thundering in her chest. His lips parted as if he was about to say something, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he just leaned in.
Cassidy didn’t pull away.
In that one moment, it was as if time had rewound itself. Every unspoken word, every stolen glance, every secret feeling she’d buried deep inside her for so long surfaced between them—unspoken but understood.
It felt like they were teenagers again, lingering in doorways after long nights talking, brushing hands in fleeting touches that meant everything, sharing stolen kisses when no one was looking. It felt like those early years of reckless adventure—laughing in the face of danger, fighting for their lives side by side, always coming out on top, always together in the end.
Sam’s lips brushed against hers gently at first—soft, tentative, as if he was unsure whether she’d push him away or pull him closer.
But Cassidy didn’t hesitate. She pressed herself closer to him, her hand rising to rest on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm. That same heart that had always belonged to her, even if neither of them had ever truly said it out loud.
When he kissed her again, it was deeper this time, filled with all the years they had lost, all the moments they had never taken. It was desperate and familiar all at once—the way his arms wrapped around her, the way he breathed her in like he was afraid she might disappear. She melted into him, fingers threading into his hair, tugging him impossibly closer, unwilling to let go.
They broke apart, but only just, their foreheads resting together. Sam’s breath was ragged, his lips still tingling from the intensity of the kiss. Cassidy closed her eyes, savoring the warmth of his skin, the feeling of him being here, of him being real.
“I never thought I’d feel this again,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I thought I lost you forever.”
“You never did,” Sam murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve always been with you, Cass. In my heart, I never left you.”
For years, they had danced around the truth, letting their actions speak in place of words—stolen glances that lingered a second too long, fingertips brushing in the dark, the way they always found their way back to each other after every adventure, every impossible escape. They had loved each other in a hundred silent ways, never needing to say the words to know they were real.
But now, after all this time, after believing they had lost each other forever, Cassidy couldn’t hold them back any longer.
“I love you,” she breathed, her voice trembling, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of finally saying it aloud.
Sam closed his eyes for a moment, as if letting the words sink into his soul. When he opened them again, his hands cupped her face, his thumbs brushing away the lingering tears.
“I love you too,” he whispered. “I always have.”
The truth had always been there between them, unspoken yet understood. But now, hearing it—finally allowing themselves to say it—felt like the last missing piece falling into place.
Before either of them could say more, Sam kissed her again, this time with all the intensity of everything they had both been through, everything they had lost, and everything they would build together from this moment on.
Nate had done his part. He’d gotten Sam here, caught Cassidy before she cracked her head open, and now all that was left was for them to figure things out.
Still, old habits died hard. As he stood in the living room, he found himself glancing toward the window again, curiosity getting the better of him.
With a quiet sigh, he moved closer, peering outside.
Cassidy stood inches from Sam, her hands still trembling slightly as they rested against his chest. Even from here, Nate could see the way she was looking at him—like she was afraid that if she blinked, he’d disappear again.
And Sam… Sam looked wrecked in a way Nate had never seen before. His hands hovered at her waist, his body tense, like he wanted to pull her close but wasn’t sure if he was allowed to.
Then, Cassidy reached up, her fingers ghosting over one of the scars on his cheek, her thumb brushing against the rough stubble that hadn’t been there the last time she’d seen him. Sam closed his eyes for a brief moment, leaning into her touch like a man starved for something he thought he’d never have again.
It happened slowly.
Sam opened his eyes, locking onto Cassidy’s, and whatever unspoken words passed between them must have been enough because Cassidy didn’t hesitate. She lifted onto her toes, closing the small distance between them, and kissed him.
It wasn’t hurried or desperate—not at first. It was soft, hesitant, like they were both trying to convince themselves this was real.
Then Sam moved.
His arms wrapped around her, pulling her flush against him, and the kiss deepened, all the restraint they’d had moments before crumbling. Cassidy’s fingers twisted into his hair, and Sam cupped her face like she was something fragile but precious, something he couldn’t bear to lose again.
Nate exhaled, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah, I don’t need to see any more of that,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head.
He turned away from the window, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair. He’d already texted Elena, letting her know he’d be late getting home, but there was no reason to linger now. Sam and Cassidy had a lot to talk about, and he wasn’t about to be the third wheel in this reunion.
Pausing at the front door, he pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to Cassidy.
“I’m heading out. Call me if you need anything. And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
A second later, he added: “On second thought, you already did. Carry on.”
With a satisfied nod, Nate stepped outside, shutting the door behind him, leaving Sam and Cassidy to their moment.
Things get tense after a moment of closeness in the heat of battle and tensions rise until the “dam” breaks.
The droids came around the corner—far too many for just the two of you to handle. Blaster fire echoed down the corridor, the sharp, repetitive bursts ringing in your ears.
“Dank Farrik,” Crosshair muttered, grabbing your wrist and pulling you into a dark alcove just before the droids saw you.
You stumbled slightly as he pressed your back against the wall, positioning you behind him like a living shield. His body was taut with tension, his rifle held steady in one hand as his other reached out to steady you. The dark color of his armor blended seamlessly with the shadows, while your grey Jedi robes threatened to stand out like a beacon.
“Stay close,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly through the modulator of his helmet.
You obeyed without question, your breath catching as he turned and used his body to shield yours. The alcove was tight, forcing you so close that you could feel the solid, unyielding weight of him pressed against you. His gloved hands braced against the wall on either side of your shoulders, caging you in. His helmet dipped lower, his head close to yours, his visor turned toward the corridor.
Focus. Breathe. Calm. You repeated the mantra in your mind, desperate to regain control over the erratic rhythm of your heart. But it wasn’t the droids making your pulse quicken—it was him. The warmth of his body, the way his scent—blaster residue and something faintly metallic—seeped through the narrow space between you, filling your senses.
The sound of the droids’ footsteps began to fade, the clatter of their servos growing fainter until there was silence. You felt him shift slightly, his hands tightening momentarily before easing away from the wall. He didn’t move far, though. Your faces were still inches apart.
“General?” His voice, though filtered through the helmet, was softer now, more questioning.
You snapped back to reality, your lips parting to speak, though your voice betrayed your composure. “Y-Yes. I’m fine. Thank you.”
He didn’t move. He didn’t even acknowledge your words. Instead, he tilted his helmet slightly, studying you in a way that made your breath catch all over again. You wondered what his face was doing beneath that visor. Was he smirking? Frowning?
“Are you sure?” he asked, his tone laced with something that felt… heavier. Like he was asking about more than just the droids.
“I said I’m fine,” you replied quickly, too quickly. You wanted to sound decisive, authoritative, but your voice cracked slightly at the end. His closeness was unraveling you, and you hated that he could see it—or feel it.
Crosshair tilted his head again, as if weighing his next words carefully. Then, finally: “Your hands are shaking.”
You glanced down and cursed inwardly when you saw he was right. You hadn’t even noticed it, but your fingers were trembling slightly where they rested against your lightsaber hilt.
“It’s nothing,” you said, your voice a touch defensive as you quickly crossed your arms over your chest. “We’ve been under fire for hours. Anyone would be on edge.”
He didn’t respond immediately, and you swore you felt his gaze linger on your face for a second too long. “If you say so, General.”
Before you could respond, or overthink whatever his tone implied, he stepped back slightly, breaking the spell.
“Let’s go,” he said, scanning the corridor one last time. “We’re not out of this yet.”
The proximity was intoxicating, and you knew he could feel the way your chest rose and fell quicker than it should. The Force had always been a reliable guide, a constant presence to steady you in times of war, but right now, it felt distant, quiet—replaced by the pounding of your heart.
“General,” he said again, softer this time, as though testing your resolve. His voice carried that low, deliberate tone you’d come to recognize in him, like he always knew what to say without saying much at all.
You swallowed hard and nodded. “Let’s… let’s move.”
But as you tried to shift past him, his hand shot out, gently but firmly pressing you back against the wall. Your breath hitched as his gloved fingers rested just above your elbow.
“Wait,” he murmured, tilting his helmet slightly as if listening for something. His visor turned toward the end of the corridor, scanning for any sign of movement. You should’ve been doing the same—listening, sensing through the Force—but you couldn’t focus. Not with him this close.
When he finally let you go, the absence of his touch felt colder than it should have. He stepped out of the alcove first, his rifle raised and ready. His movements were calculated, silent, and you watched the way his body moved with precision, his broad shoulders a silhouette against the dim lighting.
You took a deep breath to steady yourself, forcing the heat creeping up your neck to subside. You were a Jedi Master, trained to master not only the Force but your emotions. This was a war zone and distractions, no matter how dark and piercing his voice or how close he stood to you, were a liability.
“Clear,” he called back over his shoulder, his voice all business now.
You stepped out behind him, igniting your lightsaber to cast a faint glow on the durasteel walls. “We need to make it to the rendezvous point before—”
“Before we’re overrun, I know.” He smirked beneath his helmet, his tone dry but tinged with that confidence he carried so effortlessly.
You rolled your eyes, even as your lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smile. “And here I thought your sharp tongue was reserved for battle droids.”
“Droids don’t blush.”
Your step faltered for half a second, but you recovered quickly, silently cursing him—and yourself.
“Eyes forward, trooper,” you said, falling into step beside him.
“Yes, General,” he replied, the smirk in his voice unmistakable.
And as the two of you moved deeper into enemy territory, you couldn’t help but wonder if you were fighting the wrong war.
The tension inside the Bad Batch’s ship was a palpable reminder of what they’d just survived. Hunter sat in the cockpit, quietly navigating them back to base, while Wrecker’s booming laugh filled the air as he recounted their mission highlights. Echo nodded along, though his tone was far more reserved as he tinkered with his arm. Tech was already hunched over a datapad, muttering about efficiency rates.
Crosshair sat at the far end of the room, leaned back in his seat with his rifle resting against the wall beside him. To anyone else, he appeared calm—aloof, even. But inside, his thoughts were anything but still.
That alcove.
He replayed the moment over and over in his mind—the way her breath had hitched when he pressed her against the wall, the way her lips had parted ever so slightly when she stammered her response. He hadn’t meant to linger so close, hadn’t meant to focus on the soft curve of her mouth or wonder what it would feel like against his own. But it had been impossible not to.
He gritted his teeth, scowling at the memory. This was dangerous. Reckless. They were already risking their lives for a galaxy that cared little for clones or Jedi. Adding this , whatever it was, to the mix was asking for trouble.
And yet… he couldn’t stop himself. She was strong, sharp, and fearless in battle. But in that moment, pressed so close he could feel her heartbeat against his chest, she’d been human . Vulnerable in a way that made him ache to protect her from everything, including himself.
Crosshair’s fingers tapped restlessly against his knee. He should say something, clear the air. But what could he possibly say? Sorry, General, for getting too close? Sorry for wanting to kiss you in the middle of a battlefield? No. He’d keep his distance. It was better that way. Safer.
Across the room, you sat in silence, meditating on the floor in the back of the Marauder. Your hands resting in your lap as tried to take slow deep breaths, though your mind was far from still.
That alcove.
The heat of his body against yours had been seared into your memory. You could still feel the strength in the way he’d caged you in, his hands on either side of your shoulders, his presence overwhelming yet grounding. And his voice—soft, questioning, laced with something unspoken.
You squeezed your hands into fists, trying to suppress the flutter in your chest. Jedi weren’t supposed to feel this way. Attachments led to weakness, vulnerability. You’d been taught that from the beginning. But the Force had a funny way of testing you; of pulling you toward things or people you weren’t supposed to have.
You risked a glance toward him. He was leaned back, his posture relaxed but his jaw tight. His helmet rested beside him, and the sharp features of his face were unreadable. He didn’t look at you, didn’t acknowledge you, and that stung more than it should have.
You closed your eyes again, inhaling deeply. Focus. Control. But the memory of his closeness wouldn’t leave you. For years, you’d trusted the Force to guide you, but right now, it felt like it was pushing you straight toward him.
You have to stop this, you told yourself. It’s a distraction. You’re a Jedi. A General. He’s one of your men.
But the truth was undeniable: you wanted him. Needed him, even. You’d felt it in the way your heart had raced when his hand brushed your arm, in the way your mind had whispered his name in quiet moments. You could feel eyes on you and risked opening your own.
Across the room, Crosshair shifted, his sharp eyes flicking toward you for the briefest of moments. When your gazes met, your breath caught. It wasn’t long, barely a second, but it felt like an eternity.
He looked away just as quickly, his expression neutral. But you didn’t miss the way his hand tightened around the strap of his rifle, his knuckles white against the black leather.
In the cockpit, Hunter glanced over his shoulder, his sharp senses picking up on the tension hanging thick in the air. He frowned slightly but said nothing, his instincts telling him this wasn’t the time to interfere.
You shifted uncomfortably on the floor, your mind racing. You couldn’t stop replaying the way he’d pressed close, the way his voice had softened, the way he’d made you feel. It wasn’t just physical. It was deeper, a connection you couldn’t explain, couldn’t sever.
And judging by the way his shoulders were set, the tension radiating from him like heat, he felt it too.
The ship hummed quietly around you as you stood in the dimly lit hull. The others were with the Kaminoans getting their routine check ups for the next hour or more. You were taking this time to take stock of inventory and write your logs. It had been about 20 minutes of silence before the ships door opened. In walked the one person you had been trying to stay away from. Crosshair. You had been avoiding this moment, avoiding him, but Crosshair wasn’t one to let things linger.
You made to move out of his way and walk out of the ship but h e stepped into your path, his tall, lean frame blocking your escape. His helmet was off, revealing his sharp features. His expression was unreadable, but his golden-brown eyes burned with an intensity you couldn’t ignore. You took a few steps back into the ship and watched with a racing heart as he stepped in and closed the door behind him.
The two of you completely alone.
“We need to talk,” he said, his voice low, firm.
You sighed, crossing your arms tightly over your chest as if it would somehow protect you from what you knew was coming. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he snapped, his tone cutting through your defenses. “Not after what happened back there.”
Your chest tightened, the memory of the alcove rushing back in vivid detail. “Crosshair—”
“Don’t.” He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t push me away. Not this time.”
You felt the walls closing in, your heart pounding in your ears. You tried to summon the calm, steady focus that had always been your strength as a Jedi, but it wouldn’t come.
“Jedi aren’t supposed to form attachments,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Attachments?” His lips curled into a faint, bitter smirk. “Is that what you call it?”
“Yes,” you said, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “It’s dangerous. For both of us. If the Council found out, I could be expelled from the Order. And the Kaminoans—” You swallowed hard. “I don’t even want to think about what they’d do to you.”
Crosshair’s expression darkened. “Do you think I give a damn about any of that?”
“Cross—”
“No.” He stepped even closer, and before you could look away, his hand was under your chin, tilting your face toward his. His touch was surprisingly gentle, belying the storm in his eyes. “Look at me.”
Your breath hitched, and you hesitated, but the weight of his gaze pulled you in.
“Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t do feel it,” he said, his voice rough, raw, as though the words had been torn from his very soul.
Your lips parted, but no sound came out. The truth was a heavy, unyielding presence between you, and you couldn’t bring yourself to deny it.
“I… I can’t,” you whispered, your voice breaking.
For a moment, neither of you moved. The tension crackled in the air like a live wire, and you swore you could feel his heartbeat echoing in your own chest.
“Then stop running,” he said, his tone softening but losing none of its urgency. “Stop pretending this doesn’t exist, because you and I both know it does.”
Tears stung your eyes, and you shook your head weakly. “Crosshair, I—this isn’t just about us. It’s about the war, the people we’re trying to protect. If I let this happen…if I let myself fall. How can I lead? How can I keep you safe?”
“You don’t have to protect me,” he said firmly, his hand still cradling your chin. “I’ve spent my whole life fighting battles I didn’t choose. But this? This is my choice. And I choose you.”
The words shattered something inside you, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to feel the weight of them. The depth of his devotion, his unwavering belief in what the two of you could be, even in the face of everything.
“Do you know what you’re asking of me?” you said, your voice trembling.
“I’m asking you to let yourself feel,” he replied. “To stop hiding behind rules and orders and admit what’s real.”
He took a step closer to you before softly saying “Don’t push me away.”
His thumb brushed lightly against your jaw, sending a shiver down your spine. You felt the Force hum faintly around you, not as a warning but as something almost… encouraging.
“I’m scared,” you admitted, the words barely audible.
“I know,” he said softly. “But I’m not.” His hands moved to either side of your face as he brought you in for a desperate kiss. Your back hit the wall with a groan that was covered by his mouth. One of his hands went to your waist while the other moved to tangle in your hair.
Warmth spread all over your body as he pressed himself closer to you.
A low noise escaping Crosshair’s throat as you gripped his chest plate and pulled him even closer. This was something you had only dreamed about but never let yourself hope you could have.. have him.
The kiss was intense but wonderful all at the same time. And for the first time you could feel the walls you’d so carefully built begin to crumble.
And in that moment, you knew you couldn’t deny it anymore. Whatever this was, this impossible, forbidden connection, it was as undeniable as the Force itself.
Summary: In the quiet hours of the night, Tony Stark’s sister Alex and Bucky Barnes find unexpected comfort in shared silence, stolen cookies, and late-night tea. What starts as a simple conversation slowly peels back layers of past pain and guarded hearts. Between soft laughter and gentle understanding, a quiet connection takes root—unspoken, tentative, but deeply felt. It’s not love yet… but it’s the kind of beginning that lingers.
CW: Nightmares, mentions of trauma
It was 2AM at the Avengers compound, and the halls were quiet except for the faint hum of security systems. In the kitchen, Alex Stark stood by the counter, filling a tea kettle up with water and snagging a chocolate chip cookie from the stash she’d hidden behind healthier snack options. She sighed, leaning on the counter, the remnants of her nightmare still lingering in her chest—tight and unwelcome.
Movement in the doorway caught her attention. She glanced up to see Bucky standing there in his pajama pants and a wrinkled t-shirt, looking half-exhausted and half-lost.
Alex smiled softly. “Hey. What are you doing up at this hour?”
Bucky crossed his arms, his metal arm catching a faint glint of light. “Didn’t know insomnia had a schedule now,” he said with a crooked smile. “Same as you, I guess.”
He stepped further into the room, glancing at the kettle and then back to her. “Tea at 2AM? That a Stark family thing or just your thing?”
Alex chuckled. “Oh no, Stark family thing would be whiskey. I prefer coffee, but at 2AM I’ll take herbal tea and a chocolate chip cookie.” She looked over at him, brown eyes meeting his blue. “Would you like some?”
Bucky smiled lightly. “Well, if whiskey’s off the table…I’ll take my chances with tea and cookies. But if I regret this, I’m blaming you.”
Alex smirked, “Blame me all you want, Barnes.”
He leaned casually against the counter next to her, their arms nearly brushing. “You always this generous with late-night snacks, or am I just special?”
She placed her hand on her chest in exaggerated shock, looking at him with wide eyes, “I, sir, am always generous. I’m like the mom in My Big Fat Greek Wedding. You’re not hungry? Its okay, I’ll make lamb.” She laughed at her own joke but it faltered when she saw the look he was giving her.
“Oh, you’ve never seen that movie?”
“Can’t say that I have.” He shrugged.
“I’ll add it to the list.” She said.
“List?” Bucky said confused.
“Oh yeah, I have a list of movies and TV shows you need to watch. Steve said it was one of the things that helped him adjusting so I thought…” she stopped with a blush.
“You thought I needed one too?” Bucky was taken a back by that, here was heiress Alexandra Stark, making a list for little ol’ him. He took a minute to look her over, she was wearing an oversized t-shirt with a logo on it that read Jurassic Park. Underneath was a pair of grey shorts, and on her feet were the fuzziest socks he had ever seen. Her hair wasn’t all over the place, showing him that she had yet to lay down and even try to sleep. Her eyes, her chocolate brown eyes, looked very tired.
“I thought maybe it would help. Don’t worry I filled it with as many cheesy romantic comedies as I could find.” Alex said with a smile.
Bucky rolled his eyes with a chuckle, “Boy, I can’t wait.”
“What’s Jurassic Park?” Bucky asked, pointing to her t-shirt.
“What’s Jurassic Park?” She repeated, “only one of the greatest movies, and books, of all time! I’m so adding that to the list and you are not watching it without me. Actually, there are three movies, we could make a movie marathon out of it.”
He loved seeing her get so excited about this, one thing about Alex Stark was that she lit up when she talked about her interests. It was so refreshing.
“You said it was a book?”
“Oh yeah, there are two books. I have the copies in my room, I’ll let you borrow them if you’d like?” She asked.
“That would be great, thanks. I’ve been trying to catch up on all the books I’ve missed.”
Their banter was broken up by the sing song tune coming from the tea kettle on the stove. Alex and Bucky worked effortlessly grabbing tea, sugar and cups.
“How do you like yours?” Alex asked grabbing his cup.
“Honestly? I haven’t had tea in.. well, a long time.”
“Well, I would recommend some sugar and that’s it. That’s how I usually take it.” She said grabbing an herbal tea bag and placing it into his cup. “Do you like things sweet?”
Bucky blinked, caught off guard. Sweetness. That wasn’t something people usually offered him; especially not like this. Not soft, not easy. Most people handled him like a loaded weapon, wary, distant. And that’s how he preferred it. Sweetness usually made his skin crawl—felt fake, forced, like something he didn’t deserve.
But Alex…
Alex was looking at him with wide, warm eyes, her voice soft and genuine. Like it wasn’t an act. Like he wasn’t a broken relic standing in her kitchen at 2AM.
His chest felt… weird. Lighter, tighter; he didn’t know which.
Damn it, he thought, heart stumbling in his chest. I shouldn’t like this… but I do.
He swallowed, suddenly aware of how close she was standing, how natural it felt to share this quiet moment. He shouldn’t have been thinking about how soft her smile was or how easily her laugh settled the tension in his shoulders.
And yet… here he was. Thinking about it way too much.
Her question broke through the static in his head as she asked again. Not getting upset with him but gently repeating. “Do you like things sweet?”
Bucky’s lips twitched, a surprised, nervous little grin threatening to show. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling like an awkward kid instead of a hundred-year-old assassin.
Bucky, clearing his throat, voice a little rough, replied, “I….usually don’t.” He cut himself off, shaking his head with a small, breathy laugh.
“but I guess I can give it a try.”
His eyes flicked to hers, something softer settling in his expression, something hesitant but real.
Yeah, he admitted to himself. I’m definitely in trouble.
She quietly made him some tea, then handed him his cup and then pushed the plate of chocolate chip cookies towards him.
They took the first few sips and bites in silence, enjoying the floral aroma swirling up from their cups. Bucky was the first one to break their comfortable silence.
“So what has you up this early?”
She hesitated a bit, looking into her tea cup before she gathered the courage to look up at him. Should she tell him, she didnt want to scare him away… no, even Pepper told her she needed to be more open with people.
“You know how I got my powers?” She asked , even though she already knew the answer. Of course he knew, she was Alex Stark, everyone knew what happened to her. But Bucky didn’t answer, yes he knew, but he also knew she needed to talk so he kept quiet.
“When Killian kidnapped myself and Pepper, He experimented on us with Extremis. After we were saved, Pepper was able to expel the Extremis from her body. I wasn’t so lucky. The experiment worked on me and now I have these powers.” She held up her hand, turning it slowly at the wrist back and forth as it lit up from the inside. Her eyes beginning to glow an unnatural orange. Pure flaming energy seeping from her. Bucky was in awe, but not scared.
She stopped with a sigh, closing her hand and putting out the flame, “I… I have a reoccurring dream. Nightmare really, about when I got my powers. Tony is trying to get me and he can’t… then I’m just lost in blackness. It always throws me off, at least for the next few hours.”
Bucky’s expression softened. “Yeah… those don’t really go away,” he said quietly. “They just get quieter… sometimes.”
He let the moment sit in the quiet before adding, “I know what it’s like. Waking up not feeling like yourself. Like… you’re still trapped wherever it all started.”
Alex’s gaze lingered on him. There was no judgment in his voice. Just understanding.
“Are you up for the same reason?” She asked quietly. The words hit Bucky harder than he expected.
Simple. Gentle. No pressure. She was offering him the same space he’d just given her. And for a moment, Bucky felt like the air got thinner.
His instinct was to lie. Always to lie. To shut it down, brush it off, make a joke, change the subject. He’d done it a hundred times before. It was easier to pretend everything was fine, to keep people at arm’s length. Easier to be quiet and untouchable.
But she wasn’t looking at him like he was dangerous. She wasn’t tiptoeing around him like so many others did. She just… waited. Patient. Open.
His throat tightened, muscles tensing like a reflex, don’t let her in, his brain warned. It never ends well.
But she had just told him her worst memories, left them in the open air between them without flinching. And damn it… it felt good. Safe.
Bucky rubbed at the back of his neck, eyes flicking down to his tea like the swirling liquid would give him courage. His jaw clenched. He let out a slow breath and, for the first time in too long, let himself be honest.
“Yeah… same reason. Nightmares about my past, things I’ve done. Things they did to me.” He said quietly.
The words left his mouth and it felt like a weight shifted, not gone, but lighter. Maybe just for tonight. Maybe just because it was her.
“Are you okay?” She said and softly placed a hand on his metal arm.
He realized with a quiet pang that no one had asked him like this in a long time, are you okay? Not out of duty or fear, but out of genuine care.
He also realized that for the first time, someone was touching his arm out of concern. Touching his arm without flinching, touching him because they wanted to.
“I think I will be.”
“Me too.” She replied.
They settled into a quiet companionship as they leaned against the counter. Close. Comfortable. For Alex, it felt oddly like home.
Bucky tilted his head toward her, voice softer than it had been all night. “You know this place doesn’t always feel real. But right now… kinda does.”
The words slipped out before he could think better of it, and immediately he let out a low laugh, fingers raking through his hair. “Damn. That sounded a lot smoother in my head.”
Alex’s lips curved into a genuine smile and warmth was rushing to her cheeks before she could stop it. She hated how easily he was starting to get under her skin, how he made her feel normal, in a way she hadn’t felt since before Killian, before everything.
“It was cute.” She said, surprising herself with how much she meant it.
Bucky’s grin widened into something playful, younger, almost boyish. his shoulder bumped lightly against hers. “You’re blushing.”
She rolled her eyes and groaned dramatically, trying to cover how much he was making her flustered. “Don’t let it go to your head, Barnes or I won’t share my cookie stash with you next time”
“Fair enough, Stark,” he said with a mock serious nod, raising his hands in surrender. But inside, he felt it. That pull. That spark. Something soft, something he thought was buried too deep to come back.
Alex glanced at the clock and blinked in surprise. Almost two hours. Two hours of just… talking, laughing. Being people, not soldiers, not fugitives, not weapons. Her chest felt oddly full, something settling inside her that she hadn’t realized had been missing.
“It’s late… we should probably try to get some sleep,” she said, though a part of her hated to break the bubble they’d built in the quiet kitchen.
“Yeah,” Bucky agreed, gathering their mugs and placing them carefully in the sink beside hers. He hesitated for a moment before smirking.
“We should go before someone catches us and thinks we might actually like each other.”
Alex snorted, shaking her head. “Oh yes, we wouldn’t want that now, would we.”
They moved toward the door, steps slow, almost reluctant. Bucky could feel the comfortable silence between them stretching, lingering… and for once, it didn’t make him want to run.
Then, just as they reached the threshold, Bucky reached out, his metal hand gently brushing Alex’s arm—just enough to stop her.
Her breath hitched, surprised by how soft it felt. She had always imagined his vibranium arm to be cold, unfeeling, but the way he touched her was careful… almost reverent.
“Stark. Thank you,” He started, eyes staying on hers. “for the tea, cookies and maybe a little peace… maybe just a second where things didn’t feel so heavy. You let me feel that tonight.”
His thumb traced the faintest line over her sleeve, like he wasn’t ready to let her go just yet. Like part of him was still trying to believe this was real.
Alex’s chest tightened in a good way. She covered his hand with hers, her fingers small against his, skin against cool metal.
His gaze dipped to her lips before lifting back to her eyes, lingering there for a heartbeat longer than either of them expected. There was something different in the way she was looking at him too—something softer, something… hopeful.
Alex flushed deeper, warmth blooming in her cheeks that she couldn’t even pretend to hide. Not from him. Not anymore.
“Thanks for the company, James,” she said, voice quieter, almost shy in a way that surprised even her.
Bucky’s lips tugged into a faint grin at the sound of his name on her lips; not soldier, not Barnes… James. It sounded nice. Familiar. Like it belonged to the version of himself he was still trying to believe existed.
Before he could talk himself out of it, she spoke again.
“You know… you can call me Alex,” she said, tilting her head, her dark eyes glinting under the soft kitchen light. “You don’t have to only refer to me as Stark.”
Something in his chest shifted, subtle but unmistakable. He said her name slowly, tasting it, like it meant more than just a name; like it was something his.
“Alex,” Bucky said softly, feeling the weight of it settle comfortably in his chest. His smile grew, smaller but more genuine. “Yeah, that suits you better.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. The world outside the kitchen didn’t seem to exist; no wars, no missions, no past sins. Just them.
Bucky finally took a step back toward the doorway, hesitating before leaving, his hand resting on the doorframe. His smile was softer now, more personal, reserved just for her.
“Sleep well, Alex… and you know… if you can’t…” He paused, debating for half a second, but decided not to hold back. “…you know where to find me.”
Alex’s heart gave an unexpected flutter, and her grin turned brighter, warmer. A part of her wanted to follow him, to keep this feeling going just a little longer, but she only nodded, savoring the peace of the moment.
“Same to you. Goodnight,” she whispered.
Bucky dipped his head in farewell. “Goodnight, Alex.”
And then he turned, disappearing quietly down the hallway.
But Alex stood there for a moment longer, hugging her arms around herself, smiling like an idiot.
And Bucky? He walked slower than usual back to his room, hands in his pockets, heart a little lighter, thoughts full of a girl named Alex… realizing that for the first time in a very long time, the night didn’t feel so empty.
⸻
Later, Bucky lay on his back in the dark, staring at the ceiling, thoughts swirling like a storm he couldn’t outrun. But for once, they weren’t about guilt or nightmares… they were about her.
The way she smiled. He could still hear her laugh, still see the blush that crept over her cheeks. He couldn’t remember the last time someone looked at him like she did—like he wasn’t broken. Like he was just… a guy standing in a kitchen, sharing tea and stolen cookies.
Bucky swallowed, dragging a hand through his hair. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
But it did. Somewhere between the quiet moments and clinking mugs, it happened.
And for the first time in a long time… he didn’t feel like running from it.
I’m in trouble…
But he smiled anyway.
And for the first time in years… it was a good kind of trouble.
Summary: Things get tense after a moment of closeness in the heat of battle and tensions rise until the “dam” breaks.
CW: None
The droids came around the corner—far too many for just the two of you to handle. Blaster fire echoed down the corridor, the sharp, repetitive bursts ringing in your ears.
“Dank Farrik,” Crosshair muttered, grabbing your wrist and pulling you into a dark alcove just before the droids saw you.
You stumbled slightly as he pressed your back against the wall, positioning you behind him like a living shield. His body was taut with tension, his rifle held steady in one hand as his other reached out to steady you. The dark color of his armor blended seamlessly with the shadows, while your grey Jedi robes threatened to stand out like a beacon.
“Stay close,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly through the modulator of his helmet.
You obeyed without question, your breath catching as he turned and used his body to shield yours. The alcove was tight, forcing you so close that you could feel the solid, unyielding weight of him pressed against you. His gloved hands braced against the wall on either side of your shoulders, caging you in. His helmet dipped lower, his head close to yours, his visor turned toward the corridor.
Focus. Breathe. Calm. You repeated the mantra in your mind, desperate to regain control over the erratic rhythm of your heart. But it wasn’t the droids making your pulse quicken—it was him. The warmth of his body, the way his scent—blaster residue and something faintly metallic—seeped through the narrow space between you, filling your senses.
The sound of the droids’ footsteps began to fade, the clatter of their servos growing fainter until there was silence. You felt him shift slightly, his hands tightening momentarily before easing away from the wall. He didn’t move far, though. Your faces were still inches apart.
“General?” His voice, though filtered through the helmet, was softer now, more questioning.
You snapped back to reality, your lips parting to speak, though your voice betrayed your composure. “Y-Yes. I’m fine. Thank you.”
He didn’t move. He didn’t even acknowledge your words. Instead, he tilted his helmet slightly, studying you in a way that made your breath catch all over again. You wondered what his face was doing beneath that visor. Was he smirking? Frowning?
“Are you sure?” he asked, his tone laced with something that felt… heavier. Like he was asking about more than just the droids.
“I said I’m fine,” you replied quickly, too quickly. You wanted to sound decisive, authoritative, but your voice cracked slightly at the end. His closeness was unraveling you, and you hated that he could see it—or feel it.
Crosshair tilted his head again, as if weighing his next words carefully. Then, finally: “Your hands are shaking.”
You glanced down and cursed inwardly when you saw he was right. You hadn’t even noticed it, but your fingers were trembling slightly where they rested against your lightsaber hilt.
“It’s nothing,” you said, your voice a touch defensive as you quickly crossed your arms over your chest. “We’ve been under fire for hours. Anyone would be on edge.”
He didn’t respond immediately, and you swore you felt his gaze linger on your face for a second too long. “If you say so, General.”
Before you could respond, or overthink whatever his tone implied, he stepped back slightly, breaking the spell.
“Let’s go,” he said, scanning the corridor one last time. “We’re not out of this yet.”
The proximity was intoxicating, and you knew he could feel the way your chest rose and fell quicker than it should. The Force had always been a reliable guide, a constant presence to steady you in times of war, but right now, it felt distant, quiet—replaced by the pounding of your heart.
“General,” he said again, softer this time, as though testing your resolve. His voice carried that low, deliberate tone you’d come to recognize in him, like he always knew what to say without saying much at all.
You swallowed hard and nodded. “Let’s… let’s move.”
But as you tried to shift past him, his hand shot out, gently but firmly pressing you back against the wall. Your breath hitched as his gloved fingers rested just above your elbow.
“Wait,” he murmured, tilting his helmet slightly as if listening for something. His visor turned toward the end of the corridor, scanning for any sign of movement. You should’ve been doing the same—listening, sensing through the Force—but you couldn’t focus. Not with him this close.
When he finally let you go, the absence of his touch felt colder than it should have. He stepped out of the alcove first, his rifle raised and ready. His movements were calculated, silent, and you watched the way his body moved with precision, his broad shoulders a silhouette against the dim lighting.
You took a deep breath to steady yourself, forcing the heat creeping up your neck to subside. You were a Jedi Master, trained to master not only the Force but your emotions. This was a war zone and distractions, no matter how dark and piercing his voice or how close he stood to you, were a liability.
“Clear,” he called back over his shoulder, his voice all business now.
You stepped out behind him, igniting your lightsaber to cast a faint glow on the durasteel walls. “We need to make it to the rendezvous point before—”
“Before we’re overrun, I know.” He smirked beneath his helmet, his tone dry but tinged with that confidence he carried so effortlessly.
You rolled your eyes, even as your lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smile. “And here I thought your sharp tongue was reserved for battle droids.”
“Droids don’t blush.”
Your step faltered for half a second, but you recovered quickly, silently cursing him—and yourself.
“Eyes forward, trooper,” you said, falling into step beside him.
“Yes, General,” he replied, the smirk in his voice unmistakable.
And as the two of you moved deeper into enemy territory, you couldn’t help but wonder if you were fighting the wrong war.
The tension inside the Bad Batch’s ship was a palpable reminder of what they’d just survived. Hunter sat in the cockpit, quietly navigating them back to base, while Wrecker’s booming laugh filled the air as he recounted their mission highlights. Echo nodded along, though his tone was far more reserved as he tinkered with his arm. Tech was already hunched over a datapad, muttering about efficiency rates.
Crosshair sat at the far end of the room, leaned back in his seat with his rifle resting against the wall beside him. To anyone else, he appeared calm—aloof, even. But inside, his thoughts were anything but still.
That alcove.
He replayed the moment over and over in his mind—the way her breath had hitched when he pressed her against the wall, the way her lips had parted ever so slightly when she stammered her response. He hadn’t meant to linger so close, hadn’t meant to focus on the soft curve of her mouth or wonder what it would feel like against his own. But it had been impossible not to.
He gritted his teeth, scowling at the memory. This was dangerous. Reckless. They were already risking their lives for a galaxy that cared little for clones or Jedi. Adding this , whatever it was, to the mix was asking for trouble.
And yet… he couldn’t stop himself. She was strong, sharp, and fearless in battle. But in that moment, pressed so close he could feel her heartbeat against his chest, she’d been human . Vulnerable in a way that made him ache to protect her from everything, including himself.
Crosshair’s fingers tapped restlessly against his knee. He should say something, clear the air. But what could he possibly say? Sorry, General, for getting too close? Sorry for wanting to kiss you in the middle of a battlefield? No. He’d keep his distance. It was better that way. Safer.
Across the room, you sat in silence, meditating on the floor in the back of the Marauder. Your hands resting in your lap as tried to take slow deep breaths, though your mind was far from still.
That alcove.
The heat of his body against yours had been seared into your memory. You could still feel the strength in the way he’d caged you in, his hands on either side of your shoulders, his presence overwhelming yet grounding. And his voice—soft, questioning, laced with something unspoken.
You squeezed your hands into fists, trying to suppress the flutter in your chest. Jedi weren’t supposed to feel this way. Attachments led to weakness, vulnerability. You’d been taught that from the beginning. But the Force had a funny way of testing you; of pulling you toward things or people you weren’t supposed to have.
You risked a glance toward him. He was leaned back, his posture relaxed but his jaw tight. His helmet rested beside him, and the sharp features of his face were unreadable. He didn’t look at you, didn’t acknowledge you, and that stung more than it should have.
You closed your eyes again, inhaling deeply. Focus. Control. But the memory of his closeness wouldn’t leave you. For years, you’d trusted the Force to guide you, but right now, it felt like it was pushing you straight toward him.
You have to stop this, you told yourself. It’s a distraction. You’re a Jedi. A General. He’s one of your men.
But the truth was undeniable: you wanted him. Needed him, even. You’d felt it in the way your heart had raced when his hand brushed your arm, in the way your mind had whispered his name in quiet moments. You could feel eyes on you and risked opening your own.
Across the room, Crosshair shifted, his sharp eyes flicking toward you for the briefest of moments. When your gazes met, your breath caught. It wasn’t long, barely a second, but it felt like an eternity.
He looked away just as quickly, his expression neutral. But you didn’t miss the way his hand tightened around the strap of his rifle, his knuckles white against the black leather.
In the cockpit, Hunter glanced over his shoulder, his sharp senses picking up on the tension hanging thick in the air. He frowned slightly but said nothing, his instincts telling him this wasn’t the time to interfere.
You shifted uncomfortably on the floor, your mind racing. You couldn’t stop replaying the way he’d pressed close, the way his voice had softened, the way he’d made you feel. It wasn’t just physical. It was deeper, a connection you couldn’t explain, couldn’t sever.
And judging by the way his shoulders were set, the tension radiating from him like heat, he felt it too.
The ship hummed quietly around you as you stood in the dimly lit hull. The others were with the Kaminoans getting their routine check ups for the next hour or more. You were taking this time to take stock of inventory and write your logs. It had been about 20 minutes of silence before the ships door opened. In walked the one person you had been trying to stay away from. Crosshair. You had been avoiding this moment, avoiding him, but Crosshair wasn’t one to let things linger.
You made to move out of his way and walk out of the ship but h e stepped into your path, his tall, lean frame blocking your escape. His helmet was off, revealing his sharp features. His expression was unreadable, but his golden-brown eyes burned with an intensity you couldn’t ignore. You took a few steps back into the ship and watched with a racing heart as he stepped in and closed the door behind him.
The two of you completely alone.
“We need to talk,” he said, his voice low, firm.
You sighed, crossing your arms tightly over your chest as if it would somehow protect you from what you knew was coming. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he snapped, his tone cutting through your defenses. “Not after what happened back there.”
Your chest tightened, the memory of the alcove rushing back in vivid detail. “Crosshair—”
“Don’t.” He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t push me away. Not this time.”
You felt the walls closing in, your heart pounding in your ears. You tried to summon the calm, steady focus that had always been your strength as a Jedi, but it wouldn’t come.
“Jedi aren’t supposed to form attachments,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Attachments?” His lips curled into a faint, bitter smirk. “Is that what you call it?”
“Yes,” you said, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “It’s dangerous. For both of us. If the Council found out, I could be expelled from the Order. And the Kaminoans—” You swallowed hard. “I don’t even want to think about what they’d do to you.”
Crosshair’s expression darkened. “Do you think I give a damn about any of that?”
“Cross—”
“No.” He stepped even closer, and before you could look away, his hand was under your chin, tilting your face toward his. His touch was surprisingly gentle, belying the storm in his eyes. “Look at me.”
Your breath hitched, and you hesitated, but the weight of his gaze pulled you in.
“Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t feel it,” he said, his voice rough, raw, as though the words had been torn from his very soul.
Your lips parted, but no sound came out. The truth was a heavy, unyielding presence between you, and you couldn’t bring yourself to deny it.
“I… I can’t,” you whispered, your voice breaking.
For a moment, neither of you moved. The tension crackled in the air like a live wire, and you swore you could feel his heartbeat echoing in your own chest.
“Then stop running,” he said, his tone softening but losing none of its urgency. “Stop pretending this doesn’t exist, because you and I both know it does.”
Tears stung your eyes, and you shook your head weakly. “Crosshair, I—this isn’t just about us. It’s about the war, the people we’re trying to protect. If I let this happen…if I let myself fall. How can I lead? How can I keep you safe?”
“You don’t have to protect me,” he said firmly, his hand still cradling your chin. “I’ve spent my whole life fighting battles I didn’t choose. But this? This is my choice. And I choose you.”
The words shattered something inside you, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to feel the weight of them. The depth of his devotion, his unwavering belief in what the two of you could be, even in the face of everything.
“Do you know what you’re asking of me?” you said, your voice trembling.
“I’m asking you to let yourself feel,” he replied. “To stop hiding behind rules and orders and admit what’s real.”
He took a step closer to you before softly saying “Don’t push me away.”
His thumb brushed lightly against your jaw, sending a shiver down your spine. You felt the Force hum faintly around you, not as a warning but as something almost… encouraging.
“I’m scared,” you admitted, the words barely audible.
“I know,” he said softly. “But I’m not.” His hands moved to either side of your face as he brought you in for a desperate kiss. Your back hit the wall with a groan that was covered by his mouth. One of his hands went to your waist while the other moved to tangle in your hair.
Warmth spread all over your body as he pressed himself closer to you.
A low noise escaping Crosshair’s throat as you gripped his chest plate and pulled him even closer. This was something you had only dreamed about but never let yourself hope you could have.. have him.
The kiss was intense but wonderful all at the same time. And for the first time you could feel the walls you’d so carefully built begin to crumble.
And in that moment, you knew you couldn’t deny it anymore. Whatever this was, this impossible, forbidden connection, it was as undeniable as the Force itself.
Probably the fan fiction no one asked for or needed. I literally started this in college lol and finally had the urge to finish it. I hope someone out there enjoys it!
15 Years Later
"Ah, as promised, the bishop's carriage." Gawain announced when the reached the top of the clearing.
Thea’s fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword as she squinted into the misty forest. The bishop’s carriage gleamed ahead, a beacon of Roman arrogance with its polished wood and brass fittings.
Even from a distance, Thea could see the way the Roman soldiers’ galeae with the bright red crest caught the pale sunlight filtering through the fog, as if daring the forest to challenge them.
The Romans were known for their pomp and circumstance but their attire would never let them blend in. These roman soldiers were in Briton to deliver Bishop Germanius.
While Bishop Germanius was to deliver the knights discharge papers so that they would finally be free, it was a long time coming and it was only a few feet away from them.
"Our freedom, Bors." Galahad said with a jubilant smile.
"Mm. I can almost taste it." Bors said licking his lips dramatically, earning a laugh from Gawain.
"And, oh how sweet it tastes." Thea added, her voice light despite the knot tightening in her chest.
"And your passage to Rome, Arthur." Dagonet said looking to his commander and friend, his deep voice carrying a note of solemnity.
Arthur nodded, though his expression was unreadable. He stared ahead, the weight of leadership etched into the lines of his face. Thea glanced at him briefly, but her attention was quickly pulled back to the forest.
Something felt wrong.
Thea stopped smiling and was staring at the forest. She felt the prickle of unease crawl up her spine, an almost instinctual warning she’d learned to trust over the years.
“What is it?” Galahad asked, his brow furrowing as he followed her gaze.
Thea shook her head slowly. “I’m not sure… but something’s off.”
Her voice was quiet, but it carried enough weight to silence the others. Tristan, standing nearby, shifted his stance and cocked his head toward the trees, his hawk-like eyes scanning the edges of the clearing.
“Thea?” Tristan asked, his tone almost imperceptibly softer than usual.
She didn’t look at him, simply nodded toward the forest. “Do you feel it?”
Tristan’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he unslung his bow without a word. That was all the confirmation she needed.
The stillness shattered with a hiss of air and a sickening thud. The Roman officer in front of the carriage staggered, an arrow buried deep in his chest. His eyes widened in shock as he crumpled to the ground, his crimson crest bobbing once before it stilled.
“WOADS!” Tristan’s voice rang out like a battle cry, his bow already drawn.
Thea’s heart lurched, and her sword was in her hand before she could think. Around her, the knights sprang into action, their years of training transforming them into a deadly, synchronized force.
Getting into formation behind Arthur, the knights road towards the impending battle. Even with the small band of roman soldiers, Thea knew they were outnumbered by at least twenty woads.
The Romans had already begun to form a circle around the carriage. Thea took out her bow, holding on with her thighs and legs she took aim, firing at any woad she saw until it was too close to use her bow.
Positioning herself to sit side saddle she waited till she was close enough before jumping down from her horse. Bow still in hand, she used it like a staff, striking down a Woad who charged her. The wooden frame cracked against his skull, sending him sprawling. She discarded the bow and drew her sword in one fluid motion, the weight of the blade a familiar comfort in her grip.
Slicing and stabbing as she went, occasionally sliding underneath a woad just to come up behind him. Her movements were fluid, almost a dance, as she slid beneath an enemy’s swing and came up behind him, her blade striking true. She knew better than to hesitate—the Woads wouldn’t. Unlike the Romans, the Woads fought with wild ferocity, and their ranks weren’t limited to men. Thea caught sight of a Woad woman lunging toward her, her face streaked with blue paint, her leather armor clinging like a second skin. Thea blocked the blow with her sword, their blades clashing with a metallic scream. With a swift kick, Thea sent the woman stumbling back before plunging her blade forward.
Pain exploded in her left arm as a Woad’s blade sliced into her. She cried out, her grip faltering for a moment before she gritted her teeth and swung her sword in a wide arc, cutting him down. Blood seeped from the wound, but she pushed forward, the adrenaline dulling the ache.
Finally, she paused to take in her surroundings. The field was littered with bodies, the clash of swords replaced by the labored breathing of the survivors.
The fighting was done.
She heard Bors’ familiar war cry off to her left, near the river, and turned to see him standing triumphantly, his axe dripping with blood. Wiping her blade on the tunic of the fallen Woad at her feet, Thea sheathed her sword and made her way toward the carriage with Gawain and Bors.
“Not bad for an outnumbered lot, eh?” he said, his voice booming.
Thea managed a tired smile, but her gaze drifted to the forest’s edge, still wary. Something about this attack didn’t sit right with her, but for now, she had to focus on the bishop’s carriage—and the freedom it promised.
Carefully pulling back the once elegant blue covering, now stained with dirt and blood, Bors and Gawain look into the carriage to find that the bishop is dead, struck by at least three woad arrows.
Gawain slammed his axe into the ground in anger. “Damn it all,” Gawain cursed. “Without him, no papers. No freedom.”
Thea’s jaw clenched, but her gaze shifted downward. A faint sound reached her ears—fast, trembling muttering. She stepped to the side and spotted a thin Roman cowering beneath the carriage, his lips moving feverishly in prayer.
"Gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus et Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus. Benedictus fructus ventris tui, lesus. Benedicta tu in mulieribus..."
She tilted her head, watching him with a mix of curiosity and disdain. She knew of the Roman god—how could she not? They had brought their faith to her land like they brought their roads, unyielding and unasked for. But Thea had learned long ago that no god, Roman or otherwise, would ever answer her prayers.
His words sounded pretty in their Latin verse but their meaning had no use nor comfort for Thea or her fellow knights. Gawain seems to agree as he addressed the man "Save your prayers, boy. Your god doesn't live here."
The young Roman froze, staring at the knights with wide, terrified eyes. He clutched his cross tighter but said nothing more.
Behind them, Arthur had a Woad pinned to the ground, his sword pressed firmly against the man’s throat. Thea turned her attention to their commander, studying the tense set of his shoulders.
“Why did Merlin send you south of the wall?” Arthur demanded, his voice steady but edged with steel.
The Woad stared up at him, unflinching, and began to speak in his native tongue. The guttural words were unfamiliar to most of the knights, save for Tristan and Thea, who had picked up fragments of the language over the years. Whatever the man said, Arthur’s expression didn’t change.
“Pick it up,” Arthur commanded, motioning to the axe that lay at the Woad’s feet.
The Woad hesitated, his dark eyes locked with Arthur’s.
“I said pick it up,” Arthur repeated, his tone hardening.
Slowly, the Woad reached for the weapon. Thea tensed, but Arthur stood his ground, unmoving as the man grasped the axe and rose to his feet. After a long, heavy pause, Arthur stepped back, lowering his blade. Without a word, the Woad turned and disappeared into the forest.
Thea frowned as she bent to retrieve one of her arrows from the ground. “Why did he let him go?” she muttered under her breath.
“To send Merlin a message,” Dagonet replied, his voice soft but firm. He stepped closer to her, his brow furrowing as he caught sight of her arm.
Dagonet responded taking her arm in his hand, "this needs to be looked at." She had been cut during the battle but it wasn't bleeding all that much. "It is not that bad." Her eyes narrowed as she noticed his dripping tunic, "why are you all wet?"
"Went for a swim with the woads, he did." Galahad laughed as he walked past them, a cocky grin plastered on his face. Thea smirked, but Dagonet ignored Galahad’s teasing, tearing a strip from the edge of her shirt. His hands were careful but quick as he tied the fabric tightly around her arm.
“I’ll check it back at the fort,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
She looked up at him, her lips parting to protest, but his expression stopped her. His eyes, steady and serious, softened just slightly as they met hers. She nodded silently, a small gesture of trust, before turning her attention back to the bloodied field.
"Bors." Arthur called out reaching the carriage. "What a bloody mess." Bors muttered, gesturing to the interior of the carriage with a grim expression. Thea caught a glimpse of the body slumped inside, arrows protruding from the blood-soaked robes.
"That's not the bishop." Arthur turned around looking at all the other men surrounding them in their Roman garb.
"God help us. What are they?" the young man hiding behind the carriage asked in a shaky voice.
"Blue demons that eat Christians alive. You're not a Christian, are you?" Bors said gruffly pointing a finger at him, and then he noticed the man closing his hands to pray. "Does this really work?"
The young man paled, his hands clenching into a prayer position as he began to whisper frantically under his breath.
Bors watched him with amused skepticism. “Does this really work?” He folded his hands mockingly and mimicked the man’s muttering, though his words were a jumble of nonsense. After a moment, he sighed dramatically. “Nothing. Maybe I’m not doin’ it right.”
“Bors!” Thea’s voice cut through the moment, light yet firm as she approached, her horse’s reins in hand. “Leave the poor child alone. He’s most likely soiled himself during the fight—don’t scare him any closer to his death.” Her teasing smile softened the sharpness of her words.
Bors huffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched in reluctant amusement.
"Arthur!" A man on one of the roman horses called out to him. Arthur straightened, recognition flickering across his face.
“Arthur Castus, your father’s image,” the man said with a tight smile. “I haven’t seen you since childhood.”
Thea exchanged a glance with Gawain, mouthing, The bishop?
Gawain gave a small nod, his brow furrowing in distaste as he shrugged.
“Bishop Germanius,” Arthur said formally. “Welcome to Britain. I see your military skills are still of use to you. Your device worked.”
The bishop dismounted, brushing dust from his fine cloak. “Ancient tricks of an ancient dog,” he said dismissively before turning his attention to the knights. His gaze swept over them, lingering on Thea. His expression soured, his tone dripping with disdain. “And these are the great Sarmatian knights we’ve heard so much about in Rome.”
He looked them over, his eyes falling upon Thea, his look of interest becoming one of disgust. "So it is true, there is a woman fighting amongst you. Who would ever believe one could defend herself as if a man."
Dagonet griped her horse's saddle as she made to move towards the bishop, her hand gripping the hilt of her sword. Arthur stepped forward, his voice sharp. “Thea has proven herself time and time again, Bishop. I trust her. She is a skilled fighter and a valuable member of my knights.”
Thea didn’t miss the flicker of annoyance in Germanius’s expression as he turned his back on her, dismissing her entirely. She smirked, satisfaction bubbling despite the insult.
The bishop moved toward his carriage, brushing past the group as if they were beneath him. “I thought the Woads controlled the north of Hadrian’s Wall.”
"They do, but they occasionally venture south. Rome's anticipated withdrawal from Britain has only increased their daring."
“Woads?” the bishop repeated, his tone disdainful.
“British rebels who hate Rome,” Gawain explained, his voice flat.
“Men who want their country back,” Galahad snapped, his defiant tone earning a sharp look from Arthur.
Thea arched a brow at Galahad, thinking, That boy’s going to get himself killed one of these days.
The bishop ignored the exchange, instead asking,
"Who leads them?"
“He’s called Merlin,” Lancelot answered, his tone laced with dry amusement. “A dark magician, some say.”
Arthur’s eyes scanned the road ahead, his focus shifting back to the task at hand. “Tristan, Thea,” he called. “Ride ahead and make sure the road is clear.”
Thea nodded, mounting her horse in one fluid motion. Tristan followed suit, and without a word, the pair rode ahead, leaving the tension of the group behind them.
"You need to be more careful" Tristan's rough voice broke the silence as they road back to join the others, finding the road clear of any other interruptions. The forest stretched endlessly around them, the faint rustle of leaves and distant calls of birds the only sounds apart from their horses’ hooves.
“What?” Thea turned to him, puzzled by his sudden remark.
“You need to be careful not to let that temper of yours get the best of you,” he replied, his tone calm but firm.
Thea sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping as she gripped her reins. She knew he was right. “This I know. But—”
“Arthur said, in front of the bishop, that he trusts you.” Tristan cut her off, his gaze scanning the tree line, ever watchful. He didn’t look at her, but Thea knew his words were deliberate. “That is all you should worry about—not the words of a Roman who knows nothing of us.”
She hesitated, her fingers tightening around the reins. His words were simple, but they carried weight, as all of Tristan’s rare words did. She glanced at him briefly, taking in his stoic expression. “You trust me?”
Tristan didn’t answer immediately, but when he did, his voice was steady. “We all do. Trust is earned, not given. You’ve earned it a hundred times over.”
Thea blinked, unsure how to respond. Praise from Tristan was rare and precious, like finding sunlight in the perpetual mist of Britain.
“Think on that,” he continued, his tone softening slightly, “and quell your anger. There are battles to fight that are worth your rage. The bishop isn’t one of them.”
Thea nodded silently, her head lowered as her thoughts churned. Tristan rarely spoke, and when he did, his words stayed with her long after.
They rode on in silence, the trees casting long shadows across the path as they rejoined the caravan.
In the year 452 AD, the Roman Empire stretched its iron grip over much of the known world, but its insatiable hunger for power drove it ever forward. Not content with the lands they had conquered, the Romans sought more—more territories, more resources, and more subjects to bend to their will. The vast reaches of their ambition knew no bounds, and their methods were brutal in their efficiency.
For decades, the great Roman generals had set their sights on the Sarmatian tribes, extracting boys from their homes to serve as soldiers in the Roman army. The process was ruthless and unyielding. If no boys or young men were available, the Romans’ orders were clear: take a girl. Yet even in these dire circumstances, few survived the journey to the Roman encampments. The unlucky ones faced death, abuse, or abandonment, while only the most resilient were given a chance to train alongside the boys.
Many years had passed without such a fate befalling the Sarmatian women until midsummer of this fateful year.
On a sweltering day, Roman scouts arrived at a remote village nestled on the edge of a dense forest. Their contingent already included seventeen boys, but Rome’s quotas were relentless. This village, populated largely by the elderly, women, and children, was not spared. Among them were two girls, one aged fifteen, the other in her early 20s. One was tall and wiry, the other small, scrawny, and visibly pregnant.
The commander’s eyes, cold and calculating, swept over the village. The pregnant girl was dismissed without a second thought, her fate sealed by her vulnerability. His gaze settled on the wiry girl, who stood with her head bowed in resignation. To him, she was a potential soldier, though she appeared more suited for domestic life. But orders were orders, and there was no room for sentiment in the eyes of the Empire.
“There are no boys here!” the village elder’s voice cracked with desperation. “We have nothing of value!”
The Roman officers, impervious to the pleas, moved toward the girl. Her mother clung to her, tears streaming down her face. “She is to come with us,” the commander declared, his voice brooking no argument.
“Why? She is a girl—no use to the Romans. She can barely hold herself up! Please, she is all I have.”
The officer’s face remained impassive as he responded, “Get your things. We leave at once.” The girl’s fear was palpable as she finally looked up at him. With her only possession-a horse, the village’s sole means of transport—she was taken. Her journey to the Roman fort in the southern half of Britain had begun, a journey that would test her very will to survive.
About an hour into the ride a tall boy with dark green eyes rode up to the girl. Looking at her before initiating a conversation. She was his age or perhaps a bit younger with hair as like the darkest night, he could see a splash of freckles from her temples down to a small portion on her cheeks. He couldn't see the color of her eyes for at the moment they we downcast and staring at the bracelet on her left forearm. "That's a beautiful bracelet." He said breaking the silence. Her head snapped up and he could finally see the color of her eyes. They were a deep brown but at some points when the light hit them just right they looked almost red, he had never seen such eyes before. She looked at him for a moment before speaking "Th-thank you. It was a gift from my brother." He held out his hand indicating that he wished to examine it closer. She placed her arm into his hand so he could see it closer. It was an intricate piece of leather that had been carved, burned and twisted to depict a horse among the knot work. "He is very skilled," he said amazed by its design, she smiled at the compliment. "Rowan was always creating things like this." Her smile faltered and she grew quite again, the boy noticed her use of the word "was" but didn't press the matter. He smiled again and held a hand out to her, "Dagonet" The girl looked up at him before grasping his wrist and he to hers; "Thea."
——
During their initial days together, Thea and Dagonet found solace in the small, shared moments away from the grueling demands of training. As the years passed, these moments became their sanctuary, where they could connect beyond the rigors of their duties.
Over the next decade, both of them changed in remarkable ways.
Thea’s dark hair, once cropped short, grew long and wild, streaked with reddish highlights from countless days in the sun. She had grown to 5’6”, no longer the scrawny girl she once was. Her body had transformed into that of a strong, curvaceous woman, with a toned physique hardened by her trials. The freckles on her face had faded, save for a few that still graced the bridge of her nose. Her skin bore the marks of her journey—scars that spoke of battles fought and survived. One scar, curving along the left side of her lips, softened her otherwise fierce appearance.
Dagonet, too, had undergone a transformation. Standing at nearly 6’5”, he towered over everyone, including Thea. His once-boyish frame had evolved into a formidable presence, muscles honed by endless training and combat. His hands, roughened by years of wielding swords and axes, and his face, marked with scars from countless skirmishes, only added to his imposing figure. Yet, his eyes retained the softness that Thea had first seen—a gentle contrast to his hardened exterior.
Their bond grew deeper with each passing day. Though they never spoke of it openly, their feelings for each other were evident in every shared glance and touch. They spent their free moments together, hidden away from the prying eyes of their comrades and the harsh gaze of their Roman overlords.
On a particular evening, after a grueling day of drills, Thea sat alone on a grassy hill, the remnants of daylight painting the sky in rich hues of orange and purple. The beauty of the sunset contrasted starkly with the harshness of their daily lives. Dagonet approached quietly, settling beside her without a word. They watched as the sun dipped below the horizon, their silence a comfortable embrace.
Thea’s voice broke the quiet, soft and contemplative. “You know, sometimes I imagine what life might have been if I had never been taken. A small house, a family, simple joys and struggles. It seems like a distant dream now.” She closed her eyes, her sigh a gentle exhale of longing.
Dagonet, his gaze fixed on her profile, responded with a contemplative tone. “I think about those dreams too, but what I cherish more are the people I’ve met along the way—like you. I’ve realized that what matters isn’t where we started but who we become and who we share our lives with.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice to ensure their words remained private. “I’ve come to understand that as long as I’m with the person I love, any dream can be made real. And I want to make that dream a reality with you—if you’ll have me.”
Thea opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. Her heart swelled with a mixture of relief and affection. “You’ve always had me, Dagonet. I’ve always been yours.”
In that moment, as the last light of day faded into night, their silence spoke louder than any words. It was a promise of shared dreams and a testament to the love that had quietly grown between them.
——
When the time came for the knights to be paired with their new commanding officers, Thea was one of the last to be assigned. Her frustration simmered as she watched one by one, her fellow knights find their new roles. “I will not be left behind, Dagonet!” she shouted, her voice fierce with determination. “I refuse to be stuck here and grow useless. I am a knight just like you!” Her hand rested on the hilt of her sword, her dark hair whipping around her face as the wind picked up.
Dagonet, standing beside her, tried to calm her. “Thea, getting angry won’t help. We have to wait for our turn.” He knew how futile it was to argue with her when she was in this state.
In their heated exchange, they hadn’t noticed the approach of another figure until Thea, caught off guard, spun around, drawing her sword. The metallic clash of steel rang out sharply through the valley as her blade met another sword. Her eyes widened in surprise as she faced a Roman officer, his blade raised defensively.
Realizing she had nearly struck him, Thea quickly lowered her sword, her breath coming in quick, nervous bursts. “I’m so sorry,” she began, but the officer raised a hand to silence her.
“I overheard your words,” he said, his gaze intense. “Is it true that no one chose you?”
“Yes, sir,” Thea replied, her voice steady despite her agitation.
The officer studied her for a moment, his expression shifting from stern to contemplative. “What is your name?”
“Thea.”
A faint smile touched the officer’s lips, though Thea was too wary to trust it. “So, you claim to fight as well as any man? I want to see for myself. You and I will spar. If you prove yourself, I’ll take you under my command. If not…” His gaze turned almost mischievous, “you’ll turn in your sword and return to Rome. I’m sure you’d make a fine wife for some wealthy patrician.” He smirked as he walked away from her.
Thea’s face flushed with indignation. “How dare he!” she muttered in her native language. Dagonet, grasping her shoulders, forced her to look at him.
“Do you know who that is?” he asked urgently. “That was Arthur Castus, my new commanding officer.”
“The Arthur? Rome’s new protégé?” Thea’s eyes widened in realization. Her apprehension shifted to a new kind of fear—fear of what would happen if she bested him.
Two days later, the training grounds were cleared for a crucial match. Both combatants stood ready, though this would not be a fight to the death—only to disarm. Thea’s heart raced with adrenaline, her nerves steeled by the thought of finally proving herself. If she could defeat Arthur, she could secure her place as a knight and forge a path to freedom with Dagonet.
Arthur entered the arena, taking a deep breath as he prepared himself. He searched Thea’s face for signs of fear but found only calm resolve. She stood with a steady gaze, betraying no hint of her inner turmoil. The air was thick with anticipation as Dagonet, alongside Bors, watched from the sidelines. Dagonet’s heart pounded, knowing that Thea’s success or failure could determine their future.
Arthur raised his hand, a challenging grin on his face. “A new challenge,” he announced. “Let’s fight without armor. It will be a true test of skill.” He began to remove his armor, and Thea followed suit, shedding her own gear until she stood in her tunic and vest. The warm breeze swept over her, making her hair dance around her face.
Arthur’s voice took on a taunting edge. “Prove yourself now, Thea, and join my knights. If not, you can either go to Rome and become a wealthy man’s wife or return to Sarmatia.” His smirk was a clear provocation.
Thea didn’t hesitate. With a swift, practiced movement, she charged at him, their swords clashing in a flurry of metal. Arthur, momentarily caught off guard, stumbled back as Thea’s blade met his. They moved in a deadly dance, exchanging blows. Arthur’s sword aimed for her left shoulder, but she ducked, narrowly avoiding the strike. She pivoted and swept her feet, catching him off balance and sending him crashing to the ground.
Quick as a flash, Thea straddled Arthur, her sword poised at his throat. “Women are good for nothing else?” she demanded, her breath coming in heavy gasps.
Before Arthur could respond, two Roman officers seized Thea from behind, dragging her away from the fallen commander. She struggled, her anger and frustration spilling over. “Release her!” Arthur ordered, his voice sharp.
The officers obeyed, and Thea was roughly shoved to the ground. Arthur approached, offering a hand to help her up. “You fought well,” he said, his tone shifting to one of respect. “Will you fight with me and my knights?”
Thea, her gaze shifting from Arthur to Dagonet and back, took his hand firmly. “I will,” she said, her voice steady with newfound resolve.
As she rose to her feet, a sense of triumph filled the air. The battle had been won, and with it, a new chapter had begun.
