Youāre curled up against Simon beneath the heavy comforter, your cheek pressed to the steady rise and fall of his toned chest. One of his arms is wrapped securely around your waist, holding you close. The other hand moves lazily along your back, fingertips tracing slow, absentminded patterns through the thin fabric of your shirt. Every touch is gentle, warm enough to melt the last bit of tension from your muscles.
The apartment is wrapped in that late-night stillness that only settles in after midnight. Somewhere in the distance, rain taps softly against the window, and the muted glow from the bedside lamp paints everything in soft gold. His thumb drags lightly across your shoulder before his voice finally breaks the silence, low and rough with exhaustion.
āWanna hear a joke?ā
You already know heās going to tell it no matter what answer you give. That alone makes the corner of your mouth twitch.
You let out a sleepy hum, somewhere between a groan and permission.
Simon shifts slightly beneath you, like heās preparing to deliver the greatest punchline of the century.
āWhy did the scarecrow get promoted?ā
A soft sigh escapes you as you bury your face further into his chest, already bracing for impact. āWhy?ā
āBecause he was outstanding in his field.ā
The terrible joke is followed by his own quiet snicker, you can feel the vibration of it beneath your cheek.
You groan softly, nudging him with your knee. āGo to sleep, Simon.ā
The very brief flashback we get of Logan in X2 where he's remembering what happened to him at Alkali Lake really captures the visceral horror of what was done to him. As much as I love the campy tomfoolery of Origins, they way they handled this didn't show how horrific something like this would surely be. Especially when Logan is breaking free - those few seconds of him being absolutely horrified by what has been done to him, not knowing what to do with his hands, the blood...so good.
Anyway....this fic is a bit of a what happened after he escaped.
Warnings: none, mentions of blood, pain.
****
This was just what you needed. A few weeks away, a beautiful cabin in the woods, lots of walks, decompressing.Ā Ā SoĀ when you heard a crash downstairs in theĀ middle of the night, your body flooded with every ounce of stressĀ and anxietyĀ youādĀ managed toĀ get rid ofĀ in an instant. You sat up in bed, shaking and trying to keep your breathing steady. Failing. YouĀ didnātĀ want to switch on theĀ lightĀ but you figured whoever it was would know that there was someone here anyway, so it made no difference.Ā You reached for your phone, getting ready to call the police but when you looked at the screen ā no service. SomethingĀ youādĀ loved for the past five days but nowā¦Ā
Another crash. Thenā¦a moan? A moan of pain. And was that crying?Ā Ā Ā You knew youĀ shouldnāt, every fibre of your being was telling you not to, but you pushed back the covers andĀ shifted to the edge of the bed. Slipping your boots on, you walked as softly as you could to the door.Ā Of courseĀ it creaked when you opened it. You might as well have let off an air hornĀ to give the intruder every chance toĀ locateĀ you. You waited, expecting whoever itĀ wasĀ to run upstairs butĀ no one came.Ā Ā Ā You opened the doorĀ fullyĀ and stepped out onto the landing.Ā Ā You stood and listened. You could hear a whimpering. Was it an animal, maybe? A bear or something that had broken in? Injured and disoriented with pain?Ā Ā You stepped towards the stairs and slowly made your way down them.Ā Ā
Halfway down the stairs you saw that had made the noise and it made you gaspĀ out loud.Ā Ā
SlumpedĀ in the middle of the rug in the large open lounge was a man. Naked,Ā legs and feetĀ covered in dirt and grime. And blood.Ā Ā Blood over his torso, hisĀ armsĀ and hands.Ā He was breathing rapidly andĀ wasĀ staring at his hands. Hands,Ā out ofĀ which jutted knives.Ā You blinked then looked again.Ā Ā HeĀ wasnātĀ just holdingĀ theĀ knives,Ā they were coming out fromĀ betweenĀ his knuckles.Ā The blood, you assumed,Ā wasĀ fromĀ where the knives had pierced through the skin.Ā ItĀ didnātĀ look like he really knew what to do with his fingers.Ā Ā They were splayed, and heĀ didnātĀ seem to want to move them, lest he cut himself.Ā His eyes were wide, scared.Ā Ā
You walkedĀ all the way down the stairsĀ and stood looking at him.Ā Ā
āAre you okay?ā you asked, realising it was the stupidest thing in the world you could have said.Ā Ā
The manās head whipped around, his eyes focusingĀ on you.Ā Ā
āHelp meā¦ā he whimpered thenĀ passed out.Ā Ā
***Ā
The man finally came around, jerking awake, disorientated and confused.Ā Ā YouĀ couldnātĀ move himĀ other than to put him into the recovery position,Ā soĀ youādĀ found a blanket and pillow and tried to make him as comfortable as possible.Ā Ā YouādĀ jumped awayĀ when you noticed the blades in his hands retracting slowly back into his arms.Ā Ā You watched as the cuts between his knuckles healed and the bleeding stopped.Ā Ā As you tucked the blanket around him, you wonderedĀ what the hellĀ had happened.Ā Ā He was obviously a mutantĀ but this guy, those bladesĀ - thatĀ didnātĀ seem like it wasĀ anĀ entirely naturalĀ part ofĀ anyĀ mutation he may have hadĀ or thatĀ youādĀ ever heard about.Ā Ā ItĀ didnātĀ seem like he was entirely used to them either.Ā
He sat up, looking wildly around the room.Ā Ā You knelt on the floor, a little way from him and made sure to talk in a low, calmĀ voice.Ā
āHey,Ā youāreĀ okay.Ā Ā YouāreĀ inside andĀ youāreĀ safe,ā you said.Ā Ā He looked at you.Ā Ā He was handsome,Ā even with hisĀ hair sweated slick to his head andĀ face, a face bracketed byĀ thick mutton chops.Ā Ā He wore a set of dog tags around his neck.Ā Ā YouādĀ taken a lookĀ at them while he was outĀ cold.Ā Ā LoganĀ they said, and Wolverine, and a number.Ā Ā You assumed that Wolverine was a code name,Ā the number being hisĀ armyĀ number.Ā Ā You told him your name.Ā
āYours is Logan, right?ā you said, pointing at the tags.Ā
He looked down at his chest, taking the tags up in shaking fingers, still covered in blood.Ā
āYeah....ā he said, his voice rough, unsure.Ā
āCan you tell me what happened?āĀ
He looked at you.Ā
āI...IĀ donāt know.āĀ
You moved a little closer.Ā
āThatāsĀ alright.Ā Ā How aboutĀ we try and get you cleaned up?Ā I can see if there are any clothes here that would fit you.Ā Ā ThisĀ isnātĀ my house,Ā I'mĀ just staying here, but I can take a look.Ā Then maybe we can call someone?āĀ
At that his head whipped up and he looked terrified.Ā
āNo!āĀ
āOkay, okay thatās fine,ā you soothed, āletās justĀ focus onĀ cleaningĀ you up first, alright?āĀ
He nodded.Ā Ā You stood and went to help him up.Ā Ā He was heavy, unusually so.Ā Ā While he was tall and muscular, there was a denseness to him that felt alien, not a weight that came from his natural shape and size.Ā Ā As he stood, he wobbledĀ slightly and you found yourself taking him around the waist.Ā Ā It was not lost on either of you that he was still very naked.Ā Ā Once he got his footing youĀ started toĀ move, only holding onto his arm.Ā
āThereās a bathroom downstairs, just over there.āĀ
YouĀ headedĀ towards a short hallway,Ā and thereĀ for theĀ bathroom.Ā Ā You sat him on the toilet seat while you ranĀ someĀ waterĀ into the tub.Ā Ā Ā YouĀ didnātĀ think he would be able to stand up under a shower without help.Ā Ā YouĀ helped him to the bath and helped him to step into it.Ā Ā He sank down into the water, a small sigh escaping from him.Ā Ā You passed him a washcloth and some soap, putting a bottle of shampoo on the side of the bath.Ā
āGive me a shout if you need any help,ā you said.Ā Ā The man, Logan, just nodded.Ā
You went back to the lounge.Ā Ā It was daylight now, nearing 6am.Ā Ā Your eyes felt gritty and you rubbed at them.Ā Ā You shouldĀ probably goĀ and get dressed yourself, then make something to eat.Ā Ā Then...what?Ā Ā What were you supposed to doĀ with this strange naked mutant who had broken into your holiday cabin?Ā Ā First,Ā you needed to find him some clothes.Ā Ā You hoped that there might be something in one of the other rooms.Ā Ā Indeed, a few minutes searching around garnered a pair of sweatpants and aĀ t-shirt.Ā Ā YouĀ knocked thenĀ popped your head around the door of the bathroom and left them on the floor.Ā Ā Logan was laying back in the bath, clean now,Ā hair washed and slicked back from his face,Ā eyes closed, one hand rubbing at his temples.Ā Ā You shut the door and left himĀ to it.Ā
***Ā
By the time heĀ emerged,Ā youādĀ dressed and were just pouring some coffee.Ā Ā Ā
āThanks,ā he said as he padded to the kitchen, āfor all this.āĀ
You pushed a cup over to him andĀ a glass of waterĀ andĀ motioned for him to sit down.Ā
āNot a problem,ā you smiled.Ā
Logan quirked a brow and took a sip of the coffee.Ā
āItāsĀ aĀ pretty bigĀ problem.Ā Ā ThankĀ youĀ for notĀ callingĀ the police.āĀ
You sat down opposite him.Ā
āNot much service around here and besides, it was clear you needed help, not to be arrested.āĀ
āEven so.Ā Ā IāllĀ drink this and be on my way.āĀ
You looked at him.Ā
āAnd where would that be?ā you asked.Ā
His brow furrowed.Ā
āIĀ donāt know.āĀ
āWhat do you know?ā you continued, āwhat happened to your hands?Ā Ā You were wielding some pretty heavy metalwork when I found you.āĀ
Logan put his hands in his lap, looking down at them,Ā seemingly ashamed.Ā
āWerenāt you scared?ā he said towards them.Ā
āYes.Ā Ā But you seemed just as scared of them.āĀ
He glanced up at you.Ā
āThey didnāt used to be metal,ā he said simply.Ā
It was clear that LoganĀ wasnātĀ sure what had happened to him beyond that.Ā Ā HeĀ wasnātĀ sure of much.Ā Ā He just remembered blood and pain and running.Ā Ā HeādĀ come across this house and forced his way in.Ā
āI didnāt know anyone was here,ā he said, ānot sure I was really thinking clearly.āĀ
YouādĀ have been more concerned if the naked bloody man with knives in his handsĀ hadĀ been thinking clearly.Ā Ā
āAre you hungry?āĀ
Logan nodded.Ā Ā
āStarving.āĀ
YouādĀ not bought many groceries with youĀ but had been planning to go into town today to get more.Ā Ā Even so,Ā there was enough to put together some sandwiches.Ā As you worked at the counter, you glanced back at him. He was examining his hands. YouĀ watchedĀ as he made a fist and the three blades shot out from his knuckles.Ā HeĀ let outĀ aĀ grunt,Ā youĀ couldnātĀ imagine how painful it must have been.Ā Ā You watched as he ran a finger along the edge of one of them. The cut on his fingertip disappeared almostĀ immediately.Ā Ā
āIs that your mutation?ā you asked.Ā Ā
He looked at you.Ā Ā
āYeah.āĀ
āUseful.āĀ
Logan retracted the claws with a sharp hiss.Ā Ā
āMost blessings are actually a curse,ā he muttered.Ā Ā
You put a plate in front ofĀ himĀ and he took a huge bite from the sandwich.Ā Ā
āYou said they didnāt used to be metal,ā you said, pointing at his hands, āwhat did they used to be?āĀ
Logan swallowed and flexed his hand again.Ā Ā
āBone. Bone claws.āĀ
Bone claws and accelerated healing.Ā Ā Neat.Ā Ā
Orā¦not. You watched Logan eating.Ā Ā Everyone assumes that having aĀ superpowerĀ or something like that would be a brilliant thing but from where you were sitting, it looked like a burden.Ā
āWhy does your tag say Wolverine?āĀ Ā
He touched where they lay under his t-shirt.Ā Ā
āI was a soldier. Am a soldier.Ā ItāsĀ what they called me.āĀ
You pondered this. If he was military,Ā did that mean he was AWOL? Were you going to be having military police showing up at your door?Ā Ā
āDid they do this to you?Ā Ā The army?āĀ
āI think so. I mightā¦I think IĀ let them.āĀ
āWhy would you do that?ā You asked.Ā
He let out a short laugh.Ā Ā
āBeen trying to work that one out myself, sweetheart.āĀ
Logan finished the sandwich and sat back in his chair.Ā Ā
āYou said youāre just staying here?āĀ Ā
āYeah. Just a couple ofĀ weeks'Ā vacation. Been hiking and getting some good air in my lungs.āĀ
He nodded a little.Ā Ā
āBit unusual for aĀ gal like you?āĀ
āA gal like me?ā You asked quirking a brow.Ā Ā
He blushed a little and you laughed.Ā Ā
āI just meantā¦wouldnāt you rather be baking on a beach somewhere?āĀ
āNo,ā you shook your head, āI needed peace and quiet and a lack of other people. Present company accepted.āĀ
āSorry to intrude.āĀ
You looked at him.Ā Ā
āYou needed help,ā you said simply.Ā Ā
āIām grateful for that,ā he said after a while, ābut I really shouldnāt stay.āĀ
No, heĀ probably shouldnātĀ but you could only repeat yourĀ previousĀ question ā where was he going to go?Ā
You knew that you should have called the authorities the second you found him, and if not then, you should have done it by now.Ā Ā And yet you didnāt.Ā Ā You also knew that letting a strange man, a strange mutant, into this house was not wise, but looking at himĀ nowĀ youĀ couldnātĀ turn him out.Ā Ā He looked exhausted, haunted even.Ā Ā Something had happened to him, something clearly traumatic.Ā Ā What sort of asshole would you be if you threw him out now?Ā Ā Chances areĀ heādĀ end upĀ in custody somewhere, shipped off back to the army where they would do God knows what else to him.Ā Ā Ā
āMy grandfather was a mutant,ā you said after a long silence.Ā Ā Logan looked up at you, āhe could control electricity.Ā Ā Neat party trick,ā you smiled, ābut he was ashamed of it.Ā Ā NeverĀ really talked to anyone about it, except me.āĀ
āWhy you?āĀ
āI think he thought I was like him,ā you said sadly, āIāmĀ not, but I used to wish I was.Ā Ā So,Ā IāmĀ not scared of you being a mutant.Ā Ā I know how much it took from my grandfather to be āacceptableāā you made quotes in the air, āand I know how much it hurt him when people shunned him for something heĀ couldnātĀ help.Ā Ā IāveĀ got another week or so here, should be time for us to figure something out, do you think?āĀ
Logan looked, and felt, pathetically grateful.Ā Ā All he could remember was being out in the snow, naked, finding this place and now...you.Ā Ā Someone whoĀ wasnātĀ flinching from him,Ā wasnātĀ scared andĀ wasnātĀ trying to hurt him.Ā Ā He still felt cautious, heĀ wasnātĀ entirely sure he could trust you,Ā but heĀ wasnātĀ sure he could trust anyone anymore.Ā
āThank you,ā he said, āI appreciate that.āĀ
You smiled.Ā Ā First point of order was to try and find him some more clothes, some shoes and then maybe try and get some sleep.Ā
āThereās another room,ā you said, directing Logan to the smaller bedroom, āmake yourself comfortable and Iāll go and see if I can hunt out some more clothes.āĀ
āThanks,ā he said, sitting down on the bed.Ā
By the time you returned, he was laying down, fast sleep, snoring softly.Ā Ā He twitched slightly, like a dog did when it slept, making little noises,Ā yelpsĀ and groans.Ā Ā You placed the clothes on top of the dresserĀ and closed the door.Ā
Youāre curled up against Simon beneath the heavy comforter, your cheek pressed to the steady rise and fall of his toned chest. One of his arms is wrapped securely around your waist, holding you close. The other hand moves lazily along your back, fingertips tracing slow, absentminded patterns through the thin fabric of your shirt. Every touch is gentle, warm enough to melt the last bit of tension from your muscles.
The apartment is wrapped in that late-night stillness that only settles in after midnight. Somewhere in the distance, rain taps softly against the window, and the muted glow from the bedside lamp paints everything in soft gold. His thumb drags lightly across your shoulder before his voice finally breaks the silence, low and rough with exhaustion.
āWanna hear a joke?ā
You already know heās going to tell it no matter what answer you give. That alone makes the corner of your mouth twitch.
You let out a sleepy hum, somewhere between a groan and permission.
Simon shifts slightly beneath you, like heās preparing to deliver the greatest punchline of the century.
āWhy did the scarecrow get promoted?ā
A soft sigh escapes you as you bury your face further into his chest, already bracing for impact. āWhy?ā
āBecause he was outstanding in his field.ā
The terrible joke is followed by his own quiet snicker, you can feel the vibration of it beneath your cheek.
You groan softly, nudging him with your knee. āGo to sleep, Simon.ā
Summary : Benjamin Poindexter confesses that he has been obsessively fantasizing about a domestic future with you.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Fluff!!!! (Maybe flangst?) Domestic but still unhinged Dex, obsessive love, possessive relationship, reader is mentioned to be a PhD student in forensic psychology (no age is mentioned), codependency, romanticized violence, injury care, talks of marriage, future children talk, brief mention of breeding kink and sex is implied (but itās for set up I swear), established relationship, hurt/comfort, Dex's version of a nuclear family is a bit unhealthy but he means well!! (Let me know if I miss anything!) set right after the ending of DDBA Season 2.
Word Count : 9.8k
Requested by : multiple people asking for Dex fluff!
Notes : this is my attempt to write a domestic (yet still obsessive) Dex while not being too ooc, inspired by the song Bloom by the Paper Kites. Also, should I start a Dex taglist? Anyways, Enjoy!
You had not meant to start talking about employment while you were wiping blood off Benjamin Poindexter on your bed.
It just slipped out of you, somewhere between the towel going pink under your fingers and the smell of peroxide rising through the warm, lived-in air of your studio apartment.
You and Dex shared that space in New York, which sounded more pathetic than it felt. It wasnāt luxurious. It wasnāt really the kind of place people imagined when they said they wanted to build a life with their love of their life. There was no separate bedroom, no separate dining room, no hallway to put your coats in. The kitchen was barely its own room, more of a stubborn little strip of counter and cabinets pretending to be separate from the rest of the apartment, and the bed sat close enough to a cabinet that you had once knocked a stack of your research books onto the mattress by accident and Dex had caught two before they hit your knees.
But it was yours, and that made a difference.
Dex didnāt really need much. That was one of the first things you had learned about him, and one of the saddest.Ā
He owned what he could carry, what he could hide, what he could use: clothes, weapons, toothbrush, a plain black jacket that had seen through more death than most people. He hadnāt moved into your life so much as folded himself carefully into the empty spaces of it, as if he was still waiting to be told he had taken up too much room.
You had filled the rest. Your desk sat in the corner under the window, always drowning in highlighters, case studies, printed articles, and half-dead pens. Your forensic psychology textbooks were stacked wherever they would fit. There was a mug full of rulers and pencils beside your laptop, a corkboard with notes and deadlines and a photobooth strip of the two of you in Coney Island that Dex pretended not to care about but always noticed when it tilted crooked.
Of course he cared. It was your first date.Ā
And though he didnāt tell you, he had made a copy of it and put it under his suit when he went out, right over his heart. It was a reminder that you wanted him home.Ā
But this space was enough. It was more than enough, somehow.
There was still room to dance in the kitchen if you were careful. Last Saturday, barefoot and half-asleep, with the radio turned on, you had twirled yourself into his arms to Tinaās Proud Mary. Dex had just stood there like he had no idea what to do until you took his hands and put them on your waist. There was still room for him to lift you onto the counter when you kissed him too sweetly for too long. There was still room for dinner eaten on a small table with two folding chairs, there was still room for your laundry tangled together in one basket, for his shoes beside yours by the door.Ā
There was still room, somehow, for Dex to crowd you back against the wall, hands firm on your hips, mouth hot against your throat while you laughed under your breath and told him the neighbors were going get tired ofĀ hearing how well he fucked you.
Room for him to murmur filthy and wrecked things, that he should āthrow your pills away,ā that he was going to āknock you up, huh? Want me to put a baby in you?ā
Youād pull back with a wicked smile, nails hooked in his shirt, and youād whisper, āThat is not the threat you think it is, baby.ā
You chalked it up to your boyfriend being a kinky little shit. You should have paid more attention to the way his eyes went black, the way his grip tightened on your skin. When he kissed you again, it was with the devoted certainty of a man who had just realized his most unhinged fantasy was not his alone.
Still, even in this small fantasy, there was still room to pretend, on the good nights, that you were normal.
Tonight was not one of the good nights.
Dex had come home after a day across the Supreme Court building with blood dried dark along his cheekbone, though you suspected none of it was his.Ā
Even if it was, you knew he wasnāt hurt at all, because Dex didnāt stagger or slump. He didnāt come through the door gasping or cursing or asking for help. He entered the apartment withĀ rigid control in his body, like every step had been measured in advance. He came in like arriving home had been a decision, not an escape. Like whatever had happened in this room, with you, was sacred compared to the rest of the world.
He came home like he had not been part of the makeshift siege at court.
Like he had not shot the Mayorās aide.
Like the whole city had not been tearing itself apart on the news for hours while you sat on the bed with your phone in your hand, refreshing headlines you didnāt want to read and listening for footsteps in the hallway.
When he looked at you, his pupils tracked your face. Before he let you touch him, before he let you ask questions, before he decided whether his own body was allowed to matter, his eyes went over you like a security sweep to make sure you were safe.
Then they landed on your arm and saw a bruise.
It was nothing, really. You had caught yourself badly against the fire escape earlier when youād climbed out for air because the apartment had felt too small with sirens in the distance and Dex not answering his phone. It was a mean little scar, blue and purple, but shallow enough not to hurt you permanently. It was annoying, more than anything. You had almost forgotten about it.
But Dex looked at it like it was evidence.
So now you were sitting beside him on the bed with a towel, a bottle of peroxide, cotton pads, and the sad frozen bag of peas you had pulled from the freezer because neither of you owned a real ice pack. You were trying to clean blood from his face. He was trying to ice your bruise.
It would have been funny if it did not make you want to cry.
āGive me your arm,ā he said.
āThereās literally blood on you,ā you sighed.
āNot mine,ā he said dismissively, confirming your suspicions, āgive me your arm.ā
āBenjamin.ā
His hazel eyes flicked up, mostly because you only called him that when you were annoyed at him.Ā
You stared at each other for one stubborn second, but he didnāt seem like he was going to let up.Ā
Then you sighed and gave him your arm.
He took it carefully, his fingers gentle around your wrist despite the split skin across his knuckles. He pressed the frozen peas to the bruise like he was handling precious and breakable gemstones, his mouth set in a hard line, his focus absolute.
That was the thing about loving Dex: it wasnāt sensible. It had never been sensible.
Youād always had a practical head on your shoulders. You were getting your third degree in forensic psychology because you liked patterns, motive, broken systems, and the strange little hinges inside people that made them choose one door instead of another. You were both a student and a research assistant at the university, which sounded better on paper than it felt in your bank account. You were technically employed, technically building experience, technically lucky to have the position at all. In reality, you were paid in a way that felt insulting once, tuition costs, books, and subway fare had finished carving you hollow.
Still, you were smart. Academically, you understood obsession. You had annotated articles on attachment trauma, violent conditioning, hypervigilance, and maladaptive devotion. You had spent whole nights highlighting phrases that described people like Dex in clinical and sterile language.Ā
You knew the warning signs and studied the red flags. You knew the vocabulary you were supposed to use. You knew what you were supposed to do when someone like Bullseye looked at you like you were the last fixed point in the universe: run.
But when Dex saved your life during an Anti-Vigilante Task Force raid on the lab you were visiting, all that practical knowledge had become extremely inconvenient.
It had been chaos: glass breaking, alarm screaming. Your supervisor shouted for everyone to get down. The AVTF had come in hard, looking for records, samples, names, anything connected to vigilante research and enhanced activity. You had hidden beneath a workstation with one hand clamped over your mouth and your heartbeat so loud you thought it might give you away.
Then Dex had arrived.
He had been hunting that day. You later found out because he told you.Ā
He had moved through your lab with a purpose, turning the room itself into a weapon. A glass beaker found its way into a manās throat. He had thrown a ruler with such perfect force, it split skin and cartilage. A metal clipboard managed to dislocate a manās jaw, even through the helmet. Pens, scalpels, broken glass, a heavy ceramic mug from your professorās desk were all used. Ordinary things became fatal in his hands, as if the universe had been waiting for him to point at something and decide what it was for.
He killed twelve men with office supplies and lab equipment, and then he crouched in front of you, breathing hard, blood on his cheek, and asked you if you were okay.Ā
You should have been horrified. You were horrified.
Part of you had been shaking with terror. Another part, the part you did like to examine too closely, had understood with awful clarity that some monsters were safer when they were loved than when they were not.
You should have run from him.
Instead, you had fallen in love.
Worse, he had fallen, too.
The love that grew between the two of you wasn't sweet, nor safe. Not in the way people with normal jobs and normal apartments and normal dinner plans fell in love. Dex loved wholly. He loved like if he took his eyes off you, the world would immediately try to take you from him. He loved like affection and violence had gotten tangled in him so early that he no longer knew how to separate protection from possession.
And you, for whatever reason, loved him right back.
You loved him in the studio apartment with the too-small kitchen and the desk in the corner. You loved him when he stood behind you while you brushed your teeth, chin resting against your shoulder, silent and half-asleep and watchful even then. You loved him when he checked the locks twice before bed. You loved him when he pretended not to care about your old Greek and Roman mythology books and then remembered every story you had ever told him. You loved him when he came home with blood under his nails, but looked at your scraped arm like the city owed him an explanation.
āHold still,ā he said, pressing the frozen peas more carefully against your skin.
You stared at him, at the slight bruise under his jaw and the split knuckles he was ignoring because your shallow scrape had somehow hurt him more.
āI should get a job,ā you said, almost offhandedly.
His hand stopped.
You hadnāt meant for it to come out like that: flat and sudden. Not while he was sitting on your shared bed after a long day. But there it was anyway sitting between you and the ruined silence of the apartment.
Dex looked up slowly. āYou have a job.ā
āI have half a job.ā You laughed without much humor. āI have a professor who thinks payment is optional because experience is apparently a currency. Because PhD students clearly donāt need to eat, right?ā
He huffed. A few months ago, he did offer to dispose of your professor and you just waved him off, saying the person who would take his job would be worse. He offered to dispose of him, too, but stopped offering half-measured solutions when you kissed his forehead and said the department would probably just shut down because they canāt afford two murders. āBut youāre in school,ā he said.
āSo?ā You shrugged, āLots of people are in school and have extra jobs.ā
āYou babysit Mrs. Smithersā cat,ā he frowned.
You snorted before you could stop yourself. āShe pays us in lasagnas.ā
āShe makes good lasagna,ā he insisted.
āThat is not an income stream, Dex.ā
āNo,ā he shook his head, knowing how hard you actually worked for your spot in the institution. āBut youāre always busy anyway. I can take care of youā
āYouāre wanted, baby,ā you reminded him.Ā
That hurt.Ā
Dexās eyes barely changed, but you knew him too well now. You saw the tiny shift in his eyes. His fingers adjusted around your wrist. He looked down at your arm again, focusing too intently on the ice pack, as if his obsession to keep you safe could be used to cover a wound in the conversation.
āI can provide,ā he said.
You sighed immediately, because of course he would say it like that. Like a vow, like a reflex, like a wound of his own.
āI know.ā
āI pay rent,ā he reminded you, though he said it like it was a responsibility. He didnāt use it against you; it was just a fact.Ā
āI know.ā
āI pay groceries,ā he said.
āYes, Dex,ā you huffed, āI know.ā
His teeth clenched, more disappointed in himself than at you. āThen what?ā
You looked around the apartment because it was easier than looking at him.
Yes, Dex paid rent. Dex bought groceries. Dex came home with cash sometimes, folded tight and tucked away in envelopes. He made sure there was good coffee in the cabinet because you hated your mornings without it. He bought the brand of cereal you liked and pretended it was because it had been on sale. He fixed the loose leg on your desk chair. He remembered bills before you did.
He provided, but it was not stable.
Dex didnāt clock into shifts. Dex didnāt have a payroll department, a predictable deposit, a pension, or a neat little tax form with an employerās name printed at the top. His work came in fragments and dangerous calls from powerful people who knew what he could do.Ā
Odd jobs, if you wanted to be generous. Assassination, if you wanted to be honest.Ā
He did it because he was good at it.
But mostly, lately, he did it because of you.
Because rent was due. Because the fridge needed filling. Because your textbooks cost you too much. Because he liked watching you eat takeout on the bed with your legs folded beneath you, he liked seeing you safe and warm and full in his room. Because every dollar he brought home became proof that he could keep you satisfied, that he could build a life, that he could be more than the worst thing he knew how to do.
And that terrified you almost as much as it touched you, because there was no stability in that kind of work.
Sometimes, Dex wished he had known you when he was still with the FBI.
Before prison. Before Fisk. Before his face was plastered on the news. Before every job application in the world became a joke. He imagined it sometimes in a way that felt masochistic.Ā
He imagined coming home to you in a suit and taking you to dinner with a paycheck that had his name on it. He imagined you flowers, buying you pretty things and whatever else you asked for.Ā
He could have been a man for you. As outdated as he knew that sounded, he still wished he could be that man again.Ā
āItās not about whether you do,ā you said carefully. āItās just that⦠itās not steady.ā
His teeth tightened further.
āIām not insulting you,ā you reassured.
āYou think I canāt take care of you.ā
āNo.ā You leaned closer, your voice softening the impact. āI think you take care of me so much that you forget I should be allowed to take care of you, too.ā
He didnāt answer.
Outside, a siren wailed below, then faded into traffic and distance. The studio felt very small around you, too warm and intimate.
Dex looked down at your arm again and pressed the melting bag of peas more gently against your skin.
āIāll find something steady,ā he said.
Your heart clenched. āDex.ā
āI will,ā he promised.Ā
āWhere?ā
His eyes lifted to yours. You tried to smile, but it came out tired and fond and sad all the same. āYou shot Buck Cashman in front of half the city. Iām not saying that like Iām mad. Iām saying maybe LinkedIn is not going to work out this month.ā
āIāll find something,ā he said.
It came out too quickly, too flatly, like he was sealing a wound before you could see how deep it went.
You looked at him where he sat on the edge of the bed, one knee pressed against yours, the frozen bag of peas melting slowly in his hand. You saw the bruise smudged high beneath his cheekbone, the split in his lower lip that he kept worrying with his tongue like he had forgotten it was there. He looked awful. Beautiful, too. The world had tried, again and again, to make him unlovable, and your stupid heart had taken one look at him and said, mine.
āWhat, a desk job?ā you asked.
Dex gave you a look.
He wasnāt offended exactly. More like you had asked him to picture himself, in his Bullseye suit that you loved so much, sitting under fluorescent lights, wearing a lanyard, filling out forms, and smiling politely at coworkers named Brad from HR.
The idea was so absurd that, despite everything, your mouth twitched upward.
āOh, Iām sorry,ā you said, leaning in a little. āDid I insult your very promising administrative career?ā
He frowned unwillingly, and for a second you hated yourself for accidentally being a little too mean.Ā
Still, you couldnāt help yourself. You leaned closer and kissed the scar near his cheekbone so gently it was barely anything at all. Dex closed his eyes for half a second. When you pulled back, he still kept his eyes closed for one breath longer.
His eyes opened and found you immediately. āI could.ā
You shook your head, āYou really, really shouldnāt.ā
āI have skills.ā He pouted. It was cute.
āYou have criminal charges.ā
āTransferable skills,ā he said, with such dry seriousness that you chuckled before you could stop yourself.
His posture changed, like he always did when you laughed. Not dramatically, though. He didnāt transform all at once. He softened by millimeters, as if your happiness had reached into some fortified part of him and loosened one bolt at a time. The hard line of his shoulders eased. His teeth unclenched. His thumb, which had been pressing the peas too carefully to your bruise, shifted a little.
For a moment, he looked less like a weapon that was left loaded in your apartment and more like a man who had come home to you because there was nowhere else in the world he could bear to be, because he was yours. Because he wanted so badly to be good for you that it almost broke your heart.
He adjusted the ice pack again. āYou shouldnāt have to worry about money.ā
āWe live in New York, Dex.ā You tried to sound light but it just came out tired. āWorrying about money is basically a civic duty.ā
āYou shouldnāt have to,ā he said again.
He didnāt say it like a boyfriend trying to be useful. He said it like a soldier stating a mission objective. Like he had identified the enemyā rent, groceries, tuition, your professor underpaying you, the whole grinding machine of the cityā and had decided that he would kill it if he could. āNot you,ā he added, quieter.
And Dex didnāt feel this way for you because he had learned to be a sympathetic person. He wasnāt.
He didnāt suddenly feel tender toward the whole world because he learned how to love. He didnāt look at strangers and imagine their mothers. He didnāt hesitate before hurting people who had put themselves on the wrong side of his line. He could kill a room full of people and sleep like a baby afterward. He didnāt ask himself if the Anti-Vigilante Task Force agents had families who were waiting for them. Their blood did not weigh on his conscience in any meaningful way.
He hasnāt learned to be secretly good and noble under all the damage in some easy, redeemable way. He was only tender with you, and even that was not because you were an exception to his nature.
It was because somewhere along the way, Dex had thought of you and him as the same person.
You werenāt some separate innocent woman he loved from afar. You were not a moral compass he worshipped because you made him better. You were his life. His home.Ā
Your body was his body outside his body. Your exhaustion was his exhaustion. Your money was his money, and his money was yours, not because he felt entitled to it, but because the two of you had stopped existing as separate organisms somewhere around the first month he slept in your bed and woke up with your hand on his chest. You were one system now. One thing. One fused unit pretending to be two people for legal convenience.
So watching you work long hours in a lecture hall that barely paid felt like self-harm. That was the clearest way his mind could understand it. Like the two of you shared one nervous system, and every hour you worked yourself past exhaustion was pain traveling down the same wire until it reached him, too.
āCome on, Dex,ā you frowned. āYou think I want you running yourself into the ground because you decided you have to pay every bill?ā
His eyes lifted to yours, and all you saw was terrible sincerity. It was desperate enough to frighten you because it didnāt know how to ask for love without offering blood in return.
āI should take care of you,ā he said.
Not I want to. Not Iād like to. Not even let me.
I should.
You swallowed. āDexā¦ā
āI should.ā His voice roughened, and it was absolute, like he had said this to himself before. Like maybe he had been saying it for months, in his head, every time he bought groceries, every time he counted cash, every time he watched you fall asleep over your notes with your cheek pressed to an open textbook. āYou shouldnāt have to think about it. Rent, food, school, any of it. You should justāā He stopped, eyes darting away. āYou should just sit there and be pretty.ā
That ruined you a little.
There were things you could have said: Things about partnership, equality, how love was not supposed to turn into duty, how his need to provide came from some wounded place in him that still believed usefulness was the same as worth. You knew those things. You believed them, mostly.
But then he looked at you like taking care of you wasnāt a burden but a privilege. Like the idea of failing at it scared him more than the city hunting him. Like every terrible thing he had ever been made into could be balanced, somehow, if he could use it to keep you warm, fed, safe, untouched by the worst parts of the world.
He sat there, bruised and exhausted, dried blood at his temple, your scraped arm cradled in one hand as if it mattered more than every wound on his own body.
So you kissed him.
You didnāt mean to make it deep. You meant it to be reassurance, just a little press of your mouth to his, a way of telling him you were not leaving, not angry, not disappointed in how his love manifested even when it frightened you.
But Dex never received you halfway.
He leaned in, immediate and helpless, his free hamd coming to your waist with that familiar, possessive spread of his fingers. It was not rough, because he was never rough with you unless you asked him to be. But it was intense, as if the second your lips touched his, his body decided the only thing that made sense was pulling you closer.
You kissed him until the frozen peas slipped slightly against your arm and neither of you cared. Until his muscles relaxed under yours. Until he made a small sound in the back of his throat that made you hum, pleased with yourself.
When you pulled away, his eyes stayed on your lips, looking at your mouth like it had betrayed him by leaving.
You brushed your thumb over his chin. āYou cannot just decide to provide by sheer force of will.ā
Dex blinked, still dazed enough from the kiss that it took him half a second to find the conversation again.
Then his eyes sharpened in that almost boyish, almost hopeful way. āWhat if I got work?ā
You exhaled through your nose. āAgain. Where?ā
His thumb moved once against your waist in small strokes that were barely there.Ā
āI heard that the CIA director is looking for someone to take over a contract,ā he said.
You blinked.
It sounded clean on the surface and filthy underneath.
He said them carefully, like he was testing whether they could pass as normal if he used the right tone.Ā
āYou mean black ops,ā you said blankly.
āI mean work.ā
āBenjamin,ā you tilted your head.
āItās steady enough.ā His eyes did not leave yours.Ā
āThat is not the same as safe.ā
His eyes looked like guilt passing quickly through the devotion. āI can handle that.ā
āI know you can.ā You touched his cheek again, achingly gentle. āThatās what scares me.ā
He looked at your face, taking inventory of every emotion there. His hand tightened at your waist.
āIād come home,ā he said.
Your heart ached. āYou canāt promise that.ā
āIād make it true.ā
āThatās not how promises work.ā
āIt is for me.ā
And there he was. Your Dex. Your impossible, obsessive man, sitting in your too-small studio with blood on his face, telling you with complete sincerity that he could bend fate into obedience if the reward was coming home to you.
You wanted to argue, but he cut you off before you could even finish forming thoughts.Ā
āIf I got a job,ā he said carefully, āI could buy you a ring.ā
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
For a second, you forgot how to breathe.
He had said it so quietly, so carefully, like the word itself was fragile. LikeĀ if he had manifested it into the room too hard, it might shatter before you could touch it.Ā
A ring.
Dex watched you like he was waiting to see if he had ruined everything.
He didnāt look casual. He was never casual about you. He didnāt toss out precious things like the future just to see if they landed. He offered them like they had been a piece of his flesh cut out of him.
And you realized, in that second, that this had not been a stray thought.
Dex hadnāt just imagined it. Dex had been living with it.
You could see it now, in the way he held himself in the way his fingers had tightened just slightly at your waist, in the way his eyes kept flicking down to your mouth like he wanted to kiss the answer out of you and was forcing himself not to.Ā
He had carried this around. Maybe for weeks. Maybe for months.Ā
Maybe he had been thinking about marrying you while listening to your rant about your professor. He had been thinking about it while fixing the wobbly leg on your desk chair. He had been thinking about it while watching you laugh at Mrs. Smithersā cat through the cracked door.
Maybe he had been thinking about it while buying groceries. Maybe he even stood in the pasta aisle with blood still under his sleeves, picking the brand you liked better because you once said the cheaper one tasted ādusty.āĀ
āMm,ā you managed.
It was barely a sound. Your throat had gone tight. You were trying very hard not to break apart, trying not to let the whole sweetness of it take you down completely, but your hand was already lifting to his face. Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, careful of the split in his lip.
āYou sure you wanna marry me?ā you asked.
Dex looked genuinely offended. āYes.ā
It came so fast you almost laughed. You did, a little, but it cracked around the edges. āReally?ā
His brow furrowed, as if the question itself made no sense. āYes.ā
āYouāve thought about it?ā
Dex stared at you, and the answer was so obvious then.Ā
He had probably thought about it too much. Dex didnāt daydream. He planned. He mapped. He calculated. Even his fantasies came with exit routes and contingency plans.
āOkay,ā you whispered. āWhat would that life even look like?ā
You saw this glint in his eyes, the way they widened by a fraction. You had asked the one question he had been dying to answer.
His hand stayed at your waist. His thumb moved once, almost unconsciously, a small stroking motion through the fabric of your shirt.
āIād get us a house,ā he said.
Your heart gave a helpless little kick.
His gaze drifted past you, not away in dismissal, but as if the apartment disappeared from his eyes.Ā
āNot in the city,ā he said. āClose enough if you still wanted it, for work or whatever you wanted, not right in it. Not sirens under the window all night, not this building where you can hear every footstep in the hall and know which ones donāt belong.ā
His thumb moved once against your waist, like even with his head in the clouds he needed one hand on you to make sure the dream had a center.
āWeād look at the suburbs,ā he continued. āIād want roads I could learn. I want neighbors so you can bake them pie, but I donāt want them too close. We need a neighborhood with space between houses. We need streetlights that work. A sidewalk, maybe, where you could walk in the morning if you wanted and I wouldnāt spend the whole time looking over your shoulder.ā
You stayed quiet.
You didnāt want to interrupt him. There was something too precious about the way he was speaking, like he had cracked open a safe inside himself and all these impossibly domestic things were spilling out.Ā
āIt would have a yard,ā he said, smaller now. āNot huge. We donāt need huge, but we need enough. We would need a fence. A good one. Tall, but not ugly. Iād make sure it looked nice. Youād care about that.ā
Your throat tightened.
āIād make sure I have good sightlines in there,ā he continued, āno blind spots.ā
There he is.Ā
āAnd Iād plant flowers,ā he added.
You blinked. Dex glanced at you, then looked down again as if the admission embarrassed him more than the blood on his face.
āYou like flowers. The wild-looking ones. The ones outside delis in buckets, or growing through fences. You slow down when you see them.ā His mouth twitched faintly, affectionate. āYou pretend you donāt, but you do.ā
He⦠noticed?
āIād plant those,ā he said. āI donāt know anything about gardening, but I could learn.ā
He kept going before you could answerĀ
āThereād be a porch, or a back deck. Iād put a chair there for you.ā A little warmth moved through his eyes, as if imagining it. āYouād probably bring a blanket out even if it wasnāt cold.ā
You smiled, and it seemed to give him more courage.
āAnd youād have an office,ā he said. āA real one, not a desk shoved into a corner with your papers stacked on the floor.ā
Your eyes stung.
āBuilt-in shelves if we could, for your research books,ā he continued. āYour fiction books, all of them. You wouldnāt have to pile them on the windowsill or keep the heavy ones under the desk. Your desk would face a window, but no one should be able to see into it from the street.ā
You let out the smallest laugh, but he kept drifting deeper now.
āThereād be a couch in there,ā he said. āSo I could sit with you while you worked. Iād be quiet.ā
The confession was so completely him that something inside you melted. He said it without shame, without trying to make it sound less obsessive than it was. Of course he would watch you. Of course he had already imagined sitting in a room built for your mind, staring at you while you read and wrote and thought, content just to be near the machinery of you.
āI like when youāre focused,ā he murmured. āYou make that face.ā
You did not ask what face. You wanted him to keep talking.
āThe kitchen would be big,ā he said next, and there was certainty in that, like he had stood in it a thousand times. āBig enough for that island you like.ā
Your mouth parted.
āWeād have one with those ugly pendant lights,ā he added, with the resigned tone of a man making a grave sacrifice.Ā
You smiled fully now. āTheyāre not ugly,ā was all you could manage under your breath.
He heard it and very quickly added, āThey are. But you like them, so weād have it.ā
That nearly did you in.
āThereād be storage,ā he said. āPans would be in the cabinets, not in the oven. Iād build you a spice drawer and Iāll organise them.ā
You pressed your lips together, smiling harder.
āIād make coffee before you woke up,ā he continued. āYours first. Iād make breakfast and Iād make more than eggs. Pancakes, maybe. You like pancakes when youāre sad.ā
Your smile trembled.
āIād make dinners, too,ā he said. āYou could sit at the counter and read to me while I cooked.ā He looked almost shy at that. āOr talk. I donāt care. I just like your voice.ā
The room felt too small for him then. Too small for the size of what he wanted.Ā
āAnd a dining table,ā he said, his thumb stilled against you. āWith more than two chairs.ā
He swallowed once and kept going.
āThe bathroom would have that shower,ā he said. āLike the hotel you wouldnāt stop talking about.ā
You almost laughed. āA rain shower?ā You askedĀ
āYes,ā he said seriously. āWith a glass door, a bench, and heated floors, because you hate cold tile.ā
His eyes flicked to your face.
āIād spoil you,ā he said, like a vow. His eyesightĀ lowered to your hand, then back to your face.
You couldnāt speak, but he went on anyway, because now that he had started, the dream seemed to pull him forward by the heart.
āThereād be security,ā he said. Of course there would be. But from Dex, even that sounded like love.
āIāll get good locks with reinforced doors. Iād install cameras.ā he said immediately, almost gently. āIāll get motion lights and window sensors.ā
He breathed out slowly.
āYou wouldnāt have to check anything,ā he said. āIād do it.ā
What he was saying was wouldnāt have to listen at night, or wonder, or brace, or be scared just because the world was dangerous. Dex would take the ritual of fear and make it his. He would check the doors, the windows, the shadows, so you could go upstairs and sleep.
āIād check the locks before bed,ā he said. āYou could just go up and get in bed. Read or sleep with the light on if you want. Iād turn it off.ā
He said it with such certainty that tears gathered before you could stop them.
He didnāt notice yet. He had gone too far into the house.
āThereād be a gun cabinet,ā he continued, practical now. āLocked, of course, and separate from ammunition. Iāll get biometric locks and a backup key hidden somewhere only we knew.ā
His focus sharpened slightly as he pictured it.
āAnd a weapons cabinet too, with knives, anything tactical, anything I wouldnāt want left out. It would be hidden or built into the wall somewhere no one would look. Not near the kitchen. Not near the bedrooms.ā He said it like he had already rejected three possible locations. āEverything would be secured,ā he continued. āNo exceptions. Nothing lying around.ā
Then, still looking into that future house, still seeing the walls and the locks and the rooms and all the dangerous love he wanted to put inside them, he added, almost absently, āat least until the kids are old enough.ā
Oh.
āThe kids?ā you asked.
Dex blinked. For a second, he looked almost confused that you had stopped him there, like the kids had been so naturally integrated into the architecture of his fantasy that he had forgotten you were only just now seeing the floor plan. In his head, apparently, they already existed.Ā
āYes,ā he said, as if it were obvious. āKids.ā
He said it as if this were already settled. As if the universe had filed the paperwork. As if somewhere, in some future suburb with a fenced yard, your children were already waiting for him to come home.
āYou just assumed?ā you asked, your voice dazed.
Dexās brows pulled together like he was only now realizing assumption was supposed to be a problem.
Then his eyes searched yours, suddenly cautious.
āIāā He paused, his fingers tightening slightly at your waist. āI assumed youād want them,ā he finished. āI assumed Iād give you anything you wanted. And I assumedā¦ā His eyes dropped, then lifted again. āI assumed if there was any way the world let me have you like that, Iād take it.ā
There it was.
Dex didnāt want a family because he had always dreamed of domestic happiness. He wanted it like conquest. He wanted children because they would be yours, because they would be his, because they would be the physical evidence of a future he had no right to expect. Benjamin Poindexter didnāt want in half measures. He consumed possibility whole. If he loved you, he loved the future of you and the shape of you extended forward. The house that held you. The children that might come from you.Ā
That was deranged. That wasnāt normal. But to you, that was also, for reasons you could not explain without sounding like you needed professional intervention, romantic.
Dex watched your mouth part. āIād love them,ā he said. āI would. I know I would. Because theyād be yours.ā
There it was, not the socially acceptable version. Not I love children or I always wanted a family. Dex didnāt know how to make love sound normal when it came from him.
He would love them because they would carry your eyes, maybe, or your mouth, or your stubbornness. Because he would look at them and see you continued into another body.Ā
āTheyād be mine too,ā he added, like that part was harder for him to trust. āAnd maybe that part could be good because it came through you.ā
Dex looked down at his hands that had done terrible things and could still hold youĀ like it was made of light.
So you only sat there letting him talk, letting him show you the things he had apparently been thinking around for months.
āHave you thought about names?ā you asked.
Dex nodded slightly.Ā
Your lips parted.
āYou have,ā you whispered.
He looked almost offended again, but not at you this time. At the idea that he could have built this whole imaginary house, this whole impossible future, and not named the children already running through it. āOf course I have.ā
āTell me,ā you said.
Dex watched you carefully. You could tell that there was still that small, frightened part of him, the part waiting for the insult, the laugh, the moment where your wonder hardened into common sense. But you just looked⦠patient.Ā
āFor a boy,ā he said, āJason.ā
Jason.
Dexās voice lowered. āBecause you loved Jason and the Argonauts when you were little. The way everyone went after something impossible.ā
You remembered telling him that, barely. It had been one of those late-night conversations with your cheek on his chest. His fingers moved through your hair as you rambled about mythology books you used to check out of the library, about heroes who were never as perfect as people wanted them to be.
Dex had listened.
āAnd for a girl?ā you asked, already knowing he had one.
āCallie,ā he said then immediately added, āShort for Calliope. Callie at school. Calliope if she liked it. Whatever you liked.ā
Your eyes stung. āCallie,ā you whispered.
Dex nodded. āYou said she was the muse of epic poetry. You liked that she belonged to stories.ā
You pressed your fingers to your mouth. He remembered that too.
āJason and Callie,ā you said with a sigh.
You realized then, that Dex had not chosen names because he liked them. He had chosen names because he thought you would.
Because even in his most private fantasies, the children were not abstract. They were not trophies. They were not little versions of him he could shape into whatever he wanted. They were pieces of you carried forward into the world, proof that some part of you could exist outside your own body and still belong to him, too.
āYou like them,ā he realised.
āI love them.ā
His hand tightened around yours. Then, as if the names had opened a door he could no longer close, he kept going.
āJason would have your eyes,ā he said, voice distant again, head fully in the clouds now. āHeād be quiet, I think, the kind of kid who watches first. Heād notice everything.ā
Your throat tightened.
āAnd Callie,ā he said, and a faint helplessness moved through his face. āSheād be trouble.ā
You laughed a little.Ā
āSheād climb things,ā he continued. āSheād argue. Sheād look right at me while doing exactly what I told her not to do.ā
You could see it.
Worse, you could see how much he loved it.
This imaginary little girl, stubborn and wild, already had him wrapped around her tiny, nonexistent finger.
āSheād have your mouth,ā he said, almost to himself. āYour attitude.ā
āMy attitude?ā
His eyes flicked to yours, and there was something wickedly fond in them. āYour attitude.ā
He looked down at your joined hands again, thumb moving over your knuckles, and his voice changed.
āTheyād need to be ready.ā
For what?
But you knew what for. This part that shouldāve made you want to retreat, but it only made you want to lean in more, because this was Dexās love too. The same root, grown through darker soil.
āReady?ā you asked.
āFor the world,ā he clarified.Ā
Dexās eyes were calm now, focused and devoted. There was nothing theatrical in him, nothing performative. He was not fantasizing about violence for the sake of it. He was imagining two children made from you and him, and his first instinct was to make sure nothing could ever make them helpless.
He wasnāt in the kitchen anymore. He was in the woods with Jason and Callie when they were older and taller.
āI know what I am,ā he said with finality. āI know what Iām good for.ā
Your heart pinched. āDexā¦āĀ
āNo,ā he said, because he knew you. Because he could hear the protest forming before you even opened your mouth. āDonāt do that.ā
You tilted your head.Ā
āI know what Iām good for,ā he repeated, gentler this time, but no less certain. āAnd if Iām good for anything, I will make sure they have every tool in their disposal to survive.ā
There was no self-pity in it. He didnāt sound like a man condemning himself. He sounded like a man who had finally found a use for the worst parts of him and decided that they would serve you.
āThey wonāt be helpless,ā he said. āNot our kids.ā
Our kids.
āJason and Callie wonāt be fragile and easy to hurt. I wonāt do that to them.ā
His jaw tightened, and pride flickered through his face.
āTheyāll be smart. Theyāll be aware. Theyāll know when a room feels wrong. Theyāll know what a threat looks like before it reaches them.ā
You listened, heart thudding.
āAnd theyāll be skilled,ā he said.
It mattered to him. You could hear it.
Skilled.
Not broken. Not molded. Not made into little copies of him. He wanted them skilled, accurate, and alive.
āIād start small,ā he continued. āIāll teach them hand-to-hand, teach them how to use their reflexes. Iāll teach them how to move without panicking, how to get up when they fall, how to breathe when theyāre scared. Jason would overthink it at first. Heāll want every movement perfect before he tries. Callie would rush in and get mad when I made her slow down.ā His mouth curved up faintly. āSheāll hate slowing down.ā
You almost smiled through the ache in your chest.
āBut sheāll learn,ā he said. āThey both will.ā
His eyes darkened around the imagination.
āWhen theyāre older, I'll teach them how to aim.ā
Aim was not violence to him, not really. It was discipline. It was proof that the body could obey the mind.Ā
āThey better have their old manās aim,ā he murmured.
It should have sounded awful.
And it did, a little.
But it also sounded like him imagining a son and daughter with pieces of himself; His focus, his loyalty, his ability to lock onto a target and not shake.
āTheyāll know how to throw,ā he said. āHow to hit what they mean to hit. Iāll get them knives, when theyāre old enough. Take them to the range to shoot guns when they're older. No one fucking picks on my kids and lives to see another day.ā He looked at you then, and the obsession in his face had turned holy. āIāll make sure they understand that.ā
You swallowed.
āIf they find themselves in a bad situation, Iāll make sure theyāre better than lucky. Lucky runs out. Lucky gets them killed. I want them trained. I want them calm. I want them to be able to look at danger and know theyāre more dangerous.ā
His hand tightened around yours.
āI want Jason to know how to get Callie out if something happens. I want Callie to know how to get Jason out. I want both of them to know how to get back to their mother.ā
Your breath caught.Ā
Their mother.
Dex said it as if it were the center of the whole plan.Ā
āIāll make sure they come home in one piece,ā he said, voice rough now. āReady for dinner. Thatās the point.ā
Your throat tightened.
āIāll make damn sure they can leave this house and come back to it. Iāll make sure youāre not sitting at that kitchen table wondering if theyāre safe.ā His eyes dropped to your mouth, then back up. āI donāt want you afraid.ā
Fuck.
The whole deranged, violent, tender fantasy had always curved back to that. Dex teaching your future children to fight, to aim, to survive, not because he wanted war in the home, but because he wanted peace for you. Because his idea of fatherhood was Jason and Callie walking through the front door with backpacks tossed on the floor, cheeks flushed, while you stood at the stove or sat at the island with your coffee and didnāt have to imagine every terrible thing that might have happened to them.
āIād kill for them, you know this,ā he said, rubbing a slow circle on your skin, āIād burn the whole world down for them.ā Dex did not look away. āBut if I know they can take care of themselves, then my eyes can stay where they belong.ā
His hand cupped your face fully now.
āOn you.ā
He said it like it was obvious. Like the whole future had a single center of gravity and he had been circling it the entire time, pretending he was talking about houses and kitchens and gun cabinets and kids, when really he had only ever been talking about you.
āBecause all of this,ā Dex whispered, āwould happen because of you.ā
His thumb moved beneath your eye, catching the tear before it could fall properly. He looked at you like the city and the sirens and the blood on his knuckles were temporary, like the whole world outside the window was an environment he could outlast if it meant getting you somewhere safe.
āYou understand that, right?ā he asked, but his voice made it sound less like a question and more like a confession he needed you to survive hearing.Ā
Dex leaned closer, his hand cupping your cheek now, holding you with that possession that never felt casual.Ā
āIād make sure the kids knew that,ā he said. āIād make sure they knew anything good in me came from you.ā
Your lips parted, but nothing came out.
āThe warmth in the house, the fairytales they would hear before bed, the flowers they pick from the garden.ā His thumb brushed slowly along your cheekbone. āTheyād know that was you. That all of it was you.ā
Your eyes burned.
āTheyād love you,ā Dex whispered. ābecause youāre perfect.ā
āDexā¦ā
āAnd theyād love me because Iād earn it.ā he said.
Oh, Benjamin.
Your heart broke a little at that.
He said it simply, like love was not something he had ever expected to be given for free if it was him.Ā
His hand slid a little lower, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, parting your lips.
āYou wouldnāt have to learn how to shoot,ā he reassured. āBecause youād have me.ā
His voice dropped lower, intimate and possessive all the same.
āIād take care of you,ā he continued, ābecause thatās the only thing I was made wrong enough to do right.ā
It should have sounded suffocating. Maybe from anyone else, it would have. But from Dex, it felt less like a cage and more like a shelter.
A small, broken laugh caught in your throat.
His mouth curved faintly, almost shy and almost wicked. āYou can just sit there and be pretty, huh, baby?ā
Your heart gave in completely.
He said it like a promise, like he would happily make a fortress of his own body if it meant you never had to lift a finger.Ā
Your tears started falling quicker before you could stop them.
They started coming too quickly, gathering along your lashes and breaking loose before you could blink them back. One rolled down the side of your nose. Another slipped along your cheek toward his thumb. Suddenly you were crying in front of him over a house that didnāt exist, children who hadnāt been born, a ring he hadnāt even given you yet, and the sincerity of Benjamin fuckinā Poindexter imagining a life precious enough for you to be loved.
Dex noticed and his whole face changed. His hand, still cupping your cheek, squeezed slightly. His eyes moved over your face, searching for the wound, the mistake, the exact word that had hurt you.
āWhat?ā he asked, his voice wound tight. āWhat did I say?ā
You shook your head, but that only made another tear fall.
He frowned. āI upset you.ā
āNo.ā Your voice cracked. You hated how small it sounded. āNo, Dex.ā
āI did.ā
āYou didnāt.ā
There was a panick-y edge beneath the flatness of his voice. Dex could handle blood and anger Dex could handle fear if it had a direction, if it could be aimed back at something. But your tears did something awful to him. They made him look helpless in the one way he could never tolerate: like he had caused pain he couldnāt kill.
You caught his wrist before he could pull his hand away from your face.
āBaby,ā you whispered, āno.ā
You pressed your cheek harder into his palm, making him understand that you were not resisting his grand plan. āThese are not bad tears.ā
Still, you could tell he didnāt believe you yet.
āTheyāre not,ā you promised, laughing weakly even though your throat hurt. āYou just⦠fuck, Dex. You just said all of that like it was real.ā
His mouth parted slightly.
āYou really want all of that?ā You asked, though it sounded more squeaky than youād likeĀ
Dex stared at you, looking almost offended again, as if he was wounded by the possibility that you could still doubt the size of what he wanted when he had just laid it open in front of you.
āYes,ā he said.
You breathed in shakily. āThe house?ā
āYes.ā
āThe kitchen?ā
āYes.ā
āThe flowers?ā
His thumb moved under your eye, wiping away another tear. āYes.ā
āJason and Callie?ā
His eyebrows relaxed immediately at the mention of the names. āYes.ā
You shut your eyes.
And for one second, because he had given you permission by wanting it so badly, you let yourself imagine it.
Dex driving with one hand on the wheel, the other reaching back at a red light because Calliope had dropped her stuffed animal and immediately made it everyoneās emergency. You could see it his eyes flicking from the mirror to the road to her little outstretched hand, his mouth set in that serious line like recovering a plush rabbit from the floorboard was a tactical operation. Callie would kick her feet in the car seat, impatient and bossy, already certain her father would retrieve anything she dropped because Dex had never once been normal about anyone he cared for needing something.
Dex in a school parking lot, terrifying every other father by accident. Heād stand there in a dark jacket and smart-ish trousers, trying to look approachable and while still planning thirteen ways to neutralize a PTA committee just in case someone tried to speak wrongly about his kids. Jason walking beside him with a too-big backpack and the solemn concentration of his father. Callie skipping ahead, fearless because her father was behind her and therefore the world hadnāt yet invented anything that could touch her.
Dex teaching Jason how to throw a ball in the backyard. His son would squinting with concentration, little shoulders tense, trying too hard because he had inherited that from you. Dex crouched in front of him, adjusting his grip, telling him to breathe. Then heād step back, watching Jason throw too hard and too wide, and smiling anyway. Heād be proud anyway, because it was a start. Heād make his way to the knives eventually.Ā
Dex standing behind you in the kitchen, arms around your waist, chin tucked against your shoulder while your children ran through the yard beyond the window.
Heād kiss your temple and ask for another one, and youād say, āWeāll think about it,ā because you two were a unit. You were two parts of the same whole.Ā
You opened your eyes, and he just looked terrified of how much he wanted it.
Your hand tightened around his wrist.
āWhen you eventually ask me,ā you said, voice shaking, āknow that Iāll say yes.ā
For a moment, Dex didnāt move.
He didnāt even seem to breathe.
His eyes searched yours once, twice, desperately, like he had to make sure he hadnāt imagined it.Ā
āYou will?ā he asked.
You smiled through the tears. āOf course.ā
Joy did not sit easily on Dex, but you knew this was what it looked like.Ā
You let out a watery little laugh, because if you did not laugh you were going to sob properly.
That seemed to bring him back to himself.
Dex leaned in and kissed your neck once, then your cheeks, then the damp place beneath your eye where a tear had slipped down.
Each kiss was careful and possessive in the best way. He wasnāt trying to stop you from crying. Instead, he wanted to claim every tear.Ā
Dex kissed your jaw again, then tucked his face into your neck, and for a long time he just held you.
What you did not know was that the ring was already more than a fantasy to him.
What you did not know was that earlier that evening, before the Supreme Court had gone to hell, he shot Buck Cashman, before he came home, Dex had received confirmation of an advance from Mr. Charles.
He had a government contract. He had a stable job.
Dex had read the confirmation once.
Then twice.
Then, because he was Dex, he had memorized the number. The second he saw the advance, his mind had gone to you.
Rent. Groceries. Your tuition. The overdue utility bill you had tried to hide under a stack of journal articles like paper could make debt disappear. The textbooks you kept putting off buying because you said you could āprobably survive with library copies,ā even though he had seen the way you frowned when you said it.
And then the ring.
Heād already planned the ring.
And no, he hadnāt told you any of this yet.Ā
Maybe he will after the first payment cleared. Maybe after the first job was done and he knew the money was steady. Maybe after he had washed the blood off well enough to convince himself he was allowed to touch something as clean as your hand.
Heād find the right jeweler, though he already had one in mind: a shop in the Upper East Side that did custom pieces. Heād get one commissioned specifically for you. Nothing too delicate, because he wanted people to notice it. Nothing too flashy, because you would wrinkle your nose and tell him he had lost his mind.
Heād get something that looked right on your hand when you reached for your coffee in the morning. A gem that would catch the kitchen light when you turned pages in your office. Something Jason might touch curiously as a child, asking if Dad gave you that, and Dex would hear you say yes from the doorway. Something Callie would one day ask to try on, and you would laugh and tell her when she could when was older. Something that said you belonged to him.
And more importantly, that he belonged to you.
For now, he said none of that.
For now, he only held you tighter on the bed, making sure you were okay.
āYouāre going to be so spoiled,ā he whispered against your skin.
You smiled, eyes closing, tears still drying on your face. āAm I?ā
āYes.ā
āBy a wanted man with frozen peas?ā
That got the smallest laugh out of him.Ā
āBy your future husband,ā he said.
Your heart did a helpless little flip.
Little did you know, with this contract, the future wasnāt just a fantasy to him anymore.
He just needed to ask.
āend.
-
Extra note: at this point I think everyoneās seen that clip of Wilson saying Dex should get an equally unhinged girlfriend, and I just canāt help but think of this reader getting as obsessed with his plans for the future as he is and she would not let anything stand in her way! Like sheād kill her way into it if she had to, and her being a forensic psychologist would make for interesting storytelling. (This is just a thought, I make no promises!)
summary:Ā Being the outsider in a world of richness and crime was harder than she couldāve imaginedāand Bucky would be better off with someone else.
prompt:Ā āYou donāt get it. People like you donāt end up with people like me!ā ā āThe ring in my pocket begs to differ, my dear.ā
Prompt from this post by @promptcalender
warnings:Ā self-doubt, banter/fight, reader is depicting as being a lawyer, prompt writing, Bucky being so in love, Mob Boss!Bucky, mentions of gossip and insults, kind of proposing, not 100% proofread
authorās note:Ā Donāt mind me over here writing another piece for Bucky.
The entire evening had beenĀ a mistake.
One failure after the other. One wrong glance stacked on the next, following her like vultures throughout the night. Whispers behind her back that tracked her every move, always clinging to her, always taunting.
It had been a disaster, and the worst of it? Bucky didnāt seem to realize.
Not a single worry line appeared on his forehead, his brows never furrowed like they so often did, hisĀ eyes never turned into that dark and menacing stare he sometimes came home with after a particular rough day. Nothing. As if gossip didnāt touch or concern him. Well, it obviously did not, because he was James Buchanan Barnes, leader not only of New York Cityās underworld but of the underworld of the entire East Coast. He didnāt concern himself with the gossip of the minor families. But she was fair gameāand everyone made sure she knew.
Sometimes, YN asked herself how the hell she had ended up as the girlfriend of Americaās most notorious mafia leader. She didnāt belong in this worldāher family never had troubles with the law or ever even gained a speeding ticketāand yet, she couldnāt withstand the charm of one Bucky Barnes after quite literally running into him on her way home from work. He had insisted on buying her dinner because she had dropped her overly overpriced Whole Foods salad she had just gotten after working another night of grueling overtime at the law firm she had just transferred to. Usually, she wasnāt the type of woman who would agree to dinner with a literal stranger, but something of Bucky Barnes had compelled her to throw everything she knew out of the literal window. It turned out to be the most fun she had had in a while, she had to give him that after hours of flowing, easy conversation, quick banter, and lingering smiles and thrown glances.
The night had ended with his number in her phoneāhe hadnāt asked for hers because, in his opinion, the woman should have all the power over the matter of reaching out again or not, effectively ghosting the guy she didnāt feel comfortable with in the āworstā caseāand from there, everything seemed to be history.
āYou are so quiet and far away over there, love.ā His smooth, soft words pulled YN right out of her thoughts, but she couldnāt bear to look over at him, sitting on the other side of the backseat of the expensive Mercedes Maybach. Usually, she would hold at least his hand, fingers laced, and his thumb would rub patterns onto her skin, only he knew the meaning of, but not tonight. Tonight, she felt like a peasant dressing up and playing masquerade in the glittering world of the filthy rich. When she didnāt answer, she heard the leather as Bucky slowly turned to her and felt his gaze watching her intently, as if she was a piece of one of the old masters he considered buyingāand not to hang it in his brownstone, or townhouse on the Upper East Side, or the family home just outside the city. No, he would lock it away in some vault or another.
YN had never understood it and probably would never understand because she would never buy something this expensive in her lifetime, only to lock it underground.
Silence stretched between them,Ā and not the companionable kind. Everything was different tonight, and it physically hurt her to think about what this could all mean. Not only for her, but forĀ them. Perhaps he would wake one fine morning in the middle of the week and realize what a horrible match he had made with her and would just send her back into the world, fighting for herself again, finding someone of better rank and betterĀ breeding.
How she had learned to loathe that phrase ever since being his plus one for the first time.
āYNN,ā he spoke again with soft urgency in his tone. Bucky knew her too well, she now realized. Blinking, her eyes watched the passing streetlights on their way home. āIām just tired, Bucky. It was a long day.ā A bullshit excuse because if she were so tired, she would have snuggled into his side the moment both of them had entered the car, falling asleep on his shoulder with his lips pressed to her hairline.
Bucky knew that, too, but didnāt press the matter. Not now, at least.
It changed when the Maybach stopped in front of the townhouse she had grown to love so dearly; it would hurt her to leave it behind. The view across Central Park on the uppermost floor and patio was breathtaking every moment of every day.
Opening the door without waiting for Bucky to round the car and open it for her, YN climbed onto the sidewalk, the noise of Manhattan surrounding her, and her heels carried her across the stone toward the entrance, passerby instinctively waiting to let the woman in the evening gown pass. āYNN.Ā Love, wait.ā He tried to be calm in public, she knew, because he wasnāt one of those people who fought openly on the streets unless absolutely necessary. But she didnāt wait; instead, she opened the door to the townhouse with the fingerprint scanner to her right, pushing the masterfully crafted iron door open and vanishing behind it, hearing Bucky huff in frustration as he closed it behind himself.
āWould you mind telling me what has gotten into you? Something clearly happened, and donāt try to sell me some sorry excuse, love.ā He was angryāfinally something they had in common tonightāand she huffed softly while kicking off those torturous heels she already had to wear every day when she headed to work. Even quiet nights at home on her rare nights without work had been taken from her. āGo and ask your dear friends to hear what exactly has gotten into me,ā YN mumbled, pulling her phone out of the clutch she had probably strangled at some point during this evening. Notifications of work-related emails and some newsletter or another scrolled across the glass, and she wiped them all away, only to face her lock screen without obstacles.
A picture of Bucky and her at Santa Monica Pier, her sitting on the railing with Buckyās sunglasses propped on her nose she had stolen from his only moments before Steve had taken the picture, grinning brightly and raising a hand to wave at Steve, Buckyās arm protectively wrapped around her waist as he stood right next to her, looking at her with a smile so filled with love, it almost shocked her every time she saw it. It had been such a perfect day that not even the sunburn on her nose could ruin it.
One of his hands took hold of her arm and gently turned her to face him, a finger under YNās chin made her powerless to look anywhere but into his eyes. They were so incredibly blue, she sometimes lost herself in them when she wasnāt careful enough. And now, they stared at her in confusion and something else. āWhat would they tell me, love? Hm? I would prefer to hear it from you.ā
It was almost laughable how clueless he seemed to be if it wasnāt so sad. With a flip of her chin, she released herself from his hold and took a step back, away from him and his distracting closeness, because she wasnāt as headstrong if he was too close. āYou know exactly what they would tell you, Bucky. Itās the same tune they have sung since the first time I showed up at one of their precious gatherings, intruding into their sacred halls, dripping and sparkling with gold no normal person would ever be able to afford. And thatās what I am: normal. Ordinary. Not of the respectable and acceptableĀ breedĀ to mingle with everyone.ā YN took a steadying breath before she continued. āI am scrutinized whenever I dare to show my face right next to yours. Does anyone care that I was the best of my class at Yale? Or that I am one of the youngest partners the law firm has ever appointed, and that I do a hell of a job? No, of course not. Because thatās nothing they care for. All they care about is money, family, and connections. Things I cannot provide. Everything else is secondary at best.ā
Bucky watched her ranting, eyes focused on her face, never letting it out of sight. And when she finished, he slowly cocked a dark brow ever so slightly. āI think you give too much on gossip, YNN,ā he started to smile, making her irritated. A frustrated sound escaped her, and she slammed the phone on the sideboard lining the hallway opposite the grand staircase.
āYou donāt get it. People like you donāt end up with people like me!ā
And that was the crux of it all, wasnāt it? She was no one in everyoneās eyes. Just a tiny light easily diminished if they just so much as pleased it. Just a lawyer with a fancy corner office and nothing else to her name. They never even heard of it before Bucky had tucked her into his side and turned her into something else, something seemingly important but not important or special at all, as soon as they had gathered firsthand evidence. Just a fluke. Nothing more. The older ladies with unmarried daughters or granddaughters of the right age whispered behind her back how Bucky would easily tire of her, and then their time would come, because everyone wanted a piece of the most powerful man they knew.
And that jewel had been stolen by a peasant thief.
Buckyās soft and melodic chuckle forced YN to stare him into the ground, but his delight and love were too strong for her to budge under her gaze. He didnāt even flinch and instead pushed both his hands into the pockets of his perfectly tailored black slacks.
āThe ring in my pocket begs to differ, my dear.ā
She wanted to scream. āYou still donāt get it, you moron!Ā Youāā¦Ā The what?ā Only after her little outburst did her mind process his words, forcing her to pause and blink. Had he actually said what her mind struggled to accept?
Bucky sighed softly and stepped up to her, closing the distance physically and emotionally. āYou heard me right, dearest.ā With that, his hands pulled from his pockets, and a wine-red velvet box appeared between his fingers. He didnāt open it, just let her take it in before her eyes jumped back up to his, staring without daring to breathe. āI couldnāt care less what everyone is talking behind our backs because I have learned something ever since meeting you and guilt-tripping you into a dinner date with a stranger.ā That made YN laugh under her breath. āEveryone has their expectations of life and how they want to live itāmy parents certainly had them for me, but above all, they wanted me to find real love. The kind of love you crave coming home to every day. The kind that ignites you and makes you want to become a better man. I have found that with you, YNN. And I do not doubt the fact that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Itās as easy as that. And if you want that too, then I suggest you stop ruining my attempts of proposing properly to the most incredible woman IĀ had everĀ the pleasure of running into, okay?ā
Nodding with tears in her eyes, YN cupped his face with both her hands, coaxing him down to kiss his soft lips, and Bucky happily obliged after putting the ring box back into the pocket of his slacks. āIām sorry if I overreacted,ā she whispered against his skin and felt his strong arms wrapping around her lower back, being pulled into his strong body honed by hours of training. āDonāt apologize, my love. We just have to get you a better armor against the evil vipers in the pits of hell.ā His smirk was almost wolfish, devilish even, kissing her again. āPerhaps wearing my name will help you, my dear,ā followed in a whisper YN felt more than she heard before a laugh was ripped out of her when Bucky hoisted her into his arms, carrying her upstairs with laughable ease, and making sure she understood who she belonged to since the day they met.
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Please consider leaving a reblog, a comment, and a like ā”
Things had changed since, and for the better. Bucky woke up earlier than you did every single morningāsome undying soldier habit, keeping watch. He admired your sleeping face before he got up. Not that he hadn't done it before, but now, it was the face of his soon-to-be wife he was staring at.
You had both agreed it would be a small wedding. Only the people closest to you. A small, cosy venue. A wedding dress and cake. Traditional enough to be cute, but not too elaborate in a way that would give you a headache to plan.
Or so you thought.
Bucky practically dragged his feet home that evening. Therapy managed to kick his ass time and again. All he wanted to do was get home and lose himself in your arms. And since you usually welcomed him home with a warm embrace and a kiss, it surprised him when you made no move away from the kitchen table.
The room smelt nice, like sugar and vanilla, but that was hardly the first thing he noticed. No, all his thoughts were on you. Always.
Your head was resting on your fist as you sighed in exasperation. Over the wooden table lay a few papers. Bucky walked across from you, frowning as he noticed your stress. He took a seat and offered you his hand over the table.
"Hey, sweetheart," he whispered sweetly.
"Oh, Bucky, gosh, hi. I was totally zoned out." You took his hand; the comfort was needed. "I'm sorry I didn't notice you before; I was completely zoned out."
"That's alright. What's got you all stressed?"
"I'm not stressed, I'm fineā"
Bucky was quick to cut you off with just one look. He knew you better than that. "Please don't lie to me."
You bit your lip; he had caught you. You didn't want to dump your problems into him, especially not first thing after he had returned from therapy. But, then again, Bucky was to be your husband and cared about you like no one else.
"I'm having trouble with the wedding planning. The venues are incredibly expensive or don't have available dates until twenty months from nowā" You didn't stop there. "And then I called, like, four different vendors, and none of them picked up!"
Bucky could tell you were getting more worked up by the second. Instinctively, he got up, walking behind you and wrapping his arms around you. You smiled, leaning back against himāit was these small things that made you love him so. You placed your hand, the one that glistened with your engagement ring, around his wrist.
"This was just a bad day, doll. We'll call 'em again tomorrow." Though soothing, his words were not yet enough.
"Butā"
"Listen to me." Bucky spoke firmly with his head tilted to the side so that he could look into your eyes. "None of that. This is supposed to be a good moment for both of us. So either we enjoy the wedding planning together or we stress together."
"Thank you, Bucky. But I don't want to add more worries for you. You already have so much going on with therapy and the amendsā¦"
"That's true. But I chose to marry you. I proposed." His words were punctuated by a kiss to your head. "We can take this slow, because, as much as I want to marry you, there's no need to rush."
Your heart felt warm. "I want to marry you, too."
"I'd sure hope so."
Once the tension had subsided, Bucky moved on to other matters. "It smells real nice. You cooked?"
You nodded proudly. "I baked a plumb tart."
"That sounds amazing, sweetheart." Bucky leaned his head down and met your lips in a sweet kiss. It was soft, but it was more than enough. No matter what, he would be there. Till death did you part.
Canāt stop thinking about Simon Riley who doesnāt know what the hell to do with himself when you leave for a week for your friends' bachelorette trip.
Heās used to being away from you. Itās his job. So, he tells you not to worry when you kiss him goodbye on your tippy toes, four days is nothing compared to the months heās been away.
He grossly underestimated how different itād be when you were the one gone.
The first day heās fine, does mundane tasks around the house to distract himself. Mows the lawn, fixes that part of the fence youāve been asking him too for weeks.
The second, he goes to the pub with Johnny, drinks one too many beers to fill a sudden void, and stumbles home to a terribly empty and cold bed.
The third day feels heavy, like thereās a mass weighing on his chest and making it hard to focus on anything other than you. The phone call he makes isnāt any better.
āMiss you.ā
He says it first, quiet and uncertain. The giggle that follows makes his heart tighten.
āMiss you too, Si.ā
You whisper it, so soft, and so fucking sweet he wonders how he ever left you to begin with. Hearing your voice should settle him, but it only makes his chest heavier. You should be there with him, sat in his lap, and pressing those words into his skin.
Day four heās staring at pictures of you in his wallet and brushing his thumb over your face like heās on deployment. Like itās been months since heās seen you and not four bloody days.
He doesnāt sleep that night when all he tastes is guilt. When this is how you must feel when heās gone. A bed too big for one person, one pair of shoes at the door when there should be two, indents in the couch that arenāt filled.
Itās the first time he genuinely considers leaving the SAS.