Summary: Dex always counts down the minutes until he’s home again. Until he can breathe again. Until he’s back in your arms again.
Warnings: Established relationship, fluff, canon related, some light mention of self esteem issues.
Author’s Note: Unbeta’d. Dividers by @saradika-graphics. Image by @bullseyelover on Pinterest.
hi again! Thought I’d try my hand at a more softer Dex. I really liked writing this one, the idea that all of his troubles melt away once he gets home to the one he loves makes me happy 🥹 hopefully I’ve done him justice and it isn’t too out of character. Enjoy! x
As soon as Dex walks through the door of your shared apartment, he closes his eyes and takes what feels like his first deep breath of the day. The door closes as his back slumps against it, body sagging with the weight of exhaustion on his shoulders.
Work was a bust. The rigid structure the FBI provides him doesn't seem to be helping as it once did. His nerves fray with more caseloads coming in. The applause Dex formerly received when completing his assignments now crickets in a desert.
Each crack in his preserved regime is beginning to reveal itself and Dex’s hands sweat with cold anticipation with the thought of going back tomorrow.
“Hi, Ben.” And there you are, voice so soft with that soothing lilt that instantly deflates the anxiety that’s been living in his chest since he had to leave you this morning. A smile effortlessly upturns his lips as you drag him out of the dark. It’s just the effect you have on him.
Dex opens his eyes and is graced by the sight of you, adorned with your favourite hoodie of his. He can’t help how his ears burn as the hem flutters over your bare mid thigh. “Hey, Angel.”
Your feet patter delicately against the wooden floorboards, slowly making their way towards him. Dex’s heart increases in tempo as your scent gets stronger, the melody of the sweet perfume you normally spray upon your neck weaving its way into his consciousness and ridding the stress of the day.
He welcomes you instantly, practically dragging you into his body and wrapping his arms around you like a lifeline. Your small oof makes him chuckle and he nuzzles himself into your neck to inhale you in. To make sure you’re real. “Christ, I missed you.”
Giggling against him, you kiss his covered chest and hum tenderly. “I missed you too, love. Always miss you when you’re gone.”
A crack splinters Dex’s heart. Your intimate declaration forces him to cuddle you tighter. He misses you all the time too, stares at the framed picture of you on his desk at work and wishes he could be with you instead.
It only makes his frustrations of work fester; the growing demands he used to fulfill now suddenly too meagre, the injustice of himself being used as a scapegoat for the FBI’s failures. It was unravelling what was once his perfectly stabilizing routine he had curated with precision and instead shifting it into his personal nightmare.
But all of that fades to the background, into the dark corners of Dex’s mind when you hold him in the delicate way you do. Like he’s made of glass, like he’s something so precious you’re scared if you let go he’ll shatter. Like he matters — worthy of being someone better than he’s destined to be.
He believes it because of you.
You must feel the vines of stress winding themselves into Dex’s muscles. Propping your chin on his solid chest to look into his eyes, you offer him the most serene glimpse of comfort, eyes earnest and all seeing. As though you can see straight through him.
Somehow, that doesn’t scare Dex. If anything, it made him feel lighter.
“How about we snuggle while we order something in, hm?” You whisper gently. “You look tired, baby. Let me make it better.”
Weakness comes in its purest form at a simple request from you. Dex can no longer be a strong man when you ask for something he so badly needed. Especially in the sugared, saccharine matrimony you hold for him. Like a siren, luring him in only with the sound of your voice.
How can his answer be anything other than yes? “Yeah.” Dex’s styled hair begins to unravel as he nods his head, his nervous tick of combing his fingers through his hair resulting in several strands becoming loose. “Y-Yes. Please.”
Dex swallows the lump in his throat. He sounds so needy, so vulnerable and with any other he’d hate himself. But with you, he can’t help but let go and allow you to see him exposed.
Holding your hand out, you wait until Dex places his own in yours, intertwining your fingers together before leading him to your shared bedroom.
The two of you are quiet, a silent understanding that only comes with time and grace, as you position yourself against the headboard and pat your thighs.
“Come here, Ben,” you mumble, eager to not break the intricacy of your bubble. “Let me take care of you for a while.”
Dex’s head begins to blur, the once sharpened edges of his mind now turning fuzzy. There’s no longer any voices calling him from the darkness, just a bright light on the horizon asking him to join her.
With shaking hands, Dex undresses himself; tie, shirt, trousers landing on the floor unceremoniously as he rushes to be with you. It’s so unlike himself, such a vast display of disorder it would usually make him feel sick. But like any other since coming home, his worries have disappeared. For now at least.
Crawling onto the bed, Dex makes his way towards you — so inviting, so deliciously tranquil that his heart races.
You’re sitting there so patiently, with the kindest eyes Dex doesn’t deserve, waiting for him. He doesn’t let himself believe it most days, that you stick around and love every part of him. But you always lift him back up to the surface to remind him that no matter how hard he tries to push you away, you’re not going anywhere.
Resting his head upon the plushness of your thigh, Dex fuses himself into you, weaving his arms around your waist and holding you as tight as what’s comfortable.
You hum, content and happy, and begin to comb your fingers through Dex’s hair. Immediately, he exhales a shaky breath. The world has finally come to a stop, and time pauses for the two of you.
“Feels good, right?” You mutter soothingly at the purr he lets go. Your newly manicured nails scratch Dex’s scalp so good he shivers with pleasure.
With hooded eyes, Dex grabs your hand carefully and brings your fingernails to his eye level. “Is that the blue I picked out?”
“It is,” you confirmed. “Do you like it?”
“Mm,” he grunts, bringing the palm of your hand to his mouth and placing kisses to your soft skin. “Looks pretty on you.”
Though he’s buried himself into your stomach, Dex already knows the shy smile you’re wearing and the heat that’s rising upon your cheeks. You had texted him a couple of days ago while he was at work, asking for his opinion on a nail design. A French tip in a shade of navy blue. Dex smiles to himself; you had accepted him, no questions asked. He’s not used to that.
Your motions continue, nails smoothing over his head and consistently hitting the sensitive spot from the migraines he experiences.
Dex closes his eyes and allows himself a small slither of peace — only for a second, he tells himself. He needs his focus both sharp and precise and poured into you; your safety. But your loving touch is too strong that Dex doesn’t realise how heavy his eyes have become, or the concern that furrows your brows.
“They work you like a dog,” you whisper into the tender atmosphere. “It’s not fair.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he rasps back to you. “I get to come home to you.”
And Dex means it. It doesn’t matter what work throws at him, the very solid notion that you’re at home, protected and waiting for him trumps anything else.
But your solemn whisper, one that Dex has a feeling has marinated in your own busy mind while he’s been working later and harder unnerves him. “Until something happens.”
Though sleep is catching up with him in the cocoon of your warmth, Dex shakes his head vehemently, desperate to reassure you. “Never,” he declares, confidently. “I’lll always come back to you. Need you safe.”
He hears you swallow the lump in your throat and feels you nod, the manoeuvre crescending down your body. “That’s right, Ben. You keep me safe.”
Dex holds it like a secret. Something so sacred it’s scarred in his mind. You think he’s important. You think he has a purpose. You’ll never understand how your innocent affirmations hold weight in his mind.
“And you keep me sane, Angel.” Sleep catches up to Dex, your touch like a lullaby. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Consciousness waves in and out of Dex’s mind as he succumbs to slumber, but he can rest easy as you tuck the two of you into the sheets and gift him one last kiss to his forehead. “Lucky for you, you’ll never have to find out.”
Summary: Dex becomes obsessed with one of the waitresses at his local diner. (3.5k)
Tags/warnings: smut (mdni), dry humping, oral (f!receiving), face riding, cumming untouched, pathetic dex, mentions of violence, mentions of murder, stalking, obsessive/possessive behavior, reader is morally grey and kind of a freak (affectionately)
A/N: First time writing for Dex!!! Heavily inspired by the song "She" by Tyler, The Creator and Frank Ocean. English is not my first language and this was not proofread. Enjoy!
masterlist
A routine, that's all you craved for when you skipped town a couple of months ago. That's what you try to remind yourself as another day, identical to the previous, begins.
You wake up tangled in your cheep sheets, glistening with sweat as the first rays of sunshine filter through your open window.
You paddle to the small kitchen of your new home, the floorboards creaking under your bare feet, and make yourself a cup of coffee. Then, you start to get ready for another shift at the diner.
It's not your dream job — far from it, actually — but the pay is decent, and if you manage to flash a sweet smile convincingly enough to the right clients, the tips can be pretty consistent.
After a relatively long drive from the secluded ranch you managed to buy from a man who didn't ask many questions when you asked to pay upfront with cash, you park your beat-up sedan in front of the diner.
As you walk in you flash a smile to the few regulars you recognize, and you great your coworker behind the counter — a young girl too sweet for her own good.
"Morning!" she replies with a smile of her own, despite the fact that's way to early for someone to look this joyous.
After exchanging a few niceties, you tie your apron and officially begin your shift. It's the same routine as usual: go up to tables, take orders, and refill cups with coffee that you know for sure tastes like shit.
But then, just like clockwork, at exactly the same time as every day you work the morning shift, your favorite costumer walks in.
He's older and unfairly attractive, with his broad shoulders and graying blond hair. Like usual, he sits at a booth far from the windows and he picks up the menu, carefully studying it, despite always ordering the same thing.
"Good morning, Tony! What can I get you today?"
You take out your notepad from the pocket of your apron, and let the pen hover over the blank page, waiting for his answer.
"I'll have a banana milkshake," he replies, looking up at you with a controlled smile, making a shiver run down your spine.
There's nothing unusual about him. He's polite, always thanks you when you get him his order, and tips way too much considering he always gets the same banana milkshake.
But there's something in the way you feel his eyes following you whenever he's in the diner that makes you feel naked — like he knows what you're so desperately trying to hide.
Still, you keep on the facade you use whenever you're interacting with other people, especially costumers, and leave to make his banana milkshake.
His gaze burns on the back of your head, and your hands tremble slightly as you pour the milk in the blender. You try to sneak a glance in his general direction, but when your eyes land on his figure, he's already looking somewhere else.
After, the routine resumes as usual. He drinks his milkshake, you give him his check, and he leaves a generous tip before walking out of the diner.
In the past, you tried imagining what his life outside might look like. Where does he work? Does he live nearby? Does he have someone waiting for him at home?
Questions like this usually leave you feeling uneasy and unsatisfied when you realize that you'll probably never know the answer.
Later that night, desperately trying to push further away any thoughts about Tony, you decide to call Chris over.
He's a nice guy. Definitely not the love of your life, but a pleasant enough distraction from your previous life.
You met him a few weeks ago at the diner, and when he shyly asked for your number — after pushing the initial instinct to give him the wrong one — you left it written on his check.
After that first encounter, he brought you on many dates, but still, you never got past first base, and he, like a gentleman, never pushed further.
Tonight, though, things are going to change.
At 8 pm sharp, you hear the doorbell ring, and when you open your door, you find him still in uniform, holding a gorgeous bouquet of flowers.
"Sorry, I just got off work. I would have changed, but I didn't want to be late, and-" you press your lips against his, muffling the rest of his apology.
Truth be told, at first the fact that he's a cop made you nervous. You worried he would look into your past and find out what made you run away. Instead, he seemingly believed every word that came out of your mouth when you told him your made-up background story, and it made you more inclined to keep seeing him. At least, until he realizes that everything you told him, even your name, is a lie.
"Don't worry about it," you mumble against his lips. "I'm pretty sure I've got some clothes that could fit you. Now, come in."
You take his free hand in yours and drag him past the threshold, closing the door behind him.
Then, after putting the bouquet in a vase, you walk towards your bedroom, looking at him over your shoulder, silently inviting him to follow you. Like a siren luring in an unfortunate mariner.
He seems to take the bait, and gladly follows you. Men are so predictable.
"Here, let me see if I can find some sweats," you say, looking inside your closet.
In the meantime, Chris stands awkwardly near the door, looking so out of place in your bedroom.
As you rummage through the few clothes that you brought with you, he takes off his holster and places it on your nightstand, making it land on the wooden surface with a loud thud.
The cold night air enters the room through your open window, moving the blinds in an almost hypnotic way, catching Chris' attention.
Then, he freezes.
You turn around in that exact moment, holding a pair of oversized sweats in your hands, and furrow your brown when you see him looking attentively at a distant point outside your window.
"What is it?"
"I think I saw something."
You let out a giggle, taking a step closer to his unmoving body.
"I live near the woods. It was probably just an animal."
You can see it in his eyes that he's not convinced, so you lay the sweats on your bed and place your hands on his chest.
"Come on. Let's get you out of this uniform, officer," you whisper near his ear, before placing a languid kiss on his jaw.
It turns out to be a good enough distraction. His gaze shifts in your direction, and his hands immediately find your hips, pulling you closer to his body.
You push him on the bed, and then straddle him, before moving your hands on his shoulder and leaving a trail of kisses from his jaw down to his neck.
His back is pressed near the window, making it possible for you to see some movement near a couple of trees outside your house.
Before you can think about your next move, a knife slices the air, landing on the opposite wall. You let out a scream, as Chris moves your body and lunges towards the gun on your nightstand. He then fires two shoots in the general direction of the attacker. But it's too late. He's gone.
Your heart is beating so fast in your chest that you're pretty sure Chris can hear it as well. He has something more urgent to think about though.
Blood is running down his left arm, soaking his uniform. The wound is pretty close to the spot where your hand was just a few moments ago, and yet, you're unharmed.
Did the attacker miss, or were you never the target?
"Shit," Chris says, as he tries to apply some pressure on the cut.
"Wait, let me help you."
You raise from the bed and run to your bathroom, where you keep your first aid kit. Once you're back in the bedroom, you help him take off his uniform, and as you begin to disinfect the wound, Chris breaks the silence.
"Who the fuck was that? He had a fucking- A fucking mask, and he-" his tone is understandably panicked, and his mind was clearly running a hundred miles an hour.
"Was that one of your exes?"
The question sounds so absurd you almost laugh, but decide that now is probably not the right moment.
"If that's your ex you should probably own a pistol, you know that?"
You blame his rambling to the adrenaline that's probably running through his veins right now, and keep cleaning him up.
It doesn't take you long to stop the bleeding. The cut is actually not that deep, but it doesn't seem to ease his mind. On the contrary.
As soon as you finish securing the sterile gauze over the wound, he grabs his things and almost runs to the door, mumbling something about calling you tomorrow.
He does offer you to spend the night at his apartment, but when you decline he doesn't try too hard to change your mind, instead getting in his car and driving away as if someone were chasing him.
When you go back to your room, for some reason unknown to you, you don't feel scared or threatened.
Your eyes land on the knife, still plugged in the drywall. You walk closer and pull it out, the weight feeling oddly comforting in your hands.
There's some of Chris' blood on it, so you wipe it on your sleep shorts, before hiding it in your underwear drawer.
And in that moment you think: it was never meant for you. It was meant for him only.
The next morning, when you check your phone, you don't find any missed calls from Chris. You think that what happened last night must have scared him away for good, and, weirdly enough, it gives you a strange sense of relief.
Throughout the rest of the day you keep occasionally checking your phone, mostly because it feels like the right think to do, not because you're actually concerned.
You should be worried. Maybe you should try to reach out. Go to his apartment, even. But you never do.
Instead, you go back to your house and slip in the shower, trying to wash away the smell of fried bacon and burned coffee that always lingers on you after you leave the diner.
Once you're done, you realize you've forgotten your towel, leaving you no option but to walk completely naked to your bedroom, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the floorboards.
The blinds in your bedroom are open — as they usually are — but now, for the first time since you moved in this house, you feel a pair of eyes on you.
A shiver runs down your spine, but you do nothing to cover yourself or close the curtains, because there's something familiar about this feeling.
You brush it off, instead applying lotion over your damp body, before finally putting on your clean pj's and going to bed.
Next time you're at the diner, something strange happens.
Tony walks in at the same time as usual, he sits at his usual booth, and he orders the same banana milkshake.
Nothing is out of the ordinary. Except this time the way his gaze follows you feels warmer than usual, and just as you're about to pour the drink inside the glass, the realization suddenly dawns on you.
Tony's the one who has been looking at you through your window. And he's probably the one who threw that knife at Chris.
You remain frozen on your spot until another waitress squeezes past you, reminding you that you're still in a public place. And he's in the same room as you.
You swallow hard enough to make noise, before pouring some whipped cream over the milkshake, grabbing a straw and walking up to Tony's table.
"Here you go," you said placing the glass down on the table, praying he didn't notice the way your voice wavered.
"Thank you, ma'am," he replies, reaching for his milkshake and accidentally brushing your fingers with his.
You immediately move your hand as if you got burned, and without saying anything else you walk away, busying yourself with other costumers.
His gaze, though, weights heavier than it ever has today, and you can't breath properly until he leaves.
The drive home after your shift is silent — you don't even turn on the radio — but that's fine, because your thoughts make enough noise on their own.
The road that usually seems never ending, today feels uncharacteristically short. Even after turning off the engine, you remain seated inside your car.
Your skin is prickling with a feeling similar to anxiety, but not quite.
Excitement, that's what it it.
Despite the rational part of your brain telling you that you should feel scared, that you might be in danger, and that Chris' radio silence might have been caused by something quiet dark, you can't help but hope Tony will be outside your window, watching you.
So you walk inside your home.
Everything's silent. The only sound that can be heard is the low buzz of your fridge. Despite that, you have a feeling you're not alone.
"Tony? Is that you?" and after a moment. "Is that even your real name?"
Then, from a dark corner, a broad figure emerges. Despite the tactical gear and the mask covering everything beside his eyes, you know immediately that the figure that has been inhabiting the shadows near you for longer than you might expect is none other than your favorite costumer.
"Hi, Tony," you great him, your voice just above a whisper. "Or you wanna tell me your real name?"
For a moment you're met with silence, so long that you begin to wonder whether you got it all wrong and there's an actual stranger in your house. Your heartbeat begins to raise, until he speak.
"Benjamin."
"Hi, Benjamin."
You stand there, staring at each other, until you take a step forward in his direction.
"So it was you, uh? How long have you been watching me?" you ask, but there's no real malice, or anger in your voice. Just plain curiosity.
"Ever since I first met you."
It's weird, you would have expected him to be unwavering, sure of himself. Terrifying, even.
Instead, he sounds almost ashamed, making it difficult for you to believe that he's the same man that threw a knife at your date the other night.
You take another step forward, never moving your gaze from his masked face.
"Are you going to show me you pretty face or not?"
He lets out a sharp exhale, sounding like he just got punched. Experiencing first hand the power your words have over him makes you feel almost high.
When he doesn't make a move to take off his mask, you raise your hands to his neck and do it yourself.
The moonlight shines over his messy locks, and the scar on his cheek catches the light just right, making you want to lick it.
Instead, you let the mask drop on the floor, and begin lightly scratching his chest over his suit, your touch featherlight, almost imperceptible.
"So, you watched me for weeks. What was I doing?"
The way his expression shifts and the tips of his ears redden slightly make your lips curl into a smug smile.
You can see his gloves hands clenching at his sides, almost like he's making an active effort not to reach out. Like he's waiting for your permission.
"You were reading, mostly. Sometimes you would watch a movie, if you were not too tired. Most of the times you were too exhausted to do anything. Other times-" and he stops, his face burning.
You tilt your head, confused by what he might be referring to, until you realize.
"What? What was I doing?"
Silence.
"Touching yourself."
Your grin widens, and your hands shift from his chest to his hair.
"Hm, and how did that make you feel, uh? Did it turn you on? Did you wish you could replace my fingers with yours?"
As you ask him these filthy questions, you tug his hair. Hard.
In response, he lets out a low moan, and his hands fly to your hips, mostly trying to ground himself.
"P-Please..."
The word comes out almost uncertain from his mouth, making your lips curl in amusement.
How the tables have turned. How did he go from being your stalker to begging you to let him touch you?
"Please, what?"
"Let me make you feel good."
His voice is strained, almost as if he were in physical pain.
"You really think you can do that?" you ask mockingly.
He nods, looking so eager to please.
You don't offer him a response. Instead you start walking to your bedroom — the same bedroom he has been spying for weeks — and you don't have to look back to know he's following you.
The mattress sinks under your weight as your sit on it. Benjamin doesn't hesitate before falling on his knees, right in front of you.
He starts soft, gently kissing your knuckles. Then he starts traveling higher, his lips caressing the soft skin of your arms, making your eyes flutter closed.
He then places his hands on either side of your body, steadying himself as he kisses your neck. He keeps getting closer to his final destination, grazing your jaw, your cheeks, and finally your lips.
At first the kiss is soft and tender, until you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer. This seems to be enough of an invitation for him.
The kiss turns hungry, almost desperate. You can feel the weight of his body over yours as he lays you down on the bed. But you don't stay in this position for long.
Taking him by surprise, you flip him over — but you have the suspicion he's right where he wants to be, underneath you.
His hands begin exploring your body, and your own move back to his hair, burying your fingers in his graying locks.
Underneath the layers of his tactical gear, you can feel him getting progressively harder. All it takes is you grinding your hips over his bulge to get another moan out of him.
You keep moving, chasing friction with his clothed cock, trying to ease the heath between your legs.
Surprisingly, he's the first one to break the kiss.
"Please, can I taste you?"
He sounds so desperate you can feel your panties getting even more wet than before.
In response, you take off your pants and your underwear in one go, but when you move to lay on the bed, he stops you. Instead, he moves your hips higher up, near his face.
Without a warning, he pushes you down on his face. Your hands immediately travel back to his hair, tugging them as you let out a high pitched moan.
At first, he drags his tongue from you needy hole to your clit, before laying a kiss on the bundle of nerves.
His movements are unsure at first, like he's trying to memorize the shape of you. Then, when you start grinding on his face, he seems to gain more confidence, and begins to eat you out like a man starved.
Even though you're completely lost in your pleasure, you can feel him moaning and whispering praises into your cunt.
Things like "you taste so good," and, "you're so perfect."
But the closer you get to your release, the darker his words get.
"Ain't no man allowed in your bedroom except for me," or, "he couldn't have made you feel this good," or simply, "you're mine."
The possessiveness in his voice is enough to make you reach your orgasm, holding onto him like an anchor.
The sound of your release paired with the way to keep pulling his hair — hard enough to sting — is enough make him cum untouched in his pants.
After catching your breath, you move from Benjamin's face and roll over, laying by his side.
He moves as well, resting his head in your lap and wrapping his arms around your waist, holding you so tight that you think he might be afraid that you're going to disappear at any moment.
A moment of silence passes between the two of you.
"Benjamin?"
"Mhm?"
"What happened to Chris?"
"I killed him."
A/N: This was the fic! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated, even if it's criticism (as long as it's constructive). I love talking with you angels, so my dms and inbox are always open!
Summary: After witnessing something you weren’t supposed to, there’s a price on your head. It would be easy for the excellent marksman to finish the job, but something about you makes him reconsider.
Or- I saw Wilson talking about how Dex needs a weirdo freak gf and was like ‘well, yes’. Reader is implied to be neurodivergent but its kept a bit vague.
Word Count: 15.4k
Warnings & Content: no use of y/n, fluff, smut, slow burn (sorta), swearing, attempted murder, actual murder, stalking, violence, blood and injury mention, mention of death, happy ending, slight angst, toxic attachment, 18+ mdni please
I do not authorize my work to be used for Al or reposted across platforms
For most of your life you felt invisible.
Your friends and coworkers seemed to advance easily in life, getting degrees that led to solid jobs and fulfilling relationships. You, despite your best efforts, did not have the same experience.
In high school, you first became aware of your…difference. The way people would easily talk to others and make friends, but with you they would only feign politeness and share wordless looks behind your back.
Even teachers thought you were weird. It wasn’t said explicitly, they had to be professional of course, but there was only so many times they could call you ‘an interesting yet quiet young lady’ without you catching on.
You had tried hard to change it, to ‘put yourself out there’. It never worked out well. Dates would go fine at first until there was something you said or did to unnerve the other person. Even situations you were sure had gone great resulted in you being ghosted.
You wish that they at least yelled at you or complained, then you could know for sure what they didn’t like.
Once you were in your twenties, you made peace with the fact that it wouldn’t happen for you. The relationship thing wasn’t in your cards, you just weren’t built for it. It created a sad acceptance within you, but one that was needed to not go into a mental spiral.
“-ey, were you listening?” The words drifted to the forefront of your mind, dragging you away from your trail of thoughts.
You paused in folding the shirts on display before you, turning to your coworker that was looking at you expectantly.
“Uh yeah, the closing right?” You struggled to remember what Jess had walked over to you for, but you were sure it was because she needed something. Nobody really spoke to you when they didn’t need something.
“Yeah, you can do it right? I can’t do it and Marcus needs someone to cover.” Her green eyes stared at you pleadingly.
It was a request, but it didn’t feel like one. Especially since you were the only ones still working in the clothing store this late.
“Ah, I don’t-" You thought about what was waiting for you back at your apartment. A relaxing shower, the usual quick dinner, and a puzzle of choice. Not the most exhilarating routine, but you enjoyed it. You really didn’t want to close alone.
Just do it, say no. It’s not fair for you to do everything yourself and it’s not like she’ll appreciate it.
You almost did. The refusal was on the tip of your tongue when you had a flash in your head, the disappointment on her face, the awkwardness of the next shift. How she would talk about you to your other coworkers.
“Okay, I can cover.” You blurted, adverting your eyes to continue folding.
She gave you a quick grin, already turning towards the break rooms before replying, “Great! You’re a lifesaver. I’ll definitely pay you back.”
She wouldn’t, just like she didn’t for the four other times you covered her shift.
“You’re welcome.” It’s muttered with a sigh into empty air, Jess was long gone. You thought about all the unfinished work you had to do alone, already regretting your decision.
You went into autopilot for the next few hours, slipping into the mindless task of organizing displays and adjusting price tags. The small upside was that the clothes in your store kind of sucked, so you didn’t have any customers to tend to.
“You set?”
The words made you jump. You looked up in surprise to find Marcus, who had meandered out of his office without your notice. Being a middle aged man on the heftier side, you didn’t know how he could move so quietly.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“The drawer, are you ready for me to take it? I’m gonna close a little early, don’t think it’ll be picking up anytime soon.” He motioned a thick hand towards the empty room to accentuate his point.
You nodded jerkily, shuffling out the way as he unlocked the cash drawer. Another beat and a ring of keys were being tossed your way.
“We’ll, I’m gonna count this out then I’m off, you know what to do.”
Marcus was already shuffling down the hallway before you could form a response.
He wasn’t wrong, you did know what to do. Once he was gone you got back into the automatic motions of clean, lock, organize, until the shop is fully shut down.
There was no stress, no talking or loud music, it was almost fun in a way. Fun if you forgot how you were forced into working at least.
You clicked the last light off with a sigh, shrugging your purse up your shoulder where it threatened to fall off. Going out the back door sent a wave of trepidation within you, but unfortunately it was required. The alarm was already set on the front doors and you didn’t have the keys to those.
You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. New York had only gotten more dangerous in recent years, with the corruption in politics and anti-vigilante outrage.
Once you were outside, you had to be careful to avoid any trouble. No one could be trusted, not even the police who were put there to protect citizens like yourself. You imagine if you got mugged on your way to the train, the officers on the corner wouldn’t even flinch.
Definitely not an anxiety inducing thought. Not at all.
You swung open the door, locking it quickly behind you. Ignoring the trembling of your hands, you started to make way to the front of the building.
The alley stunk of pee and other things you really didn’t want to identify. The only light around was motion sensor activated and perched on the doorway. Said light was already fading the further you stepped away, the alley delving into darkness.
You quickened your steps.
There was a slight relief in making it back onto the main street. At least there you had streetlights and the buzz of the city around you.
The sidewalk was mainly empty, and you could count on one hand the amount of cars that passed by. Most people out at this time were like you, getting off work, or getting to an early shift with a bleary look in their eyes.
You kept your head tucked down, avoiding eye contact with anyone around you. All you had to do was make it to the train, from there it was a straight shot to your apartment. Easy, simple. You could do this.
You reached the subway entrance, practically flying down the steps. The trains were relatively reliable in this part of town, so you shouldn’t have to wait too lon-
Your thought process was interrupted by a series of grunts, followed by a shout. Ducking behind a pillar, your eyes grew into saucers as you scanned for the cause of the noise.
It wasn’t a hard search, in the middle of the station was a group of men standing over something-no, someone. There was a man there, curled into himself on the cracked tile of the subway. You could barely make out his face past the blood streaming from his nose.
“Please! I don’t have it, I- just give me one more week I’m begging!” His words could barely be understood past a thick Brooklyn accent and the gurgle of blood in his throat.
One of the men snapped his fingers, and another kicked the whimpering man in the stomach, the impact making a sickening crunching noise.
You covered your mouth in an attempt to not scream, mind racing with options. Calling 911 was firmly out of the question, but running back up the stairs seemed promising. You just didn’t know if you’d be quick or quiet enough that they didn’t notice you.
Then there was the train. A quick glance at the schedule showed a less than three minute wait. If you timed it right…
“Please, I’ll do anything please-“
He was cut off by the man before who gave the attack order. “You should’ve thought about that before trying to steal from Moretti, fuckin’ rat. You should be grateful it’s just you and not your fucking family too, that’s how nice boss is.”
It was clear the man speaking was in charge, at least of the small group there. He was faced away from you, but a wayward glance from any of the men could put you in danger.
You stifled a gasp, sucking a sharp intake of air. In focusing on the group, you had forgotten to breathe.
Your heartbeat was a staccato in your ears, the blood flow dimming the sound around you.
They were going to kill that man, and there was nothing to do but watch. They were going to kill him, then they were going to kill you. Oh god, they were going to kill you if they found you.
You felt the telltale beginning of a panic attack start up, your heart rate escalating even further. This was not the time to freeze up. You pinched the skin of your hand between two fingers, the pain sobering you.
This was not the time to freeze.
The man was saying something else, the tone threatening. He was speaking in a much lower tone than before, and you couldn’t make out the words.
In a blink, he dove forward, hand jutting towards the man below him in quick successions.
It wasn’t until the growing pool of red that you realized he had stabbed him. There was a sick gurgling noise that reverberated around the subway that took the strength out of your legs.
Your purse slipped off your shoulder, clinking to the ground.
The sound alerted one of the guys closest to you. A frown quickly overtook his face as he looked you up and down.
“Hey! What’re you doing over there?”
This is how you’ll die, in a dirty subway all alone. Your family probably won’t even find out what happened.
Light flowed onto the platform from the incoming train. The screech of wheels flipped a switch in your brain.
No, you scrambled to your feet, not like this. You were not going to let it end like this.
You could hear a series from shouts and pounding footsteps behind you as you ran down the platform. Nearly tripping over a bench, you righted yourself as the train finally screeched to a stop.
The doors opened, but you kept running, an internal timer ticking in your head.
A little bit more… five, four, three-
You shoved your self to the side, slipping into a train car right as the doors closed. The others tried to follow, but they were too far behind.
You stared, wide eyed as they pounded on the window in anger. You could hear muffled threats behind the metal, but your eyes focused on the man from before.
He wasn’t yelling, or beating on the door. He only stared at your chest with a scowl. More specifically, the logo on your work shirt and your printed name tag beneath it.
Shit.
Dex was unbelievably, inconceivably, bored.
This meeting was already taking longer than he usually tolerated, and if he didn’t have good work with them before he would’ve left.
But no, this gang boss in particular was quite an egotistical bastard, and liked to pay a very nice penny on all his hits. It probably made him feel important to wave an excessive amount of money around and have people disappear.
Quite frankly, Dex couldn’t give a shit about what he felt. Money or not, his patience was running thin. Another five minutes waiting in this damp warehouse and he might just leave, or start throwing things.
He hadn’t decided which.
“Taking his sweet time huh?” He wasn’t really speaking to anyone in particular, just musing aloud, but one of the nearby goons replied anyway.
“Sorry, he had something else to wrap up. He should be here any second.”
Dex only clicked his teeth in response, busying his hands with a dagger absentmindedly. The other man’s eyes widened slightly at the display, tracking the dagger is it was thrown in the air.
Behind his mask, Dex’s lips flicked into a smirk. He wondered what the man would do if he started using the wall behind his head as a dart board, that would be interesting.
The seconds ticked by, and he was about to start some impromptu target practice when the man of the hour walked in.
“Bullseye, my friend! So kind of you to join us.”
Moretti was a small man, much smaller than one would expect the boss of a crime empire to be. There was nothing overtly menacing about him other than the beady gleam of his eyes. Of course, no one vocalized their surprise at that, because they’d end up at the bottom of the Hudson.
He reminded Dex of a small pet with a snappy temper. Like a rabid chihuahua nipping at people’s heels.
“I would think with all that money you’d own a clock.” The man’s words had ignited a flare of irritation within him. He was always annoyed by fake niceties, especially after he had waited thirty-five minutes.
Moretti’s thick eyebrows scrunched in faux concern, “My apologies, I had something else to finish up, I would never mean to keep you waiting-“
Dex cut in before he could finish the bullshit speech, “Who, and where?”
He was here for a job, not to have a tea party. All he needed was the marks information and the payment, then he’d be on his way.
Despite being cut off, the smaller man didn’t show any sign of anger. He knew better than to start unnecessary fights. “A small problem, you shouldn’t have much issue. It is time sensitive however, if she talks it would cause a great deal of issues for me.”
A woman then. Unlikely she’ll put up a fight. Disappointing.
“She saw some things she shouldn’t have. Here,” he stepped forward, a folded paper in his outstretched hand. “they got the job and her name, you should be able to take it from there yes?”
He snatched the paper, scanning over the information quickly before turning on his heel. “Fifteen thousand, same as before.” His voice carried behind him as he walked to the exit of the warehouse, hands in constant movement.
Moretti clapped his hands as if he were signing off on the deal. “Agreed, you’ll receive the wire tomorrow.”
“She’ll be dead by the end of the day.” Faster than anyone could track, he flicked the paper behind him, the point of a paper airplane imbedding into the forehead of the wide-eyed grunt from before.
The man let out a startled shout as blood trickled over his nose.
Dex ignored the commotion, grinning as he walked into the crisp night air.
Time to find a little tattle-tale.
Maybe you did have powers.
It wasn’t super strength, or advanced intelligence. It wasn’t even the power to turn invisible.
No, it had to be the ability to get in the worst situations imaginable. Super bad luck. No one’s life could be this laughably bleak, it had to be a higher power.
After that night at the subway, you couldn’t even sleep, much less leave your house. The day after the incident was your off day, so it didn’t affect much. You did however have to call off two days after that, feigning sickness.
You don’t know if your boss bought it, but considering you have never really taken a sick day before, you felt it was due.
But you couldn’t stay inside forever, you had to go back to work eventually. Getting fired would definitely do you no favors.
There was something else.
In the last few days you’d had a feeling, like spiders crawling over your skin. It was the sinking feeling of being preyed upon. Watched.
You knew they were there. You didn’t know how you knew, but you did.
There was no evidence, no threatening letters or anything out of place. Anyone listening to you would think you were insane, but you knew it wasn’t just your hysteria. You could feel it.
The only thing you were confused about was their inaction. Why hadn’t they killed you already? Not that you were complaining of course, but it just didn’t make sense.
Were they waiting for you to try to call the police? Were they not fully sure it was you at the station?
It was the cycle you went through. For days just driving yourself mad with questions and counting down the time. You hadn’t come up with a plan yet, but time was running out.
You had to go out into the world eventually.
The time went quicker than you expected. You had called off your fourth day when Marcus firmly hinted that your job might be in danger if you didn’t come in for your next shift.
You agreed, one last day of hiding and then you would come in.
Your hands trembled as you clicked the combination to your locker in the break room. Taking a deep breath, you took one last furtive glance at your belongings before turning to clock in.
“Didn’t know you hated customers that bad Oranges.” A mocking voice chimed behind you.
You tried to ignore him altogether, but he picked up his pace to walk by your side. “Don’t worry, I won’t snitch.” Matthew shot a conspiratorial glance your way, winking.
It took all your resolve to not roll your eyes. As if today wasn’t already horrible, you had to work with your least favorite person.
Matthew always found a way to antagonize you somehow. It wouldn’t have been that bad, if it weren’t non-stop. He always singled you out about something, with a fake friendly tone as if you were both in on the joke.
It started with the first week you started working. You were eating your lunch quietly, and as you started to unpeel the included orange a stream of juice shot at your face.
You could only sit there in mortification as Matthew cackled in your face. He insisted on calling you Oranges after that.
“What are we so worried about?” He continued, like you weren’t ignoring him. “If you need to relax I think they have a stress ball in the back rooms. I know you have issues with that stuff.” He could barely get out the words without laughing.
More silence from you.
“Alright then. Don’t blame me if you freak out, see ya Oranges.”
You let out a relieved sigh at his retreating frame, grabbing the clothing rack near you and resigning yourself to eight hours of torture.
Your neck let out a series of pops as you stretched it in your doorway. The house keys in your hand were tossed in the dish by the door and your jacket was shrugged off your shoulders into a pile on the ground.
“You should take better care of your things.”
The words stopped you in your tracks. You’d been so focused on the aches in your body and getting to the shower, you failed to notice the large figure in your living room until they spoke.
There was a man shrouded in shadow sitting on your lounge chair. In his hands was one of your puzzle boxes, and he seemed to be reading over it like it was the most important thing in the room.
“Please don’t.” You could barely recognize the way your voice squeaked out, strained with fear.
He looked up for the first time, eyes glinting behind a blue ski mask. “Don’t what?” His voice was deep but scratchy as it travelled across the room, as if he’d worn it out by yelling.
You could also hear a hint of amusement in his tone. He was enjoying toying with you.
“Don’t mess up my puzzles, or my apartment please. If you can, make it quick.” Your reply was more stable than before, having overcome the initial shock of his appearance.
In truth, you’d come to the conclusion you’d probably die no matter what days ago. At first, you were scared out of your mind, but like every other bad hand in your life, you accepted it. You just didn’t want whoever found you to have to deal with a mess.
His head tilted as if considering your answer, one finger twirling the box like one would do a basketball. “Not gonna beg for your life? Plead for another chance?” There was still the mocking tone, but now it carried confusion as well. He genuinely couldn’t understand why you were so calm.
Taking careful steps over to the couch, you could make out more details of him in the light of your living room lamp. He looked like a textbook assassin, wearing all black, save for the blue mask covering his face. The dark fabric of his ensemble held more compartments you could count, and the rest was stretched over a sturdy frame.
He was leaning back in your recliner chair leisurely, legs spread to take up even more space.
You let out a deep sigh as you flounced down on the couch across from him. “No, not really. I’m sure you’ve noticed, but it’s not much to plead for.”
He stopped spinning the box and looked around, as if taking in the apartment for the first time. Your lack of personal photos, the books and puzzles lining the walls. Every item spoke of a very monotonous lifestyle. “This is pretty depressing, yes.”
Of course, what were you expecting? Hopefully he doesn’t make it too difficult for anyone to clean your blood out the place.
You nodded in acceptance and closed your eyes, waiting for the inevitable. After about a minute of waiting, you opened them to find him staring at you.
The piercing gaze kept you still until he spoke again, “What’re you doing?”
‘Waiting for you to kill me’ just sounded silly, so you said nothing, adverting your gaze.
After a few more moments of quiet, you cleared your throat, “If you don’t mind, how long have you been in here?”
It was a morbid curiosity that drove the question. The idea of him waiting in your living room just to kill you, twiddling his thumbs was enough to make a sardonic chuckle rise in your throat.
You pushed down the urge. The man seemed fairly calm so far, but laughing at him definitely would do nothing in your favor.
He reached up a gloved hand, scratching at his jaw. “About a half hour.”
You blinked, “Oh, okay.”
Quite frankly, you were running out of things to say. How does one even strike up a conversation with their killer? You shouldn’t have even felt the need to make the man comfortable, but you did for some reason.
In a flash he was leaning over you, one hand on the back of the couch to speak directly in your face. “What’s your problem? Hm? You didn’t even do anything wrong and you won’t fight for your life? How is that fair?”
His other hand gripped your chin firmly, you could feel the warmth of the of his hand seeping through the fabric. With his face so close, you could see every detail of his brown eyes scrunched in anger.
You could also see more of the little items strapped around his waist and in the compartments of his pants. Knives. More knives than anyone (murderer or not) should need, in your opinion.
“I’m sorry?” Now you were a bit peeved. Who was he to lecture you about valuing your life when he came in here to kill you?
Unless… he wasn’t here to kill you, but do something much worse. A new flash of fear goes through you. You were prepared for a quick death, you were not prepared for torture, or the other ways a man could hurt a woman.
He must’ve seen the change in your face, because the hand on your chin swiftly dropped to his side.
He moved slightly out of your space, mumbling to himself. You could barely catch the words ‘balance’ and ‘worth it’ in the rambling.
“Okay,” he dipped away, back to the chair. “okay.”
You blinked at him again, “Okay?”
“Yes.” His tone, despite being amused again, invited no further questioning. He had reached a decision within himself, you just had no idea what that decision was.
With that, he settled back into your chair with all the ease in the world.
“You should go to sleep now. Been a long day.” Like before, his tone was closed off. What might’ve been misinterpreted as a request was definitely a demand.
You slowly rose to your feet, half convinced it was a trick and he’d shoot you at any moment, but nothing stopped you from gathering your bag and going into the bedroom.
Even as you shut and locked the door, there was no action, just a glinting gaze following you in the darkness.
You didn’t remember falling asleep. The last thing you recall was the unnerving conversation with the intruder before jerking awake the next morning.
A quick check showed that none of your clothes had been moved and there were no injuries on you. Despite your hair looking like a birds nest, you looked exactly did after work the day prior.
You were alive. Another day knowing someone was out to get you, and another day of being able to do nothing about it.
You groaned, trying to settle your hair with one hand as you rolled out the bed. Washing up in the bathroom was quick business. After feeling clean again in new clothes you moved to unlock the bedroom door.
Wait. He wouldn’t still be here, would he?
You highly doubt the intruder would stay for coffee in he morning, but the whole thing had been so strange you couldn’t rule anything out.
Slowly, you pressed an ear to the door, straining to hear anything on the other side.
Nothing.
You un-clicked the lock, still moving at a snails pace. Once there was a half inch sliver open, you took a peek into the living room. Empty, no homicidal men with a hundred knives in sight.
You let out a breath of relief, walking into the room. One last search throughout your place proved that there was truly no one there.
Even so, there was an unsettling feeling you couldn’t shake. You ignored it, moving to start up your coffee maker.
It wasn’t until you were halfway through your breakfast that you realized the issue. Your place was spotless, much cleaner than you’d usually keep it.
You didn't consider yourself a slob, but there was always little things here and there left behind. A few dishes in the sink, a bit of dust. The room was now so clean it looked clinical.
Every can or box of pasta in your cabinet was neatly organized and turned to the front. Swinging open the door to your fridge, you found that all your old food you’d been ignoring was thrown away. Each shelf was sparkling clean and just as orderly as the cabinets.
All your puzzle boxes were in straight, dust free columns next to books sorted by size.
What the hell is happening?
It’s just because you’ve been bored. Nothing else.
Dex had been rationalizing his actions since that first day. He had yet to come up with a solid reason for letting you live, and it sent a distressing feeling up his spine.
He did not do things for no reason.
That was a quick way to spiral, to sink into nothing. No, everything in his life had a reason and purpose. So what were you?
It started the day after the meeting with Moretti, he was poised just across from your window. There was a bolt-action rifle in his hands, and he was perfectly poised to take the shot as promised.
As he watched, you walked around your bedroom in circles. He could see your mouth moving at certain points, but no sign of you talking on the phone. It was clear you were in distress, but made no attempts to get help.
He already had access to your phone line. Throughout the night into the next day, you didn’t try calling the police, not even once.
It seems New York is catching on, those scrubs in uniforms can’t help you. If you want justice, you have to take it yourself.
He continued to watch you with a detached expression, not taking the time to consider why he hadn’t finished the job yet.
He watched as you left to take a shower, coming back a bit later in loose pajamas. He watched as you put a show on your tv, your distracted expression half aware.
You eventually found the television insufficient at calming you, and started digging through the haphazard boxes of puzzles on your shelves.
His fingers practically itched at seeing it, old habits compelling him to march in there and line everything up neatly.
He shook it off, eyes trailing to where you sat on the floor beginning the edges of a very large landscape puzzle.
You were losing yourself in it, the frown in your eyebrows lessening the more progress you made through the picture. Eventually, you had calmed enough that there was almost a smile tilting your mouth.
His eyes stayed there for a moment, wondering what a full smile from you would look like. He definitely hadn’t seen one today, and no search online showed any pictures of you exhibiting anything other than mild discomfort or apathy.
He could almost imagine it, the plush of your lips tilting up, then slowly growing. How your eyes would crinkle, glinting up at him.
At him?
At him?
The fuck was he doing?
He had a job to do, a job he was paid quite handsomely over, and he was sitting here on his ass playing make believe.
He whipped the rifle in position, capturing your face in the scope. He didn’t really need it, your shot was clear enough, especially with his abilities.
Even though it was simple, the clearest shot in the world, his fingers never pressed the trigger. He sat there, as the sky darkened into reds and melted into a dark navy, never taking a single shot.
He couldn’t even pretend that the sick worm inside of him wasn’t hungry for more. He didn’t try to act like he wasn’t coming back the next day.
He thought that would be enough. One more day of observation would be enough to satiate him. Just one more.
Dex felt like the sad sons of bitches at the liquor store on the corner. Just one more bit, I can quit any time I want to.
But he did need just one more bit, and he could quit any time he needed to. This was nothing like Jul-
He broke that train of thought with a snarl. Tonight. Tonight he would end this game and get it over with. She got off work at ten, and when she did he’d be waiting there. After that, it be simple, one shot to the head and she wouldn’t be his problem anymore.
Moretti didn’t exactly ask for proof of delivery, nobody was stupid enough to question Dex after he worked a job. If he said he did it, then he did it.
Except he didn’t do it. Moretti hadn’t asked, and he didn’t tell. But the man wasn’t an idiot, he’d find out eventually.
Even more reason to get rid of you as soon as possible.
He had the plan solidly in his mind. Wait until you walked in with your guard down, lodge a knife in your throat before you could blink.
This night, you took a bit longer than usual. Dex was dully aware that this didn’t bother him. He wasn’t upset by waiting, there was a tingling anticipation within him.
Eventually, you walked through the door, shutting it behind you with a click. You didn’t notice him at first, stretching out your neck and the muscles in your back.
You dropped your coat to the ground, stepping over it without a second glance. You were still shifting your head from side to side, trying to alleviate some tension.
He would be able to do it almost immediately. With his hands on your neck he could target the exact points of your muscle pain. His index finger flinched at the thought.
His eyes flickered to the flash of skin on the side of your neck, words coming out of his mouth before he could recall the plan he came in with.
He was barely even aware of what he said, just your response. He watched with rapt attention as your eyes widened, taking him in.
As your eyes scanned his frame, he could feel his hips shift forward slightly.
A myriad of expressions flickered through your face, fear, surprise, anger. He took them all in with delight. The buzz of anticipation from before rose to a crescendo, he couldn’t wait to see what you’d do.
Would you beg? Offer to pay him for your life?
Despite coming in your apartment with a clear directive, he wasn’t sure exactly what he’d do if you asked him to spare your life.
Not important, focus.
You didn’t do anything he expected. Instead of a blubbering mess, you were composed, if not a little annoyed.
If he didn’t already know it before, it was clear you valued your small possessions. You seemed to care about the puzzles more than your own life.
It made him angry.
Who were you to throw him off? Why were you doing this to him? This is not how this was supposed to go.
He got within a hairsbreadth of your face, trying to intimidate you. Break the facade. It didn’t work, you only seemed more annoyed by the attempt.
Until you weren’t. Something about his stance towering over you seemed to ignite a thought process. He wasn’t a mind reader, but he could tell the cause of your discomfort pretty easily.
He let you go quickly, as if he were burned. He would not hurt you, not like that.
Dex weighed his options. Killing you would make things a lot simpler, both with Moretti and the urges in his mind. This is what he knew best, the only real thing he’s good for. You would be no problem to take care of.
Only issue? The more he thought about putting a bullet in your head, the more he was sure that was the last thing he wanted to do.
This wasn’t even his typical area. The snitches he usually tracked down had blood on their hands, a dark past they were scrambling to escape.
You weren’t necessarily a good person, you didn’t volunteer at food drives or regularly give to charity, but nothing warranted your death. There was no scale for him to equal.
You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He’d reached his decision. Fuck Moretti, he’d deal with that weasel bitch later. For now, he’d have to get you shuffled off to bed.
There was something he was itching to do since he got there.
He didn’t show up that day.
Your off day was spent with anxious anticipation, like he would randomly jump out of your cabinets and scare you shitless.
Despite your worry (hope), Knives never showed. You took a page out of Matthew’s book and gave him a nickname, if only to avoid calling him ‘the man’ in your head.
The more you thought about it, the more perplexed you were.
A masked killer came into your home, had a fairly civil conversation with you, then did your chores?
No matter how much you thought about it, none of that made sense. You should have been dead days ago. If they decided not to kill you, they should at least know by now you weren’t going to snitch.
You didn’t even consider calling the police.
You groaned, head tilting back against your apartment elevator. Your day at work had been relatively uneventful.
Nobody really spoke to you much, sans Matthew who always had something to say. This time about your dark circles and whether or not you had a mental breakdown. And he wondered why his girlfriend left him.
You cracked open bleary eyes to look at yourself in the metal walls and winced. Maybe they had a point, you wouldn’t talk to yourself either looking like this.
There was prominent darkness under your eyes, framing the haunted look within them. Your face was pinched in a permanent frown, and you lifted up a hand to relax the expression.
The elevator doors opened with a ding, and you started the trek over to your door. You raised a hand to unlock it, pausing half way.
Putting your keys back in your pocket, you tried the handle of your door. It opened easily.
Your heartbeat quickened but you didn’t halt your movement, continuing inside the apartment. Everything was just like you left it earlier, dim lights and the tv on as background noise.
You took slow steps to the center of the room, spinning in a circle. He wasn’t there.
The living room and kitchen were both empty, and you didn’t know whether to be happy about that or not.
Why would he just leave your door unlocked when he wasn’t even here? There were robbers in the area, what if someone happened to try your door?
You ran a hand through your hair, barking a laugh. You had forgotten for a moment who he was. He was not a friend or visitor that would care whether or not you were robbed.
But why would he clean your house then?
You weren’t sure if you’d ever find the answer to that last question.
Still on edge, you tip-toed towards your couch, where you unceremoniously dumped your bag and coat. Stretching out your shoulders, you walked towards the bedroom.
You were expecting a boiling shower with warm pajamas to slip into before crashing. You were not expecting a six-foot something man to be leaning over your bedside drawer, rifling through its contents.
“Hey!” You said, equally in surprise and indignation. “That’s private. Put that down.”
Brown eyes flicked up to you from where he’d been reading your notebook. It wasn’t a diary per se, but it held some personal thoughts you’d rather stayed private.
Knives leisurely sat the book on your bed, putting up his hands in faux surrender. “Were you looking for me?”
His voice was just as gravelly as the first night, snaking over your ears. It was much lighter however, he sounded almost… happy?
You cleared your throat, fighting back a shiver. “What?” Did he see you searching your apartment like a goof? Probably.
You could see his lips curl into a smirk beneath the mask, capturing your attention for a moment.
You wondered what he would look like without it.
You could see more of him in the daylight, like the light eyelashes framing his eyes and the similar tone of his eyebrows. The mask was filled out with a sharp frame, and you could see the cut of prominent cheekbones under the fabric.
“Nothing. What’s that about?” He nodded towards your notebook he had been reading.
He was still holding his hands up, for what you had no idea. Maybe he thought it was funny to act like you were the one in power here.
“It’s a notebook, you write in them.” You didn’t care to go over your innermost thoughts with a stranger, briskly avoiding the subject.
His eyes flashed in an emotion you couldn’t place, hands finally coming down to rest at his sides. “How was work?” He asked placidly.
What?
The hell?
Your eyes burned with tears that had yet to fall, sucking in a sharp breath to compose yourself. “Haven’t you had enough? I have been waiting for the day you finally-“ you waved your hands around animatedly. “And then you just-“
He only stared on with the same solid expression.
You took another breath, “Are you going to kill me or not?”
“No.”
You swore you could feel your heartbeat hiccup, “No?”
Before you could pull it back, the words were out of your mouth. “Why not?”
You regretted the question immediately, watching as his eyes darkened.
There was a stretch of silence, and you were wondering how to do damage control when he spoke again, “Because I don’t want to. You…”
His gaze rakes up and down your frame. “You aren’t my North Star, no, something else. I want to find out what you are.”
Your words were little more than a whisper. “What I am?”
He sauntered towards you, slow as if walking towards a spooked animal. Or like he was hunting one. He only stopped once he was directly in front of you, toe to toe.
“Yes, I’m going to watch you and learn you. Why I feel this urge to-“ he cuts off abruptly, eyes widened in surprise.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
It seems like he wasn’t even prepared for what the answer was.
You stared at him, heartbeat still thundering in your ears. It was silly to believe a masked intruder from his words, but you did.
Nothing about that seemed like a lie. Despite what he’d initially found you for, he didn’t look like he wanted you dead. So, you believed him.
Your only worry was what he would do with you.
“O-Okay.” Was all you said before grabbing your clothes out the dresser and locking yourself in the bathroom.
You could only hope you turned fast enough that he didn’t see the redness in your face.
He was gone from the bedroom when you got out the shower. Everything was put back in its place, there was no sign of him. It made you wonder how many times he looked through your things without you knowing.
It should’ve made you unnerved… it didn’t.
He said he wanted to learn you. That you weren’t a north star. What did that mean? Why were you kind of excited about finding out?
You sniffed the air, there was a smell drifting from your kitchen filled with spices and butter. Like it were activated, your stomach suddenly released a large growl.
It seemed no matter how shocked you could get, there were still more surprises, Knives was at the stove, stirring something in a pot. You could see your oven was on as well, the light showing loaves of garlic bread on a sheet inside.
“You should go start a puzzle, it’ll be another five minutes.” He spoke without turning around, still continuing to stir the pot on the stove.
There’s a breaking point in a persons life where they stop asking questions. You were at that point.
So you pushed aside the wonder of why he was cooking, or where he even got the ingredients from, and sat down in your lounge chair.
You froze. It smelled like him. Gunpowder and metal, with a tinge of spearmint, the chairs leather still held a hint of him. You wondered how many times you could breathe it in without him noticing.
He was still focused on the food…
No. Stop. Get yourself together. You can’t just turn into a weirdo at the first attractive man you meet. Who’s to say he’s even attractive? He could be hideous under that mask.
You glanced over at him, eyeing the broadness of his shoulders and the muscle shifting under cloth.
You didn’t notice before, but he had taken off his gloves. His hands were big but deft, he probably would’ve made a good piano player in another life.
The evidence of this life was there as well. White scars marred his hands and trailed up his forearm to disappear under his shirt sleeve. You had no doubt they continued to the rest of his body too.
You tried to remind yourself of what those hands could do, why they were dangerous. Unfortunately your brain didn’t think it was that important at the moment, because the only thing you could remember is how they felt on your face.
You shook off the thoughts, blindly grabbing the closest puzzle box to you, it was a city landscape.
The pieces tumbled onto your living room table, sound echoing throughout the apartment. The only other sound past your moving pieces was the crackle of fire in the kitchen.
You needed some background noise.
You clicked on the tv, the low droning of the weather report filling the empty space. The screen had half your attention, but that was enough for your ears to perk when you heard the next segment of the news.
“And here we have the aftermath of another brawl from the vigilante known as Daredevil, he was in this very warehouse last night when the reports of gunfire started-“
The newscaster was one you’d seen before, usually for the more serious cases around the city. Her mouth was set in a hard line as she continued her warning.
“-advising all citizens to report any vigilante activity to the NYPD or AVTF whenever you become aware. If you do encounter Daredevil, do not engage-“
The tv went out in a wink, making you flinch. Like a bullet, a flying quarter had hit the power button dead center on your remote. Didn’t need many guesses to know where it came from.
The man in question was sauntering over with a steaming plate, glaring at the tv like it had personally offended him.
“You could’ve just asked me to turn it off.” You mutter, loud enough for him to hear you.
He didn’t answer, setting the plate in front of you with a clink. “Eat.”
You looked from him to the plate of food, then back again. It looked wonderful, a creamy heap of pasta with sautéed vegetables and garlic bread. It was all neatly arranged on your only kitchenware you hadn’t chipped.
You only wondered why the hell he had cooked it.
He seemed to misread your trepidation, leaning down to tug up a corner of his mask and shovel in a bit of the pasta. “Not poisoned. Not my style.” He said after a thick swallow.
The flash of lips, regardless how quick, distracted you. You stared on as a pink tongue flicked out to swipe at his mouth before he tugged the mask back down. It took you another few seconds to get it together.
“I know. You prefer to give people a million paper cuts.”
To your surprise, knives barked out a laugh, “That’s one way of putting it, sure.”
You turned to the food and started eating in an attempt to bypass the awkwardness. It was hard to suppress a groan when the first bit hit your mouth, the food was as good as it looked. If not better.
Do all hitmen take culinary classes or was it just his hobby?
You thought he would find something else to do, maybe vanish into thin air like he’d never been there at all, but the man chose to sit right across from you on the couch.
Dark eyes fixated on you as you ate in complete focus. He didn’t seem to want more conversation, just be a spectator. His only movement was circling a small knife around in his hand, but the movement didn’t seem threatening, more absentminded than anything else.
You didn’t realize how hungry you were until you were finishing the meal in record time, only clearing your throat to speak once you’d cleared the last bite, “It was great, thank you.”
He was grabbing the plate from you before you could even offer to clean up, making his way back to the kitchen and placing it inside your dishwasher with the other used pots and pans.
“Really, you don’t have to-“ you started, but he was already finished and walking back over to you.
“I know. I don’t have to do anything at all, advantages of self employment.” It was clear by his tone and the crinkle of his eyes that he was smirking. He took his time walking back to the couch, this time spreading his arms across the back in the appearance of complete comfortability.
What he said made you curious, “You don’t work for the man at the train?”
He tilted his head as if considering the answer. “I don’t work for anyone,” a new tinge of bitterness coated his tone, “but if you’re referring to the bozo who took a hit out on you, yes. I was the one given the assignment.”
“Ah, I figured.” The response came out more nonchalant than intended, but he truly didn’t tell you anything you hadn’t already suspected.
“You’re not bothered by that?”
You shrugged, “Nah, I trust you.” You meant for it to be fully sarcastic, and almost succeeded, but there was a bit of honesty that shone through. Against all better judgement and sound mind, you did trust him.
He stared at you, only providing a small scoff and muttering under his breath as response.
With the newfound silence, you decided to follow his earlier request and complete the puzzle that was started. You almost invited him to do it with you, but your mouth closed with a snap after looking over at him.
He seemed to be lost in thought about something, dark blonde eyebrows furrowed as he stared somewhere out your window.
Your eyes went back to the puzzle, the only sounds being the soft scrape of the pieces and faint breathing. You grimaced while reaching for some of the further pieces, the movement had aggravated the neck pain you usually had after a long shift.
Rolling your neck in a circle only slightly helped, there was still a crick in the muscle that most likely wouldn’t go away until after a lengthy soak in epsom salt.
Your distracted mind was only half aware of the other figure rising from the couch and making his way over to you.
“Sit back.”
You looked behind you in surprise, wondering how he’d gotten right behind your chair without you knowing. “Why?” You weren’t really concerned about the request, just curious what he intended.
“I can’t keep watching you do that without doing something. Sit back.” He tapped the headrest for emphasis.
Okay, bossy.
You rolled your eyes but did as he asked, sliding back to fully rest in the chair. It was a moment of nothing until you felt warmth against your shoulder blades.
You let out a full body flinch at the contact, but his hands didn’t falter, continuing a path from your shoulders into the sides of your neck. Strong thumbs dug into the muscles and nerves causing you pain, and you couldn’t keep a satisfied sigh from seeping out.
You practically melted into his hands as they traveled over every aching part of your back. Every time he dispelled a knot it knocked a quiet sound out of you.
It was firm but precise, every drag of his warm calloused hands left a tingling sensation in their wake. You couldn’t help but think about what else his hands could do…
The idea created a burning within you. The smell and feel of him so close was dangerous, and you were already wanting more of it. Needing more of it. You were absently aware of his breathing kicking up, almost delving into a pant in your ears.
He eventually slowed down, rubbing his fingers in circular motions on the top of your spine before retreating completely. He didn’t retreat too far, barely taking a step back as he stood behind your chair.
You didn’t look at him, focusing on calming your breathing and not appearing like the mess you were on the inside. You didn’t need a mirror to know your the flushed expression you wore.
You opened your mouth, then closed it, not trusting yourself to beg for his hands to touch you again.
He spoke before you could work up the nerve of a response, “I have to go.”
“Wait-” But it was too late, he was already closing the front door when you turned around.
Knives arrived more frequently after that night.
He didn’t stay as long, or touch you again, (much to your disappointment) but he would usually pop in without rhyme or reason with gifts and a bit of conversation.
You never asked him for anything, but he somehow always knew what you needed.
A new detergent when the old one just ran out, some more butter in the fridge, your favorite ice cream when you were craving it.
As far as you remembered, you never told him what your favorite flavor was, nor did you ever have one in the freezer since meeting him. He still knew.
Someone knowing so much about you should’ve probably unnerved you, but it only gave you a sense of serenity. You didn’t have to worry about explaining yourself to him, there was no pressure on your end. He just watched, and learned.
Except in one area. He seemed to be oblivious to your attraction to him, not flirting with you even once. There were his snarky remarks and knowing smirks sure, but that seemed to be less hitting on you and just more of who he was.
Unless, he does know you’re into him and just doesn’t feel the same so he’s ignoring it.
You brushed the thought off, sighing as you unlocked the door to your apartment. It was really no use wondering about it, even with all the time spent with Knives, you barely had a clue what was going on in his head.
Besides, after the day you’d had it was hard to think about anything else.
To say it was a bad shift would be an understatement. You’d overslept that morning, rushing through your morning routine but still arriving twenty-five minutes late to clock in.
It was a rare busy day in the store, and you could barely push past people to get to your register.
“About time.” Matthew shot you a dirty look between filing away the bills in his hand.
Your job was severely understaffed, and today was no different, which meant that in your absence Matthew had to handle the hordes of people on his own.
You gave him an apologetic nod, waving the next person in line over to you. Soon enough, the lines dwindled into nothing as the rush passed.
You wiped your sweaty hands on your pants leg, signing out of the POS to go work on other things. A stack of boxes caught your eye, and you moved closer to start unpacking the items inside.
“Go do the inventory. He wants it in the front on the orange display.” Snapped Matthew behind you. He was pointing at the very boxes you were already walking towards.
You didn’t bother correcting him in saying you were already going to do that, instead giving a curt nod.
“What, you can’t speak today? Didn’t take your meds?” He raised a brow, grinning at you.
Breathe, don’t let him get to you.
“I’m just going to do my job.”
His grin only widened at your answer. “Heh, okay. You do that.”
You ignored him, quickly pulling a dolly from the back transport the boxes to the front of the store.
You wiped a hand over your brow, starting to sweat with the effort. It would be a lot easier with two people, but like hell you were going to ask that asshole.
Matthew wasn’t really nice to anyone, except maybe the new hires he wanted to flirt with, but you still never understood why he seemed to hate you so much.
Because you’re always the odd man out, the one no one really likes, the one-
“Shut up.” You spat out the words, making sure you were quiet enough for no one else to hear. Matthew didn’t need more ammunition to call you crazy.
You directed your attention to the store display and away from your bleak thoughts. You couldn’t help what others thought of you, the only thing you could do at the moment was finish the stupid display and move onto your other work.
You vacantly slapped the folded clothes onto the shelves, mind drifting elsewhere.
I bet knives never had to work in retail.
You’d be very surprised if he ever had a real job before. Trying to imagine his scowling face behind a cash register made a chuckle bubble within you.
He’d probably stab someone on his first day.
Shit, he can stab Matthew for all I care.
You half scolded yourself at the thought, realizing how fucked up it sounded to wish that someone stab your coworker. You weren’t as upset by the thought as you could’ve been.
There was a sharp creaking noise, and before you could react, the metal shelf you had been stacking on crashed down on your arm.
“Shit-” You jumped back to avoid falling with it, but the damage had been done. The edge of the shelf dug a cut down your forearm that was already spurting blood over you and the merchandise.
“Oh no, shit, shit, shit-” You couldn’t think straight, only standing there in a panic as you gripped your bloody arm.
“What the fuck did you do now?” If you thought Matthew was mad at you before, he was pissed now. “I asked you to do one simple thing and you can’t even do that? Who’s gonna clean this shit up?”
He’d left a customer at the desk to see what the sound was, but he didn’t seem to care about their existence as he yelled at you.
“Fuckin disability hire, can’t even stock a shelf. I don’t know why you’re standing there, you should be-”
You didn’t wait for him to finish, bumping into him as you rushed towards the back room with tears in your eyes.
Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry in front of him, he’s not worth it.
You ignored his calls for you to come back, slamming your work locker open and grabbing your things. You didn’t even bother clocking out, only stopping by the lunch corner to grab paper towels and wipe down your arm.
The harsh wind from outside only aggravated your eyes more, but you steeled yourself against the cold.
You got plenty weird looks on the train ride home, but nobody said anything to you. It was probably the mix of blood staining your hands and scowl that discouraged conversation.
A ten minute ride followed by a brisk walk brought you back to where you were, standing at your apartment door with an aching cut.
You shouldered the door open with your uninjured side, immediately dropping your things to the ground once you were inside.
The cut hurt like a bitch and was still freely bleeding, but you shouldn’t need stitches or anything dramatic. The med kit from under your sink in the bathroom should more than suffice.
You turned the corner towards the bathroom, but stopped short at the figure standing there.
The visitor was more expected than not these days, but you didn’t think he’d be here this early since he usually met you after your shift.
“What did I say about taking care of your things?” He half turned from the window where you assumed he’d watched you come in.
You’d usually muster up something equally as playful in response, but this time, you were not in the mood.
He seemed to sense the shift, whipping his head over to you. It didn’t take long for his eyes to rake over you, gaze landing on your right arm.
“Who did that?” His demeanor changed completely after seeing the injury, voice turning steely.
It only took a few strides for him to reach you, hand snapping out to grasp your forearm. His eyes were blazing with anger behind his mask and he looked two seconds away from disemboweling someone.
Even though you knew his anger wasn’t with you; it still took a moment to stutter out a response, “No one, I-i did it myself. Well, not did it, it wasn’t on purpose. An accident at work.”
Your clarification didn’t seem to calm him much.
He stepped to your side, scooping an arm under your legs to pull you to his chest, his other arm supporting your back. He walked towards your bathroom with purpose.
You let out a squawk of surprise at being airborne, “Hey, I can still walk. It’s just a cut, you don’t have to carry me.”
“Blood loss causes dizziness, and it looks like you’ve already lost too much.” Someone would’ve thought you were bleeding out by how aggravated he sounded.
You didn’t want to mention that the main reason you were dizzy was his close proximity, not the injury. You were closer to him than you ever were before, and you couldn’t stop yourself from taking in a deep whiff. Blood, metal, mint.
He knocked your bathroom door open with enough strength to make it rattle, marching over to your closed toilet where he set you down gently but firmly.
As always, he knew where you put everything, so you didn’t have to direct him as he pulled out your small med kit.
It was just the buzz of the fluorescent lights for noise as he rummaged through the kit, occasionally pulling out select items he’d need.
You watched as hazel eyes narrowed in concentration, stomach doing a flip at how focused he was on helping you. How caring.
There was a mix of disinfectant and many bandages on the counter (more than you’d probably need), and he looked over them quickly before washing his hands and snapping on latex gloves.
“It’s going to hurt, you can hold onto me if you need to.” Was the only warning you got before he was gripping your arm with one hand and wiping down the cut with the other.
The antibacterial liquid was cold and stinging, you let out a sharp hiss at the stab of pain. As the blood was cleaned away, you could see that the cut was a bit deeper than you thought.
“I-ah, you don’t think I’ll need stitches, right?” You were a bit scared to ask, his frown had only deepened once he started working on you.
“No. It’s not to that point, but you’ll need to keep it wrapped tightly for a while so the skin can join back together.”
And he was right, after cleaning the wound thoroughly, he stuck some hefty bandages over the opening and wrapped it all in a tight cover of gauze.
He tucked the end of the fabric inside to secure it, and tugged off his gloves to clear away the mess of dirty wipes and wrappers on the counter.
You didn’t bother thanking him, knowing by now that he wouldn’t accept it.
You looked down at his work, neat as usual. You startled as a pill bottle was being shaken in front of you, eyes focusing to read the label.
“It doesn’t really hurt that much.”
He shook it again, insisting, “It will later, take one.”
You knew there was no chance of changing his mind, and it didn’t seem like the worst idea, so you grabbed the container and swallowed down one of the pills.
Satisfied, Knives leaned back against the wall opposite you, muscular arms folded over his chest.
Despite his quietness, you could still sense the underlying anger rolling off him. Knowing the answer, you asked anyway, “Are you upset?”
“Explain what happened.”
You hesitated for a moment, then started the retelling of what happened that day. You kept your composure for the most part, voice only hitching when you repeated what your coworker had said about you.
Knives stood stock still through it all, watching with that calm dangerous air that he had.
By the time you were done, you felt the telltale signs of tears, but you pushed it down again. You didn’t want it to bother you, but it did. After a life of dealing with rejection, it still stung.
A warm hand lifted up your chin, thumb swiping away tears you weren’t aware had fallen. “You don’t deserve that, none of it. It won’t happen again.” There wasn’t an ounce of question in his tone, he was sure of it.
You let out a weak laugh, sniffling. “I could only hope, he’ll probably be worse after today though. Especially since I left early.”
He hummed, “I’ve always disliked the name Mathew, all of them are annoying.” He sounded like he usually did again, slightly amused as if he were in on a joke that you weren’t.
You laughed again, stronger this time. “I can’t say I’ve had experience with that many Matthew’s to agree with you.”
He ran his thumb over your cheek one more time before backing away. “Trust me, they are. You should take tomorrow off.”
There he goes again, giving demands veiled as suggestions.
“I would love to, but unfortunately some of us common folk need jobs, and if I call out again I’ll probably be u employed. I’m sure you’ve never worked one, so it’s hard to understand.” Your tone was playfully mocking, but it was the truth. There was no way your manager was going to be okay with that, plus, you needed to make up for the money lost by leaving early.
“I have.” He adverted his eyes to your left, “worked a job that is.”
You perked up, it was rare that the man offered information past what model his knives were, and you didn’t want to lose the opportunity to learn more about him.
“Oh really? As what?” You kept your tone light, to not seem like you were prying.
“An officer.”
“Like, a police officer?”
“No. Not exactly.”
You blinked in confusion.
He shifted in his stance, like the conversation was suddenly making him uncomfortable. “Agent, would be the better term. I-” He paused, finding the right words. “I locked away the monsters of the world, and protected the people I needed to.”
You cocked a brow, “So, you were a spy?”
He huffed, giving you a look. “No. How the hell did you get spy out of that?”
“You are amazingly vague at every answer, I figured it would fit.” You shrugged, wincing when the movement aggravated the skin of your arm.
He zoned in on the expression, eyes narrowing again. “You should go to bed, especially if you’re insisting on going to work tomorrow.”
It was clear that was all the answers you’d get out of him, this night at least. You let out a huff of breath, using the counter to pull yourself into a standing position.
There was a wave of wooziness, and you fought to keep balance. Clearly the pill was doing its job.
An arm snaked around to your back, steadying you as you walked to your bedroom. As if there were an invisible barrier, he stopped at the threshold. In the dim lighting, you could only see the dark outline of him and the glint of metal strapped to his person.
To anyone else it would be menacing, terrifying even, to have the attention of the killer focused on them. You only craved more of it.
“There’s soup in your fridge if you want it. Change the wrapping in the morning, it shouldn’t cause any issues before then.”
You could only blame the strength of the pain pill for your lack of restraint, “Do you have to leave right now?”
A pause. “I do. I have something else to take care of.”
You tried not to take it as a dismissal, but it hurt nonetheless.
Something else. Not you.
“Right, okay.” The disappointment was obvious in your voice.
Steady steps made their way over to your bedside, “I don’t want to, but are some things I need to do. I’ll see you soon.”
You could barely make out the shape of him standing over you, drowsiness and the pain medicine muddling things together. “Aye, aye captian.”
A deep chuckle, and then a quiet response, “Dex.”
Dex. It suits him. You couldn’t tell if you’d said the name aloud or in your head, already giving way to unconsciousness.
The last thing you felt was a hand lightly trailing down your face before blackness.
Other than feeling like a sledgehammer hit you, your next day at work was uncharacteristically peaceful.
Even though Matthew was scheduled alongside you for the week, he never showed up for work that day.
Or the next day. Or the next one after that.
He didn’t call out, and based on the grumble from your manager, hadn’t quit either.
You never said anything, never even thought the words in your head, but you knew what happened.
If you were really honest with yourself, you knew what was going to happen when you heard the assurance in his voice that you wouldn’t have any more problems.
Kni-No-Dex, was a killer, regardless of how he treated you. You knew how he solved problems.
You were a little nervous at how little it bothered you. You had the same tingling feeling you got when he replaced one of the lightbulbs in your apartment without asking.
Cared for.
But there was another problem, Dex was nowhere to be seen either. He’d never shown up again after that night, and you were starting to get concerned.
Even though he didn’t show up every single day, missing several days in a row was out of character for him. You could only hope that he wasn’t dead or arrested somewhere.
It seemed silly to worry about him, especially with how competent he seemed. You didn’t steadily watch the news, but everyone in the city had heard of a man in a blue mask who could lodge a knife in your head faster than you could blink.
Bullseye.
He’d never told you it was him, but you weren’t an idiot, all the traits aligned. Not to mention his name, Dex, most likely short for Benjamin Pointdexter. The man who was sent to prison a while back for murder.
You didn’t care about any of that. Your only concern was that he was M.I.A. and it was out of character.
Maybe he just got bored, found someone else.
You ignored the slithering thought, knowing it’s not true.
Despite not knowing all of his life, you knew him, he was obsessive to a fault. His cleanliness, the order of his knives, and seeing you all fell into a cycling routine that he didn’t stray from.
He wouldn’t just dissapear.
Your leg shook nervously as you focused on the television. The news was covering a recent stock drop or something related. You were half listening for anything that could be related to him.
You were sure that an extremely wanted convict being detained would make front page news, so if anything happened, they’d talk about it here.
So far, it was nothing of substance, just the economy and a new court case with the slime-ball mayor.
You were shaking your leg so vigorously that you almost didn’t hear it at first. Your hand shot out, muting the tv before straining your ears.
There it was, a soft shuffling sound coming from your bedroom. You jumped up, heart fluttering in your chest as you rushed over there.
You only stopped short of your bedroom door to grab a nearby book, just in case it wasn’t Dex in your room and you needed a weapon.
Turns out, it was unnecessary, you saw him immediately upon entering, slumped against your open window.
“Dex-” His name was expelled in a relieved breath, but you only grew concerned again the more you looked at him.
Dark patches covered his mask and the fabric of his suit. His gloves were on, but you could see the clear glisten of blood coating them.
“Hey. Thought you’d be asleep. I can go soon, just gotta take a breather.”
You scoffed indignantly, quickly going over to him, “A breather? Jesus, what happened?”
“Not Jesus, just me.”
You glared at him. It was not the time for jokes, definitely not as he was dripping blood on your floor.
“You can explain later, here.” You supported him under his shoulder as you guided him to your bed.
“Gonna get it dirty.” He pushed back slightly as you tried to sit him down, but fell back anyway when you applied more force.
“It’s okay, I have other sheets. I’m worried about you right now.”
You could tell he was smirking based off the look in his eyes, further proven by the next statement. “Worried about me?”
You didn’t even bother hiding the emotion in your response, “Yes, I do. A lot.”
That made him quiet, glinting eyes searching your face for any hint of a joke or lie. He seemed to find none, but had no response for you. It was hard to tell his full expression behind the mask, and you found yourself sick of it.
Besides, it’s not like you didn’t know who he was.
Your fingers curled under the edge, lifting it gently, but a firm grip on your wrist stopped you.
“Ben, it’s okay.”
His eyes widened in slight surprise at your use of his first name, but it did the trick. The hand holding you fell away and you pulled the fabric fully off his face.
You sucked in a breath at the injuries before you. A trickle of blood coated his blond grey-flecked hair where it stuck to his forehead, and there was a bruise blooming on his cheekbone.
The lips you had admired not that long ago were sporting a cut, but even with all that, Dex didn’t appear to be in a lot of pain. His face showed an openness and tiredness that you’d never seen on him before.
Without thinking, you raised a hand to brush lightly over his mouth, relishing in the slight flutter of his eyelids as you did so.
You couldn’t stop, addicted to the reaction. Your hand trailed from his lips to the side of his face, and over his sharp jawbone. You mapped out everything that was hidden to you before, ignoring the smear of blood on your hand.
His piercing gaze stayed fixed on you as he pressed his head into your palm. His only other movement was twitching hands where they rested over his thighs. He stayed still, not trying to stop you or rush you, just accepting.
It wasn’t until your fingertips brushed over his throat that he shivered beneath you. The movement was nearly imperceptible, but he had definitely tilted his head back slightly to give you more access.
It made something swirl in your abdomen. How much he trusted you, how willing he was beneath your hands. How good he looked, injuries and all.
You told him as such, and his eyebrows knit together like he had been hit.
“Don’t say that, you don’t know what you’re starting.” His voice was weak, barely a whisper in the quiet of the room.
“I do.”
“No you don’t. You said you care about me, I’m not easy to care for.” The words weren’t said in self deprecation or a stab at sympathy, just factual. He truly believed that care and tenderness wasn’t made for him.
It sent a pang through your heart, for so many years you held a similar sentiment about yourself. You were difficult to understand-to accept, but he did, and you could do the same for him.
“I know.” You held his face in both palms, a hairsbreadth away from him, “Neither am I.”
Your lips meeting his seemed to ignite action within him, hands that were previously dormant snapping up to grab at your hips firmly.
You were pulled down to straddle his lap, already feeling a poking hardness in the fabric. It was your turn to shiver, giving an experimental grind forward as you continued to kiss him breathlessly.
That caused a deep groan to flood from his throat into your mouth. He quickly found purchase over your ass to guide you into repeating the movement.
While you grinded over the hard length in his pants, his tongue explored the expanse of your mouth, flicking over the ridges and smoothness inside. You could taste the uniqueness of him, but also the metallic tang of blood from his lip.
You only pulled away to breathe once the burning in your chest couldn’t be ignored. Chest heaving, you pulled back and watched as he did the same.
He couldn’t seem to see enough of you, eyes raking from your chest down your frame and back again. His lips were swollen and spit slicked, and you were sure you had a similar look of dishevelment.
His hands trailed up your spine and back down to where you sat on top of him. You could hear the swallow he took before speaking, “If I’m going to have you, it’s going to be all of you. If you go through with this, you’re not leaving me, you get that?” His voice was steady despite being out of breath, tone deadly serious.
You could read between the lines for the warning. There was no going back for Dex if you continued, no breakups, no do-overs.
Lucky for him you didn’t want any.
In lieu of response, you surged forward, attacking his mouth with your own as you drug yourself firmly over his crotch.
You gasped out a moan as the movement caught between your legs, right where you needed it most. But it wasn’t enough. You needed to be closer.
You shrugged off your top, throwing it to an unseen side of the room. Another shiver racked your body as lips made use of the newly exposed skin, nipping and sucking over your chest and sternum.
His fingers grabbed onto the latch of your bra, but you stopped him short. “No, get out of that suit first.”
He backed away from you with a half lidded gaze, trademark smirk flicking on his lips. “Yes ma’am.”
He seemed to enjoy watching you squirm as he unlatched all the zippers and buttons of his suit, moving much slower than necessary. The utility belt came off first, knives clinking as he threw them on your nightstand. The top part of his suit was soon to follow, dark fabric peeling away to reveal fair skin.
He wasn’t as injured as you’d assumed, just a dark blooming bruise on his ribs and left shoulder. Every other mark was old and weathered, the raised scars scattered across his torso spoke of years of pain.
You took him in unabashedly, eyes raking over pronounced pectorals and the defined abs that covered his stomach. Light hair dusted his chest and led in a trail past the waistband of his pants.
His smirk only widened as he watched you watching him. Patiently waiting, he sat there for your next move.
It was only fair that you lost the next bit of clothing, so you rose off him to shimmy out of your pants, leaving the underwear on.
His brow rose as he caught onto the little game you were playing. His pants came off quickly after, joining yours in a dark heap.
The only thing shielding the prominent bulge in his lap was dark grey briefs. They didn’t leave much to the imagination, clinging to the long rod of him and wrapping around solid thighs. You could see a dark patch in the fabric where he’d already started leaking, your core throbbing in response.
You settled on his lap again, smiling at the soft hiss he let out from the pressure. Your hand wrapped around his wrist, guiding him to your bra clasp as you trailed fingertips past the waistband of his briefs.
His fingers deftly unlatched the clasp, and the cover fell away right as you pulled his length free.
It slapped loudly against his lower stomach, smearing white across his skin and your hand.
His eyes weren’t focused on that though, only staring at your chest with intimidating focus. “God, the things I want’ta do to you.”
It was spoken under his breath so quietly, you were unsure if the words were meant for you to hear.
“So do them.”
He only laughed, leaning back on his elbows to watch you.
He knew what you wanted, he just wasn’t going to give it to you that easily. Your frustration only made him impossibly harder.
Despite his blasé act, you could see you were having an effect on him. Every rock of your hips made his cock twitch, a bead of white dribbling out the top. His neck and chest were covered in a flush, and every breath he took seemed labored. Shaky.
You decided to play his own game, fuck with him a little, “C’mon Dex, show me what you promised.”
You reached down, rubbing a thumb over the leaking slit between you. He let out a breathy moan, hips involuntarily bucking up into you.
You didn’t stop in your ministrations, leaning down to speak directly in his ear. “You said you wanted all of me, so take it. You have me.”
Your words caused another twitch in your hand. “You have me, I’m yours.”
The words were barely out your mouth when you were flipped onto your back, bouncing against the mattress. You let out a startled giggle at the movement, only sobering when you looked down.
The look Dex gave you made your heart stutter for a moment. The only way you could describe it was carnivorous. His eyes were dark and shadowed, and if you didn’t know him well enough to recognize the want in his expression, he looked almost pissed off.
It only made wetness pool in your core.
“You want this?” He left a trail of open mouthed kisses down your stomach.
It was a rhetorical question, but you nodded anyway.
“Where do you want me? Here?” He bit at your hipbone, soothing the flesh with a lick afterwards.
“Or here?” His breath ghosted across the damp patch of your panties, making you thrum in anticipation.
“Yes, right there.” Any more dilly dallying and you’d probably start begging. You had a feeling that’s exactly what he wanted.
“Hmm, interesting.” He ignored the area, trailing lips down your inner thighs. His hands gripped your knees, preventing you from closing yourself off to him.
He bit random spots all the way down your thigh, licking a stripe on the way up.
“Dex- c’mon.” You huffed. The feeling of his mouth on yours was amazing, but it wasn’t nearly enough and he knew it.
“Whose are you?” The words are spoken into your skin, in the crease of your hip.
“Yours.”
“And who do I belong to?” He grasped the waistband of your underwear between his teeth, dragging them down slowly.
“Me.”
You only saw the flash of a smile before his mouth was on you fully. You let out a shuddering moan as his lips latched onto your clit, sucking hard.
He juggled between your bundle of nerves and trailing his tongue down to your entrance, licking inside.
You could feel him groan against you as you grabbed a fistful of his hair, holding him steady.
Between your existing wetness and his mouth, you were soaking, juices dripping down to the bedsheets past his mouth.
His mouth traveled up again to focus on your nub while one of his hands snaked around to press two fingers against your entrance.
They slipped in easily, quickly building a rhythm trusting into you while his tongue lapped at you from the outside.
You couldn’t even make a sound as your peak quickly approached, your body just seized with the amount of pleasure rolling through you.
Your eyesight blanked out, and you took a few heaving breaths before you were able to find your voice again.
Even as your moans turned to over sensitive whimpers, he didn’t let up, only slowing down the movement of his hands and mouth. He seemed to be lost in the action, only focused on you and your enjoyment.
You had to yank his head back to get him to stop, and he did so with a bit of reluctance.
His hands trailed over you, running smoothing circles over your hips and legs.
Impatiently, you dug your heels into his back, nudging him upward towards you.
He followed happily, the same hungry expression on his face, except now there was a lack of tension. He seemed more relaxed, like he was the one who came and not you.
“I might not last too long. Don’t do this much, or at all really.” He analyzed your face after he’d said it, looking for any shift in your expression.
You were kind of shocked by the revelation, but weren’t put off by it at all. For a normal guy that looked like Dex, you’d assume they had a steady stream of people coming into their bed.
He wasn’t normal, and he definitely wasn’t the type to have one night stands. In fact, before tonight, you weren’t completely certain he was interested in sex at all.
You would’ve accepted him either way of course, but it was nice to know he shared the same want as you did.
“That’s fine, I just need you inside me.”
The words shocked a groan out of him, and he nuzzled his head into the juncture of your neck.
You could feel his hands wrap around your legs to reposition you accordingly.
He slid out of the last piece of fabric covering him and reached down to position his head at your entrance.
It slipped at first from the wetness, but after a few tries the tip caught onto you, slipping inside halfway.
The pressure punched the air out of you, mouth falling open in an ‘o’ shape. Even with his preparation it was a tight fit.
Dex let out a noise somewhere between a whine and a moan, dipping down to capture your mouth in his, siphoning heat into your mouth.
The taste of yourself on his tongue only heightened the experience, and you could barely catch your breath between that and his slow ruts forward.
Every movement pushed him further into you, and before you knew it he was sheathed inside you fully.
You both shuddered at the feeling, and you were sure you could feel every ridge and vein of him in your walls.
“Shit- you feel so good. I gotta pause for a sec.” He breathed against your mouth.
So you waited.
Until you didn’t.
His head tipped forward with a groan as you squeezed around him. One of his hands held your hip in a vice grip, sure to leave bruises later.
“Don’t do that.” His eyes flashed at you in warning.
You couldn’t even focus on a teasing response, you only wanted him to move.
Then he did, starting in shallow thrusts into you, building into longer drags where he pulled almost fully out before snapping into you again.
He grabbed your wrist, planting the palm firmly over his throat and guiding it to squeeze.
You followed the instruction even as his hand fell away, tightening around the corded muscles of his neck.
His eyes fluttered, hips stuttering before speeding up into a faster pace.
His breaths panted against your face as he pounded into you with quick succession. The angle shifted slightly, and he flashed a sharp grin at me hearing your higher pitch.
He pinpointed that spot, hitting it over and over again, only pausing to slip your ankles over his shoulders before continuing.
You couldn’t tell where you began and he ended, mind so blissed out. It was clear from your noises that you were reaching your peak again, and he slipped a hand down over your clit to accelerate it.
He didn’t rub, just pressed down his thumb firmly over you as you tightened around his shaft again.
The feeling of your fluttering walls made him follow right across the edge with you, letting out a shuddering moan as he pumped a few more times and released inside you.
All the strength seemed to sap from him once he came, body falling onto you heavily. You could still tell he was holding himself up a bit on his forearms in order to not crush you completely and you pulled him down solidly to increase the weight.
His rapid heart rate beat in unison with yours where you were pressed to his chest, the slick feeling of sweat and other fluids clinging to your bodies as he softened within you.
The time stretched on as you both sat there in breathless blissfulness, neither one eager to move positions.
His face hadn’t moved from where it sat nestled in your neck, warm breaths disturbing the strands of hair there. When he spoke, you felt it more than you heard it.
“You okay?” It was spoken with an air of unsureness that was unlike him. Based on what he’d said before, you had an idea of what his worries were.
“That was amazing.” And you weren’t lying, the entire experience had knocked a bit of your soul out your body and you were certain there’d be consequences of soreness the next day.
He made a humming noise, satisfied with the answer, and moved to lift off you.
A flare of panic lit up within you. Eventually, you’d have to go back to the real world, real responsibilities and concerns, but at the moment you didn’t want the stretch of peace to end. “Wait, not yet.”
He lowered himself back down immediately even though a frown creased his expression. “You need to get cleaned up, it might feel worse later.”
“Well,” you let out a soft chuckle, rubbing a hand along his scarred spine, “that’s for later me to worry about. Just a bit longer.”
He didn’t make much argument about it, settling his head back over your chest where he gave soft nips at your collarbone.
Despite relishing the peacefulness, there was something else nagging at your mind.
“Hey Dex?”
He hummed out a response, still mapping you out with his mouth.
“What happened?” You didn’t have to clarify, you knew he knew that you were referring to the event that caused him to show up in your room covered in blood.
A soft sigh, and he was leaning back to respond, “The one who put a hit on you, he found out that I hadn’t exactly,” he paused deliberating the words, “followed instructions. He sent a team to finish the job, and I made sure that didn’t happen.”
“I won’t let anyone hurt you.” There was a burning in his eyes that showed the extent of violence he was capable of.
The idea of him choosing to not kill you even though he’d been ordered to do so, and fighting off anyone else who tried was… rousing to say the least.
His eyes tightened in a wince of overstimulation as you involuntarily tightened around him.
“It’s gonna be a bit longer for that.” He sounded like he detested that fact just as much as you did.
You grinned, “I’ll be counting down the minutes,” you were going to continue with something teasing, but the look on his face stalled you.
The light from your open window casted a bluish tint over his face, contouring the edges of features softly. He fixed you with a searching gaze, like you were the only thing worth looking at.
“I meant what I said before,” You started, “it’s no going back for me either. I’m with you.”
He traveled up to your face silently and your eyes fluttered closed in preparation. Instead of kissing you on the lips, his mouth pressed firmly over your forehead. The touch trailed down to press two consecutive pecks over your eyelids and finally melt against your mouth.
“I’m with you.”
You knew that no matter what was coming in your lives that you weren’t afraid, fully willing to delve into the future with the person that knew you best.
Div by: @pixopix
AN: boss makes a dollar, I make a dime, I wrote this on company time. So if there’s any typos or inconsistencies… sorry. It’s minimally edited from my flow of consciousness.
If anyone even reads this, lemme know what you think, is it good? Bad? Just meh? Lmk :D
Summary: You agree to fake-date Steve Rogers because it’s useful, convenient, and easier than saying no. Unfortunately, being loved like a performance starts to feel dangerously close to wanting the real thing.
Wordcount: 27.4k (I KNOW)
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of Y/N)
Warnings: anxiety, low self-worth, emotional hurt/comfort, fake dating, media pressure, insomnia, difficulty eating, miscommunication, consensual sex (no smut, no explicitly described), brief disappearance, angst with a happy ending
A/N: I know I said I wasn't going to post anything in April, but as the saying goes "A wise man changes his mind sometimes, a fool never." This was beta read by Cassie (thank you as always)
Masterlist
The call came just after lunch.
Not a text. Not a casual request passed along in the hallway. A direct message from one of Fury’s assistants, clipped and impersonal, asking you to report to Conference Room 26 immediately.
That alone told you enough to make your stomach tighten.
Urgent meetings in the Tower rarely meant anything good. They meant damage control. Strategy. Containment. They meant polished shoes on expensive floors and people using soft voices to discuss hard things. They meant walking into a room and realizing, two minutes too late, that everyone else already knew why you had been summoned.
By the time you reached the twenty-sixth floor, your pulse had settled into that awful, steady rhythm you recognized from therapy. Not panic. Not yet. Just the warning signs. The sense that something unpleasant was about to be asked of you, and that you would smile while it happened.
The assistant outside the conference room gave you a sympathetic look that did nothing to help.
You pushed the door open.
Everyone was already there.
Two members of the PR team sat at one end of the glass table with folders open in front of them. A legal adviser sat beside them, expression unreadable. Natasha lounged in a chair near the far side of the room, one leg crossed over the other, face smooth and detached in that way of hers that told you she was paying attention to everything.
And Steve stood near the windows.
Your eyes found him instantly, automatically, before you could stop them.
He stood with his arms crossed and his jaw set, broad shoulders rigid beneath a navy button-down that looked as though he had put it on in a hurry. Sunlight from the windows cut across one side of his face, throwing the other into shadow. He looked as if he had been restraining himself for some time already.
He also looked as though he hated being there.
Something cold slipped beneath your ribs.
You told yourself not to be ridiculous.
The woman from PR gestured toward the empty chair near the middle of the table.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “Please, sit down.”
You did.
Only then did you notice the magazines.
They had been spread across the table in a fan, glossy covers turned upward like evidence at a trial. The same photograph appeared on every one of them.
Steve and Natasha.
Too close. That was the whole trick of it.
Steve’s hand rested at the small of Natasha’s back. Natasha stood angled toward him, her face tipped up. The camera had caught the two of them in the half-second before movement resolved into something harmless. In the still frame, it looked intimate. Charged. Damning, if someone wanted it to be.
And apparently a great many people wanted it to be.
You read the nearest headline.
AMERICA’S GOLDEN BOY AND THE BLACK WIDOW: SECRET ROMANCE?
The next one was worse.
LOVE, LIES, OR A MISSION GONE TOO FAR?
Another.
INSIDE THE AVENGERS’ MOST DANGEROUS AFFAIR
Natasha followed your gaze and let out a low, humorless breath through her nose.
“Creative,” she said.
“There is nothing going on between us,” Steve said immediately.
His voice was calm, but only in the way winter was calm. Cold enough to burn.
The legal adviser folded his hands. “We are aware of that.”
“The public isn’t,” the second PR representative said, with the brittle patience of someone repeating a rehearsed line. “And speculation escalated much faster than projected. The story spread across entertainment media by morning, and now mainstream outlets are picking it up. We’re already seeing a measurable effect on public sentiment toward the team.”
Natasha arched one eyebrow. “Because apparently the world has nothing better to do.”
The woman gave her a smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “Unfortunately, public perception matters.”
Steve uncrossed his arms.
“Our personal life shouldn’t be public property.”
“With respect,” the lawyer replied, “that distinction becomes difficult when the image of Captain America directly affects government relationships, sponsorships, charitable partnerships, and the Avengers’ general standing.”
Steve’s mouth hardened.
You kept your attention on the magazines because they were easier to look at than him.
It was a ridiculous story. You knew that. Anybody who actually knew Natasha knew how absurd it was. Anybody who knew Steve would have laughed at the melodrama of it. But none of that mattered. A photograph did not need to be true. It only needed to be convincing.
And people always preferred convincing over true.
The first PR representative straightened the papers in front of her.
“We considered several possible responses,” she said. “A formal denial. A coordinated media correction. Redirecting the narrative through unrelated public appearances. However, our team agreed that the most effective approach would be a more stable, organic counter-story.”
You already knew you were not going to like whatever came next.
She looked directly at you.
“We believe Captain Rogers would benefit from a public romantic cover.”
The room went still.
Steve turned sharply. “No.”
The word cracked across the glass and chrome.
The woman did not flinch. “Captain–”
“No,” he repeated. “That is not what I agreed to discuss.”
“You agreed to hear options.”
“I agreed to hear options related to the story. Not this.”
Your stomach tightened further.
Something in Natasha’s posture changed, almost too small to notice. Not guilt, exactly. More like preparation. The moment before a trained operative took a hit she had already decided was necessary.
The PR representative folded her hands.
“We also discussed potential candidates.”
Steve stared at her as if he could stop the next sentence by force of will alone.
She continued anyway.
“Natasha suggested your name.”
For one suspended second, nobody moved.
You looked at Natasha.
She met your eyes without any visible apology.
Because of course she did.
Steve turned toward her, incredulous anger flashing openly across his face now.
“You brought her into this without asking her?”
“I gave them a name they couldn’t misuse,” Natasha said. Her tone remained even, but there was steel beneath it. “That was the alternative.”
“You don’t volunteer people like that.”
“You think they wouldn’t have thought of her on their own?”
The question landed badly because everybody in the room knew the answer.
The PR team exchanged a glance. The woman nearest you leaned forward slightly, softening her voice into something almost kind.
“You two already have an established friendship. You’re comfortable together in public settings. You work within the same circles. There’s no obvious conflict of schedule. And,” she added, “it helps that the public response to previous photos of you together has been overwhelmingly positive.”
You blinked.
“Previous photos?”
The woman opened a folder and slid a few printed pages toward you.
There they were.
You and Steve leaving a charity gala side by side. Steve leaning down to hear something you had said over the crowd. Another shot from six months ago of the two of you at a community event, his hand at your elbow as the pair of you laughed about something off-camera. A candid from the Tower rooftop after a press conference, both of you in profile, talking close enough for gossip columns to make poetry out of it.
Your face went hot.
You had not known any of those pictures were circulating.
Or maybe you had known, vaguely, in the way you always knew your life became content the second a lens turned your way, but you had never let yourself think too hard about it.
“It would read as natural,” the lawyer said. “Credible. Reassuring.”
Steve let out a short, disbelieving laugh with no amusement in it whatsoever.
“Reassuring to who?”
The woman did not answer him. She kept her eyes on you.
“The arrangement would be limited. Time-bound. Carefully managed. A small number of public appearances, perhaps a few interviews, controlled photo opportunities, and social visibility enough to redirect attention. Nothing invasive. Nothing beyond what is agreed upon.”
Nothing invasive.
You almost admired how cleanly they lied.
Steve stepped closer to the table.
“She doesn’t owe any of you that.”
The words came low and sharp.
No one answered immediately.
You looked up at him then.
He was already looking at you.
There was anger in his face, yes, but not directed at you. Never at you. It was something worse, in a way – something that made your chest feel too tight, because it meant he saw what was happening clearly, and he hated it.
It also meant he was making it harder.
Because if he had been indifferent, this would have been simple.
If he had looked embarrassed, uncomfortable, reluctant in the selfish sort of way, you could have accepted the proposal with the numb practicality you used for every other unpleasant thing in your life. But Steve looked furious on your behalf, and that made the whole room tilt slightly under your feet.
You glanced back down at the printed photographs.
Useful.
The word rose in your head with ugly familiarity.
It was a small word. An efficient word. The kind that sounded almost like praise if no one listened too closely.
Useful meant there was a reason to keep you around.
Useful meant there was still a place for you in the room.
Useful meant you did not have to ask whether anyone would choose you if you stopped giving them reasons.
Therapy had not cured that thought. It had only taught you how to hear it more clearly when it arrived.
You could picture your therapist’s face with irritating precision.
You do not have to earn your place every second of the day.
Maybe not.
But earning it still felt safer than trusting it.
“What exactly would it involve?” you asked.
Steve’s expression changed at once. Not softened. Worse. He looked as though he already knew why you were asking, and hated the answer.
The PR woman moved quickly, relieved to have the conversation back under control.
“Public dinners. A few visible outings. Coordinated media appearances when appropriate. Depending on the coverage, perhaps a magazine profile – something tasteful, emphasizing normalcy and stability. You would be briefed in advance. We would set boundaries. You would not be expected to share anything genuinely private.”
Normalcy and stability.
You nearly laughed.
The lawyer added, “If both parties agree, the arrangement could last until attention shifts or until another story cycle displaces this one.”
You thought of the Tower.
Of the unspoken ways everybody slotted into place there.
Heroes. specialists. scientists. assets. liabilities.
You thought of yourself drifting around the edges of something bigger than you, never fully certain whether you belonged or whether people simply tolerated you because you were competent enough to be convenient.
You thought of the Thursdays you spent in your therapist’s office, ankles crossed, trying not to sound as damaged as you felt while admitting, again and again, that some part of you remained convinced affection was a temporary reward for usefulness.
And beneath all of it, like a thread you refused to tug too hard…
Steve.
Steve, who always remembered whether you had eaten after long debriefs.
Steve, who walked at your pace when the others were in a hurry.
Steve, who watched you with a steadiness that unsettled you because it felt too close to understanding.
He liked you. You knew that much.
Maybe only as a friend. Maybe in that broad, generous way Steve liked people who needed gentleness and never asked for it. But he liked you. Enough that Natasha had used it. Enough that the room had built a plan around it.
And if you said yes, then at least there would be a reason for him to keep choosing your company.
Even if it was fake.
Especially if it was fake.
“Don’t,” Steve said quietly.
The room seemed to draw in around that single word.
He had not raised his voice. He had not moved any closer. But suddenly the polished conference room and the magazines and the PR strategy all fell away, and it felt as though he was speaking only to you.
“You don’t have to do this.”
Nobody else in the room mattered for a second.
You held his gaze.
There it was again – that terrible, unbearable sincerity.
He meant it.
He truly meant it.
You did not know what to do with that.
It would have been easier if he had looked relieved at the possibility. Easier if he had treated you like a practical solution. Easier if he had not cared. But Steve caring always made things harder, because it touched the parts of you you spent most of your time trying to hide under humor and usefulness and polished competence.
Your fingers tightened in your lap.
Someone had to make the room move again.
If you let silence sit much longer, he might do something noble and inconvenient, like refuse outright. He might blow the whole thing apart. He might protect you in front of everybody and leave you standing there with nothing to offer in return except the proof that, yet again, you had needed rescuing.
You could not bear that.
So you smiled.
A small one. Controlled. The version you used when you needed to make yourself easy to handle.
“It’s temporary, right?” you asked the PR team.
The woman nodded immediately. “Exactly.”
You looked back at Steve.
“It’s fine.”
His expression did not change, but something in it sank.
“It isn’t,” he said.
You forced a lighter tone. “It’s not like they’re asking for my kidney.”
No one laughed.
Of course no one laughed.
You could feel Natasha watching you now, sharp and silent.
The lawyer slid a paper across the table, though not close enough for you to mistake it for a contract yet. More like the outline of one. Terms. Timelines. Talking points. Behavioral expectations. Public presentation. Media discretion.
An idylle, manufactured line by line.
“I accept,” you said.
The words came out too smoothly. Too quickly. You heard it the second they left your mouth, the practiced compliance in them. The old reflex. Make yourself useful. Make the difficult thing easier for everyone else. Smile while it hurts.
Across from you, Steve went utterly still.
The PR woman exhaled in visible relief.
“Thank you. I know this is not a small ask.”
No, you thought. It was not.
But somehow that did not mean anyone had really asked.
Steve planted both hands on the table and leaned in just enough to draw every eye in the room.
“She said yes too fast.”
The legal adviser stiffened. “Captain Rogers–”
“She was called in here with no warning, shown a tabloid scandal, and handed a solution before she had time to think. That’s not consent. That’s pressure.”
Heat rose under your skin so fast it almost felt like anger.
Because he was right.
And because he was saying it out loud.
You hated when people saw too much.
The woman from PR adjusted her posture. “No one is forcing–”
“You barely asked her opinion,” Steve cut in.
His voice remained measured, but the restraint in it sounded expensive. Like something held together under stress.
You straightened in your chair.
“I said yes.”
Steve turned to you fully.
The look on his face made your throat tighten.
Not frustration. Not disappointment.
Worry.
Real, immediate worry, edged with something close to hurt.
“Think about it first,” he said.
You knew he was trying to help. That was the problem. The softness of it, right there in front of everybody, made you want to retreat into something sharper.
“If I want more time, I’ll say so.”
“That’s not what I’m–”
“I know.”
You swallowed.
Your voice came out steadier on the second attempt.
“I know.”
A beat passed.
You wished he would look away first. He did not.
In the end, Natasha broke the silence.
“She understands what this is.”
You glanced at her.
Her face gave you nothing, but you knew her well enough to see the tension in the set of her mouth. She was not enjoying this. She simply believed in choosing the least disastrous option and living with the collateral damage.
You wondered whether becoming like that made life easier.
Probably not.
The meeting dragged on after that, because of course it did. Once your yes had been secured, everybody relaxed just enough to become efficient.
Schedules were discussed.
Potential narratives.
Public overlap that could be repurposed.
Shared appearances that would look “spontaneous.”
Guidelines for interviews.
Suggested language if either of you were pressed for details.
You listened. You answered when required. You did not let yourself look at Steve too often, because every time you did, you found his attention already on you.
By the time the papers were gathered and the meeting adjourned, you felt scraped hollow.
The PR team thanked you again, all warm professionalism and brittle gratitude. The lawyer reminded both of you that formal terms would be drafted by evening. Natasha stood before you did, collecting her phone from the table with a fluid motion that suggested she already wanted to be somewhere else.
You rose more slowly.
Steve moved at once.
“We need to talk.”
The PR woman made a soft objection. “Captain, we still need fifteen minutes to review–”
“No,” he said without taking his eyes off you. “We don’t.”
He walked to the door and held it open.
You should have refused. You should have said you needed a minute. You should have insisted you were fine and gone anywhere except alone with Steve Rogers while your emotions were already sliding loose under your skin.
Instead, because you had never been very good at the choices that protected you, you followed him out.
The door shut behind the two of you with a quiet click.
The hallway beyond the conference room was empty and bright, the kind of immaculate corporate corridor that always made you feel as though you were trapped inside somebody else’s version of professionalism. Steve did not lead you far. He stopped near the windows at the end of the hall, where the city spread below in glittering afternoon distance.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then Steve turned to face you.
“What was that?”
There was no accusation in it. That somehow made it worse.
You leaned one shoulder against the glass and crossed your arms, aiming for casual.
“A meeting.”
His expression did not budge.
“You know what I mean.”
You gave him a tired half-smile. “You’re going to have to be more specific, Rogers. There were charts. Legal language. At least three different uses of the phrase public confidence. It was hard to keep up.”
He did not take the bait.
“You didn’t want to do it.”
You looked away, down at the traffic threading through the streets far below.
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
There was no room in his voice for easy escape. No irritation, no self-righteousness. Just certainty.
You hated certainty when it was aimed at you.
“Why are you making this into a bigger deal than it is?” you asked.
His jaw tightened.
“Because they cornered you.”
“They asked.”
“They manipulated you.”
You let out a breath that almost became a laugh.
“You say that like it’s unusual around here.”
Something flickered in his face then. Not surprise – he knew enough about the world, and probably about you, to know exactly what you meant. But there was pain there. Brief and visible.
“That doesn’t make it acceptable.”
You shrugged.
The motion felt brittle. “It’s useful.”
The second the word left your mouth, Steve’s expression changed.
It was subtle but devastating, the way all the warmth in his face dimmed into something more intent, more troubled.
“Don’t do that.”
You frowned. “Do what?”
“That.” He stepped closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough that ignoring him became impossible. “Talk about yourself like that.”
A sharp, defensive laugh escaped you.
“Oh, come on. I’m not exactly collapsing onto a fainting couch. I’m helping.”
“That’s not what you said.”
You looked at him properly then.
He was too close to the truth again. Too close to the thing under the thing.
You knew, in scattered pieces, what Steve understood about you. Not everything. But enough. Enough to know your jokes tended to arrive a beat too fast when you were anxious. Enough to know you vanished into work when your head got bad. Enough to know Thursdays were therapy days and you always came back from them quieter than before.
Enough, apparently, to hear one small word and recognize the wound inside it.
You forced another shrug.
“It’s temporary. It helps the team. Natasha thought I made sense. End of story.”
“It isn’t the end.”
“Steve.”
He softened at once when you said his name, and that somehow undid you more than anything else had.
You pressed on before he could speak.
“I said yes because I can handle it.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is, actually.”
His brows drew together. “No, the point is that you shouldn’t have had to.”
You stared at him.
There it was.
That impossible decency.
You should have found it comforting. Instead it made something sore crack open under your ribs.
Because he really believed that.
He really believed you should not have been treated like a convenient answer.
He believed you were worth protecting from that.
And all you could think was that if you stopped being useful, if you stopped making yourself easy and available and worthwhile on command, people eventually remembered they had no real reason to keep you.
Maybe Steve would not. But the rest of the world had taught you the lesson too many times for one kind man to erase it.
“It’s okay,” you said, too softly this time.
His face changed again. He looked as though the words physically pained him.
“No,” he said. “It’s not.”
The honesty of it made your eyes burn, which was unacceptable. Crying in a corridor because Steve Rogers cared too much was not on today’s schedule.
So you reached for humor like a reflexive shield.
“Well,” you said, “the good news is I’ve apparently been pre-approved by the public. That’s flattering. I should put it on my résumé.”
Still nothing.
You let the smile fall.
“Steve.”
He waited.
“If I say no now, after they already pitched it, after Natasha already put my name forward, after all of this…” You gestured vaguely toward the conference room. “Then what? They pick someone else? Some actress? Some stranger? Turn your life into even more of a circus?”
“That isn’t your responsibility.”
“Maybe not.”
“But?”
You inhaled slowly.
“But I can help.”
The words sat between you.
Steve looked at you for a long second, and you had the absurd feeling that he could see every ugly thing you did not say aloud.
I can help.
I know how to do that.
I know how to be useful.
I know how to stay if someone gives me a job to justify my presence.
He scrubbed a hand briefly over his mouth, then dropped it.
“You shouldn’t have to earn your place here.”
Your heart gave one painful, traitorous beat.
It would have been easier if he had not used those words. Easier if they had not been so close to what your therapist said when you stared at the carpet and insisted you were easier to love when you were needed for something.
You laughed once, very quietly.
“Did Nat tell you that, or did you pick it up all by yourself?”
His gaze did not waver. “You’re not hard to read when you’re hurting.”
That landed so precisely it left you speechless.
You looked away first.
The city below blurred for a second, then steadied.
When you spoke again, your voice sounded flatter.
“I accepted.”
“I know.”
“And I’m not changing my mind.”
That was not entirely true, and both of you knew it. But changing your mind would have required admitting that the decision had touched something raw, and you were not prepared to do that while standing five feet from Steve in a hallway too bright for honesty.
He exhaled through his nose.
Then, quieter, “Did you do this because you thought I wanted you to?”
Your head snapped toward him.
“No.”
The answer came so quickly it startled even you.
Steve held your gaze.
You swallowed.
“No,” you repeated, slower now. “I know you didn’t.”
Which was its own problem, really.
Because if he had wanted it, then at least there would have been a clear shape to your humiliation. A transaction. A reason. But Steve looked at the whole idea as though it offended him personally, and you had agreed anyway.
For the team, you told yourself.
For the mission.
For the image.
For practicality.
Not because some shameful, hidden part of you had lit up at the idea of being allowed to stand beside him and call it a role.
Steve nodded once, almost to himself.
“All right.”
You frowned slightly. “That’s it?”
“No.”
His voice went gentler, though his face remained grave.
“If you’re doing this, then we do it on your terms too.”
A hollow laugh slipped out before you could stop it. “I don’t think that’s how fake dating works.”
“It is if I say it does.”
You should not have smiled at that.
Unfortunately, you did.
It was small and brief and exhausted, but it was real, and Steve’s expression eased by the tiniest degree in response, as though he had been waiting for proof that you were still there under all the defenses.
He straightened.
“No surprises,” he said. “No one pushes you into interviews you haven’t agreed to. No appearances added without warning. No physical anything unless we both sign off on it first.”
Your mouth twitched. “Physical anything?”
He looked so stern about it that you almost laughed again.
“Yes.”
“You make this sound deeply glamorous.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
He paused.
Then, carefully, “And if at any point you want out, you tell me. I don’t care what PR says. I don’t care what legal says. You tell me, and we end it.”
Something hot and painful moved through your chest at the quiet steadiness of that promise.
You covered it with the first thing you could.
“You’d make a terrible fake boyfriend,” you said. “Too ethical.”
To your relief, that earned the smallest flicker of amusement from him.
“You don’t know that.”
“Oh, I absolutely do.”
The smile disappeared as quickly as it had come.
He looked at you a moment longer, then said, “I mean it.”
And because he did, because he always did, you nodded.
“All right.”
He did not seem satisfied, but he let it go.
For now.
Footsteps approached from down the hall. One of the assistants, probably coming to retrieve him. The world beginning to move again whether either of you was ready or not.
You pushed away from the glass.
“Well,” you said, aiming for lightness one last time, “congratulations. Apparently we’re a believable romance.”
Steve’s eyes stayed on you.
“That isn’t what worries me.”
Before you could ask what did, the assistant reached the end of the corridor and slowed, visibly uncertain whether to interrupt.
Steve stepped back.
The distance returned all at once, neat and polite and awful.
“I have to go back in,” he said.
“Of course.”
He hesitated.
Then, softly, “Are you all right?”
There were a thousand true answers to that question.
None of them fit in a hallway.
So you gave him the familiar lie, polished smooth from use.
“Yeah,” you said. “I’m fine.”
He looked at you as if he knew exactly what that answer was worth.
Still, he nodded.
You watched him walk back toward the conference room, broad-shouldered and controlled and far too good for your own peace of mind.
Only when he disappeared behind the door did you let your head tip back against the window.
You stared up at the ceiling and counted your breaths the way your therapist taught you.
In for four.
Hold.
Out for six.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket.
A message from Natasha.
Come find me before you spiral.
You closed your eyes.
A second buzz followed almost immediately.
And before you say you’re not spiraling, don’t.
A weak laugh escaped you despite everything.
You pushed off the glass and headed for the elevators.
You found Natasha in the training room mezzanine, perched on the railing with one knee drawn up, coffee in one hand and the city at her back. She glanced over as you approached, then looked away again as if granting you the dignity of not being watched too closely.
You stopped a few feet from her.
“So,” you said. “You volunteered me.”
Natasha took a slow sip of coffee.
“I suggested you.”
“Without asking.”
“Yes.”
The honesty of it was almost offensive.
You folded your arms. “That’s not better.”
“No,” she agreed. “It isn’t.”
You had prepared yourself for deflection. For pragmatism polished into indifference. Her lack of defense threw you off balance.
You shifted your weight.
“Why me?”
Natasha lowered the cup.
For a second, she studied the skyline rather than you.
“Because they were going to solve it with a woman either way.”
You did not answer.
She continued.
“If they picked on their own, they would have chosen someone photogenic, agreeable, and disposable. Someone they could control. Someone who didn’t know Steve and wouldn’t know when they were pushing him too far.”
You frowned.
“And you thought I was the better option?”
“I thought you were the safer one.”
The words sat strangely in your chest.
You leaned against the railing beside her, keeping several feet between you.
“That’s not exactly flattering.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
At least she was honest.
The silence stretched.
Then Natasha added, “He likes you.”
Your head turned sharply.
She did not look at you. That somehow made it worse.
“In a catastrophic, painfully noble, I’m-going-to-prioritize-your-wellbeing-over-my-own sort of way,” she went on. “Which is inconvenient, because it makes him predictable.”
Heat crawled up your neck.
“You’re exaggerating.”
“No.”
You stared at her profile.
Natasha raised the cup again.
“He watches you,” she said. “He notices when you disappear into yourself. He notices when you’re tired. He knows your therapy schedule.”
Your face went hotter.
“Why do you know that he knows that?”
“Because I know him.”
She finally glanced sideways at you then, expression cool and unreadable.
“And because he asked me once whether I thought it was a bad idea to leave tea outside your door after a hard session if he didn’t want to make you feel observed.”
Your breath caught.
For one absurd second, the entire room seemed to tilt.
Tea.
There had been evenings when you came back from therapy hollowed out and found a mug waiting on the small table outside your room. No note. No explanation. Just tea made exactly the way you liked it.
You had never known who left it.
Natasha watched realization hit your face and gave the slightest shrug.
“He overthinks everything.”
You looked away before she could see too much.
The city beyond the glass had gone hazy in the late afternoon light.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” you said.
“That depends on what you want it to mean.”
“I don’t want it to mean anything.”
A lie.
Natasha was too merciful to call you on it.
Instead, she said, “He was angry in there.”
“I noticed.”
“Not because of the arrangement.”
You turned back to her.
She met your eyes evenly.
“He was angry because they treated you like you’d say yes before they even asked.”
Your throat tightened.
You stared at her, suddenly unable to decide whether you wanted to laugh or throw something.
“Well,” you said after a beat, “they were right.”
For the first time, something close to frustration crossed Natasha’s face.
“That isn’t a virtue.”
You looked down at your hands.
“No,” you said quietly. “I know.”
She finished the coffee and set the empty cup on the railing.
“For what it’s worth,” she said, “I didn’t offer your name because you’re convenient.”
You said nothing.
“I offered it because if Steve had to do this with anyone, I wanted it to be someone he’d never treat carelessly.”
That should not have mattered.
Unfortunately, it did.
You hated how much it did.
You let out a slow breath. “That’s a lot of faith to put in two people who didn’t actually choose this.”
Natasha’s mouth curved, faint and sharp.
“That’s what makes it interesting.”
You rolled your eyes despite yourself, and she took that as the opening she wanted.
“Go eat,” she said. “You get brittle when you haven’t eaten.”
You gave her a flat look. “Did Steve tell you that too?”
“No. I have eyes.”
You pushed off the railing.
“Thank you,” you muttered.
“For what?”
“For at least admitting you blindsided me.”
Natasha inclined her head once.
Then, just as you turned away, she added, “Try not to break him.”
You stopped.
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, incredulous and thin.
“That’s funny.”
“I wasn’t joking.”
You walked out before you had to answer that.
By evening, the arrangement became real in the ugliest possible way: through documents.
A preliminary draft landed in your inbox just after seven. You opened it from your bed with your shoes still on, the lamp in the corner casting weak amber light across the room.
It was all there.
Projected duration: six to eight weeks, subject to media response.
Initial public appearance: charity benefit next Friday.
Possible interview windows.
Approved topics.
Discouraged topics.
Physical boundaries to be discussed jointly in advance.
Crisis response if one of you was photographed with someone else.
Suggested wording if asked how the relationship began.
You stared longest at that last one.
We had been friends for a while. Things changed naturally.
Naturally.
You almost threw your phone across the room.
Instead, you dropped it onto the blanket beside you and pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes until bursts of color swam behind them.
Your room was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that let every thought arrive clearly.
You wondered if Steve had already received the same document.
You wondered whether he hated it as much as you did.
You wondered whether he regretted that Natasha had ever suggested your name.
You wondered whether, somewhere under all of this, there was a part of him that wished it had been real.
That last thought was the most dangerous, so naturally it stuck.
A knock sounded at your door.
You froze.
Another knock. Softer this time.
You got up, crossed the room, and opened the door halfway.
Steve stood in the hallway holding a paper bag from the kitchen.
Of course he did.
For a second neither of you spoke.
Then he lifted the bag slightly.
“You skipped dinner.”
You stared at him.
He shifted, almost self-conscious under your silence.
“I figured you might not want the common room.”
The absurd tenderness of it hit you so hard you almost had to grip the edge of the door to steady yourself.
“Are you monitoring my meals now, Captain?”
“No,” he said, then paused. “Not officially.”
That got a startled, helpless laugh out of you.
His mouth softened in response. Not a full smile, but close.
“Can I come in?”
You stepped aside.
He entered carefully, like a man approaching a skittish animal he had no intention of frightening. He set the bag on your desk and unpacked its contents with quiet efficiency: a plate, still warm. A bottle of water. An apple. A packet of crackers.
“You brought crackers.”
“You forget you like them when you’re stressed.”
You stared at him.
He seemed to realize what he had said and glanced down briefly, as if annoyed with himself for making his noticing too obvious.
“I pay attention,” he said simply.
Yes, you thought. That is exactly the problem.
You sat on the edge of the bed because it felt safer than standing. Steve remained by the desk for a moment before pulling the chair around to face you. He sat, forearms resting on his thighs, posture open and unthreatening.
There was no version of him that did not make the room feel smaller.
“I read the draft,” he said.
“So did I.”
“It’s worse in writing.”
A humorless smile tugged at your mouth. “That feels like an achievement.”
He did not smile back.
“I meant what I said earlier.”
“I know.”
“If you want out–”
“I know.”
You exhaled and looked at your hands.
“Steve, please stop asking me if I’m sure.”
He fell silent.
When you looked up, there was frustration in his face now, but only with the situation, never with you.
“I’m asking because you looked like you were agreeing to something you thought you had to survive.”
That was too accurate.
You glanced away again.
“Maybe I am.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
The room went still.
You wished instantly that you could drag them back.
Steve did not pounce on them. He did not rush to fill the silence with comfort or questions. He just stayed where he was, letting the truth lie between you without trying to force it into something prettier.
When he finally spoke, his voice had gone very quiet.
“You don’t have to survive us.”
You laughed once under your breath, but there was no humor in it.
“Maybe not. But I do have to survive this place.”
He studied you for a long moment.
Then he said, “Is that how it feels to you?”
The answer was yes.
Yes, on the bad days.
Yes, when every room felt full of people who belonged to history while you barely felt allowed to belong to the present.
Yes, when being competent was the only thing that kept you from feeling ornamental.
You did not know how to say any of that without sounding pathetic.
So you gave him the edited version.
“Sometimes.”
Steve absorbed that with visible difficulty.
“I’m sorry.”
Your head lifted.
“For what?”
“For not noticing sooner.”
That was so unfairly kind it made your eyes sting again.
“You noticed,” you said, before you could think better of it.
He held your gaze.
“Yes,” he said. “I did.”
Silence.
Then, softly, because pretending suddenly seemed impossible, “Was it you?”
His brow furrowed. “Was what me?”
“The tea.”
Understanding moved across his face in a slow, almost reluctant wave.
Natasha, he thought with a flash of betrayal. Traitor.
Steve looked down briefly, then back at you.
“Yes.”
Your pulse stumbled.
“You never said anything.”
“I didn’t want you to feel like I was keeping score.”
That was such a Steve answer that your chest hurt.
You laughed quietly and looked away before he could see too much on your face.
“Well,” you murmured, “that was probably the least creepy way anyone’s ever admitted to anonymous beverage-related emotional support.”
That, finally, earned a real smile.
Small. Warm. Gone too soon.
Then he grew serious again.
“We need to decide how this works.”
You straightened slightly. “Meaning?”
“Meaning I don’t want PR deciding the shape of this without us.” He nodded toward your phone. “They can get the public version. They don’t get the private one.”
Something cautious and fragile inside you lifted its head.
“The private one,” you repeated.
Steve did not seem to notice how the words affected you.
“Ground rules,” he said. “For us.”
You swallowed.
“All right.”
He counted them off on his fingers.
“First: no surprises. If they add something, we discuss it first.”
“Good.”
“Second: no lying to each other, even if we lie to everyone else.”
You looked at him for a second longer than was wise.
“That feels ambitious.”
“It’s necessary.”
You nodded. “Okay.”
“Third: if either of us gets uncomfortable, we stop. I don’t care where we are.”
“Even if it’s public?”
“Especially if it’s public.”
You tried for levity and only half succeeded.
“You really are terrible at being fake.”
His gaze remained steady on yours.
“I’m not going to make this harder on you than it already is.”
There it was again.
That awful gentleness.
You looked down, suddenly unable to bear the direct hit of it.
“Right,” you said lightly, though your voice was starting to fray. “Wouldn’t want your fake girlfriend to become a workplace casualty.”
The second the words left your mouth, the room changed.
Steve leaned back slightly, as though he had just been struck by something he had not expected.
You realized what you had called yourself.
You felt stupid for noticing the effect.
He spoke after a moment.
“Don’t.”
You looked up.
His face had gone very still.
“Don’t call yourself that like it’s all you are.”
The air in your lungs seemed to leave all at once.
You did not have anything clever left. No joke. No easy deflection. Just a tired body, an overworked heart, and a man sitting three feet away asking you, again and again, not to reduce yourself to what you could do for other people.
So you said the first true thing you had.
“I don’t really know how not to.”
His expression softened in a way that made your throat ache.
For one terrible second, you thought he might reach for you.
He did not.
He just sat there and held your gaze and let the silence stay gentle.
Then he said, “We can start with me not letting anyone else do it either.”
You looked at him.
Really looked.
At the steadiness of him.
At the care written all through the rigid line of his body.
At the impossible fact that he was here, in your room, making rules to protect you inside a lie you had agreed to because some broken part of you still believed usefulness was safer than being wanted.
You wondered, not for the first time, what exactly Steve Rogers saw when he looked at you.
You were not sure you wanted to know.
You were not sure you could survive knowing.
So you reached for the plate instead.
“Did you bring this whole meal just to emotionally devastate me into eating?”
His shoulders loosened by a fraction.
“Maybe.”
“Effective strategy.”
“I have those.”
You took a bite mostly to prove a point. Then another because you realized, with dull surprise, that you were actually hungry.
Steve watched just long enough to make sure you were really eating, then looked away to give you some privacy in it. The gesture was so considerate it nearly undid you again.
After a few quiet moments, he said, “They want us at the Barton Foundation event next Friday.”
You swallowed. “Of course they do.”
“We’ll go. We’ll smile. We’ll survive it.”
The simple inclusion of we did something dangerous to your insides.
You set the fork down carefully.
“You keep saying that like this is a shared burden.”
“It is.”
You let out a soft breath.
“You don’t have to make me feel better about it.”
“I’m not.”
He looked back at you then, and his eyes were impossibly clear.
“I’m telling the truth.”
Your chest tightened.
You looked down before he could see the effect.
Outside your windows, the city lights had started to come on one by one, turning the glass into a mirror layered over the dark.
You ate because he was there.
Because he had brought food.
Because, ridiculous as it was, some part of you still wanted to be good for him in the small, stupid ways that felt safe.
By the time the plate was empty, the room had settled into a quiet that no longer felt hostile.
Steve rose and gathered the trash without being asked.
At the door, he paused.
“One more rule,” he said.
You looked up from the bed.
“What?”
“If this starts hurting you, you tell me before it gets bad.”
A laugh escaped you, tired and faint.
“That is an incredibly optimistic understanding of how my brain works.”
He nodded once, accepting that without liking it.
“Then tell me when it starts.”
You held his gaze.
“All right.”
He studied you for a moment, like he was trying to decide whether that promise was real enough to trust.
Then he gave you a small nod and opened the door.
“Get some sleep.”
You almost smiled.
“Bossy.”
“I’m right.”
With that, he stepped into the hallway.
You watched him go.
Only after the door closed did you let yourself sag forward, elbows on your knees, face in your hands.
Your room smelled faintly of dinner and paper and the clean, impossible trace of Steve’s cologne left behind in the air.
Your phone buzzed again.
This time it was an email from PR titled: Relationship Narrative – Preliminary Positioning Notes
You stared at it until the screen dimmed.
Then you picked the phone up, opened your messages, and typed Natasha a single line.
You’re a terrible person.
Her reply came immediately.
And yet I was right. He brought you food, didn’t he?
You closed your eyes.
After a moment, you typed back.
I hate both of you.
Three dots appeared at once.
No, you don’t. Get some sleep.
You set the phone facedown on the bed beside you.
Across the room, the city reflected in the window like another life layered over your own.
You thought about the coming weeks.
The dinners.
The cameras.
The carefully arranged smiles.
The hands that might have to linger for photographs.
The lines you would both pretend had blurred naturally.
You thought about Steve in the conference room, furious on your behalf.
Steve in your doorway with food because you had skipped dinner.
Steve promising there would be rules. Promising you could leave. Promising, in all the ways he knew how, that you would not have to carry the whole weight of this alone.
And because your mind was cruelest when the room got quiet, another thought rose beneath all the rest.
This was the closest you would ever get to having him.
Not truly.
Not honestly.
But close enough to ruin you if you were not careful.
You lay back on the bed fully clothed, staring up at the ceiling.
Temporary, you told yourself.
Manageable.
Just another role.
Just another way to be useful.
Just another arrangement you could survive if you kept your heart out of it.
Down the hall somewhere, a door opened and shut.
The Tower breathed around you, alive with people more extraordinary than you would ever feel.
You turned onto your side and closed your eyes.
Next Friday, you were going to stand beside Steve Rogers in front of half the world and pretend he was yours.
And the worst part – the most humiliating, unforgivable part – was that some secret, starving piece of you had already begun to wonder what it might feel like if pretending ever stopped feeling different from hope.
The first week passed in a blur of choreography.
PR called it natural progression, which would have been funny if it had not involved so many schedules, so many carefully timed exits, so many reminders that a hand on your back should look instinctive and not staged. There were meetings, briefings, wardrobe notes, interview prep, and a truly offensive number of emails with subject lines like Public Sentiment Optimization.
You hated all of them.
What you hated more was how quickly you adapted.
By the time the Barton Foundation gala arrived, you already knew where Steve’s hand would settle when cameras turned your way. You already knew how close to stand at his side so you looked familiar, not forced. You already knew the exact shape of the smile required when a reporter asked how long this had been going on and whether you were “finally ready to go public.”
The answer PR had approved was simple.
We’d been close for a while. Things changed naturally.
You said it with just enough warmth to sound sincere.
Steve said it like it physically pained him.
And somehow, that only made the public love him more.
America adored reluctant romance, apparently. They adored the blush they imagined in the downward tilt of your chin. They adored the protective line of Steve’s body beside yours. They adored the photographs of him leaning close to hear you in crowded rooms, as though none of that had been happening long before anybody thought to monetize it.
That was the part nobody understood.
The lie worked because too much of it was already true.
Not the romance. Not officially. Not in any way you had the right to name. But the ease between you had not been invented in a conference room. The way Steve noticed when your smile thinned at the edges had not been taught by PR. The way you reached for him in crowds, subtle and automatic, trusting he would be there when you looked – none of that had been fabricated.
It had only been weaponized.
The first public appearance went better than expected, which was corporate language for you survived without visibly dissociating.
The second came three days later.
A breakfast fundraiser.
Two photographs on arrival.
One staged candid near the garden.
A short exchange with a local morning show.
The host, an aggressively cheerful woman with perfect hair and a predatory instinct for discomfort, had smiled at the two of you over the polished studio table and asked, “So which one of you fell first?”
You nearly choked on your coffee.
Steve, to his credit, had answered before you could embarrass yourself.
“That’s private,” he had said with that polite, all-American smile that somehow translated to absolutely not without ever sounding rude.
The clip went viral within hours.
PR was ecstatic.
Natasha sent you a screenshot of the trending tags with the message: Congratulations. You’re beloved.
You stared at it for a full ten seconds before typing back: I hate this timeline.
Her answer came almost immediately.
And yet you looked pretty.
You had thrown the phone face down onto your desk and informed the empty room that all your friends were terrible people.
Steve had knocked on your open door less than a minute later, eyebrows lifting.
“Talking to yourself again?”
You had looked up too fast, guilty for no reason.
“Practicing my descent into madness.”
He had leaned against the frame, arms folded loosely across his chest, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.
“How’s that going?”
“Beautifully. I’m one more segment away from buying a false identity and fleeing the country.”
He had laughed then, low and warm, and the sound had gone through you with unfair force.
That was the second thing you hated.
The first was how quickly you adapted.
The second was how quickly it started to feel good.
Not the cameras. Never the cameras.
Not the interviews.
Not the impossible, brittle theater of pretending for strangers.
But Steve.
Steve waiting outside your room before public events because he knew you got quieter when you were anxious.
Steve bringing you coffee before early call times without asking how you took it because he already knew.
Steve murmuring, “You okay?” under his breath between questions at interviews, too low for microphones to catch.
Steve finding excuses to keep one hand at your back whenever a room grew too loud.
You told yourself it was part of the role.
You told yourself it had to be.
Because the alternative was admitting that every carefully arranged touch carved itself into you like something real.
Weeks passed.
The magazines changed.
The scandal with Natasha faded exactly as PR predicted, overtaken by glossy profiles and smiling photographs under newer headlines:
CAPTAIN AMERICA’S QUIET LOVE STORY
THE WOMAN WHO FINALLY WON STEVE ROGERS’ HEART
INSIDE THE AVENGERS’ MOST UNEXPECTED ROMANCE
You stopped reading them after the third week.
Not because they were false.
Because they kept getting too close to what you wanted.
One Friday afternoon, you found yourself in another makeup chair under another bank of bright lights while someone with an expensive blowout dabbed shimmer along your cheekbones and told you to tilt your head. The shoot was for a magazine profile that PR described as intimate and grounded, which in practice meant a rented brownstone staged to look like a shared home.
There were books arranged on tables neither of you had read.
A kitchen you had never cooked in.
Soft sweaters selected to make Steve look approachable and you look cherished.
You sat still while the stylist pinned a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
Across the room, Steve stood near the photographers, sleeves rolled to his forearms, jaw set in a way you recognized by now as his version of barely concealed displeasure.
He caught your eye in the mirror.
You raised one eyebrow.
He exhaled once through his nose, the faintest sign of exasperation.
You almost smiled.
Later, when the first set wrapped and the crew moved lights for the next room, Steve found you near the catering table where you were aggressively ignoring a plate of suspiciously perfect fruit.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered.
You picked up a grape and inspected it like evidence.
“That narrows it down so helpfully.”
His mouth twitched.
“They asked if I could carry you up the stairs.”
You nearly choked laughing.
“They did not.”
“They did.”
“And?”
“I said no.”
“Well,” you said gravely, “there went our cover.”
He leaned one shoulder against the wall beside you, close enough that the sleeve of his sweater brushed your arm.
The contact was slight.
It still made your pulse trip.
“They’re pushing more every time,” he said quietly.
You popped the grape into your mouth mostly to avoid answering right away.
He was right.
The first events had been manageable: smiles, appearances, shared glances.
Then came hand-holding.
Then came invitations to sit with your knees touching on late-night couches.
Then came photographers asking for softer expressions, closer angles, “something less posed, more in love.”
And because the arrangement was working – because public opinion had shifted, because people adored the story, because the lie had become profitable – everyone wanted more.
You swallowed.
“I know.”
Steve’s gaze moved over your face, steady and searching.
“Tell me if it gets to be too much.”
There it was again.
That promise.
That infuriating gentleness.
You looked away first, because if you did not, he would notice too much.
“I’ll survive.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
A laugh slipped out, tired and thin. “You should stop using therapist language on me. It’s unsettling.”
His expression remained serious.
“I mean it.”
You set the untouched fruit back down.
“I know you do.”
That was the problem, always. Steve meant things. Fully. Earnestly. Without reservation. It made everything harder to dismiss.
A producer called your names from across the room. Next setup.
Steve straightened and held out a hand.
Professional. Helpful. Public.
Your eyes dropped to it.
He must have seen something in your face because his voice softened.
“We can push back.”
You looked from his hand to his eyes.
Then you placed your fingers in his.
“It’s okay,” you said.
The lie had become so familiar it no longer even sounded like one.
The interviews got worse before they got unbearable.
By week four, the public had decided you were adorable together. Clips of the two of you circulated constantly – Steve holding doors, Steve adjusting your chair, Steve lowering his head to murmur something against your temple while you laughed at a charity luncheon. A hundred tiny moments, some real, some arranged, all of them consumed with greedy affection by people who wanted love stories to come in neat visual packages.
The world decided Steve Rogers was softer with you.
It turned out the world was right.
One evening, after a particularly exhausting panel appearance, the two of you rode the elevator back up to the residential floors in silence. The event had been merciless. Three interviewers, one live audience, one compilation reel of your “cutest moments,” and a final rapid-fire segment during which a host had asked what Steve’s favorite thing about you was.
You had laughed it off.
Steve had not.
He had looked directly at you, not the camera, and said, “She notices people. Even when they think nobody sees them.”
The audience had melted.
The internet had exploded.
And you had spent the rest of the segment trying not to come apart on live television.
Now the elevator hummed softly around you.
Steve stood beside the control panel, tie loosened, jacket slung over one shoulder. You leaned back against the mirrored wall, arms crossed, too tired to perform anymore.
Neither of you spoke until the doors opened.
He followed you into the hallway anyway.
“Did I overstep?”
You turned.
“What?”
“On stage.”
Realization struck belatedly.
“No.”
He studied your face. “You went quiet.”
You let out a small breath, halfway between a laugh and surrender.
“I went quiet because I wasn’t expecting that answer.”
His brow furrowed. “Was it wrong?”
The simple sincerity of the question caught you off guard.
You looked at him – really looked, at the open concern on his face, the loosened tie, the strain of a long day sitting under his skin – and something in you softened before you could stop it.
“No,” you said. “It wasn’t wrong.”
The corridor lights painted a pale band across one side of his face. He remained still, waiting, as if he would not let you escape with only half the truth.
So, against your better judgment, you gave him a little more.
“It was just…” You swallowed. “A lot.”
His expression gentled.
“Because it was too personal?”
Because it was true, you thought.
Because you said things like that about people you loved.
You forced a crooked smile.
“Because you can’t say things like that on camera unless you want the internet to write six hundred think pieces about how secretly in love you are.”
The corner of his mouth lifted, brief and restrained.
“They’re already writing those.”
“Fair.”
You started to turn toward your door, but his voice stopped you.
“It was true.”
You froze.
The words settled into the air between you.
Your hand tightened on your room key.
When you looked back, Steve had not moved. He was just standing there in the hallway, broad and earnest and devastatingly unguarded.
“What was?” you asked, though you knew.
His gaze stayed on yours.
“What I said.”
Your chest drew tight so fast it hurt.
You tried for lightness and missed entirely.
“Careful, Rogers. You’re going to ruin the whole fake aspect.”
He did not smile this time.
“I know you think you have to be useful all the time,” he said quietly. “But that’s not why people keep you.”
That knocked the breath out of you.
You stared at him.
He went on before you could recover.
“It’s not why I–”
A door opened somewhere down the hall.
The sound broke whatever fragile, dangerous thing had begun to take shape between you.
Steve stopped.
You looked away first.
“Good night,” you said too quickly.
He hesitated.
Then, softly, “Good night.”
You made it into your room before the shaking in your hands became obvious.
Inside, you pressed your back to the closed door and shut your eyes.
Your phone buzzed on the desk with a flood of post-show notifications you did not want to read.
All you could hear was his voice.
That’s not why people keep you.
And worse.
It’s not why I–
You did not sleep much that night.
By the sixth week, even the Tower started treating it like something real.
Sam stopped knocking before walking into shared common rooms when the two of you were there, as though he had unconsciously filed you together.
Wanda smiled at you in that quiet, knowing way of hers that made your skin heat.
Clint, traitor that he was, asked Steve in front of three other people whether he planned to bring you to the farm “as an official thing.”
Natasha, of course, looked entertained by all of it.
“You’re glowing,” she informed you one morning over coffee.
“I’m under fluorescent lighting.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
You gave her a flat look.
She stirred her tea, elegant and merciless. “You’re attached.”
“I am absolutely not.”
Natasha raised one shoulder. “Whatever helps you sleep.”
That almost made you laugh, because sleeping had become its own separate disaster.
The closer you and Steve got in public, the more impossible it became to keep the distance clean in private.
You knew the shape of his hand now.
The warmth of it.
The exact pressure of his palm at your waist when cameras clustered too tightly.
The smell of his aftershave when he leaned down near your ear to say something only you were meant to hear.
The roughness of his voice late at night after too many hours performing something neither of you could name without breaking.
You learned the signs of his fatigue.
The way his shoulders tightened before interviews.
The way he rubbed the back of his neck after long appearances.
The way his gaze always found you first in crowded rooms, as if checking that you were still there before he could breathe fully.
It should have made the lie easier.
Instead, it hollowed you out.
Because every good moment came wrapped in its own expiration date.
Because every time Steve looked at you too softly, you had to remember it was happening inside an arrangement that would end.
Because every time your fingers tangled together in public, you had to act as though your body did not notice the difference between staged affection and real wanting.
And because some part of you had started to suspect there was a difference for him too.
That suspicion became dangerous during the winter campaign shoot.
The magazine wanted holiday intimacy.
That was the phrase the creative director used, cheerful and oblivious, while explaining the concept inside a studio dressed up like a townhouse in December. There were strings of warm lights, a couch draped in wool throws, a half-decorated tree, fake snow piled against the windows, and a soundtrack of soft jazz too low to be ignored.
You stood in the middle of it all wearing a cream-colored sweater someone else had chosen for you, while Steve emerged from wardrobe in dark slacks and a charcoal henley that made the room briefly forget how to function.
The stylist fussed at your sleeves.
The photographer tested angles.
Someone adjusted the lights.
Then the shoot began.
At first, it was the usual kind of torture.
Stand closer.
Turn toward him.
Look at each other, not the camera.
Relax your shoulders.
Steve, hand at her waist.
Chin up.
Good, beautiful, hold that.
You did as instructed.
You always did.
Because Steve’s hand at your waist was warm and firm and impossible to ignore.
Because his thumb shifted once, almost unconsciously, against the knit of your sweater.
Because every time you looked up on cue, his eyes were already on you, and there was never enough acting in either of you to make that feel fake.
The photographer grew bolder as the hour went on.
Sit on the couch.
Closer.
No, closer.
Steve, arm around her shoulders.
Good.
Now look like you’re sharing a secret.
Perfect.
Now foreheads together.
You obeyed.
Your forehead touched Steve’s.
His breath feathered warm over your skin.
The room went distant around the edges.
“Beautiful,” the photographer murmured. “Now smile, both of you. Like nobody else exists.”
That was the easiest instruction of the day.
The dangerous thing was how natural it felt.
By the time the crew paused to reset for the final shots, your nerves were stretched so tight you could feel each one. Steve must have sensed it. He always did. He guided you quietly away from the center of the studio while makeup darted in to powder his jaw.
“You okay?” he asked under his breath.
You almost laughed.
“Is it too late to fake my own death?”
His mouth twitched. “Probably.”
“Shame.”
He studied your face, concern sharpening the blue of his eyes under the lights.
“We can tell them no.”
And there it was again. The offer. The open door.
The thing was, by then you no longer trusted yourself with the word yes or the word no where he was concerned. Both seemed equally dangerous.
So you did what you always did.
You made yourself manageable.
“I’m fine.”
His expression suggested exactly what he thought of that answer.
Before he could say more, the creative director clapped her hands.
“Last setup, everyone! We’re going for the money shot.”
You and Steve exchanged a glance.
Neither of you liked the sound of that.
The photographer smiled brightly when you returned to set.
“All right,” he said. “You’ve been amazing. We’ve got chemistry, softness, tension– the whole thing. Now I need one last image to anchor the story.”
Every instinct in your body sharpened.
“What kind of image?” Steve asked.
The photographer beamed.
“A kiss.”
Silence.
The studio did not stop moving exactly, but it changed. You felt it in the tiny delay before anyone else spoke. In the way makeup froze. In the way the assistant with the clipboard suddenly became very interested in not looking at either of you.
Steve answered first.
“No.”
The word came flat and immediate.
The photographer blinked. “It would be tasteful–”
“No,” Steve repeated.
The creative director stepped in, all practiced reassurance.
“It doesn’t have to be explicit. Just intimate enough to sell the cover line.”
Steve’s jaw locked.
“We didn’t agree to that.”
You could feel the eyes in the room sliding toward you, measuring, waiting to see whether this became a problem.
The old instinct kicked in before you could stop it.
Smooth it over.
Make it easy.
Don’t be difficult.
Don’t be the reason everyone has to rearrange.
“It’s okay,” you said.
Steve turned to you so fast it almost startled you.
“No, it isn’t.”
The directness of it hit hard enough to leave you flinching inwardly.
The creative director sensed weakness and pressed.
“It’s one shot,” she said. “It doesn’t even have to be a full kiss. Just enough to imply the moment.”
Steve did not take his eyes off you.
“You do not have to do this.”
The room waited.
Your pulse pounded at the base of your throat.
This was different from hand-holding.
Different from a palm at your back.
Different from resting your head on his shoulder for a camera and pretending it did not mean anything.
A kiss was a line.
A kiss would not feel fake.
Not to you.
That was exactly why you should have refused.
Instead, you heard yourself say, “We can do one.”
Steve stared at you.
The expression on his face was not anger.
It was worse.
It was the look of a man watching you step toward something sharp because you thought bleeding quietly was easier than making a scene.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
No, you thought.
Not even slightly.
But the whole room was watching.
And Steve was looking at you like he might stop the entire thing if you gave him reason.
You could not bear to be the reason.
So you gave the same doomed answer you had given in the conference room weeks before.
“Yes.”
The set seemed to exhale.
The photographer repositioned you both immediately, eager, thoughtless, triumphant.
“Perfect. By the window. Steve, turn into her. One hand here– yes, at her waist. One hand on his chest. Great. Now look at each other. Slow. Natural. Like you’ve been about to do this all day.”
You placed your hand against Steve’s chest.
The world narrowed.
His heart beat steady under your palm.
His hand settled at your waist, broader and warmer than it had any right to be.
He looked at you, not the cameras, not the crew, only you.
For one impossible second, nobody else existed.
Your breath caught.
He felt it. You knew he did.
“Tell me to stop,” he said so quietly only you could hear.
The studio blurred at the edges.
The lights became heat.
His thumb shifted once at your side, a barely-there movement that nearly undid you.
You should have told him to stop.
Instead, because you were weak where he was concerned, because you were tired, because wanting had been eating you alive for weeks and here he was close enough to ruin you with a glance, you whispered, “It’s okay.”
His expression changed.
Something in him gave way.
Not dramatically.
Not visibly to anyone but you.
Just enough.
Then he leaned in.
The first touch of his mouth against yours was meant to be brief.
You knew that.
He knew that.
It should have been an illusion.
A suggestion.
A clean, staged thing for a magazine cover.
It was not.
The second your lips met, the entire careful lie shattered.
Steve kissed you like a man trying not to. Like restraint was still there, still present, but fraying fast at the edges. It was gentle for one heartbeat, then not gentle enough. Real enough that your hand curled instinctively in the fabric at his chest. Real enough that his hold at your waist tightened without permission. Real enough that some sound went up around the set – someone inhaling, someone shifting, someone delighted by the shot – while you forgot completely how to breathe.
“Got it,” the photographer called, too far away to matter. “Beautiful. Hold–”
Steve broke the kiss as if he had been burned.
The distance between you reappeared all at once.
Your mouth parted on an unsteady breath.
His eyes were dark, stunned, fixed on yours like he no longer trusted himself to look anywhere else.
The set erupted into movement.
The crew was pleased.
Of course they were pleased.
They had their cover.
“Perfect,” somebody said.
“That was it exactly.”
“Incredible chemistry.”
You heard none of it properly.
All you heard was the blood rushing in your ears.
Steve stepped back.
“Shoot’s over,” he said, voice rougher than it had been all day.
The creative director laughed lightly. “We actually have one more option–”
“No,” he said.
Nobody argued.
Maybe it was the tone.
Maybe it was the way he looked.
Maybe everyone in the room finally realized they had pushed far enough.
The rest became a blur.
Wardrobe.
Makeup removal.
People thanking you.
A publicist telling you the cover would do numbers.
You changed clothes with shaking hands and left through a side exit because someone said it would be easier. The evening air hit cold and sharp against your overheated skin.
You had almost made it to the waiting car when Steve caught up to you.
“Wait.”
You stopped.
Not because you meant to.
Because you always stopped for him.
He stood a few feet away under the alley light, coat open, hair slightly disordered from the shoot. He looked less like Captain America than he had all day. Less composed. More dangerous.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
Then he said, “I’m sorry.”
The words landed wrong.
You stared at him.
“For what?”
“For that.”
You laughed once, hollow and disbelieving.
“The kiss?”
“Yes.”
Something sharp turned over inside your chest.
“Why?”
His jaw tightened.
“Because it wasn’t supposed to go like that.”
No, you thought. It absolutely was not.
You should have let it end there.
Should have nodded, gotten into the car, gone upstairs, preserved what little dignity remained.
Instead, because humiliation had a way of making you reckless, you asked, “And how exactly did it go?”
His eyes closed for the briefest second.
When they opened again, whatever he was trying to contain was no longer entirely under control.
“You know how it went.”
You did.
That was the problem.
You folded your arms to stop yourself reaching for him.
“Then maybe don’t apologize like it was some terrible accident.”
His gaze snapped back to yours.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?”
“You think I regret kissing you?”
He stepped closer as he said it, not enough to touch, just enough to send your pulse into chaos all over again.
The alley felt too small.
The air too thin.
“Don’t do that,” he said, voice low.
“Do what?”
“Put words in my mouth because you’re scared of your own.”
That hit so cleanly it left you angry before you even understood why.
You laughed again, brittle now.
“My own what, exactly?”
He looked at you as though he could already see the answer and did not know whether he had the right to say it first.
The waiting car idled at the curb behind you.
Somewhere down the block, traffic moved through the city as if the world had not just split open under your feet.
Then Steve said, very quietly, “Come upstairs.”
You should have refused.
You knew that even as the words settled between you.
You knew exactly what kind of precipice you were standing on.
You knew you had spent six weeks learning the shape of his mouth in almosts and near-misses and impossible restraint.
You knew you were one wrong decision from making the whole arrangement unsalvageable.
You also knew you had wanted him for so long it felt like an illness.
So you said yes.
The elevator ride to his floor was silent.
Not uncomfortable.
Worse.
The kind of silence so charged it stopped being empty and became a living thing in its own right. You stood at one side of the small space, Steve at the other, both of you facing forward like restraint still existed in any meaningful way.
The mirrored walls trapped you together.
You could still feel the kiss in your mouth.
Still feel the shape of his hand at your waist.
Still hear him asking you not to put fear into words before either of you had the courage to name what had happened.
When the doors opened, neither of you spoke. Steve led you down the corridor to his room, opened the door, and stepped aside to let you in.
You had been there before.
Never like this.
Usually it had been for something ordinary – a shared cup of coffee after missions, a conversation that ran late, helping him sort boxes of old files when he was in one of his restless moods. His room had always felt like him: spare, ordered, functional in a way that somehow still held warmth. Books stacked on the desk. Running shoes by the wall. A half-finished sketch turned facedown near the lamp.
Tonight it felt smaller.
Too full of him.
Too aware of you.
The door clicked shut behind you.
Still, neither of you moved.
Then Steve said, “I shouldn’t have let them push that far.”
You turned slowly.
His face was shadowed now without studio lights flattening it, the blue of his eyes darker in the low warmth of the room.
“You tried to stop it.”
“That wasn’t enough.”
The self-reproach in his voice did something awful to your chest.
“Steve.”
He took one step toward you.
“I knew,” he said.
Your breath caught. “Knew what?”
“That if I kissed you, I wasn’t going to be able to pretend it was just for them.”
Silence.
The room dropped out from under you.
You stared at him.
He looked almost angry saying it – not at you, never at you, but at himself for the admission. At the loss of control it implied. At the truth of wanting.
“That’s why I asked if you were sure,” he went on, quieter now. “Not because I didn’t want to. Because I did.”
Heat flashed through you so fast it hurt.
You did not realize you had moved until you were closer.
Until the space between you was narrow enough to feel dangerous again.
“Then why are you still standing over there?” you whispered.
Something in him snapped.
He crossed the distance in two strides and kissed you like he had been holding it back for weeks.
Maybe he had.
This time there were no cameras.
No set.
No audience waiting to consume the image.
Just Steve, one hand sliding into your hair, the other bracing at your waist as your body gave in before your mind caught up. You kissed him back with all the ruinous honesty you had spent weeks denying yourself. His mouth was warmer now, hungrier, and when you made a soft, broken sound against him he swallowed it like he had been wanting to hear it for a very long time.
You stumbled.
He caught you instantly.
Your hands found his shoulders, then the back of his neck, then the line of his jaw as if none of them knew how to stop touching him.
The kiss broke only because breathing became necessary.
His forehead rested against yours.
His hand trembled once at your side.
That undid you more than anything else.
“You’re shaking,” you whispered.
A humorless breath escaped him, almost a laugh.
“So are you.”
He was right.
You were.
Not from fear exactly.
From the overwhelming, destabilizing shock of finding yourself wanted back.
You lifted your head enough to look at him.
“Tell me to leave,” you said.
He looked stricken.
“No.”
“Steve.”
“If you want to go, I’ll let you go.” His voice roughened. “But I’m not going to tell you to.”
The honesty of it tore straight through you.
So you kissed him again.
Everything after that happened with the dizzy inevitability of a fall you had both been circling for too long.
Hands.
Breath.
The slow backward steps that brought you to the edge of his bed.
The way he stopped, even then, even there, to search your face with that terrible carefulness of his and ask, “Are you sure?”
You had never been less sure of anything and wanted anything more.
“Yes,” you said.
And then, because you needed him to understand, “Please.”
Whatever restraint remained in him burned down after that.
He touched you like you were both precious and dangerous.
Like he still could not quite believe you were there.
Like every careful public almost had left him starving too.
You learned what Steve sounded like when his control finally broke.
Learned how gentle and undone could exist inside the same man.
Learned the devastating contrast between the measured touch he offered the world and the reverent hunger of his hands in private.
It was not neat.
It was not polished.
It was not any of the clean fantasies people sold in magazines.
It was better.
And therefore infinitely worse.
Because you felt everything.
Every look.
Every breath.
Every quiet check-in he forced out through his own unraveling.
Every moment he paused as if he still could not bear the possibility of hurting you.
Every time he said your name like it meant more than either of you knew how to survive.
Afterward, the room went still in that strange, fragile way it only did when something irreversible had happened.
You lay tangled in warmth and sheets and exhaustion, heart still too fast, skin humming in the aftermath. Steve lay beside you on his back, one arm bent under his head, breathing slow but not entirely steady yet.
The dim light from the bedside lamp softened everything.
For one reckless, suspended stretch of time, it felt almost peaceful.
Then reality began to return in pieces.
The shoot.
The cover.
The arrangement.
The fact that the whole world already thought it knew what this was, while you had no idea how to name what had just happened.
You turned your head toward him.
Steve was already looking at the ceiling, expression unreadable in the low light.
That scared you more than if he had looked panicked.
“Say something,” you whispered.
His throat moved as he swallowed.
When he turned to face you, his eyes were full of too many things at once – tenderness, exhaustion, want, and beneath all of it something heavy and troubled.
“I shouldn’t have let this happen.”
The words hit like cold water.
You went very still.
For a second, you could not actually understand them.
Your body was still warm from him.
Your mouth still knew his.
And yet…
You sat up too fast, dragging the sheet with you.
“Okay,” you said, because there was nothing else to say if humiliation was going to kill you anyway. “Got it.”
He pushed himself upright immediately.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It kind of sounds exactly like what you meant.”
His face tightened.
“I mean I should have been more careful with you.”
There it was.
The instinct to protect.
The instinct to regret on your behalf.
The instinct to take this beautiful, terrible thing and turn it into something noble and distant so he did not have to face wanting it too much.
You climbed off the bed and started gathering your clothes from the floor with hands that only shook a little.
“Don’t,” he said, standing too.
“Don’t what?”
“Turn this into me using you.”
You laughed, low and unbelieving, pulling your sweater over your head with more force than necessary.
“That would be a lot easier to deal with, actually.”
His expression changed sharply.
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? We’re already halfway there.”
His jaw set.
“No.”
You turned to face him fully then, sweater half straightened, pride doing most of the work where emotional stability had failed.
“You know what, Steve? You don’t get to tell me what this was if you’re just going to back away from it five minutes later.”
He stared at you.
The room felt charged all over again, but now with pain instead of want.
“I’m not backing away,” he said.
A lie.
Or maybe a truth he had not realized was one yet.
You looked at him and saw the war already starting inside him.
Duty against desire.
Protection against honesty.
Fear disguised as self-control.
And because you knew something about disguising fear, you recognized it immediately.
You buttoned your jeans with unsteady fingers.
“It’s late,” you said.
He took one step forward. “Stay.”
The word nearly broke you.
Because he meant it in the moment.
Because you did not trust the morning.
Because staying now would mean watching him decide, in daylight, that distance was the kinder choice.
You shook your head.
His face fell, just slightly.
“I think,” you said carefully, each word scraping on the way out, “we’ve probably done enough damage for one night.”
Pain flashed across his features.
That at least made you feel less alone in it.
He stopped moving then, as if he had realized pushing would only make it worse.
“I’ll walk you downstairs.”
“No.”
You grabbed your coat from the chair.
“I can manage.”
The phrase sounded ugly the second it left your mouth. Too sharp. Too familiar. Useful in a different shape.
Steve heard it too.
His shoulders tensed, but he did not argue.
You reached the door with your heartbeat pounding in your ears.
Your hand touched the handle.
Then his voice stopped you one last time.
“This wasn’t nothing.”
You closed your eyes.
For one second – one weak, starving second – you nearly turned back.
But nothing was not the problem.
Something was.
Something was always the thing that ruined you.
So you opened the door.
“I know,” you said, without looking at him. “That’s what scares me.”
Then you left.
The next morning, Steve did exactly what men with too much honor and not enough emotional courage always did.
He decided distance was protection.
At first it came dressed in practical excuses.
He missed breakfast.
Then a planning meeting.
Then a charity prep session he was supposed to attend with you and sent Sam in his place instead.
His messages became sparse.
Polite.
Measured.
Running late. PR can handle today’s notes.
Mission review went long. Get some sleep.
You did well in the interview.
No jokes.
No soft check-ins.
No quiet knocks at your door with food because you forgot to eat.
The space where he had been grew teeth.
You told yourself not to overreact.
He was busy.
He was Steve.
He was probably trying to think.
Trying to be careful.
Trying to do the right thing in the stupid, destructive way that only someone fundamentally decent could manage.
It still hurt.
By the third day, everyone noticed something had changed.
Not the public. Never the public. In front of cameras, Steve remained perfect. If anything, he became more attentive, more polished, more flawlessly convincing. His hand still found your back. He still looked at you the right way when photographers called for softer expressions. He still answered interview questions with calm warmth and just enough intimacy to keep the narrative alive.
That almost made it worse.
Because the tenderness had become performance.
And maybe it had always been, you told yourself viciously.
Maybe you had simply been stupid enough to confuse professionalism with care.
Except you knew that was not true.
You knew what his care felt like when no one was watching.
You knew the difference.
That knowledge did nothing to help you.
One evening, after a radio interview where Steve had spent the entire segment sounding like a man reading from a script carved into his bones, you made it back to your room and sat on the floor instead of turning on the light.
Your phone buzzed once.
A message from PR confirming tomorrow’s schedule.
Another from Natasha.
You look terrible. What happened?
You stared at it, then locked the screen without answering.
A minute later, it lit up again.
That wasn’t an insult. Call me.
You put the phone facedown on the carpet and pressed your forehead to your knees.
In therapy, they called this spiraling.
You called it Tuesday.
Somewhere in the mess of your head, one thought kept pulsing like a bruise.
Of course he pulled away.
Of course he did.
You had taken the one thing you were supposed to keep clean and made it ugly with need.
You had mistaken a role for a possibility.
You had done what you always did – wanted too much, felt too much, trusted the wrong thing to be real.
By the end of the week, the distance no longer felt accidental.
It felt chosen.
And because pain had a cruel way of sharpening old beliefs into certainty, one sentence began to settle at the center of everything:
He had wanted you for a night.
He had not wanted what came with you after.
You hated yourself for how quickly you believed it.
You hated him a little for giving the fear somewhere to live.
And the worst part – the part that hollowed you out most completely – was that even then, even hurting, even humiliated, even watching him step back in the name of protecting you, you still loved him enough to let him.
By the time it happened, you were already unraveling.
Not publicly.
Publicly, you were lovely.
Publicly, you smiled with the right amount of softness and let Steve’s hand settle at your back as if it did not burn.
Publicly, you tilted your head during interviews and laughed at the right cues and answered questions in careful, practiced fragments that gave away nothing except what PR wanted.
Publicly, the two of you remained immaculate.
Privately, you were coming apart so quietly that nobody noticed at first.
Or maybe they did, and they assumed you would handle it the way you handled everything else: silently, efficiently, in a way that inconvenienced no one.
Steve’s distance did not arrive all at once.
That would have been easier.
If he had turned cold, you could have hated him.
If he had looked ashamed, you could have armored yourself against it.
If he had said plainly this was a mistake, at least the wound would have had a clean edge.
Instead, he stayed kind.
That was the cruelty of it.
He stayed attentive in public because the role required it.
He stayed polite in private because he was Steve.
He never gave you anything ugly enough to fight, only absence in measured doses.
He knocked less.
He lingered less.
He stopped finding reasons to appear at your door.
His messages became practical, his presence carefully rationed, his concern folded away so neatly it almost looked like respect.
The space where he had been began to echo.
You told yourself it was fine.
Then you stopped sleeping.
Not completely. Not in some dramatic, sleepless collapse. Just enough to wear you down slowly. You drifted off in broken pieces, woke with your pulse already high, lay staring at the ceiling while the Tower breathed around you. Every night your mind picked through the same scraps with obsessive precision: the kiss on set, the night in his room, the softness afterward, the shift, the distance, the way he still looked at you sometimes as if he felt it too and then stepped back before either of you could drown in it.
You started missing breakfast.
Then lunch.
Then meals altogether unless somebody physically put food in front of you and stayed long enough to make not eating embarrassing.
Natasha noticed.
Of course she noticed.
She cornered you in the gym one afternoon while you were pretending to stretch after a workout you had barely completed.
“You look like hell,” she said.
You sat back on the mat and wiped your forehead with the back of your wrist.
“Your concern is overwhelming.”
“I’m serious.”
“I can tell. You’re using your murder voice.”
Natasha did not smile.
You looked away first.
That was answer enough, apparently, because her expression sharpened.
“Did he do something?”
You laughed once, brittle and tired.
“No. That’s the problem.”
Natasha was silent for a beat.
Then, in a tone flatter than usual, “He pulled away.”
You picked at a loose thread near the hem of your sleeve.
“I’m fine.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
You let out a thin breath. “I noticed.”
“I know.”
You hated how gentle those two words sounded coming from her. Natasha was not supposed to sound gentle. It felt unfair, almost invasive.
You got to your feet before she could say anything worse.
“I have a meeting.”
She reached out and caught your wrist.
Not hard.
Just enough.
When you looked at her, she was watching you with the cool, unblinking focus she usually reserved for threats.
“He’s an idiot,” she said.
Something ugly and aching flickered through you.
“Please don’t,” you said quietly.
Her grip loosened at once.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make me feel like I get to be angry.”
Understanding moved across her face.
That was worse than pity would have been.
You slipped free and walked out before she could stop you.
The conversation about Peggy happened three days later.
You had not meant to overhear it.
The Tower was full of overheard things. Half the building was glass and open space and voices carrying from one room to another when people assumed they were alone.
You had been on your way back from a meeting with PR – a useless hour spent discussing “public tone consistency” for an upcoming feature – when you realized you had left your notebook in one of the smaller conference rooms. You doubled back through a quieter corridor, heels silent against the polished floor, grateful for the temporary absence of cameras, stylists, handlers, any person whose job depended on reminding you how convincingly in love you appeared.
Voices drifted from the partially open lounge ahead.
Steve’s was unmistakable.
You slowed before you could stop yourself.
He was not alone.
Sam, maybe. Or Bucky. You could not tell immediately. The second voice came lower, blurred by the angle.
You should have kept walking.
You knew that.
You knew exactly what kind of person listened at doors, and you had always hated becoming that person.
Then Steve said Peggy’s name.
And you stopped.
Not because Peggy mattered in some abstract historical sense.
Not because you were jealous of a dead woman or a lost life or the shape of grief in him you had no right to resent.
You stopped because the name already lived inside every insecurity you had where Steve was concerned.
Because Peggy Carter had become, over time, less a woman and more a legend.
A standard.
A ghost made of grace and certainty and conviction.
You stood very still.
Through the gap in the door, you could see only part of the room. The corner of a sofa. The edge of Steve’s shoulder. One of his hands wrapped around a coffee mug.
Sam’s voice came first, clearer this time.
“You keep comparing everything to the life you didn’t get.”
A pause.
Then Steve, quiet, tired, honest in the way people only were when they forgot anyone else might hear:
“It’s not about comparison.”
“Then what is it about?”
Longer silence.
When Steve answered, something in his voice made your chest tighten before the words even landed.
“She knew who she was.”
You stopped breathing.
Sam said something you did not catch.
Steve continued anyway.
“Peggy… she wasn’t uncertain. She wasn’t always happy, but she was steady. She knew what she was worth. She didn’t make herself smaller to fit whatever somebody needed from her.”
The corridor tilted.
You stood frozen where you were, notebook forgotten, pulse suddenly loud enough to drown out the blood rushing in your ears.
He did not say your name.
That should have mattered.
It did not.
Because your name was there anyway, in every omission.
Not uncertain.
Not always happy, but steady.
Knew what she was worth.
Didn’t make herself smaller to fit whatever somebody needed from her.
The words laid themselves over you with surgical precision, each one finding exactly the bruise it needed.
You did not wait to hear more.
Maybe he said something after that which might have softened it.
Maybe Sam argued.
Maybe Steve would have explained, clarified, denied.
None of that mattered by then.
You turned and walked away before your body remembered how.
The corridor blurred at the edges.
The bright overhead lights became too sharp.
You kept walking because stopping would have meant feeling the hit in full, and you did not have the luxury of collapsing in the middle of Avengers Tower.
By the time you reached your room, your hands were shaking hard enough that it took three tries to unlock the door.
Once inside, you closed it quietly.
That part, at least, remained instinctive.
Never make a scene.
Never let the damage sound as bad as it feels.
You stood in the middle of the room for a full minute doing absolutely nothing.
Then you laughed.
A horrible sound.
Small and cracked and unbelieving.
Of course.
Of course that was what it came down to.
Not cruelty. Never cruelty. Steve did not do cruelty.
Just clarity.
Peggy had been certainty.
Peggy had been value without negotiation.
Peggy had been someone who knew her own shape in the world and never apologized for occupying it.
And you…
You were a mess.
A tangle of coping mechanisms and usefulness and weekly therapy appointments.
A person who still measured her place in every room by whether she was helping.
A person who had slept with him because wanting had outweighed sense and then been surprised when he tried to put distance back between you like he could save you from the mess of yourself.
You sank onto the edge of the bed and pressed both hands over your mouth.
Something was wrong with your breathing.
In for four.
Hold.
Out for six.
You tried.
It did not work.
Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.
You looked at it without seeing.
Another buzz.
Then another.
PR, maybe.
Natasha.
A scheduling assistant.
You could not imagine answering anybody ever again.
At some point you realized you were crying only because your vision had gone watery and your throat hurt. It did not feel dramatic. It did not feel cleansing. It just felt humiliatingly physical, like your body had decided to betray you in one more boring, inconvenient way.
You did not know how long you stayed like that.
Eventually the crying stopped on its own, leaving behind a cottony, numb exhaustion.
Then the practical part of you – the one that took over when emotion became unmanageable – rose up and began issuing instructions.
Leave.
Before he knocks.
Before someone notices.
Before you hear one more carefully kind thing that makes this worse.
Leave before you start begging for dignity from people who never promised to protect it.
You stood.
Your room felt unreal, as if it already belonged to someone else.
You pulled a duffel bag from the closet and packed without much thought. Jeans. Sweaters. Medication. Charger. Toothbrush. A book you did not expect to read. Underwear shoved in carelessly. A hoodie that you wore all the time because it was the softest thing you owned.
Halfway through, you had to sit down again because your hands would not stop trembling.
You stared at the open bag on the bed and thought, with detached clarity, this is ridiculous.
Then, equally clearly: staying would be worse.
There was only one place you could go.
One person who would open the door without asking too many questions first.
Maya.
Your oldest friend.
Possibly your only real one.
Not part of the Tower.
Not impressed by the Avengers.
Not interested in your talent for minimizing your own suffering until it became untenable.
You typed with stiff fingers.
Can I come over?
The reply came almost immediately.
Yes. What happened?
You looked at the words for several seconds.
Then you typed.
I just need air.
The three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Come.
That was all.
You stared at the message until your vision blurred.
Then you opened a new thread.
Steve’s.
For one full minute, you did nothing.
What could you even say?
I heard you.
You were right.
Thank you for finally confirming every awful thing I already thought.
In the end, you wrote the only version you could survive sending.
I need some air. Don’t worry. I’ll be gone a few days.
Too short.
Too formal.
Wrong in your mouth.
You knew it the second you looked at it.
It did not sound like you.
It sounded like someone trying very hard not to bleed on the screen.
All the more reason to send it quickly before you lost your nerve.
You hit send.
The reply came before you had even zipped the bag.
What happened?
Then, immediately after.
Where are you going?
And then.
Are you safe?
You put the phone face down on the bed.
The screen lit up again.
Then again.
You turned it to silent.
Not off.
Just silent.
Enough distance to breathe.
Enough cruelty to count as temporary.
When you finally left your room, the hallway outside was empty.
Good.
You took the stairs instead of the elevator.
You did not want to risk running into anyone.
Did not want Steve stepping out of some corridor at the exact wrong second and looking at you with all that impossible concern while you still had enough self-control left to keep moving.
By the time you reached the garage level, your chest hurt from holding yourself together.
You drove with the radio off.
Halfway across the city, Steve called.
Your phone lit up on the passenger seat with his name bright across the screen.
You stared at it until it stopped.
Then it started again.
You turned the screen over.
You did not answer.
Maya opened the door before you knocked twice.
She took one look at your face and stepped aside immediately.
“Shoes off,” she said. “Then you tell me whether I need wine, tea, or a shovel.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it – small, wrecked, entirely without humor.
“Tea,” you managed.
“Coward.”
Her apartment smelled like laundry detergent and basil and the candle she always forgot she had lit. Safe, in the plainest possible way. Human-sized. No reinforced glass. No PR handlers. No godlike beings or soldiers or spies pretending they understood normal life.
You set your bag down just inside the hall.
Maya did not hug you.
You loved her for that.
She had known you long enough to understand that touching was dangerous when you were holding yourself together by threads. So she just tilted her head toward the kitchen and said, “Sit.”
You sat.
She filled the kettle.
Got mugs down.
Moved around the kitchen with brisk, competent ease while pretending not to watch you too closely.
Only when the tea was steeping did she lean against the counter and fold her arms.
“All right,” she said. “Talk.”
You stared at the table.
“I left.”
“I can see that.”
A weak breath that might have been a laugh left you.
“Steve said something.”
Her expression changed very slightly.
Not surprise.
Not yet.
Just attention narrowing.
“You want to be more specific before I decide whether to stab him?”
You swallowed.
“It wasn’t even to me.”
That made her go still.
You looked up long enough to catch the sharpened line of her mouth before dropping your gaze again.
“I overheard him talking about Peggy.”
Maya did not interrupt.
You wrapped both hands around the mug she slid toward you, though it was too hot to hold properly.
“He said she… had no doubts,” you said quietly. “About her place, her role, her worth. That she didn’t change herself to fit whatever somebody needed from her.”
Maya’s face hardened by degrees.
“And?”
You laughed once, harsh and unsteady.
“And that’s it.”
“No, sweetheart,” she said, voice suddenly very flat. “That isn’t it. What did you hear?”
You shut your eyes.
The question hurt because it was too accurate.
What had he said?
And what had you heard?
Not the same thing.
Probably.
Maybe.
But what you had heard lodged under your skin all the same.
“I heard that he sees exactly what’s wrong with me,” you whispered.
The kitchen went silent.
When you opened your eyes, Maya was already moving. She crossed the room, pulled out the chair opposite you, and sat down hard enough to make the table tremble slightly.
“Listen to me very carefully,” she said.
You flinched.
“No.” Her voice softened by half a degree, but only half. “You don’t get to disappear into your own worst thoughts while I’m sitting here.”
Tears burned unexpectedly behind your eyes.
You looked down at the tea.
Maya leaned forward.
“You are exhausted,” she said. “You are hurt. And from what I’m hearing, he said something thoughtless and devastating in exactly the way decent men often do when they’re busy being emotionally incompetent. But none of that means what your brain is currently trying to make it mean.”
You laughed bitterly.
“You don’t know what my brain is making it mean.”
She held your gaze.
“I know you.”
That did it.
Your composure fractured all at once.
You cried harder than you had in your room, harder than in the car, harder than felt remotely fair. It was ugly and humiliating and exhausting, and Maya did not interrupt it with comfort so much as presence. She stayed there. She passed you tissues. She pushed the sugar bowl toward you when your tea went cold and you forgot it existed. She did not say it’s okay because it very obviously was not.
When the worst of it passed, she asked, “Have you eaten?”
You wiped your face and lied instinctively.
“Yes.”
She stared at you.
You lasted maybe two seconds.
“No.”
“Of course not.”
She stood, opened the fridge, and began pulling things out with the grim determination of someone preparing for battle.
“I’m not hungry.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Maya.”
She glanced over one shoulder, unimpressed.
“You can either eat soup like a wounded Victorian heroine or I can call your super-soldier and let him hear for himself how bad you sound. Pick one.”
You stared at her.
“That’s emotional blackmail.”
“Yes.”
You hated that she knew exactly how to manage you.
You ate half a bowl because arguing took more energy than lifting a spoon.
Then she made you shower.
Then she handed you one of her oldest T-shirts and pointed at the couch like a drill sergeant.
You curled under a blanket while she moved around the apartment dimming lights.
Your phone stayed face down on the coffee table where you had dropped it.
It buzzed once.
Twice.
Three times.
You did not look.
Maya did.
Not at the screen, but at the sound.
“You going to answer any of those?”
“No.”
“Fine.”
She sat in the armchair opposite the couch and opened her laptop.
You frowned through exhaustion. “What are you doing?”
“Working.”
“At eleven at night?”
“I’m rage-organizing my inbox so I don’t go to Avengers Tower tonight and commit a felony.”
A laugh escaped you despite everything.
Maya looked up briefly.
“There she is.”
You hated how that almost made you cry again.
The next morning you woke disoriented, damp with sweat, neck aching from the couch, heart already racing.
For one beautiful second you did not remember where you were.
Then everything came back at once.
Steve.
Peggy.
The message.
The leaving.
You turned onto your side and saw your phone on the coffee table, still dark, still face down.
You did not reach for it.
Maya emerged from the bedroom tying her hair up, took one look at your face, and said, “Toast first. Existential collapse second.”
You obeyed because arguing required more structural integrity than you currently possessed.
The day passed strangely.
Not quickly.
Not slowly.
Just sideways.
You dozed in brief, useless stretches.
Drank tea.
Managed half a piece of toast and then felt sick for an hour.
Stared at the ceiling.
Tried not to think.
Failed.
Repeated.
Your phone remained silent only because you had forced it to be.
At one point, while Maya showered, you picked it up.
Twenty-three messages.
Four missed calls from Steve.
Two from Natasha.
One from Sam.
One from an unknown Tower extension.
A string of increasingly irritated texts from PR asking whether you were still attending tomorrow’s editorial planning session.
You stared at Steve’s name until it blurred.
The most recent message read Please answer.
The one before that.
Your message doesn’t sound like you.
And before that.
Just tell me you’re okay.
You locked the phone again.
You did not respond.
Not because you wanted him to suffer.
Not because this was punishment.
Because if you heard his voice right then – if he sounded worried, or guilty, or gentle – you would cave.
And you could not survive caving unless he had something different to offer this time.
By day three, your body began protesting in ways your mind had not anticipated.
Your hands shook more.
Your stomach lurched at the thought of food.
You could not seem to get warm even under two blankets.
When you did sleep, it was shallow and full of dreams that left you more tired than before.
Maya watched all of this with increasing concern and decreasing patience.
On the fourth evening, she stood in the kitchen doorway with one hand on her hip and said, “You are not fine.”
“Never claimed to be.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She stared at you for a long moment.
Then she asked, “What exactly are you waiting for?”
You blinked at her from the couch.
“What?”
“You left. Fair. You needed space. Also fair. But now you’re hiding from your phone like it’s venomous, living on tea and dry cereal, and looking like you might float away if somebody opens a window. So what are you waiting for?”
The question hit harder than you expected.
You looked down at the blanket tangled around your legs.
“I don’t know,” you admitted.
Maya’s expression softened, which somehow made things worse.
“Yes, you do.”
You swallowed.
The answer surfaced before you could stop it.
“For it not to hurt this much.”
Silence.
Then Maya crossed the room and sat beside you on the couch.
“Oh, honey.”
Two words.
Soft.
Ruined.
You pressed a hand over your eyes.
“I know how pathetic this is.”
“It isn’t pathetic.”
“It kind of is.”
“It really isn’t.”
You let your hand fall.
“He doesn’t owe me anything.”
Maya’s jaw tightened. “That sentence needs to be outlawed.”
You almost smiled.
Almost.
“You slept with him,” she said plainly, because she was not one for euphemism.
Heat flashed across your face.
You stared at her.
She held up one hand. “You look terrible, you vanished from the tower, and you ended up crying in my kitchen over Steve Rogers. I put basic emotional math together.”
A helpless laugh escaped you. Horrified. Thin. Real.
Maya nodded once, satisfied.
“Right. Thought so.”
You slumped deeper into the cushions.
“It made everything worse.”
“I’m sure it also made everything clearer.”
You laughed again, then scrubbed a hand over your face.
“He pulled away after.”
Maya’s expression went dangerously blank.
“How much after?”
You looked away.
“Immediately, mostly.”
She inhaled slowly through her nose.
“Good,” she said in a tone that suggested the opposite. “That narrows down what kind of conversation I’m going to have with him when I see him.”
Panic cut through the fog in your head.
“No.”
Maya turned toward you.
“No?”
“Do not go near him.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
You sat up too fast and immediately regretted it when the room tilted.
“Maya.”
She looked you over once, taking in the dizziness, the hollow face, the hands gripping the blanket.
Then she said, very quietly, “He did this.”
You shook your head.
“No. I did this. I heard one thing and turned it into proof of every awful thing I already think about myself, and then I ran away like a child.”
She held your gaze.
“And what did he do?”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Said nothing.
Exactly.
Maya stood.
You watched unease move through her like intention.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting my shoes.”
Your stomach dropped.
“Maya.”
She was already in the hallway.
“Stay here,” she called back.
You stared after her in disbelief.
Then, because you were too depleted to physically stop her and too horrified to do anything else, you grabbed your phone.
For a second your thumb hovered over Steve’s name.
Call him?
Warn him?
Text him?
Tell him Maya was coming like some kind of avenging force in orthopedic sneakers?
Instead, because your pride remained stupidly alive even under emotional collapse, you locked the screen again and let your hand fall into your lap.
You did not move.
The apartment felt too quiet without her.
Outside, the late afternoon sky darkened toward evening.
Your phone stayed silent.
Then vibrated once with a message from Maya.
If you throw up from stress while I’m gone, aim for the bathroom and not my couch.
A strangled laugh caught in your throat.
You pressed the phone to your forehead and closed your eyes.
By then you were too tired even for panic.
All that remained was the raw, exhausted ache of missing Steve while trying desperately to protect yourself from the version of him that only knew how to love by stepping back.
You curled deeper into the blanket and waited for whatever came next.
And somewhere beneath the hurt, beneath the humiliation, beneath the anger you still refused to let yourself feel fully, one truth stayed lodged like a splinter.
You had left because you needed air.
But the worst part of being away was realizing how much of your breathing had started to depend on him.
By the fifth day, Steve stopped pretending he was not afraid.
At first, he told himself he was giving you space.
That was what decent people did, wasn’t it? If someone said they needed air, you did not crowd them. If someone pulled away, you did not make their distress about your own need to fix it. You respected the boundary. You waited. You trusted that if they wanted you near, they would say so.
It would have been a noble thought if it had not curdled into something uglier with each unanswered message.
Because your message had been wrong.
Not only brief. Not only distant.
Wrong.
The words themselves had been polite enough.
I need some air. Don’t worry. I’ll be gone a few days.
Anyone else might have accepted them at face value. A request for space. A neat explanation. A person setting a temporary boundary with no drama attached.
But Steve knew you.
Or at least, he knew enough.
He knew that when you were really fine, you hid it badly.
He knew your humor always surfaced, even thin and brittle, when you were trying to soften a hard conversation.
He knew you overexplained when you were nervous and apologized when you had no reason to.
He knew you did not send cold little messages that read like they had been drafted by a stranger.
He also knew exactly what had happened before you disappeared.
He knew he had let fear disguise itself as restraint.
Knew he had slept with you and then built distance with his own hands because some part of him had decided professionalism, control, and caution were a kind of protection.
Knew he had watched your face sharpen and dim over the days that followed and still told himself he was doing the right thing.
By day two, he stopped sleeping properly.
By day three, everyone else noticed.
Natasha cornered him on the fifth day in the kitchen at six in the morning while he stood over a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold.
“You look terrible,” she observed.
Steve did not look up.
“That makes two of us.”
“No,” she said. “It makes one of us with a conscience and one of us with terrible judgment.”
That pulled his eyes to hers.
Natasha leaned one hip against the counter, arms folded.
“She still isn’t answering.”
It was not a question.
“No.”
“Have you tracked her phone?”
Steve’s jaw tightened.
“No.”
One of Natasha’s eyebrows lifted.
“You could.”
“I know.”
“And?”
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
“And she said she needed space.”
Natasha stared at him for a long moment, then said, very flatly, “You’re an idiot.”
Something dark flickered under his ribs.
“I know that too.”
To his surprise, Natasha did not look satisfied.
If anything, she looked angrier.
“That isn’t enough.”
Steve straightened slightly.
“What do you want me to say?”
She pushed off the counter.
“I want you to stop acting like this is about good manners.”
He said nothing.
Natasha’s gaze sharpened.
“She left after you slept with her.”
The directness of it hit like a strike to the chest even though he deserved it.
Steve’s mouth hardened. “Nat–”
“No. You don’t get to flinch. You don’t get to be embarrassed by a fact you helped create.”
He looked away first.
The kitchen felt too small.
Too bright.
Too full of the exact kind of clarity he had spent days avoiding.
Natasha stepped closer.
“You did the thing you always do,” she said. “You decided what was best for someone else without asking whether they wanted your version of safety.”
Steve’s fingers tightened around the coffee mug.
“I wasn’t trying to hurt her.”
Natasha’s expression did not change.
“That has never stopped anyone.”
The silence that followed settled heavy and unavoidable.
Steve stared past her toward the window where dawn was just beginning to stain the city grey-blue.
He heard again the soft, stunned sound you had made when he kissed you for real.
He saw your face the morning after when he had reached for control instead of honesty.
He heard his own voice saying I shouldn’t have let this happen and understood, all over again, exactly how cruel that must have sounded from where you stood.
Not regret for wanting you.
Not regret for the night.
Just the coward’s instinct to frame tenderness as a mistake if it threatened to become too real.
He scrubbed a hand over his face.
“I thought…” He stopped.
Natasha waited.
Steve tried again.
“I thought if I stepped back, if I gave her room, if I put some distance in before this got worse–”
Natasha let out a short, humorless laugh.
“Before it got worse for who?”
He looked at her.
There it was.
The center of it.
The part he had not let himself say cleanly because saying it would mean admitting how badly he had misjudged everything.
“For her,” he said, though even to his own ears it sounded weak now.
Natasha’s voice went colder.
“You mean for you.”
He flinched.
Because yes.
Partly yes.
Because if he stayed close after that night, then he would have to admit it had not been a lapse. That wanting you had not begun with the kiss on set. That it had been building, quietly and relentlessly, through every interview and every crowded gala and every moment he found his hand at your back without thinking. He would have to admit that his feelings were no longer containable inside the tidy little fiction PR had handed them.
And if he admitted that, then he would have to face the possibility of hurting you in a deeper, more permanent way. Not with one night. Not with one mistake. With everything that came after.
So he had done what he always did when fear dressed itself up like principle.
He had retreated.
Natasha watched realization move across his face and said, softer now but no less brutal, “Congratulations. You protected her straight into disappearing.”
Before Steve could answer, footsteps sounded in the hall.
A woman strode into the kitchen without waiting to be invited.
Steve had never met her before, but he recognized fury when he saw it.
She was not tall, not physically intimidating, not armed in any obvious way, and still the room changed around her as if a live charge had entered it. Dark hair shoved into a loose knot, coat half-buttoned, eyes bright with the kind of anger that had already passed through fear and come out sharp on the other side.
Natasha went very still.
The woman looked directly at Steve.
“Good,” she said. “You’re here.”
Steve set the mug down.
“Who are you?”
Her laugh contained absolutely no humor.
“I’m the one who had to watch her stop eating in my apartment because apparently no one in this building knows how to tell the difference between noble self-sacrifice and emotional stupidity.”
Every muscle in Steve’s body locked.
Natasha said nothing.
She did not need to.
Her silence confirmed enough.
Steve took one step forward. “Is she okay?”
The woman’s face hardened further.
“No,” she said. “She’s not okay.”
The words landed with frightening precision.
Steve felt them everywhere.
“What happened?”
The woman stared at him as if the question itself insulted her.
“You happened.”
That should not have hit as hard as it did.
It did.
He swallowed.
“I need you to tell me where she is.”
“No.”
Steve went still.
The woman folded her arms.
“You don’t get her location because you finally decided to panic. That’s not how this works.”
Her voice shook slightly under the anger now, just enough to betray how worried she really was.
Steve forced himself not to push.
Not to demand.
Not to become one more person deciding things around you.
“Please,” he said.
She looked at him for a long moment.
Then she came closer, stopping just short of his personal space as if she wanted him to feel every word clearly.
“You want to know what this week looked like?” she asked. “Fine. She barely slept. She picked at food like swallowing offended her. She sat on my couch staring at a phone she refused to answer because she was terrified that if she heard your voice sounding kind, she’d break all over again.”
Steve could not seem to draw enough air.
The woman went on, merciless.
“She heard you talking about Peggy.”
His chest tightened.
Every nerve in him sharpened instantly.
Oh.
Oh, God.
He closed his eyes for half a second.
When he opened them, she was still there, watching him realize it.
“You didn’t say her name,” the woman said. “Apparently you didn’t have to.”
Steve felt sick.
Sam.
The lounge.
That conversation.
He remembered it clearly now – too clearly. The context. The grief. The self-recrimination. The way he had been trying to explain to Sam that Peggy had possessed a certainty about herself he admired, not because he wanted someone else to match it, but because he feared what his life did to the people he cared about. Feared what it might grind down in them.
And you had heard the worst possible fragment.
Heard it through the wound he had already helped carve open.
The woman’s gaze did not soften.
“She heard exactly what her worst thoughts needed. And since you’d already spent days pulling away from her after sleeping with her, you can imagine how well that went.”
Natasha muttered something in Russian under her breath.
Steve barely heard her.
The woman tipped her head.
“You know what gets me?” she said. “She still defends you.”
His throat worked uselessly.
“She kept saying you weren’t cruel. That you were trying. That maybe she’d heard it wrong. That maybe she was being unfair. While she was shaking so badly she could barely hold a mug.”
The image struck so hard it was almost physical.
Steve gripped the back of a chair to steady himself.
The woman’s voice dropped.
“So here’s what’s going to happen. You are going to stop congratulating yourself for being careful. You are going to stop telling yourself distance is noble when all it’s done is let her believe every terrible thing she already thinks about herself. And if you go near her again, you’d better do it with the intention of being honest for once.”
The kitchen went silent.
Steve looked at her.
“What’s your name?”
A beat passed.
“Maya.”
He nodded once.
“Maya.”
His own voice sounded rough to his ears.
“Thank you.”
Something in her expression shifted – not warmth, exactly, but a reduced desire to set him on fire.
She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a scrap of paper, and set it on the counter between them.
An address.
“She won’t answer if I warn her first,” Maya said. “So I’m not warning her. That’s the only reason you’re getting this.”
Steve stared at the paper.
“You’re sure?”
“No,” Maya snapped. “I’m furious. Different thing.”
He nodded again.
Fair.
As he reached for the address, Maya caught his wrist.
He looked up.
Her eyes had gone sharp enough to cut.
“If you make this about whether you deserve forgiveness,” she said, “I swear to God, Rogers, I will throw you down my building’s stairs myself.”
A strange, hollow breath escaped him.
Not laughter.
Too close to it.
“I won’t.”
Maya let go. She turned towards him before leaving.
“See that you don’t.”
He did not tell anyone he was leaving.
He did not call ahead.
Did not text.
Did not give himself enough time to rehearse explanations into something cleaner than the truth.
The drive across the city felt too slow no matter how fast traffic moved.
At red lights, his mind replayed the week in brutal fragments.
Your unanswered messages.
The clipped little text that had not sounded like you.
Natasha calling him an idiot.
Maya saying you had stopped eating.
The realization that the last thing he had given you before you vanished was distance layered over tenderness, confusion dressed up as protection.
And under all of it, the oldest, ugliest recognition of all.
He had treated your pain like a thing to manage rather than a thing to witness with you.
That had always been his flaw when fear got involved.
He moved too quickly into action, into shielding, into absorbing impact alone. He trusted strategy over vulnerability because strategy felt safer. Cleaner. Contained.
But you were not a battlefield problem.
You were not damage control.
You were not a thing to spare from afar.
You were someone he loved.
The thought arrived fully formed and devastatingly late.
Not in the vague, careful way he had let himself approach it before.
Not in coded concern or noble restraint.
Just the truth, plain and irreversible.
He loved you.
He had loved you in pieces for longer than he had admitted.
In every cup of tea left outside your door.
In every moment his eyes found you first in a room.
In every quiet fury when someone made you feel lesser than you were.
In the way he learned your fragile places without ever wanting to use them against you.
In the way your hurt had become unbearable to witness long before he understood why.
And then, because love in him had always come braided to fear, he had tried to keep the feeling from doing damage by forcing it into silence.
He parked badly.
He did not care.
The apartment building was ordinary in the best possible way. Brick. Narrow steps. Buzzers. Potted plants in two front windows. The kind of place no one would ever photograph because it belonged to real life rather than narrative.
He climbed the stairs two at a time and stopped outside the right door with his heart pounding hard enough to make him feel nineteen again and much less brave.
He knocked.
Nothing.
He knocked again, gentler this time.
Footsteps approached.
Paused.
Then the lock turned.
The door opened three inches.
Maya looked at him through the gap.
Her expression made it clear she had not become any less angry in the last hour.
“She’s asleep,” she said.
Steve exhaled, relief and dread colliding in equal measure.
“Is she–”
“Barely, for once.”
Maya considered him for a second, then opened the door wider.
“You get five minutes before I decide you’re raising her cortisol.”
He nodded and stepped inside.
The apartment smelled like tea and laundry soap and something simmered earlier for dinner. Small. Warm. Lived in. There was a blanket draped over the back of the couch, a mug on the coffee table, a pair of socks abandoned near the radiator.
And there you were.
Curled on the couch beneath a grey blanket, turned toward the back cushions, one hand tucked near your face. Even asleep, you looked worn thin. Your skin had that drawn, fragile pallor of someone running on too little rest and less food. There were shadows under your eyes, your breathing shallow even now, as if your body had not remembered how to fully unclench.
Steve stopped a few feet away.
The sight of you knocked something out of him.
He had been worried.
He had imagined this.
But imagination had not done justice to the small, devastating truth of it.
You looked breakable.
Maya came to stand beside him.
“She kept saying she just needed a few days,” she said quietly, the anger in her voice banked now into exhaustion. “Like this was a normal amount of hurt to carry around.”
Steve could not answer.
Maya crossed her arms.
“She loved that you were careful with her,” she said. “Do you understand that? It made her trust you. So when you started disappearing in all the little ways that don’t leave evidence, she didn’t know what to do with it except blame herself.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, his gaze found you again.
“I know,” he said.
“No,” Maya replied. “You know now.”
Fair.
Again.
You stirred before he could say more.
A small shift under the blanket.
A breath catching.
Your eyes opening slowly in the unfamiliar confusion of bad sleep.
For one suspended second, you just looked dazed.
Then you saw him.
Every trace of softness vanished from your face.
You pushed yourself upright too quickly, blanket sliding into your lap, and immediately had to brace one hand on the couch arm when the movement made you dizzy.
Maya swore under her breath.
Steve stepped forward instinctively.
You recoiled before he could reach you.
The movement was small.
It still nearly stopped his heart.
Your voice came out rough from sleep and disuse.
“What is he doing here?”
Maya answered before he could.
“Being threatened, mostly.”
You looked from her to Steve and back again.
Somewhere under the fatigue, embarrassment flickered across your face.
“Maya.”
“What?” she said. “You were refusing to answer your phone and starting to look haunted.”
“I told you I needed–”
“Air,” Maya cut in. “Yes. I know. You’ve had plenty. Apparently oxygen does not fix men.”
Despite everything, something dangerously close to a laugh tugged at Steve’s throat. He swallowed it before it could become disrespect.
You dragged a hand over your face.
Your eyes would not stay on his for long.
That hurt more than anger would have.
“Maya,” you said again, quieter now.
She sighed.
“I’m making tea,” she announced to no one in particular. “And if either of you says anything catastrophically stupid while I’m in the kitchen, I will come back with a weapon.”
Then she walked away, leaving behind a silence so immediate it almost rang.
Steve stood near the edge of the living room.
You remained curled into the corner of the couch like it was the only shape keeping you together.
For a moment neither of you moved.
Then Steve said, “I’m sorry.”
You laughed.
It was not a kind sound.
“Of course you are.”
He felt that land.
Accepted it.
“I mean it.”
Your gaze flicked to his face and away again.
“That’s sort of the problem with you, Steve. You usually do.”
He took a slow breath.
“I know.”
You stared at the blanket in your lap, fingers twisting in the fabric.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“I should have been here sooner.”
That made you look at him.
Really look.
There was no defense left in his face.
No polished restraint.
No distance disguised as gentleness.
Just a man who had understood too late what his caution had cost.
He took one step closer.
“Maya told me about this week.”
Something shuttered in your expression.
“Great,” you said. “Glad everybody’s comparing notes.”
“I’m not here to make you explain.”
“Then why are you here?”
Because I love you, he thought.
Because leaving you alone with the version of me that lived in your head has become unbearable.
Because I finally understand that what I called protection was just fear with better manners.
What he said was, “Because I hurt you.”
You went very still.
The room from the kitchen hummed faintly with the sound of the kettle filling.
A cabinet opening.
Maya giving you both the illusion of privacy while remaining close enough to intervene if needed.
You looked down again.
“Yes,” you said.
No accusation.
No drama.
Just a fact.
It hit harder than anything else could have.
Steve nodded once.
“Yes,” he echoed, because trying to soften it would have been an insult.
He moved closer to the couch, slowly enough to give you time to stop him.
You did not.
But you tensed.
That, too, he accepted.
“When I said I shouldn’t have let it happen,” he said carefully, “I wasn’t regretting you.”
Your throat moved as you swallowed.
You still did not look at him.
He continued anyway.
“I was afraid of what happened after.”
A bitter little smile touched your mouth and vanished.
“So you decided that part for both of us.”
“Yes.”
The honesty of the answer made your eyes lift, startled.
Steve held your gaze.
“Yes,” he said again. “I did. And I was wrong.”
Silence.
The words seemed to settle somewhere between you, too fragile to trust at first.
You drew the blanket tighter around yourself.
“You pulled away.”
“I know.”
“And then you still asked me to stay.”
His chest tightened.
He could still hear his own voice from that night, raw and wanting.
Stay.
And then the morning after, when he had started measuring distance like virtue.
“I know,” he repeated.
Your voice sharpened for the first time.
“Do you?”
He let the hurt in that question hit cleanly before answering.
“I do now.”
The anger did not flare. It wavered.
Your exhaustion was too deep for anything dramatic.
That somehow made every word heavier.
You looked away toward the kitchen, toward the safe shape of Maya moving in the next room.
Then, so quietly he almost missed it, “I thought I’d made it ugly.”
Steve felt his entire body go still.
You kept talking, eyes fixed somewhere beyond him.
“I thought maybe that night had just…” You stopped, pressed your lips together, began again. “I thought maybe you wanted me until I became real again after.”
The sentence nearly undid him.
He crossed the last of the distance to the couch and crouched in front of you before he could think better of it. Low enough not to tower. Close enough that if you wanted to look at him, you could.
Your eyes met his then, wary and exhausted and aching in ways he had no right to ask forgiveness for yet.
“I wanted you before that night,” he said.
You blinked.
“I wanted you every day of this arrangement in ways I was trying very hard not to. I wanted you even before that.”
Something shifted in your face.
Not trust.
Not relief.
Just the faint shock of hearing the truth said plainly.
Steve did not look away.
“The kiss on set wasn’t the first time I was scared of how much I wanted you,” he said. “It was just the first time I ran out of places to hide it.”
Your breathing changed.
Slightly.
Enough.
“And then,” he said, because there was no point being brave only halfway now, “I got afraid.”
You let out a breath that trembled on the way out.
“Of me?”
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
Then, quieter, “Of how badly I could hurt you if I got this wrong.”
A sad sort of understanding crossed your face.
That cut almost as sharply as the original wound.
“So you hurt me another way.”
The precision of it left no room to flinch.
“Yes.”
He would keep answering yes to every true thing if that was what it took.
You looked at him for a long moment.
Your eyes were wet now, though the tears had not fallen yet.
“I heard you talking about Peggy,” you whispered.
There it was.
The bruise at the center of everything.
Steve nodded slowly.
“I know.”
You laughed once, shaky and devastated.
“No, you don’t. You have no idea what that sounded like.”
“Then tell me.”
The words startled you.
Maybe because they asked instead of assuming.
Maybe because they did not argue.
Your fingers tightened in the blanket.
“It sounded like…” You shut your eyes briefly. “It sounded like you finally said out loud what I’d already been terrified was true. That she was everything I’m not. That she knew her own worth and never had to be useful to earn a place beside you. That you looked at me and saw someone uncertain and exhausting and–”
“Stop.”
The word came rougher than he intended.
Your eyes flew open.
Not anger.
Fear.
The immediate reflexive fear of someone who had been cut off too many times while bleeding.
Steve forced gentleness back into his voice.
“Not because I don’t want to hear you,” he said. “Because none of that is what I meant.”
Your mouth tightened.
“It’s what I heard.”
“I know.”
He let that sit.
Then he said, very carefully, “I was talking about what I admired in Peggy. Not what I required from you.”
Something in your face cracked at that.
“I don’t require you to be less uncertain,” he said. “Or less complicated. Or less hurt. I don’t need you to become someone untouched by what life has done to you just so I can stand beside you.”
Your tears spilled then, sudden and silent.
Steve stayed exactly where he was.
“I was afraid,” he went on, “because you make yourself smaller when you’re scared. You let people use your willingness to help as proof you can carry more than you should. And instead of staying close enough to help you fight that, I stepped back and made it worse.”
You covered your mouth with one hand.
The gesture was so heartbreakingly familiar it almost ruined him.
“I am not going to do that again,” he said.
The kitchen had gone silent.
Maya was listening, of course.
He did not care.
Your voice shook.
“You can’t promise that.”
“No,” he said. “I can promise something better.”
You looked at him through wet lashes, wary despite yourself.
Steve drew in a slow breath.
“I can promise I won’t decide for you what protects you. I can promise I won’t call distance love when it’s really fear. And I can promise that I am done letting you carry all the cost of this because it’s easier than admitting I’m in too deep.”
The tears came harder then.
You laughed through one of them, a small, broken sound.
“In too deep?”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
“Yes.”
You looked wrecked.
And unconvinced.
And wanting to believe him in ways your body had not caught up with yet.
That was fair.
More than fair.
“I don’t know how to do this without making a mess of it,” you whispered.
Something warm and shattered moved through him.
At any other time, the line might have been funny.
A little self-aware.
A little ironic.
Here, now, it was only naked.
Steve softened.
“Then we make a mess,” he said. “But we do it honestly.”
You shut your eyes and cried in earnest then, not violently, not dramatically, just with the exhausted relief of someone too tired to keep every wound upright.
His hands twitched with the need to reach for you.
He didn’t.
Not until you looked at him again.
Not until you gave the smallest, most fragile nod he had ever seen.
Then he moved.
Carefully.
Slowly.
He sat beside you on the couch and gathered you in as if he were handling something both precious and half-feral. You came to him in pieces at first, stiff with hurt and habit, then all at once, forehead against his shoulder, breath breaking against his shirt.
Steve held you.
Not to quiet you.
Not to fix you.
Just to be there while it hurt.
One of his hands slid up between your shoulder blades in slow, grounding strokes.
The other cradled the back of your head.
Into your hair, into the bent crown of you, he said, “You never had to earn your place with me.”
That made you cry harder.
He closed his eyes.
“I know,” he said softly. “I know. I should have said it sooner.”
For a long time, neither of you moved beyond that.
The kettle clicked off in the kitchen.
A cupboard shut.
Maya, mercifully, remained out of sight.
Eventually your breathing steadied enough to become less ragged.
You did not pull away completely, but you shifted enough to look at him, face damp and exhausted and more open than he suspected you meant it to be.
“What happens now?”
A dangerous question.
A necessary one.
Steve brushed a thumb lightly beneath one of your eyes.
Only once.
Then let his hand fall so the touch would not become its own pressure.
“First,” he said, “you stay here as long as you need.”
You frowned slightly, as if expecting some hidden catch.
He went on.
“Then I deal with PR.”
A very faint, incredulous sound escaped you. “That sounds ominous.”
“It is.”
That drew the smallest ghost of a smile to your mouth.
Steve took it as the gift it was.
“I’m ending the arrangement,” he said. “Not by sacrificing you to another story. Not by making you walk back into that machine because I was too slow to figure my own head out.”
The smile faded into uncertainty again.
“They’ll hate that.”
“I know.”
“They’ll blame me.”
“No,” he said. “They won’t. Because I won’t let them.”
You searched his face, looking for doubt.
There was none.
Steve leaned back slightly, enough to see you fully.
“And after that,” he said, “if you still want me anywhere near your life, I start over properly.”
Your breath caught.
“Properly?”
“No lies. No cover. No pretending I’m doing you a favor by keeping my distance.”
A pause.
“No sacrificing yourself for me because it feels easier than asking what you’re worth.”
Your face crumpled a little around the edges at that.
Not from pain this time exactly.
From being understood too closely.
You looked down.
“I don’t know if I can just… turn all this off.”
He followed your gaze.
“I’m not asking you to.”
You let that settle.
Then, very quietly, “I’m still angry with you.”
He nodded.
“You should be.”
“I kind of hate how decent you’re being about it.”
The laugh that escaped him this time was soft and brief and real.
“Maya already covered the less decent part.”
That startled a tired laugh out of you too.
Tiny.
Beautiful.
A crack of light.
From the kitchen, Maya called, “I can still hear you, and I regret nothing.”
You let your forehead fall briefly against Steve’s shoulder again, laughing weakly through the last of your tears.
His arm tightened around you – not possessive, not performative, just sure.
After a minute, Maya appeared in the doorway carrying three mugs.
She took one look at the two of you on the couch and narrowed her eyes at Steve.
“Did he say anything stupid?”
You wiped under your eyes and muttered, “Several things. But mostly the useful kind.”
Maya handed you the first mug, then held Steve’s just out of reach for a beat.
“Remember the stairs,” she told him.
Steve accepted the tea solemnly.
“I remember.”
She sat in the armchair opposite with the posture of a queen supervising a peace treaty.
No one minded.
You wrapped both hands around the mug and stared down into the steam.
The room felt fragile still.
Nothing fixed.
Nothing magically healed.
Your body was still tired.
Your appetite was still a problem.
The week had still happened.
Steve’s fear had still cut you.
Your own fear had still convinced you to disappear.
But he was here.
Not as Captain America.
Not as a strategy.
Not as a man hiding behind what was best for you.
Just Steve.
And when your fingers trembled once around the mug, his free hand found your knee under the blanket and stayed there, quiet and steady, not asking for anything.
You looked at it.
Then at him.
He met your gaze.
No more distance, something in his expression said.
Not the kind that lies and calls itself kindness.
You leaned very slightly into his side.
A choice so small no one else in the room would have noticed if they had not been looking.
A choice enormous enough to feel like the first honest thing you had done in days.
Steve exhaled like a man who had been waiting to breathe.
Maya sipped her tea and pretended not to see.
Outside, evening settled over the city in slow blue layers.
Inside, nothing was tidy.
Nothing was easy.
Nothing was finished.
But for the first time since the whole lie began, no one in the room was pretending.
And when Steve’s thumb moved once, warm and grounding where his hand rested against you, the thought that came was still frightened, still fragile, still bruised at the edges – but no longer hopeless.
He had not protected you by stepping away.
He knew that now.
So when he looked at you over the rim of his mug and said, quietly enough that only you could hear, “No more sacrificing yourself for me,” you believed he meant it.
And when you answered, voice raw but steady, “Then don’t leave me alone in it,” he set the mug down without breaking eye contact and said, with all the certainty he should have given you from the start, “I won’t.”
The first thing Steve did was cancel the interview.
PR called it impossible.
Steve called it another normal day.
You were still at Maya’s apartment the next morning when his name began lighting up the group email chain with replies so blunt they looked almost surreal against the corporate tone surrounding them.
Captain Rogers will not be attending Friday’s segment.
The arranged narrative ends here.
Any further press strategy goes through me before it goes through her.
You read the messages from the couch, wrapped in one of Maya’s blankets, tea cooling untouched in your hands.
Maya leaned over your shoulder, scanned the screen, and let out a low whistle.
“Well,” she said, sounding almost impressed. “There goes the national budget for public relations.”
Despite everything, a weak smile tugged at your mouth.
Steve had not stayed the night after finding you.
He had wanted to.
You had seen it in the way he lingered by the door, reluctant to go, as though leaving at all now felt suspect to him. But he had also understood that crowding your first breath after days underwater would only turn tenderness into pressure again.
So he had crouched beside the couch before leaving, looked at you with that open, impossible honesty that still made your chest hurt, and said, “I’ll call tomorrow. If you don’t answer, I’ll text. If you don’t answer that, I’ll still be here.”
Then he had looked at Maya and added, with grave sincerity, “Please don’t throw me down the stairs yet.”
Maya had taken a deliberate sip of tea and replied, “No promises.”
Now, in the washed-out grey of morning, his restraint felt like proof rather than distance.
A little later, your phone buzzed.
Can I come by later? Only if you want.
Simple.
No pressure.
No polished reassurance trying to outtalk your fear.
You stared at the screen.
Maya, slicing fruit at the counter with the focus of a woman pretending not to monitor your every micro-expression, said, “If you don’t answer that man soon, he’s going to start composing messages like a Regency widower.”
You typed back before you could lose courage.
Later is okay.
Three dots appeared instantly.
Thank you.
You looked at the words for a long time after the screen dimmed.
Returning to the Tower two days later felt like stepping back into a building that had learned your shape and your fractures both.
You had not wanted to come back too soon.
Maya had not wanted you to come back at all without backup.
In the end, compromise took the form of her driving you there personally and informing you, before you even got out of the car, that if anyone from PR so much as looked at you with a monetizable expression, she would set something on fire.
“You cannot threaten federal property,” you had muttered.
“Watch me.”
She had squeezed your shoulder once before letting you go.
The lobby felt the same.
That was the strange part.
The same polished floors.
The same quiet hum of elevators.
The same people moving through the space with coffee cups and tablets and the exhausting illusion that none of their lives were ever cracking under the surface.
And yet everything in you felt newly tender, as if the world had edges you had not noticed before.
Steve was waiting by the private elevator.
Of course he was.
No cameras.
No handlers.
No audience.
Just Steve in a dark henley and jeans, hands loose at his sides, looking at you as if he had spent every hour since leaving Maya’s apartment teaching himself not to rush forward.
Your steps slowed.
For one brief second, panic fluttered under your ribs – not because you did not want him there, but because you did. Too much. In ways still sore from being mishandled.
He read enough in your face to stay exactly where he was.
“Hey,” he said.
The softness of it nearly undid you on the spot.
“Hey.”
Silence stretched.
Not empty.
Just careful.
Then Steve asked, “Do you want to go upstairs, or do you want to leave right now and let Maya win?”
A startled laugh escaped you.
It was small.
It was still real.
His mouth curved in response, relief flickering openly this time.
“Upstairs,” you said.
He nodded once and pressed the elevator call button.
Inside, the ride was quiet. Your shoulders remained tight despite yourself, and you hated that he noticed immediately. You hated even more that he responded by simply shifting closer – not touching, not crowding, just making his presence available like a choice you could take or leave.
By the time the doors opened to the residential level, some small part of your body had remembered how to breathe normally again.
Natasha was the first to find you.
She appeared in the common kitchen like a ghost in expensive black, took one look at your face, and said, “You’re alive.”
“Disappointing, I know.”
Her expression barely changed, but something relieved moved behind her eyes.
“That depends.”
You set your bag down on the counter.
For a second neither of you spoke.
Then Natasha crossed the room and pulled you into a brief, hard hug that lasted exactly one heartbeat longer than you expected.
When she stepped back, you stared at her.
She picked up an apple from the fruit bowl as if nothing unusual had happened.
“You vanished,” she said.
“I noticed.”
“That was inconsiderate.”
A laugh caught in your throat. “Wow. And here I thought we were having a moment.”
“We did,” she said. “It’s over now.”
You smiled despite yourself, then looked down.
“I’m sorry.”
Natasha bit into the apple.
“I know.”
There was no reproach in it, only fact. The same kind she always offered when feelings got too large for elegance.
After a beat, she added, “He looked like death.”
You glanced instinctively toward the doorway, though Steve had stayed back to give you room.
“That’s not as comforting as you think it is.”
“It wasn’t meant to be comforting.”
Of course it wasn’t.
Natasha leaned one hip against the counter.
“For what it’s worth,” she said, “I considered pushing him off the roof.”
You blinked.
“You what?”
“I didn’t,” she said. “Maya had already called dibs on violence.”
You laughed then. Properly. Startled and helpless and still too tired, but enough to make Natasha’s shoulders loosen by half an inch.
She finished the apple and tossed the core.
“Eat something,” she said. “You still look haunted.”
“Did everyone agree to phrase things as offensively as possible while I was gone?”
“Yes.”
Then she walked out, conversation apparently complete.
You stared after her.
From the doorway, Steve said quietly, “That was her being worried.”
You turned.
“I know.”
Something gentle passed across his face.
“I know you know.”
The PR meeting happened the next afternoon, and it was a disaster in the best possible way.
You had not wanted to attend.
Steve had given you an out before you even asked for one.
“You don’t have to go,” he had said that morning outside the conference room where this whole mess had begun. “I can handle it.”
The old reflex had risen instantly – be there, absorb the impact, make yourself useful, do not leave other people to clean up consequences that involved you.
Then Steve, as if hearing the exact shape of that thought before you said it, added, “Coming because you choose to is one thing. Coming because you think you owe them your body in a chair is another.”
That was enough to make you stop.
You went.
But this time you went knowing the exit existed.
The same room.
The same glass walls.
The same polished surface of the table where magazines and contracts and public affection had once been arranged like logistics.
This time, no one tried to smile at you.
The head of PR sat rigidly at one end of the table with a legal adviser beside her. Two others avoided your eyes entirely. The atmosphere smelled less like strategy now and more like contained panic.
Steve stood instead of sitting.
You sat near the door by choice.
Not trapped.
Not cornered.
Just present.
The woman from PR clasped her hands.
“We all understand emotions are running high,” she began.
Steve laughed once.
Not kindly.
“Is that what you think this is?”
The woman held his gaze. “What I think is that ending the arrangement abruptly creates new exposure, especially after the latest shoot–”
“The arrangement is over,” Steve said. “That part isn’t up for discussion.”
She looked at you then, as if hoping practicality might yet be found in the softer target.
“With respect, this affects both of you.”
Before you could answer, Steve said, “Then speak to both of us like people this time.”
The room went very still.
The lawyer cleared his throat. “No one intended disrespect.”
You found your voice before you had consciously decided to use it.
“You didn’t have to intend it.”
Every eye in the room shifted to you.
You hated that old instinct to shrink under attention. Hated even more how familiar it still felt. But Steve did not move to rescue you from it. He just stayed where he was – solid, quiet, there if you needed him and not taking the space from you unless asked.
So you continued.
“You called me into this room without warning. You pitched me as a solution before anyone asked whether I actually wanted to be one. And then you kept raising the price every time the public liked the story better than the truth.”
No one interrupted.
The woman from PR inhaled carefully.
“We were managing a difficult situation under intense public pressure.”
“Yes,” you said. “And you were very good at making that everyone else’s emergency.”
Beside you, Steve said nothing.
You could feel his attention on you anyway, steady as a hand at your back without actually touching you.
The lawyer leaned forward.
“What outcome are you asking for?”
For a second you almost laughed.
Outcome.
As if there were one neat enough to fit on paper.
Steve answered before you had to.
“You will not blame her publicly or privately for ending this.”
He spoke with crisp, terrifying calm.
“You will not leak, imply, or suggest that she was unstable, unavailable, noncompliant, or difficult. You will not send anyone to pressure her into salvaging the story. And you will not ever again call in someone under the pretense of consultation after deciding their answer for them.”
The head of PR looked like she wanted to argue every point and understood she could not afford to.
“We can issue a mutual statement about privacy and timing,” she said at last. “Respectful, brief, no scandal language.”
Steve nodded once. “Good.”
She hesitated.
“And the recent photographs?”
The kiss.
The magazine.
The cover that would probably still run in some altered form because the machine rarely stopped just because it had hurt someone.
Your stomach tightened.
Then Steve said, “Spin it however you want. We were private. We reconsidered. We chose not to continue publicly. I don’t care.”
His gaze hardened.
“But if I hear even a whisper that this is being put on her, we’re going to have a very different conversation.”
The woman looked at you then, perhaps hoping you might moderate him.
Instead, you said, quietly, “I’m done being useful to this.”
Silence.
Not hostile.
Not shocked.
Just the silence that falls when a truth finally lands in the room where it belonged all along.
The meeting ended ten minutes later.
When you stepped back into the hallway, your legs felt strange. Light. Unsteady. As though some old brace inside you had been removed and your body had not figured out how to stand without it yet.
Steve followed, letting the conference room door close behind him.
“You okay?”
The question no longer felt like surveillance.
That was new.
You let out a breath.
“I think I just told off an entire department.”
“You did.”
“And they didn’t combust.”
“Disappointing, I know.”
You smiled.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then Steve held out a protein bar from his pocket.
You stared at it.
His expression was perfectly serious.
“Maya texted me before the meeting,” he said. “She said if I let you leave that room without food, she was revisiting the stairs question.”
A laugh slipped out before you could stop it.
“You two are terrifying.”
“I know.”
You took the bar.
Opened it.
Ate half because he stood there waiting and because somehow the act no longer felt like obedience so much as being looked after.
The distinction mattered.
More than you expected.
The statement went out that evening.
Brief.
Careful.
Vague enough to satisfy the public and boring enough to kill the frenzy.
After recent public speculation, Captain Rogers and his companion have chosen to keep their personal lives private and will not be making further comment. They appreciate the support and ask for understanding regarding boundaries moving forward.
People read into it, of course.
Some thought you had broken up.
Some thought the relationship had always been private and simply became too exposed.
Some spun conspiracies.
Some wrote think pieces.
Some mourned the loss of a romance they had never actually possessed.
For the first time since the whole thing began, you did not care very much.
Because the truth had moved somewhere smaller and more important.
Into hallways.
Into kitchens.
Into the space outside your door at night where Steve still knocked before entering and waited for permission like he was relearning the shape of your trust from scratch.
He did not rush you.
That might have been the most loving thing of all.
He stayed near.
He stayed honest.
And he let you have bad days without treating them like evidence that he ought to step back for your own good.
When you went to therapy that Thursday and came back wrung out and quiet, there was tea outside your room again.
This time with a note.
No vanishing. – S
You stood in the hallway staring at the handwriting until your vision blurred a little.
Then you carried the mug inside.
The next few weeks were not cinematic.
You did not magically become secure.
He did not transform overnight into a man with no instinct toward self-sacrifice or overprotection.
Your appetite returned slowly.
Sleep returned inconsistently.
There were still moments when your brain reached for its oldest, cruelest explanations before anything gentler could catch up.
But now Steve was there to interrupt them.
Not by denying your feelings.
Not by soothing them into nothing.
Just by staying long enough that the thoughts had to compete with reality.
One night, after a mission briefing ran late and left the Tower washed in that strange, hollow quiet of near midnight, you found him in the kitchen making grilled cheese like it was a tactical operation.
You paused in the doorway.
He looked up and smiled, tired and immediate.
“There you are.”
Something about the words warmed you from the inside out.
“Is that one for me?”
He glanced down at the pan. “Depends. Are you planning to insult my cooking?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then no.”
You crossed the room and sat on the counter while he plated the sandwiches. It was such an old, familiar shape between you that for a second grief moved through you – grief for how close you had come to losing it entirely.
Steve set a plate beside you and leaned back against the opposite counter, arms folded.
For a while, you just ate.
Then, because honesty had become a habit neither of you could afford to lose now, you said, “I still keep waiting for you to decide this is too much.”
His eyes lifted to yours at once.
“This?”
You gestured vaguely between the two of you.
The kitchen.
Your terrible coping mechanisms.
His feelings.
Everything.
“All of it.”
He was quiet for a beat.
Then he said, “I think the problem was that I already decided it mattered too much. And I got scared.”
You swallowed.
“But scared of something isn’t the same as wanting less of it.”
The sentence settled deep.
You looked down at the plate in your lap.
“You make everything sound simple.”
“No,” he said. “I just say it plainly.”
A smile tugged at your mouth.
“That too.”
He set his own plate aside and stepped closer.
Not too close.
Never presumptuous.
Just enough that if you wanted to close the distance, you could.
“You can ask me again tomorrow,” he said. “Or next week. Or every time you need to.”
Your throat tightened.
“That sounds exhausting.”
His eyes softened.
“Then it’s a good thing I’ve good stamina.”
You laughed quietly and set your plate down beside you.
He was close enough now that you could see the faint crease between his brows, the softness at the edges of exhaustion, the sincerity still too large for his own face sometimes.
“Steve?”
“Yeah?”
You hesitated.
Then forced the words out before you could edit them into something safer.
“What if I still don’t know how to do this right?”
His expression changed with such immediate tenderness that you almost looked away.
Instead, you made yourself stay.
He reached out slowly, giving you every second to stop him, and rested his hand lightly against your knee.
“You don’t have to do it right.”
The old ache moved in your chest again, but gentler now. Less like a bruise, more like healing tissue.
“Then what?”
He leaned in just enough that his forehead almost brushed yours.
“We do it honestly,” he said. “And we keep showing up.”
The space between you thinned to breath.
This time, when he kissed you, there were no cameras.
No contracts.
No waiting headlines.
Only choice.
His mouth was soft at first, asking rather than taking. You answered before your fear could get there first, hand sliding to the front of his shirt, and felt the answering warmth of his body shift nearer.
It was not desperate like the night that had blown everything apart.
Not hungry with panic or denial or weeks of wanting sharpened into recklessness.
It was better.
Slower.
Warmer.
Deliberate.
A kiss that knew exactly what it was doing and wanted to stay.
When he drew back, he kept his forehead against yours and smiled the smallest, quietest smile.
You exhaled shakily.
“Well,” you murmured, “that was alarmingly real.”
The laugh he gave then was soft and low and so fond it nearly made your heart stop.
“That’s because it is.”
For one dangerous second, your mind tried to flinch.
Tried to catalogue all the ways real things could still be lost.
Then Steve’s hand slid from your knee to your waist, steady and sure, and stayed there.
Not trapping.
Not claiming.
Just present.
And you remembered, all at once, that love did not have to arrive as certainty to be true.
That maybe it could come like this instead – messy, frightened, honest, still choosing to remain.
You touched his jaw with careful fingers.
“I’m still a mess,” you said quietly.
His eyes held yours.
“I know.”
Not despite.
Not but.
Just truth.
Something in you loosened.
You let out a breath that felt like setting down a weight you had carried so long you no longer noticed the strain of it.
“Okay,” you whispered.
Steve’s thumb brushed once at your side.
“Okay.”
Outside, somewhere beyond the Tower glass, the city kept moving – messy and loud and alive, full of stories people told because neat endings comforted them.
Inside, your story was still unfinished.
Still imperfect.
Still human.
There would be hard days.
Bad nights.
Moments when old fears rose up and called themselves facts.
Moments when Steve would have to choose honesty over instinct all over again.
Moments when you would have to believe being loved was not the same thing as being useful.
But there would also be this: his hand at your waist in a kitchen lit gold after midnight, grilled cheese cooling on a plate, your forehead against his, and the quiet, radical miracle of not having to pretend anymore.
Everything had been a mess.
Maybe some of it still was.
But when Steve kissed you again – real and certain and entirely yours – what you thought, with a kind of bruised wonder, was not that everything had finally become perfect.
Only that it was real anyway.
GENERAL taglist: @mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin
Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, light angst, shameless smut (oral f receiving, p in v sex), fluff, soulmates, dreams, told over many years, no use of y/n
Summary/Warnings: You've had these… dreams. Strange, realistic, detailed dreams of the same man, almost your whole life. But they're just dreams. You've been so sure, for so long, that they're just dreams.
So sure, until you're not.
Author's Note: I love this one. I love using fake Marvel science logic. I love putting sad men in situations where they can't escape love. I love semi-linear storytelling. Enjoy!
Word Count: 10.9k
“I get… dreams.” You mumble, staring at an odd point over Dr. Raynor’s head. It’s always better than looking her in the eyes. “They’re weird.”
“The very nature of dreams is to be strange.” You can see the shrug of Raynor’s shoulders, hear the neural expression that must be on her face. “Although if you feel they’re worthy of note-“
“They are.”
Raynor hums. She’s probably raising her brows. You still won’t look.
“You sound quite certain of that.”
“I am.” You tuck your knees up to your chest, frowning at the air. “It’s- They’re not new.”
“Ah.” Raynor pauses, then says your name. In the gentle but firm therapist way that you really hate. It makes you feel like a child. “This conversation may be easier if you would look at me.”
“No thanks, I’m-“
She says your name again. A little harsher. “We’ve discussed this. You’re here of your own volition-“
“That’s not true.” You mutter. “Court-ordered isn’t volition.”
“Well you could’ve chosen the inpatient ward.” Raynor’s shrugging again. “Look at me.”
You let out a long breath, and meet her gaze. You’d been right. She was raising her brows.
“Good work.” She gives you a tight-lipped smile and small nod of approval. “Tell me about these dreams.”
It takes a minute to find the words. Not because you don’t have them, but because you’d never expected to use them. You’ve rehearsed them in the mirror a million times, but they always sounded insane, and you didn’t need another reason to be called crazy.
“I’ve had them my whole life.” It’s easiest to start there. “But it’s- they’ve changed. Over time.”
“Changed how?”
“It’s hard to explain-“
“Try.”
You scowl. “I am trying, Christina, but there’s kind of a lot to say-“
Raynor sighs, giving you the patented look of disapproval that you might hate more than how she says your name. “How about telling me when they started. Is that do-able?”
It takes a long, deep breath, but you nod. “I was- I think I was ten. I fell asleep, and it was the first dream I’d ever had. The first one that I remembered when I woke up. It was…” You swallow, and there’s a sting in your nails as you rip more skin away. “Really vivid.”
——
This isn’t your body. It’s too big, too tall, and you’re not nearly strong enough to rip a door off its hinges. This body is sprinting across ice without ever breaking pace or falling flat with a crunch. You can’t even walk up stairs without tripping over thin air.
But this doesn’t really feel like a body at all. It feels like a shell, or tool. Hollow and pressed down, moving so mechanically you’d think it was a machine if you couldn’t hear its heartbeat in your ears. There’s a lot of pain in it. Strangely numb pain, as if the owner of this body doesn’t allow himself to dwell on it, shuttering it off to the side as he moves.
You’re pretty sure it's a he. There’s hair in your eyes, but men can have long hair, and when the body’s arms swing into view they’re big and muscular. You’re also pretty sure there’s something between your legs that wasn’t there when you went to sleep.
And you can feel him. Very, very deep in your head, he’s bellowing and scraping at his own scalp. He feels like a caged animal, but this is his body. He’s roaring things that are more like feral sounds than actual words, and every time he gets loud enough for you to make out a real voice something clamps down on your skull—his skull—and it all goes quiet.
You can see another man in your line of vision. He’s on his knees, trembling and begging, but the noise is muffled and static. As if there’s a filter pushing anything coherent out of your head.
A gloved fist that’s attached to your body—but not yours to control—reaches out and grabs the man by his throat. It squeezes.
He’s desperate. Locked down and furious, the ‘he’ who you’re possessing is almost pleading with himself to stop.
But he doesn’t.
And there’s a sickening snap that will echo in your ears for a long time after you wake up.
——
Raynor’s looking at you like you’re insane. You don’t love it.
“Did you…” She pauses, scanning over you with a small frown. “Did you see the hand?”
You blink at her. “Yeah, I just said-“
“Without the glove.” She clarifies. “The one that snapped the man’s neck. Did you ever see it without the glove.”
It’s an oddly specific question. And she seems to be looking for a certain answer, because in all your time of working with Raynor she’s never looked so obviously invested in a story.
“Not for a while.” You keep your words slow, watching her wearily. “He always wore the gloves. And when he didn’t, he wouldn’t look at his hands-“
Raynor frowns. “So how did you know he wasn’t wearing the gloves?”
“Because he knew.” You shrug. “I lived in his brain like, every night.”
“Every-“
“Night, yeah. That’s what I fucking said.”
Raynor hums, and you think she’s going to grab the notebook to write something along the lines of patient has lost her goddamn mind, but she just keeps staring at you. “You said you didn’t see the hand for a while. When did you see it?”
“When I was sixteen. The first time the dreams changed.”
“Changed from-“
“Being in his head.” You pull your lip between your teeth, weighing how much you want to reveal. Too much feels like a violation of his privacy, even if they’re your dreams. He’s a private guy, it took you years to get him to tell you anything, and if you’ve realized turns out to be the truth, you don’t want to ruin anything. “It’s- it was about six years of seeing everything through his eyes-“
“Everything?”
You wish Raynor would stop saying the word every like that. Like it’s a lie.
“All the murders.” You mutter. “There were a lot of murders.”
Raynor nods for you to continue, and you have to take a long, steadying breath.
“One night I went to sleep and he was… attacking some blond guy. We couldn’t really see his face. Then I fell asleep the next night, and it was different.”
——
You can see him. You’ve never seen him before.
He’d never looked in a mirror, or described himself in his head for you like he’s a Wattpad character. He’s only ever been a body that moves out of your will, and a pained voice deep in your brain that didn’t seemed thrilled with what was happening either.
But you’re not in his head, or his body. You’re standing in a bathroom—in your own body, wearing the same clothing you’d been wearing when you’d crawled into bed—and looking at him.
He’s a lot more attractive than you’d anticipated. And you’d anticipated attractive. You’d built an image in your head of your imaginary dream assassin, basing it purely on a level of hotness that would justify all the murders he’d been up to. It had been a little fucked up, but you’d also been so goddamn sure he wasn’t real. That this was just a really odd and worrying coping mechanism for all the messed up shit in your real life.
But he seems pretty fucking real right now. And almost impossibly handsome. Strong features that look like they’d been carved from marble, an almost hulking frame that’s somehow bigger when you’re looking at it from outside, and tangled, greasy hair that’s really working with the whole tortured expression on his face.
Because he does not look okay.
He’s gripping the sink and glowering at himself, scanning over his own face like he recognizes it less than you do. He’s bent like there’s a weight on his shoulders he doesn’t know how to shake off, and that’s impressive, because you’ve seen him pick up a car.
The porcelain of the sink cracks, and he flinches back, looking between his hands and the rubble with wide eyes.
His eyes are blue. A really pretty blue. You’d always thought blue eyes were overrated—big whoop, you’re more sensitive to light—but there’s something silver in this man’s eyes that you really love. It feels like a deep storm you’d like to chase.
He’s really pretty.
He doesn’t seem like the type of guy who would like being called pretty, but he is. In a natural and powerful way. Like something heavenly that’s burned through the atmosphere in a dreadful fall.
Pretty face, pretty eyes, pretty hands-
Metal hand.
One metal hand.
——
Raynor looks worried now. You wish she’d go back to thinking you’re just batshit crazy.
“Do you-” she clears her throat, sitting a little taller in her chair. “His name. Did you ever learn his name?”
It’s your turn to raise your brows. “Does that matter?”
“Yes.”
It’s a flat, tense answer. It makes something coil in your throat.
“I-“ You rub your own calves, soothing yourself in the careful way you’ve always practiced. “I didn’t, for a while-“
Raynor says your name, her tone short and clipped. “Stop telling me something didn’t happen for a while. If I ask a question, it’s because I need to know the answer. Not the buildup.”
You frown. “Need to know?”
“It’s…” Raynor sighs. “It is very important that you give me a name.”
“Why?”
“Therapist reasons.”
You give her a flat look. “That’s not a real thing.”
“Yes, it is. Name.”
“If you need the name,” you say, raising your chin slightly. “You have to sit through my for a while.”
Raynor gives you a look of disbelief, shaking her head and muttering something that sounds like God, I can’t take two of them, before raising her voice. “Fine. What was for a while.”
“I couldn’t talk to him.” You explain. “For like, two years after I got out of his brain, he still couldn’t see me. When I tried to talk to him it was like I was in a- sort of a one-way mirror? And it’s not like he was just walking around telling the air I’m Bucky-“
“Bucky?” Raynor looks downright distressed. “His name was-“
“It’s Bucky.”
He still is. He’s not a was, Bucky is.
That’s part of the problem.
“And how-“ Raynor swallows. “How did you learn this?”
“He told me.”
——
This is new. You’re not on a street or in a half-empty apartment—the two places you’ve grown most accustomed to seeing in your sleep—but in a field. A very big field with huts and brush and goats.
There are a truly staggering amount of goats.
And there he is. His hair isn’t greasy and unkempt anymore, but looks almost soft, pulled back in a half-up half-down situation that makes him look clean. His metal arm is gone, but he doesn’t seem that bothered by it. He’s standing taller than before, like the weight you’ve grown used to seeing finally has begun to lift.
His outfit is new too. It looks like something traditional and well-made, rather than the off-brand baseball hats—you too are a big fan of the American baseball team, the ‘Doggers’—and shitty polyester t-shirts.
You’re taking him and scenery in, trying to place where your brain could’ve possibly taken you this time, when he does something you’d never expected.
He turns and looks at you.
Not through you. Not around you. Not in your general direction.
At you.
He can fucking see you.
“Hello?”
You’ve heard him speak before, a few times. His voice has always been low and gruff and heavy.
It’s smooth and richer now. You don’t know if that’s because it’s directed at you—setting off small sparks over your ribs—or in relation to that vanished weight, but you like it. It suits him better.
“Hi.” You whisper, your body frozen in place as he moves forward.
He’s right in front of you. Staring at you.
He’s always gotten prettier every time you’ve seen him. This is different.
This is knocking the air out of your lungs with just the sight of him, because there’s a light in his eyes you’ve never seen before, and it makes something deep inside of you glow.
“I’m, uh, I’m Bucky.”
He holds out his hand, and you tilt your head at him.
“That’s a weird name.”
He blinks at you, his hand still frozen in the air. “I guess, yeah. Never thought about it. It’s just a nickname.”
“Oh.” That makes more sense. “Sorry. That’s- I just never thought you as- never mind.”
Bucky frowns at you, opening his mouth—likely ask you what you mean by that—but you say your name and shake his hand because he gets the chance.
He has a nice hand. It warm, and calloused, and fits really well in yours.
“Why can you see me?” You blurt, and there goes any pretense of containing the truth.
Bucky frowns at you. “Should I… Not be able to see you?”
“You’ve never seen me before.”
“Before? What do you mean-“
“It’s- It’s weird. And complicated.”
He just stares at you, waiting for you to continue.
You’re holding his gaze. You’ve never held anyone’s gaze before.
It’s kind of electrifying.
“I’ve dreamt about you before.” You mumble. “And you’ve never seen me.”
“About me?”
He doesn’t sound like he believes you. You get that. It’s not really a reasonable or believable statement.
“Yeah. But you had two arms. And there weren’t goats.”
Bucky nods slowly, and seems to reach a conclusion in his brain that you don’t get to be privy to.
It’s enough for him though. Because he gives you a small, almost nervous and apologetic smile.
“Do you wanna, uh, do you wanna meet the goats?”
You blink at him. You’d expected more questions, or some doubt. But he’s just looking at you, something in his pretty blue eyes almost hopeful.
“Are they...” You trail off, glancing at the goats over his shoulder. “Your goats?”
“They’re community goats.” He shrugs. “But Shuri says connection with life will help my recovery, and I don’t really want to connect with people.” His voice lowers, and it sounds like he’s mostly talking to himself. “They don’t really like connecting with me.”
You don’t know who the fuck Shuri is, but you nod anyway. “So goats?”
He gives you another odd look, like he’d expected you to say something else.
“Yeah. Goats.”
“Did you name them?”
He frowns. “They’re goats. They don’t need names.”
You click your tongue, shaking your head. “Wrong. Everything needs a name. I named my car, and my phone.”
“You named your phone?”
“Yep.” You grin at him, and it’s a wide, teasing grin you haven’t given anyone in years. “Bertha.”
“That’s…” Bucky’s still staring at you–he seems to do that a lot—but there’s something like amusement in his eyes. “Bertha is not a good name.”
“Better than Bucky.”
He chuckles at that, and it’s a beautiful sound. Deep and heavy, like a bass drum in your chest.
It’s the sort of thing that could be addicting, if you’re not careful. Worse, it’s the sort of thing you wouldn’t mind being addicted to.
“You’re kinda mean, doll.”
“Yep.” You shrug, ignoring how ‘doll’ makes you feel fuzzy in your gut. “And I’ll be meaner if you don’t let me name your goats.”
He hums, scanning you over with an intensity in his eyes that reminds you of that storm you’d see all those years ago in the bathroom. This time, you’d like to do a little more than chase it.
You think it could be really easy to get wrecked by it.
“Will you come back if I let you name them?”
He keeps saying things you don’t expect. Of course you’ll come back. You don’t have a choice.
But you nod, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Only if you promise to actually use the names.”
He nods, giving you another smile. “Deal.”
———
“Did you ever learn his last name?”
You shake your head. “I never asked. He mentioned his real name was James at one point, but then I asked why he was called ‘Bucky’ and we got off topic.”
“One… point?” Raynor’s words are slow, and you’ve really never seen her looked lost like this before. You’d be proud of yourself if it wasn’t a bad sign. “Exactly how frequently did these dreams occur?”
———
“You’re back!”
Bucky looks genuinely happy to see you. He does every night. The same surprised joy in his voice, shock always written over his face like it’s truly odd and lovely to see you here.
Like you’re not here every night, for three to four hours, standing in his little hut and wandering the fields.
You’ve worked out that you’ve put him in Africa. Wakanda specifically, likely because you’d seen it all over the news and it seemed pretty interesting. Shuri was the princess, and the guy T’challa Bucky had mentioned a few times was the King. You’d almost certainly heard their names during all those UN conferences—the ones you put on in the background just to hear some noise that wasn’t ringing in your ears—and your brain had just decided to run with it.
At least, you think it’s just your brain. You’ve always assumed this was all in your brain, because this feels like the exact kind of fucked up shit your brain would pull. And Bucky never aged. He’d never really changed, for six years. He’d had just been another way to cope for the longest time, but now—as you actually get to know him—he seems dangerously like a real person.
He looks like he broods less than when you see him hunched over a toilet or glowering at his reflection in a window. His appearance has started to shift in a way it never really had.
The metal arm has permanently departed. He seems fond of keeping his hair out of eyes, and his wardrobe finally has diversity. He talks to you, and he has a personality. An adorable, grumpy, endearing personality that would play into your idea of ‘made up in your brain’ if he couldn’t be so annoying.
He stares. He grunts a lot. He doesn’t get any of your references. If you made up an imaginary dream man to feel more loved, he would like all the things you like and hate all the things you hate.
But he doesn’t.
And it always draws you in further, because he truly does seem like just a perfectly insufferable asshole.
That’s cruel. He’d been right. You could be mean.
He never seemed to mind.
And he’s more like a dog anyway. One that escaped the pound and follows you around, not even bothering to beg for scraps because you offer them with a grin.
You like his company. You like his voice. You like that he’s annoying and you like more that it’s your exact type of annoying.
You like that he’s really fucking hot, and get hotter every time you visit.
You mostly just like him.
“Of course I’m back.” You shrug, kicking a rock with the tip of your foot, watching it bounce through the dirt. “I’m always back.”
“Yeah. So far.” You see Bucky shrug in your periphery, and when you look up, he’s staring again. “Could change.”
“Won’t change.” You counter, giving him a pointed look. “Sorry, Buck. You’re stuck here until I die.”
That’s the first time you’ve called him Buck. He tenses for a moment, seems to shake something physically off his body, and nods slowly.
“Should I be worried about you dying?”
“Not right now, no.” You hum. Another rock gets kicked. “Death doesn’t agree with me.”
He chuckles. “Don’t think it agrees with anyone, doll-“
“Shut up.” Third rock. This one hits a goat, and you cringe slightly. “Shit. Sorry, Bubble McBubbleface-“
“Bubs will be.” Bucky rolls his eyes, moving to your side. He’s standing really close. You can almost feel a phantom heat from his body. “And I still can’t believe you talked me into that name. I had to tell the king of the damn country that his goat was named Bubble McBubbleface.”
You giggle, and Bucky shoots you a glare.
“You think that’s funny? I had to like pretend it was my idea,” he grumbles your name, and you always like how he says it. Like it’s some sort of answer. “I had to look the council of elders in the eyes and tell them that Bubble McBubbleface got Lady Gaga pregnant-“
Your eyes widen. “You let the goats get pregnant?”
“Course I let them get pregnant, doll.”
“But-“
He gives you a dry, amused look. “Would you rather I interfere? You want me to cockblock Bubs?”
You blink at him. “You know what cockblock means?”
Your brain had given him the personality of an eighty-year-old man. You don’t know why, but you stopped asking questions like “why” and “what” a long time ago. You just know that he shouldn’t know what cockblock means, for consistency.
“Of course I know what it means. You taught it to me.” He winks at you, and you’re pretty sure you’re flushing.
This is meant to be a dream. You shouldn’t be able to flush, or feel a little flutter and hum in your heart, or something molten in your gut when he leans a little further forward to grin down at you.
This seems less like a dream every night.
You’d be worried about that if you had the energy, or foresight, or care.
“Are goats births gross?” You ask, and he chuckles again. The sound has started to inflict a sort of high on your brain, and every color in this dreamworld seems brighter.
“They’re fucking disgusting.” He leans a little further down. You have to stare at his nose to pretend the proximity isn’t going to make your fall over. “But if you let me show you one in here, I’ll let you name the babies out there.”
You nod kind of stupidly, the whole world shifts into a barn—goat births are disgusting, but Bucky gets a look of intense focus you’d like to see re-aimed in your direction—and four months later Bucky tells you little Oz The Great and Powerful, Donald Duck, and Pants McPantsface have been welcomed into the world.
———
“So you’d see him in… Wakanda.” Raynor takes another long breath. If you didn’t think it would make everything worse, you’d tell her to try some deep breathing exercises. “Did the location ever change? Did you witness any more of those murders from before?”
You feel something spark in your chest like an electric wire, and you sit a little taller. You haven’t seen Bucky kill anyone since you’d been trapped in his brain. He’s a good man. And, as far as Raynor knows, a figment of your imagination. She has no right to fucking imply-
“It’s important that I know,” she says slowly, and you think your oddly blinding and righteous anger had been painted all over your face. “So I better understand what’s been happening to you. Please,” she says your name, leaning somehow further forward in her seat. “Answer my questions.”
You nod, letting out a slow exhale. “No murders. But he did start coming into my brain.”
Raynor frowns at you. “Was he not always-“
“Not like this.”
———
“This is new.”
You whip around, taking a stumbling step back that would’ve landed you on the floor, had Bucky not looped his one arm around your waist.
“Hey, doll. Pleasure seeing you-“ He frowns, glancing around your apartment. “Where the hell am I?”
You don’t answer, only reaching up to touch his face. His beard is soft. His hair is softer. When you trace the line of his nose it does feel like a nose, and when you poke his cheek it seems pretty cheek-like-
“What, uh,” Bucky say your name, scanning over your face with concern. “What’s happening here.”
“You’re not supposed to be here.” You whisper, poking his cheek again. Just to be sure. “You’ve never been here before.”
“Yeah, figured that one out myself-“
“No.” You shake your head, placing one hand on his chest. It fits well there, slotting right over muscle and warm skin. Every part of him seems to fit perfectly against you, and you’ve never been this close before, but you don’t have any urge to move away. “You don’t get it, Bucky. You’ve never been here. It’s been ten years, and you’ve never been here.”
“I know, doll. Doesn’t seem like there’s much to-“ He pauses, giving you an odd look. “Ten years?”
“Yeah.” You mumble. There’s not much else to say.
He just stares at you, and shakes his head slightly. “Huh. You gonna tell me where I am?”
“My apartment.”
“Your-“ He starts slightly, but you never shake in his arms. “You live in this place?”
You nod, and he pulls you to your feet, scanning over your home.
The silence wraps around your heart and lungs, and the room is spinning slightly. You’re asleep. You’re pretty fucking sure you’re asleep. You locked the door, turned off the lights, and crawled into bed, so you’re asleep. Bucky’s never been here before, but he’s not really here because this is a dream and he’s not real.
You think.
You wouldn’t bet on that anymore, though.
And nothing has ever been as important as Bucky liking your room, because the longer he just scans over the space around you the more your skin heats, the more your eyes blur, the more your throat constricts and your heart aches and pounds-
“It’s very… you.” He finally says, and every bit of nerve vanishes into the air.
He’s right. You’ve been very deliberate in making sure your home is yours.
And you’re not sure why you bothered worrying at all. He fits here, just as well as he fits in every other part of you.
“Can I get the grand tour?” He raises his brows, and you nod, leading him through your space, making jokes and feeling your heart do a little flip and spin whenever he chuckles.
And things always do change. Frequently out in the real world, and carefully and easily in here.
And at least with Bucky, the change seems adaptive. You grow, he grows with you, until you’re twined and rooted into each other, and every color in this dreamscape is so vivid it’s the only thing that still tells you:
None of this is real.
———
“It was split after that.” You say. ”Half the dreams in Wakanda, half in New York.”
You’re watching Raynor carefully. Still on the edge of her seat, legs braced like she’s ready for a fight, a tight expression on her face that Bucky calls the moose in headlights expression.
———
“You got that moose expression again, doll.”
You frown at him. “Stop calling it that, it’s just my face-“
“No. Your normal face has a dimple here, and your brows rest like that.”
He’s touching you as he explains, moving your features to match his words. You’d smack his hand away if his touch wasn’t soothing and flaring all at once. If you didn’t really love the idea of him looking at you long enough to know exactly how to adjust your face, and how to be right about it.
“But it’s not like that now.” He finishes, giving you a pointed look. “You got moose-face.”
You wrinkle your nose at him. “Moose-face is worse, Bucky. And it’s still not a real thing-“
“Yeah it is. Most people got a moose face.” He shrugs. He’s staring again. It’s taking a lot of effort not to melt forward into him. “Tight expression. Like a deer in headlights, but they think they’re too good to be in the headlights. They’re gonna go down fighting.”
“Oh.” You tilt your head, giving him a sickly-sweet smile. “Can I see your moose face?”
“I don’t have a moose face-“
“Liar.” You poke his ribs, narrowing your eyes. “You said everyone has one-“
“I said ‘most people.’” Bucky shrugs. “Moose face means you’re gonna get hit, you just don’t believe it yet. I know how to not get hit.”
“Sounds like something someone with a moose-face would say.”
He chuckles. You’re sitting down, and you’re going to fall over. “No luck, doll. I got other faces, but no moose face.” He frowns at the air. “Never could afford to have one.”
There’s suddenly something heavier in his eyes, and it makes your whole body feel wired and heavy. It’s suffocating and crushing and rotten, and it’s just an expression but everything feels worse when you see it—when his shoulders hunch and his face becomes set like stone, just like all those years ago in the bathroom—so it needs to stop right now.
“What about a wolf face?”
Bucky blinks at you. “What.”
“You said no moose face.” You cross your arms, raising your chin slightly. “Do you have a wolf face?”
“I don’t know what that is-“
“So suddenly you’re the only one who’s allowed to make up expressions?”
You hold is gaze for a long second—you’ve gotten really good at doing that, but only when you’re dreaming of Bucky—until his lips twitch slightly.
And everything feels alright again.
———
“How much of New York appeared in your… dreams? Was is like Wakanda, where you wandered?”
You frown at the air. Raynor’s indulging in this, but not like you’d hoped. Not shutting you down or telling you that you’re crazy. You’d really hoped to hear some validation that you were just plain crazy.
“Not really. I mean, there was one night where we were at my job, a few at the coffee shop I usually go to, and maybe like, five at the park, but we were mostly my apartment when I was showing him stuff.”
“And what did you-“ Raynor’s whole body tenses, and the last part of her question is pushed through her teeth. “What did you show Bucky?”
You flush, your gaze dropping down to your hands. “Stuff. In my apartment.”
———
You don’t know exactly what gives. What straw completely desolates every single bone in your body, and ends with you here.
Maybe it was that you’d finally mentioned all the murders, and you’d never seem him look horrified before, but the sight has dislodged something along your ribs that hadn’t mended until he let you move his head to your lap. Stroking his hair as he stared at you, telling him about your day.
Maybe it’s that you always tell him about your day. That this—whatever this is—has shifted from trading teasing comments and trying to learn about each other, into pure and comfortable understanding, and now that’s how most nights are spent.
Bucky’s reports are short. The goats are being goats—that’s all they know how to do—he doesn’t like a song someone tried to make him listen to because it’s too loud, and Shuri brought him some food that made his face feel like it was going to fall off, but in a good way. You pretty sure he only gives them because you insist upon it, but he always puffs out his chest a little at the end, when you smile at him and start to tell him everything you can remember about your own day.
Maybe it’s how he always hangs onto your every word. Like it’s gospel or scripture, and to do anything but listen and watch would be a higher sin than any blood you’ve imagined on his hands.
And maybe that’s it.
Maybe it’s how you really don’t believe it anymore, when you remind yourself that he’s not real. That he’s just a figment of your mind, manifested to evolve as you do and always be exactly what you need.
You still tell yourself the lie, night after night.
But you’re certain it’s a lie. That Bucky is just like that. Meant to be here, with you, the exact same way you’re supposed to be wherever he is.
And now you’re here.
You’d started it. You’d slammed your mouth to his, and he hadn’t moved. There had been a brief moment where you’d been worried you’d made a mistake, but the second you’d tried to push back on his chest and apologize, he’d kicked into gear.
And wet dreams are supposed to be hazy. Cast in a misting light and more of a halo that brings your body high than an actual, nameable feeling.
But you can really feel this.
And it’s heaven.
You’d expected Bucky to kiss slowly. Deliberately. It’s how you’d always seen him move and speak, and you hadn’t been against the idea of being kissed in a methodical and careful way.
You’ve never been happier to be wrong.
Bucky kisses you like you’re air and water and every good thing in the world. All passion and spit and burning desire, where you can feel every bit of want in his movements. His mouth is demanding as he traces his tongue over your teeth and groans your name down your throat, his arm snaking around your waist to hold you steady against his chest. When his knee presses between your thighs you have to wrap your arms around his neck for balance, and it’s all you can do to return ever bit of want he throws at you as he walks to backwards to your mattress.
It takes effort to pry your mouth from Bucky’s. He doesn’t want you to go, even a few inches, and when you start to palm him through his pants—smiling against his lips and squeezing his bulge in a silent request—he hisses against your lips.
“You-“ He groans, nipping at your lower lip as you smile, repeating the movement. “You don’t- Shit, doll, you don’t know what you’re doing to me-“
You hum, bumping your nose with his and swaying in his hold. “Maybe. I’d like to do more.”
Bucky chuckles, and the sound rolls right into your core. “Think you could take more, sweetheart? Cause I’ve been a gentleman, but if more is on the table-“
It’s easy to cut him off with a heavy, deep kiss that has him half growling down your throat and his hips jerking against your movements.
“Want more.” You whisper, combing your free hand through his hair and trying to pull yourself impossibly closer. “Want you.”
Bucky tenses against you, and when you lean back to meet his eyes he’s staring again. Looking at you like you’re glowing, kneading your skin under his hand like he’s checking that you’re not going to vanish.
“You want me.” He mutters, scanning over your flushed face. “You sure about-“
“Yes.” You nod, giving him a small, soft smile. “Only if you do, obviou-“
Bucky cuts you off with another bruising kiss, and before you know what’s happening he’s lowering you onto the mattress, kneeling between your legs, and shoving your thighs apart with a wolf-like grin.
You don’t know when you ended up naked. You can’t really care though, because Bucky shoves his face right into your pussy, and your mind empties of all thoughts that aren’t his name.
It’s another point in favor of this being a dream. Bucky’s mouth against your cunt feels so amazingly real—licking and biting and eating you out like he’s been starved for a hundred years—but this has to be a dream, because no real man has ever made you feel this good. He knows every single way the plunge his tongue in and out of your pussy until you’re squeezing your thighs around his head and tugging at his hair, and his beard scrapes and tickles at your thighs in a way that’s driving you out of your mind, and fuck, he keeps moving his attention to nip at your clit, sucking it between his lips and letting his teeth graze against you, and-
“Bucky-“ You moan, grinding shameless into his face, trying hopelessly to remain upright with one hand, your fingers fisted into the sheets below you. “Please- I’m gonna- Fuck, I’m so close-“
He growls against you, flatting his tongue against your clit and squeezing his hand on your thigh, and that does it. You cum with a scream of his name, warmth washing over your body as your knees clamp around him and your eyes roll back in your head.
He’s ruined you. All Bucky did was eat you out in a dream, and you’re panting and flushed and drunk on him. You don’t know how you’ll manage to move on from this in real life.
You don’t really care. Not as Bucky runs his hand over your dripping, fluttering cunt with a look of open awe on his face, presses a kiss right over your clit that makes your hips jerk, and moves to his feet.
He’s naked now too.
And he’s perfect.
His cock is big and thick, standing at proud attention and jerking slightly as you run a hand up his thighs, your fingers trailing over his balls and a little drool falling out of your lips as you lean to take him in your mouth-
Bucky’s hand tangles in your hair, pulling you back to meet his eyes.
He looks just as wrecked as you feel. Chest heaving and eyes blown with lust. You’re going to lose your mind.
“Bucky-“
“Not now.” He mutters, pulling you a little further back. “Need to be inside of you, doll. Please.”
You’d have to be insane to say no.
You crawl back on the mattress, spreading your legs in silence invitation, and something hot and powerful flashes in his eyes as he takes you in.
“You-“
“I’m sure.” You squirm in the sheets, running your hand between your legs and starting to rub your clit in slow, strong circles. “God, I’m so fucking sure, please-“
He’s shockingly fast for such a large man. It might be the whole dream thing, but you barely register him moving to kneel over you, swatting your hand away with a darkened gaze a set jaw.
“I do that,” he grunts, running two fingers up and down your cunt, smirking at you high whine. “Legs open, doll, want to see how wet I’m making you.”
You nod, falling flat on your back, and pour all your focus into his order. “Fuck, Bucky-“ He shoves the fingers into your pussy, and your back arches off the bed. “Shit- I- Please-“
“You want my cock?” He drawls your name, and you can only nod dumbly at the ceiling. “Come on, tell me you want it-“
“Want it,” you gasp, hugging your body as he starts to pump his finger, crooking them at the exact right spot deep inside of you. “Fuck, Bucky, you said- You said you’d fuck me-“
He clicks his tongue. “I said I’d be inside of you-“
“But- But I want you to fuck me.” You start to roll your hips as his pace picks up. “Please, Bucky-“
You whine as his fingers vanish, leaving you clenching around only the air, but it’s a short-lived pain.
Bucky slams into you with one thrust, and you’d been wrong again.
He hadn’t ruined you. He’s destroyed you.
You’ve never been so full in your life. You’ve never been fucked like this in your life. With a fervor that should be painful, but just makes you feel wanted. Cared for. Bucky’s every thrust is brutal and rough, and his mouth on yours is that same feral kiss from before, but he’s pressed his body over yours like he’s trying to shield you from the world, and he’s groaning your name down your throat like it’s a hymn.
You’d say his name too, if you could remember how to speak. But Bucky’s hitting every right spot deep in your pussy, and you’re so high the world is just color and light and Bucky, and when he starts to suck and kiss a line down your throat, along your collarbone, and over your tits, you’re sure you’re going to fly out of your skin.
Then he takes your nipple into his mouth, and the sound you make is almost inhuman. Your release crashes over you like a wave, Bucky groans against your breast as you squeeze around his cock, and a burning warmth coats your thighs and cunt as he cums with a roar.
You make a small noise of content as Bucky pulls out, kissing a soft line back up your jaw before dropping his brow to yours and letting out a long, slow breath.
“That was…” He trails off, moving his hand to hold your hips, drawing firm patterns with his thumb that might drive you out of your mind.
“Yeah.” You whisper. “It was.”
He nods, and neither of you move for a really long time. Usually you’ve woken up by now, but no part of you is eager to go, eager to leave where there’s still a little buzz in your heart from the pleasure, where you can feel a perfect ache between your legs and you’re so happily trapped under the warmth of Bucky’s body-
Happy.
You’re happy.
This isn’t real, but under Bucky’s body you’re safe and warm and happy. And you don’t want to go.
Almost as if he can read your mind, Bucky clears his throat.
“Thank you.” He mutters, his breath hot and soft over your ear. “Needed this.” There a long pause, and his hand squeezes on your hips. “Needed you. And I know it’s dumb to thank you, because-“
“It’s not.” You cut him off with a kiss to his neck, rubbing your hand up and down his back. “And I needed you too.”
He lets out a dry laugh that you don’t understand, but doesn’t push on it. Just kisses your brow and rolls onto his back, taking you with him and clinging to you like you’re a tether to something a little more important than just a dream.
And you really don’t know why he’d laughed.
You do need him. You’re growing more and more certain every night that you need Bucky more than you need anything in real life. That he’s more than anyone else, and that he maybe, possibly, could be real.
He feels real, beneath you with a calloused hand squeezing at your skin and your finger tracing over the scars near his arm.
He sounds real, when you finally ask why he only has one arm, and he takes a very long breath but mutters that he fell off a train. When he tells you that bad people found him, and he wasn’t really the best guy either, for a really long time.
He tastes real when you kiss him for comfort, and smells real when you bury your face in his neck as he continues.
You know he’s not telling you everything, but you also know he’s not lying.
And you really do know that, in some strange and impossible way, this might be real.
———
“I see.” Raynor swallows, and she won’t stop staring at you. “Did those, ah, occurrences happen again?”
You nod, staring at your hands. “Pretty much every time after.” A smile tugs at your lips. “One time we used the barn.”
“I-“ Raynor sighs. “Understood. How long, exactly, did this continue?”
“They never stopped, not until-“ Your nails dig into your skin, and a heavy stone lodges itself in your throat. “The, uh, the blip.”
———
These have been the worst five years of your life. And they haven’t been amazing for anyone, but no one else has to feel this like you do.
And that’s selfish. A little narcissistic. Incredibly crude.
But it doesn’t make it any less true.
Because everyone lost people. Everyone watched loved ones vanish right in front of them, witnessed the world fall and crumble around them as half of humanity vanished, and got left in the rubble to pick up the pieces.
But no one else seems to feel this. Nobody else seems to be falling apart at the seams from nothing at all like you are. Because Bucky was probably never real. But he’s gone.
And you don’t know how to move on.
It’s odd to grieve a dream. It makes living impossible. You go to all the support groups and listen to everyone share their own pain, and it makes your heart ache for them but nothing in you ever seems to heal. It’s as if a piece of you had been ripped out and ground to ash, and mending over it would be blasphemous. You don’t want to fix it. You need to, because this is no way to exist, but it feels wrong every time you try. As if even your body can’t just admit he’s gone, and you need to keep going. But everything feels artificial. Every breath is mechanical, and every beat of your heart feels shallow and deliberate, like it’s only doing just enough to keep you alive.
What’s worse is that you can’t tell anyone why you’ve become a sunken, hollow shell. You’d sound insane. You’re already not winning any points in the sound of mind department, and you do have a record, so if you went to one of the countless therapists who have been making their living off of everyone’s loss and said ‘see, doctor, the person I loved only existed in my dreams, but he vanished with the snap and now it feels like I’ve been cleaved in half’, you’d be locked up in an asylum.
You hate that you’re only realizing it now. That the overwhelming sense of warmth and peace you felt in your dreams with Bucky was love. That you’d fallen in love with a piece of your own mind. You’d basically fallen in love with your reflection. Your annoying, handsome, grumpy reflection that you’d rip your spine out of your body to reshape it back into his form, to bring him back to your side.
And the dreams still happen. He’s just not there, and it’s the worst thing in the fucking universe. You keep coming back to a forest, and there’s a little ash that’s always drifting around in the air, that feels really important.
It all always feels like more than just Bucky being gone. It feels like you’ve missed a train, or taken a wrong turn, and lost a key that double as a compass, and now you’re stranded at the bottom of the ocean.
Alone.
You’ve spent your whole life with only yourself to rely on, but you’ve never felt more alone.
———
“And after the blip?”
“He came back.” You’re going to cry. You really hate crying in front of Raynor—she always tells you it’s going to be okay, and you fucking know that—but you can’t stop it. Because Bucky really did come back, and it’s still the best thing that ever happened to you.
———
During the past five years, your sleep has gotten fucked. You get about four hours a night, because that’s just long enough to keep you functional but too short to allow you to appear in the forest.
So it took a while to pass out. You’d curled up in your bed, drank tea, done yoga, followed every ‘how to fall asleep fast’ internet guide until your eyes drooped, and you were gone.
When the dream takes shape around you, you’re not in the forest, but in a sleek, hospital-like room that you don’t recognize.
And he’s there.
Bucky’s right fucking there.
You make a small, choked sound, and his eyes shoot to yours in an instant.
He’s moving in a second. Half launching across the room to grab you before your knees give out, holding you to his chest as you cling to his shirt and press your face into his neck.
“Hey,” he mutters your name, and you can hear the low horror in it. He’s putting together why you’re crying. Why you’re scratching at his neck and trying to half climb up his body. “You’re alright. It’s all good, doll, everything’s good now-“
You cut him off with a long, heavy kiss, and his hand moves to cup your head.
He has two hands again. You don’t really care why.
Because Bucky’s rubbing circles on the skin of your waist, and letting you cry without making a big fucking deal about it, and nothing mended. Nothing’s ever mended. You’ve been a little fucking broken for a long time, with or without Bucky. But it had been a kind of broken that had folded and shaped with him, and when he’d been gone it was like half your organs had been frozen and crumbled in your body.
But he’s back. And you feel real again.
———
There’s a long silence in the air, and you know what’s coming. The question. You’ve known she’s going to ask it the whole time—you’d honestly expected it a lot sooner—and you’ve been prepared. You have a very long speech about how Bucky had changed again—short hair, kept the new arm, appearing in his own, mostly empty apartment and trading the Wakandan clothing for jeans and jackets—and that he’d told you how much he hated some guy named John.
He’d said he despised the asshole. That he was everything Steve had hated—you’d had a pretty good idea who Steve was, based on context and a theory but you hadn’t be quite ready to it yet—and nothing sounded better than punching his lights out.
And you’re ready to explain that you’d had the news on in the background, a few words had broken from static background noise, and your whole world had shifted. John Walker had been announced as the new Captain America, they’d run a stupid little fluff piece on the life of Steve Rogers, and there was Bucky. Captain America’s best friend and ally, the assumed cause of that whole the Avengers are breaking up thing, and the former Winter Solider.
You’d mostly stared at the screen for a really long time as everything feel into place—you’d looked him up after, and it was a little embarrassing it had taken you this long given that he has a Wikipedia page—before calling Raynor, and preparing for the question.
But when she asks it, your mind goes blank, and all you can’t think to say is the truth.
“May I ask,” Raynor says carefully. ”Why are you only discussing this now?”
“Because he’s real.”
———
Bucky has dreams. Not nightmares.
Dreams.
He dreams about Her. She’s the only constant in his life, the only solace and purely good thing he knows, and She’s not even damn real.
Bucky’s pretty sure She’s not real. It wouldn’t make any sense for Her to be real. He’d spent most of the years assuming that She was simply a result of him being able to dream again, a trick of his mind that was both a comfort and a torture, because he needed those dreams—needed Her, in a strange way that lived in his chest and was soft on his skin—more than he’d ever needed anything, but they also reminded him of what he’d never have.
A life in a simple apartment, filled with his own presence in a way that was easy. He always loved that about Her apartment. How everywhere he looked, She was there. The colors and furniture and posters and trinkets on the shelves all screamed Her, and no one could ever replicate that if they tried.
He didn’t know how to do that anywhere. How to just be him in a way that didn’t feel like something was strangling him. His apartment was barren. Every time he spoke it felt like he should be apologize immediately after, because barely anyone seemed to like him, let alone want to hear him.
Bucky understood that. He wasn’t exactly his own biggest fan, and the only time there was no part of him trying to escape his own body was when he was asleep, and She was at his side.
He liked being himself with Her. It was simple, and natural, and never a labor. She never flinched away from him—She seemed to like being close to him—and Bucky never really wanted to wake up. Part of him always hoped that this time, when he fell asleep and She appeared once more, he’d wake up in Her apartment, and it would all be real.
A very small part of him needed this—needed Her—to be real. It would be really amazing if She was real. It wasn’t something he deserved to ask for, to plead with the universe about, but he did. He kept trying to come up with reasons She could be real.
She felt real, in his dreams. She spoke and acted like a person, and not a doll or shell his brain may have created to get him through his de-programming. She was always saying things and making references he didn’t get until she explained them, things he was certain he hadn’t heard in passing. She was way prettier than anyone Bucky had ever seen, which would contribute to Her being only a dream if he wasn’t so certain that he simply wasn’t that creative.
He could imagine a pretty girl.
He couldn’t imagine Her.
Smart and funny and gorgeous, fitting against him like She’d been molded to, teasing him in ways he’d never thought of and kind to him ways he couldn’t be kind to himself.
She was never disgusted by the arm, and Bucky was sure that—if She was only a part of his mind given shape—she would know about the whole Winter Soldier thing. But he’d had to explain all he could to Her, and when he’d left certain, darker parts out She hadn’t said but that’s not the truth, is it, James.
She seemed to like Bucky. That was the most concrete proof he had that She had to somehow be real. Nobody liked him. Not in to raw, unrelenting way She did.
So She had to be real.
Bucky really hoped, against all odds, that she was real.
It would fix a lot of problems if She was real. Sam kept trying to get him to date, and he didn’t want to. He always felt like he was betraying Her. It wasn’t sustainable or logical, but logic didn’t really matter here, because Bucky’s gut would wither and his hands would curl into fists every time he had to try and flirt with another woman. They didn’t fit against him as well as She did. Their teasing would either bite too hard or not bite at all, and the night would end with Bucky falling back into Her arms.
He asked Shuri—very vaguely, he didn’t want his brain to be poked and prodded again—what reoccurring dreams could mean.
“Reoccurring?” She’d frowned at him over the video call. “You’ll have to clarify, reoccurring can mean many things.”
“Uh,” Bucky had swallowed, glancing at his mattress across the room. “A dream you have every night. And it could change, but it’s always the same person in it?”
Shuri had given him an odd look. “Have you been having a dream like that?”
“No.” His answer had been too fast. He needed to keep it together if he was going to sell this. “Sam has. He mentioned that he kept seeing some lady in his dreams, and she felt real but he’d never met her before. Thought I’d do him a favor and ask about it.”
It wasn’t the best lie he’d ever told, if Shuri look of doubt had been any indication. But she bit, and kept moving.
“Well, it looks as if Sam,” she’d given him a pointed look, and Bucky had forced his face to remain completely neutral. “Has found his soulmate.”
Bucky had stared at her for a really long time. His vision had blurred, there had been a ringing in his ears, and time had seemed to still as Shuri’s words sank in.
Soulmate.
“I thought, uh,” Bucky had cleared his throat, his voice a little hoarse. “Soulmates aren’t real-“
“Of course they’re real.” Shuri had shrugged. “Soulmate is an archaic term for two brains that emit the exact same neuroelectricity, their nerve paths aligning completely. Often they will have differing personalities and lives, but the tie of the biology will link them in sleep, and they will experience incredibly vivid lucid dreams. Like this video conference, but if our minds and bodies were built to fall in love with each other. It is rare, but not impossible.”
Bucky had frowned. “But I- uh, Sam said he’s only had these dreams about four years-“
“Sam’s brain underwent severe rewiring and torment.” Shuri’s voice had been dry, her expression flat. “He would do well to remember that his connection may have been slightly mauled, and only after a certain genius princess fixed him would he have been able to reciprocate the bond fully.”
Oh.
The first time Bucky had appeared in Her apartment, She had said ten years. When She’d appeared to him for the very first time, She’d said she’d dreamt of him before.
Bucky had assumed that had been another way his brain was comforting him. Telling him he could be the type of person a pretty girl like Her dreamed about.
But when he thought about it—clenched his jaw and drew up the heavier, blood-stained memories of the Soldier—there had sometimes been someone in his body with him. Not the Soldier, but the third presence that wasn’t hostile. Wasn’t really foreign. Just was.
“Could the-“ Bucky had swallowed, watching Shuri carefully as he spoke. “Sam said he could sometimes feel the gal while he was awake. Is that a thing that could happen?”
“If Sam was not himself, and the soulmate was not of full maturity, yes.”
Bucky had felt himself pale. “What do you mean, full maturity-“
“You are a hundred years old, Mr. Barnes.” Shuri had raised her brows, and all pretense of Sam had dropped. “There would have naturally been a point where your soulmate was a child, as that is how most people begin their lives. It is likely that you were still under the control of Hydra in your soulmate’s youth, and she would have only been a growing presence in your mind until she was a full person, and you were no longer only the shell of a man I met after my father’s death.”
“So she- Would she have seen what I did? As the Solider?”
He knew She had. She’d told him She had.
Bucky still didn’t want it to be true.
Shuri had given him a sympathetic look. “Unfortunately, yes. She would have. But if she is what you say, she is a perfect match to you in every way. She will not care what you were before, under the control of Hydra.”
“But-“
“It is not something worth protesting, Bucky.” Shuri had sighed, leaning a little closer to the camera. “This is not something that can be severed or changed, so please do not bother to ask. And remember that she is real. Her own person, with her own pain. I would recommend you attempt to find her, but that is something you will have to decide for yourself.”
And now he was here. Staring at the dark screen where Shuri’s face had been moments before, his head still spinning around the word.
Soulmate.
She’d made is sound scientific. Possible. Bucky could have a soulmate.
He didn’t deserve a soulmate. Not one he’d likely trapped in his mind, forced to witness the brutal atrocities he’d committed as the Winter Solider.
And he wanted to find Her. Bucky wanted to touch Her and kiss her and keep her longer than just the night. To wake up and see Her next to him, tangible and all his.
He’d liked the idea of something being his in a way that wasn’t a curse. In a way he could throw his all right back to Her, and she’d catch it.
But there was still the sour, molding feeling over his heart that—since She was real, and probably had Her own issues to deal with—She wouldn’t want him in her life. Not Her real life, where everything was more complicate than just them in a literal dream.
He shouldn’t find Her. She’d be better off without him. Bucky would do nothing but make Her life more complicated, and he could get through this know that She was real and safe, far away from him but still haunting his dreams in the best way possible.
He was so lost in his head he misses the first phone call. And the second one.
It was the third one that got his attention—buzzing and ringing on the table next to his computer, Dr. Raynor flashing across the screen—and the fourth one he actually managed to pick up.
Bucky didn’t bother to hide the tension in his voice when he spoke. He really didn’t have the time or energy for this, not right now. “Doc, I’m not due back for another four days-“
“I’m aware, James, I keep a calendar.” Raynor sighed through the speaker, and Bucky had never heard her sound so tense. It was a little concerning. “However, I am going to have to request you come in today. It’s an emergency.”
He scowled. “What emergency, I haven’t done anything emergency worthy-“
“It’s not only about you.” Raynor snapped. “And I’m changing it from a request to an order. Office in twenty minutes.” There was a long pause, and then a whispered, “Please.”
That wasn’t good.
“Did I get in trouble?” Bucky asked, his grip on the phone tightening. “Cause I’ve been following all the stupid rules, and if Sam says I did something he’s just being a dramatic dick-“
Raynor sighed, and Bucky could picture the thin look of exhaustion on her face. “You are not in trouble, James. It’s not- I can’t explain over the phone. It may be better for you to see.”
“See what?”
“Just come to the fucking office.”
Bucky blinked, and the line went dead.
Raynor couldn’t make him go. But he also had never heard her swear like that. Or order him to come in before an appointment.
He was a little curious. And it wasn’t like he had anything else to do today but drown in the knowledge of what Shuri had told him, trying to work out how he’d face Her tonight.
So he went to the office. Chances are it was nothing. Bucky couldn’t imagine it would be something. He spent the whole ride trying to think of an idea, came up blank, and decided that Sam had mentioned something to Raynor about how Bucky had been brooding more than usual, and he was just going to have to explain the whole I’m not brooding, I’m just sick of Sam’s blind date bullshit and also maybe have a soulmate thing. Then he’s kick Sam’s ass, and everything would be fine.
Bucky entered to office with a whole speech ready. His chin raised high and his arms crossed, because he was already having a very weird and complex day, and he didn’t need this.
All the words were knocked out of him the moment he opened the door, glanced around the room, and saw who was on the couch.
Her.
In person.
Very, very real, and in Raynor’s office, and here.
Raynor said Her name. The name Bucky knew Her by, and her last name.
It was a nice last name. Barnes would suit Her better, but the idea that she was real enough to have a last name was already bringing Bucky to his knees, so he’d have to save that thought for later.
“Meet James Barnes.” Raynor was probably looking between them. Bucky couldn’t be sure though, because he couldn’t stop staring at Her.
She was moving to Her feet, and seeing Her in person was somehow even better. She was sharper around the edges, and more colorful in small, bright ways, and nothing about Her felt like it could ever slip between Bucky’s fingers.
She wasn’t mist. She wasn’t an illusion, or a coping mechanism.
She was real.
Walking towards him with wide eyes and an open mouth, reaching a hand up to poke at his face. Tracing his nose and running fingers over his cheekbones, Her eyes never leaving his.
Bucky caught Her hand right as it brushed over his lips, and She made the prettiest gasp he’d ever heard.
“You’re real.” He said, because it was all he could think of. Nothing about this was a dream. Bucky would not have a dream where Raynor was watching him restrain himself from kissing Her until she collapsed in his arms.
“I’m real.” She whispered, and Her voice was better in real life too. “You’re here.”
He nodded. “I’m here.” He paused, scanning over Her open features. “Don’t think I’m going anywhere, doll.”
Her face split into a wide smile, all teeth and light and joy. For Bucky.
There was adoration on Her face, and it was all for Bucky.
“Good.” Her smile grew, Her fingers tangling with his metal ones. “Because I’m not either.”
End Note: Save me Bucky Barnes raising goats. Bucky Barnes raising goats, save me.
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Every day I think of the apocalyptic Hawkins we could’ve had. Like mmm yes give me the party exploring their abandoned past, the decrepit halls of their old middle school, the overtaken railroad tracks and car junkyard, the haunted creel house, the quarry and lover’s lake…the abandoned city as a metaphor for abandoned childhood instead of El…impeccable horror vibes from the run-down buildings and fend-for-yourself from Vecna and the military…Vecna memories being for the party and forcing them to reckon with their pasts individually and with their counterparts…do you guys pick up what I’m putting down like ugh the vibes of what I hoped it was were so peak
constantly thinking about that fic where will gets green oil pastel smudges on mike’s face when they kiss for the first time (i'm tearing you asunder by @smoosnoom)