Read Until The World Fades

twenty-something, always reading

[mcsstydia]

Faking it - Finnick Odair

prompt: you won the hunger games, now snow forces you to sell your body. your mentor, finnick odair, proposes the both of you fake a relationship so the capitol citizens won’t be interested in you anymore.

pairing: finnick odair x reader

Warnings: mentions of forced sexual labor

word count: 2.2k

Masterlist

You won the hunger games. After weeks of fighting to survive, of hiding, of pure fright, of killing children who were not much older than you, you won the games. Now, a lifetime of glory and wealth awaited you, right?

You could have never been more wrong. You could have guessed that there was a flaw to what was promised to you. Sometimes, before and also after the games, your mentor, finnick odair, would look at you with a kind of concealed sadness, as if he knew there was something just as bad as the games would wait for you once you survived.

Finnick was 19, only two years older than you, but you had a feeling sometimes you could see in his eyes he had already endured a lifetime worth of pain. Turns out, your feeling was right about the amount of pain his heart had to carry.

Two months after you've won the games, when you've returned home, on a late Wednesday afternoon, Finnick rang the bell at your new house in the victor village. As you opened the door, you were unexpectedly greeted with the handsome man that was Finnick Odair. You had had a crush on him for forever, and it had only intensified during the time where he was your mentor.

Your stomach began to turn in nervous circles. Why was he here? Did he come to see you? Spend time with you even? Wait, that was not it. You could see it in his face. You were good at reading him.

His gaze rose from where it had been previously fixed on the ground to meet yours. There it was again, that sadness. ''What happened?'', you asked, scared it had to do with your mother, who was out of the house for the evening. ''Your mother is alright.'', Finnick said calmly, as if having read your mind.

You visibly relaxed and exhaled. Nonetheless, your grip around the edge of the door did not loosen. ''Then what it is?'', you asked anxiously, trying to seem collected, composed. But Finnick knew you almost as well as you did him.

''Can I come inside?'', he asked in turn. You nodded silently, your body began buzzing with anxiety. The pleasant turns your stomach initially performed upon seeing Finnick had now turned into unpleasant ones. Finnick headed for your living room and you followed him blindly. He pulled up an armchair and gestured you to take place on the couch. He placed the armchair so it was right in front of the couch. Both of you sat down, and then he gently took both of your hands into his large, warm ones.

This is how bad it was? Normally, you would jump in the air at the touch of his hands on your skin. Now, you could feel the colour draining from your face and the warmth leaving your hands in dread of what was to come.

''Just tell me'', you demanded. You knew he would search for the best way to tell you, to somehow sugar-coat it. Finnick looked at you, and you knew he could see in your eyes that this was what you needed.

''Snow sells the good-looking winners to the citizens of the capitol. At least their body. And now he wants to sell you.'', he said. For a moment, the information had to sink in. Then, you could feel the remaining control you had had over your facial muscles seep away. All expression fell from your face, your eyes made no effort to conceal the tears that came flooding in, and your hands began shaking in the gentle hold Finnick had on them.

His grip around your hands strenghtened, but stayed gentle. ''No…'', you managed to breath out, shaking your head in disbelief. You could feel all the strength leaving your body. Finnick seemed to notice, or he had anticipated it, because he caught your head as it fell toward him, his hands gently cupping the sides of your face. A thought came to your mind about the person you cared most for in this world. In between ragged breaths, you managed to ask ''Did he do it to you?'' The look in his eyes was all you needed to know it was true.

Loud, ugly sobs escaped your lips and you made no effort to hide them. Finnick made no effort to calm you, he knew there was no point in telling you it was all going to be okay. ''I've got you,'', he whispered into single strands of hair, your head still in his hands.

He rocked your body back and forth in an attempt to tell you he was there, and he wouldn't leave. He had begun to do that on the first night after your name was drawn for the games. You had been in the train on your way to the capitol, as he found you on the floor, weeping. He held you the whole night, until you had finally managed to fall asleep. He had rocked you gently, had promised to get you out of the arena alive.

At this point, you had thought he would tell that to every young girl he would mentor. Now, you came to the tentative conclusion that you meant something to him.

Suddenly, he whispered, ''I have a plan,''. The sentence brought you back to reality. His hands never leaving your face, you managed to lift your head just so much as to be able to look in his eyes. His beautiful face was blurred by the tears still in your eyes, and by your already-swollen eyelids. He looked at you with concern, and care, and suddenly you knew you were anything to him but simply another tribute he had to mentor.

You realised you were more than important to him. His next sentences only proved how much you meant to him. ''I won't let him do that to you,'', he began, wiping away one of your tears with his thumb. You could also see fear in his eyes, but it was fear for your wellbeing, for your life.

''It's risky,'', he continued and breathed in. ''But I would risk it, for you.'', a deeper meaning of his words hung in the air, but it was not important now. ''If we fake to be in a relationship, Snow can't sell you. The capitol citizens would then never want to tear us apart.'', he explained. His word registered in your head, and the word fake sent a painful, but quickly fading, stab into your chest.

''Would they believe it?'', you asked. Finnick allowed himself to smile, and his fingers carressed your cheeks. You thought you could read him well, but you weren't so sure now. His expression screamed 'of course they'll believe us, look at how in love I am with you', but he couldn't really think that. He couldn't. You would know if he had feelings for you, and you were sure he did not.

Something brought him back from his thoughts into the situation. So he said, ''I hope they do. That's why I said it's risky. If they do not believe it, if Snow does not believe it, we would be in a lot of trouble.'' You pressed your lips together, and then nodded. ''Why would you do that for me?'', you asked, and then imeediately wanted to take the question back.

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. ''Because I care about you.'', he whispered, holding your gaze. ''Once we do this,'', he continued. ''there's no going back. It will be us against the world, probably until we die. Do you realize that?'', he asked.

For once, you hoped he could not read your face, or your thoughts for that matter. Did you realize that? Yes. Was it scary? Of course. But was it scary because that meant you had to spend the rest of your life with him? No. That was the only part of this whole thing that sounded like heaven. Instead of telling him any of this, you nodded as an answer.

The next weeks Finnick and you prepared your 'relationship'. You got to know each other better, to make it seem as realistic as possible that you were in love. Many nights were spent like this, quietly, so as even your mother would not know. Many nights ended with your head in his lap, with his fingers running through your hair. Many nights, in which the both of you fell asleep on your couch, or in his bed, all the while holding on to each other.

When your victory tour began, while visiting the districts, you made apparent that you were a couple. Word quickly got out about the new power couple of victors. On the nights on the train, Finnick often lay next to you, to hold you through your cries. It was agonizing to visit the districts of the children who died in the games you were a part of.

Your new relationship was so important to the capitol citizens, that, once in the capitol, both finnick and you were invited to Ceasar Flickerman's show. So you sat there, with Finnick next you, his hand in yours. You had gotten used to the pleasant feeling that was ilicited whenever he touched you. You had gotten used to having him near, so it was not hard to appear happy next to him. It had never been, though.

The people loved you. Everyone adored the two of you together. So much so, that president Snow let go of forcing you into selling your body to the citizens of the capitol. For now.

For now, you were on your way back home from the capitol to district 4. For now, there was the slight hope that things would stay that way, and it was all thanks to Finnick. On this first night on your way back home, you hadn't asked Finnick to come into your room. He had spent the night next to you for the whole of the victory tour, calming you down, holding you when you cried.

But now? You thought Finnick was tired of taking care of you every night. You thought Finnick deserved a night to himself. After all, he wouldn't get many of those anymore that you were in a 'relationship' with him. So you lay there, on your bed, your hands neatly folded on your stomach, your thoughts almost as loud as the train on the tracks. When the doors to your compartment opened, you sat up in your bed, startled and scared. It was only when you saw that it was Finnick who entered, that you relaxed again. Somewhy, you stood up from your bed out of reflex. Finnick looked agitated, and for a moment you feared he brought bad news again. His mouth stood slightly agape, he was breathing heavily, and his eyes frantically scanned your body.

''I don't want to sleep without you,'', he suddenly blurted out. Shock was an understatement. You couldn't help yourself. ''What?'', you brought out as an answer.

The usually calm, confident Finnick he could so easily present himself as for the cameras was nowhere to be seen. He seemed scared, agitated, and lost all at once. ''I-..'', he began tentatively, and took a step toward you.

''I don't want to sleep without you. I don't want to, and I can't, for that matter, when you are not next to me, when I don't know you're safe, when I cannot feel your body next to mine.'' Although he obviusly tried to explain himself, you were no smarter than before.

Finnick could see that you were not sure what he was trying to tell you. He took a few steps until he stood directly in front of you. He took your face into his hands. ''This,'', he continued, gesturing to the two of you. ''It was never fake to me. I never wanted it to be fake. I love you. I have loved you for a long, long time, and I plan on doing it for the rest of my life.'', finally, he seemed to exhale of what seemed to have been a breath he had held for a long time.

Tears began pooling in your eyes. And for the first time in a long time, they were tears of happiness. ''Oh Finnick Odair, are you really so blind as to think I ever wanted it to be fake? I am madly in love with you.'', you finally confessed, and a grin so wide he had never managed to fake for the cameras spread across his lips.

''And now, kiss me, please,'', to any other person, this would have sounded like begging. But it was Finnick, and it was you, and you were both so madly in love nothing else mattered.

So Finnick did what you asked him to do. Slowly, he leaned down, and let his lips brush against yours. After that, it was instant. You both were so hungry for each other, so desperate to finally be able to touch each other in a way you had only dreamed of.

Hands were tangled in hair, and roamed the body of the other. Your lips and teeth clashed against one another, but the kissing erupted feelings in your stomach, and heart, and the whole body, really, that you had never thought could exist. When you broke apart, the both of you giggled, caressed each other's skin, and placed delicate kisses here and there.

That night, you fell asleep in each other's arms again, kissing, holding each other. For the first time in a long time, you weren't scared of the future, because you knew either way, you would spend it with Finnick.

[mariasont]

IF SELENE IS LISTENING ⋆˚࿔

frank coaxes an overtired tired, tipsy you into his lap and takes over the job of caring for you

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ interested in how the pitt crew got approved for a week in greece? the original invitation is still posted

PAIRING: frank langdon x er!barbie reader WARNINGS: fluff, tipsy!reader, au where they are together and in love already!!!!!!, little PDA, lots of yearning, established relationship, protective frank langdon!, kissing, lap sitting, sleeping/passing out PROMPT: here! WC: 1.1k

Sometimes Frank thinks he should put you on a leash.

Get one of those toddler backpack rigs with the little animal character on it and clip you in. Maybe that would preserve what remains of his peace.

Morifying for you, humiliating for him, definitely probably a terrible look in public, but at least you’d stay within a five-foot radius and he could stop living in this permanent state of low-grade vigilance you seem to provoke as casually as breathing. 

And he loves you. Deeply. Completely.

That’s the problem. Love, with you, is surveillance. It is anticipatory. It is watching for the exact point at which your glittering, social, I’m-fine performance starts to come apart at the seams while you insist it isn’t happening.

You just never seem to know when to stop. 

And tonight you are all over the pool patio with a mojito slicking one hand cold and damp, dribbling little sacrificial offerings of rum and mint over the stone, while the other hand keeps straying to the bikini strap at your hip. 

Restless. Fidgety. Smiling at everyone. Talking too loudly. 

A little drunk, a little sleepy, and, as ever, too stubborn to concede either.

The moment you glance his way, Frank tilts his chin and crooks two fingers in a come here.

A gesture that should not, by any reasonable standard, contain so much possession in it, and yet your expression changes all at once, brightening with buzzed delight as you cross toward him.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite person to be bossed around by,” you say when you reach him, voice dipped in honey. You stop beside his lounger, smiling down at him. It’s such a pretty smile. “Did you miss me terribly?”

“I usually do.” 

There’s no point in pretending otherwise.

That gets you. 

“Yeah?” You tip forward a little, closing the distance with shameless interest. “Can I get a kiss, then?”

Frank’s mouth twitches. “You can get whatever you want, sweetheart.”

He lifts a hand to your jaw and draws you down, sealing his mouth over yours in a kiss that has to be brief by sheer circumstance, though not so brief he misses the cool, fizzy ghost of lime on your lips. 

Sugary and faintly effervescent, the taste of it lingering for one extra second after he pulls back, temptation rendered in citrus. 

Frank has never been especially talented at self-control where you are concerned.

It’s why he’s not a fan of PDA. Public affection is never only that. It is a beginning. A permission slip.

One kiss and suddenly he is keenly aware of all the ones he is not having, all the ways he would rather be kissing you if the two of you were alone.

So he stops there, because he has to, and leaves your hand at your jaw instead, thumb brushing once over your cheek.

“What do you say we go find you something to eat?”

You make a face immediately, lower lip pushing out in a sulky little pout. “‘M not hungry.”

“That’s fascinating, because you look like you’re about two minutes from falling asleep standing up.”

“You make everything sound so dire.”

Frank snorts. “Pot, meet kettle.”

Then, in a flawless little proof-of-concept, you sway backward with all the structural integrity of a wilting palm tree. 

Frank moves before the thought fully forms, hands shooting out to catch the back of your thigh, fingers splaying over the soft curve just beneath your ass as he drags your forward. One quick tug and there you are, neatly slotted between his legs. 

Your hands land on his shoulders and you giggle, as if nearly toppling over into a concussion is somehow charming rather than precisely the kind of thing that keeps shaving years off his life.

He squeezes once, firm and corrective. 

“Okay, well, what do you say you keep me company for a while?”

He could tell you to sit down. You might even listen, eventually, but not without first delivering a brief theatrical monologue on authoritarianism and oppression and how cruel it is to stifle your sparkle.

So. Better not make it about obedience. Frank has learned this the hard way, or at least the repetitive way.

There are only so many reliable methods of keeping you where he can see you, and most of them depend on reframing the situation until it no longer sounds like containment.

You resent being managed. You respond beautifully to being needed. Especially by him. 

“Mm, okay,” you murmur at once, whatever resistance you had dissolving on contact. 

Before Frank can offer any further guidance, you’re already hauling yourself into his lap with spectacularly poor mechanics, all grabby hands and misfiring limbs, nudging him backward against the lounger.

And after a moment of awkward shifting and a fair amount of readjusting, you finally settle into him in a drowsy little heap, half draped across his lap and half tucked into his side. 

Frank extracts the mojito from your hand just before the remainder can go down the front of his shirt, though not before a bright cold splash hits his chest anyway.

He puts the glass aside and looks back at you.

Brushes your hair off your face. Once, twice, again, until there you are properly visible beneath it.

You blink up at him, visibly straining to keep your eyes open, lashes heavy with the effort. “You know what Parker told me earlier?”

“Hmm?”

“That you’re not supposed to compliment the moon here.”

Frank’s fingers drift through your hair again. “And why’s that?”

“Apparently,” you say, lowering your voice, “it’s bad luck. Like if you say it’s pretty, then something in your life gets ruined out of jealousy.”

Your finger wanders over his shirt, drawing something looping into the cotton, your nail a shiny petal-pink that matches the sparkle dusted over your eyes. 

He asks, “Should I be concerned you’ve already told it how pretty it is?” 

A tiny crease appears between your brows. 

“Maybe a little.” Your nail catches on his shift before drifting on again. “But it kind of makes sense, doesn’t it? Because Selene is the moon, and Helios is the sun, and they’re siblings, I think, so maybe he gets weird about it… because if everyone keeps talking about how beautiful the moon is, and nobody’s complimenting the sun, that could create resentment. Familial resentment. Which is, like, one of the oldest forces in mythology.”

Frank opens his mouth, halfway to saying that while the ancient Greeks certainly contained enough familial instability to support the theory, he strongly suspects Parker is still just screwing with you, and then he looks down. 

You are asleep. 

He huffs a laugh through his nose, quiet enough not to disturb you, and shifts his hand higher along your back, settling you more securely against him. 

This, too, is part of loving you, he thinks. The rare and fragile privilege of being where you land when the night catches up to you.

Around you, the patio goes on glowing. Voices blur. Glass clinks somewhere in the distance. Water shifts blue-black under the moonlight. 

He leans his head back against the lounger and lets himself look out at it for a second. It is a pretty moon.

If Selene is listening, she can be flattered. He’ll take the risk.

this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!

MARIA'S SUMMER IN SANTORINI MASTERLIST

[apfelkernchen]

I guess it’s running in the family

Dr. Jack Abbot x (female) reader | Dr. Jack Abbot x you

Summary: Jack meets your family. Survival is not guaranteed but the welcome is very warm.

A/N: I'm no longer updating the taglist because Tumblr has been glitching way too much lately. If you don't want to miss any updates, feel free to turn on notifications for my posts! <3

Link to "You stole my cart" master list (1)

Link to "You stole my cart" master list (2)

Previous chapter: Interlude: I rarely say things I don't mean

--- --- ---

The drive in the rental car to your mom’s house felt strangely surreal. 

Not only because Lizzie had been cranky for the entire flight only to pass out ten minutes before landing, forcing you to wake her up eventually, which led to a meltdown in the middle of the airport.

Now she was tucked into her car seat, nodding on and off like a small drunk, grunting every now and then at absolutely nothing.

But also because Jack spent the entire drive adjusting to the idea of meeting your family. 

Your extended family.

You told him about the people you expected to see at your mom’s house. And he was kind of shell-shocked.

“Six uncles?” he repeated, swallowing hard.

“Yep. And eight aunts.”

“Eight?”

“And a lot of cousins, of course.”

“How many is a lot?”

You considered that. “Enough that we need name tags at reunions.”

Sweat was forming on his forehead. “And in numbers?”

You shrugged. “Honestly? I stopped counting years ago.”

Jack stared at you. “You could’ve mentioned I’m marrying into a small nation.”

“You’re gonna be fine.”

“Sweetheart” he managed, his throat tight. “You severely undersold the situation. I was fine with your mom and maybe one or two other people. But that sounds…” His voice trailed off.

You reached over, squeezing his hand. “Please don’t worry. They’ll love you. And now eyes on the road. Don’t want this to become a work trip for you when we end up in the ER here.”

The second your mom opened the door, chaos happened.

“Oh my god!”

She immediately kissed your cheek, grabbed Lizzie out of your arms and held her up like she'd just recovered a stolen national treasure.

"My beautiful grandchild!"

Lizzie immediately started giggling.

"And you!"

She shifted Lizzie onto her hip and pulled you into a one-armed hug so aggressive it nearly dislocated your shoulder. "You're finally here!"

Jack barely had time to process any of this before three relatives appeared behind your mother, looking at him like he was the most interesting exhibit in a zoo.

“Oh, this is your Jack, huh?”

“You didn’t tell us he was that handsome!”

One man started laughing. “Poor man, coming into this family willingly!”

Jack looked overwhelmed. You took his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “Get off him!” you barked at your relatives, before turning toward your mom, who handed Lizzie to one of your aunts. “Mom, this is Jack.”

Jack smiled instantly. “So nice to finally meet you. And thank you for having us.”

Your mother absolutely melted. “Oh, you’re such a sweetheart, Jack” she said, already emotional. “It’s great to finally see you in real life and not only on a screen.”

She pulled him into a hug, patting his back. “Thank you for flying all the way here so we can celebrate Lizzie’s birthday with you.”

She pulled back just enough to look at his face. Then she cupped his cheek and looked at him for a moment.

Jack froze.

Your mother nodded once. “Yep.”

“Yep what, mom?” you asked, genuinely confused.

“I like this one.”

You started grinning.

“So, come on in - let’s get some fat on your ribs. You’re way too thin. A real man needs a nice little cushion so his lady can rest her head comfortably.”

You started laughing. “Mom!”

She shrugged, then stepped aside. “Come on in, kids.”

The kitchen was packed. There was no other word for it.

People stood shoulder to shoulder around the island. Somebody was chopping vegetables, somebody else was carrying drinks into the garden. Two of your cousins were arguing over whether the grill was hot enough and one aunt was already trying to feed everyone.

Somewhere in the house Lizzie shrieked with delight. Or terror. It was impossible to tell the difference anymore.

After hugging a lot of people you stood beside Jack near the counter, sipping coffee while he still looked overwhelmed.

“There are… so many of you” he whispered toward you.

You laughed. “Oh, trust me, this isn’t even everyone.”

He looked horrified. “There’s more?”

Then he got dragged into a conversation with one of your uncles, who declared he hated Pittsburgh since he visited it once twenty years ago and hated the traffic.

“They closed the whole road! Right in front of us! Letting us sit in this godforsaken traffic jam for two hours! Two hours!”

Jack nodded gravely. “That’s criminal.”

Your uncle looked delighted, giving him a pat on the back. “Exactly. Nice to know our sweetheart is with someone with some common sense.”

You smiled and leaned lightly against Jacks shoulder. “Told you he is great.” Then you reached up absentmindedly to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

Your mother looked over - and froze mid-conversation. Her eyes locked onto your hand.

First you didn’t notice anything, but then she whispered: “What is that?!”

You blinked. “Um, what?”

Her gaze never moved - and then it clicked.

The ring.

Your mom crossed the distance with two steps and grabbed your wrist with the determination of a woman who suddenly needed visual confirmation.

“Oh my God.”

You immediately started laughing. “Mom-”

“OH my GOD.” Her free hand flew to her mouth. 

Jack looked over, realized what had happened - and immediately looked like he briefly considered fleeing through a window. 

“Mom-”

“Oh my God!”

She turned your hand toward the light. The diamond caught it instantly. Suddenly there were tears in her eyes.

“Oh my God - sweetheart!” Her voice cracked.

And your laughter disappeared immediately. “Oh, mom.”

She looked at you - and you knew exactly what she was thinking about. Not the ring. About you. With thirty. Thirty-five. Crying over a man who constantly made you feel small. Questioning yourself. Apologizing for things that weren’t your fault. Walking on eggshells all the time. Making excuses for someone who never deserved them.

You saw all of it flash through her face.

And then she started crying. “Oh sweetheart.”

The hug hit you before you could prepare. She wrapped both arms around you and squeezed so tightly you almost laughed. Or cried. Or maybe both.

“I’m so happy for you!”

Now you also felt tears burning behind your eyes. “Mom…”

“No.” She pulled back just enough to hold your face. “You have no idea. I was so worried about you.”

You laughed through a sob. “I know.”

“No sweetheart, I don’t think you do.” Her hand shook against your cheek.

You swallowed hard.

The noise in the kitchen had died down. People were watching now. Nobody spoke.

Your mother looked briefly toward the ceiling, trying to compose herself just to fail spectacularly. “I spent years worrying that man had broken something inside you.”

Your chest hurt hearing this.

She laughed through tears. “And then this doctor shows up, sweeping you completely off your feet. The next thing I know is you two are having Lizzie and now… and now…”

She swallowed hard, then turned around, pointing at Jack. “You.”

He looked deeply alarmed - which led to severe amusement among your relatives. “Yes, Ma’am?”

“You are the one making her happy.”

Jack opened his mouth, blinked, then closed it again. For once in his life completely speechless.

Your mother’s eyes filled all over again. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve seen her like this?”

Jack looked briefly at you, then back at her. “I think she’s the one making me happy, honestly” he answered quietly.

“Oh, you beautiful soul.” Your mom looked at him. “I love how much you adore her.”

Jacks ears turned pink.

One of your aunts narrowed her eyes. “Would you please tell us what happened?”

Your mom grabbed your arm again, lifting it. The ring on your finger sparkled in the soft light.

The kitchen erupted.

“Oh my God, you’re engaged?!”

“What?”

“Wait, seriously?!”

“NO WAY!”

“Oh my God, show me the ring!”

The news spread through the house like wildfire.

Within thirty seconds even more people were pouring into the kitchen from every direction. One of your cousins appeared still carrying a bowl of potato salad. One uncle abandoned a card game halfway through. Someone yelled for another relative upstairs.

And your mom still held your hand proudly like she had personally arranged the engagement herself. “Look at this ring!”

“MOM!”

“Shhh. Look at it!”

“That’s gorgeous.”

“Good Lord!”

“Wow!”

Another aunt immediately grabbed your hand too. Then another one. Somebody wanted to take pictures immediately.

You had never been touched by so many people at once.

Across the room Jack suddenly found himself being congratulated by three different uncles. One slapped him hard on the shoulder. Another one shook his hand. A third pulled him into an unexpected hug.

He looked increasingly overwhelmed.

“Congratulations son.”

“Thanks.”

“You did good!”

“Thank you.”

Another shoulder slap.

“If they crack your ribs you can fix yourself up, right?” one cousin asked with a grin.

Jack shrugged. “Think so.”

The kitchen roared with laughter. 

Your mom pulled you into a brief hug, then looked at the ring again. “It’s beautiful.” 

Then she looked at Jack. “How much did this cost?”

“Mom!” you gasped, suddenly embarrassed.

Jack meanwhile looked trapped.

Especially when your whole family seemed to lean closer immediately, staring at him.

“Mom, please.”

“No, seriously.”

“Jack.”

Your poor fiance looked toward you for help. Your mom caught that immediately.

“That is not the face of a man who bought an affordable ring” she said with a grin.

“It’s from Tiffany’s” he spilled eventually.

All of your female relatives gasped at once.

“Good choice, Jack!” some aunt chirped, delighted.

Your mom hugged him again. Then wiped tears from her eyes. “Okay, fine if you don't want to give us a number then tell us at least - how did you do it?”

Every head turned toward Jack again. And he looked around like he was searching for an emergency exit. 

“Come on, Jack” some uncle said. “You can’t just show up engaged and not tell the story, right?”

Jack rubbed the back of his neck, ears still a little pink. “It was nothing special.”

The room immediately erupted.

“Nobody believes that, Jack!”

“The ring alone says otherwise!”

“Terrible liar. Just - terrible.”

“Get off him, you hyenas.” You laughed softly. “It was beautiful.”

The room went quiet for a moment. Jack groaned softly. 

You grabbed his hand, squeezing it gently. “It really was beautiful, Jack.”

He looked up, smiling at you - really smiling at you now - then turned back to the room. He let out a deep sigh. “Okay, okay, I admit defeat.” He took a breath. “It was at the lake house.”

Immediately a voice cut through the room. “I KNEW IT!”

Everybody turned. Your Uncle Zach stood near the doorway holding a beer, pointing directly at Jack. He looked immensely pleased with himself.

“You knew about this, Zach?” your mother demanded, eyes narrowing.

“No, I didn’t know exactly. But this guy called me a while ago asking if he could use the lake house for a weekend.”

“And you didn’t tell me he asked?” your mother shot back.

“Of course not! I didn’t know it was for a proposal” Zach replied with a shrug. “But the man was nervous enough that I should’ve suspected something!”

“You were nervous?” one of your aunts gasped.

Every woman in the room immediately turned back toward Jack - who looked trapped.

“Um. Yeah. Kinda. Not ashamed to admit that” he muttered with a half-shrug.

Jack glanced at you. “You’re enjoying this?”

“Very much so” you replied with a sweet smile.

The kitchen roared with laughter.

“So” your mother demanded. “And what happened at the lake house? Tell me everything.”

“Do you want to tell or should I?” you asked Jack.

“You” he replied without missing a beat.

You grinned. “Okay.” You turned toward the kitchen again, where everyone was looking at you. “Well, we sat at the jetty during sunset. And he had brought champagne…”

Your aunts were already dying. Your mother had both hands pressed against her mouth. You looked over at Jack.

“And then he gave a little speech.”

The kitchen collectively melted.

“What kind of speech?” your mother asked, her voice cutting through the noise. “What did he say?”

You smiled. “It was beautiful. It was just… perfect.”

“Oh my God.” Your mom was crying again. “What did he say?”

You glanced at Jack, who was nodding slightly.

“Tell them” he mumbled, his ears still pink.

You swallowed hard. “He told me how much he loved me. And how happy he is with our life. And that he wants to keep doing this forever.” Your voice cracked slightly.

Your mother needed to lean against the counter, one hand pressed against her chest, the other on her mouth. Tears were streaming down her face.

Several other relatives were also openly crying now.

You swallowed hard again, squeezing Jacks hand. “And then he got down on one knee. He was so nervous.”

Every woman in the room simultaneously melted.

Jack cleared his throat. “I was not that nervous.”

“You were. And it was adorable” you said, leaning over, pressing a soft kiss on his cheek.

“Mhm.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “And then I asked her and she didn’t reply for what felt like an eternity. She was just staring at me.”

The whole room gasped.

“WHAT?!”

Your mom stared at you. “Why didn’t you say yes immediately?!”

Now it was your turn to blush. “I was… I was… really overwhelmed” you said with a shrug. “It was the most romantic thing ever and I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming.”

“It was the worst minute of my life. I think I never sweated that much.” Jack smiled gently. “She said yes eventually. So no one’s panicking, yeah?”

The room erupted in laughter again.

“Silly girl, putting this adorable man through this” your mom said, shaking her head disapprovingly.

You frowned. “I was shocked, mom.”

“Shocked, shmocked.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Glad he still wanted you.”

You laughed despite yourself. Jack looked slightly smug when he realized your mom already adopted him.

Your mom let out a sigh, stepped closer and grabbed your hand again. Her eyes were locked onto the ring for a moment. “I wish your dad was here” she said quietly.

The room grew quieter. Your throat tightened instantly. 

“I wish he could see this.” Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. “And Grandma.”

You laughed weakly through your own tears. “Yes, me too.” You sniffed. “She would’ve been unbearable.”

That earned a laugh from half the kitchen.

“She would’ve told everyone.”

“Before I even got the chance to” you agreed, smiling.

“But she would’ve loved him” your mother said, nodding toward Jack. “She always had a thing for doctors, you know?”

You laughed out loud. “I didn’t know that.”

Your mom nodded. “Yeah. I'm still convinced she didn't need to go to the doctors all the time. She just wanted to flirt with them.”

You laughed.

She looked you up and down. “I guess it’s running in the family, huh?”

--- --- ---

You wanna keep reading? - Next part is coming soon, I promise :)

--- --- ---

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[imagines-all-day-everyday]

three becomes two [f.l]

summary: you choose frank (alt ending to three’s a crowd)

pairing: fem!reader x dennis whitaker (unrequited), fem!reader x frank langdon

warnings/tags: abby and kids do not exist in this universe, jealousy, flirting, angst (so much angst), swearing, so much fluffy cuteness, descriptions of medical procedures/injuries that you’d expect from the pitt

notes: my baby deserves this and more ty xoxo (also this gif are we joking...)

likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!

Enjoy my work? Tip me! 🤍

masterlist

[Part 1] [Part 2]

You spent long enough up on the roof to watch the sun be swallowed by the city skyline. Long enough that the pleasant breeze had started to bite, no longer soothed by the late July sun.

Long enough, hopefully, for the rest of the day shift to have finally gone home. Long enough for even the usual stragglers to have surrendered their scrubs and handed the department over to the night crawlers.

Long enough that maybe you could make it to your locker without running into either of them.

Abott's words followed you all the way down the fire escape stairs.

I think deep down you already know which one of them might give you that.

You hated how simple he’d made it sound.

You kept your head down as you crossed the department.

You didn’t have the energy for the jumpy, painfully careful silence with Dennis, and you definitely didn’t have the emotional fortitude for whatever Frank was doing now - the hovering, the jokes, the way he kept forcing you to look at him like he knew avoidance was the only defence you had left and had decided to dismantle it piece by piece.

Unfortunately, Frank Langdon had always been very good at finding cracks in your defences.

"I thought Robby banished you hours ago."

You stopped.

Closed your eyes briefly.

Then turned.

Frank was leaning against a row of lockers, arms folded, expression carefully casual in a way that put you immediately on edge.

His gaze settled on you in that same attentive way it always did.

"I'm going home now."

His attention flicked briefly to the bandage above your eyebrow.

"Good."

“What are you still doing here?” You asked as you turned to open your locker.

Waiting for you, the answer sat heavily on the tip of his tongue.

"Avoiding my plant parent responsibilities." Was what he said instead.

A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of your mouth as you rummaged through your locker.

Frank saw it.

Of course he did.

“I let some old guy convince me to buy a String of Pearls.”

A laugh escaped before you could stop it as you glanced over your shoulder at him.

Something softened in his face immediately, so quickly that it felt almost unfair - like he’d been waiting all day for proof you could still laugh.

“That’s like the hardest plant to keep alive.”

“I know."

His grin widened slightly.

"I didn’t have you there to talk me out of it.”

“I told you Frank Langdon doesn’t give paternal.” You answered as you shut your locker.

You turned and nearly walked straight into him.

Somehow he'd moved closer.

Standing close enough now that you could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. Close enough to notice the exhaustion etched around his eyes.

For a moment neither of you moved.

Then Frank reached up, his fingertip brushed lightly against the bandage above your eyebrow. The touch was so gentle it almost hurt, enough to make your breath hitch and your pulse stumble.

"It was coming loose." He explained, voice low.

You swallowed as his touch lingered. "Oh."

Frank's attention remained fix on your forehead as he smoothed out the edge.

"Robby did a good job."

"You'd hope so."

His hand lingered for a second longer than necessary, then finally fell away.

Your skin felt cold, like it was automatically starved of his touch.

You hated how aware you were of him.

You took a subtle step backwards, needing to create distance.

For a moment the two of you stood there eyeing each other. The room felt uncomfortably full with all of the unspoken things neither of you seemed capable of saying.

Eventually you gestured vaguely over your shoulder towards the exit.

"I should probably go."

Your voice sounded strange to your own ears.

"Doctor's orders and all that."

Frank shoved his hands into the pockets of his scrub pants, looking away briefly.

“Ok."

Something about the way he said it made you pause. He wasn't pushing, wasn't finding another excuse to keep you talking, wasn't trying to make you laugh.

The fluorescent light caught harshly against the tired lines of his face. For once, he didn’t look confident. He didn’t look amused or easy or untouchable. He didn't look like the version everyone else saw.

Instead he looked like someone bracing himself to be left behind.

Your chest pulled tight.

Frank opened his mouth.

For a second you thought he might finally say whatever had been sitting between the two of you for weeks.

“Goodnight.”

You nodded once.

“Goodnight.”

-

Your apartment was quiet when you got home. Oppressively so, like you were being squeezed from all sides and might burst.

You kicked your shoes off near the door and stood there for a moment in the dim entryway light, staring blankly at the unopened mail scattered across the counter and your clean laundry still in its basket from days ago. Everything looked strangely untouched, suspended in time while your life seemed to have detonated somewhere outside of it.

You exhaled slowly and wandered toward the kitchen, your head throbbing faintly as your painkillers wore off. The ache pulsed dully behind your stitches, but it was nothing compared to the pressure that had lodged itself beneath your ribs ever since Javadi’s party.

Your gaze drifted absently toward the fridge as you unscrewed your water bottle.

The photos were still tacked there.

Your stomach twisted.

You needed sleep. Or alcohol. Or to get hit again in the head but hard enough this time to make you slip into a coma.

You made it halfway to your bedroom before coming to a stand still.

The stupidly beautiful stained-glass lamp sat glowing softly in the corner of your living room, casting muted lilac and amber light across the walls.

You still hadn’t confronted Frank about it, mostly because doing so would require acknowledging why he'd bought it.

And acknowledging that felt dangerously close to acknowledging everything else.

You walked over slowly, fingertips brushing lightly against the cool glass petals. The light shifted across your skin.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

You tried to push thoughts of him out of your head.

Tried not to think about the way he remembered your coffee order despite complaining about it every single time. Or the way he automatically shifted during procedures because he knew where you preferred to stand. Or the way he always knew when to make a joke or when to leave you to wallow after a bad trauma.

The way he'd somehow inserted himself into hundreds of tiny corners of your life without you ever noticing it happening.

You sat down slowly on the edge of your bed, suddenly feeling the exhaustion of today's shift finally seep into your bones.

Your phone buzzed suddenly beside you, making you jump.

You reached for it automatically.

Three messages from Dennis.

hey sorry if this is weird but i just wanted to make sure your head is ok

Your heart twisted painfully.

Because even now - even after all of this - Dennis was still careful with you. Still giving you space. Still terrified of pushing too hard.

You typed back a quick confirmation that you were fine before tossing your phone further up the bed, unwilling to look at it any longer.

The apartment fell quiet again.

Your hand unconsciously drifted up to your forehead, brushing over your stitches.

Without permission, your brain conjured the memory of Frank's hand ghosting over your skin. The way his eyes locked with yours, the cut of his jaw as he scanned your face for signs of hurt.

You huffed, flopping onto your back. Your hands settled on your stomach as you stared up at your ceiling.

You thought about Dennis’ smile, his big eyes that made him look like a baby deer caught in headlights, the way his hand always hovered just close enough to yours to never quite be touching. The farm. The way he looked at you like you hung the moon.

Then, like always, Frank elbowed his way to the front of your conscious.

The way his eyes seemed to always find yours in any room, locking you in place. The way his hand had brushed your waist in the photo booth, the heat of him radiating into you. The way you were never quite sure what he was thinking when he looked at you.

The way his biceps bulged when he crossed his arms, the way his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip as he listened to you talk.

The way praise from him somehow mattered more than it should. The way you secretly loved how he treated you differently to everyone else at work. The way your body reacted whenever he was even in the same room as you.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying and failing to get Frank Langdon out of your head.

Because no matter which direction your mind tried to run, it kept ending up in the same place.

“Fuck.”

-

The next few shifts passed the same way all the others had since Javadi’s birthday.

Except now, people's eyes flickered to the stitches above your eyebrow before darting between you, Frank and Dennis. Not obvious enough to call out, but not subtle enough to miss either.

It felt like the whole department was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

You threw yourself into work with almost frightening determination, clinging to routine like it might save you from having to think too hard. You picked up extra cases before anyone else could grab them, volunteered for procedures, spent longer than necessary updating your notes at the nurses station just so you always had something to look busy with.

It worked with most people.

Not with Frank.

Frank Langdon, unfortunately, had made a career out of noticing things other people missed.

Which meant he noticed the way you suddenly remembered somewhere else you needed to be whenever he entered a room. The way you conveniently found an excuse to swap out on his cases. The way your eyes slid past him whenever he spoke directly to you. The way your body seemed to recognise his presence before your brain did and immediately started looking for an escape route.

And because Frank was Frank, he doubled down. Even worse than he had been before the Ogilvie incident.

Your last name was the first he called when a trauma rolled in, he stood just a touch closer than absolutely necessary as he waited to sub in during compressions, and whenever you got thirty seconds to breathe, he appeared as though summoned by some invisible force neither of you understood.

And every morning, before Shen could reach you, an iced latte with your name scrawled on it would appear somewhere within your line of sight.

You never saw him leave them, but you knew.

By the end of the week you were beginning to suspect he possessed the supernatural ability to sense your exact location at all times.

It was nearing the end of another brutal shift when you found yourself alone in the breakroom trying to force down half a protein bar and enough caffeine to survive the last two hours.

Your body ached. Your feet hurt. Your forehead still throbbed if you bent down too quickly. And emotionally, you felt like someone had scraped you hollow.

The door to the breakroom opened behind you.

You didn’t even need to look up to know it was Frank.

He leaned back against the counter beside the coffee machine, studying you quietly while it brewed.

His arms were folded loosely across his chest, his expression was deceptively casual. His eyes weren't.

"You look exhausted."

"Gee hello to you too." You remarked dryly.

A soft huff of laughter left him at that.

The sound wrapped around your ribs before you could stop it.

"You don't look exactly like the picture of health either."

“Yeah, but mine’s from old age and substance abuse.” He tilted his head slightly. “What’s your excuse?”

Your lips twitched as you shook your head.

“There’s something genuinely wrong with you.”

“I know." He nodded solemnly. "I've been diagnosed multiple times.”

A snort escaped before you could stop it.

Something in his expression softened immediately, like every tiny crack in your composure felt monumental to him now.

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, which somehow made it worse.

Frank glanced down at the half eaten protein bar in your hand.

“Those things tastes like drywall.”

“You’ve had one?”

“Multiple. I lost a bet to Robby once and had to eat them for a week straight.”

You grimaced.

"That feels like a health risk."

"It was."

Before you could react, Frank leant forward and took a bite out of it while it was still sitting in your hand.

You blinked.

Frank pulled back, chewing thoughtfully. His eyes flicked up to yours as he winced.

"Yep." He said through a mouthful. "Still tastes like shit."

You stared at him.

"You did not just do that."

"Do what?"

You looked down at the mangled remains of your protein bar, then back at him.

"I don't remember consenting to you contaminating my food with your germs."

Frank rolled his eyes. "Oh please."

He pointed at the remaining piece.

"I could physically see you losing the will to live trying to finish that thing."

His hand gestured vaguely.

"I've done you a favour."

You laughed before you could stop yourself. A real one this time, the kind that bubbled out unexpectedly.

Frank grinned as he watched you laugh, like he was committing it to memory.

Like he'd forgotten whatever he was going to say next. Like hearing you laugh after weeks of distance had affected him more than he wanted to admit.

And for a brief moment, everything felt normal again.

Princess suddenly appeared at the doorway, the sound of your last name making you turn.

"Robby's looking for you."

You sighed, tossing the remains of the protein bar into the bin,.

"On it." You nodded.

When you turned back to Frank, his smile had faded. You felt your heart jump in your chest as his gaze met yours.

"I'll see you later."

His gaze held yours for a beat too long. Then he nodded, his Adams apple bobbing as he swallowed. "See you."

-

Two shifts later and you were in the supply closet, trying to find a very specific size of sutures.

Or at least that was the official reason you were there.

Unofficially, you were hiding.

The department had been relentless all day. Every room felt too crowded. Every interaction felt loaded. Every time you turned around it seemed like someone was watching you, waiting for whatever inevitable explosion everyone seemed convinced was coming.

"You know." A voice remarked casually behind you. "At this point I'm starting to think you genuinely hate me."

You nearly dropped the packet of suture kits in your hands.

“Jesus Christ.” You muttered, pressing a hand briefly to your chest as you turned to meet Frank's eyes. “Do you always move that quietly or are you doing it on purpose now?”

His mouth twitched.

Not an admission, but not a denial either.

You turned back to the shelves before your traitorous body could react any further.

“I’m serious.” His voice sounded closer this time. “You’ve fled from me four times today.”

You grabbed another box.

“I have not.”

“You literally turned around mid-conversation with Princess and walked into a curtain.”

Heat climbed your neck.

“That was unrelated.”

Frank hummed, unconvinced.

“Can I help you with something?” You asked, continuing to inspect shelves that no longer held anything you actually needed.

"Not really, I just like spending my spare time in supply closets."

You shut your eyes briefly.

There it was.

That stupid humour. That effortless ability to slip beneath your defences before you even realised they were lowering.

“Frank.”

His expression softened slightly at your tone.

"Are we going to keep doing this?"

The humour had vanished entirely when you turned around.

"Doing what?"

He shot you a knowing look.

The kind that made you feel far too seen.

The kind that always seemed to strip away every excuse you'd carefully prepared beforehand.

Your cheeks warmed instantly.

"Can we not do this at work?"

"We're always at work." He countered.

"That's not-"

"You've been avoiding me."

"I've been avoiding both of you."

The words came out sharper than you intended.

Frank’s face flickered.

"Yeah, I've noticed."

You swallowed, glancing down at the floor as your chest tightened.

You hated how well he knew you.

You looked at him properly then, frustration finally breaking through.

“What exactly am I supposed to do in this situation, Frank?”

Something flashed across his face.

Hope. Even after the party. After the silence. After you’d practically been running from him for over a week.

Frank studied you quietly for a moment before speaking.

“Talk to me.”

The simplicity of it nearly undid you.

Because underneath all the jokes and pushing and relentless attempts to corner you into engaging with him, that was all he’d really been asking for.

Not even to choose him. Just asking to not shut him out.

Your throat tightened painfully.

“I don’t know how to do this without hurting someone.”

For the first time in days, Frank stopped trying to be funny.

The humour left his face completely, exposing something far more dangerous underneath.

"Dragging yourself through hell trying not to make anyone unhappy is only going to hurt everyone else more. Especially you."

The honesty of it landed like a physical blow.

You looked away immediately, trying to ignore the way your heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out of your chest out of your chest.

Before you could spiral further, Frank unexpectedly stepped closer. Close enough that you immediately became aware of every inch separating you.

"What are you doing?"

His arm lifted, resting against the shelf above your head.

"Helping."

Your eyebrows shut up. "Helping?"

His mouth twitched. "You seem stuck."

You hated him. Hated him for making your heart race at the worst possible moments, for looking at you like that, for refusing to let things stay simple.

You forced yourself to jut your chin up to meet his gaze.

"And how is this helping me, exactly?"

Frank's smile disappeared. His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes.

The movement sent heat shooting through you.

"Tell me you feel nothing."

"What?"

"Between us." He clarified, his eyes dragging over your face. "Tell me you feel nothing-“ He swallowed. “-and that this is all in my head.”

It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the small space in that moment. The mood shifted as any trace of amusement shifted from his features.

“Tell me-“ He repeated again, his voice quietening to a strained whisper. “-and I'll leave you alone. No more supply closet ambushes, no more coffees, perfectly respectable co-worker boundaries only.”

Your eyes involuntarily dragged from his forearm, to his bicep, all the way to his face, lingering on his mouth.

You swallowed, your pulse roaring in your ears. "Frank-"

"Tell me." And for the first time since you'd known him, it sounded dangerously close to pleading. Like he he needed to hear the confirmation so he could stop hoping, stop waiting.

You froze like a startled deer, your heart pounding in your chest as you felt his arm brush against yours.

“I-“ You started, your eyes involuntarily flickering down to his mouth, then back to his eyes.

You felt yourself inch just a touch closer. Barely noticeable, but Frank spotted it, his breathing changing instantly.

“I…”

The door to the supply closet swung open. The spell shattered instantly The sounds of the department rushed in at a brutal pace, the fluorescent lights streaming in.

Frank pulled away immediately, but not quick enough.

Dana stood there, one hand on her hip, brows raised as she glanced between the two of you.

You reacted on impulse.

“Found what I was looking for.” You announced to no one in particular as you blindly snatched a packet of sutures from behind you.

You ducked under Dana’s arm that was leaning on the edge of the doorframe, shooting her a sheepish grin before disappearing with the grace of a newly born lamb.

Dana turned and watched you go before settling her gaze on Frank.

“I was just-“

She raised a hand up to stop him. “I don’t want to know.”

Frank remained exactly where he'd been left standing, staring at the doorway like he could somehow will you back through it.

Then her expression involuntarily softened, letting out a small sigh as she studied his pathetic expression.

"You have to stop playing these games, kid."

Frank looked down at the packet of saline he'd apparently picked up at some point.

He couldn't remember doing it.

"Tell her how you feel."

A bitter smile tugged at his mouth.

"I'm trying."

Dana snorted.

"No. You're flirting."

Frank opened his mouth. Closed it again.

"What's the actual plan here?"

Frank didn't answer. Because he didn't have one.

At first he'd convinced himself that if he was patient enough, funny enough, persistent enough, eventually things would settle. Eventually you'd stop avoiding him. Eventually you'd look at him the way you used to.

But now, he couldn't help but wonder if you'd made your choice. A possibility that had been sitting quietly in the back of his mind for days.

He'd just been trying very hard not to look directly at it.

Dennis. The thought alone made something unpleasant twist in his chest. Kind, safe, the sort of guy people introduced to their parents.

The sort of guy who didn't have entire sections of his life he wished he could erase.

Frank swallowed.

Dana's expression shifted. She'd known him too long, seen too much.

"Tell her."

"What if I'm too late?"

Dana held his gaze.

She didn't tell him what she could see so plainly - that you and him were so clearly inevitable. That you were so clearly scared of the intensity of the connection the two of you shared.

"Then at least she'll know." Was all she said instead.

The words lingered long after she left.

Frank remained standing in the supply closet alone, staring at the doorway you'd disappeared through.

For the first time in weeks, he didn't immediately think about how to get you to talk to him. Or what excuse he could invent to keep you in the same room.

Instead he found himself wondering something far more dangerous. Whether Dana was right. Whether he'd already lost. Whether he'd be able to survive it.

And if he had, whether he was brave enough to tell you anyway.

-

Sleep proved impossible that night.

Your brain felt like someone had thrown every thought, feeling and memory you possessed into a blender and hit start.

You lasted maybe twenty minutes lying in bed before frustration finally forced you upright again.

The apartment was dark except for the lamp.

Soft lilac and amber light spilled across the tiles as you wandered barefoot into the living room, your oversized t-shirt slipping off one shoulder as you passed the couch.

The city glowed softly outside, the muted sounds of cars driving past offering some comfort that there were at least some other people that were still awake.

You were exhausted.

But every time you closed your eyes, your mind immediately betrayed you.

Dennis smiling softly across a diner booth.

Frank’s hand settling beneath your ribs in the photobooth.

Dennis asking if you wanted to come to his farm.

Frank saying I missed you like it had cost him something to admit.

You groaned quietly and dropped face first onto the couch cushions.

The apartment, unsurprisingly, offered no solutions.

After a moment, you rolled onto your back and stared blankly up at the ceiling.

Objectively speaking, the answer should have been easy.

Dennis was kind. Steady. Safe.

He listened carefully when you spoke. He noticed small things. He made space for people. He was one of your best friends. You socialised in the same circle of people. Your lives fit together neatly, logically.

So why did every thought somehow keep circling back to Frank?

Your eyes caught on the book sitting on your coffee table. You reached for it absentmindedly, hoping reading a few chapters might distract you and bring on sleep.

You barely managed to open it before something slipped free from between the pages, falling onto your lap.

Your breath caught.

The spare copy of the photo booth photos you had forgotten to give Frank.

You stared at them in your hand, at the softened edges, the slight bend through the middle from repeated use.

You’d been using it as a bookmark.

Not consciously. Not deliberately. Just… naturally.

A shaky laugh escaped you, the sound swallowed up by the empty apartment.

Your thumb brushed over the image instinctively.

Frank looking at you instead of the camera in each frame, like he physically couldn’t stop himself. And somehow, despite every logical instinct screaming otherwise, you looked at him the same way.

Because he’d seen you at your highs and your lowest of lows in this job. Seen you covered in snot, shivering in the stairwell after one of your first unsuccessful reductions. Seen you on days you weren't particularly likeable. Seen the mistakes, the self-doubt and had just accepted it. Accepted you.

Even now with all of this he’d never made you feel judged. Until Javadi’s, had never taken an opportunity to talk Dennis down, had respected your wishes to leave Dennis alone. All the while hiding his own feelings.

You had no doubt that he would be accepting of you being friends with Dennis. That he wouldn’t treat you any different if you didn’t choose him.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Because that was the thing you hadn’t fully let yourself acknowledge until now. Frank saw you.

The same way you saw him.

You knew every fault, every ugly scar, every secret and yet, despite that or more correctly because of that, you still wanted him.

And suddenly you understood why you’d been so desperate to avoid him these past weeks.

It wasn’t because you were confused anymore. It was because somewhere deep down, you already knew.

And knowing meant eventually having to say it out loud. Which meant hurting Dennis, risking friendships, changing things.

Your gaze drifted back toward the lamp glowing softly in the corner.

You were tired of this.

Tired of fighting your own reactions to him. Tired of pretending you didn’t feel the atmosphere shift every time he walked into a room. Tired of acting like your pulse didn’t immediately spike whenever he looked at you for too long.

Tired of fighting something that seemed determined to follow you wherever you went.

Tired of pretending that he didn't feel inevitable.

For the first time since Javadi's party, the panic that had been following you everywhere began to loosen its grip.

Not because the situation was any less complicated, but because you finally had the truth.

And as terrifying as it was, there was something strangely freeing about that.

You weren't trying to decide between Dennis and Frank anymore.

You were trying to figure out how to live with the fact that you'd already chosen.

And that was a very different problem.

-

You found Dennis during your next shift without really meaning to.

You had both just come out of back to back traumas, a multiple vehicle collision. Numerous resuscitations, intubations - the works. By the time you finally escaped, your scrubs felt glued to your skin and your head was pounding behind your eyes.

The ambulance bay was meant to be a welcome reprieve. Instead, you stopped short when you found the back of one of the parked ambulances already occupied.

He was sitting on the back step of one of the ambulances, elbows resting on his knees as he stared out across the parking lot. The afternoon sun was beginning to sink lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the concrete.

His curls were messier than usual, flattened in places where he'd clearly been dragging his hands through them all day. There were dark circles beneath his eyes too, the kind exhaustion alone didn't entirely explain.

As if sensing you looking at him, Dennis glanced up.

And froze.

The reaction was subtle enough most people wouldn’t have caught it. But you did.

The way he straightened slightly. The immediate softness in his expression. The almost imperceptible panic that followed right after it.

"Sorry-" You started. "I didn't mean to interrupt-"

"It's fine." Dennis brushed off your apology, gesturing to the space beside him. "You're not interrupting."

He wiped his hands on his scrubs as you came to sit beside him.

The metal beneath you was warm from the sun.

The distant sounds of the pitt drifted through the open bay doors behind you.

"Your cut looks like it’s healing well.” Dennis said after a moment.

"Yeah. Robby would probably kill me if I didn't follow the proper aftercare."

Dennis' mouth twitched, nodding in understanding as he fiddled with his watch strap.

Silence settled awkwardly between you. It was worlds apart to when you'd last been out here, when you'd seen Dennis flex his hand out of the corner of your eye and had wondered if he might take yours in his.

Now it was like both of you were standing on opposite sides of thin ice trying not to crack it further.

“This is weird.”

You huffed out a laugh.

“Yeah it really fucking is.”

Dennis rubbed the back of his neck lightly before speaking again.

"You don't have to worry you know."

Your brows knitted. "What?"

He shot you a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

“About me making things harder.”

Your chest constricted painfully.

“Den-"

“No, it’s okay.” He shook his head gently before you could continue. “I mean it.”

The steadiness in his voice somehow made it worse. Because you could hear how hard he was working to keep it that way.

Your throat tightened.

Because somehow, even now, he was trying to make things easier for you.

“I didn’t want any of this.”

“I know.”

He studied you for a moment.

"That day he came back-" Dennis looked away. “I knew.”

The confession landed softly between you, like something he'd been carrying for a very long time.

You didn't interrupt.

Dennis stared out towards the parking lot.

“You two have this thing.”

He glanced down briefly, like he was trying to find the right words.

“The way you look for eachother in a room. The way you somehow always end up next to each other, the way you work like you’re in each other’s heads…” He trailed off as he swallowed heavily.

You stared at him, unable to speak.

“You may not realise it yet but...” A sad smile pulled briefly at his mouth. “I think it’s always been him."

Dennis shook his head slightly as glanced down at his hands. "Even if I don't really understand why."

"If it makes you feel any better... I don't understand it either." You murmured after a moment.

There was a moment of heavy silence. You saw something flicker across Dennis' face. Because you hadn't denied it, hadn't tried to explain your actions. You'd only confirmed he was right without actually saying it.

"It doesn't."

The honesty of it landed hard.

When he looked back at you, there was no accusation in his expression. Just vulnerability. Raw and unguarded in a way Dennis rarely allowed himself to be.

"I think... I think I'm going to need some space."

You knew it was coming, but it didn't make the blow land any less heavy.

"Of course." Your voice cracked slightly.

Dennis nodded, more to himself than anything. He glanced down at his hands again, trying to hide the wetness of his eyes.

And suddenly every instinct you had screamed at you to fix it.

You wanted to hug him, to tell him he was one of your best friends and that nothing had to change - but you couldn’t. Because both of you knew that would be a lie.

"I'll always care about you Den."

The second the words left your mouth, you regretted them.

Dennis visibly flinched. Not dramatically, but enough that it felt like watching a bruise form.

"Whitaker." He corrected quietly.

"Please."

Your chest had constricted so sharply you thought it might cave in entirely.

Because you knew he was trying to put distance between himself and something that hurt. Trying to become your coworker again because being your Dennis was no longer an option.

"Whitaker." You repeated quietly.

Dennis looked up at you after a moment.

"I'll always care about you too."

For a second neither of you moved.

Then he let out a long breath and scrubbed both hands down his face.

“Even if your taste in men is objectively questionable.”

That broke the tension just enough for you to huff out a watery laugh.

And even though he smiled again, you could still see the pain written all over his face.

And as you sat beside him in the fading afternoon light, watching him stare out across the parking lot, you found yourself desperately hoping that time would eventually give you back some version of what you'd lost.

-

Despite your conversation with Dennis, you were still doing your best to avoid Frank.

You knew it was unfair, bordering on immature and most definitely cowardly.

The confusion that had been plaguing you for weeks was gone now, replaced by a terrifying sort of certainty that felt infinitely harder to deal with.

Because confusion at least gave you somewhere to hide. Confusion meant you could tell yourself you didn't know. That you needed more time. That eventually everything would sort itself out.

Now you had no such cover. Instead, you now had to figure out how you were going to say the things you wanted to say out loud.

And once you did that, there would be no taking it back.

You lasted exactly three more days before everything fell apart.

You were in the last half of a relatively uneventful shift by pitt standards when Dana asked you (or really, told you) to assess a new patient in room 5.

"Can do." You answered, rerouting to the other end of the hall.

"Langdon's already assessed her in triage."

You ignored the way your stomach fluttered at the sound of his name. God, you were pathetic.

"Thanks."

Princess appeared beside you and handed over a tablet as the two of you headed down the hall.

"Patient is Rosie McLean, 74 years old, came in complaining of intermittent chest pain and general fatigue. Vitals are stable.”

You nodded, flicking through the file notes as Princess opened the door.

"Hi Rosie, I’m-“

You stopped short for a moment, your name dying on your tongue as you took in the patient in front of you.

It was the lady who owned the vintage store.

Maybe she wouldn't remember you, she must see hundreds of people every-

You watched as her eyes lit up with unmistakable recognition immediately, sparking panic through your entire system.

"I know who you are, you're the lovely girl from the other week." Rosie beamed.

Princess shot you a look that demanded an explanation.

"Rosie here owns a very nice vintage store." You explained in response as you pumped a handful of sanitiser onto your hands. "And helped me decorate about half my apartment."

"You didn't tell me you and your boyfriend were doctors dear." Rosie continued happily.

Princess' head snapped towards you so fast you were surprised she didn't sustain whiplash.

"Boyfriend?"

Fuck.

"He's not my boyfriend." You corrected lightly. "Anyway, should we talk about what's brought you in today-"

Rosie frowned. "What do you mean he's not your boyfriend?"

You laughed awkwardly. "He's just a friend." You insisted, ignoring Princess' eyes practically burning holes into the side of your face.

"Nonsense." Rosie scoffed, waving a dismissive hand

"When that boy came back to buy you that lamp he couldn't stop talking about you." Rosie shook her head, apparently delighted at the idea of having an audience.

"Going on about how you worked so hard and never bought yourself anything nice and that you deserved something beautiful for your new apartment. How he wanted to give you a little piece of himself for your new place."

Your heart was now actively attempting to leave your body.

The room suddenly felt much smaller.

Princess looked moments away from exploding.

Rosie glanced towards her. "Now what kind of friend says that?"

"Not a single one I've ever had." Princess agreed, a smirk so wide it was almost offensive.

"And the way he looked at her." Rosie shook her head. "That's true love my dears."

"I'd pay very good money to see that."

You shot Princess a look, which she very intentionally ignored.

“Anyway." You cleared your throat pointedly. "Let’s get back to-“

The door opened before you could continue.

Your stomach dropped when you locked eyes with Frank.

“Sorry to interrupt.” His eyes flickered to Princess. “Did we get those results back yet on our patient in Room 3?”

“Not yet.” Princess answered.

“Ok thanks.”

Frank’s eyes lingered on you for a moment.

That was all it took.

"There." Rosie immediately pointed between the two of you.

"See?"

Your soul left your body.

“Meant to be.”

Princess froze, then slowly turned towards you and Frank.

"Wait-" Her eyes widened. “Langdon’s the guy you were in the vintage store with?”

Nobody answered.

"Oh my god."

You wanted the floor to open beneath you. Frank looked like he was considering throwing himself into traffic. And Rosie looked thrilled.

-

You somehow managed to get through Rosie’s consult without anymore mentions of Frank or you collapsing into an embarrassed pile of mush on the floor.

But by the time you were stripping off your gloves, your entire body felt wound impossibly tight.

Because now there was another person that was going to start telling you what you'd already started admitting to yourself.

You threw your gloves into the bin and hurried out of the room before Princess could corner you and demand answers.

You could practically feel her running to tell Perlah everything, which meant that by the end of your shift the entire floor would know.

The pitt suddenly felt far too small.

Your breathing had started to feel strangely uneven by the time you reached the hallway. You turned sharply, heading straight for the on-call rooms.

Just five minutes to yourself, that’s all you needed.

But of course, that wasn’t what the universe had planned for you.

You’d barely shut the door behind you when you heard a faint knock.

“Yeah?” You called out, unable to hide your exasperation.

“Sorry.”

Your stomach flipped violently when the door opened.

“It’s fine.” You said, watching as Frank took that as permission to step inside.

“You ok?”

The door clicked shut behind him.

“Yeah I just-“ You inhaled sharply. “Don’t think I was ready for Princess of all people to find all of that information out.”

Frank nodded in understanding, eyes tracking every micro expression on your features.

“I get it, going furniture shopping with me is pretty much rock bottom.”

“Yeah that was my cry for help if you didn't realise.”

“I know, that’s why I’ve booked you in for one of our complimentary psych sessions.”

The tension eased just enough as your mouth curved slightly.

His eyes sparked as he watched your face.

Like always, Frank knew exactly what to say to get you to stop spiralling, to make you feel like you could actually take a breath.

You leant against the hospital bed, crossing your arms in front of your chest.

“Thank you.” You said quietly after a moment.

His brows knitted. “For what?”

“The lamp. I never said thank you. It's..." You glanced away briefly before looking up at him through your lashes. "It's perfect."

“It was nothing." He shrugged lightly. "You deserve it."

You studied him for a moment.

“Did you really say all that stuff to Rosie when you went back to buy it?”

"What stuff?"

You shot him a pointed look.

"The stuff about me working hard and deserving something nice."

"Yeah I did."

"Frank..."

"What?"

A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "You do work hard and you never buy yourself nice things. The least I could do was buy you that lamp."

The honesty in his voice stole the air from your lungs. Like he couldn't even understand why any of that would be surprising. Of course he'd wanted to give you something that would make you happy.

"And did you say the other thing?"

A faint flush crept up the back of Frank's neck. It was subtle. If you hadn't spent years studying his expressions, you might have missed it entirely.

Frank let out a breathless sort of laugh, dragging a hand over his jaw.

"What? About me wanting to give you a piece of myself for your new place?"

He took a step towards you.

"Because I said that too."

The air shifted between you then.

That dangerous pull that always seemed to happen when the two of you were alone too long.

Frank seemed to feel it too because his expression changed almost imperceptibly, humour fading into something quieter. More vulnerable.

"You know, you never gave me an answer the other day."

“Frank-“

“No, wait.” His voice came out rougher than intended. Softer. “Just - give me like… thirty more seconds before you start avoiding me again.”

You stared at him.

He took your silence as permission to continue.

“I need to say some things. And then you can give me your answer.”

And suddenly all the confidence people associated with Frank Langdon felt paper thin.

Your stomach contorted painfully, your nerves making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

“Okay.” You breathed out.

Frank looked down briefly, like he was trying to organise thoughts he usually kept hidden behind jokes and sarcasm and easy charm.

Then he looked back at you.

And for the first time since you’d known him, Frank Langdon seemed genuinely nervous.

“Last year when Robby found the drugs in my locker…” He swallowed once. “My first thought wasn’t about my job.”

Your breath caught.

Frank’s eyes stayed fixed on yours.

“It wasn’t about what other people would think. About the fact I might lose my job or go to prison. About letting Robby down.”

His mouth twisted slightly.

“It was you.”

Your chest constricted violently.

“All I could think about was you finding out.” He continued quietly.

Frank laughed softly under his breath, but there was no humour in it.

“I hated the idea of you looking at me differently. Of losing your respect and trust.” His voice roughened further now, every carefully constructed layer of confidence starting to splinter apart in front of you.

“And then you showed up at rehab with a bag full of contraband takeout.”

“You have no idea what I had to go through to sneak that in there by the way.” You joked faintly.

A small smile twisted up on his lips.

“And then even after I told you what I'd done, I came back here and you still looked at me like…” He stopped himself, jaw tightening briefly. “Like I was still me.”

Frank shook his head once, almost frustrated with himself.

“And you know what the really fucked up part is?” He asked quietly.

Your stomach flipped.

“What?”

“When I came back…” He exhaled slowly through his nose. “I saw how much you'd grown, saw the connections you'd made. And I told myself that I'd give you space, that I'd already fucked up my chance."

Your pulse thudded painfully.

“But then you’d smile at me.” His laugh was quiet and wrecked at the edges. “Or make a joke. Or look at me like my opinion mattered…” He cut himself off briefly. “And then I couldn't stay away."

The room felt unbearably warm suddenly, because you knew exactly what he meant.

Frank’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before lifting again, restraint visibly tightening through his shoulders.

"And I was too selfish and scared to let you go." He admitted.

That shattered something in you completely.

Because beneath all the teasing and persistence and pushing, you finally understood the truth, Frank hadn’t been chasing you because he thought he was entitled to you. He’d been chasing you because he was terrified that if he stopped reaching for you, you’d stop seeing him.

You pushed off the edge of the bed to move towards him.

"Luckily for you, that's not your decision to make."

You felt yourself step closer before you consciously decided to.

Frank stilled.

"That thing between us…" You breathed out, your voice quieter now, stripped of all the excuses and deflections you'd been hiding behind for weeks. "Every time I'm in the same room as you, every time I think about you, every time I look at that lamp sitting in my apartment…"

A helpless laugh escaped you.

"I feel it, Frank."

He looked at you like the ground beneath him had shifted.

His eyes searched your face carefully, as though he was looking for hesitation, for uncertainty, for any sign that you might take the words back.

He didn't find it.

"And I was so scared to admit it." You continued. "Because once I admitted it, it became real. And real meant consequences."

Your eyes drifted briefly to his mouth before finding his gaze again.

"But now I have, I can't fight it anymore."

The corner of your mouth lifted.

"I don't want to fight it anymore."

Every inch of him was focused entirely on you as you took another step closer.

"There's your answer."

Frank looked at you for a long moment.

Like he was trying to convince himself he'd heard correctly. Like he was terrified this was another dream he was about to wake up from.

Then something inside him finally gave way. Pure, overwhelming relief. The kind that came from carrying something heavy for so long you'd forgotten what it felt like to put it down.

He moved, bringing the two of you close enough now that your breath tangled together.

“If I kiss you right now." He said quietly, voice rough enough to make your stomach flip violently, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to go back."

Your breath caught.

No games, no ambiguity. Just Frank standing in front of you offering his heart with shaking hands.

"I don't want to go back, ever."

For a second neither of you moved.

The silence stretched between you, heavy with anticipation and relief and every feeling that had been building for months.

Then Frank's hand lifted slowly to your jaw, his touch careful.

You leaned into it instinctively.

And then he kissed you.

The kiss was soft at first, more emotion than urgency, years of friendship and months of longing finally finding somewhere to go. His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck as he drew you closer, and the moment your fingers tangled in the front of his scrubs you felt the last of his restraint disappear.

The kiss deepened instantly. Your back met the edge of the hospital bed, Frank stepping closer without breaking the kiss. His hand settled at your waist, squeezing tightly like he was grounding himself just as much as he was grounding you.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathing a little harder than before.

Frank rested his forehead against yours and let out a disbelieving laugh.

"Jesus Christ."

A helpless smile spread across your face.

"Yeah."

He pulled back just enough to look at you properly, his gaze moving slowly across your face as though he was committing every detail to memory.

"You're so fucking beautiful."

You actually thought your heart might burst out of your chest at that.

You reached up instinctively, brushing your thumb lightly along the line of his jaw.

Frank's eyes fluttered shut for a moment, blindly finding your other hand and squeezing it gently.

And in that moment, everything finally felt exactly the way it was supposed to.

"Careful Langdon." You murmured after a moment, your tone making his lashes flutter open.

"That's starting to sound like preferential treatment."

His eyes darkened a touch, the Frank Langdon smirk you knew too well reappearing on his lips.

“Trust me, you haven’t seen what actual preferential treatment looks like yet.” He murmured.

“Is that so?” You whispered, nose bumping against his.

He hummed against your mouth, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips.

“Well." You continued, your hands fisting the material of his scrubs again. "You know I've always been a visual learner.”

That was all it took for him to hastily press his lips against yours again.

-

The next few days at the Pitt felt strangely fragile.

Not bad. Not awkward in the catastrophic, world-ending way you’d feared.

Just… delicate.

Like the three of you had survived an explosion and were now carefully stepping through the debris trying not to trigger another one.

You knew that Santos knew. You could see it in the way she looked at you, at the disappointment that flashed across her features. That was another unintended fallout that you were desperately trying to piece back together.

You and Frank had decided it was best to keep everything under wraps, which was proving to be impossible because Frank constantly looked like he was visibly restraining himself from touching you.

A few weeks later, the photobooth strip quietly appeared on the inside of Frank’s locker.

Then you started arriving to work together, a coffee already in your hand before Shen could pass you one.

And then one evening Dana caught the two of you making out in Frank's car.

If people hadn’t caught on by then, they certainly had now.

Dennis was still making a very concentrated effort to avoid being alone with either of you for too long. And although it hurt, you understood that he needed a little space to reassemble himself. But, you’d seen flickers of your past friendship emerge in stressful situations - enough to give you hope that things would eventually settle into something comfortable.

Frank understood, even encouraged you to talk about how you missed Dennis being in your life, comforted you when you confided in him.

All of which only made you fall for him harder. Because he was the same calm, secure man he’d always been. Still only wanted whatever would make you happy.

“You’re staring again.” You muttered under your breath as you updated your charts.

“I’m literally reading a patient file.”

You glanced sideways.

Frank was, in fact, not reading the patient file.

He was looking directly at you over the top of it, staring at you with the same intensity that he always did.

“You’re annoying.”

“Funny, that’s not what you said last night.”

Heat flared immediately up your neck.

Unfortunately, McKay happened to be walking past at the same time.

“You know, there’s a thing called appropriate workplace behaviour, and this conversation most certainly does not fall into that category.”

Frank grinned unapologetically.

“You’ll survive.”

“I actually might not.”

Javadi snorted beside her.

Frank glanced over at you, shooting you a wink before heading to his next patient. You couldn't hide the smile on your face as you turned back to your charting.

The ease of it startled you sometimes.

How quickly you and Frank had fallen into this.

Or maybe not fallen. Maybe just… stopped resisting.

Because now that everything was out in the open, it felt almost absurdly obvious.

The way you automatically orbited each other. The way your humour bounced off each other effortlessly. The way you read each others minds. The way he looked for you in every room like it was instinct.

You noticed all of it now.

And apparently so did everybody else.

“You know.” Mateo mused later that same shift when he found himself beside you in the breakroom. “I always thought after you and Langdon finally hooked up it would resolve your weird sexual tension, but it just seems to have made it worse.”

You nearly spat your coffee out.

“What?”

Mateo shrugged casually.

“It’s almost uncomfortable for the rest of us dude.”

“Oh my god.”

From one of the chairs, Princess pointed at you.

“See? Look how red she gets whenever someone mentions him.”

“I do not-“

“You’re practically a tomato.”

-

Later, you were back at the nurses station and of course, Frank was hovering nearby.

“Everyone knows.” You murmured low enough to ensure that it only reached his ears, keeping your eyes fixed on the screen in front of you.

“Knows what?”

You could practically hear the smirk in his voice.

“About us.”

Frank hummed thoughtfully.

“Well it’s not exactly hard to figure out, what with you practically drooling over me constantly.”

Your lips pursed as you tried to fight a smile.

“Don’t pretend you’re not the obsessed one Langdon.”

“Never said I wasn’t.” He shot back smoothly.

The answer came so quickly that you actually looked up from your screen.

A laugh escaped before you could stop it when he winked at you.

You shook your head and turned back to your computer.

“So…” He added after a moment. “Mine tonight? I may or may not have got a booking at that new place around the corner.”

Your smile widened. “Sounds perfect.”

“Cool.”

After a moment, Frank's hand brushed yours beneath the desk, the touch brief enough that nobody else would notice.

You glanced sideways instinctively.

Frank was already looking at you.

His mouth twitched slightly when he caught you staring back.

And somehow, for the first time in a very long time, everything felt steady.

Frank glanced down at your hand still resting beside his. Then back at you.

That familiar look settled across his features, the one that had followed you through through years of friendship and months of denial.

The one you'd finally stopped pretending not to understand.

Your stomach fluttered anyway.

“Your staring is becoming a workplace hazard."

Frank's smile widened.

“Guess you'll just have to file another comp claim."

You rolled your eyes.

But your hand turned over beneath the desk, threading briefly through his before one of the nurses called out for Langdon.

And as Frank disappeared down the hallway, you found yourself watching him go.

Halfway down the hall, he glanced back.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he disappeared around the corner.

And despite the chaos unfolding around you, you found yourself smiling too.

Because after months of fighting it, denying it and overthinking it into oblivion, you'd finally stopped asking yourself what if.

Finally stopped running from it and started running towards it.

Towards him.

And now, you didn't think you ever wanted to stop.

As always always always, feedback is always appreciated because I thrive off praise. Please give it back here and consider tipping me! 🤍

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[crosshajr]

THE PUPPY INCIDENT.

in which you find a puppy and bring him home, hoping jack will understand...

fem!reader. lost / abandoned puppy :( reader and jack in a relationship. fluff :3 i own a rescue beagle and i love her with all my heart. this is dedicated to my pup, sorry i didn't get there sooner baby.

you really hadn’t meant to bring home a dog. that was the problem.

people who meant to bring home dogs prepared for them.

they bought food. they bought beds.

and they definitely discussed it with their boyfriend beforehand.

you, however, had found a trembling beagle puppy curled beneath a bus stop bench at eleven o’clock at night.

and now there was a puppy in your bathroom.

a very tiny puppy. a very dirty puppy. a very skinny puppy.

a puppy that had looked at you with huge brown eyes and immediately destroyed your ability to make rational decisions.

so now you’d spent the entire night cleaning him up, feeding him tiny portions of food left over in the fridge, googling what was safe for the pup to eat, and trying to convince yourself that jack wouldn’t be upset.

or at least not too upset.

the front door unlocked just after seven in the morning.

your stomach dropped. jack was home.

you were still sitting on the couch in yesterday’s clothes, running entirely on caffeine and poor decisions.

the second he walked inside, he frowned. “why are you awake?”

you immediately looked anywhere but at him. “couldn’t sleep.” you stuttered out quick.

jack narrowed his eyes. doctor eyes. the same eyes that caught every lie told in the emergency department. unfortunately for you, they worked at home too. “you look guilty.”

you scoffed. “i’m just tired.”

“you look guilty and tired.” he kicked off his shoes. “what happened?”

“nothing happened. what makes you think that?” you defenced back.

“something happened.”

you smiled weakly.

he sighed.

“how much trouble am i about to be in?”

“define trouble.”

jack groaned. “oh no.” he pointed at you. “what did you do?”

“i didn’t do anything.”

before he could respond—

woof!

both of you froze.

the tiny bark came from the bathroom. jack slowly turned his head. then looked back at you. then toward the bathroom again. then back at you.

“…what was that?”

you considered lying.

you lasted approximately one second. “…a dog.”

jack closed his eyes. “you found a dog.”

“well technically the dog found me.”

“that’s not how dogs work.”

another bark echoed through the apartment. followed by a tiny scratching sound against the bathroom door.

jack pinched the bridge of his nose.

you stood. “before you say anything—”

“that’s never a promising start.”

“—he was abandoned.”

jack immediately opened one eye.

you continued. “he was cold.”

the other eye opened. “and hungry.”

his expression softened despite himself.

you knew it would.

jack could pretend to be grumpy all he wanted, but he spent twelve hours a day saving people for a living. he had the softest heart of anyone you’d ever met.

you disappeared into the bathroom before he could argue further. a moment later, you emerged carrying the beagle puppy.

the puppy looked ridiculously small wrapped in a towel.

one floppy ear. oversized paws. sleepy brown eyes.

the second jack saw him, his face did something. not much. just enough.

that tiny shift that meant he was already losing the battle. “he’s cute,” he admitted.

victory. you grinned.

the puppy, however, had his own priorities. the second you crouched near the couch, the little beagle scrambled from your arms.

straight toward jack.

jack blinked. “oh.”

the puppy climbed directly into his lap. like he’d been doing it his entire life.

tiny tail wagging so hard his whole body wiggled. you watched in delight as jack looked down at the puppy.

the puppy looked up at jack. and that was it. gone. completely smitten. jack was finished.

the puppy pressed his nose against jack’s hand. jack immediately scratched behind one floppy ear. the puppy practically melted.

“oh my god,” you whispered.

jack didn’t even hear you. “hey, buddy.”

the puppy licked his thumb. jack smiled. an actual smile. the soft one. the one that made you fall in love with him. the one that meant you were absolutely bringing this animal home forever.

you pointed accusingly. “there it is.”

“what?”

“that face.”

jack glanced up. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

the puppy promptly curled up against his chest and fell asleep.

you laughed. jack looked back down at the tiny sleeping beagle. then sighed. a long, defeated sigh.

“…we should probably schedule a vet appointment.”

your grin widened. “jack.”

“don’t.”

“jack.”

he rolled his eyes. “fine.”

you practically launched yourself at him.

the puppy remained asleep through the entire thing.

and somewhere beneath your celebration, you could swear jack was already trying to figure out where a dog bed would fit in the apartment.

[scarlettbeth]

CHAPTER 1 - STILLNESS

Without the mask Where will you hide? Can't find yourself, lost in your lie — Evanescence, “Everybody's Fool”

It was spring—though that meant little to him. After all, spring merely yielded to summer and the sweltering heat. Then came fall, bringing a sharp chill that heralded winter’s inevitable snow in upstate New York. The snow would linger for a while before melting away, signaling the return of spring once more. An endless cycle as ancient as time itself, one that reminded him every day that the world kept turning, relentless and indifferent.

Of course, the world hadn’t been without its disruptions: seventy years trapped in ice, alien invasions, the so-called “death” of SHIELD, the resurgence of HYDRA, and murderous sentient robots determined to wipe out humanity. But through it all, he had forged new friendships, rediscovered old bonds, and assembled a team ready to face whatever threats lay ahead.

No, the world had not abandoned its eternal rhythm. Yet some days—like today—he couldn’t shake the feeling that it had.

In his quarters, Steve Rogers stood before floor-to-ceiling windows, watching pale pink petals from the crape myrtles swirl gently in the breeze. The vibrant trees contrasted sharply with the stark glass and steel of the Avengers Compound, though they were a concession to Pepper Potts, who had protested that the structure was too utilitarian. He straightened his posture, shoulders back, lips pressed into a firm line, and let out a small chuckle at the thought of Tony Stark being made to plant pink trees in front of what Tony had once called “my greatest invention yet—a place where all you losers can gather to annoy each other while I’m hours away sipping cocktails.”

The crape myrtles were where Stark’s concessions stopped. What started as a Stark Industries warehouse had been expanded—continually, endlessly. Now the compound housed a hangar, a medical facility, a robotics lab, weapons manufacturing, training grounds, living quarters, and a vast arsenal. The team had needed a map just to navigate in their first week, but it had quickly become home. A gathering place for the remnants of SHIELD and the “Second Coming of the Avengers,” as the press had dubbed them.

His second-in-command was Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, also known as Natalie Rushman. Their histories with SHIELD were complicated, marked by murky pasts, but it was what they brought to the present that mattered. Natasha had been there for him before he even realized he needed her. A trained assassin known for keeping everyone at arm’s length while convincing them she was their closest friend, the fact she’d let him in, even just a little, was more than he’d ever dared hope.

Sam Wilson, the Falcon, was another story. He was the friend Steve never knew he needed. Sam kept him grounded, forcing him to confront his demons and learn to live with them. As a soldier himself, Sam understood sacrifice but also knew the importance of setting boundaries.

Colonel James “Rhodey” Rhodes, the War Machine, had surprised everyone by joining the team. A distinguished Air Force officer and liaison between Stark Industries and the Department of Acquisitions, Rhodey had forged a brotherly bond with Tony Stark. Though not a full-time Avenger, he trained alongside them whenever he could, ready for the next disaster that might call him to suit up.

Wanda Maximoff, the Scarlet Witch, remained a mystery to the others, described as “a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.” Yet Steve understood her better than most. Like him, she had volunteered for dangerous experiments during what she felt was a war; both had sacrificed themselves for their countries. Wanda carried an intense need to right wrongs, including those she’d caused. Though some still feared the chaos magic she wielded, Steve trusted her commitment to the greater good—that was all that mattered.

Vision... well, Vision was Vision. It was still difficult for Steve to fully comprehend how Ultron had created a synthezoid powered by the Mind Stone and brought to life through the combined genius of Tony, Bruce, Dr. Cho, and Thor, of all people. Vision had wielded Mjolnir, battled Ultron in cyberspace as JARVIS, and fought by their side without hesitation. “I'm not what you are, and not what you intended,” Vision once said. Regardless, he had become exactly what the team needed.

The Winter Soldier was the newest addition to their “ragtag band of misfits,” as Natasha affectionately called them. James “Bucky” Barnes had emerged from the brink—caught between life and death, memory and oblivion. Retrieving him had been a nightmare; restoring his mind was even worse. The first days locked in a cell, rocking back and forth as his programming faded, had felt like a brutal detox from a lifetime of torment. Snippets of memory surfaced slowly—escaping beatings, receiving draft papers, his regiment’s capture, the train, the torture, the ten words that turned him into a ruthless weapon. “Never again” were his first resolute words after release, and the sharp clarity in his eyes told everyone Bucky was on the path back, though not yet whole.

That left only Steve—no longer quite so out-of-time. The charismatic leader of the Avengers, Captain America. The man more at home in this compound than he’d ever been in his old D.C. apartment. The man who had taken down an entire covert government agency and its infiltrators with nothing but a shield. The man who led a team of heroes against HYDRA and Ultron, now standing silently, watching crape myrtle petals dance in the breeze.

He ran a hand through his blonde hair and sighed deeply, uncertain why he felt so unsettled. He’d slept as well as could be expected, woken early for training like every day, no nightmares plaguing him. No imminent threats to the world’s order. Still, something nagged at him.

His quarters felt claustrophobic despite their size—much like his apartment once did, and his quarters during the war. Utilitarian, as Natasha had once called such spaces. Nothing extravagant or out of place; a place to eat, sleep, and review intel. The only concession he’d made was to line a wall with solid oak bookcases filled with thrifted library volumes he hoped to read one day.

The kitchen gleamed with modern stainless steel appliances and dark marble counters. The living area—too large to call just a room—held a massive sectional and matching recliner in pewter, arranged around a marble coffee table matching the countertops. To the right was his office and bedroom.

Calling that space a bedroom felt wrong. Yes, it had a bed, dresser, closet, nightstand, and lamp, but unlike several teammates’ sanctuaries, it was merely a place to rest—if he managed sleep at all.

The true heart of his quarters was the office. Nearly three times the size of his bedroom, it featured an enormous holo-table at its center. A cherrywood desk sat before large windows, allowing him the warmth of the sun on his back as he worked. From this vantage, he had a panoramic view of the room—medals and commendations hanging on the left wall above a well-worn leather couch, and a myriad of screens covering the right, ready to pull up reports, maps, and mission intel at a flick of his wrist. His tablet, controlling everything, sat surrounded by files and reports of past and present missions.

Steve would be lying if he said he didn’t feel most at home here or in the training facilities. But today, the training was done, no missions demanded review. So he found himself rooted by the living room windows, watching petals drift lazily to the ground.

There was no rational reason for his unease. His team was assembled, his leadership steady. The world was at peace, for the moment. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was lurking just beyond the horizon.

He glanced at his watch: 4:43 PM. He’d stood there more than an hour, lost in thought. “And where did that get me?” he wondered aloud.

Fighting the urge to remain motionless until clarity arrived, Steve reached back into his jeans and pulled out his phone. He tapped out a quick message before heading to change into fresh workout gear.

Meet me in the training center in 15. I need some sense beaten into me.

A moment later, a reply blinked on screen.

Finally, you admit it. See you in 15, jerk.

A rare smile tugged at his lips. Bounding up the stairs two at a time, he began mentally preparing for the ass-whooping he knew was coming.

divider by @firefly-graphics

[nostarfights]

Me Or Him

Pairing: Frank Langdon X fem!Reader

Summary: When Frank’s faced with who was able to support you while he was in rehab, he finally realizes that he should’ve never shut you out.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, Established relationship, Abby and her and Frank’s kids don’t exist, Frank’s probably a little ooc, mentions of Frank’s addiction and him going through withdrawal, cursing, crying, smut, kissing & oral sex (f!receiving).

Word Count: 2.1K

a/n: this is based on this request!

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the gif below does not belong to me

my 700 follower celebration!

Not a single word left Frank’s lips the entire ride back to his apartment, the only readable emotion on his face being anger. He’d been like this his entire first shift back and ever since he was discharged from rehab a week ago, he barely spoke to you and often just stared at you and anyone you were talking to. Which you assumed was probably just the result of him slowly adjusting to work and life again after being gone for almost an entire year.

Truth be told, you really wanted things to go back to normal between you two but you knew he needed time, so you gave him the space you thought he needed.

But little did you know, his reason for his odd behavior was far from him getting used to being back at work. It was how close you and Abbot had gotten while he was gone. You spoke to Jack today more than you’d spoken to Frank since he was discharged, still assuming he needed space. But he didn’t want space, he wanted you to hug him and hold his hand and assure him that he did belong here. 

Instead, you created a distance that hurt him, making him realize for the first time since he left that he’d fucked up. This distance was his fault, he’d pushed you away so that you wouldn’t have to see the ugly parts of his withdrawal, never getting rid of that distance even after the fact. Still, he decided it’d be best if you talked it out in a more private setting and he calmly expressed his feelings to you, like he’d learned how to do in group therapy while in rehab.

He couldn’t let himself blow up on you like he’d done with other people in the past. He just hoped he wasn’t losing you forever to Jack. 

The mere mention of the man’s name in his mind instilled more anger in him. His hands tightly gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white and his thick eyebrows furrowed, earning a worried look from you. Who the fuck did he think he was? He knew you were in a relationship and yet he continued to be all flirty with you right in front of Frank, like he wasn’t even there.

In the midst of the storm in your own mind, you too began to spiral, thinking of all the possible ways you could’ve made Frank angry today. Maybe he wanted more attention from you? Maybe rehab had made him regret your relationship? Maybe you’d fucked up with a patient and somehow didn’t notice? You racked your mind again and again for explanations but none of them seemed possible or realistic enough. 

No matter the reason, you just wanted to make things between you and Frank better but at the same time, you didn’t know what to do or where to start. From your point of view, he’d been so cold and shut off and seemed like he wanted nothing to do with you. You desperately hoped you were wrong, which is why you wanted to talk to him about how he’s been acting when you get back to his place.

If he didn’t want to be with you anymore, you’d rather he reveal it now rather than let all this heartbreak and tension build up.

—-------------------------------

You looked directly at Frank once he’d shut the front door to his apartment behind you, “Alright, what’s going on?” you asked him, putting your hands on your hips.

His eyes darted from the floor then back up to you, reminding you of how much rehab had changed him. He was no longer as charming as he used to be and he knew it. He lightly frowned, his hands awkwardly holding the baseball cap he’d been wearing, “Nothing, sweetheart. I just had a bad day is all.” he answered, setting the hat aside.

You frowned at him, crossing your arms over your chest and taking a hesitant step closer to him, “I think it's more than that. Ever since you got back, you’ve been so distant and you barely talk to me anymore. Was there something I did?” you said, accidentally making him more angry at Jack and partially you.

He dragged a hand over his face and sighed, “Sort of, yeah. I just can’t stop thinking about how close you and Abbot have gotten while I was gone. You ignored me all day and stayed glued to his side, practically laughing at every word he said like he’s the funniest person on the fuckin’ planet.” he explained, his anger not allowing any other emotion to come up to the surface, and began to pace the room.

His words were like a punch to the gut, knocking the air out of you. “What’re you talking about? Jack and I are just friends.” you said, a frown and furrowed eyebrows seemingly permanently etched into your features.

Frank suddenly stopped in his tracks, “Jack? Or so now you’re on a first name basis with him? What, are you in love with him or something?” he fired back, regretting his words the second they left his mouth once he saw the tears that had started to fill your eyes. He wanted more than anything to hold your face in his hands, wipe your tears away, apologize and kiss you. But it was too late now, the damage had been done and he wasn't even sure if his comfort was something you wanted anymore.

Your face crumpled, tears falling down your cheeks, “What? No, I would never do that to you Frank. He just supported me while you were gone, that’s it. I mean, you weren’t there, I needed you and you weren’t there. I was just so lonely and isolated, I felt like you didn’t love me anymore especially since you never let me visit you. So I confided in Jack and I switched to the night shift until you got back. I don’t know, maybe I’m just a fool for believing that things would be back to normal as soon as you got discharged.” you explained, watching him with a look of concern as tears quickly filled his blue eyes, eyes that refused to meet yours.

He turned away from you, his shoulders hunched, like he was afraid you’d leave him after seeing him like this. You didn’t regret what you said but you hated being the reason for his tears.

You wiped your own away and took another step toward him, reaching up to hold his face in your hand and forcing him to look at you, “Hey, you don’t have to hide your tears from me. Just let it out, okay?” you quietly said and he nodded.

But before you could say another comforting word or hug him, Frank beat you to it and wrapped his arms around you. His shoulders shook with every sob, “I’m so sorry, baby. I really fucked up this time, huh?” he mumbled with a self-deprecating chuckle, the sound of how broken he was shattering your heart. You hated seeing him like this.

You shook your head against him, “No, you didn’t. I forgive you, Frankie, just promise me you’ll be more honest with me in the future. I want every part of you, even the parts you’re too scared to share. I’ll always love you.” you said, shocking him. He’d expected you to be furious, to push him away and tell him that you hate him, not forgive him.

He messily wiped his tears away and pulled himself out of your arms, briefly pressing his forehead to yours before he lifted his head, “I love you too. I don’t deserve you, I’m too fucked up.” he said with a sniffle.

You took one of his hands in yours, giving it a gentle squeeze that he swiftly returned, “You do deserve me. You always have and always will, okay? You’re not fucked up.” you replied.

Frank nodded, his tears finally stopping, “Okay,” he answered, his eyes flickering from your eyes down to your lips. “Let me make it up to you.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, “How?” you asked, noticing how his pupils had gotten a little bigger in the blink of an eye.

He cupped your face in his hands, tilting it up, his thumb stroking your cheek, “Let me show you how sorry I am. I miss making you feel good.” he confessed, making your cheeks blush while goosebumps littered your skin.

“You sure?” you asked and he eagerly nodded.

“Please, I need you so bad, baby. I need to show you how sorry I am,” he begged, his voice sending a shiver up your spine, and you nodded. He crashed his lips into yours, instantly deepening the kiss in a way that made you gasp into his mouth. He snaked an arm around your waist, pulling you closer until your tits were pressed up against him. “Thank you. I just wanna make you feel good.” he murmured against your lips, causing a warm feeling to settle in your belly.

You’d never seen him be so submissive, it was kind of hot.

Without another word, Frank picked you up and you wrapped your legs around his waist, his lips never leaving yours. His hand soon tangled itself in your hair, pulling your lips off of his and he planted his lips on your neck, roughly kissing and biting the flesh there while your back made contact with his bed.

You gasped at the action, “You smell so fuckin’ good.” he muttered against your skin, his lust-filled eyes meeting yours as he practically ripped your scrubs off, leaving you in your underwear.

He kissed you once more, trailing these kisses from your lips to your neck to the valley between your tits to your hips. He grabbed the waistband of your panties in between his teeth and dragged them down, his hands never once leaving your waist, earning another gasp from you.

“Fuck.” you breathily mumbled at the sight, needily arching into his touch.

Frank grabbed your calf, pressing a gentle kiss there, “Open your legs for me, baby. Let me see you,” he said and you instantly obeyed, all of the anger and sadness that had once been coursing through both of you long gone. He shook his head in disbelief and grinned, “So pretty. This all for me?”, his eyes glued to your pussy and your glistening folds, eliciting a weak nod from you.

You took a sharp breath in as he attached his lips to your clit, already sucking on the sensitive bundle of nerves, “Always, Frankie.” you said with a soft moan, your voice higher than you meant it to be. 

Two of his fingers easily slid into you while his mouth continued its attack on your clit. It all felt so good, it was almost overwhelming, but you never wanted him to stop, secretly loving how desperate to make it up to you he had become. He suddenly interrupted your thoughts from between your legs, “You taste so good, baby. I could die a happy man between these legs.” he told you with another grin while he held your legs open with his free hand, his chin glistening with your wetness, sending butterflies straight to your stomach.

The second his mouth was back on you, you lightly grasped his hair in your hand, feeling yourself getting closer much quicker than you usually did after ten whole months of being separated from your handsome boyfriend. Your eyebrows tightly furrowed, “Fuck, right there, feels so good. I’m so close.” you babbled, almost unintelligibly, your head thrown back in ecstasy.

His grasp on your thighs tightened, “Cum for me, sweetheart. Let me feel it.” he gently commanded and within seconds, you fell apart on his tongue. When you opened your eyes again, he was already hovering over you, his lips meeting yours, letting you taste yourself on them.

You looked over at him from where he laid down next to you, “I’m glad you’re home, Frankie. I missed you and I’m sorry for not telling you about Jack sooner.” you said, softly smiling up at him as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, shamelessly inhaling your scent, “I’m sorry too, I shouldn’t have blown up on you like that.” he replied, softly stroking your hair, a wordless encouragement to fall asleep on his chest. There was more you both wanted to bring up but that’d have to wait until the morning.

“I forgive you.” you quietly repeated, your eyelids growing heavier and heavier with each passing minute.

NAVIGATION send a request!

[w1nter-fairy]

Our love remains𑣲

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pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

summary: Six months after disappearing, you're alone in a remote cabin in Norway, slowly becoming something not entirely human. Meanwhile, Bucky tears through the universe trying to find a cure because aftr everything you've gone through, Bucky refuses to believe your story ends in separation. And this time, he's not letting you go.

word count: 10.7 k

warnings: +18 MDNI smut, established relationship, hurt/comfort, isolation, near death expriences, panic/grief, lots of crying. angst with a happy ending(yay), mutual pining, canon divergence, fluff, a lot of cameos.

a/n: so, after binge watching the infinity saga + black panther + wakanda forever I finally came here with this resolution for the angstiest story I've ever written. I hope you all enjoy it and that it makes sense :) also big thank you for @herejustforbuckybarnes @buckysdecaflove & @kileyking for beta reading this ꨄ︎ you have a big place in my heart! | dividers by @strangergraphics

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Six months later.

The cabin is so remote that supply drops only come once a month.

You chose Norway because the cold helps. Something about extreme temperatures stabilizes the radiation — makes the constant hum under your skin almost bearable.

The cabin is small. One room, actually. A bed you rarely sleep in, a kitchenette you barely use, and a desk completely buried under research materials. Quantum physics textbooks in three languages, compound's database you stole before disappearing, including Bruce's notes.

Your hands hover over an equation, and they're glowing again. Faint purple light seeping through your skin like bioluminescence. You've learned to control it somewhat— channel it into small bursts of energy manipulation. You can move objects now without touching them, create shields, sense energy fields within a hundred-meter radius.

But it doesn't matter. None of it matters, because you're alone.

The dog tags hang heavy around your neck, you haven't taken them off once in six months. Sometimes you hold them when you sleep and pretend there's still a heartbeat behind them.

You wonder if he's given up looking yet. You wonder if Steve finally convinced him to let you go, if he started healing, started living, started forgetting—

Your hands flare bright purple and the coffee mug on the desk shatters.

"Shit." Your voice sounds strange. You haven't spoken out loud in three days, maybe four.

You clean up the ceramic shards with your bare hands, not bothering with the broom. The cuts heal almost instantly now, another side effect you discovered in the past weeks: accelerated healing, enhanced strength, and a bone-deep exhaustion that no amount of sleep can touch.

The latest book you've read is about quantum entanglement. The theory that particles can remain connected across any distance, that what affects one affects the other instantaneously. You'd laughed when you first read it, because of course that's what you are now. Quantumly entangled with Bucky across whatever distance you've put between you, feeling the ache of separation like a physical wound.

Your notes are getting more desperate, the handwriting sloppier. Margins filled with half-formed theories and crossed out equations. What if you could reverse the cellular integration? What if you could extract the energy signature? What if, what if, what if—

You slam the book shut and stand up too fast, the chair scrapes against the wooden floor, loud in the oppressive silence.

Outside, it's snowing again. You pull on your jacket—his jacket, actually, one of the things you took when you came here— and step out into the blizzard. The cold hits like a slap, but you welcome it. The wind screams, and you scream back, your voice low in the howl of the storm.

"TAKE IT BACK!"

Your hands are blazing now, purple energy crackling between your fingers like lightning. The snow around you melts in a perfect circle, steam rising as radiation meets ice.

"YOU GAVE THIS TO ME, SO TAKE IT BACK!" You're on your knees now, hands pressed into the snow, and where your palms touch the ground, the energy pulses outward in waves. "I DON'T WANT IT ANYMORE! I DON'T WANT ANY OF IT!"

The universe doesn't answer. It never does.

You collapse forward, forehead pressed against the frozen ground, and the sobs come like they always do: violent, wrenching and endless. Your fingers dig into the snow until they hit permafrost, and the dog tags swing forward, cold metal against your neck.

"Please," you whisper to no one, to nothing. "Please just let me go, let me fade… let me disappear. I can't do this anymore."

The wind howls.

You stay there until hypothermia starts to set in—which takes longer than it should, because apparently, cosmic radiation makes you resistant to temperature extremes too. When you finally drag yourself back inside, there's a perfect circle of dead earth where you'd been kneeling. Nothing will grow there for years.

You don't bother changing out of your wet clothes, you just curl up on the bed, still wearing his jacket, clutching his dog tags and stare at the wall. You probably should sleep, but instead, you reach for your phone.

You know you shouldn't do this, you've promised yourself every night you won't do this again, but you do it anyway.

The folder is called DO NOT OPEN and you've opened it 180 times, once for every night since you've been gone. Your finger hovers over one video for just one moment—one last chance for saving yourself— before you press play.

The screen fills with Bucky's face, and your heart immediately shatters. He's in bed, hair messy from sleep, early morning light streaming through the window behind him. This was recorded four months before everything went wrong. Before you knew that touching him could kill him.

"Stop recording me," video-Bucky mumbles, but he's smiling. That real, genuine smile he only ever gave you. The one that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.

"Never," your own voice responds from behind the camera, playful and so fucking happy it hurts to hear. "You're too pretty in the morning, it's unfair."

"I'm not pretty, I'm rugged."

"You're pretty and rugged, that's a dangerous combination."

He reaches for the camera—for you— and the frame shakes as you dodge away, laughing. God, your laugh sounds so carefree, like you didn't know that in four months, you'd be alone in a frozen cabin listening to this laugh and wanting to die.

"Come back to bed," video-Bucky says, and his voice is rough with sleep and affection and want. "It's too early for this."

"It's 10 AM."

"Exactly, too early." He props himself up on one elbow, and the sheet slips down to his waist. You remember this moment, remember thinking he looked like something out of a dream. "Put the phone down and come here."

"Make me."

His grin turns wicked. "Is that a challenge?"

"Maybe."

What happens next is blur—he's suddenly lunging forward, the camera spins wildly, and then you're both laughing, breathless and so in love it radiates from every frame. The video stabilizes eventually. Now you're both in frame, squeezed together in a selfie angle. His arm is around your shoulders and your head is tucked against his chest.

"Say hi to future us," you say to the camera.

"Hi future us," Bucky obliges, then he looks down at you, and his expression goes soft. "Hope you're having a good day."

"Hope we're still this happy," you add quietly.

He kisses the top of your head. "We will be, I promise."

The video ends.

You're sobbing before the screen even goes dark. It comes out in ragged, gasping waves—the kind of crying that feels like it's tearing you apart from the inside out. You curl tighter round the phone, pressing it against your chest like you can somehow press yourself back into that moment. Back when you were warm and safe.

"I'm sorry," you choke out to the empty room. To the ghost of him in the video. "I'm so sorry. I couldn't keep us that happy, I couldn't—"

Your voice breaks completely.

You replay the video again.

And again.

And again.

Then you close your eyes and try to sleep, knowing you'll dream of him. Knowing you'll wake up reaching for someone who isn't there. Knowing tomorrow night you'll watch the video again. Because it hurts, but it's all you have.

AVENGERS COMPOUND, month 2 since you left.

Bucky hasn't slept in thirty-six hours.

Steve finds him in the lab at 3 AM surrounded by data pads and holographic displays, Carol Danvers' contact information pulled up on the main screen.

"Buck—"

"She's out there somewhere, completely alone, probably thinking she saved me." Bucky doesn't look up from the screen, his metal fingers tap against the desk in an arrhythmic pattern that betrays his agitation. "She's got cosmic radiation tearing her apart from the inside and she's alone, Steve."

"You don't know that she's—"

"Yes, I do." Now Bucky looks up, and Steve flinches at what he sees in his eyes. "I know her, she took every piece of research she could carry. She's trying to fix herself, trying to find a cure so she can come back."

Steve sits down heavily. "Or she's trying to accept that there isn't one."

"No," the word comes out flat. "I don't accept that. Carol Danvers survived direct exposure to an Infinity Stone, so did Peter Quill and his entire team. Wanda got his powers from the mind stone. There are precedents, Steve, there are options."

"Bruce already—"

"Bruce doesn't know everything." Bucky pulls up a new file—Carol's SHIELD profile, her encounter with the tesseract. "Carol Danvers absorbs energy, that's her entire power set. What if she could absorb the radiation from—"

"Bucky, you're grasping at straws."

"I'm following leads," Bucky's jaw tightens. "There's a difference."

Steve watches his best friend for a long moment. The shadows under Bucky's eyes, the tension in his shoulder, the way his flesh hand keeps reaching for something that isn't there—your hand, probably. The habit is so ingrained that he doesn't even notice he's doing it anymore.

"If you find her," Steve says quietly, "and there's no cure… what then?"

Bucky's smile is sharp and humorless. "Then I'll find one anyway, I'll search every corner of this universe and the next if I have to."

"Buck—"

"She gave everything to save me, Steve. She walked away from me—the person she loved the most— because she thought it was the only way to keep me alive." Bucky stands, gathering his research into a neat stack. "So yeah, I'm gonna find a cure, and then I'm gonna find her. And then we're gonna have the forever she didn't think we could have."

"You sound pretty certain."

"I am certain," Bucky's smile heads for the door, pausing a the threshold. "I didn't survive seventy years of HYDRA just to lose her to bad luck and cosmic radiation. I'm getting her back, Steve. That's not a question. The only question is how long it will take."

He's gone before he can respond.

Month 3: Carol Danvers.

Turns out finding Carol Danvers is harder than expected. She's off-world more than she's on it, handling emergencies across multiple galaxies. Bucky makes a bunch of favors to Nick Fury so he can let him borrow his pager.

He waits patiently for one week until Carol materializes in a flash of gold light, landing in the empty field where Bucky's been waiting.

"You're Bucky."

He stands his ground. "Yeah, thanks for meeting me."

"Fury said you needed help with an Infinity Stone problem." Carol crosses her arms. "I'm listening."

So Bucky tells her everything. The mission to Morag, the power stone, the way you grabbed it to save everyone and the radiation poisoning that followed. Carol listens without interrupting, when he's done, she's quiet for a long moment.

"She grabbed the Power Stone with her bare hands," Carol says finally, "and survived."

"Barely."

"No, you don't get it." Carol shakes her head. "She should be dead. The fact that she's alive at all means her body did something right, it adapted somehow."

"But she's still emitting radiation—"

"Because her body doesn't know what to do with the energy it absorbed. It's trying to expel something it should be integrating." Carol starts pacing thinking out loud. "When I absorbed the Tesseract energy, my cells restructured at a molecular level, the energy became part of me. Your girlfriend's body is stuck in limbo—it absorbed the energy but can't process it."

Bucky's heart rate picks up. "Do you think… you can help her?"

"Maybe." Carol turns to face him. "I can absorb energy, it's literally what I do. If she's emitting Infinity Stone radiation, I might be able to pull it out of her system."

"Might?"

"I've never tried to absorb Infinity Stone energy from another person before," Carol's expression is serious. "But I'm willing to try. Where is she?"

And there it is… the question Bucky's been dreading.

"I don't know," he admits. "She disappeared three months ago, I've been trying to find her, but—"

"But she doesn't want to be found." Carol's expression softens slightly. "Smart girl."

"I need to find her first," Bucky says. "But when I do, will you help?"

Carol studies him for a moment and sees the desperation he's trying to hide, the determination, the love.

"Yeah," she says finally. "I'll help. But Barnes— even if I can absorb some of the radiation, it might not be enough. Infinity Stone exposure on this scale… there might not be a complete cure."

"Then I'll find one anyway."

Carol almost smiles. "Stubborn."

"You have no idea."

"Actually, I think I do." She pulls out a pager that looks exactly like Fury's. "Here. If you find her, call me and I'll come as soon as I can."

Bucky takes it carefully. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," Carol's eyes glow faint gold. "Just find her, and when you do tell her Carol Danvers said she's a bad ass for surviving this long."

She's gone in a flash of light.

Month 4: Peter Quill.

The Guardians are harder to track down than Carol was. They don't exactly have an Earth address, they don't check in with any planetary authorities. They're mercenaries, pirates, heroes—depending on who you ask—and they move through the galaxy like ghosts.

Bucky has to call in a favor from Thor's old contacts. Has to promise things to people he'd rather shoot and has to follow a trail of bar fights and unpaid tabs halfway across the galaxy in a borrowed ship.

He finds them on Knowhere, of all places, in a dive bar that smells like engine fuel. Peter Quill is drunk… not falling-down drunk, but close.

Bucky slides into the seat across from him without asking. Quill looks up, squinting

"Do I know you?"

"I'm Bucky Barnes, I'm—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, Steve Rogers' boyfriend or whatever." Quill waves a hand vaguely. "What do you want? We're not taking any jobs right now."

"I'm not here to hire you," Bucky pushes a data pad across the table. "I'm here because you survived direct exposure to the Power Stone."

That gets Quill's attention. He straightens up, suddenly more sober. "Why do you want to know about that?"

"Because someone I love is sort of dying from the same thing."

The words hang in the air between them.

Quill's expression changes. "Tell me," he says quietly.

So Bucky does, again. The whole story. By the time he's finished, Quill has ordered another drink.

"She grabbed it to save you," Quill says.

"To save everyone on the mission."

"But mostly you."

Bucky doesn't deny it.

Quill stares into his glass. "Gamora died because of a Soul Stone, because Thanos—" He cuts himself off, jaw tight. "I know what it's like, losing someone like that. Having to keep going when the only person you want is gone."

"I'm sorry," Bucky says, and means it.

"Yeah, me too." Quill drains his drink. "The only reason I survived the Power Stone was because my team shared the load—and because of my celestial DNA, without that, I'd be dead. Your girl doesn't have either of those things."

"But she survived."

"She did," Quill leans forward. "Which means her body did something extraordinary. The human body shouldn't be able to process Infinity Stone energy, but if she's alive, if she's still walking around, that means she's adapted somehow."

"Carol said the same thing."

"Carol's right. Your girlfriend is basically a living Infinity Stone battery at this point." Quill pauses. "The question is whether that's killing her or making her stronger."

"It's killing me," Bucky says flatly. "The radiation makes me sick, my body reads it as a threat."

"Because of that knockoff serum running through your veins, it's trying to protect you from what it thinks is a toxin." Quill drums his fingers on the table. "But what if it's not a toxin? What if it's just… power? Raw, uncontrolled, cosmic power that her body doesn't know how to use yet?"

Bucky's mind is racing. "You think she needs to integrate it, not expel it."

"I think she needs to stop fighting it, yeah." Quill meets his eyes. "When I held the Power Stone, I could feel it trying to tear me apart, but the moment I stopped resisting that's when it clicked. I could hold it and channel it. You need to find her and tell her to stop fighting it."

There's a long silence.

"I lost the person I loved most," Quill says finally. "I didn't get a choice, she was just… gone. But you've got a chance. Your girl is out there somewhere, alive. Don't waste it, don't let her think she has to do this alone."

"She left because being near me was killing me."

"So find a way to fix that part," Quill pulls up a holographic display. "I'll give you my genetic profile, the medical scans, all of it. Maybe it'll help."

"Why?" Bucky asks. "You don't know me."

Quill's smile is sad. "Because if I could go back, if I could save Gamora… I'd do anything, absolutely anything." He slides the data chip across the table. "So go save yours."

Bucky takes the chip carefully. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me, just—" Quill's voice cracks slightly. "Just get her back. And when you do, don't let go. Not for anything."

"I won't," Bucky promises.

Three hours later, Rocket corners Bucky in the cargo bay.

"So," Rocket says, eyeing Bucky's metal arm with barely concealed interest. "That arm of yours, if you happen to not need it anymore—"

"No."

"I'm just saying—"

"Rocket, I swear—"

"That thing is wasted on you! Do you even know what I could do with tech like that? The upgrades I could—"

"I am Groot," Groot interrupts gently.

"Fine! Fine, I'll stop asking." Rocket huffs. "But when you get yourself killed doing something stupid for your girlfriend, I call dibs."

Despite everything, Bucky almost laughed.

"If I die," he says, "you can have it."

Rocket's eyes light up. "Really?"

"No, not really. Stop asking."

"You're no fun."

But when Bucky lies down that night in the spare quarters they've given him, staring at the ceiling of an alien ship somewhere in deep space, he pulls out the locket and opens it. Stares at your face in the small photograph.

"I'm getting closer," he whispers to the image. "I'm gonna solve this and then I'm gonna find you."

The photo doesn't answer, but he keeps talking anyway.

"I know you think you saved me by leaving, and maybe you did—maybe I would've killed myself trying to get more time with you. But you gotta know, I'm not surviving without you, I'm just existing."

His thumb traces the edge of the locket.

"So I'm coming for you, and I'm bringing a cure. And then you're never leaving my side again."

He closes the locket and presses it against his chest. "Hold on a little longer."

Month 5: Wakanda.

Shuri doesn't look up when Bucky enters her lab. She's surrounded by holographic displays—genetic sequences spinning in mid-air, cellular structures rotating slowly, data streams flowing faster than he can follow.

"Sergeant Barnes," she says, still focused on her work. "I've been expecting you."

"You have?"

"Oh please, quit the innocent act. Captain Danvers contacted me three weeks ago, Peter Quill's genetic data arrived last Tuesday. I've been running simulations since then."

Bucky's heart jumps. "And?"

"It's fascinating," Shuri waves her hand and the displays reorganize themselves. "Your girlfriend grabbed the Power Stone with her bare hands and survived, do you understand how extraordinary that is?"

"I know she should be dead—"

"No, you don't understand." Shuri pulls up an image—a cellular structure that seems half-familiar. "These are her cells, or at least, what I'm projecting they look like based on the radiation signature Bruce detected. See these markers here?" She points to glowing purple threads woven through the DNA. "That's Infinity Stone radiation, not just touching her cells, but integrated into them. Part of her genetic code now."

Bucky stares at the image. "How is that possible?"

"The same way Carol Danvers survived Tesseract exposure, the same way Wanda Maximoff gained powers from the Mind Stone. The same way Vision was created." Shuri's expression turns serious. "When I was trying to remove the Mind Stone from Vision, I was working with approximately three million neurons, trying separate the Stone's influence from his neural pathways without destroying what made him… him."

"You didn't have time to finish."

"No," pain flickers across Shuri's face. "But I learned something important: you can't just rip Infinity Stone energy out of living tissue, it's woven too deeply. The only way forward is reintegration."

"I don't understand."

Shuri pulls up another display—this time showing Quill's genetic structure next to your projected one. "Peter Quill's Celestial DNA allowed him to hold the Power Stone temporarily because his cells could process that level of energy. Carol Danvers' cells restructured to absorb and metabolize cosmic energy. Your girlfriend's cells are trying to do the same thing—but they're stuck halfway."

"Bruce said her body was rejecting it."

"Because it doesn't know how to accept it." Shuri starts pulling up more data—complex equations, cellular models, energy flow diagrams. "Think of it like an organ transplant. Her body absorbed this foreign energy, but her immune system is treating it as an invader. It's trying to expel something that's already part of her."

Bucky's mind is racing. "So what do we do?"

"We teach her cells to stop fighting." Shuri's smile is sharp. "We program her DNA to recognize the energy as native rather than foreign. Molecular reintegration."

"Is that possible?"

"I did it with Vision's neurons. This is the same principle, just… broader scope." Shuri pulls up a simulation—cells reorganizing, energy pathways forming, the purple glow gradually fading from threat to integration. " If I can map her complete structure, I can design a recoding sequence. Nanobots that rewrite her cellular programming one cell at a time, teaching her body to metabolize the radiation."

"How long would that take?"

"The procedure itself? Six to eight hours. Full integration? Three to four weeks as the nanobots work through her system." Shuri meets his eyes. "But there's a complication."

Of course there is.

"The radiation levels are too high right now," Shuri continues. "If I try to recode her cells while she's emitting that much energy, the nanobots will burn out before they can complete the process. We need to reduce her baseline radiation first."

"Carol can absorb it."

"Exactly," Shuri nods. "Captain Danvers reduces the radiation to manageable levels—say, twenty to thirty percent of current output, then I perform the molecular reintegration. Her cells learn to process the remaining energy naturally."

"And then?"

"And then she stops being a walking radiation source. She'll still have powers—the energy is part of her now, that's not changing. But her body will know how to control it, contain it, use it… she won't be toxic to you anymore."

Bucky can barely breathe. "And you think it'll work?"

"I ran the simulation eight hundred and forty-seven times," Shuri pulls up the success rate. "Ninety-two percent success rate. The eight percent failure scenarios all involve variables I can control for with proper preparation."

"Ninety-two percent."

"Better odds than we usually get." Shuri closes the displays with a gesture. "There's one more thing. The reintegration works best when the subject is willing. When they stop fighting the energy and accept it as part of themselves."

Bucky remembers Quill's words: The moment I stopped resisting, that's when it clicked.

"We were trying to fight it the whole time," he says quietly. "She's probably out there trying to do the same thing."

"Then you'll need to convince her to stop." Shuri's gaze is steady. "This won't work if she's still trying to expel the energy. She needs to embrace it, accept that this is who she is now."

"She will," Bucky says with certainty. "Once she knows there's a way back she'll do whatever it takes."

"Good," Shuri starts compiling the data. "I'll need her here in Wakanda for the procedure. The lab has shielding that can protect you during the process. And Barnes—" She pauses. "I'll need a complete genetic sample. Blood work, cellular scans, the full profile. Which means you'll need to find her first."

"I'm working on it."

"Well, work faster. I've seen psychological profiles on prolonged isolation. Five months alone with that kind of power… it changes people. Find her soon."

"I will."

Finding you takes another four weeks.

Steve and Bruce work the digital angle—reading financial footprints, energy signatures, satellite anomalies. Tony's AI runs pattern recognition on global power fluctuations. But it's Sam who finds the real lead.

"Supply drops," he says, dropping a folder on the table in front of Bucky. "Remote locations, extreme climates. Someone's been ordering very specific brand of snacks to a location in Northern Norway, among other interesting things…"

Bucky's hands are shaking as he opens the folder. Shipping manifests. Your favorite brand of cookies, quantum physics textbooks. The deliveries stop at a drop point fifty kilometers from the nearest settlement.

"It's her," he breathes.

"Probably," Sam agrees. "But Buck—you can't be the one to approach her."

"Like hell I can't—"

"Think about it." Steve's voice is quiet. "She left to protect you. If you show up before we can implement the cure, she'll run. She'll think you're being reckless, that you're going to hurt yourself trying to be near her."

Bucky knows he's right. Hates it, but he knows it.

"I'll go," Bruce offers. "With Steve. We'll explain about Carol, about Shuri's procedure. We'll convince her to come back."

"She won't believe it's real," Bucky says roughly. "She'll think it's a trap, or false hope, or—"

"Then we'll show her the data." Bruce is already pulling up Shuri's simulations on his tablet. "The success rate, the genetic models, everything. She's a scientist, Bucky, she'll understand the evidence."

"And what if she doesn't want to come back?"

Steve's hand lands on his shoulder. "Then we'll keep trying until she does. But Buck—we need to move fast. Every day she's out there alone…"

He doesn't finish, doesn't have to.

"Okay," Bucky's voice is hoarse. "Okay, you go. But I'm coming with you. I'll stay in the jet, I won't approach her, but I need to be there."

"Bucky—"

"I need to see her, Steve. Even if it's from a distance, even if she doesn't know I'm there." His hand clenches into a fist. "I haven't seen her face in six months. Please."

Steve and Bruce exchange a look.

"The jet has radiation shielding." Bruce says slowly. "If you stay inside, behind the barrier."

"I will, I promise."

"Alright," Steve nods. "We leave in an hour."

You're halfway through a complex equation when you feel it—two energy signatures getting closer.

Your hands flare purple instinctively, defensive. Your supplies came two days ago, so no one should be out here.

You're at the window when you see them: Steve and Bruce, hiking through the snow toward your cabin. They're not wearing tactical gear, no weapons visible. Just two men in winter coats, looking like they're out for a walk.

No.

They can't be here. You were so careful, you covered your tracks, you—

They're fifty meters away now, close enough that you can see Steve's concerned expression. Close enough that Bruce is checking some kind of device in his hand—probably measuring your radiation output.

You grab your go-bag. You can run. There's a back exit, you can be gone before they get here. But Steve holds up his hands, as a universal sign of 'we come in peace' and you hesitate.

Bruce pulls out a tablet, holds it up so you can see the screen from this distance. It's still too far away to see it clearly, but looks like genetic sequences, cellular models and something about Wakandan technology you remember from Shuri's lab.

Your hands are shaking now. Slowly, carefully, you open the door.

"Don't come any closer," you call out. Your voice sounds strange after weeks of disuse. "I mean it, Steve. You know what I can do."

"We're here to help you." Steve calls back.

"There is no help. I've been researching for six months, I've read everything—"

"To find a cure," Bruce interrupts. "But that's not the right approach… we found an alternative."

"What?"

"Can we come in?" Bruce asks. "I'll show you the data, all of it. The procedure, the success rate, everything."

You should say no. You should run. This is exactly what you were afraid of—them finding you, giving you false hope, convincing you to come back when nothing has changed.

But god, you're so tired of being alone.

"Stay on that side of the room," you say, stepping back. "Don't get closer than five feet."

They enter slowly, Bruce immediately starts setting up the tablet on your desk, pulling up files and simulations, Steve stays by the door, watching you with that expression you know too well—the one that says he's trying to figure out if you're okay.

You're not okay. You haven't been okay in six months.

"Carol Danvers can absorb energy," Bruce starts without preamble. "She's agreed to reduce your radiation output by sixty to seventy percent. Then Shuri performs a molecular reintegration procedure—essentially reprogramming your cells to metabolize the Infinity Stone energy instead of expelling it."

You stare at the data, there are some cellular models showing the integration process, and there's a timeline—six to eight hours for the procedure, three to four weeks for full integration, the success rate is 92%.

"This is real?" Your voice cracks.

"It's real," Steve says quietly. "Shuri's been working on it for weeks. She's ready whenever you are."

"And Bucky—" You can't finish the question.

"He's been searching for this since the day you left," Bruce says. "Carol, Peter Quill, Shuri—he tracked down everyone who's ever survived Infinity Stone exposure. This solution exists because he refused to give up."

Your eyes are burning at this point. "Is he…"

"He's alive. He's okay." Steve's voice is gentle. "He wants to see you."

"No." The word comes out panicked. "No, he can't—the radiation—"

"He's not here," Bruce says quickly. "He's in the jet, behind shielding. He promised not to approach until after the procedure."

The relief and disappointment war in your chest.

"Can I—" You swallow hard. "Can I see him? From a distance?"

Steve and Bruce exchange a glance.

"The jet has observation windows," Steve says. "You'd be separated, but—"

"I don't care." You're already moving toward the door. "Please."

They set it up in the cargo hold.

A wall of reinforced glass, the kind designed to contain gamma radiation. You on one side, Bucky on the other. Five feet of separation plus a barrier that could probably withstand a nuclear blast.

It's not enough, but it's the closest you've been to him in six months. Bruce and Steve step back, giving you privacy. You can barely breathe as you walk toward the glass, your hands trembling, your heart racing so fast you think it might burst.

And then you see him.

He's thinner. There are shadows under his eyes that weren't there before. His hair is longer, tied back in a knot. He's wearing the jacket you bought him for his birthday last year—the one he claimed he didn't like but wore constantly anyway.

He looks like he hasn't slept in weeks.

But he still looks beautiful.

"Hi," you whisper, even though he can't possibly hear you through the glass.

But his lips move, forming the same word: Hi.

Your hand comes up, pressing against the glass. His mirrors it on the other side, flesh palm to your purple-veined one, separated by three inches of reinforced barrier.

"You found me," you say.

He nods, his eyes are red.

"I'm sorry." The words tumble out. "I'm so sorry, I thought I was saving you, I thought—"

He shakes his head sharply and pulls out his phone, types something and then he holds it up to the glass:

Don't apologize, you did save me. Now it's my turn to save us.

Your breath hitches. "Is it real? Bruce showed me the data, but—"

He types again: 92% success rate. Shuri's ready, Carol's ready. We just need you there.

"What if I'm part of the 8%?"

Then we find another way, but you won't be. I know you won't be.

You're crying now, tears running down your face. "I missed you so much."

I know, me too.

"I still love you, I never stopped, I—"

He's typing again, but his other hand is pressed so hard against the glass you can see his knuckles turning white: I never stopped either, not even for a second.

"I wear your dog tags every day." You pull them out from under your shirt, hold them up so he can see.

His face crumbles, he touches the locket around his neck.

You both stand there, hands pressed to opposite sides of the glass, crying, trying to get closer to each other through sheer force of will.

"After the procedure," you whisper. "How long until we can—"

He understands immediately and types again: Three to four weeks for full integration. But Bruce thinks maybe partial contact earlier. An hour, maybe two. We build up slowly.

"I can do that. I can wait." Your voice is steadier now. "I waited six months, I can wait a few more weeks if it means forever after that. When do we start?"

He looks over his shoulder—probably at Steve or Bruce. Then he looks back at you and types: Whenever you're ready. We can go to Wakanda right now. Carol's on standby.

You take a shaky breath and look down at your hands—still glowing faintly purple, still dangerous. Then you look at him, the man who crossed the galaxy to find a solution and refused to give up even when you'd given up on yourself.

"I'm ready."

The medical bay is unlike anything you've ever seen. Shuri's designed it specifically for this—a surgical theater surrounded by energy dampening fields, radiation shielding, and enough monitoring equipment to track every cell in your body simultaneously. Carol Danvers stands to one side, warming up like an athlete before a marathon.

You're in the center, sitting on the examination table in a medical gown, trying not to think about the 8% failure rate.

"Okay," Shuri says, circling you with a scanner. "Here's how this works. First, Carol absorbs as much of the excess radiation as she can. This will hurt—I'm not going to lie to you. It's going to feel like she's pulling your insides out. But it's necessary to get your levels down to where the nanobots can work."

"How long?"

"Ten to fifteen minutes, depending on how much energy she can safely absorb." Shuri meets your eyes. "You need to say conscious through it. If you pass out, your body might instinctively fight back, and we can't risk that."

You nod, even though your hands are shaking.

"After Carol's done, I'll inject the nanobots. They'll start the recoding process immediately—you'll feel that too. Warmth, tingling, maybe some discomfort as your cells restructure. The initial programming takes six to eight hours. You'll be sedated for most of it."

"And then?"

"Then we wait. Three to four weeks for full integration. But if everything goes right, you should be able to tolerate brief contact within a week. We'll build up slowly."

Brief contact. A week. You can do this.

"Where's Bucky?"

Shuri gestures to the observation room—a wall of glass where you can see him pacing like a caged animal. Steve's there too, one hand on Bucky's shoulder, probably the only thing keeping him from breaking through the barrier.

Your eyes meet across the distance. He presses his hand to the glass. You mirror the gesture, even though he's too far away to really see.

"He'll be there the whole time," Shuri promises. "Every second. Ready?"

No. Not even a little bit.

"Yes," you say anyway.

Carol steps forward and her eyes are glowing now, fully gold, power radiating off her in waves. "I need you to lower your defenses," she says. "Stop fighting the energy, let it flow naturally. Can you do that?"

"I can do that."

"Good," Carol's hands hover over your shoulders, not quite touching. "On three. One—"

She doesn't get to three.

The pain is immediate and absolute. It feels like she's reached inside your chest and grabbed your heart, except is not your heart, it's the energy, the purple lightning that's been living in your veins for six months, and she's pulling it out thread by thread. Your back arches, your hands grip the table hard enough to dent the metal and you can't breathe, can't think, can't—

"Stay with me!" Carol's voice cuts through the agony. "I know it hurts, but you need to stay conscious. Focus on something!"

You focus on the observation window.

On Bucky, who's pressed against the glass now, both hands flat against it, his mouth moving in words you can't hear but can read on his lips: You can do this, stay with me.

The energy streams from your body to Carol's in visible waves—purple light flowing into gold. Your veins are still glowing but fainter now, the spiderweb patterns starting to fade. Carol's gritting her teeth, absorbing more and more, her whole body incandescent.

"Seventy percent," Shuri calls out. "Carol, that's enough."

"I can take more!"

"You're at your limit, any more and you'll destabilize."

Carol pulls back reluctantly, and the sudden absence of pressure makes you gasp. You collapse forward, would have fallen off the table if Shuri hadn't caught you.

"I've got you. Deep breaths, you did so well."

Your whole body is trembling. When you look down at your hands, the purple glow is still there, but it's so much fainter now. Almost translucent.

"Seventy-four percent reduction," Shuri reports, checking her scanners. "That's even better than projected. How do you feel?"

"Like I got hit by a truck," you manage.

Carol's leaning against the wall, breathing hard, her skin still glowing. "That was intense," she says. "The Power stone is no joke."

"Thank you," you whisper.

"Thank me when you get your happy ending," Carol straightens up with visible effort. "Shuri, she's all yours."

Shuri's already preparing the injection—a syringe full of silver liquid that seems to move on its own. Nanobots. Millions of them, ready to rewrite your genetic code.

"This is it," Shuri says. "Last chance to back out."

You look at the observation window again. Bucky hasn't moved. He's still there, watching, waiting, believing.

"Do it," you say.

The injection is almost anticlimactic—a small pinch in your arm. For a moment, nothing happens.

Then the warmth starts.

It begins at the injection site and spreads—through your arm, across your chest, down through your core. It's not painful exactly, more like your cells are waking up, reorganizing, learning a new language. You can feel the nanobots working, tiny machines rewriting your DNA one base pair at a time.

"Cellular restructuring has begun," Shuri announces. "Vitals are stable, neural activity normal. So far so good."

The warmth intensifies. Your hands start glowing brighter—not purple now, but silver-white as the nanobots flood your system. It's beautiful and terrifying at the same time.

"I'm going to sedate you now," Shuri says gently. "When you wake up, the primary recoding will be complete. Okay?"

You nod, already feeling drowsy as she administers the sedative.

The last thing you see before your eyes close is Bucky in the observation window, his hand still pressed to the glass.

Hold on, you think. Just a little longer.

Then darkness.

You wake up to Shuri's face hovering over you, concerned.

"Welcome back," she says. "How do you feel?"

You take inventory. Your body feels… different. Not wrong, just different. Like you've been taken apart and put back together in a slightly new configuration. The constant hum of energy under your skin is still there, but it's quieter now… more controlled.

"Weird," you say. "But okay?"

"Better than okay," Shuri helps you sit up slowly. "The primary recoding is complete. Ninety-seven percent of your cells have been successfully reprogrammed. The remaining three percent should finish integrating over the next few days."

"And the radiation?"

"Almost completely internalized. You're still emitting trace amounts, but we're talking background levels now—barely detectable." Shuri can't quite hide her smile. "We did it, it worked."

You look down at your hands. The purple veins are gone. Your skin looks normal… human. When you concentrate, you can feel the energy still there, coiled deep inside, but it's not fighting to get out anymore. It's part of you now.

"Bucky—"

"Right here."

Your head snaps toward the door. He's there, still on the other side of the glass barrier, but closer now. Close enough that you can see the tears on his face.

"The levels are low enough for brief contact," Shuri says carefully. "Emphasis on brief. We're taking five minutes, maybe ten. And I want you both in the shielded room so I can monitor his vitals."

"I'll take it," you say immediately.

"Me too," Bucky echoes.

Shuri looks between you both and shakes her head fondly. "You two are impossible. Give me ten minutes to set up the monitoring equipment."

She leaves to prepare. You and Bucky stay separated by the glass, just looking at each other. He looks exhausted, like he hasn't slept since you started the procedure.

"You were here the whole time," you say. He nods. "Eight hours standing there?"

A small smile. "I've done longer stakeouts."

"Bucky—"

"I wasn't leaving." His voice is rough. "Not when I just got you back."

Your chest tightens. "Five minutes isn't much."

"It's more than we had yesterday." His hand comes up to the glass again. "And tomorrow it'll be ten, then twenty, then an hour. We'll get there."

"You're really patient about this."

His laugh is sharp. "I'm really not. I'm dying to touch you, but I'm also not risking your health or mine by rushing. We do this right."

"When did you become so responsible?"

"When I almost lost you." His expression goes serious. "I'm not screwing this up. We're following Shuri's protocol exactly. Even if it kills me."

"Don't say that—"

"Figure of speech." He softens. "I'm okay, I promise. Just… eager."

"Me too."

Shuri returns with enough monitoring equipment to stock a small hospital. She sets it up in a side room—smaller, more intimate, with a chair for each of you and about six feet of space between them.

"Okay," she says, attaching heart rate monitors to both of you. "Five minutes. You can sit close, but no extended contact yet. If Bucky shows any symptoms—nausea, dizziness, elevated heart rate beyond normal excitement—we stop immediately. Understood?"

"Understood," you both say in unison.

Shuri gives you one more look, then steps out. "I'll be right outside. The system will alert me if anything goes wrong."

The door closes.

You're alone with Bucky for the first time in six months.

He's in the chair across from you, three feet away, close enough to touch, but not touching. His hands are gripping his knees so hard his knuckles are white.

"Hi," you whisper.

"Hey beautiful." His voice cracks.

"I don't know what to say."

"Me neither," he swallows hard. "I had a whole speech planned, had it memorized and everything. But now you're here, and I can't remember any of it."

"Try anyway."

He takes a shaky breath. "I missed you. Every second of every day. I missed the way you hum when you're concentrating, when you steal the covers in the middle of the night, the way you laugh at everyone's jokes even when they're terrible… I missed waking up next to you, I missed you so much it felt like dying."

Your eyes are burning. "I've missed you too. I missed everything about you. Even how you still pretend you don't like modern music but I've seen your Spotify wrapped—"

He huffs a laugh. "Busted."

"I'm sorry I left."

"Don't be." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "You did what you had to do to save my life."

"I should've trusted that we could find another way—"

"Hey," his voice is gentle. "We found it. We're here now, that's what matters."

You nod, wiping your eyes. "Can I— can I move closer?"

"Please."

You shift your chair forward, then again, until you're right in front of him, knees almost touching. Close enough to see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes. Close enough to count his lashes. Close enough to reach out and—

"Two more minutes," FRIDAY announces.

You both freeze.

"That went fast," you say.

"Yeah." Bucky's staring at you like he's trying to memorize every detail. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," you agree. "And the day after, and the day after that."

"Every day until you're sick of me."

"So never."

He smiles—real and genuine. "Never sounds good."

"One minute," FRIDAY says.

"I love you," you blurt out. "I know I said it through the glass, but I need to say it again. I love you. I never stopped, not for one second."

"I love you too." His eyes are bright. "So fucking much. And when we get through this, when we don't have to count minutes anymore, I'm never letting you out of my sight again."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Time's up," FRIDAY announces.

Neither of you move.

"We should—" you start.

"Yeah," he agrees.

But you still don't move.

Finally, Shuri's voice comes through the intercom. "I will come in there and separate you myself if necessary."

That breaks the spell. You both laugh, standing up reluctantly.

"Tomorrow," Bucky says again.

"Tomorrow," you confirm.

As you leave the room, you look back one more time. He's watching you go, one hand raised in a small wave.

You wave back.

It's only five minutes, but it's a start.

Week one: Ten minutes a day.

Day 1: You talk about the mission that started everything. About Morag, and the temple and the moment the orb split open.

Day 2: He tells you about tracking down Carol, about Quill and the Gamora parallel. You cry.

Day 3: You share your research notes. He's impressed by how far you got on your own.

Day 4: You sit in comfortable silence, just existing in the same space.

Day 5: He brings you a book. You each read quiet, occasionally reading passages aloud to each other.

Day 6: You almost hold hands. Get within an inch. Pull back at the last second.

Day 7: Shuri increases your time to fifteen minutes. You both cheer.

Week two: thirty minutes a day.

Day 8: First accidental touch—his knee bumps yours. You both freeze, wait for symptoms. Nothing happens and you both cry from relief.

Day 9: Intentional touch—fingers brushing, just for a second. His skin is warm.

Day 10: You hold hands for sixty seconds. It's the longest minute of your life.

Day 11: He brings your favorite snacks. You eat together, knees touching the whole time.

Day 12: You fall asleep during your sessions. Wake up to find him watching you with the softest expression.

Day 13: First argument—he wants to push the limits, you want to follow the protocol. You barely win.

Day 14: Shuri increases your time to forty-five minutes. His vitals stay perfect the entire session.

Week three: two hours a day.

Day 15: You watch a movie, sit on the same couch. His arm around your shoulders for the last twenty minutes.

Day 16: You talk about the future. About what happens after you're cleared. Where you'll live. If you'll go back to the team.

Day 17: He braids your hair. You've forgotten how good his hands feel.

Day 18: You meet his lips for the first time—just a quick press, barely three seconds. You both shake afterwards.

Day 19: Longer kiss. Ten seconds. His hand cups your face and you lean into it.

Day 20: You make out like teenagers on Shuri's medical couch. She threatens to separate you, but neither of you care.

Day 21: Shuri runs final tests and declares you ninety-nine percent integrated. Clears you for normal contact with monitoring.

Week four.

Shuri gives you a room. Not a medical bay, not a shielded facility. Just a regular room in the residential wing of the Wakandan complex. A bed, a bathroom, a window overlooking the city.

"You're cleared for overnight contact," she says. "But I want you both wearing monitors, if anything feels off, even a little bit, you come find me immediately."

"We will," you promise.

"I mean it. No being heroes, no pushing through symptoms."

"We won't," Bucky adds.

Shuri looks between you both, then sighs. "You're going to push through symptoms, aren't you?"

"Absolutely not," you both lie in unison.

She shakes her head fondly. "At least try to be safe about it, and for the love of Bast, use protection. I don't need any radioactive super-babies running around my lab."

You turn bright red. Bucky coughs.

"I'm a scientist," Shuri says drily. "I know what you're planning to do the second I leave this room. Just be smart about it."

She leaves.

You and Bucky stand there, suddenly awkward.

"So," you say.

"So," he echoes.

"We have all night."

"Yeah."

"No timers."

"Nope."

You take step toward him. Then another. Close enough to touch.

"I don't know how to do this anymore," you admit quietly. "Without counting minutes. Without watching the clock."

"Me neither." His hand comes up slowly, carefully, and cups your face. His thumb strokes across your cheekbone. "Guess we'll figure it out together."

You lean into his touch, eyes closing. Just feeling his warmth, his calluses. The way his breath hitches when you turn your head and press a kiss to his palm.

"I'm nervous," you whisper.

"Me too."

"What if—" you stop. "What if something goes wrong?"

"Then we stop." He steps closer, forehead resting against yours. "But nothing's going to go wrong, we've been building up to this for weeks. Your levels are stable, my body's adjusted. We're okay."

"You sound pretty confident about that."

"I'm confident." His other hand finds your waist. "I'm confident that I love you, that I want you. I've waited six months and four weeks for this. And I'm confident that we're going to be just fine."

"When did you get so wise?"

"When I married you."

You huff a laugh against his mouth. "You didn't marry me. We're not—"

"Technicality." He kisses you softly. "We will be. Soon as we're home, I'm gonna marry you properly."

"Is that a proposal?"

"That's a promise." You kiss him again, deeper this time, and his arms tighten around you. "Now, can I take you to bed?"

You nod and both move together slowly, carefully. He sits on the edge of the bed, pulls you between his legs. His hands settle on your hips, toying with the hem of your shirt.

"I'm going to make love to you now."

Your breath catches. "Okay…"

"And it's probably going to be emotional and messy, and we're probably both going to cry."

"That's okay too."

"And we're going to check the monitors every five minutes like paranoid people."

That makes you laugh. "Probably every two minutes."

"FRIDAY's going to think we're ridiculous."

"It's an AI… but it probably already thinks we're ridiculous."

His smile is so soft and so full of love it makes your chest ache. "Come here."

You climb into his lap, straddling him, and for a moment you just stay like that, your foreheads touching, breathing each other's air. His hands slide under your shirt, warm skin and cool vibranium against your skin.

"You're shaking," he murmurs.

"I'm nervous."

"We don't have to—"

"I want to." You pull back enough to look at him. "I really, really want to. I just— it's been so long. And I'm scared it's going to feel different. That we're going to be different."

"We are different," he says gently. "We've been through hell, we've been apart. We've had to rebuild everything from scratch. But—" His hand comes up to cup your face. "But I still love you the exact same way. And I still want you the exact same way. And when I touch you—" His hand slides down your neck, across your collarbone, "—it still feels like coming home."

"Bucky—" Your voice breaks.

"Let me show you," he whispers. "Let me show you that we're still us. That nothing's changed where it matters."

You kiss him in answer. Deep and slow and full of six months of longing.

His hands slide under your shirt, fingertips tracing patterns on your ribs. You arch into the touch, and he makes this low sound in his chest that you've missed so much.

He pauses, a question in his eyes. You nod, and your shirt comes off slowly, carefully, like he's unwrapping something precious. It gets tossed somewhere neither of you care about. His hands immediately return to your skin, mapping territory he knows by heart.

You tug at his shirt in answer. It joins yours on the floor, and then it's skin against skin and you both go very still. His eyes find yours for a second, you check the monitors on both your wrists, heart rates elevated but stable.

He kisses you again, and this time there's more heat behind it. His hands slide down your thighs, and he lifts you easily turning to lay you back on the bed.

He hovers over you for a moment, just looking. Making sure you're real. You reach up, trace his bottom lip with your thumb. He catches your hand, presses a kiss to your palm, then your wrist, then the inside of your elbow, working his way up your arm with gentle, deliberate kisses.

He continues his exploration, kissing every inch of exposed skin. Your collarbone, the hollow of your throat, the space between your breasts. When he reaches your ribs—where the purple veins used to be, now faded to nothing—he pauses and looks at you with so much tenderness it hurts. Then he kisses every faded mark, tender kiss across your chest and your arms. Everywhere the purple light used to shimmer.

You're crying before he's halfway done.

He kisses the tears from your cheeks, settles his weight more fully against you.

"I love you," you whisper. "I love you so much."

"I love you too," his voice is rough. "So much. So fucking much."

You kiss him hard, desperately, and he responds in kind. The gentleness gives way to need, to six months of missing each other, to all the times you thought you'd never get to do this again. Clothes come off—the rest of yours, all of his— and then it's just skin and heat and hands trying to touch everywhere at once.

You reach for the monitors, checking. He does the same. Both elevated, but still stable.

He kisses down your body again, this time with clear intent. You thread your fingers through his hair as he works, building you up until you're shaking and desperate. When he kisses his way back up your body, you're both trembling. He reaches for the nightstand and pauses to look at you.

The first moment he slides into you, you both go completely still. Your breath catches. His forehead drops to your shoulder. For a long moment, neither of you move—just feeling. Being connected again.

He lifts his head to look at you, and his eyes are bright with unshed tears. You cup his face with both hands, and he leans into the touch. Then he starts to move, slow and careful, and you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

It's perfect.

Not in a perfect movie way—there are awkward position adjustments and a moment where the bed squeaks really loudly and you both pause, half-laughing. But it's perfect in your own way.

The pace gradually builds. He's hitting all the right spots, finding the rhythm you both remember. When you finally come apart, it's together—him buried deep inside you, your name on his lips, your hands clutched in his hair. The pleasure crashes through you like a wave and you feel him follow seconds later, his whole body shuddering.

After, he doesn't pull out immediately, just stays there, face buried in your neck, both of you breathing hard. You check the monitors one more time. All vitals stable. No warnings.

"We're okay," you whisper, and your voice cracks. "We're really okay."

He nods against your neck, and you feel wetness—tears. He's crying. You're both crying.

He finally pulls back enough to look at you, and you're both a mess—tears streaming, smiling through them.

"I love you," you say quietly. "I love you so much."

"I love you too," he carefully pulls out, disposes of the condom and immediately pulls you back into his arms. "God, I love you."

You curl into his chest, listening to his heartbeat, feeling his warmth. His hand runs through your hair in long, soothing strokes. There's a long, comfortable silence.

Then: "FRIDAY, are you monitoring us right now?"

FRIDAY's voice fills the room: "I am monitoring your vital signs, as requested by Princess Shuri. I am not, however, recording or observing. Your privacy is assured."

"Thank you, FRIDAY." Bucky says.

"You're welcome, sergeant Barnes. And congratulations. Your vital signs remained stable throughout your… activity."

You burst out laughing . "Oh my god."

"FRIDAY just congratulated us on sex," Bucky says, grinning.

"I congratulated you on maintaining stable vital signs during intimate contact," FRIDAY corrects primly. "The sex is your own business."

You're both laughing now, that slightly hysterical post-emotional-sex laughter.

His hand trails down your spine, a silent question. You shift closer in answer.

You make love twice more that night—once slow and lazy, once with a little more urgency. Each time, you check the monitors wordlessly, a quick glance and a nod before continuing.

You talk in between rounds. About everything and nothing. About the future. About where you'll live when you get officially cleared. About all the mundane, beautiful things you get to plan now that you have forever.

"I want to marry you," he says at some point. "For real, proper wedding, all of our friends. You in a white dress walking to me, making me cry."

"I'd really like that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You kiss his chest. "Let's get married. Let's have the life we were supposed to have before everything went wrong."

"Nothing went wrong," he says quietly. "It was just… a detour. We took the long way around, but we're here now."

"We're here now," you agree.

You fall asleep like that. Tangled together. No monitors alarming, no timers counting down. Just you and him and the whole future stretched out before you.

When you wake you in the morning, his arms are still around you. And when you check the monitors—because old habits die hard—they're still perfectly stable.

You really are free.

A few hours later, Shuri finds you both in the dining hall, looking thoroughly rumpled and impossibly happy.

"Good morning," she says with a knowing smirk. "I trust you slept well?"

"Very well," Bucky says innocently.

"Mmhmm." She pulls data on her tablet. "Your vitals were stable all night. Eight hours of contact with zero adverse reactions. I'd say we can officially declare you're safe to be around each other."

You and Bucky look at each other.

"We're really safe," you whisper.

"We really are"

Shuri's expression softens. "You're free. No more restrictions, no more monitoring. You can go and live your lives."

"Thank you," you say. "Shuri, thank you for everything. For saving us, for—"

"For giving us our lives back," Bucky finishes.

"You're welcome." She closes the tablet. "Now go home, get married, be disgustingly happy. And please, do not name your first child after me."

"No promises," you say grinning.

She shakes her head fondly. "Impossible, you're both impossible."

But she's smiling. And so are you.

Because you're free. You have your whole lives ahead of you. And you're going to spend every single second of it together.

You get married in a small ceremony two months after. It's just the team and a handful of close friends on the grounds of the compound, under an arch decorated with simple white flowers. Steve officiates it. Sam cries more than anyone expected. Maria Hill catches the bouquet and immediately tries to give it back.

The retirement conversation happens on your honeymoon. You're in Greece, watching the sunset paint the sea in shades of gold and pink, and Bucky says quietly "What if we didn't go back?" So you call Steve from a café in Santorini and he takes it exactly as you'd hoped. You promise to come help them if something Thanos-level happens again.

Finding a perfect house takes three months. You look at a dozen places before you find it—a modest two-story in a quiet town upstate, with a front porch and a backyard and a garage that makes Bucky's eyes light up. The neighborhood is the kind where people know their neighbors' names, where kids play in yards, where nothing exciting happens. It takes you two weeks to move in and you spend the first month turning the house into your home.

You find work teaching physics at the local university. Your students are bright and curious and have absolutely no idea their professor used to save the world. You love teaching, love the routine of it, the normalcy, the way your biggest challenge is explaining quantum mechanics to undergrads instead of fighting cosmic threats.

Bucky starts small, fixing the neighbor's lawn mower, then someone's car. Word spreads, and soon he's running a modest auto repair business out of the garage, specializing in vintage cars and motorcycles. On the weekends, he volunteers at the VA, running support groups for veterans. He doesn't talk much about those sessions, but you can see how much it means to him. How much it helps. He's found his purpose outside of being a soldier.

Your life becomes beautifully ordinary. Morning coffees and breakfast routines, coming home to each other every evening, grocery shopping on Saturdays, movie nights on Fridays, Sunday mornings in bed with nowhere to be and nothing to do but exist together.

Two years into retirement, you're on the back porch with coffee going cold in your hands. Bucky's next to you on the swing, his arm around your shoulders, both of you watch the neighborhood slowly wake up.

"I've been thinking about having a baby," you say quietly.

Bucky's thumb stills on your shoulder for just a moment, then continues its gentle movement. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He doesn't ask if you're sure. He just holds you a little closer and lets the words settle between you. His arm wrap around you fully, and you sit together in the golden morning light, thinking about what comes next. A family. The next chapter of this improbable, beautiful life.

It won't be simple. Nothing about you has ever been simple, there will be complications, uncertainties, moments of fear. You'll need to call Shuri, get answers, make plans… but you've survived worse than uncertainty.

You've survived impossible. And you'll survive this too, together.

"Should we call her?" Bucky asks quietly. "Shuri?"

You nod against his chest. "Soon. Let's just— let's sit here a little longer first."

"Okay."

So you do. You sit on your back porch on a Sunday morning, holding each other, remembering everything it took to get here, and choosing together what comes next.

taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @wintersoldier-gal @globetrotter28 @elisexoxo-buckysversion @angelryex @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @erina00 @buckysdecaflove @jai200700 @squishyfruitloop @broadwaybabe18 @abyy1838 @juniebjonesin @mostlymarvelgirl @gilwm @ghost-of-barnes @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @julinkapipinka @phoenix-in-writing @spring-soldier +add yourself here

[apfelkernchen]

I rarely say things I don’t mean

Dr. Jack Abbot x (female) reader | Dr. Jack Abbot x you

Summary: Jack would rather treat a mass casualty event than make one particular phone call. Unfortunately he kind of has to.

A/N: I'm no longer updating the taglist because Tumblr has been glitching way too much lately. If you don't want to miss any updates, feel free to turn on notifications for my posts! <3

Link to "You stole my cart" master list (1)

Link to "You stole my cart" master list (2)

Previous chapter: Interlude: You'll be the death of me, woman

--- --- ---

Jack sat down next to you on the sofa, phone in hand, letting out a heavy sigh. You looked up, raising an eyebrow.

“Are you okay?” you asked, snuggling up against him.

He shrugged. “Yeah.” He went silent for a while. “I’m thinking.”

“About…?”

He looked down at his phone again. “I should tell Janine about our engagement.”

You blinked, surprised, sitting up. “You haven’t told her yet?”

“Well, no.” He hesitated. “We didn’t have much contact since her last visit.”

“Oh.”

You both went still. It was a while until you turned toward him again.

“Do you want her to know? Or do you feel the obligation to tell her?” you asked, choosing your words carefully.

He glanced at you. “That’s the problem” he said eventually. “I want her to know. It would be easier if I wouldn’t care about her at all.”

You nodded. “Then tell her. You don’t have to chat with her for hours. Just a quick phone call, huh?”

“Yeah.” He closed his eyes for a moment with another deep sigh. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“But you still don’t want to call her, right?”

He shook his head. “Fuck, no” he exhaled.

This statement obviously came from the bottom of his heart which made you laugh. “Wow.”

He shrugged. “I know.”

“I do get it” you replied. “It’s not like she’s the easiest person in the world. But still - just get it over with.”

He groaned. “Maybe tomorrow.”

You stared at him. “No, Dr. Abbot, today.”

Jack looked at you, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t use your Lizzie-voice on me.”

“Then don’t act like a toddler maybe” you shot back, a smile on your lips now.

He started pouting. “I’m not a toddler” he murmured.

“I know, you’re not. You’re a brilliant, handsome, confident emergency physician, who’s a little scared of his psycho sister.”

Jack started to laugh. “Stop insulting my family.”

You shrugged. “She started” you replied with a wink. Then you leaned over, kissing him on the cheek before standing up again. “You can do this, superman” you cooed with a wink. “I’m going to make us some ice cream - with whipped cream and sprinkles. As a reward.”

Jack let out a quiet chuckle. “Sounds good.”

You went into the kitchen. 

Jacks sat for a moment, then he unlocked his phone. He scrolled through the text messages and stopped at her name. His thumb hovered over the keyboard for a moment before he started typing.

Jack:

You up?

Janine:

Yes.

Jack:

Can I call you?

The reply came almost immediately.

Janine:

Yes.

Everything alright?

Jack stared at the message. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

You peeked from the kitchen. “What?”

“She answered.”

“That was the goal, darling” you replied with a soft smile.

Jack looked at you like you had personally betrayed him. “That’s rude.”

You let out a chuckle. “Just call her.”

You disappeared back into the kitchen again. 

He stared after you for a while, then he pressed the call button. The line clicked almost instantly.

“Jack?” Janine’s voice was alert.

He cleared his throat. “Hey.”

“Are you okay?” She sounded worried.

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

“Is Lizzie okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Jack” she said sternly. “What the hell is wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong” he said slowly. “Everybody’s fine.”

That was met with silence. “Um, okay. So you just called because you wanted to talk to me?”

“Um.” Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. I mean. Kind of.”

She sighed. “Jack.”

“Hm?”

“Just say it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on, don’t try to blindside me. There’s something you want to tell me, right?”

“Yeah.” He stared at the floor, then took a deep breath. “You see, I, um… I proposed.”

“Oh.”

His stomach dropped instantly. 

There it was. 

He couldn’t believe how many feelings he felt just by hearing that tiny word. 

Disappointment. Worry. Hurt. Anger. 

“... and?” Janine asked eventually.

Jack blinked. “And?” he echoed, confused.

“Well, did she say yes?”

Jack blinked. “Yeah, of course she said yes.”

“Thank God.”

He was caught off guard and let out a short laugh. “What?”

Janine laughed softly. “Jack. I honestly thought for a moment you were calling me all dramatic because she’d said no. I was about to book a flight to come and see you.”

He laughed. Something in his chest loosened a little. “No need for a flight - she said yes. Very happily so.”

“That’s good to hear.” She paused for a moment. “Congratulations, Jack.”

Jack looked down at his free hand. 

For a moment he couldn’t think of anything to say because he had spent so long preparing for a fight that he hadn’t prepared for… this.

Then - “Thanks.”

Janine was quiet for a second.

“Are you happy?” Her voice was unusually soft.

Jack smiled. “Yeah.” Another pause. “Yeah. Very happy.”

“Good. And is your fiancee also happy?”

Butterflies fluttered loose in Jack’s stomach when he heard this word from her mouth. 

His smile widened. “Yes.”

“Good.” She took a deep breath. “Now tell me everything.”

Jack furrowed his brows. “You sure?”

“I rarely say things I don’t mean” she replied dryly.

Jack laughed again. “Yeah, okay, fair.” 

He leaned back against the sofa cushions and started talking.

Twenty minutes later they said goodbye. 

Before hanging up Janine hesitated for the briefest moment. “Thanks for telling me, Jack.”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah, sure.”

“You’re my baby brother and I want you to be happy” she said quietly. “I know we have our differences but I love you.”

The words caught him off guard. 

For a moment he just sat there before starting to smile. “I love you too, Didi.”

A quiet laugh came through the phone. “Go, be happy, okay? And give your fiancee my love. If she wants or not.”

Jack smiled despite himself. “I will.”

“Good. Well, goodnight, Jack.”

“Night.”

The line clicked dead.

Jack stared at the screen for a second, then he put the phone down and let out a long breath. The knot that had lived somewhere between his ribs all week had finally loosened.

A moment later footsteps approached from the kitchen. You appeared carrying two enormous bowls. 

Jack raised an eyebrow. “What the hell is that?!”

“Ice cream.”

“Yeah, I can see that. But it’s… enormous.”

You grinned. “That’s what she said” you replied, chuckling to yourself. “Vanilla and chocolate ice cream. Whipped cream. Strawberries. Sprinkles.”

You handed him one of the bowls, then you settled beside him on the sofa, tucking your legs over his lap without a second thought. Jack automatically rested a hand on your knee.

“How did it go?” you asked.

He looked down. “Good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah.”

“When you talk like that you make me feel like I’m reliving every moment. It’s captivating really” you said dryly.

He laughed out loud, rubbing his neck. “Yeah, it really went well.”

You studied him for a while. 

“See?” You leaned forward, stealing a strawberry from his bowl. “Told you.”

Jack huffed out a laugh. “You did.”

Silence settled comfortably between you, while you started eating. Jack still stared at his bowl, his thoughts apparently a thousand miles away.

You nudged his shoulder gently. “Hey handsome. What are you thinking about?”

Jack looked up, blinking. “Nothing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Lying is not one of your many talents, you know?”

He started to smile. “Yeah, I know.” He paused. “I was just thinking about how life is messy sometimes. And still… I wouldn’t trade it.”

You smiled. “It is. But, to be fair, your sister adds another layer of messiness to our life. You know that, right?”

Jack started laughing. “I know, I know.”

Then you pointed toward his bowl with the untouched ice cream. “And now start eating before your food gets warm.”

He saluted instantly with his free hand. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“Oh, wow” you replied, stuttering slightly, suddenly flustered and blushing. “That shouldn’t work on me.”

“No, it should not. But what did I say?” He looked at you. “Messy.”

--- --- ---

You wanna keep reading? - Next part is coming soon, I promise :)

--- --- ---

Tag list: @itjustpunkpizzabae, @theariesview @michasia24 @bye-bye-gremlings @tyghvbuijknmopkl @momdancingtomcr @alexxavicry @rainforestfrogss @starkgaryan @moistointments @rossy1080 @abzidabzy @weepingwhispersengineer @cherryybombsworld @woodxtock @letstryagaintomorrow @romanticpursuit @nicelittletriptotheforest @teenytinylilcrawdaddies @camie18 @thewillowarchive @fortjackson @eugene-emt-roe @nicksolemnlyswears @sarah-fuckyou @beepitybeepboop @amnatreal @goldfishenthusiast67 @karleyyyjaeee @starsmoonn @doesanyonereadthis @introvertedphilomath @noellealexisss @sweetwanderlust05 @eugene-emt-roe @lovehadlovelost @amacphet @asparklysoul @shinyskeletonsky @givemethemaknaes16 @artemis-the-ace @marvelsimps @anyasthoughts @amacphet @mukeovernetflix @doe-jenna @prettyflowerlily

[jabbotsring]

someday, one day dr. jack abbot x new wife!reader

summary: you admit something to jack in your half-sleep and it leads to a conversation you never thought you'd ever have to have.

content: 18+ / mdni - reader is female (with inferred female parts) and over 40 - no y/n - discussions of pregnancy and family plans - emotional fluff plot

a note: as you can tell, this has become somewhat of a little ongoing series with only minor additions or subtractions to our reader's identity. i do hope that each part is readable as a one-off, but if you'd like to consider it a continuing story, i'm okay with that, too. so long as you enjoy.

You never heard Jack come in. You didn't feel him sit on the bed to remove his prosthetic; you didn't hear the shower; you didn't even notice when he crawled in beside you, his heavy, strong arm draping over you as he nuzzled into the back of your neck.

You only realized you weren't alone when your own sleep-talking woke you up and Jack's interrupted snore followed behind.

"Hey, you okay, Sunshine?" His voice was soft, warm, just hazy enough to pass for conscious.

You struggled to remember what the words you'd said — or dreamt — might have been, but it was gone with the thoughts it was inspired by. "Yeah, sorry, Jack," you murmur, yawning deeply. You roll over, onto your back as Jack rests his head on the front of your shoulder, his curls brushing up over your lower jaw. "Just a dream, I guess."

Jack's thumb curled over your belly, his palm resting on your hip. "You said something about having a baby," he said gently.

"I did?"

"Yeah." He fought to open his eyes when he felt you shift to look down at him. "Are you...?"

You shake your head immediately. "No. No, the implant is doing its job," you confirm. "No babies here."

Jack's lips quirk into his patented half-smile. "Could have one if you wanted," he says. His voice is clearer now, his eyes a little brighter in the darkness. When your face betrays your silence, he presses his lips together. "Sorry. Shouldn't have said that."

"No, no," you reply, your hand slipping around him and carding through his hair. "It was a thought, a long time ago. But I think the time has passed for me. I'm not so young anymore, and neither are you, and I don't think that's fair to a baby."

"Mm. I'd be at the very least sixty-eight when the kid graduates college. Yeah, I think I understand you."

You smile. This is an easier conversation than you'd expected. "Still the sexiest dad there, I'd bet."

He's silent for a few moments. "I had a friend a while back who got married late. They realized after a few years that they really did want a kid, so they looked into older child adoption for the same reasons you're worried about — they didn't want to be elderly parents to a teenager. Took a bit of time to be matched with the right kid, but once they did, it was like peanut butter and chocolate. Robin is sixteen now and probably more well-adjusted than any kid I've ever met."

Jack sits up straighter and meets your eyes in the moonlight through the window. "I'm not pushing you, Sunshine," he offers. "I'm just saying. I could see us having a kid one day, even if they're one we chose and not one we made."

You smile despite yourself. You really do think your time has passed and there's not much want or need for you to have a child now.

But you also look at Jack and you realize that a huge part of you would love to see him as a dad. To see him raising a kid, teaching them about sports and outdoor life and medicine and the military. To share the love between the two of you with another person, another life.

So you smile, leaning in to kiss him before resting your forehead against his.

"Maybe someday, Jack."

"Mm. Someday."

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

Hey sarge

Is it possible for you to do a request where it’s Buckys wife that falls off the train not him and hydra brainwashes her.

Then they find her as the winter soldier and Bucky has to get through to her.

They lose track of her the first encounter on the bridge but Bucky manages to get through to her on the hellicarrier but as she’s realizing it’s her husband Bucky the hellicarrier goes down Bucky falls out and that’s where she gets her memories back and jumps out to save him.

She pulls him to shore but she sees the damage she has done to him and decides to go on the run.

Bucky wakes up in his apartment he shares with Steve and asks him what happened.

When Steve tells him he freaks and decides to go find her saying that she needs him.

When he finally finds her again she is hesitant to be with him again and they argue but Bucky has filthy sex with her and that convinces her to go back with him

Come Home To Me » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader

Summary: Years after you fell off of the train in 1945, Bucky finds out you’re alive and he does everything he can to get you to remember him and to come home to him.

Warnings: Fluff, Angst, Smut (18+), language, kissing, HYDRA, reader falls off of the train, crying, nightmares, violence, guns/knives, blood, oral (female receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, rough sex, hair pulling, praise kink, hickeys, pet names

A/N: Thank you for the lovely request, anon🩵

A/N #2: Bucky didn’t lose his left arm and he’s a SHIELD Agent in this.

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes

Header made by my friend / divider made by me

GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!🔞

You and Bucky should be focused on the mission, but instead, you two are focused on each other. Bucky wraps his arms around you from behind and kisses your cheek. You smiled and giggled softly.

“You’re distracting me from the mission, Sarge.” You say.

“You’re doing the same thing to me.” Bucky says.

“I didn’t do a thing.” You say, your voice sounding playful and innocent.

“Oh yea? I can go down the list if you want.” He says.

You turned around so you were properly facing him and put your hands on his chest.

“Go for it, Sarge.” You say and grinned.

“Well, for starters your beauty is very distracting.” Bucky begins.

“That’s not my fault.” You say.

“Secondly, your uniform is even more distracting.” He says.

“You’re wearing the same thing is as me!” You exclaimed, playfully poking his chest.

“Point made, doll face.” He says.

You giggled and kissed him softly. The kiss was short lived when Steve pulled you and Bucky apart.

“I’m happy that you two are in love, but we have a mission to focus on.” Steve says.

“Aye, aye, Captain!” You and Bucky joked and saluted Steve.

Steve playfully rolled his eyes and shook his head at you and Bucky. Then one of the Howling Commandos informed all of you guys that the train is about to come through the area you guys are in.

“Ready, doll?” Bucky asks.

“Ready.” You say.

You and Bucky have each other a quick good luck kiss before zip lining down to the train with Steve. Bucky opens the roof hatch of the train and the three of you jumped inside of it. The three of you cautiously walked through the train with your weapons held out in front of you guys, ready to shoot any HYDRA agents that gets in your way. After Steve entered the next train car, the door quickly slides closed, separating Steve from you and Bucky. Yours and Bucky’s eyes went wide, along with Steve’s eyes. That’s when you and Bucky heard footsteps from behind you two. You two turned around to see a HYDRA agent about to blast you guys with his weapon. Both of you shot at him till you two were out of bullets. Then Bucky grabs you, hiding both of you behind stacked cargo containers.

“Do you have any more bullets?” Bucky whispers.

“No.” You whispered.

“Shit. Neither do I.” He whispers.

“What’re we going to do?” You whispered.

“I don’t know. I’m sure we’ll figure something out.” He whispers.

Bucky kisses your cheek, which made all of your worries fade away. You two looked over at Steve when the door slides back open. He holds up and gun before tossing it to you. You caught it and started shooting at the HYDRA agent. Steve ran towards a cargo container, pushing it with all of his strength to knock down and knock out the HYDRA agent.

“I had him on the ropes.” You say.

“We know you did.” Bucky and Steve say at the same time.

Another HYDRA agent appears, aiming his weapon at the three of you. Steve quickly pushes you and Bucky behind him and held his shield up to shield the three of you from the blast the HYDRA agent shot at you guys, knocking the three of you to the floor of the train. As you were about to stand back up, you saw Steve’s shield about a foot away from you. You glanced up at the HYDRA agent who was about to shoot another blast at you guys. You grabbed your gun and Steve’s shield. You stood up and shot at the HYDRA agent, shielding yourself with Steve’s shield. The HYDRA agent blasts you, sending you through the hole on the train’s wall. Bucky’s eyes went wide and his heart drops to the pit of his stomach. Bucky scrambles over to you while Steve takes care of the HYDRA agent. He looks out of the hole of the train to see you holding onto a metal bar for dear life.

“I’m coming!” Bucky shouts.

“Ok!” You shouted back.

Bucky carefully climbed on the outside of the train to get to you. He held his hand out to you when he got close enough for you to reach his hand.

“Grab my hand!” Bucky shouts.

As you were reaching for Bucky’s hand, the metal bar gives out and you fall. You screamed as you plummeted downwards.

“Y/N!” Bucky screams.

Steve helps Bucky back inside of the train and both of them stare downward. Tears were streaming down Bucky’s face and Steve’s eyes teared up.

“We need to do a rescue mission! Y/N is down there somewhere and she could be hurt!” Bucky exclaims.

“Buck, you know as well as I do that no one can survive a fall like that.” Steve says, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Bucky knew that. He was just in denial. His bottom lip quivers and a loud spine chilling sob leaves his lips.

“Let’s finish the mission, Buck. It’s what Y/N would want us to do.” Steve says.

Bucky nods and sniffles. He stands up and finishes the mission with Steve and the Howling Commandos, which was finished successfully. Afterwards, Bucky, Steve, and the Howling Commandos went out for drinks. The Howling Commandos gave Bucky condolences to what happened to you. Meanwhile, Bucky was sitting at a table by himself and drinking. Steve was worried about him and went over to sit at the table with him.

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Buck.” Steve says as Bucky downed another drink.

“My wife died, Steve. I don’t have anything else better to do.” Bucky says.

“Y/N wouldn’t want you to do this to yourself.” Steve says.

“It’s not like I can get drunk. You of all people should know that.” Bucky took another sip of his drink. “The only I want is for those bastards to pay for what happened to my wife.” He says.

“I agree. They should be held accountable for what happened to her. All we have to do is take them down. Are you in?” Steve says.

Bucky downs the rest of his drink and slams the glass on the table and looked at Steve.

“I’m in.” Bucky says.

2014

The day when you fell off the train has haunted Bucky ever since. He has nightmares about it almost every night. The nightmare is always the same. Him getting close enough for you to grab his hand, but then you fall. Your screams echo in his head. He always wakes up screaming your name, with tears on his face, and a thin sheen of sweat on his face. Sometimes, the nightmare goes into the morning hours around the time he should be waking up and Steve wakes him up from the nightmare. Like he’s about to do right now.

“Bucky, wake up.” Steve says, shaking Bucky to wake him up.

Bucky gasps sharply as he wakes up. He scrambles to sit up. He’s breathing heavily after the nightmare he just had.

“You had that nightmare again, didn’t you?” Steve says.

“Yea.” Bucky says breathlessly.

Bucky gets out of bed and goes to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face to wake himself up more.

“You know, Fury told you it would be fine if you wanted to take some personal days off. No one wouldn’t blame you if you did.” Steve says.

“I appreciate that, but I don’t need special treatment, because my wife died in the hands of HYDRA years ago.” Bucky says.

Steve gave Bucky a comforting pat on his shoulder before leaving his bedroom. Bucky looks in the mirror for a few seconds and sighs before getting ready for the day.

Later, Bucky is in the car with Steve, Sam, and Natasha. He was listening to the beginning of the conversation, but then his mind drifted elsewhere. Elsewhere meaning, he’s thinking about you. Even thought the horrific thought of you falling off of the train will forever be imprinted into his mind, he’s thinking about the good memories he had with you. It got cut short when Bucky, Steve, Sam, and Natasha heard a loud thudding sound on the roof of the car. They looked at each other in confusion, wondering what the thudding sound was. The answer came right through the windshield. Literally. A hand punches through the windshield and forcefully rips the steering wheel out of the steering column, which put the four of them on high alert. They four of them quickly got out of the car and ran in separate directions to avoid the threat that’s about to come their way.

“Barnes!” Natasha whisper yells.

Bucky looks over at Natasha. She holds up one of the two guns she has on her and tosses it to him. He caught it and nodded at her as a way of saying thank you. Bucky heard footsteps of combat boots coming his way. He cautiously poked his head out from his hiding spot and saw the Winter Soldier- you, but he doesn’t know that it’s you yet. He quickly hides back in his hiding spot, waiting for the right moment to start shooting.

You stopped walking, standing in front of two of the many abandoned cars on the road. You were taking a look around at your surroundings when you heard steady breathing behind one of the two cars you’re near. Bucky quietly and cautiously moved alongside one of the cars as you walked towards where he was just hiding. Bucky pokes his head out of his hiding spot again. He aims the gun at you, but you turned around before he could shoot at you. He quickly hides back behind the car when you started shooting at him. He blindly shot at you till he was out of bullets.

“Shit.” Bucky mutters when he ran out of bullets.

Bucky got up and ran. He had no idea where he was running. He was just trying to get out of the way of the Winter Soldier before he got killed by you. You chased after him and jumped onto his back, tackling him to the ground. Bucky pushes you off of him and scrambles to stand up. The two of you were standing a few feet apart and staring each other down like you two are in the Wild West. He watches your every move. You got a knife out of the holster on your thigh, flipping it in your hand before throwing it at him. Bucky dodged it and it got embedded into a car behind him. You huffed loudly before getting a gun out of the holster on your other thigh.

“Bucky!” Steve whisper yells.

Bucky looks over at Steve. Steve tosses Bucky his shield as you cocked the gun. Bucky shields himself with the shield when you started shooting at him. He walked towards you and knocked the gun out of your hand with the shield. That’s when you resorted to throwing punches at him. Bucky avoided every single punch by dodging them or holding up the shield. You quickly grew frustrated and took the shield away from him, tossing it behind you.

Bucky ran away from you again. Again, you chased after him and jumped onto his back. He didn’t fall to the ground this time. He stops running and grabs ahold of you and throws you off of him. You did a roll as you landed on the ground, your mask falling off in the process. You stood up and faced Bucky with a murderous look on your face. Bucky’s eyes went eye at what he was seeing. You- his wife who died in 1945.

“Y/N?” Bucky asks.

“Who the hell is Y/N?” You asked.

As you pulled another gun out to shoot Bucky, Sam flies down and knocks you down. Steve and Natasha came running up next to Bucky. Steve is just as shocked as Bucky when he saw you. Bucky saw Natasha aim a gun at you from the corner of his eye.

“Don’t shoot her!” Bucky exclaims, smacking the gun out of her hand.

When Bucky looked back at you, you were gone like you vanished into thin air. Bucky’s knees went weak and gave out, which made him fall to the ground. His eyes teared up and tears began to stream down his face.

“My wife is alive.” Bucky says more to himself.

Bucky knows what he has to do now. He has to save you from HYDRA and get through to you. That’s what he’s exactly going to do. He got suited up in his old Army uniform in hopes that it’ll spark your memory and you’ll remember him. He didn’t take any weapons with him. Is that dangerous? Yes, but he can take whatever you’re going to do to him. He knows you won’t kill him. Now, he’s standing across from you on the helicarrier. His breathing makes a hitching sound.

“Please don’t make me do this, Y/N.” Bucky says.

You didn’t say a word. You just stared at him with no emotion on your face. Bucky doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to fight you, but it looks like he doesn’t have a choice. He watches your every move, starting with you getting a knife out of the holster on your thigh. You flipped it in your hand before approaching him with it. You raise your arm to stab him, but he catches your arm before you can. You lifted your free hand to get the knife to try to stab him again, but he catches your other arm as well. You narrowed your eyes at him, growing frustrated with him. You lifted one of your legs, kneeing him in his stomach, which made him let go of your arms. As Bucky was doubled over after you kneed him in his stomach, you took the opportunity to stab him again. He catches your arm yet again. You two fought in that position for a moment, which ended up with you two falling onto the floor of the helicarrier. That’s when you finally stabbed him. Bucky hisses in pain. You still didn’t have any emotion on your face whatsoever.

“Y/N, please. This isn’t you. You’re not a killer. I know you’re not. You’re my wife.” Bucky says.

That didn’t ring any bells for you.

“Your name is Y/N Barnes. You and I have been married for years.” He says.

“Shut up!” You shouted.

Bucky managed to flip the two of you over so now he’s pinning you to the floor. He pins your arms above your head with his hands and pins your legs down with his legs.

“This isn’t you, Y/N and you know it.” He says.

Since your arms and legs were pinned down, you head butted him to get him off of you, giving him a bloody nose. You went to run away from him, but he runs after you and tackles you to the floor, pinning you to the floor again, but this time, he was holding you down by your shoulders.

“Y/N, please! You have to remember! Remember the love we have!” He pleads.

Bucky didn’t see you take your gun out of your thigh holster. He didn’t register that you had a gun in your hand till you shot him in his abdomen. He gasps in pain and freezes. He looks down at where you shot him, blood pouring out of his abdomen. You pushed him off of you and got on top of him. You began to throw punches at him. Bucky just laid there and took it.

“You’re my mission.” You say.

“Then finish it. Just know, I love you and I forgive you for this.” Bucky says.

You stared down at Bucky with wide eyes, breathing heavily and your fist in the air. That’s when everything was coming back to you. The man you’re about to kill is your husband. Then the glass beneath you two gave out. You grabbed onto a metal bar and looked downwards as you watched your husband fall into the water. You let go of the metal bar, falling into the water. You swam over to Bucky and grabbed onto him, pulling him out of the water and onto the shoreline. He was unconscious. You crouched down to get a good look at him. Your eyes teared up at what you could’ve possibly done to him. You reached a hand out to him, caressing his cheek.

“I am so sorry, honey.” You say softly, your voice cracking.

You stood up, taking one last look at your husband before leaving. You have no idea where you’re going yet, but you have to go fast and far before you get caught. It wasn’t long till Steve, Sam, and Natasha found Bucky lying unconscious on the shoreline. Their hearts dropped to the pits of their stomachs, thinking that he’s dead. They ran over to him and crouched down next to him. Steve checked Bucky’s pulse. They felt relieved to know that he’s alive. Sam and Natasha helped Steve get Bucky back to their apartment. They got him in his bed and patched up. The three of them took turns watching over him to make sure that he’s ok. Bucky was unconscious for the rest of the day and most of the next morning. He groans in pain as he woke up the next morning. He saw a bandage on his shoulder and abdomen. He looked over at the empty spot on his bed, expecting you to be there, but you weren’t. He frantically sat up, ignoring the pain he’s currently feeling.

“Where’s Y/N?” Bucky asks frantically.

“Buck, calm down. Everything is alright.” Steve says.

“Everything is not alright! I need to know where Y/N is! Tell me where my wife is!” Bucky exclaims frantically.

“I don’t know.” Steve says.

“What do you mean you don’t know?!” Bucky asks.

“She wasn’t there when we found you unconscious on the shoreline. She pulled you out of the water and went on the run.” Steve says.

“I need to go find her! She needs me!” Bucky exclaims frantically.

Steve got up and tried to keep Bucky in bed.

“Steve, I need to go find my wife! She needs me!” Bucky exclaims again.

“I know you do, but you need to heal first. You’re not going to do yourself any good if you injure yourself more.” Steve says.

Steve’s eighth and Bucky knows it. All he wants to do is find you, but he doesn’t want to injure himself more. While he’s healing, he can track you down by using a laptop. He can do that from bed, which is exactly what he’s going to do.

2 YEARS LATER…

It took two years for Bucky to track you down. He felt somewhat relaxed when he found out where you’re hiding out, which is Bucharest, Romania. He’s not going to you as a former SHIELD agent and an Avenger. He’s going to you as your husband. He’s going alone too. He didn’t want you to get overwhelmed if Steve and the Avengers came with him. He knew you would be a lot more calm with him.

When Bucky finally found the apartment complex you’ve been hiding out in for the past two years, he looked for your apartment next. When he finally found it, he pressed his ear against the door to hear if you’re in there or not. He can hear you walking around inside of the apartment. You jumped and yelped when Bucky knocked on the door. You couldn’t help but be on edge. Who could it be? No one knows you’re here. You walked over to the door and looked through the peephole, your eyes widening when you saw your husband. As you went to open the door, your hand hovered over the doorknob for a few seconds before opening the door. You stepped aside, allowing him to come inside. You closed and locked the door afterwards.

“What are you doing here, Bucky?” You asked.

“I could ask you the same question.” Bucky says.

“You know why I’m here.” You say.

“You didn’t have to run, Y/N. You know I can protect you.” He says.

“I did have to run.” You say.

“Can you at least tell me why you ran?” He asks.

“I couldn’t stay knowing that I tried to kill my husband. What I did was unforgivable. I hate myself for what I did to you. That’s why I ran.” You say, your voice cracking.

“Do you want to know what you running did to me? I woke up, expecting you to be right by my side, but you weren’t there. Steve was the one who told me that you went on the run. That left me heartbroken. I wanted you to be home with me. So, I’ve been tracking you down for two years. That’s why I’m here. I’m here to bring you home with me where you belong.” He says.

“I can’t go home with you, Bucky.” You say.

“Yes, you can. We can pick up where we left off before you fell off of the train. Remember the love we have? Our love is unbreakable.” He says.

“Things aren’t like what they used to be.” You say.

“They can be if you come home with me.” He says.

“I’m not going home with you. I’m fine here.” You say.

Bucky takes a look around your small apartment. It doesn’t look homey to him. It’s not homey at all.

“You’re seriously saying that you’d much rather live here than go home with me- your husband?” Bucky asks.

“I’m staying here. End of discussion.” You say.

“No, not end of discussion! You’re coming home with me and that’s final!” He says, raising his voice.

“You can’t tell me where I can and can not live.” You say.

“In this case, I can. You and I are married. We should be living together like every married couple.” He says.

“Can you really say that we’re married after I tried to kill you two years ago?” You asked.

“Yes, we are! I forgave you for what you did to me.” He says.

“You shouldn’t have. I tried to kill you. That’s unforgivable.” You say.

Bucky walks closer to you. Due to the height difference between you and him, you looked up at him. One of his hands caresses your cheek.

“I forgive you.” Bucky says softly.

You couldn’t help but break down into tears. Your knees gave out on you. Bucky was quick to catch you. You cried in his arms. He always hated it when you cried. It broke his heart.

“Do you still love me?” Bucky asks softly.

“I never stopped loving you.” You say.

“That’s a huge sign that you should come home to me.” He says.

“I already told you that I can’t come home to you, James.” You say, your voice cracking.

“You can, doll.” He says so softly that it almost sounded like a whisper.

There it is. There’s that nickname that always made you always loved so much. He gave you that nickname on yours and his first date. You sniffled and looked up at him.

“You called me doll.” You say.

“It’s nickname I gave you on our first date.” Bucky says softly.

“I love that nickname.” You smiled.

“So do I.” He smiles back.

You and him gazed into each other’s eyes for a few seconds before kissing. The kiss started off soft and passionate at first, but then it got heated fast. You put your hands on his chest, rubbing them up and down before pushing his jacket off of his shoulders. Bucky took it off and dropped it on the floor. He took his shoes off before lowering the two of you to the mattress you have on the living room floor. You two undressed each other as if you two are in a hurry.

“James.” You panted.

“Yes, doll?” Bucky asks as he kisses along your neck.

“Please do something!” You whined.

“Your wish is my command, babydoll.” He says softly.

Bucky kisses his way down your body. You giggled softly when his beard tickled your skin. He settles himself in between your legs after you spread them. He places soft kisses on your inner thighs, making his way up to your pussy. A shiver went through your body when you felt his breath on your pussy. Bucky looks up at you, patiently waiting for you to give him permission to go further, in which you did. He always did that years ago. You always found it sweet. You gasped when his tongue licks a stripe on your pussy. He did that a couple more times before latching his lips on your clit. Your hands went down to his head, tugging on his hair as he ate you out like a starved man. It’s been so long since you’ve felt any kind of pleasure that you almost forgot what it felt like to be eaten out by your husband. Keyword, almost.

“Oh fuck, James!” You moaned.

Your moans are like music to Bucky’s ears. They always are. Also, you moaning for him went straight to his cock, making it uncomfortably hard. He tried to push that to the back of his mind for the moment. All he cares about in this moment is your pleasure. He always put your pleasure before his. He did that years ago too.

Bucky’s eyes flickered up at you, making eye contact with you while he sucked on your clit. He kept his eyes on yours as he slides two fingers into your pussy. Your mouth falls open as he did so, a gasp leaving your lips. His fingers fucked you at a steady pace as he continues to suck on your clit. Your grip on his hair tightens.

“Please don’t stop!” You moaned.

He didn’t stop one bit. He was urged on. Bucky’s fingers moved faster and takes his lips off of your clit to flick your clit with his tongue. His fingers and tongue moved at the same pace. His name and cuss words were falling from your lips in repeated chants. You never wanted this feeling to stop, but it looks like it’s going to. Your orgasm is building up. You’re getting closer and closer as Bucky continues his movements with his tongue and fingers. He sensed it as well and sped up his movements. Your hips bucked against his face and your legs began to tremble a bit.

“Fuck! Right there, baby!” You moaned when his fingers hit that one spot inside of you.

His fingers continued to hit that spot inside of you, which made your orgasm build up even more. Your thighs are trembling against the sides of his head. Your grip tightens on his hair again. You’re right there. When you came, you moaned his name so loud that it echoes off of the walls of the small apartment. Bucky’s fingers fucked you through your orgasm. He gives your clit a few more licks before taking his tongue away from your clit and his fingers out of your pussy. You whined at the loss of contact of his fingers and tongue, but then you realized that you’re going to get something just as great in a short moment. Bucky sat up and hovered over you, gazing down at you as you panted heavily.

“You think you got another one in you, babydoll?” Bucky asks softly.

“You bet your ass I do, babe.” You grinned.

Bucky’s grins back at you. You giggled as he flips you over onto your stomach. His hands find their place on your hips, lifting you up so your ass is sticking out towards him. You moaned softly when you felt his hard cock against your ass, his precum smearing against your skin. You looked over your shoulder at your husband.

“Please, honey.” You begged softly, rubbing yourself against his cock.

“Fuck.” Bucky moans softly.

Bucky wraps his hand around his cock, stroking it a few times before rubbing it through your slick. You whined out of desperation and pressed yourself against him.

“James!” You whined loudly.

“Don’t worry, doll face. I’m going to give you what you want.” He says softly, his hand gently patting your asscheek.

Bucky lines his cock at your entrance and slowly slides it into your pussy. Your mouth falls open, a soft moan falling from your lips. You can tell that he’s definitely a bit bigger than he was years ago, but you’re not complaining one bit.

“You’re so big.” You moaned.

Bucky’s pelvis presses against your ass when his cock was fully inside of you. You’re probably exaggerating for thinking this, but it feels like you can feel him everywhere inside of you. Again, just exaggerated thinking. Maybe it’s because of how full his cock is making you feel. Again, you’re not complaining one bit.

“I feel so full of you.” You say.

“Oh yea?” Bucky says.

You hummed softly and rocked yourself against him for some kind of friction. Bucky took that as a sign that he should start fucking you. His hands rest on your hips as he begins thrusting. His thrusts started off slow and steady. You love that pace. You really do, but you need more than that.

“You can be rougher if you want. I don’t mind.” You say, looking over your shoulder at him.

“Are you sure, doll? I don’t want to accidentally hurt you.” He says sweetly.

Your heart skips a beat at how sweet your husband is.

“I’m not made of glass, Bucky. I can take anything you give me.” You say.

“Ok.” He says.

Bucky’s thrusting pace changes like a switch flipped inside of him. One of his hands slides up the length of your spine and grabs a handful of your hair, yanking you up towards him so now your back is against his chest. You squeaked in surprise. You forgot what your husband is capable of when it comes to sex.

“This is what you wanted, right? Rougher? You taking anything I give you?” Bucky asks softly in your ear.

“Yes!” You gasped. “This is exactly what I wanted!” You moaned.

“Good, because I’m not stopping.” He nearly growls.

You never wanted him to stop. The sound of skin slapping echoes off of the walls in the small apartment. Your hands scramble to find something to hold onto. You ended up grabbing ahold of Bucky’s thighs, digging your nails into his skin. He hisses at the feeling. Bucky’s free hand slides from your hip, up your stomach, and stopping at your breasts. He put his hand on one of them and just left it there. His hand occasionally gave it a squeeze.

“Fuck. You feel so good.” Bucky moans, leaning his forehead against your shoulder for a moment.

Bucky kisses from your shoulder and up to your neck. He moves your head to the side so he can have access to your neck. You gasped when his teeth bites down on your skin hard enough to mark you up. He marks your neck up like he’s creating a piece of artwork. To him, that’s what it looks like when he looks at the hickeys he put on your neck.

“So beautiful.” He says against your skin, kissing each and every one of the hickeys he put on your neck.

Eventually, Bucky lets go of your hair. His hand goes in between your legs, blindly finding your clit. You squeaked and bucked your hips against his hand when his fingers pinched your clit. He chuckles against your neck. Bucky’s fingers began to rub your clit in fast circles. Your back arches off of him, which presses your breast more into his hand.

“Yea, you like that, don’t you, babydoll?” Bucky says.

You nodded rapidly in response, but that wasn’t a good enough answer for him. His fingers pinched your clit, making you squeak again.

“Use your words.” He says.

“Yes! I like it!” You finally say.

Bucky’s fingers tried to match the pace of his thrusts. Your head falls back against his shoulder. Your second orgasm was building up. You can feel it deep inside of you that you’re getting closer to coming. Your moans kept getting louder and your nails kept digging into his thighs.

“I- oh fuck!” You moaned.

You weren’t able to form any kind of sentence. That’s how good it feels.

“Huh? What was that, doll face?” Bucky asks.

“I’m going to cum!” You’re finally able to say.

“I know you are. I can feel how close you are.” He says softly in your ear.

“Please!” You begged.

“Please what?” He playfully teases.

“Let me cum!” You begged.

“You have to cum that bad, huh?” He continues to tease you.

“Bucky, please! Stop teasing me and let me cum!” You whined.

Bucky chuckles softly before responding.

“Alright. You can cum.” He says.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you came hard, soaking his cock and thighs. His name leaves your lips in a loud moan, echoing off of the small walls of the apartment.

“Atta girl.” Bucky praises.

Bucky’s fingers gave your clit a few more rubs before focusing on his own orgasm, which isn’t too far behind yours. His thrusts didn’t falter for a second. It’s like his thrusts got faster and faster the closer he got to coming. When he finally does, a guttural moan leaves his lips and his hips still against your ass, his cum filling your pussy to the brim. You two remained in that position for a few seconds before he pulls out of you, a white ring of cum on the base of his cock. You two laid down next to each other on the mattress and covered up with one of the many blankets you have on the mattress. You snuggled yourself against his side as he wraps his arm around you. You draped your arm across his stomach and you laid your head on his chest. The sound of his heartbeat was soothing. You two laid in silence for a few minutes while you two caught your breaths.

“I don’t remember the last time I came that hard.” You say after a few minutes.

“Neither do I.” Bucky says.

You and Bucky bursted out laughing for a moment. When yours and his laughter dies down, you lifted your head to look at him.

“In all seriousness, I did miss you a lot during my time in HYDRA.” You say softly.

“I missed you a lot too.” He says just as softly.

You leaned down and kissed him softly and sweetly.

“Please come home to me, babydoll. I can’t live my life without you. I don’t want to spend another second of my life without you in it. You’re my whole entire life.” He says.

Your eyes teared up at his words. He always knew the sweetest things to say no matter what the situation is.

“I can’t imagine my life without you in it either.” You say softly. “Especially, after what we just did.” You say.

“Does that mean you’re coming home to me?” He asks.

Instead of saying yes, you kissed him.

“I’m taking that as a yes.” He says.

“Yes times a million.” You say.

Bucky smiles against your lips and rolls on top of you, putting his weight on his forearms so he didn’t accidentally crush you.

“I love you more than anything, doll.” Bucky almost whispers.

“I love you too, sweetheart.” You say just as softly.

-Bucky’s Doll

[drlangdonapologist]

8 AM - All the Ways We Stay

A Frank Langdon x OC story

masterlist

5.7k words

Eight o'clock comes in like a fist.

This is the thing nobody tells you about emergency medicine — not in school, not in your first rotation, not in any of the reading you do at 2AM with textbooks stacked around you like a fort. They tell you about the hours, the stress, the way you'll permanently renegotiate your relationship with sleep. What they don't prepare you for is the texture of it. The way certain hours carry their own specific gravity.

Seven is the transition hour. The changing of the guard, the floor finding its rhythm, the particular controlled chaos of a department waking up. Manageable, in its way.

Eight is when it gets real.

Elsie knows this the way she knows most things about the Pitt — from the inside, from the body, from three years of mornings that have pressed it into her until it's simply part of how she moves. She is at the nurses' station when the medics bring Nick Bradley through the doors, and she reads the situation before she reads the chart.

Pinpoint pupils. Bradycardic at 38. Found in bed by his mother. Unresponsive.

She looks at the name. Nick Bradley. 19 years old.

She looks away. Collins has it, Samira has it, and her job is not that bay. One of the harder things this place has taught her: you cannot be everywhere at once, and wanting to be is how you stop being useful anywhere.

She goes back to her note.

She carries nineteen quietly, in the body, the way she carries all the numbers here.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket at eight-oh-six and she already knows who it is before she looks.

sadie: 🎉🎉🎉 TODAY. I cannot believe it's actually today sadie: jenny is coming at two to take millie so I'll be at the hospital for three on the dot don't you dare run over sadie: [image: Millie, four months old, fist in her mouth, entirely unaware she is about to be left with a babysitter for the first time in her life] sadie: she has no idea what's happening. she looks so peaceful. I might cry a little bit. is that normal

Elsie looks at this photograph for five full seconds, which is four seconds longer than she can really afford right now, and something in her chest does the thing it always does when Millie appears on her phone — this small warm collapse, like a fist unclenching. Then something else underneath it, warmer and more complicated: Sadie. Sadie who hasn't had a night out since before Millie was born. Sadie who has been running on four hours sleep and sheer stubbornness for four months, who handed Elsie the baby at 2AM once and said I just need to stand in the kitchen alone for five minutes and then stood there for twenty and Elsie hadn't said a word about it.

Sadie, who deserves today so much it makes Elsie's chest ache.

me: it is completely normal and also you are NOT cancelling on me

me: three o'clock. bag is already in my locker. I will be changed and ready and outside before you even park

sadie: oh she CAME PREPARED

sadie: okay I'm actually excited now. like properly excited. me: you should have been excited before, I've been excited for two months sadie: I've been a bit busy GROWING A HUMAN me: she was grown already, she was just living in your house sadie: 🖤🖤🖤 three o'clock. don't be late.

She pockets the phone before Sadie can send anything else and goes back to her note, but the smile stays for longer than she accounts for.

Seven hours.

She can absolutely do seven hours.

She caps her pen and goes to find her next patient.

The e-scooter rider comes in at eight-fourteen.

She moves before she decides to — facial fractures and airway are words that put your feet into a corridor before the rest of you catches up. By the time she reaches trauma one they already have him: Ben, twenty-three, no helmet, face-planted to tarmac after a car door caught him at speed. The room is arranged around him with the efficiency of people who have done this enough times that the arrangement is unconscious.

She takes the back wall. Not needed — enough hands — but she stays for Mel.

She has been watching Mel King since seven o'clock with the particular attention she gives to people she has quietly assessed and found to be worth it. There is a quality to Mel — something steady underneath the newness of the day, something that doesn't collapse when things get loud — and Elsie wants to know if it holds under real pressure.

The intubation fails. Anatomy, not incompetence — the trauma has distorted everything, edema building. She watches Frank try and pull back, watches Garcia step into the space he leaves, and then the two of them are doing what they always do.

ER Ken, Garcia says.

Edwina Scissorhands, Frank says, with the delivery of a man who has been waiting for the right moment.

I-gel, bag and crike, Robby says. Team, please. Focus.

And then Mel is at the crike station. Elsie watches her closely and sees a person who is frightened and doing it anyway. Cadaver lab experience, a room full of competing egos, a man whose sats are dropping, and Mel makes a clean incision. Her hands don't shake.

Garcia guides without condescending, which is Garcia's best quality and one Elsie has had to look for.

Nicely done, Robby says, and she can hear the sincerity in it.

Elsie exhales and finds Mel on her way back through the bay ten minutes later — just long enough to say: "Good work in there."

Mel looks up. She has been trying very hard not to look like she needs to hear it. "Thank you."

"Frank tell you?"

"He said I didn't mess up."

"From him, that's a sonnet." She holds Mel's gaze. "You didn't just not mess up. You held the room."

She keeps walking. She doesn't wait for the response, because she meant it as information, not a moment. Either way, she catches the small exhale behind her and counts it as a win.

It happens in the break room and she almost misses it.

She's in there properly — the real break room, not the alcove, which means it's empty except for the coffee machine with the dodgy button and three chairs nobody sits in — getting a coffee she probably doesn't need, thinking about Mr Spencer's repeat lactate. She is not thinking about Frank. She is thinking about lactate trends.

Frank comes in from the medication prep corridor.

He's halfway to the coffee machine before he clocks her, and in the space between entering and clocking her, his right hand completes a motion. Smooth. Practiced. Something back into his pocket, and then he's leaning against the counter looking at the machine like that's what he came in for.

A beat.

The kind that only exists if you're paying attention.

She looks at her own coffee. "Back today?"

"Little worse." Easy and immediate.

"Did you actually do the physio this week?"

He makes the face.

"Frank."

"I had back-to-back doubles." Not defensive — just the door not quite opening. "It's managed."

She looks at him. The easy stance. The unhurried eyes. Frank, exactly as he always presents.

It's managed. She has heard some version of this for the better part of a year, since the injury, since the referral he attends with the consistency of a man who believes structural problems respond to willpower. She accepts it because he is a doctor and he knows his own body and because she trusts him — reflexively, completely, the way you trust the foundations of a building you've lived in long enough.

"You'd tell me if it was getting worse," she says.

He meets her eyes. "I'd tell you."

"Okay," she says.

She goes back to the floor.

She does not think about the motion. She puts it under back pain, managing it, he'd tell me and leaves it there.

She trusts him.

The dog conversation happens while she is three feet away.

Not eavesdropping. The Pitt is small and Dana Evans does not lower her voice and Elsie is right there at the nurses' station — she hears it the way she hears everything that happens within ten feet of wherever she's standing.

Frank's voice first — the warm version, the one that comes up in the gaps between hard things: got the kids a puppy.

"Tell me that wasn't a surprise for Abby," Dana says immediately.

"Abby loves dogs."

"And does Abby know she loves this one yet?"

"She does now." She can hear the smile in it. "Tanner promised he'd look after it. Very solemn. Full handshake."

"He's four, Frank."

"A very responsible four." A pause. "I've got them this week. Picking them up from Abby's tonight after shift." The warmth in his voice shifts slightly when he talks about the kids — something a little less armoured. She has noticed this for two years and filed it exactly nowhere because there is nowhere for it to go. "Apparently the dog can sit now. Tanner's been leaving voice notes. Four since Tuesday."

"Voice notes," Dana says.

"Very detailed. He does a sound effect for the sitting."

Dana makes the sound she makes for the people she has claimed — mostly exasperation, underneath it something fond enough to be structural. "You're a lot of work."

"Worth it, though."

"Don't push it."

Elsie finishes her note.

She already knows all of this. She knows Tanner is four, knows the younger one is crawling and therefore a domestic hazard, knows the schedule — Frank's weeks, Abby's weeks, the system that mostly works, the back-to-back shifts he picks up partly because he can and partly because a busy Pitt is easier to be present in than a quiet flat. He has told her these things the way he tells her things — not as announcements, just as sentences dropped into the margins of shifts. Was up till three, Tanner had a nightmare. Abby and I are figuring it out. The baby did the funniest thing— and then a trauma coming in and the sentence left unfinished, and her never finding out what the funny thing was and somehow this feels like a metaphor for something she doesn't examine.

She knows the shape of his life outside this building. She is, helplessly and without much drama, fond of the whole picture. The voice notes. The solemn handshake. The nine PM pick-up after a fifteen-hour shift because that's simply what he does.

She finishes the note.

She picks up the next chart.

She is a professional.

She hears about Joyce St. Claire from the specific quality of Samira's face.

Catches her in the corridor between bays — in motion, as always, because Samira in a shift is permanently in motion — and reads the expression from six feet away. The one that means she has been very angry on someone's behalf and converted it entirely into medicine, which is one of Samira's better qualities and one of the things that makes her excellent at this job.

"Sickle cell crisis," Samira says, no preamble. "The medics had her in restraints."

Elsie stops walking.

"Screaming for pain medication. They called it drug-seeking." Her voice is even in the way that means the worst of the anger has already been processed. "Haemoglobin of six."

"You gave her morphine."

"Ten IV, straight off. Yes." She meets Elsie's eyes. "Whitaker looked surprised."

"And?"

"We had a conversation. He listened." The edge of a smile. "He's going to be fine."

"I know." Elsie had made this assessment already — the EKG moment with Princess, open-faced and grateful. The way he'd apologised to Samira about his phone like he actually meant it. "He just needs the rough edges knocked off."

"Don't we all." Samira pauses, and something in her expression shifts to the softer register. "She looked at me like I'd given her more than morphine."

"You did."

"I gave her adequate pain management, Elsie."

"Samira."

"I know. I know." A breath out. "I just want people not to have to fight for the basic things. Every single time." She looks down the hall toward Joyce's bay. "Her wife came. She held my hand when I went to check on her."

Elsie is quiet for a moment, because some things don't need words pressed around them.

"Spencer's getting worse," she says then. "Robby's managing the family."

Samira looks at her, with the particular knowledge of three years of bad shifts. "You okay with that one?"

"Yeah." She is — she is okay with it the way she has learned to be okay with the hard things. Not because they don't reach her. Because she knows how to hold them. "I'm good."

She does not intend to go into the Spencer family conversation.

She is passing the consultation area when she hears Helen and the pitch of it makes her slow — something tightly held, the quality of a person who has decided they will not fall apart in front of a doctor. Elsie knows this from the inside. She has worn it herself.

Robby catches her eye through the glass. The smallest nod. She goes in.

Helen looks at her immediately. "Are you his doctor?"

"I've been looking after him today." She keeps her voice level. "Dr White."

"Is he in pain?"

"The mask is uncomfortable. He's confused, which means he's not fully tracking the discomfort." She pauses. "That's not nothing."

Helen's jaw tightens. "He would hate that. Being confused." And then something in her voice — not just grief, but knowledge, the specific kind that comes from loving someone for a very long time. "He was always the sharpest person in any room."

Jereme, in the chair by the door, looks up. "When our mum left," he says quietly, "he just — held on. Both of us, on his own. Working two jobs when we were in school." A pause. "He always knew how to stay."

Elsie is very still.

He always knew how to stay.

She knows this shape. Not these details — these are strangers — but the shape. The specific grief of losing someone who was a fixed point. Who held everything together because they simply decided to. Who stayed when staying was difficult, who never made you feel like a burden even when you must have been, because that was just who they were.

She clears her throat. "He wrote those words down," she says carefully. "The directive. Whatever he decided in that room, alone — that was his voice. That was him telling you what he wanted." She holds Helen's gaze. "And you are allowed to not be ready. That is not the same as being wrong."

Helen's eyes go bright. The practiced motion — back of the hand, quick — and Elsie recognises the muscle behind it. The years of composure. The discipline of someone who has held things together for a long time and has made it look easy.

"Will he be alone in there?" Jereme asks. Quietly.

"No." Immediately, with the full weight of it. "That room always has someone in it who knows his name. Whatever gets decided." She holds his gaze until he nods. "I promise."

She leaves them with it and walks back out and takes one breath in the corridor.

One.

Then she goes to find Frank.

She finds him at the medication cart off the main bay.

Not looking for her — she doesn't think — just moving through the floor and happening to be there when she turns the corner, which is how half their interactions work. He clocks her face immediately, the way he always clocks her face, and something in his expression shifts to the mode that is just him. No performance. No management.

"The Spencers?" he says.

She leans against the wall beside the cart. "The son said his father always knew how to stay." She says it to the middle distance, not to him specifically, the way you say things you are processing out loud to someone you trust with the processing. "When their mother left. He just — held on. Both kids, on his own."

Frank is quiet.

"And I kept thinking about my dad," she says. "The way he was with Sadie and me, before—" She stops. Starts again. "I know you know what I mean."

"Yeah," he says. Quietly. Not I'm sorry, not that must have been hard, because he already knows all of it and she doesn't need the condolence — she needs what he is already doing, which is standing here and holding it with her. "Yeah, I know."

"It's not —" She exhales. "It's not about me in that room. I know that. I was there for them."

"You were there for them," he says. Simply. Confirming it, not correcting it.

"It just got to me." She turns her head and looks at him. "The similarity of it. A person who stays. That's—" A pause. "That's a particular kind of loss when it goes."

He is looking at her with that expression again — the one she doesn't name at work, the one that is warm and careful and underneath both of those things something she has been managing for three years with declining success. He doesn't say anything for a moment, because he knows her well enough to understand that she is not asking to be fixed. She is asking to be heard, and he hears her.

"He sounded like a good man," Frank says eventually.

"He sounded like exactly the kind of person who shouldn't be in there without anyone understanding what he actually wanted."

"Robby understands what he wanted."

"I know." She straightens. Rolls her shoulders. The thing has been said, received, set down — this is how they work, this is how they have always worked, and it is one of the things she is most grateful for about him without ever having told him so. "Right. What have you got?"

"Scurvy pirate in south twelve."

She stares at him.

"Mel's on it, I'm supervising." He pushes off the cart. "Don't look at me like that, I'm entirely serious."

"There is a man with scurvy?"

"Unhoused, lives on dollar store ramen. Mel's already very attached."

"Of course she is." She falls into step beside him. "Langdon, it is eight-thirty in the morning and we have had a fentanyl OD, a crike, a weed gummy toddler, a sickle cell crisis, and now you are telling me there is a pirate."

"I didn't say pirate."

"Mel said pirate?"

"I said pirate. Mel told me off for saying pirate." He glances sideways at her. The almost-smile. The one she's been counting since seven o'clock without meaning to. "Come see."

She goes and sees.

She hears about Beto from Princess, in the particular tone Princess uses for things that are both beautiful and heartbreaking at once.

Twenty-some years in this hospital. Every corridor memorised. And now Alzheimer's taking the map away, piece by piece, except for this — except for the Pitt, which stays when everything else goes. His family brings him sometimes. He always finds his way back.

She watches him from across the nurses' station. He is doing a circuit of the bay — unhurried, proprietary, straightening a curtain tie with the ease of someone who has done it thousands of times. He stops beside a woman waiting in a hallway bed, a sling on her arm, and says something she can't hear from here. Whatever it is, the woman smiles. He moves off toward the linen trolley and comes back with a blanket and tucks it around her with the particular satisfaction of a job done well.

She watches this and something in her chest shifts in a way she doesn't have a word for.

"He knows this place," she says to Princess.

"That's the thing," Princess says. "Everything else is going. But he remembers this."

She thinks about that for a long time afterward. About the things that stay when everything else leaves. About what it means to have somewhere that holds you so completely it outlasts the ordinary erosion of time. She thinks: I understand that. She thinks: I am that, a little, with this place.

She thinks about Sadie's text — I feel like a person again — and Jenny's four-page briefing document, and PittFest, and the life that exists outside these walls that she sometimes forgets is as real as the one inside them.

Seven hours.

She can absolutely do seven hours.

The news about Nick Bradley moves through the floor the way bad news always moves here — quietly and all at once.

She is not in the corridor when Robby tells the parents the CT result. She is with a patient. But she hears it through the wall — the mother's voice first, high and unravelling: no, no, no. And then the sound that lives below grief, before grief, the sound a person makes when the world reorganises itself around an absence that is still, technically, breathing in the next room.

She keeps her hands steady.

She keeps her face steady.

She does not think about a phone call at fourteen, about her aunt's voice, about the way the world can reorganise itself in the space between one sentence and the next with no warning whatsoever. She does not think about the specific cruelty of having no choice in it. No room full of people, no directive, no conversation. Just: before, and then after, and the wall between them with no door.

She doesn't think about it.

She finishes with her patient. Steps outside. Looks at the ceiling.

One breath.

Then she goes back.

She finds Samira in the hallway and they do the thing — shoulders together, a brief lean, no words required. Three years of the worst days and the best days and the particular intimacy of people who have sat on the floor outside break rooms at 3AM eating terrible vending machine sandwiches and arguing about differential diagnoses to stay awake. Sometimes you just need the physical fact of another person who already knows.

"Spencer," Samira says.

"BiPAP's maxed. Family is pushing for intubation." She keeps her voice even. "Against the directive."

Samira closes her eyes for one second. Opens them. "Robby?"

"His hands are tied. Durable power of attorney." She looks down the hall. "He'll carry it the way he carries everything."

"Badly and invisibly."

"Badly and invisibly, yes." She exhales. "I'm worried about him today."

"He's had worse days."

"Has he?"

Samira is quiet.

"The anniversary," Elsie says, "and Nick Bradley, and Spencer, and David Saunders who ran—" She stops. "That's a heavy morning."

"It's the Pitt."

"I know." She straightens. "I know."

Dana's radio goes down the hall. They are both already moving.

The weed gummy family she hears before she sees.

The mother's voice first — raw and absolute, fear converted into something fiercer: this is my son, nobody is touching him. Elsie doesn't need to see it to understand. She has heard this voice in a hundred different configurations of crisis and has never once blamed the person producing it. Fear runs out of road and turns itself inside out. That's all it ever is.

She follows at a distance and watches Robby from the doorway.

Three years of watching Robby work rooms, and she still finds it remarkable. Not because he's loud — he isn't. Not because he commands — not exactly. It's the way he makes himself the steadiest thing in a space until everything else finds somewhere to land. This is a hospital. And then the room settles, because he offered it an anchor.

Frank is at the other doorway — she always clocks Frank, this has long since stopped being something she remarks on — arms slightly away from his sides. The posture that means I'm not a threat, I'm not leaving, take whatever time you need. She knows this posture. She has catalogued it without ever deciding to.

The mother stays with her son. The room exhales. She falls into step beside Frank in the corridor afterward.

"All right?" she asks.

"Kid's staying admitted. CYF on their way." He rolls his neck. She hears the crack of it. "She was terrified."

"She was."

"Not wrong to be, technically."

"No." A pause. "But she stayed."

He looks at her sideways. Takes it in, turns it over. "Yeah," he says, after a moment. "She did."

They split at the junction of the main bay. She goes to find Whitaker.

She finds Whitaker in with Joyce, which is either initiative or instinct, and she is coming to think it might be both.

He is asking Joyce about her pain management protocol at home, pen out, listening in the way she has noticed he listens — not waiting for a pause to speak, actually taking it in. Samira is in the doorway watching with an expression that is trying not to look satisfied and failing.

She catches Samira's eye. Samira does a very small nod.

She keeps walking.

She will tell Whitaker, at some point today, that he's going to be good at this. She is already certain of it. She is saving it for the right moment, because some things are most useful when they land at the right time, and the right time is not while Bennet Milton is still in a hallway waiting for his gallstone labs to come back. She makes a mental note to check on Bennet. She will do it when she has a minute.

She does not get a minute.

At eight forty-seven, her phone buzzes again.

sadie: okay jenny just confirmed. she's definitely coming at two. I've written her a four page document about millie's routine sadie: is four pages too many pages sadie: [image: four handwritten pages, dense with notes, arrows, and at least two diagrams] sadie: I've also done a PowerPoint. for jenny. about my four month old. me: sadie sadie: I KNOW. I know. she's going to be completely fine isn't she me: she is going to be completely fine. jenny has babysat for half the street and Millie is going to sleep through most of it anyway sadie: you're right. you're right okay. I'm going to go do my hair and not think about it sadie: I cannot WAIT to see you. first time out since she was born. I feel like a person again

Elsie reads that last message twice.

first time out since she was born. I feel like a person again.

She thinks about the past four months — the flat that got smaller when the baby arrived, the bills that got tighter, the nights that bled into mornings, Sadie running on love and stubbornness and not much else. She thinks about Sadie at twenty-seven doing all of it alone because the man who should have stayed didn't, and never once asking Elsie to fix it, just letting Elsie be there, which is its own kind of grace.

She thinks: you are a person. you have always been a person. you are one of the best ones I know.

She doesn't text this because Sadie would tell her she was being soppy. She texts instead:

me: get your hair done. I'll be at the door at three. sadie: 🖤🖤🖤

She pockets the phone.

She looks at the board.

She goes back to work.

Whitaker's gallstone man codes in the hallway at eight fifty-two.

She hears it before she sees it — Whitaker's voice climbing that one notch that means something is wrong right now: I need a little help here, help. And she is already moving, already reaching for gloves, because in this building that tone is a reflex.

The crash cart coming. Donnie there. Robby moving fast.

Bennet Milton, 68, asystole in a hospital corridor.

She steps in for compressions when Donnie needs the break — not a decision, just the thing she does. Heel of the hand, the rate, the depth. Both clinical and the most human thing she knows how to do. She keeps her eyes on the monitor and she is counting and she is managing the number forming quietly in the back of her mind — the one about downtime and fixed pupils and the specific picture on screen that points one direction.

She is aware of Whitaker.

He is at the other side of the gurney and his face has that quality — the stillness of someone learning in real time what this job costs. His first week. His first arrest. His first time standing beside a patient he saw an hour ago and watching the monitor say what it's saying.

She keeps her hands moving and looks at him across the compressions. "You checked on him," she says. Under the rhythm. Quietly. "You were waiting on labs. You listened when Princess suggested the EKG."

He looks at her.

"There are people we can't catch even when we do everything right," she says. "That's not a flaw. That's just what's true."

"But if I had gone back sooner—"

"Dennis." First name, deliberate. "What would you have done differently?"

He doesn't have an answer. She watches him understand that there isn't one — the specific awful relief of it, nothing to hang the guilt on because he did what he was supposed to and the outcome is still this.

Frank is at the doorway. She is aware of him the way she is always aware of him in a room — that frequency, that shift in the air. He has read the room in one look and placed himself where he is useful and said nothing unnecessary, which is one of the things about him she has always thought and never said: he knows when to talk and when to simply be present, and the second skill is rarer and more important and she is fairly certain he doesn't know he has it.

Three rounds of epi and then call it, Robby says.

Whitaker pushes for more. She understands the push — the instinct to refuse to stop, to keep trying, to do something. She has felt it herself. She also knows the difference between the instinct and the medicine.

She keeps her hands on Bennet Milton's chest.

She keeps her feet in the room.

Let's call it.

Silence.

Whitaker stares at his hands.

Bennet Milton is still. Down the hall, the floor is not — Dana's voice on the radio, a trolley going by, the board updating, the Pitt continuing as the Pitt always continues, relentless and necessary.

She peels her gloves. She looks at Whitaker — at the careful stricken stillness of a person figuring out what kind of doctor they will be — and she says: "Get a glass of water. Take three minutes. Then come back."

He looks at her.

"Three minutes doesn't make you unprofessional," she says. "It makes you human. Then you come back because that's what he would want, and it's what the next person in that waiting room needs from you." She holds his gaze. "You're going to be a good doctor. Not because of what just happened. Because of how you handle it."

His throat moves. He nods.

He goes.

She watches him turn the corner and then she looks at the ceiling, briefly, and thinks about Bennet Milton wanting a bourbon at eight in the morning and making a farm boy feel welcome, and she allows herself to think it for exactly one second before she puts it somewhere it can live.

She becomes aware of Frank at her shoulder — she always becomes aware of Frank, eventually, sometimes before she sees him — and she doesn't turn around. He comes to stand beside her. Not crowding. Just present.

Down the hall, Nick Bradley's parents are sitting with their son. The Spencer family are in a corridor making the hardest decision of their lives. Robby is carrying the weight of all of it and not letting it show in his face.

The board is full.

She has six hours left.

She thinks about Sadie pulling up outside in her beat-up Fiat at three o'clock, probably still smelling of whatever dry shampoo she'd panicked with, and Millie at home with Jenny working through a four-page briefing document, and PittFest, and the particular quality of summer evenings in Pittsburgh when you are not, for once, inside a hospital.

"Six hours," Frank says, beside her, like he's read her mind, which is a thing she has given up being surprised by.

"Six hours," she confirms.

"Then PittFest."

"Then PittFest." She exhales. Something that is almost a smile. "Sadie made Jenny a PowerPoint. About Millie. For the babysitter."

He looks at her. "A PowerPoint."

"Four slides. Possibly five. First time she's left her since she was born."

Something in his expression — warm and understanding in the specific way of someone who knows exactly what it costs to hand your child to another person and walk out the door. "She'll be fine."

"I know. Sadie knows." She pauses. "She texted me that she feels like a person again. Just — going out. Just having a night."

Frank is quiet for a moment.

"Good," he says. Simply. Like he means it.

"Yeah." She does too.

"Go on then," she says, and she means back to work and she also means something else that she doesn't say, that lives in the specific warmth of standing here with him for this one moment before the shift takes them back.

He goes.

She goes.

The Pitt swallows them both, the way it always does.

Eight fifty-nine.

taglist: (comment to join)

@britbratface

[ho4fictionalmen]

dresses

pairing: frank langdon x f! reader

a/n: the absolute trials and tribulations to get this part to you. i accidentally deleted my tab of texts and in so deleted ALL PREVIOUS TEXTS - including this part. the previous draft is sm better in my head 💔💔

also the red dress is my actual prom dress 🤗

spelling issues/ timestamps LALALA I CANT HEAR YOU!!

also reblogs are an authors best friend ok now im done

masterlist

previous | next

[drhobby]

power move

dr robby x exwife!reader / this might become a little series just for funnn / slightly fluffy i guess? warning: unnecesarily bitchy towards poor Noelle lmao word count: 1.6 k

don’t forget to check the masterlist for more toxic behavior content

The ER was chaotic as usual. Staff running around, patients complained, and monitors beeped asynchronically.

You were used to it… ish. Scanning your ID badge at a workstation, you began typing up your patient notes. That was when your ex-husband, Michael Robinavitch, appeared on the other side of the central station. You caught sight of him over the rim of your glasses. He was talking with Noelle Hastings, in what you initially dismissed as a standard conversation between a case manager and an attending, until you heard her laugh.

Your mouth parted in surprise. To your left, Dana’s eyes widened. The two of you exchanged a knowing, startled look.

Dana inched closer to you. “He doesn’t even listen to anyone else when he’s talking to her,” she murmured. To prove her point, she called out, “Robby!”

He didn’t even blink.

“See?” Dana whispered.

“Well, good for him,” you said with a tight, half-smile, even as jealousy twisted in your stomach.

“Give it a try, darling. For me, please?” Dana winked, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.

“Why would I?” you asked, keeping your focus on the electronic chart.

“I have a theory.” Dana nodded, smirking.

Quirking your mouth to the side, you decided to play along. Without standing up or raising your voice, you simply called out, “Michael.”

The way his shoulders turned in your direction felt less like a force of habit and more like a force of nature. His brows pulled together, and his sad puppy eyes instantly locked onto yours.

Beside you, Dana disguised a chuckle with a poorly masked cough.

“Yes, swee—Doctor?” Michael corrected himself quickly. He walked over, leaning his forearm on the high counter just behind your monitor.

“The patient in bed twelve is good to go,” you said, keeping your tone professional. “Both she and the baby are healthy. I gave her some caring instructions, and an appointment for next month for her pre-natal care. There's no need to admit her. You can go ahead with the discharge.”

“Alright. Thank you.” His voice carried a tight, professional restraint; it sounded even, almost dull. His eyes, however, screamed that you had broken his heart and begged you to fix it.

You finally stood up from your chair, keeping the counter between you. His eyes trailed your every movement.

“One more thing,” you added.

Michael nodded, his hand drifting to the back of his neck. Oh, he was nervous.

“Do you think you could stop by the house later?”

The request clearly caught him off guard. His eyes widened, and his lips parted slightly.

“I think there’s an issue with the water heater,” you supplemented before he could get the wrong idea. “Since you fixed it last time, I thought you could take a look at it before I call a plumber?”

Both of his hands landed on the counter, as if he were steadying himself after taking a physical blow. He looked slightly dazed, trying to piece together what was happening.

“Of course,” he said, his voice dropping. “I’ll be there as soon as I wrap up here.”

You offered a sweet smile. “Thanks, Michael.”

Before he could respond, the automatic doors slid open as a gurney rushed in. Paramedics flanked both sides, bagging the patient and shouting stats as they pushed the wheels forward.

“Trauma One is open!” Dana’s voice echoed across the unit.

Michael was already moving. You didn't bother waving goodbye. Grabbing your coffee mug, you prepared to head back up to your own floor.

When you turned around, Noelle was standing right in front of you.

“Noelle.” You smiled warmly, acting as if you hadn’t just pulled a massive power move purely out of ego. A small, fleeting part of you felt guilty.

“We have plans tonight,” Noelle announced, a smug smirk on her lips.

“Oh.” You took a step back, turning toward the elevators. “Then you better hope it’s an easy fix. Otherwise, the kids and I will be showering at his apartment.”

You threw a wicked wink over your shoulder and kept on walking.

[alexandritte80]

Three Stories - Jack Abbot x fem!reader; Michael Robinavitch x fem!reader; Brendon Park x fem!reader

Summary: Three stories involving Jack, Michael, and Brendon and their wives talking nonsense.

Warnings: Fluff, spicy (mentions of penises, pubic hair, sex) but nothing explicit; reader gets hurt (nothing serious).

Jack Abbot:

The night shift was always chaos.

So much so that few reacted when an ambulance dropped off a patient screaming and kicking at the top of his lungs to be treated there.

A large, middle-aged man, with glazed and confused eyes, probably some neurological condition or intoxication. The paramedics had already restrained him, but the team needed to transfer the patient to another stretcher.

The restraints came loose and the battle began. There were four nurses on one side, six on the other, Jack in the middle with Shen and Ellis, and even then the patient wasn't being restrained.

"I need Haloperidol!" Jack called out, and his wife already had the syringe in her hand to administer it.

Unfortunately, the needle never touched the patient's skin, as in an attempt to free himself, he made a violent punch that struck the left side of her head squarely.

The world spun. She felt the ground disappear before she even heard the dull thud of her own body falling. Then, only darkness.

No more than three, maybe four minutes passed. When she came to, the white light from the ceiling blinded her. Someone was adjusting the stretcher under her back. There were hands on her wrists, an oximeter attached to a finger, and familiarly tense voices around.

"Honey? Can you hear me?"

She blinked, trying to focus. The figure before her was unmistakable: short gray hair, a look of urgency, yet sweet and gentle, with eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

He was examining her pupils with a flashlight.

"Slow reaction," he murmured. "I want a CT scan now!" Jack shouted. His tone was nothing but concern.

She tried to smile. Her mouth was dry, and the words came out as if from somewhere else.

"Why are you only red-haired in your pubic hair?" her voice came out drawn out, as if she'd just come from a night out with her friends.

The silence that followed was so absolute that she heard the beep of the heart monitor in the background.

Jack froze. The flashlight almost fell from his hand.

Behind him, the night head nurse let out a stifled laugh; Ellis and Mateo exchanged a look of someone struggling not to laugh.

Completely oblivious to the effect of her words, she continued in a dreamy, drawling voice:

"Where's your red hair? You were so red… Remember? Now it's gone. Our children need to know their father is a redhead!"

Jack cleared his throat. His neck turned red, the words died in his throat, and his doctor's pose crumbled with embarrassment.

"Honey… You took a pretty nasty hit, and I don't think you should say anything."

"No!" she interrupted, sitting up abruptly. She grabbed Jack's face, her glazed, uneven eyes fixed on his as if what she was about to say was of utmost importance. "It is important, Jack! Why is only your pubic hair red?! Where's the rest of it?" Jack ignored the sounds of laughter. He carefully took her hands, laying her back on the stretcher. " Wow…" she said, taking his hand and looking at his exposed arms. "Your… arms… I love your arms…" she said, resting her cheek against them. "I love biting them when you fuck me from behind… So strong and…"

"That's enough. " he said, covering her mouth with his hand.

"The CT scan is ready for her" Lena said, hearing Jack thank her.

"You two. " he pointed at Ellis and Mateo. " Not a word."

Michael Robinavitch:

The shift at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center was always a surprise. You could never predict absolutely anything about what those next twelve hours would be like; they could be calm like a perfect day, or like an explosion of chaos and destruction.

On that shift, for example, the chaos began right at the end of the day. A craft beer tasting event ended in a chaotic fight between its biggest competitors. One of them punched the other with a hose in his hand, and his rival broke some glass bottles over his head. The two continued fighting, even after being forcibly separated by paramedics, security guards, and the bravest nurses.

One of them, nurse Robinavitch, intended to use a more powerful tool than trying to separate two men focused on killing each other. Unfortunately, her efforts only resulted in a shove so hard that when she fell, her head hit the floor with a dry thud, and everything went dark.

She woke up with a bright light shining in her eyes. The noise from the monitors was too loud, and the ice behind her head was too cold.

"Sweetheart? You're back…" Robby's voice came close. His tone was controlled, yet still on the verge of a surge of worry. "You had a nasty fall… Remember?" she mumbled, sitting up, or trying to, since he stopped her. "No… Your tests came back normal, but you had a mild concussion… You'll be lying here for a few hours." Robby saw her blink a few times, look around, and then look at him. She brought a hand to his head. Less gentle than he would have liked, but Robby didn't say anything. She began to run her fingers through his hair again, not as gently as he would have liked. "Sweetheart?"

"I'm so glad you're not bald," she said with genuine relief.

Robby blinked. Behind him, Perlah put her hand to her mouth.

"What?" he asked, not believing he'd heard correctly.

"You're old…" she continued, completely oblivious. "But you're not bald… I'm so happy…"

"Sweetheart, I think you should close your eyes and rest a little." Robby tried, removing her hand from his hair and kissing it a few times.

"And you're not bald anywhere!" she interrupted, her eyes wide with admiration. "I love your hair! I love…" Robby froze. "I love how it tickles my nose when I'm sucking your dick."

"Enough!" Robby acted quickly, covering her mouth with his, ignoring her tongue in his palm.

"How much do you want to not tell anyone?" he asked without turning to Perlah, but knowing she was there.

"More than you can pay," she replied, closing the file and leaving the room.

Brendon Park:

The ER lobby at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center descended into chaos in seconds. A handcuffed patient, escorted by police on suspicion of involvement in a robbery, managed to break free from one of the officers and sprinted down the corridor. Nurse Park, passing by with a tray of medications, didn't have time to dodge. The man struck her squarely, throwing her against the cold concrete wall. The tray flew. The sound of the fall was sharp. And then, silence.

When she awoke, she was on a stretcher in an emergency observation room. She knew it well. Her head throbbed. The world seemed to spin in slow motion. Dana held her hand, while Langdon was already ordering a CT scan of her head.

"Mild concussion," Langdon said, relieved. "But let's observe."

Someone murmured in the background:

"Did anyone notify Park?"

The air grew heavy. Everyone knew what that meant. Brendon Park, the Shark, wasn't exactly known for his patience or tact. He was dry, direct, and when irritated, he could make the room temperature drop ten degrees. And if there was one thing that drove Brendon crazy, it was knowing that his wife had been injured while under the care of the emergency room he so despised.

"We had to call," Dana sighed. "She's his wife. He needed to know."

The blue curtain slammed open violently.

Brendon Park entered like a hurricane, his white coat blazing with eyes burning. His hair was carefully combed back, like someone who spent hours in the bathroom doing it every morning. His jaw was clenched. Everyone around him instinctively took a half-step back.

But before he could open his mouth to growl at someone, a hoarse, dreamy voice echoed from the stretcher:

"BREBREN!"

She was sitting, or trying to be. Her eyes were wide, and a silly smile spread across her face as she watched her husband walk through the curtain. She looked like a child at Christmas.

Everyone froze.

"Brebren"?

Brendon ignored the stares. He walked to the stretcher, quickly checked the vital signs on the monitor, and then turned to his wife.

"What happened?" Brendon's voice was low, controlled, but each word was a razor blade.

"She was hit by a patient fleeing from the police, Dr. Park, and…"

"I wasn't talking to you," Brendon growled, without even looking at Ogilvie. His eyes gleamed like a shark about to strike.

The whole room held its breath. Even the policeman leaning against the wall seemed to shrink.

It was then that she, still groggy, pointed a trembling finger at Ogilvie and repeated, with a drunken and hilarious conviction:

"He didn't talk to you!" and she even dared to stick her tongue out like her three-year-old son did.

Absolute silence. Someone swallowed hard. Dana bit the inside of her mouth to try not to laugh.

Brendon simply pulled up a chair and sat down beside the stretcher, close to his wife. For the first time, his face softened. He carefully took her hand and squeezed it gently, caressing it.

That immediately caught her attention, turning her head to meet his eyes.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, as if she had seen a ghost. Then, her eyes filled with pure admiration. "You're so handsome… So handsome…"

Brendon blinked. The tips of his ears turned slightly pink. No one there had ever seen the Shark blush.

"Our children will take after you… For sure," she continued, caressing the back of his hand.

Brendon tilted his head, a small, private smile appearing at the corner of his mouth.

"They take after you, my love," he corrected, with a sweetness that made Dana and Langdon exchange glances of complete astonishment. "They're your spitting image. Sebastian has your eyes. Elena has your smile," he said, kissing her hand.

She frowned, confused. Her brain seemed to be in knots.

"Really?" she asked, genuinely incredulous. "No! I wanted them to be just like you!"

She then lifted Brendon's hand to get a better look. She looked at his long fingers, the strong, surgeon's fingers, the soft skin of someone who kept a ridiculously expensive hand cream in his cabinet and used it constantly to avoid the damage caused by the hospital's alcohol. But then, her eyes widened in panic.

She didn't see the wedding ring. Because she was holding his right hand.

"You…" her voice began to tremble. "You don't love me anymore?!"

Her eyes filled with tears. The first drop rolled down, and then came the sob. A sobbing, childish cry, completely disproportionate, exactly like only a concussion and a massive dose of painkillers could provoke.

"You took off your wedding ring!" she sobbed. "Are you going to leave me? Because of my snoring? I promise I'll stop snoring, Brebren!"

What happened next paralyzed the room.

Brendon Park, the Shark, the man who made residents cry in the bathroom, the surgeon who never apologized and never explained decisions, leaned forward with a gentleness that hurt to watch. With his free hand, he brushed the hair from her face. With the other, still holding her right hand, he brought her fingers to his lips and kissed their tips.

"Here it is, darling," he said softly. He turned his own left hand, showing the wedding ring. Then he took her left hand and touched the ring that was still there. "Yours is too. I'm not going anywhere. Not if you snore, not if you don't snore. Not even if you call everyone Brebren."

"Brebren…" she repeated, with a trembling, sleepy smile. Her eyes were already beginning to feel heavy.

"I'm here," he replied, stroking her hair. "Now sleep, my love. I'll stay here until you wake up."

She was almost asleep when she murmured:

"You're so handsome… So handsome…"

The heart monitor showed a calm, deep rhythm. She fell asleep.

Brendon remained seated, his hand still in her hair, his face serene. Then, very slowly, he raised his eyes and scanned the room. There was no longer any trace of cuteness in his expression.

"If anyone says anything," he said, his voice low and precise like a scalpel. I'll make sure that's the last thing I say.

[thoroughfareluvr145]

Brendon “the shark” Park x reader

‘Warm safe place’

Brendon “the shark” park x f!curvy!reader (sorry if it isn’t for u, if anyone wanted I could do none curvy!!)

Tags: mentions of SH! family issues (cough* cough* projection), soft!brendon, ED (cough* cough* projection), size kink (not sexually—yet 😘), lots of fluff and plot!!, implied age gap.

No word count cuz I’m lazy at the moment xx

Summary: reader has just come home from a week long trip back home! Bren is there to pick up the pieces.

a/n: this is acc fully a projection fic icl but enjoy lovelies. Feedback is welcome just don’t be too mean pls.

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It had just gone 7pm when you walked through the door of the apartment you shared with your boyfriend. Instantly, the smell of your favourite meal assaulted your senses. You could cry, especially after the week you had just had.

“Baby, that you?” Bren shouts from the kitchen, even the sound of his voice causes an instant rush of emotion to wash over you.

“Yeah, give me a sec Bren.” You replied trying to make your voice as even as possible, even if all you wanted to do was cry.

You sat by the door on the little bench Bren had insisted on getting so you could sit and take off your shoes. God, even thinking about all the thought Bren put into your home together wanted to make you cry. You were so fucked. Bren would see through you right away, you needed to get your shit together. Just as you were taking deep breaths, trying to regulate yourself just as your therapist had told you to, your face came in line with Bren’s crotch.

“Just breathe baby. You don’t have to hide anything from me, we’ve talked about this.” Who would believe it, the supposed “shark” being so soft. In your family, problems, especially emotional, were to never talked about. Your issues were either dismissed or discussed using raised voices. You always tell yourself that you’re being dramatic and so many people have way bigger problems.

“Come on. Let me take you to the kitchen.” Bren scooped you up bridal style, you of course protested.

“Bren, I’m too heavy for you to be pulling this shit. You should put me down before I injure you.” You sighed tiredly.

“Now what have I said about this baby. You will never ever be too heavy for me to carry.” You scoffed in response, clearly not believing him. He set you down on one of the kitchen stools at the island (because you actually had a kitchen island now!!).

“Okay, spill baby. The silence this week has been killing me. I can’t stand it a minute longer.”

“I don’t know Bren. Promise not to shout at me. Please.” You asked, shrinking in on yourself.

“Sweetheart, please tell me. I want to understand you, maybe even help you.”

Reluctantly, you start to tell him.

“I don’t know whether I’ve told you about my brother before.” You paused, you had only been dating for three months and your brother was a subject you don’t like to talk about with anyone. Not even Bren.

“He’s an addict. Not any hard drugs, just weed. But shit Bren- you should have seen him 10 years ago compared to now.” You breathe deeply, blinking back tears rapidly.

“He was so fucking thoughtful. He was also so smart and funny. He was my only friend. Then he gets a girlfriend, and she was so lovely. But she introduced him to smoking weed. At first I thought it was fine, you know loads of people smoke weed. It can’t be too harmful. But he changed.” A single tear rolled down your face, wiping it away quickly before Bren see’s. He of course caught it.

Softly he walked over, lifting you from the stool and taking you to the living room. He sat on the couch, pulling you into his lap. Slowly, he stroked your hair with his big hand, occasionally leaving small kisses along the back of your neck and shoulders.

“Bren- I’m too heavy let me get off.” The glare he gave you was enough to keep you quiet. Maybe you see why people call him the shark.

“Oh, we’ll get to the part where you have been skipping meals soon, sweetheart.” He said, not unkindly, but with a sternness he only used when he was deeply concerned. He knew that you had a rough time expressing emotions without thinking someone would shout, so he tried to be as gentle with you as possible. Even if he was so frustrated with the way you refused to look after yourself.

“Carry on baby. Please. No one’s mad at you.” You nodded softly.

“He’s so violent now. Any discussion he doesn’t want to have, he’ll get up in your face and shout. He’s never got physical with me but there’s been times where I’ve been scared he would. He’s also so selfish, he eats all the food, he lives off of my parent’s money. He’s older than me for christ’s sake. He should have a job by now. This sounds so dramatic, there’s so many bigger problems in the world.”

Bren is quiet for a moment, he knew you had an older brother. He didn’t know what type of relationship you had though. A flare of protectiveness strikes up in him. How dare he scared his baby. He’s processing the conversation, tuning in on how you said he was your only friend. Bren knew you had no friends now, but had it always been that way? His heart is slowly cracking open, physically hurting his chest the more you speak. How can such a sweet, caring girl think that because people are going through harder situations that she couldn’t complain. That she thought what’s happening to her is okay. He will spend every hour of every day making sure you knew you were loved now, no one was ever going to hurt you or do you wrong again.

Finally he spoke. “Baby. You are not being dramatic. This situation is not right, no matter what other people are going through.” His eyes are deadly serious, his string hands striking your hair soothingly.

“Hmmm. Maybe.” He still didn’t like the sound of that dismissal, but he allowed you to continue.

“He also smokes weed in-front of the house constantly. He is out every half an hour smoking weed. My parents live next to fucking kids Bren. A 3 yr old kid has to play outside whilst my brother is stinking up the place with his weed.” Your sadness has quickly turned into anger, you got up from Bren’s lap despite his protest. Pacing back and forth through the living room.

“I am so pathetic. Some people have it so much harder than a brother addicted to weed you know. I feel so shitty for complaining. I don’t know, just- ughhhh.” You groan, lying on the floor dramatically.

“Okay. Sweetheart, sit up for me. There you go baby. First of all, you are not pathetic, you have watched a person you love change dramatically because of substance abuse. I don’t care about other people’s situations or other people’s addictions. It doesn’t make your brothers any better. His behaviour, weed or not, is selfish and harmful. You and your family deserve better, despite what I think of your parents at times. Now sweetheart, you are going to get off of that floor and eat something because I sure as hell know you have not eaten a full meal all week.” You open your mouth to protest. “No, don’t think I haven’t noticed how much lighter you have become in a week. It’s not healthy, let me feed you my love.” He offered his hand, pulling you off the floor and into his large, beefy arms.

“It’s going to be okay.” He whispered kissing the top of your head. He guided you to the kitchen, sitting you on the same stool from before.

He placed the warm dish infront of you and sat in the stool next to you.

“Eat baby.” He encouraged.

“Bren. I don’t want to sound like I’m fishing for compliments, but I feel too fat to eat right now. I don’t think I’m in the right head space.” You said quietly, avoiding eye contact.

“I won’t force you to eat. You are a grown woman who can make her own decisions. But you need to know how it makes me feel when you talk bad about the girl I’m in-love with.” His lips were turned down in a frown. “Please tell me why you haven’t been eating baby.” You looked up, his gorgeous eyes were filled with softness. He was too good for you and you knew it. He was so big and attractive he could have whoever the fuck he wanted. Your mum had told you so all week long. If you didn’t get your hips smaller then he would leave you.

“Why are you with me? You could have anyone Bren.”

“Fuck sweetheart.” His eyes were glossy, you had never seen him look like this recently. Not since the beginning of your relationship where he discovered your old self-harm scars. “You don’t know how much that breaks my heart.”

“I’m sorry.” You reply.

“No, no, no. Baby, no. Don’t apologise. I love you so fucking much and I hate that you have been made to feel this way.” His large hands enveloped your face, he peppered kisses all over your face until he got to your lips. The kiss communicated everything he couldn’t make you understand with words. It was so so so soft and gentle, yet somehow possessive- you were his and there was no doubt about it.

You broke apart and spoke. “Sorry Bren. My mum has been down my ear all week. My hips, my thighs, my waist. Shit- basically all of me is too big.” You laughed, although it came out as more of a hysterical sob. You folded in half. The whole week catching up to you. Bren caught you, engulfing you in his large arms, your face again his broad chest. He soothed you with sweet words.

“I love you so much Bren. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“I am pretty great.” He smirked down at you, taking in your glossy eyes and red face, still so fucking beautiful.

“What happened to you comforting me, Hm?” You smiled, his things gently swiping under your eyes, across your cheeks.

“Well, it got a smile from you didn’t it?” His own face breaking into a wide smile, very rarely seen by the Pitt.

“Sorry for not really texting this week. How was has your week been?” You asked, your head laying back against his chest.

“Pretty bleak without you baby.” He began recounting different surgeries and patients. Updating you on your weekly gossip of the Pitt.

“Missed you Bren.” Standing on your toes to give him a kiss. It started off light, little pecks and slowly turned into deep, passionate kisses. His tongue swiped across your bottom lip, asking for permission. You quickly granted it, whining softly into the kiss. He captured your thighs, lifting you up so they were wrapped around his thick, stocky waist. The angle added a whole new vigour to your kisses, becoming frantic and sloppy but so fucking addicting. He slowly broke the kiss.

“Okay baby. That’s enough for tonight. You’ve had an emotional week. Let me look after you sweetheart. I’ve got the day of tomorrow, maybe we resume this in the morning? After food and sleep?” He says out of breath, your mouth all red and glossy, and your eyes half shut.

“You’re such a tease Bren. But fine. You’re too good to me, don’t deserve you.” Your murmur sleepily into his neck. “Dinner in bed?”

“Thought you’d never ask my love.” He chuckled. Carrying you up to bed with one hand supporting your ass, the other holding a plate of food.

“Love you baby.”

“Love you too Bren.”

Fin!

a/n: this is so bad but self indulgent asf. I don’t know if anyone will get the staind reference. “Warm safe place” is my fav song rn. Pls listen bbys. Any spelling errors- well it is 2am and I have an exam tomorrow so deal with that.

[apfelkernchen]

Interlude: You’ll be the death of me, woman

Dr. Jack Abbot x (female) reader | Dr. Jack Abbot x you

Summary: Robby is absolutely not subtle about joining Lizzie's birthday trip - and immediately informs the one person he desperately wants to impress.

A/N: I'm no longer updating the taglist because Tumblr has been glitching way too much lately. If you don't want to miss any updates, feel free to turn on notifications for my posts! <3

Link to "You stole my cart" master list (1)

Link to "You stole my cart" master list (2)

Previous chapter: Part 103: There was no we in that decision

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Robby:

If you were planning on having a date with me on July 1st - tragic news. I’m unavailable.

Mara:

That wasn’t even on my top ten activities for the day.

But tell me - what are you doing? You seem desperate for me to ask about it.

Robby:

It’s Lizzie’s birthday.

Mara:

You do know they’re flying out to see her family so they won’t be in Pittsburgh, right?

Robby:

I know.

I’m joining them. I’m practically a part of this family.

Mara:

Oh for fucks sake. Are you serious?

Robby:

Yeah.

Why?

Mara:

She didn’t tell you?

Robby:

Tell me what?

Mara:

I’ll be there too.

Robby:

WHAT?

Seriously?!?

Mara:

For the record - she invited me.

Robby:

Oh.

Okay.

Cool!

Wait - that means we’ll be spending a LOT of time together?

Mara:

Robby. Stop.

Robby:

That changes things.

What flight are you on?

And which hotel?

Mara:

Robby, seriously, stop.

Robby:

I’m incapable of that.

So - which flight are you on?

Mara:

I’m busy this whole afternoon with work. So please don’t bother me about this anymore.

Robby:

Okay, I’ll text you after five then.

— — —

Robby:

So.

I have done research.

Mara:

I hate everything about that sentence.

Robby:

The hotel options in that town are horrifying. There is only one reasonable one that’s not forty minutes away.

[sends link]

What do you think?

Mara:

Robby. Why are you researching my accommodation? Aren’t you busy running an ER?

Robby:

Day off.

So. Garden view or standard room?

Mara:

???

Is that a serious question?!

Robby:

You’re right.

Garden view. Worth the extra forty bucks.

Mara:

You are NOT booking my room.

Robby:

Of course not.

I’m booking two separate rooms. One of them could theoretically become available to you free of charge.

Mara:

Okay, I have to ask.

Are you actually insane?

Robby:

I do care for you.

I won’t let you stay in some tragic motel with floral bedspreads from 1976.

Mara:

Instead you force me to spend time with some tragic guy who’s from 1976?

Robby:

Wow.

That’s rude considering I’m rescuing you from a terrible fate.

Mara:

I’m not apologizing to a madman.

And also - what terrible fate??!

Robby:

Whatever.

We should also share a rental car.

Mara:

Um, what now?

Robby:

A rental car.

Why would we both get cars? Incredibly wasteful. Terrible for the environment.

Mara:

How very convenient for you.

Robby:

I do care about efficiency. 

SUV or something smaller?

Mara:

This conversation is incredibly weird.

Honestly.

Robby:

Let’s make it weirder.

I found a flight with decent timing.

Business class has two seats together.

Mara:

You’re absolutely not paying for my flight.

Robby:

Why?

Mara:

I’m a grown adult. 

Robby:

Cool.

An adult who deserves extra leg room?

Mara:

Robby, seriously, I can pay for my own ticket.

Robby:

I know.

But should you?

Mara:

I’m considering blocking your number.

That’s actually a little creepy.

Robby:

I just want this to go smoothly.

Mara:

You won’t let this slide, right?

Robby:

No.

Mara:

Fine, then book whatever you want but I’m absolutely gonna pay you back for that.

Robby:

Sure.

You can venmo me.

Mara:

Okay that was easier than expected.

Robby:

I’m reasonable.

(Mara sends the payment.)

(Payment gets declined.)

Mara:

???

Robert?! What the fuck?!!

Robby:

That’s not even my name.

Mara:

Wait - what? 

But your nickname is Robby.

Robby:

Robby. Short for Michael Robinavitch. 

You didn’t know that?

Wow, that’s embarrassing for you.

Mara:

Robert felt right though.

But why did you decline the money?

Robby:

I just don’t feel like taking it.

Mara:

That is NOT how reimbursement works.

Robby:

Just let me be nice, woman.

Mara:

You will NOT pay for my hotel. Or my flight. I’ll reimburse you and if that’s the last thing I’m doing.

Also - it doesn’t mean I’m gonna sleep with you.

Robby:

Jesus Christ, woman.

I know you’re not a hooker.

Mara:

Okay, wow.

First of all - if I was a hooker you wouldn’t be able to afford me.

Second - I’m going out now. Anything else you want to say before I nip this conversation in the bud?

Robby:

You’re going out?

Mara:

Yes.

Robby:

With whom?

Mara:

Not going to answer this.

Robby:

Okay.

About the reimbursement. You can buy my coffee for the time we’re in this godforsaken town and call it even.

Mara:

That is NOT EVEN REMOTELY the same amount of money, Robert.

Robby:

Stop calling me that.

Mara:

Sorry, I just don’t feel like calling you something else.

Robby:

You’ll be the death of me, woman.

Just send me your passport information for the booking, okay?

Mara?

Ugh. Well okay, enjoy your evening.

And stop calling me Robert.

Please.

--- --- ---

You wanna keep reading? - Next part is coming soon, I promise :)

--- --- ---

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