Hiya! I needed a place to keep all of my favorite fics so here's a list of them, categorized per character :D Most are x reader but I may occasionally add other types of fics
Dividers by @cafekitsune !!
Call me any variation of my username || I'm 20! || This is a sideblog :0
Just to be extra clear and avoid issues:
I'm only adding recs for characters I read about (for obvious reasons)
I don't know any of the authors personally so don't assume I agree with everything they post or share
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Recs after the cut!!
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Tag index: pls lmk if i forget to properly tag something
#spicybee -> suggestive content, 18+ etc
#fanart gallery -> fanart reblogs
#sourhoneybeewrites -> my attempts at stringing together coherent sentences (aka my fics, headcanons etc)
#rambly bee -> me talking about random things, fandom related or not
Characters:
MCU:
Bucky Barnes
Natasha Romanoff
Matt Murdock
Foggy Nelson
Frank Castle
Johnny Storm
DCU:
Dick Grayson
Jason Todd
Bruce Wayne
Batfam/multicharacter
Harry Potter/Marauders (Fuck JKR, I don't support her or share her ideals, boycott the HBO show don’t give her the means to continue her actions)
in which a bout of insomnia prompts the usage of your arguably overworked baking equipment.
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader
genre: fluff
tags: established relationship. cliché flour fight into kissing... sorry... no i'm not. use of pet names. make out sesh (obviously).
word count: 1.4k
a/n: also known as spencer and reader take on the margotlia bucket list for margovember!!! happy birthday to my lover @pathologicalreid!!! who has very quickly become my other half on this silly little side of tumblr. a prophet told me there are snickerdoodle cookies and a smithsonian date with our names on it in our futures ♡
"Honey, please tell me the light on in the kitchen is you getting a glass of water."
Like a deer in headlights, you're frozen in your beelined pathway between the fridge and the countertop of Spencer's kitchen, the carton of eggs in your hands preventing any attempt of a lie to him.
"Uh..." Your eyes lock with his, and he's visibly deflating upon spotting the pantry's baking ingredients arranged in front of you. "I'm just getting water?"
"I didn't realise you put sticks of butter into your water," he counters, voice meticulously picking apart your lie in front of your face. "Does that taste good?"
"Yes?"
"I'm sure," he nods his head, his feet carrying him over to you behind the counter. "What recipe have you chosen to victimise today?"
"Snickerdoodle cookies," you mumble, as his arms wrap around your waist, and his chin sits on your shoulder, eyes peering at your phone screen that had the cookie recipe open.
"Any particular reason?"
"I couldn't sleep," you explain. "Did I wake you up?"
"Yeah," he nods, and a beat passes where you mumble a quiet apology to him, before he's pulling away from you and picking up your phone. "Where do we start?"
It wasn't the first time you had baked instead of sleeping, and it certainly wasn't the first time Spencer had woken up to the sound of your hand mixer combining sugar and butter, or the oven timer dinging to accompany the smell of freshly baked muffins. In fact, he had become accustomed to not getting through an entire fortnight without at least one tray of baked goods taking up counter space.
It was the first time he had offered to help you, though. He either accompanied you and watched you bake, or sat at his desk to get paperwork done (he said he should use the extra time spent conscious wisely).
"You don't have to help," you're shaking your head, but he's already going to the sink to wash his hands.
"You only slept for two hours before waking up to do this. I'd like to get you back to bed sooner rather than later," he answers, patting his hands dry. "I won't sleep until you do, anyways."
"Okay," you relent, staring at him almost stunned, before you return to the recipe you had up on your phone. "Um... could you combine the sugar and butter?"
Baking with Spencer Reid seemed to make everything a lot easier. Ignoring the obvious (the help an extra set of hands provided), his eidetic memory meant you could throw a step his way, and he'd know exactly what he was doing. Having asked him to add the eggs to his sugar and butter mix, he was already separating the yolk from the whites before you needed to say a thing.
"Have you ever stuck your hand into flour?" you ask him, and he lifts his head, eyebrows frowning together.
"No. Why would I do that?"
"To know what it feels like," you say, dryly, though there isn't any malice behind it. "Have you never wanted to know what it feels like?"
"You can use context clues to figure out what it would feel like," he replies. "Correct?"
"Spencer, you're entirely missing the point," you shake your head, and though he lifts his head from his sugar-butter-and-egg mixture to question you, he doesn't even remotely expect a large fistful of flour to explode across his chest.
Then, you're laughing, and he's still battling with the initial shock of your flour attack for a few more seconds to laugh with you. But, when he does, he's almost mocking with it, and your face falls when he's putting his own hand into the container labelled flour, lifting it, and dragging his hand over your stomach.
"Oh my God!" you say through a laugh, looking down at the smear of flour on your t-shirt. "Spencer!"
"Reap what you can sow," he retorts.
So, you do.
You aren't too sure when the flour fighting gets more intimate. Somewhere between your fingers running it through his hair, and his hands landing on your ass, as he tugs you into him.
You're heaving, though the smile on your face is perfect, and he's certain he might be falling in love with you all over again. Cheeks stained in flour and all.
"Hello," you sing, lifting your chin up to smile at him.
"Hi, sweet girl," he replies, ducking his head down to brush his lips against yours, and you pull a face at the faint taste of flour on them.
Your finger lifts up to brush his lower lip, face growing concentrated as you brush the powder off it. "You've got a little... something..."
"Do I?" he asks, condescendingly, and you're firmly nodding your head.
"Yep. This is why I bake alone, Spencer Reid," you tut.
His eyebrows raise. "I don't know if I want to even try to prove you wrong."
"I wouldn't recommend it."
"Duly noted. Anything you do recommend?"
You pause. "Kissing me might help in my journey of forgiving you for this mess."
If he's got any plan to defend himself, it crumbles beneath the words of your request, and his lips are stretching into a smile.
"I'll do whatever I can."
His lips have a film on them from the brushed away flour, making them softer than they usually are, as he presses them against yours. Hands that were once resting almost teasingly on your ass lift to your hips, and your own drop to the countertop behind him as you lean into him.
As you usually feel in your slow moments like this with him, you feel your heart soar, your head tilting to the side as you accomodate his face being so close to your own.
Arguably, his favourite thing about kissing you for longer than half a second, is the mewls and hums that leave your lips. Never too much to prompt anything more, but instead just enough to tell him just how much you enjoy kissing him. A feeling that is entirely mutual.
As soon as it starts, it's over. Which can't really be true, for you are panting when his head pulls away from yours, and he's got that glassy look in his eyes that always makes your body warm.
"We need to go shower," he murmurs, breath warm against your skin.
You want to decline, just to stay standing right there in the kitchen with him, the urge to keep kissing him almost overwhelming. But his fingers have lifted to brush against a patch of flour on your neck, and you're surrendering at the feeling.
"Okay."
Thus, forty-five minutes and one unreasonably long shower later, you were standing back in the kitchen, a bowl with cinnamon and sugar in front of you. Spencer's t-shirt hanging off your body — after you had expertly coerced him into letting you wear it — and a fork in your hands as you whisk the two toppings together.
He's sitting on a stool on the other side of the bench, stirring the dough together after you had complained it was too thick. He argued it was supposed to be.
Heading over to Spencer once the cinnamon and sugar was combined in a bowl, you mumble, "Okay. 'm tired," your head buried into the crook of his neck.
"Yeah, weaponising that flour probably exhausted some energy," he muses, letting go of the wooden spoon to wrap his arms around you. "We still need to bake these, though."
"Cookie dough is yummy too," you retort, hand reaching out to pinch a piece of the dough.
"Cookie dough isn't safe for you to eat," he answers, catching your wrist before you can get ahold of any batter. Upon seeing your pout, combined with the tired look in your eyes, he relents, letting you pick up a small piece just to eat. "How about we put this in the fridge, and we bake them tomorrow?"
"I like that plan."
"I thought you would."
Helping him with the clean up consisted of you putting the dough in the fridge and cinnamon sugar in the pantry, and him doing... everything else. He didn't seem to mind, though, and his hands found their place on your waist as he walked you back towards the bedroom.
"C'mon, sleepy girl."
He laughs at your incoherent grumble towards the name calling, letting you drag him back into the bed adorned with wrinkled sheets.
"Thanks for baking with me," you say, voice layered with your exhaustion as you're curling up next to him.
Assistant, Always Annoyed [part 2]
Sherlock x fem!reader
Summary: He was determined to get you back, but did he really think it through? | fluff, happy ending
part one link
The first half of the taxi ride was surprisingly silent. John had his sight fixed outside the window, wondering what the hell Sherlock was going to do when they reach your office.
His detective friend was just as quiet, hoping the taxi would go slower. For all his talk about being brave and getting you back, he was beyond nervous now.
Summary: Late nights at the CBI are exhausting but often necessary. It doesn't help that you keep getting distracted by a certain blond consultant.
a/n: Not proofread, I wrote this in like an hour and a half and only finished five minutes ago (as of posting) so keep that in mind while reading. I decided to grab a dialogue prompt from @castielscaplan 's fluff/romance list to help me start
“If we get married to other people, they’re just going to have to deal with me third-wheeling forever”
Warnings: nothing important, bad writing :p
As always reblogs and comments appreciated!!!
The CBI after-hours is a very weird place to be.
No hurried footsteps in the hallways, no yelling from an interrogation room, no phones ringing.
Most people went home after 5 pm, 6 or 7 at most if there was something urgent to handle. Only dedicated (and pressured) people, like Lisbon, stayed any later than that.
Well…dedicated people and Jane.
In all fairness, he practically lives in the CBI, with his little hideout in that forgotten store room on the upper floor. But just because he spends the night there so often doesn’t mean he has the right to bother you while you finish background research for the new case.
“Are you almost done?”
You don’t even need to look up to know he’s staring at you from his cracked leather couch.
“Not yet,” you sigh.
He calls your name exasperatedly, “It’s almost midnight, you know?”
“I’m aware.” Finally, you stop flipping through the thick file on your desk and lean back to stretch. Maybe you should go home…But the team will need basic info on the victim and current suspects when they come back in the morning.
“I don’t think having the dead guy’s middle school grades and his first cousin thrice-removed’s dog's pedigree will help solve the crime.” A certain irritating blond pipes up from the other side of the bullpen.
“First of all, stop reading my mind. Second, I know but we still need to know his work schedule, financial history, and his frequentations.”
“Maybe so, but no one is going to answer your emails or calls this late so you won’t be able to confirm anything, and there’s only so much useful information you can get from public records.”
He smiles when you look up, despite the half-hearted glare you shoot him. He’s got a point. With another sigh, you push the file aside and turn your computer off. He claps in response, clearly pleased, and sits up to better face you.
“Wonderful! Now that you’re not distracted, I have a question,” he crosses his legs and looks up to make sure you’re listening, “Would you…still love me if I was a worm?”
A blink.
Why haven’t you quit this job yet?
Oh right, you're broke and need to pay rent.
“Well?” Patrick leans forward, eager to hear your answer.
You finally swallow your exasperation and regret of every decision that led you here and reply dryly. “The question implies I currently love you.”
His reaction is immediate, a mix of betrayal and offence, “What?! You love me, come on. Why else would you stay late almost every day?”
“Because I have a demanding job that I’m dedicated to.” You deadpan.
“Oh bullshit, no one is that dedicated to their job here. It's okay, you don’t have to admit it, I know you like my company. Now answer my question honestly, would you still love me if I was a worm?” He doubles down.
You let your face fall into your palms. “Sure, okay.”
“Not as enthusiastic of an answer as I’d hoped for but I’ll take it.”
The conversation continues as you pack up your things. He asks silly questions, you alternate between honest and sarcastic replies.
By the time you’ve pulled your coat on, he’s already laid back down, eyes drooping.
“You know those promises kids make straight out of college? The whole ‘If we’re both single at 30, let’s get married to each other so we’re not alone for the rest of our lives’ thing?” He mumbles, eyes shut.
“Yeah, what about it?” You glance back at him from the doorway.
“We should do that. I mean, in five years or so, if we’re both still not taken, let’s get married. Think about it, it’s a win win situation: you get free entertainment, I get someone to bother constantly, and neither of us is alone anymore.” Jane shrugs, like he didn’t just casually admit he’d want to marry you at some point.
Apparently, the suggestion had caught you so off guard you could feel your brain physically freeze up.
“...I uh…I guess that makes sense?” No, it doesn’t. What are you saying?? Reboot, brain, come on!
“I know, that’s why I suggested it.” He hums, “So? What do you think?”
…Well, you don’t really have anything to lose by agreeing, do you? If you do get into a relationship by then, that’ll mean you’ve gotten over your silly crush on Patrick and are probably on track to build a life with another partner. And if you don’t…you’ll still have a companion. Although, you doubt he really means it.
“Sure.” The word comes out slightly more strained than you intend, and you pray he doesn’t notice.
He opens his eyes and meets yours for a second, his expression mirroring yours in its attempt not to let any thoughts or emotions show.
“Great.” He nods, letting his head fall back down. “But just so you know… if we get married to other people, they’re just going to have to deal with me third-wheeling forever. I’m not going to stop bugging you just because you’re married.”
You chuckle, “I’ll hold you to that. Goodnight, Patrick.” You call back as you step into the hallway.
“Goodnight” he shouts back.
You miss it by barely a second, as the elevator doors close, but he smiles. A real, genuine smile, not the classic Jane smirk he puts on to look confident. He smiles and sighs, content.
Maybe moving on from his past won’t be as hard as he thought, not with you by his side at least.
a/n: Have another exam at the end of the month but I felt compelled to write something for Jane, especially with how many people seemed to like the last two. Enjoy the crumb, I promise I will actually get to organizing updating my masterlist when I come back from this exam!!!
a/n - this is forrr @cassierins ! i rlly like this one so i hope you do too hehe
warnings - childhood friends -> lovers, fluff, trinity mention, readers gender isn't specified unless you count the picture above where the little girl is wearing a dress, idk what else lmk if theres anything i should add here
Dennis Whitaker had always been bad at keeping secrets from you.
At eight years old, he lasted exactly four minutes before blurting out that he’d accidentally broken your favorite dinosaur toy and buried it behind the swing set because he thought “dead toys deserved funerals.” At twelve, he ruined your birthday surprise two weeks early because he got too excited watching you walk home from school.
And at sixteen, he tried — and failed miserably — to hide the fact he’d gotten into a fight after some guy called you annoying during lunch.
“You should see the other guy,” he’d muttered afterward, split lip curled into a grin while you dabbed antiseptic against his face.
“You are the other guy, Dennis.”
“Yeah, but I won.”
That was the thing about Dennis. Even when he was being awkward or impulsive or acting like a complete idiot, being around him felt easy. Familiar, like muscle memory. Like home.
He was why your parents stopped asking where you were whenever you disappeared from the house. If you weren’t in your room, you were probably with Dennis. And if Dennis wasn’t home, his mom automatically assumed he was sprawled across your bedroom floor stealing your snacks like he had done when you were kittle.
Childhood blurred into middle school, then high school, then college and being an adult and yet somehow Dennis was still there for every important moment of your life.
The first panic attack you ever had in tenth grade? Dennis skipped class to sit with you in the counselor’s office, talking nonsense about comic books until your breathing evened out and you laughed at whatever stupid thing he said. Like he was waiting to hear that laugh he had known his whole life.
Your first heartbreak? Dennis showed up outside your window at midnight holding gas station candy and three terrible romcom DVDs.
“You hate romcoms,” you’d said, climbing back inside with him.
“I’m making sacrifices for your emotional well-being.”
“So you brought the notebook then?"
“I said sacrifices, not an actuall death wish?"
And when his dad left during senior year, slamming the front door hard enough to shake the walls, Dennis climbed through your bedroom window at two in the morning without saying a word.
He just sat beside you on the bed while you held him together.
That was how it had always been with the two of you.
No matter what happened, you found each other again.
Even now, a years after dennjs moved to pittsburgh and out of nebraska, not much had changed because you moved to a town nearby.
You still spent most evenings at the place he moved into since his roomate Trinity actually seemed to like you. Dennis still stole fries off your plate even after ordering his own food. And he still looked at you with that same soft expression that made your stomach feel weird if you thought about it for too long.
Which you absolutely did not.
Mostly.
Okay, maybe constantly.
The realization hit you slowly, then all at once.
It happened on a random Thursday night while the two of you sat on the right beside his open bedroom window, sharing a blanket because Dennis insisted you looked “dramatic” shivering in the cold rain air.
“You know,” he said suddenly, staring up at the sky, “I think we’d survive a zombie apocalypse.”
You snorted. “Dennis, you cried when we watched Train to Busan.”
“That movie was actually sad.”
“You would die first.”
“No way. I’d protect you.”
The words were casual. Immediate. Like breathing.
Like there was never another option.
Your heart did something embarrassing inside your chest.
Dennis glanced over at you then, smiling a little. His hair fell into his eyes, messy from the wind, and for one horrible second you noticed everything all at once — the curve of his mouth, the warmth of his shoulder pressed against yours, the way he always looked happiest when he was with you.
“Oh,” you thought.
Oh, no.
Because you were completely, hopelessly in love with your best friend.
And honestly? That would’ve been manageable if Dennis wasn’t Dennis.
But he was.
Which meant he noticed immediately.
“You got quiet,” he said carefully.
“I’m thinking.”
“thats usually not a good idea.”
“Shut up.”
He grinned at that, bumping his knee against yours beneath the vlanket. “Seriously, though. What’s wrong?”
You opened your mouth.
Then closed it again.
Because what were you even supposed to say?
Hey Dennis, we’ve been inseparable since we were like 5 years old and somewhere along the way I started wanting to kiss you every time you smile at me?
Normal. Totally normal thing to admit.
“You ever think,” you started slowly, “that maybe we spend too much time together?”
Dennis blinked at you.
Then he looked genuinely horrified.
“No.”
You laughed despite yourself. “You answered that really fast.”
“Because the alternative is spending time with other people.”
“That sounds unhealthy.”
“I’m fine with that.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
God. He made this impossible.
The wind picked up around you, cool against your face, and Dennis reached up automatically to pull the blanket to cover more you than it did him.
The gesture was so instinctive he probably didn’t even think about it.
You did.
“Dennis,” you said quietly.
“Yeah?”
And maybe it was the late hour. Maybe it was the way the city lights blurred gold around him. Or maybe you were just tired of pretending your heart didn’t jump every time he touched you.
Whatever it was, suddenly the words were leaving your mouth before you could stop them.
“I think I’m in love with you.”
Silence.
Complete, horrifying silence.
Dennis stared at you.
You stared back.
Then, very softly, he said, “You think?”
“Oh my god, don’t make fun of me right now—”
“I’m not,” he interrupted quickly, eyes wide. “I just— seriously?”
Your stomach dropped. “Yeah. Sorry. I know that probably makes things weird—”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“What?”
Dennis actually laughed then, incredulous and breathless all at once. He dragged a hand down his face before looking at you like you’d personally offended him.
“I’ve been in love with you since I was like fourteen.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“No, I definitely didn’t, actually.”
Dennis groaned dramatically, falling back against the wall. “I thought I was being obvious! Like last week!”
“When you bought me a sandwhich?”
“Yeah, because you were sad and like—!"
“That’s not flirting, Dennis!”
“It is for me!”
You couldn’t help it. you started laughing. Full-on, can’t-breathe laughter that had Dennis laughing too despite himself.
“You are unbelievable,” you managed.
“Yeah, well.” He looked at you then, softer now. Nervous in a way you’d almost never seen him. “You still love me, though, right?”
Something warm cracked open inside your chest.
Always, you thought.
Always.
Instead of answering, you leaned forward and kissed him.
Dennis made the most pathetic surprised noise against your mouth before kissing you back immediately, one hand cupping your face like he’d wanted to do it forever.
Maybe he had.
When you finally pulled away, both of you smiling like idiots, Dennis rested his forehead against yours and laughed quietly.
“Took us long enough.”
You smiled. “You could’ve said something first.”
“Mm no I made it obvious, that was on you.”
“Yeah, because apparently i was supposed to know that you flirt by giving out sandwhiches."
“It worked, didn’t it?”
Unfortunately for you and your point, it absolutely had.
summary: by no means were you the best at patching Matt up after nights as Daredevil left him with its predictable marks, but you damn sure tried your hardest. Not that it mattered, when Matt would rather risk an ugly scar than let you work in focus. | gn!reader
warnings: the obligatory taking care of a vigilante and said vigilante getting handsy after patrol fic! this is all in all incredibly fluffy and one of the sillier things I've written, however there are mentions of blood, and descriptions of open wounds and sutures. you're sewing Matt up, it's inevitable.
a/n: I've been sick for the past two weeks, completely out of it and haven't been able to write or be online much, so please accept a simpler and shorter fic from me this go round!
wc: 3,760
The smell of antiseptic still lingered, but you and Matt had fallen into routine within the warmth of his apartment, blanketed under the weary calm and cover of night. Suture in hand, you weren't exactly a stranger to stitching up the man before you anymore, but neither were you a nurse, or medically trained in any capacity outside of prescribing over the counter pain medication you now bought in bulk and the occasional bandage administration to paper cuts and small scrapes.
You pride yourself in being a decent sewist, learning basic mending skills throughout your years for the small tears and such, but cotton or denim was still in a far different ballpark than living, feeling, skin and muscle. Why Matt had trusted you to not only learn the skill, but offer himself and his many, many, lacerations up to be your trial-by-fire was beyond you. Perhaps it had been because the first time the Devil had come back from a patrol with a cut just slightly too deep, you'd steadied your nerves and offered to try.
Perhaps it was because you've since found a comfort and normality in tending to Matt's wounds with a gentle loving hand, delivering fond chastisements and relishing in shared purrs of satisfaction with the blood you washed away and pain you abated. Perhaps, it was simply because he trusted you; the current that harbored something as fragile as shared vulnerability offering safe passage to feel entirely free to breezily waft between your two souls, shaped by admissions of love and proclamations to stay.
But even with that being said—and especially now, with Matt still feeling the loss of the substantial armor the Daredevil suit provided until Melvin would be let out on parole—some things never changed. Years of inconsistent practice still hadn't fully steadied your hand, and even the sturdy fabric of military cargo pants would be weak to stop the slash of any blade determined enough.
“Could've been worse,” Matt mused, biting back the wince that wanted to hiss through his teeth as you deftly pushed the sharp tip of the needle through the next segment you were working on, head bowed in focus and an apologetic grimace you weren't entirely sure if he could register pursing your lips. You hummed in agreement. “Could’ve cut deeper. Or in a more inconvenient place.”
“Think your thigh’s pretty inconvenient, D,” you scoffed airly, taking a quick break between stitches as you tried to roll away some of the tension in your shoulders. “Y’know. Walking, leaping across rooftops, and such.”
“I know how to move to not tear stitches.” His statement was simple, edged with a little cocky lilt that pulled your gaze away from your work only to meet the curl of a smirk pointed in your direction. “I can feel the tension of the thread; if it’ll be close to snapping.”
“We both sure as hell know that doesn’t stop you from popping these things anyway.” Amusement gleamed in the pointed look you threw at him, a chuckle escaping under your breath. “Sometimes I wonder if you like the pain. Or if you just like being stabbed.”
“Not in inconvenient places.” Matt hummed, pushing out a measured breath as he shifted under your steady hold on his leg. You felt his hand, large and warm against you, rise to curl his fingers against your waist. You recognized the action, thinking nothing of it as Matt used the motion to ground himself. It was then that you took the moment to adjust yourself under the direct lamplight you’d maneuvered, leaning into his palm to respond to the touch and blinking down to scrutinize your work.
Currently sitting in the open space between Matt’s legs—lack of distraction a hearty testament to your will and dedication to your mission—you studied the progress you’d made so far. The wound was about three inches long, and had gashed, thankfully, not too deep, across the top of his left thigh. Thanks to the towel-prepped pillow under his leg, and the merciful miss of any major vessels, steadily applied pressure kept the bleeding to a minimum as you worked. You’d have loved to have an anesthetic to numb the area, something more than a hastily taken dose of ibuprofen, but you quickly came to the realization that Matt’s unbelievable display of willpower and penchant for tanking blows that would bring anyone else to tears would unfortunately just have to do that night. You stared at the stitches, noting the tiny little knots that weren’t the cleanest, but were consistent and even. And you could be satisfied with that. Your gaze swept over his blood stained skin, where the slash had split the edges open, where it strained against the way you were steadily closing it up, and the inch and a half you still had to go. You frowned, wishing both that you could work faster, more efficiently, if only to spare Matt the feeling, and damning whatever thug had managed to be quick enough to catch him in the first place. At least you could take comfort in knowing the Devil had probably made them regret it.
“Maybe I’m biased, but I think needing stitches anywhere is inconvenient." You tapped his thigh with your index lightly, the signal to him that you were about to start again. He nodded, spotting the action out of the corner of your eye, and you felt his fingers nudge at the fabric of your sleep shirt until careful curling had gently coaxed the hem up far enough for him to grab, and he could press against your bare skin right as you held yourself steady enough to pierce skin once more. You waited until the shiver the feel of his hand caused and ran through you ebbed. “Enlighten me, please. I’d love to see how our definitions differ.”
“I can work easily with anything on my arms,” came his reply, voice as steady as the thumb that began to caress your side, almost a distant hum. The affection threatened to steal your attention, lazy swaths that teased the faculty of your hand, and you steeled yourself in preparation to ignore it until you finished your job. You didn’t miss the way his touch faltered; his body tensing in response to the needle just for a moment before he relaxed into you again. “Away from the joints and big muscles important for movement is always nice.”
“So…only your arms.” You quip playfully, snipping off the thread as you tied up another knot just to begin again. You’d found an easy rhythm now, and rhythm eased the momentary guilt you felt for the pain that came with each pass through. “Sounds about right.” It was difficult to resist the urge to swat at him when you caught his clunky attempt at rolling his eyes, fondness rising comforting and easy in your chest like a thick curl of smoke twisting into a pleasant fog around your head as you scoffed at the action. “But yeah, it could've been bad tonight. Like where your important organs are.”
“Or worse, my ass.”
You quirked an eyebrow, laughing softly to yourself. “Has anyone ever tried to stab you in the ass?”
“No. But if they had, you’d be stitching it up.”
“Oh no,” you deadpanned, letting sarcasm drip heavy from your tongue as amusement spread wide in the smile on your face. “Whatever will I do? Forced to berate you for getting hurt while staring at your godly ass.”
Matt’s chuckle was full and easy, echoing warm in the air. “You're joking now, but when it happens, you won't be able to grab it for a couple of weeks.”
“You’ve got two cheeks for a reason, Matthew.” Although, a mournful sigh parted your lips at the hypothetical thought. “Unless they get both, which would simply be targeted. Jealousy, probably. Besides, why are you dooming yourself to future ass stabbings? If you manifest them, I’ll be sad. So sad.”
He just laughs, shaking slightly as he tries to keep the action from jostling his body too much. He finds comfort in touching you instead, his hand drawing forward under your shirt to lay flat against your stomach and finding no hesitation in starting the careful ministrations of fingers gently dragging across the plane of your abdomen, tracing the way you bent between him in concentration. Your breath hitched in your chest as the familiar ebb of warmth blossomed under his fingertips, dancing in jovial little waves as it seeped deep enough to reach bone. You paused, if only for a moment, torn between wanting to shift your attention to the source and not wanting to risk the efficiency you’d found.
And Matt hadn’t meant too, he really hadn’t. That first touch was instinct, something normal and seeking. Over the counter stuff only did so much, only softened the edges. Though it wasn’t the pain that bothered him. Pain he was used to, could compartmentalize and shove to the muddied background until it was okay to react—typically when the dust settled. It wasn’t the pain, it was what it felt like. The lack of any anesthetic left him bare to the sharp sterile metal of the needle that felt too foreign in his body, too smooth. The tiny fibres of thread that tugged their way through tissue and nerve with each glide of your hand. And while your knots were pristine, secure things, they still pulled uncomfortably once they were secure. But really, when it came to it, Matt was used to being stitched up. He’d endured more than enough to tune out the experience, however unpleasant, as long as it was a superficial suture. When he reached for you, it was simply for comfort and with no other motive.
But then he felt the shiver that skittered oh-so-subtly under your skin. Heard the way the air stilled in your lungs for just a split second. Getting stitched up was routine and boring and he already had his work arounds to minimize discomfort. He was allowed to have some fun, if fun meant that even after the years you’ve spent with him, he could still softly—and perhaps slightly selfishly—command your attention. Even when you were literally putting him back together.
If only you’d caught the mischievous way his face had lit up.
Matt flipped his hand, knuckles dragging down across you until he brushed the top of your leg and he settled there for a moment, palm holding you firmly in a mirror of your own hold on him. Although yours was to keep a consistent canvas of skin and muscle to aid both you and him. He contested in his steady affection.
“Someone’s handsy tonight,” the statement came out as a tease, something light and simple, an acknowledgment to how you haven't exactly been impervious to the glide of craving fingers against your skin. But you didn’t think anything of it. You knew Matt, and it was within the normal realm of possibility he’d just needed some extra comfort. You also knew more than most his thighs were on the more sensitive side, and you didn’t doubt having another focus—a positive feeling to contrast—was a healthy diversion to the otherwise ache. You’re always glad to offer. Except, as you glanced over to spot a small smile curving his lips, you admittedly were letting his touch breach your focus a bit more than you’d like, your motions with the suture slowing just enough for you to know you weren't working as well as you could be.
“Long night. Missed you,” Matt pushed out with an air of drama billowing around the shape of his words. “Hurts a little.”
“I know.” You muttered sympathetically, reaching over to carefully dab some more gauze against a trickle of blood. Luckily, you were in the homestretch, and Matt shared in the relief that rolled off you, sweetening the air against his tongue, as you estimated that you'd only need to do about three more stitches. “Almost done, though.”
A soft content noise bubbled from his chest as he moved again, fingers dancing as his hand snaked back under your shirt and around to your back. At first it was nothing, almost so light you didn’t feel it as his fingers began to follow the curve of your back. But then the touch grew firmer. He tried to venture further. Matt shifted. And your peripheral caught his movement before he could lean forward any closer.
“And what do you think you’re doing?” There was humor in your voice but a furrow in your brow as you halted him with the joint of your wrist against his chest, twisting your hand to try and avoid contaminating your attempt to keep both your hands and his thigh clean. Although he wasn’t as close as he wanted, Matt was still able to splay his hand fully against your back.
Instead of a response, his smile split wider. “Am I distracting you?”
The word ‘yes’ instinctively shaped around your tongue, playful and not without warrant, thinking about how he’d steadily been etching a path around any part of you he could reach and the defense of the focus that had combated the best it could, but had started to thinly wane over the last few minutes. But then you turned your head to look at him, tying off another knot, and that’s when the guise shattered. As you saw the tilt of his head and mirth in his eyes, and you swore he tried to meet your gaze—landing somewhere around the bridge of your nose—as his nails gently raked down the line of your spine. He flashed an innocent smile as you involuntarily shuddered against the feeling, a burst of sparks fluttering in your stomach. You shot him a glare, knowing it was no use to lie, but you could settle with stealing just the tiniest bit of satisfaction from him as you bit back a smile. “No.”
You knew the rumble that shook through him well enough to know he wasted no time recognizing your bluff, and despite your best efforts, Matt finished sitting up. His shoulder bumped into yours before his chest came perpendicular to your side, and your huff of annoyance wasn’t without its fondness. You, however, were still weak when it came to a quiet proximity. And even though he now shadowed half your work area, and limited the range of motion in your left arm, you couldn’t find the heart in you to shove him back. If Matt wanted to be clingy, that was fine by you. If he wanted to press against you until your heart raced and your hands shook, then it would be his scar.
And he seemed to sense that resolution, a victorious little hum reaching your ears, melodic and instinctual in its sensing as his other hand joined the fray. This one found your front again, warm palm holding against your ribs as you blew out a puff of air and went to go start again. But you couldn’t even get there, stuttering before you even began, as teasing fingers began to prance, inch their way up toward your chest.
You stalled, and if the grin you wouldn’t bring yourself to bear full witness too had any merit, you knew Matt felt the way your heart began to hammer, the way your skin grew warmer. There was a quiet moment of testing, calloused fingertips eagerly tracing the tail end of your breastbone, goading, begging for a response.
“You,” you began, grateful the needle hadn’t been anywhere close to him as your grip faltered, “need to stop.”
“I’m only distracting myself from the pain,” he mumbled absent-mindedly, no attempt to hide the bullshit guile you could smell from a mile away and hear from even further.
“You’re distracting me and you know it!” And frustration wanted to tarnish your words, if only because you were so close to your goal, but it had no real bite around the breathless way you were trying hard not to focus on the slide of his touch going up until he could lay his palm flat across the middle of your chest. “C’mon Matt, I’m almost done, let me make the last few pretty.”
“They don’t have to be,” Matt muttered around a cheeky chuckle. “Not like I can see them.”
“Well I do. And I’ll be damned if you’re the reason I don’t get a nice new straight scar to kiss.” You sighed, gently placing down the needle and needle driver on clean gauze before your hand slid to join Matt’s. Amusement cocked his head as you twined your fingers with his before guiding him away from you. “Two stitches left. Stop distracting me.” You brushed your lips against his knuckles, kissing over bruises and scars, before letting him fall away. “And for God’s sake and mine, please keep your hands to yourself.”
Matt had seemed content enough as his head fell to your shoulder. His cheek rested against you and his eyes fluttered shut. He let out a languid sigh, one that stirred the tiny hairs on the back of your neck and washed over you as if a gentle breeze, and you waited until your body adjusted to his weight, fixing the light now that he cast a shadow, to begin again. The both of you were quiet as you finished up, and a triumphant little noise pleasantly soothed your throat as you admired the resulting line of stitches. Your soft touch with a warm washcloth wiped away the blood that remained, and you were swift and efficient as you taped fresh gauze over the wound. And now that you were finished, you indulged in letting your eyes rove across the man in front of you, allowing a lazy stroke of your hand to his upper thigh, giving his leg a chaste squeeze with a newly acquired peace of mind.
With a sigh, you relaxed into him. And for a moment, it was just the two of you and his apartment, quiet hearts and shared breaths. You felt the curve of Matt’s smile tug wide against your shoulder before you saw it, and a playful peck quickly turned into lingering kisses that once again heated your skin and bloomed a tingling pleasure in their wake, passing, dragging up the line of your clavicle until you dropped your head against his, obstructing the line to his objective.
“Matt.”
“What?” He burrowed his face past you, pressing against the cloth of your shirt to plant another kiss. Even muffled, there was no hiding the grin that reached his eyes and echoed in his cadence. “My hands are behaving.” But he betrayed his word even as he spoke—even though your work was done and you wouldn’t once again mind him—his arms lacing around your waist and holding you tightly.
You shifted, twisting your torso until you could face him better. There was no reason now that you couldn’t enjoy this, and as you pulled your head away, your eyes swept over Matt’s face. The calm that seeped easy into his features, smoothing out lines and cradling the way he began to relax. Your gaze passed by the dotted red of a blossoming bruise along the stubble on his jaw, tracing the shape of his lips and following their path up until you could study and map the crinkles beside his closed eyes.
“Thank you.” The expression was low, soft, and full of an adoration that made your heart like the wings of a bird taking flight flutter in your chest.
“Of course.” You raised a hand to comb through his messy hair, letting your fingers run along his scalp in slow drags, searching to relieve any tension they could find, and letting the quiet noise of approval that Matt gave you as he leant into it—eyelids fluttering—fill you to the brim with a bliss that was your own special vigilante brew of domestic. “Someone has to make sure you’re in fighting shape so you don’t get stabbed in the ass.”
“Still on that, huh?”
“You spoke the possibility into existence!” He laughed, and the sound reverberated deep and solid and warm around you as he pulled you closer. “Can’t believe you’d even utter the words. You’ve doomed us both to suffer. Don’t think the Daredevil suit has that much armor back there Matt—mobility’s sake and all or something. It can happen!”
“Promise I’ll try really hard to keep my butt safe from any sharp weapons. Not predicting any ass stabbings for the foreseeable future.”
“Good.”
“May I kiss you now?”
“You may.”
And it was all utters of relief, giggles and love, pressing lips around smiles and sighs as you let a sleepy affection guide your touch as your hands fell from his hair to cradle his face. You stared at him again for another moment, your head fondly tipping against him before you reluctantly pulled back, but not before awarding one last kiss, letting your body dip in exaggeration as you gathered up your suture kit.
“Come on,” you said softly, shimmying out of his hold. “Let’s get you sleeping before you get any bright ideas.”
Matt collapsed back onto the couch with a playful reluctance, his body relaxing into the cushions, and casting his head to follow your general direction as you skirted around to properly wash up and put your materials away. “Joke’s on you, I have zero light perception.”
You snorted. “It’s on you if you don’t think I won’t condemn you to a bedtime of blanket fortress between us if you don’t take it easy on your leg for at least a day or two.”
“Ouch.” You stifled a laugh when you saw him drop his head to the back of the couch and frown. “Now that would hurt more than getting stabbed in the ass.”
“Think about it. Do you really want to share a bed with no cuddles? The power’s entirely in your hands,” you teased as you padded over to the kitchen, running the water in the sink, its steady thrum filling the air and creating a rhythm you quickly followed. You threw a grin his way as he groaned, standing up slowly and testing his weight before he met your expression with a forced pout betrayed by the loving twinkle in his eyes. “Go. I’ll meet you in bed.”
And without a doubt, Matt held you extra tight that night.
Summary: After being hired to watch a "totally-not-a-ninja" Damian Wayne, you end up putting a masked intruder in a chokehold, only to realize you’ve just tackled his older brother, Jason Todd. What starts as a traumatic home invasion misunderstanding turns into a permanent job as the only person capable of handling the Wayne brothers’ chaos (and headlocking them when necessary).
requests are open
dividers by @cafekitsune
story idea by: @whotookcry
The Wayne Manor gates swung open as your beat-up Honda Civic pulled through. Even after three visits, the sheer size of the estate still made your jaw drop. You'd grown up in a Gotham apartment where you could hear your neighbors' conversations through paper-thin walls. This place looked like it had a zip code all to itself.
You grabbed your oversized tote bag from the passenger seat, checking its contents one more time: craft supplies, three different types of candy (you'd learned Damian had opinions about candy), your tablet loaded with age-appropriate movies, a first aid kit (always prepared), and your phone charger.
The front door opened before you could knock, revealing Bruce Wayne in an impeccably tailored suit that probably cost more than your entire semester's tuition.
"Good evening, Mr. Wayne," you greeted cheerfully, hefting the tote bag higher on your shoulder. The weight of it was already making the strap dig into your skin. "How is the little guy?"
Bruce's expression shifted, something you'd started to recognize as his "about to lie" face. His jaw tightened just slightly, and his eyes didn't quite meet yours. "His leg is definitely fractured. Biking accident."
You nodded sympathetically, even though something felt off about the explanation. Damian Wayne was probably the most coordinated ten-year-old you'd ever met. The kid moved like a tiny ninja. But wealthy people and their kids did extreme sports all the time, right? Probably some fancy bike on some dangerous trail.
"Don't worry, you enjoy your time out. I'll take over from here!" You patted the bag. "I brought plenty of easy-going activities and snacks. He's going to love it!"
Bruce's shoulders relaxed slightly. "You're the best. Thank you again for coming on such late notice."
"Anytime! Now go! Don't be late for your date."
"Not a date," Bruce said quickly, too quickly, his ears going slightly pink.
"Mmmhmm." You walked around him and patted his shoulder for good luck, grinning. "Sure it's not."
"I'll be back before midnight!"
"Okay! Have fun!" You called as he headed out. The door shut with a heavy, final sound that echoed through the cavernous entryway.
Right. Time to find one grumpy pre-teen.
The manor was always slightly intimidating when it was this quiet. Your footsteps echoed on the marble floors as you made your way through the giant foyer toward the family room. You'd learned the layout on your previous visits; this place was like a maze, but you were getting better at navigating it.
"Damian?" you called out.
"Oh great. You again." The response came from the family room, dripping with pre-teen disdain.
You found him sprawled on the leather couch, his right leg propped up on a mountain of pillows, encased in a medical boot. He was wearing what looked like expensive lounge clothes and the most annoyed expression a child could muster.
"Oh, don't be like that! Just think of it as a sleepover!" You dropped your bag on the coffee table with a heavy thunk.
"I'd rather not."
This was familiar territory. Last time, it had been a "broken wrist" (from "falling off a horse" that you were pretty sure the Waynes didn't own), and Damian had been just as thrilled about having a babysitter. It had taken approximately one movie and two bags of Hot Cheetos for him to warm up to you.
You sat down next to him, careful not to jostle his leg, and grabbed the remote from the coffee table. "What do you want to watch tonight?"
"Nothing."
"Okay, I think you liked The Hunger Games series last time. Hmmmm, I think we stopped on the second movie?" You started scrolling through the Wayne's extensive streaming library, which had literally everything.
Damian was quiet for a moment. Then: "Already finished the series... It was adequate."
You bit back a smile. That was Damian-speak for "I loved it and watched all the movies immediately after you left."
"Did you watch the new movie?"
His head whipped toward you so fast you thought he might hurt his neck. "New movie? It doesn't stop at Mockingjay Part Two?"
"Oh, you are so in for a ride." You laughed, navigating to the menu. "The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes. It's a prequel about President Snow when he was young."
Damian's eyes actually lit up, though he tried to hide it. "I suppose that could be... interesting."
"We may need popcorn. I will go fetch us..." He started to stand, clearly forgetting about his injured leg.
"Woah, woah, who's taking care of you right now? Me!" You gently pushed him back down. "You stay yourself right there! I'll go make some. I also brought different types of candy." You gestured to your tote bag. "You decide what you want while the previews play, and I'll go make popcorn."
"I'm not useless," Damian said, and there was something vulnerable in his voice that made your heart squeeze.
"I didn't say that. I'm saying you're being... pampered tonight."
He considered this, his expression thoughtful. "Hmm. That doesn't sound... bad."
"Perfect! I'll be right back!" You hurried around the couch as he started digging through the tote bag with his usual intense focus.
"Swedish Fish? Is this prison?" you heard him complain from the other room, and you had to stifle your laughter.
The kitchen was one of your favorite rooms in the manor, all sleek, modern appliances and gleaming countertops. Alfred, the butler, kept it impeccably organized, which made finding things relatively easy once you knew the system.
You found the microwave popcorn in the pantry (because even billionaires ate microwave popcorn, apparently) and popped a bag in. While it started popping, you searched for a bowl.
Thump thump thump.
You froze, hand on a cabinet door. That sound had come from the front of the house.
"What was that?" You turned back and hurried out of the kitchen toward the foyer, your heart starting to race. "Damian, was that you?!"
"No?" came the confused reply from the living room.
The thumping came again, followed by scratching sounds, right at the front door.
"Probably some feral cat," you muttered, trying to calm your racing heart. Gotham had a lot of strays. That had to be it.
You started to turn back to the kitchen when you heard it: the distinct creak of the front door opening.
Your blood ran cold. You were sure you'd heard it lock behind Bruce.
"Who locked the damn door?!" A voice, deep, male, annoyed. "I... who the fuck are you?!"
You spun around to find a man standing in the doorway. A tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a leather jacket and... your brain struggled to process this, a red helmet. Like, a full face mask. Like something out of a sci-fi movie or a...
Oh god. A robber. A home invader. There was a child in the other room.
Training from your self-defense class kicked in before rational thought could stop you.
"WHO ARE YOU?! I'M CALLING THE COPS!" you screamed.
"What?!" The man took a step back, clearly startled.
"DAMIAN! CALL 911 NOW!"
And then you lunged.
Your self-defense instructor, a sixty-year-old woman named Martha who could throw men twice her size, had drilled one thing into your head: if you're going to fight, commit fully. No half measures.
So you committed.
You hit the intruder low and hard, using your momentum to knock him off balance. He let out a startled "OOF!" as you both went down, but you managed to get your arm around his neck, locking him in the headlock Martha had made you practice fifty times in class.
"WHAT THE FUCK?!" the man choked out.
He was strong; you could feel muscles tensing under his jacket as he tried to break free, but you had leverage and the element of surprise. You squeezed tighter, using your body weight to keep him down as he fell backwards on top of you.
"DAMIAN, GRAB MY PHONE ON THE COFFEE TABLE!" you yelled, maintaining your grip even though your arm was already starting to burn.
"GET OFF ME! JESUS C-CHRIST, HOW ARE YOU SO STRONG?!" The masked man coughed, his fingers scrabbling at your arm.
You heard the distinctive thump-slide-thump of Damian's medical boot on the floor. He appeared in the foyer, moving slowly, his expression one of mild curiosity rather than fear.
"What is going on in here?" he asked, like he'd stumbled upon something mildly interesting rather than a home invasion in progress.
"Don't worry! I got the robber restrained. Call 911. I can hold him until they get here." You tightened your grip for emphasis, and the masked man slapped the floor like he was tapping out of an MMA fight.
"Tell her I live here! Fuck!"
You blinked. The voice sounded... young? And kind of desperate in a way that didn't match the threatening appearance.
Damian's expression shifted into something you'd never seen before: a slow, sly smile that made him look positively devilish.
"Oh no! A robber! I'll go call the cops now," he said, his tone completely deadpan.
"DAMIAN!"
Wait.
"Brother?" You asked, your grip loosening slightly in shock. You looked down at the man you had pinned. "Brother?!"
"YES! BROTHER!" the man wheezed.
Damian's smile widened. "Adopted."
You released the man immediately, scrambling backward on the marble floor. "Oh my god. Oh my god, I'm so sorry. Mr. Wayne didn't mention anyone else would be home since Mr. Alfred was on vacation!"
The man (Damian's brother?) pulled off his red helmet, revealing a face that was indeed young, probably early twenties, with a white streak in his dark hair and the most annoyed expression you'd ever seen on a human being.
He rubbed his throat, glaring at Damian, who had settled himself on the loveseat across from you both, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"How is your neck?" you asked anxiously, still sitting on the floor. "I'm so, so sorry. I thought you were... I mean, you came through the door wearing a mask and..."
"I'll survive," he grumbled, though he wouldn't meet your eyes. You could practically see his ego bruising in real-time. "I was just caught off guard."
That was definitely a lie. You'd taken him down pretty effectively, and you could tell it was bothering him.
"Sorry," you said again, trying not to smile at how sulky he looked.
"He's fine. Can we watch the movie now?" Damian asked, already grabbing the remote.
You stood up, brushing off your jeans. "Of course!" You moved back to sit beside Damian, pulling the blanket over both of you, trying to pretend your heart wasn't still racing from the adrenaline. "So... what's with the mask?" you whispered to Damian before pressing play.
He shrugged, glancing over at his brother, who was staring down at the red helmet in his hands like it had personally betrayed him. "He's... weird."
"Oh!" You decided not to push it. Rich people were eccentric. Maybe the helmet was... a fashion statement?
The opening credits of The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes started playing, the haunting music filling the room. You'd positioned yourself on the couch with Damian on your right, his injured leg propped up on the coffee table, the bowl of popcorn between you.
Jason, you'd learned his name when Damian reluctantly made introductions, had claimed the other end of the sectional, as far from you as possible while still being in the same room. He'd changed out of his jacket and was now in a t-shirt and jeans, the helmet abandoned on the floor like evidence of his humiliation.
"Wait, this is about Snow? Like, the bad guy?" Jason asked about ten minutes in, his first words since the incident.
"Yep. When he was eighteen," you confirmed, offering him the popcorn bowl. Peace offering.
He took it, still not quite looking at you. "Weird concept."
"Just wait," Damian said, his eyes glued to the screen. "Father mentioned this was based on a book. I ordered it. It should arrive tomorrow."
You grinned. "Of course you did."
As the movie progressed, something shifted in the room. Jason gradually relaxed, getting drawn into the story. You noticed him lean forward during the intense scenes, his earlier embarrassment seemingly forgotten.
"She's going to betray him," Jason muttered during one of Snow's scenes with Lucy Gray.
"Shh, no spoilers," you said, even though you'd seen it before.
"I'm not spoiling. I'm predicting. He's already showing narcissistic traits."
"You're not wrong," you admitted.
Damian, meanwhile, had unconsciously migrated closer to you, his head eventually dropping onto your shoulder somewhere around the halfway point. You carefully adjusted the blanket to make sure he was warm, trying not to disturb him.
"He's not usually like that," Jason said quietly, noticing. "Affectionate, I mean."
"He was like this last time too," you whispered back. "I think when he's hurt, he lets his guard down a bit."
"Huh." Jason studied his little brother for a moment, something soft crossing his face. "Bruce usually brings in trained security when Alfred's gone. You're the first actual babysitter."
"Is that why you looked ready to fight when you came in?"
He had the grace to look embarrassed. "I wasn't expecting anyone. Usually, Bruce tells us if someone's going to be here."
"Clearly didn't expect you either, based on the whole..." you gestured vaguely at your throat, miming a chokehold.
Jason's ears went red. "Yeah. About that. Where'd you learn that?"
"Self-defense class at Gotham Community College. My instructor is a tiny woman who could probably take down half the rogues in Arkham."
"Sounds like someone I'd like to meet."
By the time the movie's climax hit, you were surprised to find you'd relaxed too. Jason had migrated closer at some point, leaning against the arm of the couch near you, offering commentary that was actually pretty insightful.
"See? Told you she'd betray him," he said during the ending.
"You called it," you admitted. "Though I maintain that Snow was the real villain all along."
"Obviously. The series makes that pretty clear."
"I liked it," Damian mumbled, drowsy. "Though the ending was unsatisfying."
"That's kind of the point," you said. "You're not supposed to feel good about how it ends."
"Hmm." Damian's breathing was starting to even out. "Can we watch the first Hunger Games again? I want to see it after knowing Snow's backstory."
"Sure, buddy. Tomorrow though." You looked at the clock on the wall: 11:47 PM. "Your dad's going to be home soon."
One moment you were checking the time, the next you were blinking awake to the sound of soft footsteps. The TV had gone to the screensaver, and the room was lit only by its ambient glow.
You couldn't move. There was weight on your chest. Damian had fully sprawled across you at some point, his arm thrown over your stomach, fast asleep. And you were leaning against...
Oh.
You were leaning against Jason, your head on his shoulder. He was completely conked out, his head tilted back against the couch at what had to be an uncomfortable angle.
"Well, well," came a quiet, amused voice.
Bruce Wayne stood in the doorway, looking far too entertained for someone who'd just come home to find his son's babysitter in a cuddle pile with his children.
You tried to sit up without disturbing Damian. "Mr. Wayne! I'm so sorry, we were watching movies and everyone just kind of..."
"It's fine," he said, and he actually smiled, a real one, not the fake one he used for the press. He moved into the room, carefully adjusting the blanket to cover both you and Damian properly. He even reached over and adjusted Jason's head to a better angle, preventing what would have been a killer neck cramp.
Then, to your complete mortification, he pulled out his phone.
"Mr. Wayne, please don't..."
Click.
"That's a keeper," he muttered to himself, looking at the photo with a soft expression you'd never seen on Bruce Wayne's face before.
You felt your face burn. "I'm so sorry, I should have stayed awake..."
"Don't apologize. This is..." He gestured at the scene, his sons peaceful and comfortable, the remnants of your movie night scattered around. "This is good. They need normal. They need someone who treats them like kids."
"Even Jason?" you asked before you could stop yourself.
Bruce's expression flickered with something complicated. "Especially Jason." He pocketed his phone. "Though I have to ask, Alfred left me a very interesting message about an attempted home invasion?"
You winced. "About that..."
You woke up to sunlight streaming through the windows and the smell of fresh coffee.
For a moment, you were completely disoriented. This wasn't your apartment. The couch you were on was far too comfortable. And there was still a small human using you as a pillow.
"Good morning."
You turned your head, carefully, so as not to wake Damian, to find Jason standing in the doorway with two mugs of coffee.
"Morning," you croaked, your voice rough from sleep. "What time is it?"
"Eight-thirty. Bruce left a note saying you should stay for breakfast before you head out." He handed you one of the mugs. "Black coffee. Wasn't sure how you take it."
"Black's perfect. Thank you." You took a grateful sip. "Also, I'm still really sorry about last night."
Jason sat down on the ottoman, cradling his own mug. In the morning light, without the mask and the attitude, he looked younger. Tired. "Don't be. I should have announced myself better. Or, you know, used the door like a normal person instead of picking the lock."
"You picked the lock to your own house?"
"Lost my key three months ago. Keep meaning to get a new one." He shrugged. "Plus, it keeps me sharp."
"That's..." you tried to find the right word. "Eccentric?"
"That's one word for it." He grinned, and it transformed his whole face. "Though I gotta say, that takedown was pretty impressive. Where'd you say you learned that?"
"Gotham Community College. Self-defense class. My instructor always says 'size doesn't matter if you have technique and the element of surprise.'"
"Smart woman." He studied you over his mug. "You're not freaked out? About all this?" He gestured vaguely around the manor.
"About what? The giant house? The mysterious injuries? The son who comes home wearing a mask?"
"All of it."
You looked down at Damian, still sleeping peacefully against you. "Honestly? I grew up in Gotham. I've seen weirder. And whatever's going on with you guys, it's clear Bruce is trying his best. So are you. That matters more than the weird stuff."
Jason was quiet for a moment. Then: "You're alright. For someone who put me in a headlock."
"You're not bad yourself. For a home invader."
He laughed, a real laugh, loud enough that Damian started to stir.
"Mmph. Too loud," Damian mumbled, burrowing further into your side.
"Come on, demon spawn. Breakfast time," Jason said, reaching over to ruffle his brother's hair.
Damian swatted at him. "Don't call me that."
"What should I call you? Tiny terror? Miniature menace?"
"How about just Damian?" you suggested, trying not to laugh as the two brothers devolved into bickering.
Bruce had left a note on the kitchen counter:
Help yourselves to anything in the fridge. Back by noon. - B
Jason immediately started pulling out ingredients. "Pancakes okay?"
"You cook?" you asked, surprised.
"Someone has to, or these heathens would live on cereal and takeout."
"Father makes adequate breakfast," Damian protested from his seat at the kitchen island, his leg propped up on another chair.
"Your dad's scrambled eggs are like rubber," Jason said flatly. "Don't even try to defend them."
You bit back a smile as you helped gather ingredients. "I can help."
"You're the guest," Jason said, but he didn't protest when you started measuring out flour.
The kitchen filled with the sound and smell of cooking, pancakes sizzling on the griddle, coffee brewing, and Damian providing running commentary on everyone's technique.
"You're supposed to wait for bubbles before you flip," Damian instructed.
"I know how to make pancakes, demon spawn."
"The heat is too high. They're going to burn on the outside and be raw in the middle."
Jason pointed the spatula at him. "One more word and you're getting cereal."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Try me."
You laughed, flipping your own pancake perfectly. "Boys, boys. There's enough breakfast for everyone to be right."
"Thank you," Damian said primly.
"Though Jason's right about the heat," you added.
"Betrayal," Damian muttered, but you saw him hide a smile.
As you were getting ready to leave, bag packed and jacket on, Bruce pulled you aside.
"I wanted to thank you," he said. "For last night. And for how you handled the... situation with Jason."
"I'm just glad I didn't actually hurt him," you said, still embarrassed.
"I think his ego was the only casualty." Bruce's expression turned thoughtful. "Look, I know you usually come on an as-needed basis, but I'd like to offer you something more regular. Alfred's getting older, and with his sister in London being ill, he's going to be away more often. The boys clearly like you. And you're one of the only people who's treated them like normal kids while also being able to handle..." he gestured vaguely, "unexpected situations."
"You want me to be a regular babysitter?"
"More like a part-time household assistant. Help with the boys when I'm at work, make sure they're fed and supervised. Especially Damian, he needs someone responsible here when he's recovering from..." Bruce paused, "activities."
You thought about it. The pay would be good. Bruce Wayne didn't do anything halfway. And despite the chaos, you genuinely enjoyed last night.
"Can I think about it?"
"Of course. Take all the time you need." He handed you an envelope. "That's for last night. And here's my personal number if you have questions."
You opened the envelope in your car and nearly drove off the road. Bruce Wayne had paid you three times your normal rate, with a note:
Hazard pay for the unexpected home invasion. - B
Your phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number:
This is Jason. Got your number from Bruce's phone. Sorry again about scaring you. PS - Your headlock game is strong. If you ever want sparring tips, let me know.
Then another text, this one from Damian:
Father gave me your number. The new Hunger Games book arrived. We should read it together next time. If you are coming back. Which would be acceptable.
You sat in your car, looking up at Wayne Manor, and realized you were smiling.
warnings: reader’s wrist is accidentally sprained from being grabbed too hard
You could hear scuttling from somewhere else in the garden, an estate more than sizable enough than the game afoot.
You were under the distinct impression though that the bats and birds are playing with you similar to how they would a child. Slower, weaker, and less experienced than the big kids. You weren't complaining though. Because, frankly, it was stressful. They tend to operate more like they’re in a warzone than a game, you felt like you were about to be sniped out at any second.
Rightfully so, apparently, seeing how silently Stephanie had crept up on you.
“Hey,” Stephanie hissed, ignoring the way you jumped. “We’re doing alright for ourselves,” she said smugly.
“Yeah,” you’d nodded, like you agreed with her more than you probably did.
“Okay listen, I think the flag—” what flag? “—is by the fountain so, I think because there’s three of us and two of them, we should bait-and-switch.”
“We’re on teams?” you asked, no longer completely sure you know what you’re playing.
“We are now!” she smiled, starting to run. “I’ll bait!”
She stopped briefly in her tracks and turned back to you hissing, “Don’t trust Cass,” before scurrying away.
Rather than sit around and wait there for…something?...to happen, you jumped up darting in the opposite direction with little to no indication whether this is a good move.
What you didn’t see is Cass rapidly approaching from your rear.
What you also didn’t see was Dick crouched down in a row of shrubbery, which gave him the perfect opportunity to snatch your arm up and yank you down with him. You’d mewled a bit as your wrist made contact harshly with the grass, immediately buckling under you.
Cass was keen to your pain immediately, slowing her sprint to a stroll as she observed you.
“Are you okay?” she signs.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.”
The response was instinctual and you didn’t actually have time to register whether or not you were okay by the time you gave it.
You pushed up on your elbows, trying to figure out whether Dick is even on your team, but the way the others approached had you halting consideration. They’re savvy to the situation at a speed in which you can only attribute to their vigilantism, looking at you with concern.
“You good?” Tim asked, approaching languidly.
“That looked like it hurt,” Cass commented, crouching down next to you to see your wrist better.
Dick shook his head, “No, she’s okay.” He turned to you, prodding, “You’re okay.”
“Yeah, I’m, um…” you winced, looking at your wrist. “It hurts a little.”
Cass examined it closely, tilting it gently to the side. “It might be sprained.”
Dick paled.
“No.”
Tim pointed a thumb back towards the manor, “We can get it wrapped upstairs.”
“No.”
You were only then able to clock the barely contained grin on Stephanie’s face, begging to break.
“Ooooh. He’s gonna kill you.”
Cass had then kindly offered to take you inside and wrap it up for you, which you accepted, unexpecting of the plus-one of Dick trailing behind you like a guilty puppy all the while.
“You know I didn’t mean to grab you that hard right? I—”
Cass laughs quietly as she wraps the bandage around your wrist, amused by Dick’s now-third explanation/apology for the incident.
“I know, Dick,” you say, trying to appease him.
“I’m sorry,” he tells you genuinely, but you can tell there’s more there that he isn’t verbalizing.
You nod, “I know, Dick. It’s okay. It was just an accident.”
Cass pins the wrapping in place securely and with a smile, signs to you that she’s all done.
You rotate your arm a bit, testing your movement under the wrap. As Cass leaves with the first aid kit, Dick remains sat at your side, leg thumping up and down.
He takes a deep breath, “What if…what if you avoid him until it heals?”
“Dick.”
He takes your uninjured hand in his with urgency in his eyes.
He looks down at your jointed hands before loosening his already mild grip significantly.
“Are you going to tell him?” he asks, looking like he’s bracing for bad news.
You shake your head sympathetically, “No. I can’t guarantee you that he won’t find out, but I won’t tell him.”
Dick takes a deep breath, looking at the ground with intense focus. “Okay. Okay.” He stands, “I need to go.”
You watch in amused bewilderment as he staggers out the door, looking around frantically.
Within the next few minutes, he creates and enacts his plan A. He walks into the living room, sitting down next to a very disinterested Tim, eyes forward and serious.
“I’ll give you two grand right now if you tell him it was you.”
Tim barks out, “Absolutely not.” He looks at his brother, still laughing. “No fucking way.”
Dick breaks the serious facade immediately, looking at him. “Five.”
A deadpan from Tim.
“You don’t have five thousand dollars.”
Dick throws his head back, back thudding against the couch. “Dude, please! He’ll kill me!”
Tim scoffs, “He’d kill me!”
Dick huffs, “No, it’s different for me! Do you have any idea how many times he told me not to do that?”
“Well then it sounds like you fucked up,” Tim sneers.
“Oh my God.”
He takes off again, combing through different rooms in the house with hope of finding a quick but effective hiding place for, say, the next twenty years?
He bursts through the study, unwittingly interrupting Bruce and Alfred having a discussion over tea.
The latter sits up with a tense brow, “Master Dick?”
The former turns around in his seat, “What’s the matter?”
Dick struggles for a second before confessing, “I accidentally sprained someone's wrist.”
Bruce scans his face slowly, nodding. “Alright…you’ll have to take responsibility for their patrol duties—”
Dick cuts him off with a sharp breath, “Said person doesn’t have any patrol duties to be affected...”
Bruce processes for a moment before shaking his head.
“I can’t help you.”
Dick’s panic takes over again, prompting him to continue his scurry through the room, towards the other door.
Alfred interrupts his process with a very logical argument, “You don’t think running away will make this worse, Master Dick?”
“I—I don’t know!” Dick whines, stopping in his tracks. “I don’t know what to do!”
Bruce purses his lips, gesturing, “Dick, when you make a mistake…you have to submit to the consequences, you know that.”
Dick gapes, “This is not a normal consequence!”
Meanwhile, you’ve busied yourself with fiddling with the knick knacks and mementos lining the shelves of Jason’s childhood bedroom.
You’re admiring a picture of him and Alfred from when he was young as the door creaks open behind you.
“Sweetheart?” Your boyfriend calls out, head barely poked in through the crack.
“Hey, Jay,” you smile, setting the picture frame back on the shelf.
He enters fully, covered in motor oil and grease, and smiles his sweet, easy smile when he sees you.
Moving onto the next trinket on the shelf, you pick up a stuffed animal placed intentionally at the front. Your gaze finds the mirror, watching his reflection as he pulls the stained shirt off his back.
You smile to yourself, noticing the way his back muscles flex as he adjusts. “How’s the bike?”
“Better than it was this morning,” he sighs. “Where’ve you been?”
He turns around to look at you, taking easy steps towards you.
You return the toy elephant to its place, moving to face him. “Uh, we were outside, playing…at least three separate games at once.”
The second you’re in proximity, your hands join like it’s second nature.
He nods, all too familiar with the family’s unique methods of gamefair.
“Did th—” He looks down at your intertwined hands, brow furrowing as soon as he spots the bandage wrapped around your wrist. “What happened?”
You glance down, shrugging. “Overexerted myself playing tag.”
He looks at you skeptically, but says nothing about it.
He turns your hand over gently, asking, “Is it sprained?”
You nod, relaxed. “Yeah. Cass said it’s mild.”
“Does it still hurt?”
“No,” you say, sweeping his hair back with your other hand. “Barely hurt then.”
He nods, but he doesn’t look satisfied with the conversation.
Regardless, he turns away again, shuffling through a drawer for a clean shirt.
“You, uh, you wanna stay for dinner tonight?” he asks, pulling his arms through, his head following.
“Yeah,” you say gaily. “Alfred said he’s making his ‘special spaghetti’, apparently it’s a household favorite?”
He wavers, halfway to between decisions. “Yeah…”
He huffs quietly, turning back to face you fully. “Can I see it?”
You nod, happy to ease his mind.
You start to unwrap the bandaging, him doing half the work for you. The work is done silently until your wrist is exposed, revealing your bruised skin.
You both see it at the same time—the hand-shaped bruise wrapped around your wrist.
You’re both quiet for a second—him putting pieces together and you waiting for the shoe to drop.
He takes off suddenly, clearly having come to a likely very accurate conclusion about what had happened.
“Fucking idiot—”
You try for his hand but he’s out of reach before you can grab it.
“I’ll be right back,” he grumbles behind him.
“Jason—” you sigh, “At least help me wrap it back up first.”
He hesitates, halfway to the door, ultimately returning to you in defeat. He takes your forearm gently, scanning it over again before beginning to wrap it.
You watch his face closely, noting the clear vexation. “It was just an accident,” you tell him.
He scoffs, “It better have been.”
You drop your shoulders and lull your head to the side. “Jason. I’m not made of glass, you can’t expect other people to act like it.”
“I don’t. I expect him to mind his own strength, and if he can’t do that, he needs to keep his fucking hands to himself.”
You sigh, “Just don’t do anything harsh. Please. I think he’s worried you’re gonna punch him.”
“He should be,” he says shortly. He finishes off the wrapping, pinning it in place firmly.
You grab onto his forearm before he can pull away, “You’re not going to. Right?”
He doesn’t answer so you try to make his gaze meet yours, “Right?”
His eyes roll, “Yeah, fine.”
You smile, holding his face. “I love you.”
He huffs as though he’s inconvenienced, but confesses the obvious truth nonetheless. “I love you.”
He looks you in the eye, face serious. “You promise me it doesn’t hurt?”
“I promise,” you nod, brushing your fingers against his palm.
“Dick!”
The angry voice bellows through the tall halls of the manor, heavy footsteps thudding.
He stomps into the living room, Tim, Cass, and Stephanie watching the entryway with wide eyes.
“Where is he?”
Unwitting shoulders shrug and heads shake. Truthfully, at that. Dick, smartly, did not tell anyone where he was hiding.
Jason scans the trios faces, looking for any sign of apprehension.
He clocks the grin shamelessly plastered across his sister's face quickly. “Stephanie?”
“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “But let me know when you find him, I wanna see—”
But Jason’s moving onto the next room before she can get the last words out.
He enters the dining room, looking right to left before finding his target, halfway to stuffing himself behind the fine china cabinet in the corner.
There’s a brief, tense moment in between where the pair realize what they’re seeing and when Dick sets off in a sprint towards the kitchen, Jason quick on his tail.
“Really? Really?” Jason shouts.
“It was an accident! It was a fucking—”
He narrowly dodges a swipe from Jason, then ducking before a ladle could make contact with his head.
“Are you stupid? Are you the dumbest motherf—”
Dick rounds the kitchen island as fast as possible, Jason testing him on the other side.
Dick takes a breath, “Dude, it’s fine now, it’s not that big of a—”
Jason recoils, “‘It’s not a big deal’? Come here. Let me sprain your wrist, asshole!”
He circles the counter quicker than the elder boy can think to move away and lunges at him.
Dick throws his hands up in front of him, “Wait, wait, wait! Truce! Truce! Truce?”
Jason drops his shoulders, leveling his older brother with a look. “You can’t call a truce if you’re the only one who did anything wrong.”
“I…” It doesn’t take him long to piece together that his defense makes no sense, so he resorts to his last option.
“Please?” Dick asks, nothing short of imploring.
Jason relents—slightly—upon hearing his brother's tone, but still finds it in him to shove him, though not nearly as hard as he’d been planning to.
“I told you a hundred fucking times not to grab her so hard—”
Dick nods heavily, waving a hand. “I know, I know—”
“Clearly you fucking don’t!” Jason shouts. He huffs, running a hand over his face. “You sprained her wrist. You’ve been doing this vigilante shit for fifteen years, how do you still not fucking know how to control your own strength?”
Dick grimaces, “I do! I do, I just screwed up, I’m sorry!”
“Don’t—” Jason narrowly holds back a scowl, “Did you apologize to her?”
“Yeah, of course I did!”
For a split second, Jason looks ready to keep arguing before purposefully dropping the anger from his body.
The resulting relief almost drowns Dick.
It only lasts a moment though, before Jason looks at him again, sneering, “Idiot,” before pushing him once more.
“Jason.”
Your voice has Jason dropping all turbulence in an instant. He and Dick both whip their heads towards the door, equally unexpecting of the interruption.
You tilt your head at your boyfriend with a knowing but disappointed stare.
He looks back at you like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, lips parted.
“I didn’t hit him.”
⭐️ your options are: (1) reblog fics or (2) be a little bitch ⭐️
♡ Summary: When you call in sick, Dennis insists on taking care of you — even if that means bringing you to the hospital.
Dennis notices it the moment he walks into the ER for the day shift.
Your absence hits him like a physical blow. You’re usually already here by now, in grey scrubs, coffee in hand, leaning against the counter while chatting with Dana. It’s always the same routine, every shift without fail.
But today, there’s no sign of you.
Maybe you’re late, he tells himself. That’s all.
Minutes drag by, stretching thin and uncomfortable. Starting a shift without your smile, without you asking how he slept or what he’s doing after work, without you wordlessly pressing a drink or a snack into his hand “just because”, it feels wrong in a way he can’t quite articulate.
An hour passes and you're still nowhere to be found, so he finally decides to ask.
“Oh, she called in sick.” Dana tells him gently. “Sounded awful. Some kind of flu, maybe. Poor thing could barely get the words out.”
Dennis nods, thanks her, and then spends the rest of his shift fighting himself.
You’re probably sleeping, he reasons. That’s why you’re not answering his text, in which he asks if you're ok and wether you need anything.
But his mind won’t stop spiraling anyway.
What if you’re dehydrated? What if you fainted trying to shower? What if you’re on the bathroom floor right now, head split open, alone, too weak to call for help—
Enough.
He forces himself back into the present, back into charting, back into patient care. But the worry clings, persistent and heavy like stones in his chest.
By the time his shift ends, the decision has already been made.
He needs to see you. Bring you medicine. Make sure you’re eating. Take your vitals if you’ll let him. Otherwise, he knows he won’t find peace until he sees you at work again.
That’s how he ends up standing in front of your apartment door, two grocery bags cutting into his palms, hesitating over the doorbell.
This is… a little creepy, he thinks. Just showing up like this.
He’s only been here once before, after karaoke night with your colleagues, when someone had thrown up on him and you’d insisted he come inside for clean clothes, absolutely refusing to let him get into a cab like that.
The memory makes his ears burn. Still, he raises his hand. And rings the doorbell.
It takes longer than he expects for you to answer. When the door finally opens, his breath catches.
You look… bad.
Not just “sick,” not just “flu-ish.” Your skin is flushed and dull all at once, eyes glassy, hair plastered to your forehead with sweat. You’re clad in an oversized shirt and loose pajama pants. Your eyes furrow as you take him in, seemingly fresh from work, still in his black scrubs.
“Oh,” you croak. “Dennis. What are you doing here?”
"Checking on you." He replies, in a cadence that's supposed to convey that it should be obvious.
Relief flickers across your face, and then your knees wobble. Dennis drops the bags instantly, lunging forward to steady you.
“Okay,” he says softly, already guiding you back inside. “Okay. You’re sitting down. Right now.”
You blink up at Dennis, vision swimming, and for a moment you genuinely wonder if he’s real.
Maybe he’s just another fever-dream a kindness your overheated brain has invented because it can’t stand being alone anymore.
But then his hands are on you, warm and steady, guiding you through your apartment and into a chair at the kitchen table. The familiarity of him settles something deep in your chest. Real or not, you don’t care.
At least you’re not alone. At least someone is here to keep watch while you keep slipping in and out of yourself.
“I’m okay. Really.” you rasp, throat raw and voice barely cooperating. “I took an Advil. Slept a lot. Did cold compresses.” You swallow, then add, a little defensively, “I’m a nurse. I know how to take care of myself.”
Dennis freezes mid-unpacking the bags on the kitchen counter.
He turns slowly, one brow lifting as he looks at you, not angry, not amused, just deeply unimpressed.
“Do you, though?” he asks gently. “You took an Advil, slept, and called it a day?” He exhales through his nose. “Respectfully, you need more than that.”
You frown, squinting at him. “It’s just a bad cold or something. I’ll sleep it off.”
He shakes his head, already reaching into his backpack. Out comes a blood pressure cuff, a stethoscope, things you recognize and more things you don’t even bother trying to identify.
“I brought medication.” he says, calm but firm. “But I want to do an exam first. If you’ll let me.”
You sigh weakly. “It’s not like you’d really let me refuse, right?”
His eyes meet yours, blue, earnest, worried in a way that makes your chest ache.
“I’m worried.” he says quietly. “Really worried.”
That does it. You lean back in the chair, lifting your arms weakly in surrender. “Okay. Go ahead. Knock yourself out, doc.”
Dennis moves closer, rolling up your sleeve with careful fingers. The blood pressure cuff wraps snugly around your arm, the velcro sound loud in the small kitchen. You watch the monitor as it inflates, feel the tight squeeze.
You catch the numbers yourself. They’re low. Dennis sees it too, you know he does, but he doesn’t say a word. Just presses his lips together, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly as he deflates the cuff and sets it aside.
“Alright,” he murmurs. “Let’s listen.”
He slips the stethoscope into his ears, resting the bell over your shirt at first. You can feel how careful he’s being, like he’s afraid you might break under his hands.
You sigh. “You can… slip it under the shirt,” you say quietly. “Get a proper listen.”
He hesitates for half a second, then he nods, a blush rising in is cheeks before he can hide it behind professionalism. He warms the bell between his palms before pressing it gently to your skin. The touch is grounding, steady.
“Deep breath for me.” he says softly.
You try. The breath rattles halfway in, catching painfully in your chest before dissolving into a rough cough. Your body folds forward instinctively.
“Sorry.” you rasp once it passes.
Dennis shakes his head immediately, one hand coming up to steady you, firm and reassuring between your shoulder blades.
“Don’t apologize.” he says. “Just breathe when you can.”
He moves the stethoscope slowly, methodically, front, back, listening longer than strictly necessary. His expression doesn’t give much away, but the focus in his eyes sharpens with every breath you take.
Next comes the thermometer. He waits, watching the screen. “Woah.” he murmurs when it beeps.
You don’t need to see it. The heat under your skin already feels unbearable.
39.5°C (103 °F). Dennis doesn’t comment, just reaches for the pulse oximeter and clips it gently to your finger. Your hand looks small in his, swallowed by his grip.
He watches the numbers climb… then stall.
Internally, the decision is already made. If the fever doesn’t come down, if it climbs even higher in the next hour, he’s taking you in. Argument or not.
But outwardly, he stays calm. He doesn't tell you about his plan. You don't have to worry about the possibility of a hospital visit yet.
“Have you been drinking enough?” he asks.
You open your mouth. Close it. Think.
“I… don’t really know,” you admit finally.
That doesn’t surprise him, but it still frustrates him. He exhales slowly through his nose, nodding to himself as if confirming something he already suspected.
“Okay,” he says, gentle but resolute. “We’re fixing that.”
Dennis helps you to your feet, one arm firm around your waist, the other steadying your elbow as he guides you toward the couch.
And then—
You blink. The ceiling is gone. The floor is gone. Reality skips like a scratched DVD.
The next thing you know, you’re already lying down. Your legs are propped up on a pile of pillows, elevated neatly, deliberately. The couch cushions cradle your back. Dennis is right there beside you, closer than before, his stethoscope pressed to your chest again, brow furrowed in concentration.
“Wha—” you mumble, blinking hard, trying to clear the fog from your vision.
“You fainted on me,” Dennis says, voice tight. “On the way to the couch.”
There’s an edge to his words, not anger, exactly, but something sharper. The tone he only ever gets when he’s scared enough that he can’t fully tuck it away behind professionalism.
“Oh...” you whisper. Then, automatically, “Sorry—”
You try to push yourself up. Dennis’s hand is on your shoulder instantly, firm but careful, pressing you back down.
“Nope.” His voice leaves no room for argument. “Please. Let’s keep you horizontal for now.” He exhales, running a hand through his curls before reaching for your wrist. “It’s not even been three minutes, and I really don’t want you fainting on me again.”
He reattaches the pulse oximeter to your finger, eyes flicking between the device and your face. His thumb rests unconsciously against your skin, grounding himself as much as you.
“My heart wouldn’t be able to handle that.” he adds quietly.
That lands heavier than anything else he’s said. You swallow, throat aching. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know,” he says immediately, softer now. “I know you didn’t.”
He listens again, heart, lungs, even longer than before, like he’s memorizing the rhythm of you. Like he’s reassuring himself that you’re still here, still breathing, still warm under his hands.
“Dennis.” you murmur weakly, eyes fluttering. “You don’t… you don’t have to hover.”
He lets out a small, humorless huff. “I absolutely do.”
You manage the barest ghost of a smile.
He reaches for a glass of water you don’t remember him bringing and slides a straw between your lips. “Slow sips.” he instructs gently. “Just a little.”
You obey, because arguing feels impossible and because something about his presence makes it easier to let go of control. The water is cool, soothing against your burning throat.
“That’s it.” he murmurs. “Good.”
He sets the glass aside but doesn’t move away. Instead, he sits on the edge of the couch, one hand resting lightly on your shin, grounding, protective.
“You scared me.” he admits quietly, eyes fixed on you now, no longer pretending this is just clinical. “I don’t like seeing you like this. I don’t like not being able to fix it immediately.”
Your eyelids feel heavy again. “You’re doing… fine.” you whisper. “You’re really good at this. Almost like its your job.”
His mouth curves into the smallest, fondest smile, sad around the edges.
“Yeah.” he says softly. “But you’re not just a patient.”
Dennis waits a few minutes after you’ve settled, watching your chest rise and fall, making sure the dizziness doesn’t come rushing back. Only then does he reach for the bag he brought, kneeling beside the couch so he’s eye level with you.
“Okay.” he says gently. “I’m going to give you something now.”
You squint at him. “Promise it’s not… experimental.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “I promise. Just antipyretics, fluids, something for the pain. Nothing you wouldn’t give a patient yourself.”
He explains every pill before handing it to you, even though you’re a nurse and even though your eyes are already drifting shut again. He helps you sit up just enough to swallow them, steady hand warm against your back, murmuring praise when you manage to swallow them.
“There you go. Good.”
Once you’re settled again, he shifts carefully, easing himself onto the couch so your head can rest on his lap. You barely register it, only that it’s comfortable, solid and safe. His hand comes up automatically, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead and neck, checking your temperature with the back of his fingers like it’s second nature.
You fall asleep almost immediately.
Dennis doesn’t move. He sits there, back slightly hunched, afraid that even breathing too deeply might wake you. Your lashes rest dark against flushed cheeks, your mouth parted softly as you breathe. Fever has made you smaller somehow, fragile in a way that twists painfully in his chest.
He watches the subtle things: the way your brow smooths when you’re fully asleep, the way your fingers curl slightly into the fabric of his scrub pants like you’re anchoring yourself to him. Every so often, he rubs slow circles into your arm, not to soothe you, but to soothe himself.
An hour passes. Maybe more.
He checks the time, then the thermometer again.
39.4°C. His jaw tightens. “Damn it,” he whispers, more to himself than to you.
He gives it another few minutes, his mind racing, then checks again.
No change. That’s it.
He kneels beside you and gently brushes his thumb along your cheek. “Hey.” he murmurs. “Hey, sweetheart. Wake up for me.”
You stir, confused, eyes fluttering open. “Did I… fall asleep?”
“Yeah.” he says softly. “You did really good.”
Your voice is thick with sleep. “Feel… better?”
He doesn’t lie. “Not enough.”
You frown weakly, trying to sit up. “Dennis—”
“We’re going to the hospital,” he says, calm but immovable. “Your fever should’ve come down by now. It didn’t.”
You groan. “I hate hospitals.”
He snorts. "You work in one."
"Mhh, but that's different." You reply quietly.
“I know.” His thumb presses reassuringly into your shoulder. “I’ll be with you. The whole time.”
He stands and immediately starts moving, all quiet efficiency now. He grabs a tote from the counter and turns back to you. “Okay. What do you want me to pack?”
You blink at him. “You’re… serious.”
“Very.”
“Uh... " you mumble. “Phone charger. My ID. Maybe a hoodie?”
He’s already moving, grabbing things almost before you finish speaking. He stuffs them into the bag a little haphazardly, not sloppy, just rushed, worried. He adds a bottle of water, your wallet, your lip balm like he knows you’ll want it.
When he comes back, you’re trying, and failing, to sit up properly.
“Nope.” he says immediately. “Don’t even think about it.”
Before you can protest, he carefully scoops you up, one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back. You make a small sound of surprise but don’t resist. You’re too tired, and he's too warm, too safe.
He carries you out of the apartment, and down to the parking lot, holding you close like you weigh nothing.
As he lowers you into the passenger seat of your car, you manage a sleepy smile.
“You’re stealing my car,” you murmur.
“Yeah,” he replies, already buckling you in, careful and thorough. Then, a beat. “With your permission, right?”
“Mmm.” you hum. “Yeah, I guess.” You squint at him. “You do have a license… right?”
That finally gets a real smile out of him, tired, fond and a little crooked.
“Yeah. I do.” he says, shutting the door gently and moving to the driver’s seat. “Just no money for a car.”
He starts the engine, glances over at you once more, expression softening instantly.
“Hang in there,” he says quietly. “I’ve got you now.”
Lena is on her feet the second Dennis helps you walk through the ED doors.
“Dennis?” she says first, sharp with concer, then her eyes drop to you, slumped against him, skin flushed and eyes glassy. Her expression softens instantly. “Oh, sugar.”
She’s at your side in a heartbeat, warm hand closing around yours with practiced gentleness. “Hey. You’re okay. We’ve got you.”
Dennis barely hears anything past that. His world has narrowed to the way your weight leans into him, the way you shiver despite the heat radiating off your skin.
“Let’s get her in North 1.” Lena calls over her shoulder.
Everything moves fast after that. Too fast and not fast enough all at once.
You’re guided into the room, and Dennis helping ease you onto the mattress, his hands careful, reverent. The gurney rails come up with a metallic click. Dennis stays glued to your side, one hand still gripping yours like if he lets go you might disappear.
“Vitals, please.”
“Temp’s still high.”
“Heart rate’s up.”
Dennis nods automatically, brain slipping into that familiar clinical groove even as something inside him feels tight, frayed. He pulls your shirt up gently, knuckles brushing your warm skin as he places the electrodes with practiced precision.
“Cold.” he murmurs, more apology than warning. You flinch anyway, mumbling something incoherent.
“I know.” he says softly. “I know. I’ve got you.”
The monitor comes alive, beeping, lines jumping. Too fast. Not catastrophic, but not good either. He notes it all without comment, jaw set.
Lena watches him for a moment, then leans in. “You okay, Whitaker?”
He exhales through his nose. “Yeah.” A beat. Then, quieter, honest. “No. But yeah.”
She gives a small nod, understanding written all over her face. “Stay by her head. I’ll grab labs.”
Someone slips a blood pressure cuff onto your arm. Another nurse starts an IV, tourniquet snapping into place. You grimace, trying to pull your arm back.
Dennis’s hand immediately finds your shoulder. “Hey. Hey—look at me.”
Your eyes flicker toward him, unfocused but searching. “Deep breath,” he says, voice low and steady. “In through your nose. Just like that. You’re doing great.”
You relax a fraction, enough for the IV to slide in. Dennis feels the tension drain from your body before he even registers it on the monitor.
“Good.” he murmurs. “So good.”
Your head lolls slightly toward him, words slurring. “Didn’t… mean to make a fuss.”
His throat tightens.
“You didn’t.” he says firmly. “You really didn't. If anything, you didn't make enough of a fuss."
He reaches up, brushing damp hair off your forehead, completely forgetting where he is until Lena clears her throat pointedly.
Right. You're colleagues... and this is your workplace. He swallows, straightens just a bit, but his hand never leaves you.
Fluids are hung. Blood is drawn. A cool cloth is placed at your neck. Someone mentions antivirals. Someone else mentions admitting you for observation. Dennis catches every word, files it away, nods when needed.
But every few seconds, his eyes drift back to your face. You blink slowly, lashes heavy. “You’re… here.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says without hesitation.
The world comes and goes in soft, unfocused waves. Voices drift in and out, layered over the steady beeping of a monitor. You catch fragments, words that don’t quite connect, syllables that feel too heavy to hold onto.
“—pneumonia.” someone says.
“Not severe.” another voice adds. “You brought her in early enough.”
Dennis answers, his voice low, professional, steady in a way that almost hurts to hear. You can’t make out the words, just the cadence of them, measured, thoughtful. The sound of him discussing treatment options. Antibiotics. Observation. Fluids.Doctor Dennis Whitaker.
The realization settles uncomfortably in your chest. You hate this. Being on the gurney instead of beside it. Being the one people are talking about, not to. It’s disorienting, humiliating in a quiet way. These are your coworkers, your friends. People you’ve laughed with on breaks, covered shifts for, shared coffee with at ungodly hours.
Now they’re adjusting your IV, checking your vitals, speaking in careful tones.
And you feel… small. Weak. Helpless in a way you’re not used to.
Your head feels like it weighs a thousand pounds as you slowly turn it to the side. The movement makes the room tilt, but you manage to focus just enough to find him.
Dennis is standing near the foot of the gurney, talking to a nurse, Lena, you think. His shoulders are tense beneath his jacket, posture rigid with restraint. One hand gestures as he speaks, the other tucked into his pocket like he needs something to anchor himself.
He looks tired. Worn thin around the edges. Worried.
As if he feels your gaze, he turns.
The moment his eyes meet yours, everything else seems to fade. The clinical focus softens instantly, concern rushing in like a tide. He’s at your side in two strides, hand coming up to rest gently against your forearm.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You with me?”
You manage a small nod. It feels like a monumental effort.
“They’re… talking about me.” you whisper, voice barely there.
“I know.” he says quietly. “I know it feels weird.”
You swallow. “I hate it.”
His thumb brushes slowly over your skin, grounding, familiar. “You don’t have to like it. You just have to let us take care of you right now.”
Your eyes sting, though you’re not sure if it’s from fever or emotion. “Pneumonia? I should’ve noticed sooner. I should’ve—”
“No.” he cuts in gently but firmly. “Don’t do that.” He leans in closer, lowering his voice so only you can hear. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Pneumonia can be sneaky. You came in when you needed to. That’s what matters.”
You watch his face, the way his jaw tightens as he holds himself together. “You’re scared.”
He exhales slowly, a soft huff of a laugh with no humor in it. “Yeah,” he admits. “But you’re going to be okay.”
He sounds so sure. Like he needs to be.
You let your head fall back against the pillow, eyelids fluttering. “Stay.” you mumble. “Please.”
“I’m here.” he says immediately, fingers curling a little tighter around your arm. “I’m not leaving.”
And as the haze pulls you under again, the last thing you feel is the steady warmth of his hand, solid, reassuring, proof that even in this unfamiliar role, you’re not alone.
They wheel you upstairs sometime later, the chaos of the ED slowly giving way to quieter halls and softer lights. The room they settle you into is small but warm, meant for rest rather than urgency. Dennis never leaves your side, not when they transfer you to the bed, not when they adjust the IV, not when the nurse explains the plan for the night.
When it’s finally just the two of you, the silence feels loud. You shift slightly, the movement clumsy, and lift your hand in a weak, unfocused gesture. “You should… go home.” you murmur, words thick and slow. “You must be exhausted after working all day and now… being here with me. And you need to eat and—”
Dennis gently catches your hand before you can tug at the IV, guiding it back to rest against your side.
“Shhh.” he says softly. “I’m okay.”
You frown faintly, unconvinced.
“I’m exactly where I want to be.” he continues, voice low and steady. “I promise. And I’ll get something to eat once you’re asleep.”
The tenderness in his tone is what does it. Tears well in your eyes before you can stop them, hot and sudden, and you feel ridiculous for it. Too emotional. Too fragile.
He notices immediately.
“It’s okay.” he murmurs, rising from the chair beside your bed.
Before you can wonder what he’s doing, he sits down on the edge of the mattress, and carefully pulls you into him. One arm wraps around your shoulders, the other resting warm and solid against your back. He’s careful of the lines, of your IV, of everything, but the hug itself is sure and grounding.
You melt into it, forehead pressing against his chest, your breath finally evening out.
You stay like that for a while. No talking. Just the quiet rise and fall of his breathing, the steady presence of him holding you like he’s anchoring you to the world.
Eventually, you tilt your head back just enough to look at him, a sleepy spark of humor returning. “How bad do I look in this gown?” you ask. “Be honest. From one to ten?”
Dennis smiles, really smiles this time, eyes soft as he takes you in, your tangled hair, the flimsy hospital gown, the wires and tubes, the vulnerability of it all.
“Like...” he says thoughtfully, “the prettiest patient I’ve ever had.”
You snort despite yourself. “Liar!”
He chuckles under his breath and shifts so you’re comfortable again, one hand absentmindedly smoothing your hair back as he starts talking, quiet stories about nothing in particular, about growing up, Nebraska, the farm, about dumb things that happened during past shifts, anything gentle enough to lull you toward sleep.
Your eyelids grow heavy. His voice becomes a distant, soothing hum.
Even when your breathing deepens and you’re fully knocked out, Dennis stays. He watches you for a long moment, makes sure you’re truly asleep, then finally, reluctantly, stands to grab a sandwich from downstairs. He comes right back. And for the rest of the night, he keeps his quiet vigil at your bedside, exactly where he wants to be.
Summary: You get a concussion while ice skating, and Matt is adamant that you have to rest.
Pairing: Matt x Reader
Warnings: Head injury descriptions, panic attack
You can also read this chapter here on AO3.
“Can’t you let me just be better than you at something? Anything?” You tested out the ice gingerly with your right skate as Matt easily began to glide backwards—backwards—while shrugging. “Actually, scratch that. Don’t ever let me win at anything. Because when I win, I want to know I really won.”
“Last I checked, there’s no competition here.” Matt looped back around to you, and took your upper arm with his hand. To anyone watching, you were leading Matt around the rink; in reality, his grip above your elbow was firm for only your own benefit, and it gave you a sense of stability as you picked up speed together.
Rockefeller Center was probably one of the most touristy outings you had ever done with Matt, who preferred to frequent the quieter “hidden gems” of New York—if there was such a thing as a hidden gem in New York—but you’d won two free tickets through work and convinced Matt it wouldn’t be completely horrible. In retrospect it was ridiculous that you had to persuade him in the first place, because he was obviously enjoying himself, getting a feel for the ice and working up to a speed just slightly beyond what you would have done if you were alone.
“And you’ve never done this before?” you asked.
“Never.”
“That is so unfair. I even took a semester of ice skating back in college. What, are the touch receptors on the pads of your feet giving you extra dexterity or something?”
“Well, my dad took me roller blading once.”
“Ah, yes, that must be the source of your prowess: roller blading once when you were a little kid.” You rolled your eyes. “Matt, you realize that you could probably be an Olympian athlete at any sport if you decided to dedicate yourself to it?”
As you spoke, the toe pick on the front of your skate caught on the ice, and you nearly faceplanted; Matt’s steadying yank backwards on your arm was the only reason you stayed upright.
“I thought you said you’ve done this before,” he commented.
“I have. And I did learn some things.” You broke away from his grasp and attempted a rotation, pulling your arms into your chest to pick up a bit more speed. “I can sort of spin. That stuck, apparently.”
Matt was smiling. “Not too shabby. Show me how?”
And so for a brief minute you did get to teach him something, demonstrating how you dug your right toe pick into the ice and then looped your left foot around to pick up speed before spinning a few times. He, of course, picked up on it almost immediately, and then the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was practically twirling on the ice, not one hint of instability in his movement.
“I know why you’re so good at this,” you said, observing him. He joined you again and you resumed your lap around the rink, his hand around your arm.
“Didn’t you already establish that I’ve got great receptors on the pads of my feet?”
“Well, that too. But it’s all those spinning midair kicks you do,” you said, in a much lower voice. “You spend half your nights tornado-ing your way around Hell’s Kitchen; of course you can spin on ice.”
“Should I try a jump?”
“I’m of the opinion that the fun of trying to jump on ice is not worth the potential injury it could entail.”
“That sounds like a challenge, sweetheart.”
“Matt, I’ve cleaned up enough of your injuries that the last thing I want is for you to get one figure skating—”
“Watch out!” Matt pulled you in towards his chest just as another man whizzed by on the ice, weaving in and out of the crowd.
“It’s like we’re playing Frogger,” you said, watching the man cruise down the other side of the rink. “Thank you.”
“He’s giving everyone on the rink a heart attack when he goes by them,” Matt said, head tilted ever so slightly. “Stay closer to the middle; he’s keeping to the edges.” And then, without warning, he skated forward away from you, sprung off the ice, and did a half-rotation so that he landed skating backwards on his other foot. It was ridiculously flawless.
“Matt Murdock, you are a liar! When the hell did you learn to ice skate? This is not your first time!”
“Stick might’ve made me go on skates a few times,” he said, not bothering to turn around and skating backwards still. He was grinning, his hair unkempt from the movement and nose red at the tip from the cold air. You skated forward, closing the gap between you and wrapping your arms around him, cautiously keeping your skates away from his to avoid tripping both of you up.
“Stick ice skates?” you said dubiously.
“Not in the way you’d think of ice skating. It was more a training exercise to practice balance. He didn’t exactly teach me to do a waltz jump or anything.”
“Yeah, he doesn’t strike me as the triple axel coach sort of guy,” you said, trying to envision Stick being graceful on the ice. It was nearly impossible to picture. “I’m sorry. I hope coming out here doesn’t bring back bad memories or anything—”
“No, it was one of the few exercises I liked.” Matt picked up speed, separating himself from you, and waving you on to speed up.
Alright, then. You picked up speed, lifting your feet and pushing off the ice harder. It felt good; the frigid air on your face and blue skies above, the thrum of New York tourists gaily looping around the rink beside you.
“See, you’re a natural,” Matt said, quickly flipping around to face forward again. “Just keep the inner edge of the skate—watch out!”
You also heard the man coming up behind you before you saw him, and you lurched to the side. What happened next was not entirely clear: if you had ever imagined what it would be like to be able to teleport, that was what it felt like, because without any realization or memory of actually falling, you were suddenly on your back, head throbbing on the ice.
Matt was at your side in an instant, as was the blue-jacketed Rockefeller worker who must have seen and come over immediately.
“I’m okay,” you said automatically, but even lifting your head to sit up made the world teeter and wisp around as though it were a ship bobbing on the ocean. Under other circumstances, your utter failure to get up on your own would have been mortifying, but as it was, you hardly even noticed; more pressing was the violent pain on the back of your head. Matt and the attendant helped you up, one on either side, and shakily you went off the ice, the world blinking by you like a stop-motion movie. As soon as you were safely seated on a bench off the rink, Matt’s hands were skimming your head.
“Hey,” he said, a bit urgently. “You fell hard. How are you feeling?”
“Like…” Dazed was how you were feeling. You could see his eyes, concerned and fixed at a spot just around your eyebrows that felt as though you were almost achieving real eye contact. “I’m okay,” you said instead, a bit woozily.
“Here.” A woman wearing a Rockefeller Center jacket in the same shade of blue came over with a bag of ice and a clipboard. “You doing good, honey?”
“I’m okay,” you repeated, feeling like a broken record. Your balance still felt like it was slightly tipped, and the back of your head hurt like a bitch. How the hell does Matt deal with knocks to the head every night?
She asked you for your name, and contact information; she looked into your eyes with a penlight.
“Is it a concussion?” you asked, even though it was hard to imagine that it couldn’t be a concussion, considering how muzzy your thoughts were—scattered, like a wind kept blowing them away, and only half-formed anyway.
“I’m not permitted to make any diagnoses,” she said flatly. “But we can call you an ambulance and get you to the hospital.”
“Oh. No, no,” you said hastily, the horrifying thought of a damn ambulance breaking through the fog in your head. “No, thank you.”
“Then you’ll have to sign here stating that we offered and you declined an ambulance,” she went on, and turned to Matt. “We’ll need you to sign a witness form here—saying that you saw what happened—”
“I’m blind,” he said. “I didn’t see it.”
The woman blinked. “Oh. Well, it’s just a formality. Just sign here.” She handed him a pen and showed him where the line was, and Matt formally signed a statement that he had “seen” you fall on the ice, an entirely ironic situation that would have been comedic if you had been able to entirely think it through.
You kept the ice on the growing lump that felt like a golf ball, staring straight ahead at the other ice skaters, willing the terrible pressure on your head to go away.
“Sweetheart—”
“No, Matt. I’m not taking the ambulance and I’m not going to the hospital, either.”
“You hit the ice hard.” His hand was devastatingly gentle as he brushed the side of your face and then took your hand, rubbing your palm in a circular motion with his thumb. “I heard it.”
“What?” you said, a bit derisively. “The sound of my brain smacking the inside of my skull?”
His silence spoke volumes.
You sighed. “I’m okay, Matt. Really. Look, there’s… there’s ten minutes left on the ice with the ticket, go enjoy yourself, go skate—”
He smiled, but without any humor. “I’m staying with you.”
Your head pulsed. “Is that guy still jetting around the rink?”
“I’d throttle him if I could,” Matt said darkly. “You know, with some good lawyering that could be a tort claim.”
“I’m not suing him. And you’re not finding him to beat him up tonight,” you added, as an afterthought.
“I wouldn’t do that,” he said, but he still had a scowl on his face. “If not the hospital, then I’m calling Claire to have her come over.”
“Oh, that’s even worse, Matt. She’s so busy. I’d feel awful if she took time out of her evening to come look at me because I had a little bump on the ice—”
“It was more than a bump.”
You sat in silence together, watching the skaters go by, some of them falling too but none with the lack of grace that you apparently had. Why hadn’t you put out your hands? At least your elbows? Why the hell had you used your head as a way to catch yourself on the ice? You grazed your hand against the bump; it throbbed in response. The area in question was so raised that it felt like an egg was slipped under your skin, and it made you feel more nauseous.
And that was the worst of it: your head was hurting, but there was a wrongness to it, a type of nausea that just didn’t sit right and made you feel like everything was awry, inside and out. Matt seemed to catch onto your growing anxiety, because he squeezed your hand.
“Hey. Bumps to the head happen all the time. You’ll be good in no time.”
You nodded, breathing in air that didn’t quite feel like it was enough air. “Why—why don’t you go skate, Matt? Go enjoy the time before it runs out. Really.”
Had it really? You hadn’t even noticed that much time passing, and it was terrifying; the afternoon was passing by without you even registering it.
“I want to go home,” you whispered, suddenly sick of it all: the smell of the rubber floor, the constant chatter of tourists around you, the bright sky gleaming on the ice. Matt obliged you immediately, helping you to stand, and then you let go of him, determined to get back to your shoes on your own. Stepping carefully in the ice skates, you made your way towards the lockers, the world twisting and turning, tilting to the side, tumbling and twitching; you held out your hands for balance, and Matt made to help you but you shook him off, a sudden paralyzing sense of terror gripping you like a deep frost. You’d gotten hurt before, but never like this, and the feeling of your very thoughts being difficult to formulate was worst of all. Injuries were usually physical for you: pain, entirely separate from your mind. The physical realm now bleeding into the mental was horrifying. What if it lasts? What if it doesn’t go away? What if I’ve permanently hurt my brain, all because I couldn’t catch myself while falling?
“Hey.” Matt’s arm was around your waist. “You need to breathe.”
“I’m—” But you couldn’t get any more words out. Fear had seized you like a boa constrictor, relentless and vicelike. You turned to look at Matt and the world seemed to continue spinning as you turned to him, set off with no friction to slow it down. “I’m—”
“In and out. Breathe with me.”
You found yourself against the wall, trying to draw in a breath, but each time you tried it grew harder; it was as though your nose had closed off altogether and no air could get in, and each breath was rejected, because it hit an invisible wall in your throat—tears were streaming down your cheeks, and you didn’t even know why because it was so stupid, just a bump to the head. But you couldn’t stop, and only shook your head at Matt, trying to blink away the tears before he realized you were crying. Which was also stupid, you knew, because Matt surely knew you were crying even before you did.
“Feel my breathing, sweetheart.” Matt took your hand and placed it on his chest. “Breathe in deep with me, slowly.”
You felt the rise of his diaphragm under your hand, and struggled to draw in a breath with him. Your ears were ringing.
“And out. Just let it out.” His chest fell, and you slowly exhaled with him, the pounding ceasing every so slightly.
“Again. In and out.”
And the world stilled. Matt pulled you in, hugging you, his embrace so warm and full and safe that for a moment, all felt well; his hand was braced against your back and he had drawn your face in against his body.
--------------------------------------
The apartment was freezing when you returned. Matt, who was no rookie when it came to concussions, was quick to turn up the heat, get the ice pack out of the freezer, and pull the shades down.
“At least the dim light won’t bother you,” you said, trying to force a smile.
“How does your head feel?”
“Good. I’m really okay.” Which was mostly the truth, compared to the immediate post-fall way that it had been hurting. “Probably not even a concussion. I think I just hit my head hard.”
“It’s a concussion.”
“See, this is why I don’t even need to go to a doctor. You’re just as good at making a diagnosis.”
“It could’ve been so much worse.”
“Like the Punisher putting a bullet in your helmet, then deciding to go out and fight anyway? Yeah, I know, Matt.”
He didn’t smile. “Just rest, alright? Take a nap. I’ll make something for dinner.”
“I can still help,” you objected. “I didn’t get knocked out or anything. You don’t have to make me dinner like you’re my nurse or something.”
“Remember what you said the last time I got concussed? Something along the lines of, ‘Sit here and be still, you idiot.’”
“Well, that was because you got thrown against a brick wall by a three-hundred-pound arsonist. Me, on the other hand—I just bumped my head ice skating. It’s no big deal.” The vulnerability that came with being hurt was something you always struggled with. Maybe it was a deep-rooted sense of perfectionism, or the fear of being at someone else’s mercy, but being perceived as weak, or incapable, or worst of all, helpless—it made your skin crawl in a horrible way. The only remedy to such a vulnerability, of course, was standing up to that perception: defying it, proving you were stronger.
‘ You started to push yourself off the couch, but Matt blocked your path.
“It’s not a request,” he said, unfairly being a completely impregnable barricade; you tried to push by him to no avail. “I get it. It’s not fun. But how many times have I had to lay out on this couch while you took care of me? How about you let me return the favor for once?”
“Matt—”
“Sit.” He gently took you by the arms and lowered you onto the couch. “We’ve got onions. Pasta. Broccoli. Tofu. How about I make a casserole?”
“I can chop the onions.”
“I know. I know you can. But you said it yourself that you’re going to be alright. And being alright happens when you rest, and let your body heal. It’s not a weakness.”
He understood, then. He knew what was bothering you. “Fine,” you said, defeated, slumping over. It made the room start spinning rapidly, and you had to turn your head the other way. “ . . . Ow.”
“Don’t lean that way,” he advised.
“Too late.”
Matt went into the kitchen, leaving you to sit and do, quite literally, nothing. You fiddled with your hands, and then a loose thread on the couch, and then picked at a fingernail. It came off a bit too low, and throbbed in rhythm with your head, a bead of blood bubbling up at the base. Matt undoubtedly could hear it—and smell it—but he must have restrained himself from saying anything, because the only sound was the bubbling of boiling water.
Your book was sitting on the coffee table in front of you. You leaned over and grabbed it, flipping it open to where you had left the bookmark. It was dim lighting, but your eyes had adjusted enough to see it enough. You managed to read three sentences before Matt’s hands grazed your shoulders and plucked the book right from your hands. You jumped; you hadn’t heard him leave the kitchen.
“Wait forty-eight hours,” he told you, then leaned over to kiss you, upside-down from his position behind the couch. “Reading is exactly what you’re not supposed to do with a concussion.”
“Ugh. I’m going to remember this the next time you get hurt and try to go back out within the next forty-eight hours.”
Matt returned to the kitchen, and the sound of chopping resumed.
“Is now a good time to confess something to you?” he said, just as the scent of onions began to waft through the apartment.
“I don’t know,” you said warily, turning your whole body to look at him, in an effort to not swivel your head. “That’s never a good way to start a conversation.”
“I didn’t want to say anything, because you were excited about the Rockefeller tickets.”
“This doesn’t sound like it’s going to be good.”
“But I might’ve had a slight sprain last night,” he continued. “My ankle. And I didn’t want you to have to cancel because of me, so—”
“You were skating on a sprained ankle? Matt! How the hell is that supposed to convince me to rest if you go off gallivanting with an injury whenever you want?”
“It was weighing on my conscience, I guess.”
“The fact that you’re a raging hypocrite?” You got to your feet. “I’m chopping the rest of the damn onions, Matt.”
He didn’t protest, at least. “I guess there are worse activities to do while concussed.”
“Don’t antagonize me when I have a knife in my hand,” you warned him, picking one up and wagging it at him. “Who knows? I have a concussion, I might be unstable.”
In a flash, he disarmed you, plucking the knife out of your hand as quickly as he’d taken your book. “I don’t think I have anything to worry about.”
“I’m helping whether you like it or not.” You reached for the knife, but he quickly swapped it into his other hand.
“I know,” he said, twirling the blade expertly in his left hand. Damn show-off. “Which is why I’m putting you on tofu duty. The onions are almost all chopped, anyway.”
You glanced at where the tofu sat in its press. “Tearing it tonight?”
“Increases the surface area,” he confirmed. “Gets more flavor in.”
Mollified, you moved to the press and took the block of tofu out. “This doesn’t get you out of trouble, Murdock. And if your ankle is sprained, you should probably be sitting, and I should be doing all of the food prep—”
“My sprain was longer ago than your concussion.”
“My concussion was more mild than your sprain.”
“How would you know?”
“Because I know you, and I know you don’t do things halfway. I’ve stitched enough bloody wounds to know that.”
“We make quite the team, don’t we?” Matt drew you in again, and brushed your hair out of your face. “Gimpy and Helmetless?”
“Helmetless?” you said, laughing. “Though . . . now that you mention it. I wouldn’t have minded having a helmet on.”
“Which is why I wear one now, too.” Matt slid the seasoning drawer open. “What do you want? Cumin, chili powder? Ginger? Garlic powder?”
“Do we have cayenne pepper?”
“Right here.” While stirring the pasta, he reached out with his other hand and slipped the cayenne pepper out from the back of the drawer.
“You never cease to amaze me.”
“Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
“Trying to compliment me after bestowing the nickname Helmetless on me?” you said, tossing cayenne pepper over the tofu. “Are we baking or stir-frying this?”
“Stir-frying would be quicker.” Matt ran his fingers over his watch. “That way I can get suited up. I want to be here by the time you go to bed, because of the concussion, but I want to do a quick patrol for an hour or two after dinner—”
“Not on your sprained ankle, you’re not.”
“I think the jump on the ice proved that I’m fine. Fine enough, at least.”
“Lawyer you may be, but that’s a terrible argument. Plus, if you go on patrol, then I’ll stay here to read and watch TV, plus anything else that I’m not supposed to do. And if you listen to my heartbeat, you’ll know I’m not lying.”
For a moment, he was silent. The pasta nearly boiled over the edge of the pot and he turned down the heat; the apartment grew quiet. “Alright. Truce. We’ll stay in, and you rest.”
“Deal,” you agreed. “We will rest.”
A deal with the devil, as it turned out, didn’t always have to be a bad thing.
This had been sitting in my drafts for awhile, and I wasn't very happy with it, but I wanted to post something in honor of it being Weekend Before Daredevil Born Again Season Two is Officially Released.
I'm SO excited for the new season but sadly I have to wait until Wednesday evening to watch because I have a law exam Wednesday morning (and watching DD the night before a big exam probably wouldn't be the smartest thing to do).
I hope that this is fun to read in the days leading up to the new season, even though it's a bit campy. Hopefully the next addition (whenever that may be) is a tad more intricate/interesting/long. Thank you all so much for reading!!
Summary: For the first few months you worked with the avengers, they barely knew you. Beyond what you were like during a mission, you were a mystery to them. It was truly marvelous how well you worked with the team and yet there was so little they knew about you.
You barely went to team bonding and you NEVER went to Tony Stark's parties. Well, not until last night. And you’re never going again.
A/N: this is the longest thing I’ve written, WHOOPS. I couldn’t stop with this one so hope some of y’all enjoy it! Ps: no I don’t know what card game Steve and Bucky are playing, make believe (shrugs) beta read by my friend @whats-yesterday00
It’s official. You’re never leaving your room again.
Not after what happened last night.
From this moment forward you are not leaving your room. No matter the reason. No matter how much they beg.
Actually that’s a lie, you would have to leave your room at some point.
But you’re going to camp out in your room for as long as possible.
There’s a chance that if you do leave your room, and risk running into him, you’ll melt into a pile of goo on the floor. Or maybe you’d implode from the mortification.
Either way, you shouldn’t risk it.
You should just revert to the old version of you. The girl that didn’t ever leave her room. Was too intimidated by the other avengers to spend time with them. The girl who — even though you had been given a warm welcome — didn’t feel like part of the team yet.
For the first few months you worked with the avengers, they barely knew you. Beyond what you were like during a mission, you were a mystery to them. It was truly marvelous how well you worked with the team and yet there was so little they knew about you.
Steve would occasionally organize team bonding events. After you joined, Steve planned them more frequently. A subtle way to get you to open up to them.
Sometimes you would attend. Key word, sometimes.
Usually, it would take some convincing from a few of them. Like when Sam would crack some jokes about how this week you HAD to be there because they were doing XYZ and so on. At some point you’d feel guilty for missing it and show up only to sit there quietly the whole time. You’d speak when spoken to, but never intentionally join a conversation.
A majority of the time, you wouldn’t feel up for socializing and gave some excuse as to why you’re not feeling well. Steve never pushed you to show, but his eyes grew soft with concern whenever you told him you couldn’t attend.
But, at some point, the Avengers noticed a change in you. You stopped turning down bonding events and started actually participating. They would find you hanging out in the lounge more often or sticking around to watch movies.
After a long and brutal game of Uno during game night, they were all left surprised by how excited and competitive you were. The game ended with a stare down between you and Clint.
You were still a relatively shy person, just more willing to open up and be yourself around them. None of them knew what caused this sudden change, but few of them had their theories.
The first time you were tempted to leave your room was about two months after you started living in the compound.
You were standing on the only chair available in your room which happened to be the swivel desk chair. Was it the safest way to hang up your room decor? Probably not. But you wanted to decorate your walls and this was the only way to do it.
Your arms were starting to grow tired. One hand was holding up the poster, desperately trying to keep it straight, while the other was trying to rip off a piece of tape.
Somehow the chair moved just the right way and you lost your balance. You stumbled to the floor and took the chair with you.
“Shit!” You loudly groaned after landing on your side with a thump.
As you carefully stood back up, you heard a voice from the other side of your door.
“You okay in there?”
Your stomach dropped at the realization someone heard you fall. The urge to ignore the voice was strong, but you also knew they were just trying to check on you.
With a slight limp, you approached the door and opened it. Behind it was a concerned Bucky Barnes. Up until now, you’d never gotten this close of a look at him before. You never noticed how blue his eyes actually were. It was almost hypnotizing the way you were so easily lost in them as he stared back at you.
“Are you alright? I heard a crash.”
You blinked back to reality. “Yeah I’m fine. I fell trying to put up a poster,” you gestured towards it- now discarded (and thankfully not ripped) on the ground.
He peeked inside to see the fallen chair and poster. “Want some help?”
His kind gesture shouldn’t have surprised you. There was no indication Bucky Barnes was a bad guy. He was a great partner to work with in the field and his friends spoke very highly of him. But it did surprise you because outside of that, you never really had the chance to actually interact with him.
You also heard a notorious amount of grumpy old man jokes from Sam that you didn’t exactly know how to interpret.
“Yeah sure,” you nodded.
He followed behind and entered your room. He examined the decorations you managed to put up in the time you’ve been living there.
There were various music and movie posters of pop culture he mostly didn’t recognize. There were fake plants littered all around the room, scattered on different surfaces. The shelves were also covered with books. Rows and rows of books, that would’ve taken him years to get through. Close to the ceiling were strings of lights that gave the room a soft warm glow.
While he stood in the quiet of your room he noticed the faint music playing in the background. His face grew with curiosity as he looked around for where the sound was coming from.
“What song is that?”
You walked to your desk and grabbed the chair off the floor. “I’m not sure. It’s a playlist of old music I found online. Sometimes I like to put on old music from the 30s and 40s to have as background noise.”
You pointed to a YouTube video playing on your computer.
“You like old music?” He inquired, looking slightly surprised.
“Yeah, but I don’t know much about it,” you shrugged. “I don’t know what was popular back then or have any favorites.”
He glanced at the video playing on your computer, “I could give you some recommendations if you want.”
“Really?” you asked with growing enthusiasm.
The corners of his mouth threatened to perk up. “Yeah why not? If you wanna get into that type of music. Who better to learn it from?”
“That sounds great,” you said with a shy smile.
The realization dawned on you that now you were both just standing in the quiet of your room. You grabbed the poster and cleared your throat to grab his attention.
“Oh right,” he mumbled, looking a bit flustered and ran a hand through his short hair. “Where did you want to hang it?”
“Up here,” You pointed to the empty space on the wall next to your desk.
He took the poster from you and carefully stepped on the chair as you held it still. He placed it against the wall, following your directions for where to hang it. You handed him a few pieces of tape and he slowly flattened out the poster before sticking it to the wall. When he was finished, he stepped off the chair and took a step back with you to get a proper look at it. The picture hung high above your desk. A starry sky with a collection of different constellations.
“It looks nice. I like what you’ve done with your room,” he complimented.
“Thanks. And thank you for helping.”
“It was no problem. Wouldn’t want you breaking a bone from falling off a chair,” he lightly teased.
You started to blush at the embarrassing reminder. “Please don’t tell anyone about that.”
Bucky pressed his pointer finger and thumb to his lips and ran them across his mouth, showing you his lips are sealed.
After he left, you admired the poster on the wall, listening to the music still playing in the background. The image of him still fresh in your mind.
Bucky was nicer than you expected. Not that you expected him to be an asshole. But he was one of the few Avengers you hesitated to talk to because they were a bit intimidating outside of work. Bucky had a consistent glare or grumpy look on his face that kept you at arm's length.
The day after the poster situation when you made yourself coffee in the morning, someone stopped near you and waited for their turn to use the coffee machine.
“Hey, I made that song list I was telling you about.”
You looked to see Bucky standing next to you and digging something out of his back pocket. He handed you a folded piece of notebook paper.
“Most of them are from the 30s and early 40s, songs I used to listen to. But I also included some late 40s and 50s songs I was introduced to after the war and … everything.”
When you took the paper from him your stomach swirled with something you haven’t felt in a long time.
“Thanks,” you replied sweetly, “I’ll give them a listen later.”
He offered you a small smile before filling his mug with coffee.
That was probably the first time you started to see through his tough exterior and he let his real self shine through the cracks.
_____
After that day you started to pay more attention to Bucky. In the field, in the compound. Just in general.
While you still didn’t spend much time with the team, in the brief moments that you did, your attention would drift towards him. You were more aware of his presence when he was near.
And you did in fact give the songs he recommended a listen. You listened to them quite often actually.
You were still listening to those songs weeks later.
You were in the kitchen listening to your new “oldies” playlist. It was late in the night and you needed to focus on something that wasn’t the chaos swarming in your brain. So, you decided to break out the baking supplies and royal icing you bought weeks ago.
As you flattened out the dough with a rolling pin a figure appeared from the dimly lit hallway.
“What are you doing?” Bucky asked once he noticed your presence. His voice was laced with sleep.
“Making cookies,” you answered, grabbing the cookie cutters.
He walked closer to the kitchen island and leaned his forearms on the counter. “Why are you making cookies at one in the morning?”
“Stress baking.”
There was a pause as he watched you cut flower shapes out of the dough.
“Can’t sleep?”
You shrugged without looking up, “something like that.” You didn’t feel like elaborating.
This guy you barely know definitely does not want to be hearing about how you can’t sleep from anxiety. He didn’t need to hear that after the last mission you went on with the team your brain was constantly screaming at you all the things you did wrong and could’ve done better.
“Do you do this a lot?” he gestured towards your work. "Bake in the middle of the night?”
“I have once or twice. It also helps that no one is coming and going so I get some peace and quiet.”
Bucky visibly tensed at your explanation, “sorry I ruined it.”
Your head perked up immediately to prove him wrong. “It’s alright, you didn’t.”
He looked relieved to hear that.
“What are you making?”
“Sugar cookies, but I’m gonna put icing on when they’re done.” You placed the cut out dough on the baking sheet.
Your stomach coiled with nerves before speaking again. “I could save you some. If you want,” you said in a quieter voice.
His eyes softened and he smiled at you. “That’d be great.”
As you continued placing cookie dough on the sheet, he walked over the fridge to fetch what he came down to the kitchen for.
Now that the room was quiet, he could fully process the music that was playing in the background. For a moment, he stared at the inside of the fridge as he listened to the beginning notes of the next song.
He finally grabbed the bottle of water and closed the fridge door before eyeing you with a quirked brow.
“Billie Holiday?”
You looked up from the cookies in confusion. You momentarily registered the song playing in the background was “What a Little Moonlight Can Do” by Billie Holiday. One of the songs from the list he gave you.
“Oh yeah I finally made my own playlist. Most of the songs are the ones you gave me,” you grabbed the baking sheet and carefully placed it in the oven.
“You liked the songs?” His voice sounded like it had a hint of surprise.
You nodded as the corners of your mouth perked into a grin. “I do yeah. They’re really good. It’s different from the normal stuff I listen to but it’s really growing on me.”
Joy inched its way onto his face as he listened to you. “That’s great. I’m glad.”
You leaned back against the counter and took off the apron you were wearing. “You have good taste in music.”
The ends of his ears turned red, “Thanks.”
Silence returned to the kitchen. you both stood there not knowing what to say next. The air between you was thick, like you wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words.
The song continued playing in the background, almost taunting you.
You’re in love
You’re hearts a flutter
And all day long,
You only stutter
How dare Billie Holiday tease you right now with him in the same room. Who gave her the permission to take a peek into your heart and put it on display in front of him.
The music was disrupted by Bucky clearing his throat, “well, I should go back to my room.”
You shoved your hands in your pockets, “hope you get some sleep.”
He nodded before making his way out of the kitchen and walking down the hall.
A few seconds after you were sure he left, you took a long deep breath. You stood there grappling with the fact that you definitely were starting to feel something for him.
Something strong.
Something you couldn’t get rid of.
The next morning you stood on the other side of Bucky’s door with a small plastic container in your hands.
This was starting to feel silly. You’ve stared down countless criminals and kicked the crap out of them. But this was making you nervous.
With a shaky hand you finally knocked, and hoped that he was actually in his room.
It took only a brief moment for Bucky to answer. He must have just showered. His hair was a bit messy, slightly damp and he smelled nice. He was wearing one of those black compression shirts that hugged his muscles all the right ways.
It should be illegal for him to look that good.
“Hey, what’s up?” He asked, surprised to see you.
His question paused your ogling and brought your attention back to why you were there in the first place.
“I saved some cookies for you,” you offered him the tupperware.
Bucky’s eyes softened as he glanced between you and the dessert. He took the container from you and opened the lid, looking down with a smile at the flower cookies with purple, yellow and pink frosting.
“Thanks, they look amazing,” he complimented. “Hope you didn’t stay up all night making them.”
You shrugged, “It’s fine, I ended up getting some sleep. It helped me clear my mind.”
Only because something else obsessively invaded your thoughts. Someone that cleared away the anxiety from your job.
_____
As the weeks rolled by, you started to leave the sanctity of your bedroom and brave the common areas.
Was it because of Bucky? Maybe.
You found yourself intrigued by the man. And it didn’t hurt that he was easy on the eyes.
That’s why you slowly but surely started to hang out with them more. You needed an excuse to be around him.
It was almost embarrassing how much your crush on Bucky was affecting you. You were so worried about talking to the other teammates, yet desperately wanted to talk to him. Even if it was for a fleeting moment.
The team took notice of your increased presence around the compound. Some were quiet about it, others weren’t, and loved to tease you.
In a weird way, the teasing made you feel more welcomed. Like you were really part of the team.
“Well well well,” Sam started with a smirk as he walked into the gym. “Look who’s training while the sun’s still out.”
You froze in the middle of wrapping your hands to look up at him, Bucky, and Steve about to start their workout.
”I’m not nocturnal Sam,” you joked back.
Usually, you would visit the gym at night before you went to sleep while no one else was there. As of lately, you had a slight change in routine.
“Could’ve fooled me. I heard that you bake in the middle of the night.”
Your eyebrows raised at his comment, “How’d you know that?”
“Little birdie told me.” his grin couldn’t get any wider.
You looked to the only possible suspect. Bucky’s eyes quickly averted from you as his ears turned pink.
Steve shook his head with a smile at his two friends. He tapped Sam’s shoulder before making his way to the bench, “c’mon quit bothering her.”
Sam playfully rolled his eyes at Steve before pointing in your direction, “I better see you at game night later.”
You shrugged, “Maybe I could stop by.”
“You better stop by. We’re breaking out Uno,” he beamed before following behind Steve.
You smiled to yourself as he left and finished wrapping your hands. Before you could hit the punching bag, you realized Bucky didn’t leave to join Sam and Steve.
“You want some help?” he offered while pointing towards the bag.
You nodded as nerves turned your stomach. “Yeah sure.”
He walked closer to the punching bag, held it, and prepared for you to strike.
You exhaled and prepped your stance while staring at the bag in front of you. Your punches started off weak and hesitant — mostly because of his presence — before you slowly relaxed and drew more of your strength.
Besides Sam and Steve, another Avenger that always tried to rope you into social functions was Tony. Occasionally he would throw some party for a holiday or even for no special reason, simply because he wanted to.
The only party of his that you attended was the first one he threw after you joined. Only because he didn’t give you much of a choice. After that, you never attended another Stark party.
Well, until last night.
“I’m going all out for this one. Thor’s coming back to earth and man does that guy like to party,” Tony boasted about his plans for the weekend in the lounge. Or what would soon become last night's party.
You silently sat in the corner of the couch “reading” a book. Well, you were reading but now you were nosy and listening to the people around you. As part of your attempt to be more social with the team, you bravely chose the lounge instead of your room.
You heard earlier that Thor was returning after being away from earth for a few weeks doing some Asgardian space duties you didn’t know the details of.
“Don’t set anything on fire this time,” Wanda teased before taking a sip from her mug.
Tony spun on his heel to point at her. “That was not me!”
A few chuckles could be heard throughout the room, even a quiet one from you. You’d heard the same story from three different people about how Tony swears it wasn’t his fault that his drink spilled and caused a small electrical fire.
“Regardless, it’s going to be amazing and I better see you all there on Friday,” he then pointed at Bucky playing cards with Steve. “And that means you Barnes. Don’t think I forgot you missed out last time.”
”Looks like I lucked out considering you almost burned the place down,” Bucky quipped back without looking up from his cards.
Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. “It wasn’t me,” he mumbled under his breath.
Steve nudged his best friend before placing another card down on the coffee table. “Come on Buck, it’ll be fun.”
Bucky gave a long stare to Steve. You noticed he tended to do that a lot. Turn a normal glare into a staring contest with Sam or Steve. A few seconds passed before he placed his next card down with a sigh. “Fine.”
Having sensed that your eyes were on him, Bucky glanced up at you from across the room. Your gaze darted away and back to your book in an instant.
Tony noticed this and walked closer to the couch, studying you trying to read. He could clearly tell you were listening in and watching. “What about you, wallflower?”
Your head perked up in confusion.
You knew he was addressing you because of the nickname. At first Steve was worried about Tony calling you that, but you actually secretly liked it. It was like the teasing, made you feel more included.
“You wanna step out of your comfort zone? Ready to mingle?”
You let the question hang in the air for a moment, contemplating your response. After hearing Bucky’s answer, the idea of attending Tony’s party was sounding more and more appealing.
“I might.”
You tried to ignore how a few sets of eyes landed on you. Including his.
“Seriously?” Tony asked, not expecting you to actually accept his invitation.
”Yes seriously, I’m considering it,” you answered with more confidence.
Tony excitedly snapped and pointed at you. “That’s a yes! You can’t take that back.”
You awkwardly smiled in return.
“Finally! I knew this day would come,” Tony cheered as he left the lounge.
You attempted to actually read your book now but felt Bucky’s gaze lingering on you. When you met his eyes, they returned to the pile of cards on the coffee table. You then finally went back to your reading.
_____
You don’t know what feels worse. The pounding headache from last night's drinks, or the anxiety pulling you apart from the inside out.
While you laid in bed, the lights were kept dim to not aggravate your headache further. You were admiring the poster Bucky helped you hang up. For so long you’d look at it and your thoughts would drift to the man who helped you hang it. Your mood would lift or your heart would flutter making you feel giddy.
Now, you wanted to rip it off your wall.
It stared back at you as a reminder of what you did last night. You couldn’t stop thinking about how it only took a little liquid courage and one single brave moment to embarrass yourself. You most likely ruined your chances of becoming real friends with him, or even something more.
There’s no way Bucky actually wants to be with you. There’s no way Bucky felt the same way, held the same admiration for you that you did for him. He’d probably be nice about it and let you down easily.
Well, he tried to let you down easily, but your fear interrupted him before he could inevitably ask you to forget about what happened. You couldn’t listen to it. You didn’t want to hear the heartbreaking reality that he didn’t want you beyond a spur of the moment fling.
You’d rather just let the whole thing blow over. Let Bucky take your silence as a signal to let this pass. Let everyone forget about it and go about their business like normal. Because words always travel fast here. And by now everyone probably fucking knew about you and Bucky.
As the hours rolled by and the sun was setting, you couldn’t ignore the fact that you ran out of the water and food stashed in your room.
You have to leave. As much as you don’t want to, you have to.
It kind of felt weird, spending all day in your room. You’d just started getting used to being around everyone, that now it felt kind of normal. You almost looked forward to the social interactions. Even if you didn’t speak a lot or join in some conversations. Just being around them felt … nice.
You rolled over in bed and reached for your phone left on the nightstand. After turning off do not disturb, the screen was flooded with notifications. Part of you was surprised that they were checking in on you considering it used to be normal for you to live like a hermit.
Natasha: Morning sleepyhead, you hungover? Feeling alright?
Clint: I got doughnuts, you better get down here before Thor wakes up and eats them all
Steve: Hey, you doing okay?
Let me know if you need anything
And 1 missed call followed by 2 texts from Bucky:
I know you’re hiding in your room
Can we talk?
You really didn’t want to talk. Because you knew he wanted to talk about last night. You weren’t ready to have that conversation yet. You weren’t ready when Bucky tried knocking on your door hours ago and you still weren’t ready now.
Maybe later tonight. Depending on your bravery.
You didn’t answer any of their messages. Just got out of bed and shoved your phone in your pocket.
You hoped there wasn’t a large crowd or any crowd period in the kitchen. But unfortunately, you weren’t so lucky. As you approached the kitchen you heard voices that only got louder as you got closer.
You stayed behind the doorway while you listened. Not exactly intentional eavesdropping. More like you froze at the realization they were talking about you.
“What the hell did I do now?” Tony complained, he sounded offended.
“You told everyone about me and Y/N,” Bucky scolded Tony, his tone sounding bitter and angry.
“Correction, I told two people last night,” Tony countered. “It’s not my fault that the gossip was so juicy it spread like wildfire.”
“You’re unbelievable,” Bucky grumbled.
“What’s unbelievable is you and your girl not making out sooner.”
You heard Bucky sigh and after a pause he quietly mumble, but it was loud enough for you to hear. “She’s not my girl.”
Those words echoed in your ears as if you heard it up close. She’s not my girl.
A suffocating ache wound itself around your chest. Your fists clenched so tight, your fingernails made an imprint on your palm.
His girl. You could only dream of being his girl.
You almost went back to your room. Almost. But you were already here, and the kitchen wouldn’t be empty for hours.
During the pause in their conversation, you passed the threshold. The room fell silent. The sound of a pin drop could bounce off the walls. You felt the tension in your bones with every single step you took.
You didn’t look any of them in the eyes. You couldn’t. Just kept your focus trained on the floor as you moved the counter.
From the cabinet, you found a large refillable water bottle to stock up and keep in your room. You waited at the fridge for it to fill.
All their eyes on you made your whole body tense. You couldn’t see it, but you could feel it. Their looks weighed like a heavy blanket and they practically saw right through you.
Steve was the first to break the silence. “How’ve you been? Are you feeling alright?”
You cleared your throat before speaking. You don’t know the last time you said something, your voice was probably hoarse. “I’m fine. Was a bit hungover this morning, didn’t feel well.”
The second the water bottle was filled, you tightened the lid and turned back to the counter where you found the box of doughnuts that Clint texted you about. With a nervous hand, you grabbed the last chocolate frosted doughnut.
You belined for the hallway, eager to leave when Bucky called your name. His voice reached through your chest cavity and squeezed your heart. You didn’t stop walking. You couldn’t speak to him. Not yet.
____________________________
“And that means you Barnes. Don’t think I forgot you missed out last time.”
Instead of actually acknowledging that he was absent during Stark’s last party, Bucky opted for poking fun at the man. He didn’t even have to look up from their card game to know that Stark was rolling his eyes or pinching his brow in frustration.
Bucky felt Steve’s elbow nudge his side before he placed another card on the coffee table. “Come on Buck, it’ll be fun,” Steve tried to encourage.
Bucky stared back at his best friend, trying to silently tell Steve that he would rather Stark actually burn down the building.
Bucky hates parties.
Actually that's a lie.
Bucky Barnes used to love parties. Before HYDRA, he used to be the life of the party. He’d be cracking jokes with his pals or going out dancing with dames. The music was loud and the excitement ran through the room and into your bloodstream, carrying you across the dance floor.
After everything that happened, he didn’t have much party left in him. It left him more reserved, more introverted. His blood ran cold now.
He always went to those team bonding things Steve organized because, well it was Steve, but they were also smaller, more intimate. He even found himself having fun. Some of the movies the team chose were weird, but some he really liked. During game nights he was more engaged then he expected he would be.
But the large parties he wished he could avoid. Now, the loud music irritated his ears. The modern music that played wasn’t to his taste and hard to dance to. The very few festivities he did attend, Steve managed to convince Tony to play one or two old songs from the 40s or at least the 50s, but that was it.
Steve stared back at him with an expression he was all too familiar with. It was the same look that Bucky would give scrawny little Stevie back in the day when he tried to convince him to join.
Bucky sighed and placed a card on the table. “Fine,” he grumbled.
In his peripheral vision, he sensed someone looking in his direction. When he turned away from their card game, he was met with your eyes. But only for a second, before they retreated back into your book.
Steve's mouth curled into a smile as he put down another card. “Who knows you might like it. And maybe your girl will go,” he whispered.
“She’s not my girl,” Bucky muttered back. The words tasted bitter in his mouth. He didn’t want a reminder that he didn’t have the luxury of calling you his girl.
From the moment you met, he knew he needed you in his life. Not just because you were pretty. And God damn it you were so pretty. But because you were enchanting.
It was like you had some magnetic pull on him he couldn’t avoid.
He’d worked with you on multiple missions because of course Steve immediately caught whiff of Bucky’s interest in you and paired you guys up. He saw first hand the power you wielded during a fight. The mysterious way you hid in the shadows and snuck up on people rivaled only him and Natasha. He almost got knocked out once because he stood there watching you attack a guard that towered over you like it was nothing.
Steve wouldn’t shut up about that for a whole week.
But when you weren’t beating up criminals or sitting in silence during mission briefings, he barely saw you. You almost never showed face at team functions and (more importantly) you never spoke to him.
He was worried you didn’t like him, or even worse you hated him. Steve and Sam tried to convince him that wasn’t true but it still never left his mind. It was still in his mind when he passed by your room and heard that crash. Bucky remained cautious, scared that you would ignore him or act coldly, but he still felt compelled to make sure you were okay.
And when he did finally get the small chances to talk to you, to see the parts of you that you often hid, he felt a thousand times lighter. Bucky saw the light in you grow brighter as you became more comfortable with the team.
In the moments you let your walls down, you shined like a diamond.
But he never saw you shine like that at Stark’s parties.
Bucky shook his head as he placed a new card, “besides, she never shows, you know that.”
Bucky noticed Stark approaching you to test the waters with an invitation for you to attend. He shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but then again, it isn’t exactly a private conversation. And he had enhanced hearing anyway.
“You wanna step out of your comfort zone? Ready to mingle?”
“I might.”
His head immediately snapped in your direction. He couldn’t hear what Stark asked you, he was too focused on your response.
“Yes seriously, I'm considering it.”
As of lately, you had a habit of saying you might go instead of actually saying yes. He noticed this because every single time you said ‘maybe,’ you showed up. It seemed like a way to give yourself an escape. A safety net to land in the roaring sea of anxiety.
But if you were considering it, that definitely meant you were going.
He tried to not linger on the fact that his heart rate increased the more he thought about it.
Stark seemed quite excited at your answer. “That's a yes! You can’t take that back”
You gave a bright smile in response. Bucky loved your smile. He’d go to hell and back to see you smile.
He didn’t realize he was still staring until you looked up from your book. He quickly returned his attention back to the cards in his hand.
Bucky cleared his throat, “is it my turn?”
“Nope,” Steve tried to hide the humor in his voice as he placed a winning card.
Bucky sighed while tossing his remaining cards on the table. He wasn’t too bummed about losing the game though. He was still thinking about seeing you Friday night.
_____
Steve Rogers is a traitor.
Well, at this very second he is a traitor. Because he is on the dance floor, dancing with you.
Slow dancing with you.
Bucky was watching from afar. Wait, that sounds creepy when he thinks about it like that. He was observing the party, and naturally his gaze landed on you. How could it not? In every room he entered, he looked for you.
The party had started by the time you showed up. He was in the middle of conversation with Sam when he saw you walk in by yourself, fashionably late.
He could’ve sworn his heart skipped a beat at the sight of you. The burgundy dress you wore made his head dizzy.
Bucky had a plan. He originally was going to catch you on the dance floor with a song that was easier to dance to, aka an older song. But you were already dancing with Steve and Wanda when one of those newer Sinatra songs came on. Well, new to him. A while back Natasha gave him a crash course in 20th century music after the war.
Should he be bitter and maybe just a tad jealous? No, he shouldn’t. He had all night to ask you to dance and yet he stood off to the side. Then Steve swooped in and ruined his plans.
And now the little punk was dancing with you.
Of course you wanted to dance with Steve. You were closer with him then you were with Bucky. Steve was the first person you started opening up to. And why shouldn’t you? Steve’s amazing. He’s sweet, courageous, a gentleman, someone to look up to. Hell, Bucky looked up to him. Even when Steve was that scrawny kid in Brooklyn, Bucky admired his bravery and good heart.
Steve was a good man. Bucky was a broken one.
“Oh no, who’s victim to your impenetrable stare now?” Natasha asked as she approached him.
“I’m not staring,” he mumbled, pushing off from where he was leaning on the bar and turned his back to the dance floor.
“Sure, and Tony isn’t drunk.”
“Got the fire extinguisher on deck?” He downed the rest of his drink and left the glass on the bar.
She chuckled, “yup.” Natasha walked around behind the counter and grabbed herself a fresh wine glass. “You know, if you ask her to dance, she’ll say yes.”
Bucky hated it when she saw right through him. For a woman with no enhanced abilities, Natasha sure had a way of reading people.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’ve been watching her all night, Barnes.”
He cringed, “It sounds creepy when you put it like that.”
Natasha shook her head and smiled as she continued to pour herself a glass of red wine. “Then don’t put so much distance between yourselves. Maybe actually talk to her, ask her to dance.”
“She’s already dancing with Steve,” he answered, looking down at the counter.
She raised an eyebrow at him in fake confusion. “That’s not jealousy I hear, is it?”
“I’m not jealous,” Bucky quickly rebutted. He paused while his jaw clenched. “I just don’t wanna bother her.”
Natasha sighed as she put the bottle away. “You don’t bother her. Believe me.”
He crossed his arms, “how would you know that?”
She carefully swirled the red liquid in her glass. “The same way I know that you’ve wanted to dance with her all night.”
Bucky stared at her with annoyance and disbelief written all over his face. Natasha stared back at him with a slight smirk knowing she was right.
Their staring contest was abruptly interrupted by Thor stumbling towards the bar.
“Romanoff! Barnes! How are you enjoying the festivities?” Thor beamed. Bucky couldn’t tell if Thor was just that excited or if he was bordering on intoxicated.
”I’ve been having a wonderful night but“ —Natasha gestured towards Bucky— “I don’t think he’s in a partying mood.”
Thor looked at him with a slight pout. Yeah he was probably a bit intoxicated, Bucky thought.
”That sounds terrible. We need to fix that right away.” Thor rushed to the cabinet to grab a fancy looking bottle and two clean short glasses. He set the bottle on the counter across from Bucky and waved a hand behind it to show it off.
“I brought this back from my most recent trip to Asgard. It has aged for a thousand years. It’s too strong for mortal men, but you my friend” —he patted Bucky on the shoulder— “are well suited for it.”
Thor poured some of the drink into each glass and pushed one closer to Bucky. “This should help raise your spirits.”
He stared at the honey colored liquid hesitantly before picking it up. “Thanks pal.” He offered a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Thor raised his drink to the man across from him. Bucky took another look before raising his drink and clinking it with Thors. He took a sip and found it to be sweeter than he expected.
It was also much stronger than he expected.
Thanks to the discount super serum he received, he couldn’t get drunk. Bucky hasn’t been drunk since 1945, the last time he went out to a bar with the howling commandos.
After two and a half of whatever that Norse drink was, he was starting to get that dizzying buz he hasn’t felt in decades. He wasn’t as drunk as Thor or Tony were, but he was feeling more confident than he had been earlier in the night.
He wouldn’t bother to hide the glances he threw your way. At some point he got rid of his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. If someone asked if he did that because he was warm or because he wanted to show off to you, he wouldn’t have answered. But it was pretty clear when he noticed you looking at him and he would stand up straighter or flex his arms.
Then of course when you caught his eyes he winked at you and then smiled when he saw how bashful you looked.
Bucky was definitely having a better night than before. And it just kept getting better the more he interacted with you.
His favorite —but also least favorite— part of the night was when he accidentally ran into you.
He was leaving the bathroom at the same time you were. As he turned the corner he stumbled into your side, not expecting you to be there. As Bucky collided with you, you yelped and almost fell down yourself.
“Shit, I’m so sorry,” he apologized as he tried to regain his balance.
You grabbed onto his arm and helped him stand straight. “It’s fine, no worries.”
His chest ached at the feeling of your hands on his bicep.
A look of confusion crossed your face before you asked, “are you drunk?”
”No.”
You raised an eyebrow at him; your expression screaming that you don’t believe him.
“Maybe,” he mumbled.
You scoffed and let go of his arm, cautiously as you made sure he wasn’t going to fall over. “I thought guys like you and Steve couldn’t get drunk.”
“We can’t. But Thor gave me this funky Asgardian beer.” Bucky's words slurred together as he explained.
“I think it’s mead.”
He looked baffled, “what’s mead?”
You shook your head amused, “not beer.”
He scoffed and pointed an accusatory finger at you. “Don’t talk like I can't smell the tequila on your breath,” he joked.
You playfully swatted at his arm away using very little force. “Shut up, it’s the first time I’ve let loose in a long time.”
He loved seeing you riled up. You looked so adorable.
”You should do it more often.”
”Drink?
“No, come to these stupid parties,” he gestured down the hall to where music was coming from.
“I will if you’ll be there,” you replied in a sweet tone. You sounded more forward than he was used to. He was a bit surprised but decided to lean into it.
“Is that a promise?”
“Maybe.”
“Good,” Bucky smiled as he remembered what it meant when you said maybe to plans.
He hoped you would keep showing up. He’d go to every single one of those dumb parties if he knew he’d see you there.
“I like seeing you like this. More social, having fun. No more hiding in your room.”
“I didn’t hide,” you protested, even though you knew he was right.
“You avoided us like the plague,” he countered. “For a while I thought you didn’t like me,”
Your jaw dropped at his confession. “You thought I didn’t like you?” Your voice sounded both a bit worried and surprised.
“You never spoke to me!”
“I gave you cookies!”
“But that was like-“ he paused to do the mental math, “three months after we met. Before that I wasn’t sure.”
You relaxed as you settled with the information. “Okay, but it wasn’t just you. I didn’t talk to anybody,” you answered with a shrug.
“And look at you now.” He gestured to you with a small smile of admiration. “Going to parties, spending time with us. You looked like you were really having fun.”
Your eyes lit up with a look of realization as you leaned back against the wall. “Wow, you were watching me?” You teased him.
Bucky should’ve known that would come and bite him in the ass, again.
“I wouldn’t say watching.”
You squinted at him, that glimmer still present in your eyes, “hmm sounds like you were.
“I can’t help it, not when you look like that,” he said in a sultry voice.
You tilted your head, “like what?”
Bucky licked his lips as he fully took you in. Even as your makeup took the toll of the night, you still looked perfect to him. Your eyeliner was a bit smudged and your lips still shimmered from the left over gloss. He gazed down at your dress, it had a flowy skirt that hid some of your curves but a slit down the side that gave him a view of your leg.
“Like the most beautiful woman at this party.”
You rolled your eyes at him. “Come on,” you playfully dismissed his compliment.
Bucky took a step closer to you. “I’m serious, I couldn’t take my eyes off you,” he continued as his voice got lower.
Your cheeks turned pink and your voice raised in pitch, “you’re such a flirt, Barnes.”
“Maybe,” he returned with a smirk. “Doesn’t change the fact that you are breathtaking.”
Now your face was crimson. You tried to bite back a giddy smile but he could see right through you.
“Stop being so sweet, it’s making me want to kiss you.”
Bucky's heart pounded in his ears and he felt his face start to heat up. He desperately hoped you weren’t kidding.
He quickly glanced at your lips and leaned closer. “Oh yeah? What’s stopping you?”
Your eyes slightly widened at his question, like you weren’t expecting him to take you so seriously. He watched the contemplation in your features as you stared back at him.
Hidden behind his confident exterior, Bucky’s stomach was churning as he awaited your response. Even with the alcohol swimming through his bloodstream, he still had a lingering cloud of anxiety telling him you really didn’t want to kiss him. Telling him that you didn’t want him.
“Right now?” You whispered. You looked up at him with those doe eyes that made him weak in the knees.
Your gaze darted between his and lingered on his lips. “Nothing,” you breathed before capturing his lips in yours.
Bucky was taken by surprise at your forwardness, his lips froze for a split second before moving in rhythm with yours. You reached up, placing your hands on his neck and face. He sighed against your mouth as you pulled him down closer to you, desperate to taste him.
Bucky’s hands traveled up and down your hips, starved for more of your touch. His metal hand settled at your waist while his right hand slipped past the slit in your dress and grabbed at your thigh. You leaned into him, your back arching off the wall you were pressed up against and your leg wrapped around his, pulling him closer. He continued to paw at your thigh, his hand sneaking higher and higher, finding its place on your ass. A soft moan escaped you, trapped against Bucky’s lips. The sound tasted like heaven to him.
Asgardian alcohol was nothing compared to the intoxicating drink that was you. Bucky was lost in the touch, the smell, the feel of you. He breathed you in like it was his first breath of fresh air in years.
It was like the earth stopped spinning just for you two. Time was put on pause and there in that secluded hallway, you and Bucky were the only people in the world.
Of course, you were in fact not the only people in the world, let alone that party. While your lips were still interlocked and hands grabbing at each other, footsteps inched closer.
Immediately you pulled away from each other at the startled gasp of, “holy shit!”
Bucky and you froze in horror at the man across the hall.
Neither of you noticed Tony approaching around the corner. He stared at you with shock written all over his face, which then transformed into a cheeky grin.
“Wow, and to think you two almost didn’t show up.” He pointed at both of you, “If you guys get married, I better get credit in your vows.”
“Stark,” Bucky warned in a sharp tone, staring daggers at the man in question.
Tony raised his hands in surrender. “Don’t mind me. Please, go back to eating each other's faces.” He chuckled before retreating down the hall back to the party.
Bucky sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Even after he cut it he couldn’t shake the habit.
He couldn’t look you in the eyes yet, still too flustered. “He’s such an ass,” he joked, shaking his head.
You fixed your hair and offered a nervous smile. “Yeah, I know,” you mumbled.
The air in the room wasn’t the same after Tony walked in. The realization of what you were doing had caught up to both of you. Bucky had wanted to kiss you long before now, he just never expected it to be a spur of the moment first kiss.
That doesn’t mean he regretted it. Not one bit.
“We should probably return to the party.” Bucky cleared his throat, “listen I know it might be a bit awkward when we get back but, I wanted to ask if-“
”I’m sorry, I um,” you interrupted with a slight panic in your voice.
“I’m gonna go. Have a good rest of your night Bucky,” you excused yourself with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
Bucky watched you shuffle away and down the hall, in the opposite direction of the party. His posture deflated as his stare lingered from where you left. He tried to ignore the slight ache in his chest but it stayed, infecting his heart like a poison.
Finally when he had the chance and nerve to ask you to dance, you ran away.
_____
From when he returned to the party to the next morning when he woke up, that ache didn’t fully go away. It became quieter, more tolerable to deal with. But still present.
He tried to dilute it with reasonable answers. You might have still been flustered from being caught in the hallway. You might have been more drunk than he thought and didn’t feel well.
But his train of thought always returned to anxiety and doubt. The voice in the back of his head that told him you didn’t want to be seen with him. You were embarrassed to be seen kissing him. The voice that screamed he wasn’t good enough and you would never have feelings for him.
For now he would shove down those left over doubts. Try to ignore them the best he could.
Unfortunately that wasn’t an option when he was hounded at breakfast.
When he walked in the kitchen, he felt the tone change. It was subtle, but as Sam, Clint, and Yelena’s conversation died down, he sensed multiple pairs of eyes landing on him.
“So Bucky, how was your night?” Sam asked before sipping his coffee.
Bucky walked to the coffee machine and grabbed his own mug from the cabinet. “It was good,” he muttered.
Yelena spun in her chair to face him, “you had fun?”
“Sure, I guess.”
Sam quirked an eyebrow at him. “You guess?”
“Why do you care so much?” Bucky groaned as he poured a fresh cup of coffee for himself.
“No reason, just wanted to see what you thought of the party.”
Bucky shrugged, turning back around to face the group. “It was like every other party.”
“You don’t get drunk at every other party,” Sam countered in a snarky tone.
“I was not that drunk,” Bucky protested.
“Drunk enough to get freaky in the hallway?”
Sam’s question had Bucky gripping his mug so hard he almost shattered it. Anger seeped into his bloodstream that made his veins hot.
Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and hung his head. “Stark, that son of a bitch,” he grumbled under his breath.
Yelena's interest was piqued at Bucky's reaction, confirming her suspicions. “So it’s true? You and Y/N kissed?”
“Oh they did more than kiss,” Sam added.
“Sam,” Bucky warned with a sharp tone.
“Did you see him peacocking? He kept flexing his arm muscles at her and at one point I think I saw him wink. I guess all that paid off.” Clint finally added his thoughts, amusement creeping its way onto his face.
Yelena sat with a smile, still processing the information. “Wow, I didn’t think you two would get together for another month or more.”
“We’re not together,” Bucky corrected. The words tasted like a nasty poison on his tongue.
“You will be soon,” Clint insisted.
“Don’t bet on it.”
“What are you talking about? Sam asked. “You like this girl. You’ve been crushing on her for months!”
Bucky’s jaw clenched before. His stomach boiled over with the feelings he tried to push down.
He shook his head and waved them off. “Never mind.”
Yelena leaned forward, eager to understand. ”No wait, Bucky what happened?” She asked calmly, voice filled with concern.
He sighed and stuffed his hands in his pockets. His lips sealed shut while he stared at the floor, contemplating how honest he should be with them.
“It’s nothing. After Stark walked in on us she didn’t exactly tell me how she felt about the kiss.” Bucky nervously ran a hand through his short hair. “I tried to ask her to dance. She left before I could spit it out.”
“She’s a shy girl. She was probably overwhelmed and embarrassed.” Clint offered.
Not embarrassed because of you, Bucky tried to remind himself.
Sam stepped closer to Bucky, his tone of voice much more serious than before. “Just talk to her about it. I’m sure she feels the same way.”
Bucky looked down in his mug, the hot black coffee staring back at him. “Have any of you seen or talked to her yet? It’s still early. I don't know if she’s awake.”
”No, she hasn’t been down here yet,” Yelena answered.
Clint grabbed out his phone, “I’ll text her-“
”No, Clint,” Bucky cringed.
Clint held up a hand to him, still typing away on his screen. “Calm down, I’m telling her about the doughnuts I bought.”
Bucky’s tense shoulders relaxed at the explanation.
“Let me know if you find out she’s awake. I’d hate to wake her up just to pester her about this.” He grabbed his coffee and a doughnut for himself from the box on the counter.
“Leave a chocolate frosted,” he instructed as he walked to the lounge. “She only likes those.”
____
It’s been three days.
In the last three days, he’s seen you once. When you tip-toed into the kitchen, barely looking him in the eyes.
He already thought about you every day. He’d leave his room with anticipation, eager for the chance to see you.
Now that same anticipation had a sour taste. Bucky would go to the gym, lounge, or kitchen with hope that he would see you there. And every time he was crushed at the sight of a room without your presence.
You had gotten pretty successful at staying hidden. After that brief awkward encounter on Saturday, you made yourself completely undetectable. He should’ve known it would be an easy feat for you considering you were a spy before joining the Avengers. The only indication that you were even still in the compound were the clean dishes on the drying rack and the missing food from the fridge.
Not only was Bucky missing and craving your presence, but he had to sit with the unknown meaning behind your kiss. He had no idea how you felt about him, and it drove him mad.
The lustful look In your eyes and the desperate touch of your hands on him told him that you might feel the same way. But the way you recoiled and shut yourself out said something else.
One thing he did know was that all this overthinking was going to be his downfall.
It was past midnight and instead of staying in bed, struggling to fall asleep, he decided to go to the gym and let out some stress.
Little did he know he wasn’t the only one with that same idea.
He wasn’t that surprised to see some of the lights on as he approached the gym. Every so often someone was working out late at night. Who he didn’t expect to see was you, laser focused as you striked at the punching bag.
Bucky stood still for a moment, watching you, debating whether or not he should leave you be or talk to you.
His legs seemed to be moving on their own as he approached you.
“Want some help?”
You jumped, startled out of your focus. “You scared the shit out of me!” You placed a hand over your heart, probably felt it pounding.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “You didn’t answer my question though.”
You looked at him with puzzled, furrowed brows.
“Do you want some help?” He repeated, gesturing towards the punching bag.
You paused before answering in a calm tone. “No thanks.”
You shifted your weight and prepped your stance, attention returned to the bag.
“I thought you didn’t work out this late anymore,” Bucky commented with fake innocence.
You shrugged before you started punching again. “Guess old habits die hard.”
“Like hiding in your room?”
You hesitated. He watched your jaw clench before you punched again.
“I am not hiding.”
“I haven’t seen you in three days.”
Your punches got stronger while your voice stayed calm. “Didn’t feel well. Needed rest.”
“I texted you.”
“Sorry,” another punch. “Didn’t see it.”
Bucky exhaled, “Why are you lying?”
“I’m not-“
“Yes you are,” he interrupted, a bit of frustration leaking through his firm voice.
“We’ve barely seen you. And this isn’t like when you first got here, because I still saw you back then. You’re ignoring us.”
You’re ignoring me, he wanted to say.
Your attention broke from the punching bag. Your hand landed limp against it as you turned to him.
“Why do you care?” You asked with more curiosity than you showed on your face.
“Because I’m worried about you. And I know something’s wrong.”
You didn’t reply. Just stared at the floor and picked at the wraps on your hands.
Bucky didn’t want to pester you about it, but he had to stop you from isolating and keeping everything bottled up. He knew better than anyone what that felt like. The desire to hide away and run.
He could see the walls you built up slowly starting to crack, but you held on so tight to that security. Desperate to not let it fall down.
He was going to get you to open up, whether it hurt him or not.
“Is this about the kiss?”
Your eyes squeezed shut and fists clenched. “Bucky, I really don’t want to talk about that right now.”
“Well when do you feel like talking about it?” He interrogated, folding his arms. “Tomorrow? A week from now?”
“Fine!” You snapped back at him. “We got drunk, flirted a little and kissed. Can we just put this behind us and forget about it?”
Forget about it? You really want him to forget about the kiss? The best kiss of his life. The kiss that brought warmth back into his cold veins. Forget the kiss that made all the decades worth of tension fall off his bones and disappear for a few minutes.
He scoffed, “I’m sorry but I can’t just forget about it.”
Your cheeks that were previously pink from your work out turned red.
Bucky kept his gaze trained on you. He watched your eyes repeatedly dart away from him, still trying to hide while you stood right in front of him.
“Why did you leave after we kissed?” He asked, keeping his voice steady even while his insides were twisting.
“Bucky,” you groaned, pleading with the man in front of you.
“I gotta know.”
You looked down at your hands and resumed picking at the wrappings.
“Did you mean it?” You inquired, deflecting from his question. “What you said that night.”
He pursed his lips, trying to mentally sort through all the things he said. “Which part?”
You paused your fidgeting, hands tense as you spoke. “All those nice things you said about me. When you said I was the most beautiful woman at that party.” You finally looked at Bucky, eyes swimming with uncertainty.
“Did you mean it, or were you just flirting?”
You were trying to hide behind a guarded expression, but Bucky could see the vulnerability in your eyes and hear it in your voice.
You felt the same way about him.
But just like him, you didn’t believe your feelings were reciprocated because of the overwhelming fear. Your vision was clouded by fear and doubt.
He took a few steps closer. You took a half step back.
His eyes stayed on you. He never wavered.
”I meant all of it,” he answered softly. “Every single word.”
Your eyes widened and lips parted.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”
You gave him a nervous grin and shook your head as you tried removing the wrapping from your hands. ”That’s overselling it a bit,” you lightly joked. You fought the hand wrap with a shaky hand, struggling to take it off.
Bucky inched closer. Before you could register what he was doing, he reached forward and gently grabbed your hands. He separated them and continued undoing the wrapping for you. His touch was soft as he handled you with the utmost care.
“I’m being serious,” he started, eyes trained on your hand. “Whether you believe me or not.”
He finished working on your left hand and moved to your right. You didn’t protest. You didn’t stop him.
“If you really want to forget about the kiss. Go ahead.” But now he knew you didn’t want to forget about it. He swallowed, preparing to place his own heart in the palm of your hand. “I don’t think I could ever forget it. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since Friday.”
He chuckled as a blush crept its way on his face. “Actually, I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the first time we met.”
He felt your hand freeze against his. “Bucky, that was over 6 months ago,” you reminded him breathlessly.
He finished unwrapping your hand, looked up at you, and nodded. “Yeah, I know,” he muttered.
Bucky still held your hand, neither one of you moved away from the other.
You took a deep breath, the expression on your face looked like you were mentally wrestling with yourself.
“What were you going to ask me before I left?” You asked cautiously.
“If you wanted to dance with me.” The corners of his mouth turned up into a smile as his cheeks turned pink. He softly caressed the back of your hand, “I’d been trying to ask you all night but never got the chance. Or the nerve.”
Bucky searched your eyes and found wide pupils in a sea of emotion. He wasn’t sure if they shined from the lighting or if they were glossy.
You licked your lips, “I would’ve said yes by the way. If you asked.”
He smirked back, stomach fluttering with butterflies. “You mean if you let me ask?” he asked, tone laced with sarcasm.
You rolled your eyes and sighed, “yeah. I was just being an asshole.“
“You’re not an asshole,” he countered, genuinely.
You squinted and tilted your head. “I was a little bit.”
He chuckled in defeat, his thumb still tracing your skin.
You peered down at your hand intertwined with his, swallowing down the nerves caught in your throat. “I uh- I was scared and catastrophizing. I thought of the worst case scenario and let it control me. I shouldn’t have run away, I’m sorry.” You sounded small, defeated.
With his free metal hand, Bucky gently pulled your chin up to look at him. “You’re not the only one who gets stuck in their own head,” he comforted. Your breath shuttered as his touch traveled to the side of your face before brushing your hair behind your ear. “Just don’t shut the world out okay?”
You nodded, with a bashful smile. “Okay.”
Bucky’s mouth curled up in a way that matched yours. “I love your smile,” he complimented, his voice dripping with admiration.
You bit your lip as a blush danced across your face. “Don’t say sweet things about me. It’ll make me want to kiss you,” you warned with a teasing hint in your tone.
Bucky's smile turned to a wicked grin. He leaned closer, his lips ghosting over yours as he caressed your cheek. “What’s so wrong with that?” He whispered with desire.
He felt your breath against him as you whispered back.
“Nothing.”
Bucky wasted no time and captured your lips with his. He instinctively reached for your waist and pulled you closer, flush against him.
This kiss was different from the first one. You still tasted the same on his tongue, your lips left the same imprint on his. But the rhythm was different. No rush of passion. No hunger that needed to be resolved.
It was slower, more delicate. Like the two of you were absorbing the others' existence into your bloodstream.
When you separated from him Bucky chased after your lips. You giggled as he pecked all over your lips and cheeks. Your laugh only spurred him on more as he grabbed on to your face to keep you still and smiled against your skin.
You made him feel lovesick. He felt like he used to, back in the 40s, before everything went wrong. He felt like Bucky Barnes.
Bucky chuckled as he finally retreated from his kissing attack on your face. He stared at you lovingly, his hands traveling back down to your hips.
“So, hypothetically, if I were to ask if you wanted to go dancing, like we find somewhere in the city we can go to dance one night, what would you say?”
You looked up at him with a sweet smile. “Is this a hypothetical or are you asking me out?” You pondered with a mischievous tone.
Bucky loved it when you teased him like that. You were going to drive him insane.
“I’m asking you out.”
You stood up straighter, your eyes pierced him with confidence. “Then do it.”
Warmth stirred in his chest as he finally asked what he’s been meaning to for so long.
“Would you like to go dancing with me?”
You wrapped your arms around his neck and placed a soft, quick kiss against his lips. “I’d love to.”
_____
The lounge was quiet. Yelena sat on the couch with Wanda as a movie played in the distance. Steve sat on one of the chairs ignoring the movie, his nose deep in a small notebook he liked to sketch in. Natasha sat on the other chair, her back and legs against the arm rests as she focused on a book.
The elevator dinged when it reached the floor. As it opened, Bucky walked out and passed through the lounge with you in his arms bridal style and barefoot, holding your heels in your hands.
All of their eyes slowly peered away from what they were doing and towards you and Bucky.
Natasha was the first to comment on the display, “uh, Barnes, why are you carrying your date?”
“I complained my feet hurt on the way home and now he won’t put me down,” you announced back to her.
Bucky abruptly stopped in his tracks. “Do you want to walk back to your room?” He asked, voice deep with a teasing tone.
You sunk further into his chest as a blush crept onto your face. “No,” you mumbled quietly.
He chuckled and continued walking. “That’s what I thought.”
“Awe, what a gentleman,” Yelena remarked.
“Anything for my girl,” Bucky yelled back as he walked away with you in his arms.
“Finally, I’ve been waiting for them to get together for weeks!” Yelena joked as she turned back to the group.
“Try months. I knew that when she started leaving her room it was because of him,” Natasha added.
Steve looked up from his notebook, a small glint of amusement in his eyes. “Why do you think I pushed for him to go to that party? I had a feeling she would go if she knew he would be there.”
“Seems like everyone knew but them,” Yelena remarked.
“I’ve known the whole time.” Wanda chuckled, “For two quiet people, their thoughts are awfully loud.”
