ren

she/her, nineteen years old side blog!

[spideytingley]

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welcome to my sideblog, i’m ren! ~ nineteen years old and i use she/her pronouns.

here i present you the masterlists for my fic recs:

— my fic recs up til january

— my february fic recs!

— my march & april fic recs!

[borntobewondering]

through the smoke

Evan Buckley x Female!Reader (22.9k) It’s funny how it only takes one second to unravel an entire future.

Warnings: A curse word or two. Mentions of injury. Mentions of fire. Mentions of 4x13 and 4x14. Memory loss. angst

Author’s Note: We’re back with Buck and this is one of my favorite tropes. We’ve got a lovely dose of amnesia for all of you today, and it is just such a treat. I wrote a killer firework analogy for this one, and if we don’t all collectively adore it I won’t be mad, just disappointed. Enjoy.

The title comes from “Wrong Direction” by Hailee Steinfeld

(Divider by @silkholland)

Note: My work is not to be posted anywhere else on any other platforms.

MASTERLIST

The beeping of the heart monitor should be a comforting sound. It means his heart is still beating. It means he’s still alive. But over the last few hours it’s started to feel like a sword swinging over your head. Each beep is another reminder of where you are, of the reason why you’re here. And you’re terrified that each beep might be the last. 

You’ve already been scrunched up in uncomfortable hospital chairs, and living off shitty vending machine coffee, for the past three days waiting for Buck to wake up. It’s longer than he’s ever been out before, and it’s concerning to say the least. But the doctor’s swear it’s not that uncommon. That his body is just taking its time to heal. 

And every member of the 118 says some variation of the same thing when they come to visit after their shifts. And Maddie, too. You take it from her most because she has the most experience with all of this. 

You’re used to Buck getting himself sent to the hospital by now, but each time is still more worrisome than the last. And it’s not like you can really fault him this time. Because he got hurt saving you, and you can’t really blame him for that. If the roles were reversed you would’ve done the same thing if it meant you were getting him out of danger.

Besides you already gave his unconscious form the self sacrificing idiot speech, and you think he got the message.

You’re just about to go take a walk to get your next cup of coffee when something beats you to it.

“Knock, knock.” You look up to see Eddie standing in the doorway with two cups of coffee in hand. “Stopped by the shop down the street, figured you needed something better than the shit in this place to keep you awake.”

He walks over and hands you the cup, which you accept with more relief than you’ve felt in ages. At least it’s something. You haven’t really slept in days, maybe a few minutes of shut eye here and there. The team keeps telling you to get some rest, especially while they come to visit, but you have yet to budge. You worry that the second you really commit to getting some rest is the moment Buck will wake up, or worse.

“You’ve got great timing,” You say, “Was about to go grab myself a refill.” You brush a few empty coffee cups into the nearby trash can before settling back into your uncomfortable chair as Eddie does the same on the other side of the bed.

“The nurses give you any updates?” He asks, eyes fixated on your fiancé holed up in a cramped hospital bed.

“They said it’s only a matter of time now before he wakes up. But it could be hours, could still be a few more days. Hell, maybe even a week.” 

You don’t know why they say it like that when it still really tells you nothing. All it tells you is that he’ll wake up, which is comforting but everything can change on a dime. And he could be fine one second and coding the next. 

Besides, they still have no clue what state he’ll be in when he wakes up. And you can’t fault them for that. Because that’s out of their control. They’ll only know once you do, once Buck opens his eyes and greets the world again for the first time in nearly a week. And it’s torture to say the least.

You eye Eddie across the room from over the rim of your coffee cup, and you see his eyes carefully flitting back to you every few seconds.

“If you’re about to say you’re worried about me, don’t.” You’ve had enough condolences and pitiful looks this week to last you a lifetime.

“Me? Never.” He jokes, taking a sip from his own coffee. “Bobby however.”

“Well, you can tell Bobby that I’m fine. I’m just playing the waiting game.” Which is arguably the worst part of this entire ordeal. “Ask me again when he wakes up.”

If he wakes up. You’ve always been a bit of the paranoid type, it kind of comes with the territory of the job. Face value has never really been your friend, and you’re finding that your tendencies have led to an inability to put much stock in the optimism of the hospital staff. 

And you’re talking to someone with the same problem. A man who relies solely on his team and his intuition. It’s a good way to live, leads to less disappointment. It also leads to a whole slew of trust issues, but that’s a problem for another day. And that seems to be your attitude towards everything these days.

“How’s the wedding going?” He asks, and you roll your eyes. The both of you know full well that you’re not the half of the couple that’s been worrying about the details of the big day.

You’ve always been a little blasé about the idea of your future wedding. Figuring that it’s less about all of the rigmarole and more about the love shared between two people and the people who love them.

But Buck wants it to be perfect. It’s sweet, damn near endearing, but it’s also kind of driving you crazy. Although you’d give anything to be flipping through the wedding binder with him at this very moment. 

You’d much rather he be fussing over picking the right venue, or the flowers, or the menu. Hell, you’d rather be arguing about whether you should have a DJ or a band. Which, the correct answer is DJ. Despite what Buck may think. 

He thinks there’s something so romantic about a full band playing while the two of you have your first dance as husband and wife. And there is some credence in that ideology, but it’s still the wrong answer. Sweet, but overall misguided. 

“Swimmingly.” You joke, placing your empty coffee cup on the tray table beside his bed. “I’ve been fielding calls from Loretta all day. She’s a little worried since she hasn’t heard from Buck in a while.”

Three days qualifies as a while because Loretta seems to be his new best friend. The two of them are this little collective, planning what is going to be a “perfect” day, while you’re just giving your opinion here and there. 

He wants it to be great, and you want him to be happy with the way it turns out. It doesn’t matter to you one way or the other, so long as you’re married by the end of it.

“Did you figure out your guest list?” He asks, and you know that Eddie really couldn’t care less about the details. You know that he’s trying to turn your brain to focusing on a brighter day, and you appreciate it. But he’s not as sly as he thinks.

“You say that like we have leagues of people to invite.” It’s going to be a small affair, well Buck prefers to refer to it as “intimate,” he thinks it makes it sound more fancy or something like that, you only really have the 118, their families, and Maddie to invite. 

“A wedding doesn’t have to be big to be special.” It’s about the people, as most things are, and you it’s better to have a few really close people in your life than a slew of acquaintances lining the rows to cheer on a couple that they barely even know. 

“I’ve been trying to tell Buck that.” You never expected him to be so enthralled by the spectacle of a grand wedding, but it turns out that he’s even more of a romantic than you’ve ever known him to be.

“He loves you.” Eddie says, knocking back the last of his coffee as he leans forward in his chair. “He just wants everyone to know. Including you.” 

Like you could ever really doubt his love. He’s constantly finding ways to remind you, small and big ways. Like he’s worried you’ll stop believing him one of these days. Like he’s worried one of these days you’ll run away because he didn’t prove it enough.

He’s got a lot of those preconceived notions, and you know that they come from a place of his own past traumas and insecurities. You just wish he’d believe that some people aren’t going to leave. Some people intend to stay, and they’ll fight tooth and nail to be by your side. They’ll be there when you need them.

You wish that he had an easier time believing that. You wish he’d never been convinced otherwise in the first place.

“I just-” You start, but you hear the slightest noise that sounds like a groan and it has you sitting up straighter in your chair. Exchanging quick eye contact with Eddie as the both of you lean in a little closer to see if you heard it right.

Only for the sound to ring out, along with the slightly faster beeping of the heart monitor, loud enough for you and Eddie to hear. You’re both out of your seats in record time.

“Buck?” 

His brows furrow at the sound of your voice, his head tilting in the opposite direction as the hand closest to you flexes slightly. Without much thought you place your hand on his wrist, the cool metal of your engagement ring making contact with his arm and he flinches slightly despite his sluggish nature.

“Buck,” Eddie tries, the both of you still waiting for him to actually open his eyes, “Buck, can you hear me?” 

“Eddie?” Buck’s voice is weak, scratchy, and quieter than you’ve heard it in so long, but it’s there. It’s there. 

“Yeah, I’m here.” He says, and the two of you exchange quick, hopeful smiles before turning your attention back to Buck. 

And then, the greatest thing out of all of this, Buck’s eyes finally open. And you can’t help but grin as you finally get a good look at him. Even though his eyes are still solely on Eddie.

“Hey, man.” He says, voice a little stronger than before as he cracks a slight smile. And the smile is returned by Eddie.

“Hey. How are you feeling?” He asks, and then Buck lets out another groan. As though he’s just now reminded that he’s in pain.

“Like I got crushed by a firetruck.” He says it with a chuckle, like it’s supposed to be funny. Like it’s supposed to be funny because it’s what happened. But it isn’t what happened, at least not this time. It has your brows furrowing as your gaze shifts to Eddie. 

“That bad, huh?” He asks, a slight chuckle in place to make Buck feel more comfortable as he eases back slightly. If something’s wrong, the easiest way to figure it out is by making sure Buck isn’t too worked up. 

“I’ve definitely felt better.” He says, coughing slightly as he goes to reach for the cup of water on the tray table. Only to find that his arm isn’t free, and that’s when his gaze finally shifts to you. 

And you don’t know what you’re expecting from him. Maybe a smile or some flirtatious line off the top of his head. What you don’t expect is for his brows to furrow and for his eyes to roam across your face in the hopes of trying to place you. 

Your hand slowly retracts from his wrist and you discretely shove it in the pocket of your hoodie as he looks at you. 

“Who’s this?” He asks, the question clearly directed towards Eddie even though he hasn’t torn his eyes from you. And you can see Eddie open his mouth out of your peripheral, but you beat him to the punch.

“I’m Y/N.” You start, putting on your most professional and placating smile as you attempt to convincingly lie your ass off, “I work for the department, and I was sent to check in on you. Diaz was updating me on your condition.”

You shoot a look in Eddie’s direction, a silent plea that he just goes along with this. It’ll be easier that way, easier than trying to convince Buck of things that aren’t coming to the forefront of his brain.

“I’m glad to see you’re awake, Mr. Buckley.” You clear your throat, grabbing your jacket off the chair next to you as you take a few steps back. “I’ll go grab a nurse and let them know you’re awake.” 

And with that you’re gone, not bothering to send one last look in their direction. Yeah, the doctors definitely didn’t prepare you for this.

— — —

“We’re gonna be late.” 

Your warning seems to fall on disinterested ears as you feel yet another kiss pressed to your neck.

“Who cares?” It’s a mumble, one that comes from a voice that is still scratchy from sleep, but it makes you laugh.

“Bobby will kill us if we’re late.” You tilt your head slightly, catching a glimpse of the alarm clock on the bedside table. The party is supposed to start in an hour and a half, with the both of you supposed to arrive at least thirty minutes after the fact. And you both still need to shower. 

“It’s a party, it’s not like we’re going to be late for work.”

“It’s your birthday party.”

“Which I’m not supposed to know about.” You roll your eyes. How does he have the nerve to act like you spilled the beans when you didn’t breathe a word of it to him?

“Which you know about because you’re nosy.”

“It’s not like I did it on purpose.” You can’t manage to bite back the belly laugh that bubbles up in your throat at that. You don’t buy it for a second.

“You asked Chimney.”

Buck pulls away from you with a sigh, hovering over you as you stare up at him, failing to hide the grin on your face as you lock eyes with him. And he finds himself smiling back within a matter of seconds.

“What?” He asks, and you shake your head as your hands skate up his arms to then wrap around his neck. Pulling him slightly closer to you.

“I’m just,” You start, sighing slightly as you thread your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, “Really happy.”

And the way that that brightens his smile might just be the most breathtaking thing you’ve ever laid eyes on. And your smile grows in turn at the sight of him so damn happy, and it makes your heart jump slightly at the idea that you just might be the thing that makes him so damn happy.

Who’d have ever thought you could be the cause of a smile so radiant? The idea of it had never really crossed your mind in the past. And now you don’t think you’ll ever forget it. And, if you let yourself, you think you could get used to it. Get addicted to it. And that’s dangerous.

It’s dangerous because this could all go away so quickly. It could slip through your fingers and you could be out in the cold. On your own once more, living an awkward work life and having next to no personal life. Just because things are good right now doesn’t mean they’ll stay that way. 

You know it’s incredibly glass half empty, but your brain is hardwired to be waiting for the next terrible thing around the bend. It’s pessimistic as hell, you’re well aware, but it’s a habit that you just can’t manage to shake. You have the feeling it’ll follow you to your grave.

“I love you.” You whisper, quieter than you need to be because it’s just the two of you. There are no prying ears to hide the words from, but they feel sacred. Like they’re something special to be held between just the two of you, no matter how many times you’ve said them at this point. You don’t ever want those three little words to feel trite, to feel like something you just say. 

There’s beauty in something becoming reflexive, but you fear that it’ll lose some of its meaning if it's solely instinctive. If then it’ll just be something you say because you’re used to it. You don’t ever want it to feel that way.

“I love you too.” He leans down to press a kiss to your lips, your hands sliding down to rest on either side of his face until he pulls away.

“Happy birthday, Buck.”

— — —

“Absolutely not.”

See, you knew that you were going to be met with the stubborn brick wall when you showed up today. But there’s this small, somewhat stupid, part of you that hoped maybe you’d be met with a bit of understanding. But that’s not possible where Bobby is concerned. Not in a situation like this.

Because he seems to think it’s in your best interest to take a few days off. To give yourself some time to gather your thoughts and figure out what you want to do. Maybe take a little vacation time, fly back to the east coast and visit your family. He wouldn’t want to throw you back into high stress situations after the week you’ve had. 

He doesn’t seem to understand the fact that you’d rather be anywhere than in your own head right now. You want to be able to rely on your instincts and on the things that you can do. The things you can control. You can save people. You can do something worthwhile with your time instead of just sitting on the couch letting your misery swallow you whole. 

“Bobby, I need this.” You say, leaning down on the countertop as you look at him behind the stove.

“I had Eddie take a week off after Shannon, I’m giving you the same.”

“But this is not the same.” You try and argue, but Bobby is having none of it.

“It is the same.” He says, fixing you with a look that puts a finality on your perspective. “The future you had in mind was pulled out from under you. It’s the same.” 

But it’s not the same. It’s not the same in the least. And, god, it makes you feel like a shitty person for even entertaining the notion, but a sick part of you feels like Eddie got off easy. 

Because there’s no wondering. Once it’s done, it’s done. And she’s just gone. There was no way of getting her back. He doesn’t have to be plagued with the idea that one day she might come back to him. That any day could just be that day and things will be perfect again.

And he doesn’t have to live with the fear that that day may not ever actually show up. And you’ll just have to learn how to move on with your life again, with you being the only person to know your and Buck’s storied history. Every last detail, each and every quiet moment shared without prying eyes. 

It’ll only live on behind your eyes, and you don’t know how you’re supposed to live with that. Not with the knowledge that Buck is still out there without an ounce of a memory of what you shared. Of the future you were planning. And that is a torture of its own uniquely hellish design.

And you can’t help but wonder if all of this, if the forgetting and all the pain that comes with it, is a fate worse than death. It certainly feels like it is. At least death is final. 

“Bobby, I-” You start, but the sternness of his glance intensifies as he puts a lasagna in the oven.

“I’ll see you in a week, Y/L/N.” And with that he’s off. Heading down the stairs towards his office, no doubt to fill out even more paperwork about Buck’s accident and his impending return from leave.

You let out a long suffering sigh as you turn around, only to find two pairs of sympathetic eyes watching you from across the room. And they don’t even bother to pretend that they’re not eavesdropping when you catch them.

“I’m gonna assume you guys won’t put in a good word for me with Bobby.” You say, pushing away from the counter and making your way over to the couch where Hen and Chimney are sitting.

“Maybe some time off won’t be so bad.” Hen tries, hoping that it’ll provide some level of comfort in the face of this unprecedented territory. It doesn’t. “Maybe it’ll help you clear your head.”

“I can promise you, this fog isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.” You say as you lean back a little bit so that you’re resting against the back cushions of the couch. 

These last few days have gone by like your body and brain were running completely on autopilot. The elevator ride to the hospital lobby, the walk back to your car, the drive back to your and Buck’s apartment. 

The immediate instinct to run upstairs and grab all the duffel bags you could find and start packing your things into them. Stripping the apartment of every last trace of your existence and your relationship with Buck. It just about broke your heart in two to take the photo booth photostrip, with its worn crease in the middle, off the fridge and stuff it into your wallet.

It has all started to bleed together in your brain. And you don’t have it in you to go through and try to pick it all apart. Right now you’re trying your damnedest to be focused on the immediate. Keeping your sights locked in on the right now. And it’s proving to be damn near impossible since everyone seems to think that they know better. Since everyone seems to think that time is the answer here.

There is no answer. They just don’t seem to get that.

“I called Loretta last night and told her her services would no longer be needed.” You’d called and straight up told her that the wedding has been canceled. But she was busy asking you about Buck since she saw the story on the news, and she never got a straight answer over the past few days because you'd just given her a few bullshit placating answers when she’d called.

And you told her that he was still in the hospital, and that he’d be going home in a few days. You also mentioned the turn in his condition in a slightly offhand way to make it seem like you’re not as bothered by it as you are. And she came to the lovely conclusion that the big day is just postponed. She’ll still be looking out and trying to get everything in order the way she and Buck had been discussing. 

She’s so convinced that all of this will have a miraculous happy ending. That one day soon it’ll all be normal again and you’ll be walking down the aisle in no time.

Hope is a luxury that only the truly unaffected can afford. Because they don’t know any better. Because they don’t have anything to lose. You’d given up on the optimistic side of your own fate a long time ago because a half full glass has never gotten you anywhere. 

And it won’t get you anywhere now. Not with what the doctor told you over the phone. An update on Buck’s condition since you tried to make your presence at the hospital scarce after his first set of waking hours. You left in the presence of his best friend who he trusted. Who he still remembered.

According to the doctor his memory was about two years behind the current times, meaning that in his mind it’s shortly after the ladder truck incident. Meaning that he’s still in that phase of his life where he’s getting over the short and sweet, and astoundingly abrupt, presence of Ali in his life. All the while he’s still trying to mend his broken heart over Abby’s little cut and run act. 

And he hasn’t met you yet.

Because you didn’t come around until the middle of the hell freezing over. You stumbled upon the dose of familial chaos that is the 118 when Buck was in the middle of suing the department for wrongful termination. 

The beginning of a new job is stressful enough, it was like walking on eggshells over there for a while. Not because they didn’t like you, it's just that you aren’t Buck. Which was both a good and bad thing, because as mad as they were at him they still missed him like hell. They just wished he could pull his head out of his ass and see sense. 

And eventually he did. But he wasn’t thrilled to come back and find a new member of the team. Someone who hadn’t been shipped off to another house after he was granted his return. But that dissatisfaction only lasted for a little while. It didn’t take too long for the switch to flip and for the vibe to change completely. The two of you were practically inseparable after a little while. 

But history isn’t going to repeat itself, and you can’t just orchestrate things to roll forth the way they had the first time around. That was a beautiful stroke of luck, an entirely unexpected thing that set your life on a different course. And it won’t happen the same way twice. If you even bother this time.

The doctor said that you can’t be too pushy with the whole idea of reappearing memories. You can’t just talk to him about his life and practically force a revelation upon him. It has to be organic, it has to be natural. The doctor has every faith that everything will come back to Mr. Buckley, he just doesn’t know how long that will take. It just sounded like a lot of bullshit to you.

The rest of the team seems a little more insistent than you do. Like they’ve all signed themselves up to try and help jog Buck’s memory. But you can’t decide if that’s something you really want. 

Well, okay, obviously you want that. You want your life to go back to what it was a week ago. But you don’t know if you want to give some of those memories back to Buck. You’re the reason he landed himself in that bed in the first place. And you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to forgive yourself for that.

So, you don’t want him to remember it. Because it’s easier to hold it against yourself, to keep the weight of it steadily secured on your shoulders, when he doesn’t have the option to forgive you. It’s easier to keep hating yourself when there’s no one there to give you permission to give yourself a break. 

“You know, you can stay with Karen and me if you want.” Hen offers, that kind smile would be comforting if it weren’t for the pity that is so evident in her eyes, “It might be best if you’re not alone right now.” 

“Or you can stay with me.” Chimney pipes up, “Albert’s about to get his own place.” 

As tempting as the offer of Chimney’s vacant living room floor is, you have to graciously turn it down. Because they’re both being unbearably sweet, and you’d probably do the same if the roles were reversed. But you don’t really want it. You can handle this yourself, even if you really don’t want to.

“I’m good at the hotel guys, I promise.” You say, waving them off as you stand from the couch. “Besides, a unit in my old building just went up for rent and I put in an offer. I’m doing fine, I’ll be settled in a couple weeks. It’ll be fine.” 

They’re about to protest once more, Hen more so than Chimney, but you’re all stopped in your tracks by the sound of a familiar voice. A voice calling out to Bobby in a far too cheery tone, the sound of someone relieved to be back in the only building they’ve ever felt at home in.

You rush over to the railing and find Eddie and Buck walking into the firehouse. Eddie had texted earlier that morning and said Buck was being discharged today. But he was supposed to take him back to the loft, he wasn’t supposed to bring him here.

But Buck was probably insistent. He probably wanted to check in with the rest of the 118 and ease any worries. Besides, it’s not like you told Eddie that you’d be here. You can hear the two of them getting off the couch behind you and approaching you with slow steps. Like you’re a skittish wild animal about to make a run for the woods.

And, honestly, that’s the way you feel right about now.

“Y/N.” Hen says. Like she’s trying to regain your attention. Like she’s already said it a few times and you just haven’t heard her. And you turn to find her rising from her chair with her brows raised as she walks towards the railing to see what’s captured your attention. Once she spots him she places her hand on your shoulder like it’ll do something to keep you there for a few more seconds. 

But it’s not enough, and you’re not ready to look at his face and see not an ounce of recognition. Not again. Not this soon.

“I have to go.” You say, snatching your hoodie off the back of the nearby armchair and pulling it on as you speed down the steps. You zip it up and are reaching for the hood as you make it down to the firetruck bay, and you can see Buck hugging Bobby out of the corner of your eye. You turn your head just slightly as they’re pulling away. And Buck sees you, he catches a glimpse of you right before you have the hood fully situated on the top of your head.

It’s a split second, and you know he doesn’t know who you are. You know that he’s probably trying to place why he recognizes you, trying to connect it to when he saw you at the hospital. But the furrow in his brow gives you pause, but just for a second. Because soon enough you’re hightailing it out of the station and heading out to your car. You don’t give yourself the chance to breathe until you’ve pulled out of the parking lot and are on your way back to the hotel. 

— — —

“You are the worst driver.”

“I am an excellent driver.”

You roll your eyes as you wipe some excess lip gloss off your cheek, lip gloss that had been accidentally smeared on your face when Buck swerved at the very last second to avoid what he believed to be an animal in the middle of the road. You don’t know what it was, but it wasn’t an animal. 

“Tell that to all of your overdue parking tickets.” You taunt, screwing the cap back on your tube of lip gloss before sticking it in your purse.

“Parking and driving are not the same thing.” 

“They’re basically the same thing.” You put the visor back up where it's supposed to be as you turn your head to look at him.

“They are not the same thing, at all.” 

“You can’t just drive around forever, you have to stop at some point. Parking is the end point of driving. They go hand in hand, so they’re the same thing. It’s all one big thing.” 

And he’s at a loss. He’s shaking his head, eyes on the road with the beginnings of a disbelieving smile on his face. And you know he’s at a loss because you’re right, your logic leads to the right ending. Despite the defense he may be building in his mind, you’ve won this time around. 

“When we have kids you’re not teaching them how to drive.” Is what he comes up with instead, meaning to pivot this little spat away from his bad driving but it kind of stops you in your tracks.

“When we have kids?” It’s not really meant to be a question, but it comes out like one in spite of your intentions.

Sure, you’d thought about your future with Buck. You’d given yourself the bandwidth, the freedom, to dream beyond the reality in front of you. But you always thought the idea of some happily ever after was just too far-fetched to happen to little old you. And things have just been going too well, everything is too perfect. And expecting anything more feels a little greedy when you already have more than you bargained for.

You never dared to let yourself think that, maybe, Buck’s been thinking about the same things too.

“I mean, I’ve thought about it.” He starts, his nerves slipping into his voice as he purposely keeps his eyes on the road ahead. “A lot, actually. And I know we haven’t talked about it yet, and I don’t even know if you want-”

And it’s cute, kind of. It’s endearing to say the least. But you figure it’s best to put him out of his misery, to give him the reassurance that you’ve let your mind wander down the same paths. He’s been let down one too many times for him to just believe that there is a future in this. At least not without his fair share of misgivings and doubt.

So, you reach across the console to his hand resting by the gear shift and you slip your hand into his. Your fingers twining between his as you look over at him. You catch his gaze dart over to you out of the corner of his eye before returning to the road.

“I’ve thought about it too, Buck.” And it’s like he finally stops holding his breath. “I’ve thought of the future, our future, in so many ways.”

And, if you’re being really honest with yourself, kids have never really been something you felt were necessary for your happiness. Sure, you weren’t entirely against the idea but it wasn’t like you had any desperate need to be a mother or anything. 

But you’ve been spending so much time around such great parents as of late, and getting to hang out with their amazing kids. In fact you’ve spent your fair share of time around the Diaz boys, and Chris has just about stolen your heart. Buck is amazing with kids, and it hasn’t gone unnoticed.

And every time you see him around the kids of the 118, everytime you see him around Jee-Yun, it does something to your heart. It doesn’t make it skip a beat, per se. There’s just this wave of warmth that washes through your chest as you watch them. A sweet, unintentional smile making itself known. And you can see it in the people around you, like they know what’s going through your mind.

Like they’re just counting down the days until it’s actually a reality. Because Buck would be a great dad, there’s no doubt in your mind. And the idea of family has always felt a bit like a foreign concept, but you really want to build a family with Buck. 

“All those things that we’re supposed to dream about,” You start, taking a breath before you continue on, “Marriage. Kids. A family and a place of your own. I want all of that. I want to have all of that with you.”

“Yeah?” He asks, a small smile on his face as he peeks over at you.

“Yeah.” You assure, a barely hidden smile on your face as he lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of it.

— — —

You’re back at the 118 exactly a week later, because you are just that stubborn and you want Bobby to know exactly where he can stick his time off. You know he means well, Bobby isn’t the kind of guy to act with ill intent. Especially not in regards to his crew. But you’re just so tired of everyone’s kind gestures. They’ve been too frequent for your liking. 

And it’s a few days removed from that one week cut off, and being back at work doesn’t feel as good as you thought it would. Because he’s here, but he’s not. He’s here in the sense that he’s seemingly just around every corner. Right there to stop your breath in your throat when you catch sight of him. Like a living ghost, and you’re worried that he’s going to disappear each and every time.

And he’s not there in the sense that the chemistry in the field is off. That unspoken connection has gone out the window, and he no longer has the ability to anticipate your next move. But you’re always on par with him because you still know him like the back of your hand. Maybe if you didn’t it wouldn’t hurt so much. 

During the times when you’re all back in the station you make the calculated choice to make yourself scarce because you don’t have it in you to have to face all of this head on. You don’t really have the self control to entertain conversation with this version of Buck. 

Not that there’s anything wrong with this phase of Buck, I mean this is the Buck you fell in love with after all. Before the Buck 3.0 software update, which always felt a little laughable to be honest. As there was no need for a complete overhaul. But you know he’ll never be on the same page as you when it comes to the topic of his “self improvement.”

You just can’t bear to hear him talk about the lovers of his past. Ali was a little more like a footnote, a weatherable shock to the system. But Abby was like a hurricane. And Buck wasn’t safely planted in the eye of the storm, he was smack in the middle of the path of destruction she left in her wake. This is Buck pre-closure, and there’s a piece of your heart that aches for his state of mind.

And you’ve had to hear him ramble on to Bobby or Hen, or, really, whoever will listen, about these tales of woe. Of how he’s still trying to figure these things out. And just because he left Abby’s place it doesn’t truly mean he’s left Abby in his rearview. 

And everyone is treating him with kid gloves, trying to act like they haven’t already been through these conversations a tireless amount of times. Even though they moved beyond them years ago, but it all feels so real to Buck right now. And there’s nothing any of them can do to change that.

They’ve been trying to get the two of you in the same room during each shift, but you find ways to slip out before they can manage it. Besides, it’s not like Buck really notices. As far as he’s concerned you’re just another coworker, one who likes to keep to themself. And he respects that.

And the 118 has been, to the best of their ability, respecting your space. Chimney claims that when he asks it’s because Maddie is worried about you. But you know it’s more than that. Hell, you’ve even had to field a few calls from Athena because she knows you’re not talking to Bobby. And, whether he’ll admit it or not, it’s kind of killing him. 

You’ve been doing a good job of keeping it together yourself. You’ve yet to cry about it, you’ve just tried to act like it’s not really happening. Treating it somewhat like you and Buck have just broken up, and that you’re trying to get your life back on track. Since that’s basically what this is. Despite that teensy sprinkle of hope everyone keeps telling you to hold onto. 

And you’re doing great with this avoidance tactic until he makes it all but impossible to act like he doesn’t exist. You’re up in the loft of the firehouse at like two in the morning, watching the news while everyone is supposed to be sleeping, shuffling a deck of cards in your hands. And then you hear footsteps coming from the steps by the kitchen. You don’t even bother to look up. You know exactly who it is.

“There’s a fresh pot of coffee on the counter if you want some.” You say, voice halfway zoned out as you watch the latest traffic prediction for the impending early morning commute. The most predictable thing about LA traffic is that it’s going to be shitty, it’s not exactly rocket science.

“Thanks.” You hear as one of the cabinets closes and a mug is placed on the counter. There’s liquid being poured into the mug, and then the sound of footsteps again that get slightly louder with each step closer to the armchair beside you. 

He focuses on the TV for a few seconds, but you can feel his gaze flicking to you several times. Like he’s waiting to strike up a conversation, like something about you has been on his mind in a way that he just can’t shake, but he doesn’t know how to start.

And you’re really not doing him any favors. Your eyes are still glued to the screen while you fiddle with the deck. And he drinks his coffee, and the occasional slurping sounds do nothing to abate the awkwardness that has settled over the hallowed house.

Eventually Buck seems to give up on nonchalance and settles his mug down on the coffee table as he leans forward slightly.

“You came to visit me in the hospital.” It’s not a question, there’s such sureness in the way he says it that he’s not really looking for you to confirm anything. He has no trouble remembering that. But he probably figured he’d never see you again after that day. So, having to deal with you on a daily basis has probably thrown him for a loop.

“I did.” And it absolutely kills you that this is the way he views this whole thing. You came for a visit, just to check in on a fellow firefighter. It wasn’t a visit, it was hell. It was days of waiting to see if he was ever even going to wake up. You wish it could just be classified as a visit. 

“You said you were sent to check on my condition.” And now it’s time to lie a little more. And it should be a little troubling how naturally it comes to you, how easily you’re willing to save your own skin by letting Buck believe whatever he needs to believe. You wish you were a little better at being honest. “You said you worked for the department.”

“I do.” You say, because technically that part isn’t a lie. But you can’t say the same for this next part. “I heard about your accident and figured I should come check in. I know I’d want someone there with me if I was in your position.”

A kind face, whether they’re familiar enough to be friendly or not. Sometimes just having someone can make even the worst things seem a little bit better than they could’ve been. One of the worst things in this life is being alone, and no one deserves to be subscribed to that fate. Especially not in a time quite as vulnerable as a hospital stay.

“Seems like you got dealt a shitty hand.” You mutter, flipping over the card on the top of the deck to be met with the smirking face of the Joker.

“It’s no picnic.” He says, eyes falling on the dark liquid in his mug. 

And you can’t imagine what it’s like to actually be in his head these days. Sure, the outside perspective is a hellish enough experience on its own. But you can’t imagine what it’s like to be so lost inside your own mind. More so than he’s ever been before. 

“Do you remember anything at all?” You ask, because you just can’t help yourself. Self control has never really been your virtue and it’s been keeping you up at night. Because the doctor said that the last few years are just gone in this weird blink of an eye. And that just doesn’t really seem possible. It doesn’t seem feasible. 

“Not really. And what I do remember is basically just in flashes.” Meaning none of it is clear. Meaning he remembers these last few years of his life through a completely distorted lens. 

And you don’t have a perfect memory either. There are sections of your life that are completely gone from your mind. And no matter how hard you try you wouldn’t be able to call upon them with perfect clarity.

But that’s just the effects of time on the mind, this is something of a fluke. Something that was never supposed to happen. And the doctor had rambled on about it hopefully being short term, and that hopefully it’ll all come back to him soon. But none of this feels short term. And you’re sure that Buck understands that more than anyone.

“And I’ve been trying to jog my memory but nothing’s working. And it just feels like something is missing.” He scoffs, taking another sip of his coffee. “I know that probably sounds stupid, because obviously something is missing. But it just feels like there’s a hole. Like there’s someone missing, and I don’t know who. I just know that they’re important. And everyone seems to clam up whenever I ask about them.”

And suddenly the coffee table is extremely interesting as you can’t bear to make eye contact with him.

“How important?” It’s a low blow, and it comes from the greediest, slimiest corners of your brain. Because there’s a small part of you that just wants to hear the level of importance that your presence holds in Buck’s mind even when he’s not all the way there. 

You shouldn’t need to hear it, you hear it all the time. You’re wearing his ring for goodness sake! You’ve never been left wondering, and you’re grateful for that. But everything feels like a shot in the dark right now. And you’ll take everything you can get. 

“Abby important.” He says, and you just about choke on your saliva. Obviously you know about Abby Clark, and you know the number she did on him. She was his first real experience with love and he got his heart stomped on in the process. And the aftermath of that train derailment was not the easiest of days. In fact, it was pretty shitty in a lot of ways.

That was the night you and Buck kissed for the first time. And it ended in you pushing him away because you just couldn’t shake the feeling that it was coming from the wrong place. He’d seen Abby again after having given up on the idea of her ever coming back. And he saved her fiancés life. He was in a bad way, and you figured that this sudden outpouring of feeling was solely because he wanted a distraction.

He wanted the opportunity to be weak and seek comfort in a familiar presence. Just to act as though it never happened. Then you’d just be coworkers again, and you’d just have to soldier on with a brave face in the wake of Buck’s broken heart and the burgeoning fissure in your own.

And, really, no one could blame you. You’d heard the stories about Buck 1.0. About stealing fire trucks to hook up with hot girls from dating apps, or girls from rescues that were a little too fanatic about snakes, to the point that it resulted in a temporary firing. How were you supposed to know that Buck actually wanted something serious with you?

But you were wrong about all that, and he made sure you knew it. It just happened to be the next morning because you’d all but fled the station after the kiss. Your shift was over anyway, and you just didn’t have it in you to face all of those jumbled feelings when you could barely keep your eyes open.

But Buck was at your apartment door bright and early the next morning with coffee from the shop down the block. And you were a little more than antsy at the prospect of the conversation. But it didn’t crash and burn like you were expecting. It wasn’t flames, it was fireworks. And it was beautiful. It has always been beautiful.

Until the vibrant colors disappear from the star filled sky and all you can see is the smoke billowing through the wind until it blends with the black of the night. That’s what this is now. The fireworks have fizzled to their end. These are the dregs. You’re the smoke and you’ve already all but disappeared. And you’re helpless to the power of the wind as it carries you off someplace beyond sight. 

It might be naive, but you thought the fireworks were never going to fade. Being wrong has never felt so severe a punishment until now. 

Because these days it feels like you’re in the middle of a grassy field sprawled out a checkered blanket as you watch the display. And you see him in each beautiful interruption of the natural order of the night. He’s the bang. He’s bright, and intoxicating, and he draws you in. But nothing lasts forever, and the beauty of it is buried deep within its ephemeral nature. 

And, because you’re only human, you forget just how beautiful the fireworks can be until you’re in that same space again. And you get caught up in the awe of the magnificent chaos it creates. But only for a little while. Only for as long as they’re in the sky. Once the show is over you’re packing up your blanket and heading to your car. Like it never even happened.

That’s where things get a little different. Because, try as you might, you can’t forget him. You’ve been falling a little more in love with Evan Buckley since the day you met him, and you know that you’ll still be falling a little more until the last day you stand beside him, and that’s not something you can so easily forget. 

Not when you’ve had the privilege of bearing witness to his heart on his sleeve and that infuriatingly charming smile of his. You don’t ever want to forget that. That heart, that smile, those eyes, his laugh. 

They’re all just like fireworks. 

A little skip in the beat of your heart, but their impact is so much greater than a few seconds along the atmosphere. Just as beautiful, but permanently burned into your brain so you couldn’t forget even if you wanted to. 

Better than fireworks. Better than flames. Better than anything you ever could have imagined. And then the universe goes and makes you the butt of some sick joke. 

“But I feel like this person might be more important than that.” He says, like it’s been rattling around in his head for a while. And he’s been waiting to give it the time and space to breathe. “But everytime I try and think about them, to try and get something back, I hit a wall.”

“Maybe you’re trying too hard.” You say, reaching for your own mug from the table and taking a long sip.

“What do you mean?” He asks, and you shrug in an attempt at nonchalance. You’re not sure if it succeeds or not.

“Maybe this is supposed to be one of those things that is spontaneous. It’ll all come back when it’s ready. A watched pot never boils.” You put the mug back down on the table, wiping the back of your hand against your lips. “Maybe you just have to be patient.” 

And you know that it’s all a little hypocritical because patience has never been your virtue. And these days it really feels like you’re at the end of your rope. But this is solely a waiting game at this point, that’s all life has been the past few weeks. 

“Maybe.” He says, and the way he says it makes it seem like the last thing he wants to do is wait. And you understand, you’re on the same wavelength, but it seems a little inevitable at this point. 

The two of you lapse into comfortable silence, which feels like a freaking miracle on your part, with only the sound of the latest breaking news in the background. You stare at the TV screen, zoned out to the droning sound of the reporter’s voice and fiddling with the ring on the chain around your neck. A spot you’d chosen for safe keeping during the job. Plus, it’s a nice way of keeping Buck close to your heart.

You don’t even realize that you’re doing it, it’s just become a bit of a nervous habit at this point since you’ve been wearing the ring for nearly six months now. In fact, you don’t take notice of it until you hear him say:

“You’re engaged?” You just about freeze to your spot at the sound of his voice, your gaze very slowly drifting from the television to his face. And he doesn’t seem as surprised as you suspected. In fact, there’s an almost sweet smile on his lips when he looks at you. And the mere sight of it triggers a million memories of every other time you’ve been on the receiving end of that smile. All the smiles that aren’t even a blip on his radar.

“Uh, yeah.” You say, trying to swallow down the lump that has settled in your throat. “About six months now.” 

“They treat you right?” He asks, and you nod as you slide your finger along the chain.

“Yeah. He’s pretty great.” And you smile despite yourself, because you really just can’t help it. The happiness you have been privy to these last two years is almost incomprehensible. “But, one of these days, I swear that man is going to be the death of me.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“He’s a heart first kind of guy.” You say, eyes meeting his for a brief second before moving back to the TV. “His solutions are often out of instinct, and he acts on them without much more thought. He figures if he can help in any way then it has to be the right move, even if it means that he’ll get hurt in the process. He doesn’t seem to realize that losing him is also a worst case scenario.” 

That’s the part that you can never seem to get over. That one little annoyance with Buck that you can never seem to shake. He seems to believe that he’s a person people can just get over. That he’ll be easy to move on from. 

And you know for a fact that he feels this way because it’s what he’s been led to believe his entire life. But it’s not true. 

It would not be a quick healing process, and you know everyone that loves him agrees. It would never be easy, and you’d never get over it. Maddie would be mourning her brother for the rest of her life if their family attitude towards loss is any indication. 

And every member of the 118 would be looking over their shoulder on every rescue just expecting him to be there only to quickly be reminded that he’s never going to be there no matter how many times they look.

He’s not tradeable. His actions would be commendable, no doubt about that. But not a single one of you would be happy it happened. You’d spend the rest of your lives feeling guilty and wondering what you could’ve done to save him. Wondering if you could’ve possibly found a way to beat him to the punch and be the one who wound up in the ground. There is no easy way out of something like this.

“Is he one of ours?” You can tell by the look on his face that he knows exactly what you’re talking about. Like he’s been in those same shoes, and still lives in that headspace. You don’t know if he’ll ever actually move through that. If he’ll ever believe that he’s actually something valuable. 

“Yeah. We met at work.” And what an interesting time that was to be working at the 118. It was not smooth sailing to say the least. “And he’s been obsessed with wedding planning. It’s driving me crazy”

That’s something you never thought you’d miss. The ending every night with flipping through the wedding binder or scrolling through the pictures that Loretta sent him. Endless displays of flowers and place settings and seating charts. It’s all so involved, and if you never see another cake topper again it’ll be too soon.

“You’re not into planning?” He asks, and you shake your head.

“It’s not that planning is the problem. It’s that we keep disagreeing over the same thing. Flowers are fine, the cake is fine, the food is fine. We just can’t seem to get over ourselves when it comes to music.”

“The obvious answer is band.” He says at the same time you say, “DJ.”

And the man looks at you like you’ve grown another head. Like this is quite possibly the greatest betrayal he’s even endured despite only having known you for like twenty minutes. 

“It’s a wedding.” He justifies, “A band is so much more romantic.” Live music, with a perfectly curated set. It’d be heaven. That’s what he’s been telling you for months, it’s still not enough to get you on team band.

“But a DJ can play all of those stupid wedding dance songs that tell you the steps. The songs that really get the party going.” You’re joking, but only slightly. 

“The Cupid Shuffle is not stupid.” He defends, incredulity laced in his voice as he looks at you. And it only takes a few seconds for the two of you to start laughing because this is truly absurd. 

But the laughter dies down after a few seconds, and you’re just smiling at each other. The shy kind that you try to hide with all of its inherent sweetness. 

Just as his smile slowly drops, but the warmth in his eyes has yet to disappear, your phone starts vibrating on the coffee table. And both of your eyes are drawn to the screen as Maddie’s face pops up with the caller id. 

“Is that-” He starts as you reach for the phone and silence the call, only for him to catch a glimpse of the photo of you and him on your lockscreen. A real sweet one, with his arm around your shoulders and a bright small on his face as you’re caught laughing. You look stupid, real cheesy, but it’s one of your favorite photos of the two of you. And you didn’t have the heart to change the photo. 

“You know what, I’m actually starting to feel a little tired.” You fake a yawn as you stand, shoving your phone in your back pocket and turning towards the staircase. “I think I’m gonna go try and get some sleep.” 

You rush out of there as fast as humanly possible without even chancing a look over your shoulder. That was a little too close. Scratch that. It was way too close. 

— — —

You decide you should try and get some sleep as yet another hour of mindless bridal reality shows start to play on the TV. The glow from the television screen is the only thing lighting your face at this late hour, aside from the occasional glow of your phone screen when you tap it to see if you have any new messages from Buck. 

You pull yourself up from the cushion with a groan, stretching your arms over your head as you sit up with your eyes fixated on the moonlight filtering in through the windows. You grab the remote and turn off the TV, carelessly dropping the remote onto the cushion beside you as you stand and slip your phone into your back pocket.

You have the sneaking suspicion that any attempt at a good night’s sleep will be absolutely fruitless. And you know that yesterday is a day you won’t be able to shake for a good long while. You weren’t actually there, you weren’t on the street, and you weren’t caught in the crossfires of the hectic ride to the hospital when Buck literally held Eddie’s life in his hands. But you were there for the after. 

You were rushing into the hospital, and being told that you really needed to wait outside by the nursing staff as the number of visitors allowed inside was still limited. Besides, it didn’t take long for you to find what you were looking for. And you were waiting right outside once Buck finally came outside with blood speckled forearms and shaking hands. And it only worsened the image that had been playing out in your mind ever since it came over the radio. 

And you don’t envy him, not in the fact that he had to witness that or in the fact that he has to tell Christopher what happened. That he has to explain to a child that his father may not be coming home. You have no idea how he possibly conjured up the strength to manage that. 

But he was home the next day, after an absolutely reckless shift, which you had already scolded him for. You’d had the day off and saw the news clip. He had a few voicemails left on his phone with a few uses of a choice word or two.

The two of you had ordered takeout and tried to settle in for as normal a night as possible. But it just turned into worried companionable silence as neither of you even touched your food. And then Ana called saying Eddie was awake and he took off running. Barely remembering to put his shoes on and grab his car keys before he was out the door. And you couldn’t blame him. You’d been worried out of your brain that Eddie wouldn’t wake up, and now knowing he was on the mend did wonders for your worries.

You’d be seeing Eddie soon enough. The day he’d be getting out of the hospital, you really didn’t feel like you could wait much longer to see if he was really alright. And as worried as you’ve been you know that Buck has been even more out of his mind. 

And you know that everyone is still living in this lurch where no one really knows what’s going to happen next. They don’t know who’s responsible for all of this and they don’t know who else he might go after. And everything hanging in the balance is the most unsettling feeling you’ve ever had to stomach. 

Attempting to push all of that out of your mind is the only way you have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting any sleep. Even though you know you probably won’t even have a chance of getting any until Buck is back. That way you know he’s safe, even if his only off duty stops are the hospital and Eddie’s house to make sure someone is there for Christopher through the night.

He’d sent a text when he got settled in the hospital, just to make sure you knew he’d gotten there without any incident. And you appreciated it, you really did. But it’s not the same as having him standing right in front of you alive and well. There’s no reassurance quite like it.

But you know it’ll be a few more days before you really get that reassurance, so you start the climb up the stairs towards your bed. Finger just about to flip the light switch to kill the lights downstairs with your foot poised on the bottom step as you hear the door open. 

“Buck?” You ask, leaning back slightly to catch a glimpse of the figure coming through the doorway.

You watch him drop his keys on the kitchen counter and he turns to you. And he looks lighter than he did when he left, but only slightly. Which feels like good news.

“I thought you were staying at Eddie’s tonight.” You say, taking a step back towards the kitchen to get a better look at him. 

“I am. I was on my way over there, I just really needed to see you.”

“Is everything okay?” And it sounds like the world’s stupidest question, you’re well aware. Because how could any of you really be okay right now? But there’s something a little far off about Buck at the moment, and you really want to pin down what it is, otherwise you’ll be left circling the drain until he decides he just can’t hold it in any longer. 

“Yeah, I’m good. I just, um, I was reminded that life is really short. Especially in our line of work. And if we can keep waiting around for the perfect time, it’s just going to pass us by. And I’m tired of waiting, and I’m tired of letting every opportunity slip through my fingers.”

And those sound like heavy words, words that are so very weighed down by a meaning that you don’t want to notice but already have. Because this is not the time. Tonight is not the night. And this is not the headspace in which someone should be asking this kind of question. This is not the kind of decision to make after watching your best friend bleed out on the pavement. 

“Buck.” You start, but he shakes his head as he walks closer to you.

“Please, I just need to get this out.” And he hasn’t asked the question yet, which means it isn’t your time to answer. And every last bit of resolve in your body is praying he doesn’t get down on one knee tonight. 

He isn’t making it any easier. He’s pausing, he’s trying to figure out the exact right words to say. He’s trying to make it perfect. 

That is the last thing you want. 

“I love you.” He says, and then he smiles like all of the weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Like that is the biggest bomb he’s about to drop. “Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

And you know the feeling all too well. You know just how easy it is. It’s innate. It’s like breathing. It’s something you’ll never be able to forget how to do. 

“And everything goes by so fast, you know? It’s here one second and gone the next, and I don’t want this to be like that. I want to always be right here. With you.”

It’s like your heart is about to burst out of your chest. You can practically see the question on the tip of his tongue, and you just can’t let that happen.

“Buck.” You try again, more worry creeping into your voice as you look at him. And he shakes his head, like you don’t understand. And, hell, maybe you don’t. But you don't know what else this could possibly be.

“Look, I know what you’re going to say, okay? I shouldn’t be so impulsive. And I shouldn’t make a rash decision, but it’s not a rash decision.” Something sparks in his eyes as he looks at you, and then he’s moving. “Stay right there.” He says as he runs up the stairs to the bedroom. 

And you do. You stay there despite yourself. One foot poised on the very bottom step as you fight every instinct to follow him. You’re not sure what he’s doing up there, but you have the feeling it’s going to make your night a lot more difficult. 

And it does. Because of course it does. Because enough earth shattering things haven’t happened this week already, God just decided he needs to throw one more thing on the pile. 

Because Buck comes rushing back down the stairs with something clutched in his hand. With each step closer you get a better look at the tiny velvet box, and your heart just about stops at the sight of it. 

“I bought this three months ago.” He says, fiddling with the box in his hands as he looks at you. “I’ve been trying to find the right time. And I almost asked you so many times, but I let the voice in my head talk me out of it. And I’m tired of talking myself out of it.”

And then he does it. He breaches the point of no return and he gets down on one knee with the box in his hand. Then he’s opening the box, eyes traveling to your face in some hope to gauge your reaction.

“Will you marry me?” He asks, and, god, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him look so hopeful. He really isn’t making this any easier. 

And you don’t really know what you’re supposed to do. You’ve never been proposed to, and you don’t really know how to say no. You don’t know how to break his heart. But this is not the right time to be saying yes. This is not the right time to be getting married. And if he were in a better headspace he’d know that. 

So you take it slow, you can’t bear to just rip off the band aid. This needs to be treated gently, but that feels almost impossible right now. Not when you feel like you’re on the verge of keeling over.

The silence hangs in the air between the two of you like deadweight. And he must be getting antsy because his hands start to shake. Clearly this isn’t the reaction he was expecting. 

“This is the part where you say yes.” He says, his voice shaking as you take a step closer. With the beginnings of a frown etched on your face, the pinch in your brows is almost permanent as you stop right in front of him. “Or no?” He asks, but it’s not really a question. He knows. 

“I can’t.” And it’s like his heart just fell to pieces in his chest. Because he truly believed that there would be a yes on the other side of this conversation. And he doesn’t know what you’re supposed to do when someone says no in a situation like this. 

And maybe where you’re coming from is a little bit right because he didn’t really think this through. He’s chomping at the bit because everything is kind of going to shit right now and he’s looking for a lighthouse in the storm. A beacon. Something safe. A light to walk towards. You’ve always been that person, and he can’t help but hold on a little tighter now. 

“We can’t do this right now. Not when you’re using this to run away from all the scary things that are going on right now. I can’t say yes like this.”

You can’t say yes when it’s only coming up because some asshole is out there striking fear into the hearts of every member of the LAFD. Not when you know it’s only because Buck just came so close to losing his closest friend. He can’t just hide from everything. Not like this. 

The ring box starts to close in his hands and he shakes his head slightly as he starts to stand. But you stop him before he can make it to his feet. Your hands take purchase on his shoulders as you hold him in place. 

“Ask me any other day and I’ll say yes. But not tonight. This is not the headspace to be in when you’re making life changing decisions.” 

The sentiment of ‘any other night’ rattles around in his brain as he looks at you. The timing has been the one thing he never manages to shake, and it offers some small bit of solace this time around. Because you have every intention of saying yes so long as he’s asking under the right circumstances. 

“Now, come on,” You say, reaching for the ring box in his hand as you help to pull him up off the ground. “Christopher is waiting for you.” 

He’s out the door within the next few seconds, but the both of you linger in the doorway. It doesn’t feel like the right time to leave, you’re not sure it ever really will. Not after the question that is ringing in both of your ears. But life keeps moving. And, one day, that question will propel you forward instead of holding you back.

“I love you.” He says, your fingers loosely held in his.

“I know.” You say, biting back a smile at the fondness in his gaze. “I love you too.”

— — —

You almost don’t want to answer the incessant knocking at your front door, but you knew that he’d be stopping by once his shift ended. And you knew he wouldn’t stop knocking, he’d just start calling instead. So, you open the door.

“You’re leaving the 118?” He doesn’t even bother to spare you a glance as he walks inside your newly furnished apartment. 

“Hey, Eddie. What a nice surprise. Why don’t you come in?” You mutter under your breath, gesturing towards the living room as you shut your door behind the man who really isn’t paying any attention to you at all. “How’d you find out?”

“Bobby pulled me aside before I left. Wanted to ask if I could try to talk some sense into you since you’re not answering his calls. He figured I already knew.” And you have somehow never felt so much like a child being scolded. He definitely has that whole, ‘i’m not mad, i’m just disappointed’ parent glare down pat. 

But you don’t want to feel like you’re being scolded. You don’t want to be made to feel like you’re in the wrong for doing what seems like the only thing you can do. It’s not running away, it’s just changing plans. And plans change all the time. 

“I was going to tell you…” You start, and watch as the glare seems to get sharper, “eventually.” You close the door, but don’t stray too far from it. Hoping that this visit will be short, even though you know it won’t be. 

“When? When you asked for a ride to the airport?” There’s incredulity in his tone, you’re shocked a good old fashioned indignant scoff hasn’t made an appearance. 

He’s pissed. He has no right to be. 

“I wouldn’t do that.” You defend, arms crossing over your chest. “I would’ve called a cab.” 

Your attempt at humor goes over like a lead balloon. Your walls are up about as high as they can possibly go and you have no intention of letting them down. Not for Eddie Diaz. Not for anyone.

You knew your decision was going to be met with opposition. You know that your friends would all throw their hat in the ring to convince you otherwise. But you just can’t take it. 

“Look, I get that this is beyond shitty. But-”

“All due respect,” You interrupt, “You have no idea how shitty this is.” 

How could he possibly understand it when the universe decided to be kind and bathe him in the sweet surrender of mercy? But there’s no real way to explain that without coming off like a complete asshole. But it seems like the plane is already going down, so why not make one more last ditch confession. Why not add another shitshow to the last few months of cascading failures?

“I know that what happened with Shannon was horrible, and it put you through hell. I know that you still haven’t entirely recovered, but at least you got to know it’s actually over.” 

You’re treading on dangerous territory, you know that. You know that whatever you say next may be the straw that breaks the camel's back and effectively ruins your friendship with Eddie Diaz. It could end with slamming doors and this conversation would be put to bed. 

You’re not sure honesty is worth all this.

“I just wish this was simpler. You know, like when you were a kid and you’d get passed those stupid notes that had the two little boxes. Check yes or no. But this isn’t simple, and I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know how to deal with the fact that he’s here, but he’s really not.”

He’s like your own personal ghost. Haunting each and every waking moment, even the ones that should be peaceful. He’s there in your sleep, but it’s not him from the firehouse. It’s the version of him that loved you. The one you used to wake up next to. The version you’re never going to get back. 

“When I was a kid I never understood how all the other girls were planning their weddings twenty years too early. I never understood how they could be so confident in the idea that one day someone is going to fall in love with them. That someone would want to spend the rest of their lives with them. I just never thought I’d have that.”

It’s not as sad as it sounds. It’s just realistic. At least, that’s how you always used to think about it. It was perfectly rational to believe in the impossibility of love. At least as far as you’re concerned. Sure, you saw it happening for other people. The people who fell in love for the first time when they were in high school, and you would watch them with something that wasn’t quite as ugly as jealousy. But you were so very removed from it. It wasn’t longing, for you didn’t believe that it was ever something you would possibly have. Why long for something so incredibly far out of reach?

Casting yourself in any kind of romantic light just never really made any sense to you. Until you get older and realize that’s actually a bit of a tough spot to put yourself in. To believe so wholeheartedly that you aren’t the kind of person someone could fall in love with is one big mind fuck. And you’ve only just recently started to get good at unraveling it.

“And then I did. I had that. But it was better than all of the stupid little stories those kids would spin in the cafeteria. And now I know why I never let myself imagine it. I would’ve been so much better off being alone because at least then I wouldn’t have to feel this way. I wouldn’t be in this much pain.” 

You should’ve stayed cynical. You should’ve never let anything go beyond that first kiss. Hell, you should’ve jumped ship before that even happened. Sure, your life would be more hollow. But you never would’ve known any better. You wouldn’t have known any other feeling.

It would’ve been better that way.

You brace yourself with your hands against your countertop, your back to Eddie as you hang your head. He hasn’t said anything in a while and the silence is unsettling. Well, he’s a quiet guy to begin with. He’s good at waiting it out. Waiting until you finally show your hand and give everything away. Until you give him something to work with. 

And it’s coming. It’s on the tip of your tongue, and you can’t hold it back any longer. But it may very well kill you to say it out loud.

“I just,” You say, “I wish they called time of death at the hospital. And I know that makes me a terrible person. And that there are probably plenty of people out there who would kill for some sort of second chance at being with the people they love. But I just, I, don't know how to do this. I don’t know how to move on, how to grieve when that stupid smile I love so much is staring me in the face everyday.”

You look over your shoulder, and Eddie’s watching you. His eyes border on sad, and you think you might see a smidge of pity working its way into his gaze. And it makes you feel sick.

“It’s been months and we’re no further than we were when he woke up. And I know that you’re all trying. Believe me, I do. I’ll never be able to tell you how much that means. But I just, I can't do this anymore.”

And Eddie seems like he’s holding his tongue. Well, he’s trying to. And you know why. Because this looks like you’re giving up. Like you’re giving up on Buck. Like you’re giving up on all of them. And, hell, maybe you are. Maybe it’s just easier that way.

That is kind of your MO, taking the easy way out. Because the hard way has only ever brought transitory happiness. It’s never meant to stay around for long, but its absence and the shadow it leaves behind never seem to leave your heart.

“The doctors say he’s doing a lot better. It could be any day now. If you just give it a little more time-”

“I’ve given it time.” You say, turning to face him with a look that could kill. “Months worth of time. Months of having to see him pretty much every day. And he still looks at me like I’m just his coworker. There’s nothing there. He’s not there. And I can’t keep putting myself through that.”

Eddie shakes his head, he’s beyond disappointed. He’s long past frustrated. And you’ve been there. It’s not like this was an easy decision to make.

“I’m not asking you to understand. I doubt you ever will. But I’m at least asking you to respect my decision because I’ve made up my mind.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just shakes his head in disbelief in tandem with a bit of a self-righteous scoff. And that’s answer enough for you. He’s drawn a line in the sand, and you know where he stands. He walks towards the door, his hand on the knob as he stops to look at you.

“He’s gonna remember. Might be next month, it might even be next week. How do you think he’s gonna feel when he hears that you left the second things got hard? That you ran for the hills just like everybody else.”

“I’m not running.” You say. And maybe, just maybe, if you say it with enough conviction, you’ll manage to convince yourself, too. 

— — —

The uncanny thing about life is that it moves on. It doesn’t just stay shitty forever, even when you have no idea how it could possibly dig itself out of the hell hole it dropped you into. It’s one of those revelations that comes back around every few months. Once the cycle of shittiness has completed itself once more and you feel like you’ve been to hell and back.

And, such as the cycle has gone and come around once more, things are slowly starting to go back to normal at the 118. Eddie is back from his medical leave, and all of the pieces are starting to fall back into place. And that ripple effect is extending beyond the walls of the firehouse.

You and Buck have been ever so slowly creeping your way back into normalcy. Well, as close to normalcy as either of you can ever get. And it’s been a little weird. I mean, how are you supposed to be when a huge life changing question is lingering in the air between you months after it was even asked?

It’s just sitting there. It is the permanent elephant in the room and neither one of you dared to talk about it for the longest time. You just pretended like it didn’t happen. Which was probably worse than just confronting it, but that’s neither here nor there.

And it only went on for a few months. The tiptoeing around the question was short lived, even if it felt like it went on forever. Eventually, once all the dust settled, the subject was broached once more. A question was asked to much more willing ears, and a proposal was accepted.

The only problem about the aforementioned engagement is that it happened three weeks ago and you still haven’t told anybody. You’re honestly a little surprised you’ve been able to keep it a secret this long, what with everyone in that firehouse being so damn nosy.

But you know for a fact that it isn’t going to last, and it’ll be much more painless to just bite the bullet. Besides, the holiday season is right around the corner and you’re feeling a bit more like celebrating this year.

Even though the conversation you happen upon at the beginning of shift is one about the unforgiving nature of the passage of time, and the lack of holiday spirit the 118 is seeing among their families. Specifically the fact that the kids think they’re a little too old to go and see Santa. 

Eddie seems to be taking this development harder than Hen is. 

Don’t get it twisted, you absolutely understand that it is jarring to watch as the children in your lives get older. Because you just want to freeze time for a little while so that it doesn’t go by so quickly. But you never thought Santa Claus would be the cause of such a mind boggling crisis.

Everyone's upstairs in the kitchen with Hen and Eddie at the table, Bobby at the stove, and Buck leaning against the counter by the coffee maker. And you, as discreetly as humanly possible, sidle up next to him.

He hands you a mug of steaming coffee, which you gratefully accept as you gently bump your shoulder against his with the smallest of smiles playing at your lips. You’re more than ready for this shared secret to be common knowledge, but on the flip side it has been a little fun to have something just for the two of you. 

You lift the mug to your lips, smirking all the while as you look at him until you’re brought out of it by Hen’s voice.

“What is going on with you two?” She asks, completely bringing the Santa conundrum to a halt. And you nearly snort into your coffee at the abruptness of it.

“What do you mean?” You say, glancing in her direction before finally taking a sip of your coffee.

“All of this. The little smiles, you’ve been making eyes at each other nonstop for weeks. It’s like you’re lovesick teenagers. I thought we’d move past this phase.” She sounds a little exhausted by it, but not in any real way. Hen is probably the most observant person in the firehouse, you knew she’d pick up on it sooner or later. You just figured you’d get a choice at when you guys were going to break this news.

It wouldn’t be like this. It would’ve been at a group gathering. When Maddie and Chimney were back in town and things were finally right in your world again. But you can’t just gloss over the moment in favor of waiting for another opportunity that may never work itself out perfectly.

You and Buck share a glance, a silent conversation and when you nod almost imperceptibly he steps the least bit forward to draw further attention to himself even though the group already has all eyes on you two.

“Actually,” He starts, “there is something we’ve been wanting to tell you guys.” He looks over his shoulder once more and catches your eye. Clearly not wanting to have to do this alone. So you step forward, rest your hand on his back and say:

“We’re engaged.”

There are a few seconds of nearly stunned silence before the room erupts into congratulations and tight hugs. It’s a hell of a way to start off a shift, and you grin with each hug. Sure, it’s missing a few people and it’s not the way either of you expected to do this. But it’s still good. It’s still full of love. And that’s something to be grateful for. 

There’s something odd in Eddie’s expression after he hugs you guys. Something sad, something akin to acceptance. Like he’s made up his mind. And you want to ask him if he’s okay. You want to check in. But you don’t get the chance because the bell is ringing and you’re all rushing down to the trucks. It’ll just have to wait. 

— — —

In all of your years working at the 118 you’ve gotten used to the relative quiet of the station while everyone is killing time between calls. The comforting quiet between shift changes when the new crew has gone out on their first call of the shift, and the rest of you are just trying your best to stay awake for the drive home. You’ve grown to enjoy it. You find solace in it. 

Except for right now. Right now you could use a bit of noise. Even though you decided to wait until the rest of your shift went home to pack up your locker. Even though you know it’s best to be doing this alone, you still wish there was a little more life in the building. Then it wouldn’t feel like you’re deserting a ghost town. It wouldn’t seem like it’s so easy to leave.

Even though there’s such a weight to this silence, it still feels like it’s just begging you to leave. Or maybe that’s you. Maybe that’s you telling yourself to just get this over with, then you can finally move on with your life. Then you wouldn’t be sitting here staring at a locker like it holds the answers to every single question. As if it holds every last ounce of your being inside its walls. 

Maybe it’d be easier to leave if it didn’t feel like every last chunk of your heart lives in this building. 

It should be easy to leave, though. It should be simple. It would’ve been simple if Eddie hadn’t run his mouth and made sure everyone knew. Then the phone calls wouldn’t be constantly rolling in, like Maddie hasn’t already been calling you enough. Not that you usually answer them anymore, but that’s besides the point. 

If not for Eddie then you wouldn’t be dealing with the constant attempts of your friends trying to convince you to stay. Bobby would’ve just made up some lie about you deciding you need a little more time. But Eddie just couldn’t leave well enough alone.

And, honestly, it’s all just a little unfair. Well, actually, everything is just a whole lot of unfair these days. But it’s not fair that Eddie suddenly gets to decide that the 118 needs to stay together. Even though he got to leave. He got to run away. He got to let himself collapse and crumble. He fell to pieces and learned how to put himself back together again, but somehow you’re not allowed the same chance to find a way to deal with the circumstances that life has laid at your feet.

It’s just a lot of hypocrisy. It should make it easier to go. It should have put that added spring in your step to get you out the door. But it’s just not enough, because it’s hard to walk away from the future you’ve wrapped your mind around. That’s been the problem this whole time. You’re just not capable of staring that future in the face any longer. 

And dragging your feet through this goodbye isn’t doing you any good. You pull the rest of your stuff from your locker and shove it into the duffle waiting at your feet. You slam the door shut behind you as you stare down at the bag. You take the zip slowly and let the sound of it be the only noise amid the all too unnerving quiet. 

You could really use someone to light a fire under your ass right now because at the rate you’re going you’re not sure you’ll ever leave. You don’t remember goodbye ever feeling this lonely before. But you might as well get used to it since lonely is all you have in store for the foreseeable future. 

With a long suffering sigh you stand from the bench and sling the duffle over your shoulder. The trek out of the locker room feels like wading through quicksand. It grows more and more pointless with each attempt at a step, but you keep going. Even if it feels like trying to flee is just dragging you further below the surface.

You make your way into the empty truck bay and turn around for one last good look at the 118, and it kind of feels like you can’t breathe. Like the idea of leaving this behind is an added ton of weight to your shoulders, even if you know it’s the right move. Sometimes the right thing isn’t the easy thing, you just really wish this was one of those easy things. 

You catalog every little thing about this place with each sweep of your gaze along the building. You can feel the wetness prickling up in your eyes, and you blink harshly to send it back where it came from. But it doesn’t go anywhere, in fact it only gets worse as your gaze makes its way down to the left staircase and your breath hitches in your throat at the sight of Buck sitting there.

“I, uh,” You stammer as you try to swallow down the lump in your throat, “I thought you went home.” 

“Yeah,” He says as he stands and walks further down into the trucky bay, “I was going to, but I didn’t want to interrupt you to get my bag.” He says, and it’s so damn considerate that it feels like yet another punch to the gut. Because he’s still him. He may not be the version of him you’re hoping for, but he’s still him. He’ll always be Buck, that much you can take solace in. Somehow that makes you feel the least bit better about walking away.

“Well, then,” You start, chuckling slightly even though it is entirely devoid of humor, “I guess I’ll get out of your hair.” You adjust the strap of your duffle on your shoulder and turn to take your leave, but you only make it a few steps before you’re turning over your shoulder and looking back at him. “It was nice working with you, Buckley.” 

He looks back at you with a look you can’t quite read, even though after all this time you should be able to put a name to every expression he’s ever worn. But this one manages to pass you by. There’s a thinly veiled sadness in his eyes as he looks at you, and that much you’ve seen before. You’ve seen it often. It’s just not usually focused right on you.

“You too.” He says, fixing you with a kind smile. And you smile back at him, briefly, before you’re turning back around and heading for the door. Although you don’t make it any farther than you did before. “I talked to Eddie.” 

You just about trip over your feet at the sound of it, and just about lose your balance altogether with the speed at which you turn around to look at him. 

“He told me why you’re leaving.” He furthers, “I’ve been trying to talk to you about it all day. But I didn’t really know how. I didn’t want you to feel like you’re being cornered.” 

“Is that not what this is?” You ask, arms crossing over your chest as you take a few steps back towards him. 

“No, you can go if you want to. But I’m really hoping you’ll hear me out first.” He says, and seems almost hurt that you believe he’d force you into this conversation. But what are you really supposed to expect when your friends have started going behind your back? 

You step the least bit closer and shrug your shoulders in a gesture of ‘go on’, and he seems to take that and run.

“When Eddie told me about you and me, I wasn’t that surprised. You were always different with me than they were. A little standoffish and cold, but never cruel.”

And that feels like another little crack being chiseled into your heart. It feels like he believes that you’ve just exacted your greatest act of cruelty. Like hiding yourself, and the true nature of your relationship, away is the most horrid thing you could’ve ever dreamed of doing. And maybe he’s right. Maybe you’ve been kicking yourself for that very thing these last few months. And no amount of justifications ever seemed to make it any better.

“So, I guess I’m just wondering why I had to hear it from Eddie and not you.” He says it in a tone of voice that you’ve never had the misfortune of hearing. Like there’s an anger in him that is just barely contained.

And you and Buck have been through a lot of shit. The road has not always been easy, but it has always been worth it. But you’ve never made him angry, not this angry. And you understand. It is a righteous anger, it is well deserved. But it doesn’t make it feel any better to be on the receiving end of it.

“The doctor kept telling me that I needed to let you remember on your own. That it would be less jarring for you to regain everything without any pressure from any outside sources.” And that's what you kept telling yourself every single time you found it so incredibly tempting to just get your life back. It’d be so simple, all you’d have to do is say it and then it’d be real. He’d know and you could get back to making this work. 

But it wouldn’t have been fair to him. You couldn’t put him through that. Because he’d only love you because he’s being told that he already does. He’s being told something that he himself does not know, and that would not be the kind of love you’d want to live. You’d always be second guessing whether or not his love for you was real or if it stemmed from trying to live the life he had before the accident.

And second guessing the person you’re going to spend the rest of your life with is no real way to live.

“Well, clearly that’s not working. So why not try a different approach.” He asks, and you shrug once again.

“I didn’t want to box you into a life that you didn’t know. I could’ve been lying, and you would’ve been none the wiser. I would never try to force you into a life that isn’t your choice.” You say.

“And if that meant that I never remembered, that we never got married, you would’ve been okay with that?” He asks.

“I would’ve spent the rest of my life wondering if you really loved me. And you would’ve spent the rest of your life wondering if any of what I had told you was true. That would not have been the marriage that either of us had signed up for. Eventually I would’ve lost you all over again.”

Not to say that he would’ve cut and run because he’s not that great at the walking out thing these days. But there’s no telling just how much of that you would’ve been able to take. And you know full well that being alone is preferable to enduring the wrong thing. At least you know how to handle being alone.

He nods a few more times than is needed as he diverts his gaze from you. 

“I hate this.” He admits, and you chuckle dryly.

“You and me both. But I think it’s beyond our control at this point.” And he’s never looked more pitiful. You take a few steps forward until you’re standing right in front of him. You place your hand on his cheek to tilt his face up so his eyes meet yours.

Your thumb finds its comfort in running a consistent pattern across his cheek as you stare at him. And there are a million things to say. But none of them really come to pass. Because none of those things would make this any better. This is the end and there’s nothing beautiful or poetic about it. It’s just heavy. Heavy in a way that your heart has never really known. A heaviness that you pray your heart never knows again.

You lean up and press a kiss to his other cheek and you let your lips linger against the skin for a few extra seconds. And you think you might be hallucinating at the feeling of his hand on your wrist. When you pull away and your eyes finally open you can’t help but feel like the rest of your life just entirely slipped out of your hands.

“Goodbye, Buck.” You say, a sad smile on your lips as you finally step away. And the time it takes for your hand to slip from his cheek feels like an eternity. And it feels like maybe he doesn’t want to let go of your arm. 

But he doesn’t have much of a choice. 

Because this decision has been made. It is final, and there is no wiggle room. There is only one way that anything changes for the two of you. And that is so far out of your control that it may never come back around. 

But, you just can’t help yourself, you really hope it does. Because if it does, if you have that chance again to grab hold of the love you’ve experienced these last few years, you know that you won’t hesitate to get it back. 

— — —

You’ve heard it said that the worst day of your life starts out like every other day. And that saying had always seemed so stupid to you. Because of course it does. You wake up, you follow your routine, you do the things you do every other day. Of course your worst day would start exactly the same way every other day starts. 

You never thought you’d spend so much time harping on that very fact in the aftermath of Buck’s accident. 

It’s all you can bring yourself to do as you sit at his bedside and listen to the heart monitor as it beeps. Everyone else was still in the waiting room, they said only one person at a time and no one even put up a fight against the idea of you being that person. Maddie hadn’t gotten to the hospital yet, she was still stuck at the call center. But god you wish she was here. Then she would be the one in here. Then you wouldn’t be stuck inside your head in the stark quiet of a stable patient’s room. 

But stable isn’t even comforting right now. Because, in his case, stable means comatose. And they don’t know how long he’ll be like this. And each passing second of silence just drives the knife further into your stomach.

Because today started just like any other day.

You woke groaning at the sound of Buck’s alarm, and tried to snuggle deeper into the covers to avoid the harsh light of day for just a few minutes more. But you eventually gave up after a few minutes because you couldn’t be late for work. You rolled over to give Buck a quick kiss good morning before you headed for the shower.

And the drive to work was as stilted as usual with LA traffic and Buck’s driving habits. And the conversation resembled the exact conversation you’ve been having for the last week on the way to work. Debating the seating arrangement for the reception. Obviously the 118 is already all figured out. Since they’re making up a good chunk of the wedding party. Maddie is the maid of honor, Eddie is the best man. Hen is a bridesmaid and Chim and Bobby are groomsmen. Did anyone really expect it to play out any other way?

So that’s all squared away, that is the furthest thing from the problem. The problem is everyone else on the guest list. 

Because you know your family. You know your family well, and you know that they adore Buck. And you’ve heard more than enough about Buck’s parents to know that your family won’t be able to hold their tongue if they catch wind of half the shit you know his parents will say. 

And you love them greatly for loving him so much, but the last thing either of you needs is your wedding devolving into a screaming match.

Not that you really expect his parents to come, but, if they do, you want them as far away from your family as possible. 

Honestly, you’d prefer Buck’s parents as far away from the whole affair as possible. The last thing he deserves is to be made to feel like he’s a disappointment on his wedding day of all days.

So, the seating arrangement has proven itself to be tricky. To say the least. 

You stared longing out the window as you passed by the endless string of coffee shops, and he reminded you that there will be coffee at work with far too much affection in his voice. And once you pulled into the lot you were out of the car within a matter of minutes. You stopped off in the locker room to put your bag in your locker before heading upstairs to pour yourself a cup of coffee.

You barely got the mug to your lips before the alarm went off and you were heading downstairs to get in the truck. And that call came and went. Then you’re back at the station and you finally got your coffee. And the alarm went off again about a half hour later. And then another hour or so after that. 

It was just like any other day.

There’s a knocking on the door and your head whips around to find Maddie standing in the doorway with her eyes on Buck like she’s seen a ghost. She walks over to the foot of the bed and pulls his chart from the bed. As she reads over it she just keeps nodding in this way that feels overcompensatory. It does nothing to make your heart settle in your chest.

“I’ll uh, get out of your hair.” You say, wiping your hands on your thighs as you go to stand. But she shakes her head.

“No, please stay.” She says, waving off your words like they’re one of the silliest things she’s ever heard someone say.

“But the doctors said…”

“They always say that.” She says, and she’s so blasé about it that you don’t bother to argue. You just sink back into your chair as she walks closer to where Buck’s head is resting. She brushes back the bit of his hair that is sticking up, and she watches him with such a careful eye. An analytical eye. And that worries you more than anything. Because this feels like maybe she’s never seen him this bad before.

And that’s more than enough to give you pause. Because you’ve all seen Buck through some pretty serious shit, Maddie most of all. So if she’s watching him like she’s afraid he’ll crumble in an instant, how are you supposed to feel like you’re standing on solid ground?

“I think,” She starts again, and you just can’t tear your eyes away from the two of them. You’re hanging on every word. “That he could use a little reminding that he is loved. That way he knows he has something worth fighting to get back to.”

For the first time since she walked in her eyes leave her brother and focus up on you. And she fixes you with that look of understanding. The look that is laced with the thinnest shred of pity known to man. 

Because if anyone understands what this feels like it’s Maddie. And she’s reaching out, she’s reaching forward to remind you that you’re not alone in this. You have people by your side. You just have to be willing to lean on those people. Even when that is easier said than done. 

After another few seconds she settles into the empty chair on the opposite side of Buck’s bed. And the two of you sit quietly and watch the heart monitor as it crests and falls. 

And each moment of silence eats at you more and more until you just can’t take it. Because this feels like false pretenses. Because you don’t deserve her compassion. You don’t deserve to have her by your side through this. You don’t deserve the support of your team. 

Not this time. 

“Maddie.” You start, trying to work up the courage to actually speak when her gaze moves to you. And there are a million things to say. A million ways to spin it. But the only thing you can bring yourself to say is: “I’m sorry.” 

“What do you have to be sorry for?” She asks, like she wasn’t one of the few people in your ear during the call. Like she doesn’t know exactly how this happened. Even if she knows where the blame truly lies. 

“This is my fault. If I had gotten us out of there a minute earlier…”

You and Buck had been partnered up in the field for the last few months. Since Eddie left you two were usually working together. 

It was an apartment building fire, and it was mostly contained. At least you all thought it was mostly contained and that the structural integrity of the building hadn’t really been compromised. You were very wrong about that. 

It was like any other call. You’d done your job and were doing one last sweep of the building on your way back to the lobby. He was trying to talk his way into Bobby picking up fast food on the way back. He was laughing. 

It was the same as every other day. 

You’d turned back around for a brief second to tell him to focus, even if your warning lacked any seriosity. But then it all went completely to shit. The ceiling over your head started to crack and he noticed it before you did. 

You were in the middle of your sentence when he pushed you out of the way as the ceiling tiles came crashing down. The air was knocked from your lungs as you landed on the floor and looked at the remains of the apartment above you.

The fire had spread more than they thought, and it was eating through the building. But that wasn’t the only problem because Buck wasn’t moving. He hadn’t stood, he hadn’t brushed himself off. He was just laying there. And it was like your heart stopped in your chest. 

You were probably in shock, and you know you waited a minute too long before you landed at his side and checked for a pulse. And you found a strong one. Which was a comfort enough, but he still wasn’t moving.

You grabbed hold of your radio and opened the line to Bobby. And your own voice is still ringing in your ears with the phrase:

“Firefighter Buckley is down.” 

Help came barreling through a few minutes later, and you weren’t alone anymore. Even if it still felt like you were. 

And you’ve been sitting here beating yourself up over it for hours. And you’re sure everyone else is holding their own little nuggets of guilt. Especially the former coworker sitting out in the waiting room.

And the worst part about it is you’re kind of mad at Eddie. And you know it’s entirely illogical because none of this is his fault, but it still kind of feels like it is. Because he and Buck were partners in the field. And Eddie might’ve noticed the ceiling before you did. Eddie might’ve gotten the both of them out of there faster. 

It’s all wrapped up in the millions of scenarios you’ve spun in the last few hours. And the resentment seems to grow stronger with every “what if”, even though you try not to let it fester. 

You just wish everything was like it was before. With the team being the exact way it was supposed to be. Without crazy god complex paramedics and a revolving door of firefighters trying to fill his place. You just want work to feel like the place you know again, but that becomes more and more like a distant memory every day. 

And you hate all of it. You hate every last thing that has made these last few months so out of body. And you hate the fact that this is the payoff. 

You’re pulled from your thoughts at the feeling of someone’s hand on yours, and nearly jump out of your skin as your gaze flicks to Buck’s face to see if he’s awake only to find that he isn’t. You look back at your hands only to let your gaze trail up the arm the hand belongs to just to find Maddie staring back at you from where she’s stood from her chair. 

“This is not your fault. We both know my brother, and he made the decision he felt was right. He risks his life for the people he cares about. It’s who he is. You can’t take the blame for that.” 

The blame game will eat you alive, you know it but you just can’t help yourself. Not right now, not even with Maddie’s unnervingly understanding gaze fixated on you. 

“This is not your fault.” She repeats, and you nod although it’s choppy. She watches you for a second more as her thumb rubs across the back of your hand. Then she sits back in her chair and you watch over Buck together. 

— — —

You’d left the 118 about two months ago, and your life started to look the way it did before Buck. You’ve been crashing with a friend and doing a temp gig at the restaurant she worked at. It looked the way your life did when you first came to LA, and it was honestly a little sickening.

Said friend was also encouraging you to fully get yourself back in the swing of things, and you obliged for no other reason than to get her off your back. So, you’ve been on a few dates. Each one with another person she swore up and down you were perfect for. Not one of them felt right.

And you’ve kept your contact with the 118, and all adjacent parties, very brief. You’ve missed calls and responded to texts with terse, sometimes one word, answers. Arms length felt like the only realistic option. Even if it’s painful. 

You’ve had to mute all notifications from Eddie, even if the ones you receive are few and far between. Because blocking him felt like it was a bit too much, but you just don’t have it in you to read his texts. 

And you’ve tried to keep your focus away from social media and the lives of all your friends because it makes it that much easier to move on. Even if moving on hasn’t been easy at all. Because you really aren’t trying that hard.

You’re still walking around with Buck’s ring on a chain around your neck and each person you sit down to dinner with can never manage to measure up to the bar he set when you were together. When you’ve found the right one no one else will ever quite be able to satisfy. 

But when you can’t have the right one you have to try and find someone who’s at least a little close to being the next right one. Even if it doesn’t feel like that person exists. Even if it feels like you’re short changing your heart in the process. 

And you’ve been pretending like this life of yours is exactly the one you want, and it is getting exhausting. It’s the end of your last shift for the week and you’ve finally made it back to the apartment when your phone rings in your hand. You’ve just gotten yourself comfortable on the couch with your head lolled back against the material, and you’re almost too exhausted to check it. 

But you look down anyway. 

You find Athena’s picture staring back at you. It nearly stops your heart in your chest. Athena was the only person who had yet to call. She’s not the persistent type, at least not when it comes to the personal lives of her friends. It’s usually more of a gentle nudge, or a less than subtle push in the right direction.

She’d yet to reach out, so you knew she was waiting for the right time. She was waiting to give you whatever message she’s been holding onto. And you’re not sure you’re ready for that. 

But you swipe your finger across the screen to answer the call against your better judgement, and lift the phone to your ear with a slightly shaking hand. 

And that’s how you find yourself barreling into the emergency room waiting area of an LA hospital twenty minutes later. The rest of your team is scattered amongst the chairs, Athena is beside Bobby with his hand clutched tightly in hers. Her head is the first to lift at your entrance, and she sends the shortest nod in your direction. 

And it feels like a pat on the back. It feels like pride. But it also feels hollow at a time like this. 

You spot Hen in the next row over, she’s leaned forward with her head in her hands and Chimney is sat beside her with his foot tapping rapidly against the floor. 

Your eyes move to the pacing figure further back in the room. You watch Eddie make a few laps across the linoleum, and that little bit of anger flourishes in your chest. It should be the last thing on your mind, it should fall very far down your list of priorities. But you can’t help it.

Eddie is supposed to have Buck’s back. And now Buck is in the hospital, so how well was Eddie watching? 

You’ve had the weight of a loved one’s life on your shoulders before, and it is a sickening stone in your stomach. But you can’t bring yourself to be overcome with sympathy. Not this time.

“What the hell happened?” You ask, not even bothering with politeness and pleasantries. There isn’t enough time. Because Athena hadn’t gone into detail over the phone. She’d given you the basics, the cut and the dry. Everything she knew, and she kept it brief. You never tell someone more than the facts in this situation. And you never make a promise you can’t keep. 

But you’ve all already missed that last rule by a long shot.

Bobby’s gaze is finally ripped away from the corner of the room and moves to find you standing before him. You’re a little worse for wear, that’s for certain. Your eyes are a little wild, and your jacket is haphazardly thrown on. You were in a rush. 

But no one else seems to be in the same kind of rush, they’re already stuck in this. It’s like quicksand, and it’s going to drag them down anyway so why bother to fight against it. You’re still struggling. You’re still reaching for the nearby vines to try and pull yourself out because the last thing you’re willing to do is drown. Not again.

The room seems to still around you. Chimney’s foot stops tapping, and Eddie’s pacing slows as he turns in your direction. Hen’s head lifts from her hands, but only barely as she moves to rest her forehead on clasped hands. Bobby’s hand untangles from Athena’s, but he makes no move to stand. He offers no indication that he has any explanation.

And you know that he’s been trying to find the right way to break the news to you. He’s been racking his brain this entire time, and you’ve arrived entirely too soon for him to find the right way to tell you that Buck nearly got himself killed for the second time in nine months. Or, hell, maybe he’s gearing up to tell you something worse altogether. Maybe it wasn’t just a close call this time. Maybe that would explain the grave expressions and the guilt seeping into their shoulders. 

You’re not sure you can take worse news than a close call right now. Even if you thought it would’ve been easier in the first place, you know that you could not handle that grief on top of these last few months.

Bobby stands from his chair, his hands hang at his sides as he takes a small step closer to you. He opens his mouth, and just as he’s about to try and find something to soften the blow a voice pipes up from behind him that draws the attention of the entire group.

“It was an apartment fire. It got out of hand, and it was eating its way through the building.” Eddie starts, and you watch as Athena steps back to give you a clearer view of him. “Buck and I were evacuating tenants. We found an unresponsive man in the hallway, he looked like around seventy. We were taking him outside when he started coming around. We’d gotten about three flights down by that point, and he was coming back to himself. He fell, and we tried to help him back up. Buck tried to get him talking, but the guy didn’t respond. He was disoriented. He didn’t know where he was, what was happening. He didn’t know us.”

You didn’t notice it as you did it, but you’ve gotten closer to Eddie. Wanting to make sure you don’t miss a single word. You don’t like where this is going. And you already know that it’s not going to get any better. You’re just worried about how much worse it might get.

“He was agitated. Buck tried to help him calm down, but he wasn’t having any of it. He pushed Buck off of him from where he was at the top of the next flight of stairs. Buck lost his balance.”

He can’t bring himself to speak it. To fully tell that part of the story, but you don’t need him to. The blank is filled in. 

“He hit his head on the way down.” He says, and your breath catches in your throat. You can add that to the laundry list of possible injuries he may have sustained on his way down.

“But,” Hen pipes up as she stands from her chair, “He was stable the entire way here. He just hasn’t woken up yet.”

It’s not that bad. She could’ve said he flatlined in the ambulance. She could’ve said they had to fight tooth and nail just to bring him back. Again. It could be worse. It could be worse. Then why don’t you feel any better?

This still feels like just as much of a death sentence as him crashing on the ride over. Because they don’t know anything. They don’t know his condition. They don’t know what his scans looked like. They don’t know a thing.

“Maddie?” You ask, and Chimney sends you a sad glance as he fiddles with his watch.

“She’s on her way. She got stuck in traffic.” And you don’t really know what you’re going to say to her when you see her. You’ve been dodging her calls for months. The last real time you saw her was in Buck’s hospital room. It just doesn’t feel right.

None of this feels right. This can’t be happening to all of you again. But life isn’t fair, you’ve learned that much by now. And there is nothing you can do except sit and wait. So that’s exactly what you do.

You sit yourself down at the chair closest to the automatic doors of ED and let the weight of the day push down heavy into your shoulders. You rest your head against your clasped hands and with your eyes shut tight you begin to pray.

You can’t remember the last time you did that. Maybe it was when you last found yourself at Buck’s beside with his unmoving hand clasped in yours. It would make sense. They say desperate people find faith, and maybe that’s why you never feel like God is listening to you. Because you only ever talk to him when you need something. 

But it’s just not as easy to believe in the things you can’t see anymore. It’s not tangible, it’s not provable. It’s just an entity, it’s just air. It’s words on a page. And you don’t know how to take those things as gospel these days. You’re not sure you want to.

You’re not sure how long you’re sat there with your eyes closed, but at some point someone is gently placing their hands over your clasped ones and pulling them away from your forehead. You lift your head to find Maddie staring down at you with so much grief in her eyes, yet she still manages a kind enough smile as she looks at you.

And it feels like your heart splits open in your chest at that moment. Because you’ve gone about all of this so wrong. You left Maddie out in the cold when all of this first started. He woke up and then you were practically unreachable. You and Maddie were playing phone tag. She’d call you, you’d let it go to voicemail. Then you’d call back when you knew she wouldn’t be able to answer.

It was all very calculated. And you know she knew it. And she respected your grieving process enough that she never pushed you. She never backed you into a corner or put you in a position where you’d be forced to confront what was going on. And when it was happening you appreciated it. But now you just regret letting the relationship become so strained.

But now it has nowhere else to go. Now you both just have to sit in it as she takes the chair next to you and slides her hand into yours. And you sit there in silence with your joined hands dangling from the armrest as you wait for word from the doctors. As you hope for any kind of notion that Buck is going to recover.

You don’t know how much time has passed, you just know that several people have left the waiting room with news of their loved one’s condition. And you’ve watched several nurses leave after the end of their shift. Hen’s gotten off the phone with Karen. You’ve even heard Eddie on the phone with Carla.

Life is going on around you, but it doesn’t feel like there is any real forward movement. The clock keeps ticking and time keeps moving. And all you can do is sit with your head leaned back and stare at the ceiling tiles and listen to the beeping of nearby heart monitors.

Until you hear the beginnings of a scuffle at the other end of the room. A commotion from the nurses behind one of the curtains, and all of you have sat up a bit in your seats at the sound of it. They aren’t calling for a crash cart, they seem to be arguing with their patient. Something about asking them to calm down. For them to lay back down. To allow them to examine the person. The patient doesn’t seem to be listening.

Athena is the first one to her feet, and she’s already walking towards the curtained off bed halfway down the room. And you don’t know what it is about this that makes the rest of you get up and follow not too far behind. 

And you don’t get too much closer, but you can feel Maddie’s hand tighten on your wrist with each step. And you’re just close enough that you can finally hear the nurse’s voice more clearly. 

“Mr. Buckley, please lay back down.” She sounds exhausted. She sounds like she’s at the end of her rope at the end of a very long day and he isn’t making it any easier on her. “We still need to examine you.” 

Bobby steps closer to the curtain before the rest of you can even take another step. But it still feels like the crowd has moved on and left you in its wake. Maddie, who was once standing behind you, is now a few feet in front of you with her hand by her side instead of wrapped around your wrist.

You’ve fallen back somehow, without even realizing it. The fact that he’s awake makes a pit settle further in your stomach. Because you shouldn’t be here. He won’t want to see you. Him seeing you would only make things worse, and that’s the last thing you want to do.

Besides, it already felt more than a little wrong to be sitting in the waiting room sharing in their grief after you ran a few months ago. You don’t feel like a part of the family anymore, and that’s no one’s fault but your own. 

And most of them didn’t even seem mad. Hell, Athena extended the invitation. But you just can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t the right place anymore. You’re not the right person anymore. There’s just no going back this time. 

You’re stepping back into the waiting room and grabbing your things from your chair as the curtain is ripped open. And you choose to keep your head down as you unravel your jacket sleeve from the strap of your purse. You choose to ignore the sound of Bobby’s voice as he talks to Buck. You ignore them until you hear your name. 

“Bobby, please. I need you to call her.” Your eyes prick up despite yourself, and you freeze with your fingers wrapped around the cuff of your sleeve. “I need to see her.”

There’s a little more than that. A bit of a ramble about how he tried calling but it went straight to voicemail. Which is probably a product of the fact that your phone is sitting somewhere at the bottom of your bag. But it doesn’t seem to really matter anymore, because aside from Buck’s voice you can practically hear a pin drop due to how quiet the group has grown. You lift your head to find that the 118 have parted like the red sea with their heads turned in your direction.

Tears are shining in Maddie’s eyes as she looks at you, and you try to brush it off because you can’t take that right now. You can’t handle the possibility of hope again, you can’t stomach it. 

Buck seems to be the last person to notice that everything around the two of you has stopped. At least it feels like it does once he catches sight of you just beyond Bobby, and it shuts him up then and there. Bobby seems to notice as he turns slightly and takes a few steps back to fall into place beside Athena as you stand before your chair.

You still can’t bring yourself to say anything, the idea of yet another rejection is too much to bear. But that look in his eyes doesn’t feel like rejection. It feels like awe. It feels like reverence. It feels like something you haven’t seen in eight months. It feels like coming home. 

Suddenly everyone’s eyes on you feels heavier than it ever has before, and you feel like there’s nothing else you can really do except take that first step. The spell is practically broken as soon as the heel of your shoe makes contact with the next square of tile. The groups’ eyes shift slightly from you, they linger a little more on Buck and you’ve never been more grateful for the attention being taken off of you.

The distance between the two of you seems to close all too quickly, because before you know it you’re standing right in front of him. The tip of the toes of your shoes are nearly touching the toe of his boots. It’s closer than you’ve been in months, it’s the most scared you’ve ever been to be close to him. 

“Hi.” You say, quiet enough that he’s the only person who can hear it. And it’s enough to bring the smallest of smiles to his face.

“Hi.” He says, and you bite back a tiny smile as your gaze travels back to your shoes. There’s too much to say that you don’t really know where to start. You don’t really even know what to do. But he seems to have an idea of where to start.

He reaches forward slightly and takes hold of your left hand, his thumb rubbing over the stone of your ring. The one that had left its place on the chain around your neck and has been nicely settled back onto your ring finger. It had been slipped into your purse on the select few dates your friend convinced you to go on. But it always felt wrong.

“You kept it?”

“I almost threw it in the ocean a few times, but I couldn’t really bring myself to part from it.” You say, chuckling just barely as the ghost of a smile dances on his lips. 

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did.” His eyes finally meet yours once more as you lift your head, and he looks like the absolute opposite is true. He’s more than delighted that you've held onto it this long through all of the bullshit that’s been thrown your way lately.

He’d have been shattered if you didn’t have it. Because that would’ve meant you’d be ready to let go of him, and he has to hope that timing can’t possibly be that cruel to two people in love.

With your hand still in his he pulls you the least bit closer so you’re standing between his parted legs and your right hand lands on his shoulder out of pure reflex. And it feels as right as it always has. And you’re certain that you’ve returned to a time where the world is right side up again. But it still feels a little too good to be true. 

“You know, this isn’t what I was expecting when I proposed.” He says, and there’s humor written all over the statement to hide the impossibly deep sincerity packed right under the surface. Because how could either of you expect that things would have turned out like this.

“Yeah, me neither.” You say, your hand has absentmindedly moved so your fingers can fiddle with the hair at the nape of his neck. “But, I think the person you really owe an apology to is Loretta. I think she missed you more than I did.”

And then he’s laughing, and his smile is so big that it has to hurt at least a little bit. It’s the first time you’ve really felt like you can breathe in eight months. And he lets go of your hand after a few seconds, and you move it to rest on his cheek with your thumb brushing back and forth. His eyes fall closed at the familiarity of the gesture. 

“I missed you.” He says, and tears finally prick your eyes at the sound of it. You don’t really know how you’ve managed to keep it together for so long without this, how you ever thought you could maybe get used to life without this once more. Not when this does your heart good and makes everything feel worthwhile in a way it hasn’t in so long. 

And you really just can’t help yourself as you lean the slightest bit forward and press your lips against his. It feels like the moment slows and like the world around you has come to a stop. Your hand travels from the back of his neck and to his cheek so that you’re holding his face. You feel a hand on your waist that gently pulls you the least bit closer. 

It feels right. It feels like snapping the last piece into the puzzle. It feels like a lifetime. It feels like closure. It feels like letting the door hit complicated in the ass on its way out. It’s a homecoming. And it’s so much better than all the times you’ve let your mind wander these last few months.

It’s not big or dramatic. It’s not epic. It’s quiet. And stable. It’s a comfort. It’s the future molding itself into the present in astounding fashion. It’s a million different things all at once.

You pull away from the kiss, but you don’t separate yourself from him. You just lean your forehead against his, grin into the space between you and say:

“I missed you too.”

[athenalvss]

I'M A GENIE IN A BOTTLE ( Bruce wayne! )

request:I was wondering if you could write abt Bruce wayne and a sorceress!reader in future

pairing: Bruce wayne x sorceress!fem!reader

summary: John Constantine brings a sorceress friend to the Justice League for a mission and Bruce can't help but act like he's not interested in the pretty sorceress.

a/n: I didn't know where to put this, bc it's not a oneshot, for a headcone it's too much info and it doesn't match a dabble

open request — batfam masterlist

Your powers weren't natural to you. You didn't come from a different world or something like that. You just had bad luck meeting the wrong people and ended up being possessed by a spirit that belonged to a forgotten tribe, one that doesn't appear on maps or books. An ancient race that coexisted with gods and demons before history began to be written.

For years you lived apart from everything, trying to understand what you were now. You weren't the same, but you were still you. The spirit that inhabited your body wasn't looking to destroy you, but it wasn't trying to give up its space either, so you tried to coexist and form something resembling a friendship.

During that time, you met Constantino, a funny and flirtatious drunk who eventually became your friend. When you finally got the courage to tell him what was happening, you didn't get the solutions you were hoping for. Instead, he offered you companionship, basic guidance, and some help controlling your new abilities. He told you that this was all beyond him, that he couldn't do anything to you.

One day, when you came home, you found him inside as if it were the most normal thing in the world—which wasn't a lie, since he always came into your house as if it were his own— The strange thing was seeing that he wasn't alone. The entire Justice League was in your living room. They were in the middle of a magical mission that threatened to get out of hand, and according to Constantine, you could be of great help.

"Hey John, what are you doing here? Why is Superman on my couch?" You asked, without even finishing your greeting, without raising your voice, but with your arms crossed. "And why is Flash going through my bookshelf?"

"Relax, witch," Constantine said, giving you his signature lopsided grin. "Magic's running wild out there, and it turns out your... unique... situation might come in handy. You can finally be a weirdo freely."

"We don't have time for this, Constantine. We believe you're connected to what's happening. And we need answers," a deeper, firmer voice intervened, the dark knight from the darkest corner of the room, without taking his eyes off you.

You helped out on that first mission without giving it much thought. You had nothing to lose, so you just did what was necessary, what no one else could do. And a week later, Bruce Wayne showed up at your door, this time alone.

"I don't usually repeat visits" was the first thing he said.

"I don't usually receive them" you replied.

It wasn't a long conversation. He offered you to join the Justice League. Not out of obligation, but because he knew your powers were too important to ignore, and it's better to have someone powerful as an ally than as an enemy.

Your arrival at the Atalaya didn't go unnoticed. Some members were cautious, others downright suspicious. Constantine warned you what was going to happen. Except for Flash, he asked you questions all the time. "Can you read minds? Can you see the future? How do you do your eyes?" You didn't know if it was out of curiosity or nervousness.

Bruce didn't talk to you much after recruiting you. He watched. Silent, but always close. You pretended not to notice, you didn't know if it was distrust or simple curiosity.

But that changed one day after a particularly chaotic mission, when he offered you ice for a shoulder wound. He said nothing as you held it against your skin. He just stood there, his eyes fixed on you, as if he had a thousand questions and no intention of asking them.

Since the night of the ice on your shoulder, Bruce began to appear more frequently. He didn't say much, but his presence became constant. After every mission, without fail, he would check to make sure you weren't hurt. Sometimes he would ask with a gesture, other times he would simply observe you closely.

He never asked you personal questions, but he seemed to memorize every one of your answers when you talked to others.

One night, while you were reviewing magical documents in the surveillance room, you noticed him approaching and wordlessly placing a cup of coffee beside you. He simply nodded and stayed for a few more minutes before leaving.

No one was surprised to see him near you anymore. Neither were you. You just pretended not to notice him. Something had changed. It wasn't immediate or dramatic, but you began to notice his presence in a different way. Bruce no longer just watched you from the shadows. He stayed longer. Sometimes he was just there, as if that were enough. And for you, it was.

Constantine constantly mocked you both. “You know, Bat, if you're going to stare at her like that, at least buy her a drink.” Bruce never reacted. But you swore he only smirked once.

The rest of the League members began to notice the changes between you, Diana only raising an eyebrow once, after seeing Bruce take off his cloak and place it on your shoulders without you asking. She didn't say anything, but the look between you said it all. .

Superman asked you directly one day: “You and Bruce…?” To which you only responded with an enigmatic smile and a shrug.

The problem with your strange relationship with Bruce wasn't the members of the league, but rather what was inside you: you didn't like Bruce very much.

It wasn't something you could control. That old part of you, which you never fully understood, reacted uncomfortably when Bruce was around. Maybe because he wasn't afraid of you. Or maybe because he overanalyzed you.

Sometimes, his presence caused your magic to stir in subtle ways: a candle lighting itself, a book falling for no reason. But Bruce never flinched. He just stared, as if he knew it wasn't exactly you behind it.

Over time, that old part of her stopped pushing him away so strongly. She still watched him, still tested him, but she no longer pushed him away. There was a quiet respect in the air every time he walked into the room.

And you... you started to notice that you felt calmer when he was around. As if his calmness made even the darkest part of you feel at peace.

[sunsburns]

forget it — joaquín torres (marvel) !

⟢ synopsis. request: reuniting with ex!joaquín after his near death experience, but you’re the nurse assigned to his care after he gets out of surgery. you broke up a couple years ago because of your very demanding careers, and you don’t see him until you realize they put YOU on babysitting duty to nurse him back to health, yikes!

⟢ contains. spoilers for brave new world! joaquín torres x nurse!reader, so much angst you’re gonna want to block me!! mentions of death, blood, gore, possible inaccurate medical procedures (i am not a nurse idk how that works), open ending but it's honestly realistic and cute.

⟢ word count. 13.7k+

⟢ author’s note. i learned medical terms for this

You like to think that every decision you’ve made has shaped you into the best version of yourself.

A better student, a better nurse, a better person. You’ve spent years honing your skills, pushing yourself past limits, ensuring that when it matters most, you’ll be capable—prepared. You might not have superpowers, enhanced genes, or combat training, but you have your mind, your steady hands, your patience. That’s what makes a difference in the field you’ve chosen. That’s what saves lives.

And it’s paid off. You don’t work at just any hospital—you work at this one. A private facility that caters to soldiers, government agents, and the kind of people who make headlines when things go wrong. The kind of people who disappear into classified reports. The kind of people you don’t expect to see lying unconscious under your care.

But you love your job. You love the structure of it, the control. You love the fact that, in a world constantly spinning off its axis, you can still do something that makes sense. You have your patients, your colleagues, your friends, your family. You still go out when you can, still make time to shop, and still remember to water your plants. Life is steady. Good.

And yet—

There’s something missing.

It creeps in during the quiet moments, when the hospital halls are still, and the steady beep of a heart monitor is the only thing filling the silence. It lingers in the space between breaths, in the pause before you check a chart, in the phantom weight of something you can’t quite name. A presence that once was, or maybe never was, but should have been.

You have everything you’ve ever worked for. So why does it still feel like something’s missing?

You don’t let yourself dwell on it. It’s ridiculous. You have your health. You have your life.

And you know better than anyone how fragile both of those things can be.

You remind yourself of how lucky you are because you’ve seen the alternative too many times. Lives wrecked and ruined by things far beyond anyone’s control. You’ve watched the light fade from seven pairs of eyes. Seven people who didn’t make it. Seven moments that carved themselves into your memory, no matter how hard you try to forget.

You haven’t even been working for three years.

And yet—

You’d hate to see the day when someone you love is one of them.

The thought grips you too tightly, too suddenly, and you only realize you’ve been staring at your hands under the running faucet when the sound of your name cuts through the fog.

“Look what I made!”

You blink, water still rushing over your fingertips, skin already pruning. A slow exhale leaves you as you reach for the faucet, shutting off the tap. The chill lingers on your skin even as you tear a paper towel from the dispenser, crumpling in your damp grip as you turn.

Maria is sitting up in bed, dark eyes bright with excitement as she holds out a carefully folded piece of olive-green paper.

She beams at you, her small fingers cradling the delicate shape with a reverence that makes your heartache. It takes a second for recognition to click. An origami bird.

“What’s this?” you coo, stepping closer.

Maria is a few weeks shy of nine. She should be at home planning her birthday party, picking out a cake, laughing with friends. Instead, she’s here. Confined to this sterile room, surrounded by too-white walls and the soft beeping of machines monitoring the inexplicable changes in her body. She isn’t dying. But she isn’t getting better, either.

Exposure to some strange quantum disturbance in San Francisco had led to her transfer here, to Washington, under your care. Away from reporters, away from speculation, away from anyone who might pry too closely while the government tries to figure out what happened to her.

“It’s a bird. Like the one on TV.” She explains, her tiny fingers carefully adjusting the wings.

You glance at the television, expecting to see another nature documentary—the kind she’s grown fond of in the past few weeks. But when your eyes land on the screen, you freeze.

A news channel. A live interview. Captain America and the Falcon, still in their gear, standing at an Air Force base. The headline scrolling across the bottom of the screen is a blur. Something about a mission. About another near disaster averted.

Falcon stands just behind Captain America, posture sharp, hands clasped loosely in front of him, expression serious but composed. His suit still bears the scuffs of combat, a faint tear along the armoured plating at his ribs. You wonder if it hurts. If he’s bleeding. If he even let anyone check.

A small huff leaves your lips before you can stop it.

You can’t remember the last time you saw him. Now, here he is again, on a screen in a hospital room, larger than life.

“You like superheroes, Maria?” You force a lighter tone, turning back to her, moving to check her monitors. It’s unnecessary—you already did this when you came in—but it gives your hands something to do.

“You like superheroes, Maria?” you ask, forcing a lighter tone as you move to check her monitors. It’s unnecessary—you already did this when you came in—but it gives your hands something to do.

“I love superheroes,” she exclaims, voice full of unshakable certainty.

“Yeah?”

“Yes!”

She watches you closely, studying your face with a look that’s far too perceptive for someone her age. Then, after a beat—

“Who’s your favourite Avenger?”

You pretend to think about it. “Hmmm... I don’t know. Maybe... Hawkeye?”

Maria immediately groans, rolling her eyes so hard it nearly makes you laugh. “That’s so boring!” She throws her arms up in exasperation, nearly tugging her IV loose in the process.

“Hey, hey—“ you reach out, gently taking her hands, steadying her before she can do any real damage. “You’re really gonna judge me for that?”

“So boring,” she insists, her signature sass making an appearance. “My mom likes Thor because he has big muscles.”

You snort. “Wow. Okay. And what about you?”

Maria’s expression turns mischievous, blushing slightly as she glances back at the screen.

“The Falcon.”

The words land like a punch to the ribs.

You swallow hard, but the lump in your throat stays put. You should have seen it coming, the way she lit up at the sight of him on TV, but it still catches you off guard.

Because for Maria, it’s admiration.

For you, it’s something else entirely.

“He’s so cool,” you manage, your voice lighter than you feel. “I don’t think he’s an Avenger, though.”

Unless he is and you have missed that entire chapter of his life. A lot had happened in the last few years—you wouldn’t put it past him to just forget to mention something like that. Not that either of you were on speaking terms anyway.

Maria grins, a small, mischievous thing, and before you can move, she takes your hand in hers and presses something into your palm.

“Here.”

You glance down.

The bird.

You blink at the delicate folds of olive-green paper, the slight tilt of its wings. It’s small, fits perfectly in your hand, but somehow, it feels heavier than it should.

“You have it.”

You open your mouth—to tell her she should keep it, that it’s hers—but the words never leave your throat. The sincerity in her gaze keeps you quiet, so instead, you close your fingers carefully around the paper bird, holding it like something fragile.

“Thank you, Maria,” you say softly.

You still have the bird.

It sits on your nightstand even now, weeks later, its delicate folds untouched, a reminder of that small moment. Of Maria.

You hadn’t thought much about that conversation at the time. Maria’s gift had been sweet, and you had found it endearing—the kind of innocent kindness that children offered so easily.

It wasn’t every day you cared for someone so young in this hospital, and while that was a blessing, it didn’t make it any easier when that child was rolled in on a stretcher.

And it wasn’t until a week later that you remembered Maria’s words.

Not until you watched a familiar face get wheeled into the hospital.

You had heard about it first—on the news, in passing conversations between coworkers. Another mission. Another near-tragedy. Another casualty.

And then you saw it.

The frantic rush of bodies in the emergency bay. The whine of a helicopter’s rotor blades still echoing through the halls, rattling against the glass doors. The sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic burning your nose, mixing with the metallic tang of blood—so much blood, too much of it pooling beneath the stretcher, staining the floor, the sheets, the hands of every ER staff trying to keep him together.

Your coworkers moved fast, their voices sharp and urgent as they swarmed the broken, battered body like bees to a collapsing hive. You barely recognized him at first. His suit—scorched in places, torn in others—hung off him in tatters, the once-pristine armour dented and smeared with something dark.

His skin was pale—too pale.

His lips were slightly parted, chest rising and falling in short, uneven gasps like every breath cost him something.

The blur of medical jargon barely registered in your mind, words overlapping, breaking, reforming into pieces that didn’t quite fit together. But certain ones still made it through the haze, lodging themselves somewhere deep inside you, where they twisted like a knife.

“Heart palpitations—“

“Severe burns—“

“Broken arm—“

“Breath is weak—“

“We’re gonna need a defibrillator—“

“Won’t make it to the OR—“

Your heart stuttered.

You would’ve rather never seen Joaquín Torres again for the rest of your life than see him like this. Like that.

And after that, you were moving on autopilot.

The rest of the day blurred together, slipping through your fingers like sand. You went through the motions, nodding when spoken to, keeping your hands busy, but nothing really stuck. The only thing that did was time—how it crawled, stretched, and bled into itself.

One hour turned to two.

Two turned to four.

Four turned into a sharp, sickening pause.

You were just about to punch out for the night, car keys hanging loosely from your fingers when you heard it.

“His heart gave out. Medically dead for T-minus 30 seconds. Extra hands needed.”

You froze.

The words echoed, hollow and distant like they were being spoken underwater. A strange ringing had started in your ears. You weren’t sure if it was real or just something inside your own head—maybe both.

You had already been hesitant about leaving without checking in on him. You could’ve gone in. You had clearance. But you didn’t.

And now?

Now, you were hearing his heart gave out?

Your mind ran ahead of you, filling in the gaps before you could stop it—could almost hear the faint, dull whine of the machines, the inevitable, lifeless flatline.

The surgeon calling out the time of death.

Your own heart lurched violently in your chest.

Your feet were moving before you even made the decision, carrying you faster than you thought possible. You nearly crashed into the doors of the emergency wing, swiping your card into the OR viewing room, stumbling into the dimly lit space. Your breath came short, choppy, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Your eyes locked onto the glass.

And then—

“Clear!”

Joaquín’s body jerked violently, his back arching off the table before collapsing again.

From where you stood, you couldn’t see or hear the monitor. Couldn’t tell if there was a beat or if it was still that awful, empty silence.

“Clear!”

His body seized again, limbs convulsing before falling limp.

You flinched, a breath hitching painfully somewhere inside you.

The panic clawing up your ribs only loosened when you saw the doctors start to relax, their frantic movements easing back into precision. You watched, rooted to the spot, as they worked—saw the ventilator strapped tightly around Joaquín’s face, the way they were cutting into him, the deep burns covering his side.

But it didn’t feel like him.

He looked dead.

He looked so, so dead.

Your fingers dug into the ledge of the viewing window, knuckles white.

And suddenly you can remember the last time you saw him. A memory that grabs you like a vice.

He was so alive, and he was crying.

His eyes were red and bloodshot, but he wasn’t making a sound. Just staring at you, jaw clenched so tight you swore you could hear his teeth grind. His hands—warm, steady even in their trembling—gripped yours, his touch so familiar, so safe. His fingers curled around your palms like he could keep you here just by holding on tight enough. Like if he let go, he knew he would never get to touch you again.

His skin burned beneath your fingertips.

Like home.

But the warmth of him, the heat of his touch, it didn’t reach his eyes. And you knew—God, you knew—this was the last time.

The ring that sat on your finger was like a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

You hadn’t even noticed the way your breath had started to shake, the way your shoulders had drawn in like you could shield yourself from what was coming. The weight of his forehead pressing against yours was the only thing keeping you grounded, the rise and fall of his chest meeting yours in a rhythm that was almost enough to trick you into believing, for just a second, that nothing had to change.

And then he pulled away.

It was slow like he was giving you time to stop him. Like he wanted you to stop him.

But neither of you moved.

His fingers ghosted over your left hand, tracing over the ring like he was committing the shape of it to memory. You swore his breath hitched when he touched it, but he didn’t hesitate. Not when he curled his fingers around the band. Not when he gave the gentlest, barely-there tug.

The metal slipped from your skin.

The absence was instant. A phantom weight. A missing limb.

Your breath stilled.

He turned it over in his palm once, twice, before slipping it into his pocket, the movement almost absentminded. Like he wasn’t crumbling apart inside. Like he wasn’t shattering this thing between you both with his own two hands.

And then you kissed him. And he kissed you back.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant. It was desperate. A broken thing—raw, aching, more plea than passion. His lips pressed to yours with the kind of hunger that tasted like regret, like grief, like goodbye. There was no hesitation when his fingers slid up to cradle your jaw, no distance between your bodies when he pulled you in, chests flush, like he was trying to fuse himself to you, trying to rewrite the ending of this moment with the press of his lips alone.

You tasted the salt of tears.

Yours or his, you couldn’t tell.

You felt his hands tremble when they skimmed over your skin. It hurt—fuck, it hurt—the way you knew neither of you wanted to pull away, but you would. You had to.

But you stayed. For a minute. For a breath. Lips lingering, foreheads pressed together, hands gripping tighter even as the seconds slipped away from you both.

He was the first to move.

The absence of his lips was instant—a cold, hollow thing. But he didn’t pull away entirely, not yet. His nose brushed against yours, his fingers curled at the back of your neck, like if he could just stay here for another second, one more second, maybe none of this had to be real.

Then, finally, painfully, he let go.

That kiss was one that lingered, burned, long after he was gone.

He was alive then. And so were you.

But when the door shut, a part of you had died.

And watching his body, motionless on that operating table, you thought maybe a part of him had, too.

It was hard to grieve someone who had never died.

You don’t realize how long you’ve been standing there, staring through the glass, until someone says your name.

Your body jolts, and when you spin around, you're surprised to find Sam Wilson standing a few feet away. His voice had been steady, but his eyes—God, his eyes—heavy with something unspoken, something worn. You wonder how long he’s been there. You think it must’ve been a while, judging by the exhaustion shadowing his face. The bags under his eyes aren’t just from one night of lost sleep.

You’ve met him plenty of times before—hell, you’ve had dinner with the guy on multiple occasions—but something about seeing him now, here, leaves you speechless. Maybe it’s because he’s not just Sam. He’s Captain America, the man Joaquín idolized. And he looks... helpless.

You feel your entire body tense. “Sir—“ Your voice cracks at the word, and you hate it.

Sam exhales, long and slow. “I was gonna call. I mean, I don’t know if you know this, but you’re still the kid’s emergency contact.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I just... I didn’t know what terms you guys were on. I know the breakup was pretty bad and...” He trails off, looking at you like he’s bracing for impact. “I didn’t know if you’d show up.”

“I…” You swallow thickly. You should say something. Anything. But you don’t know how to find the words.

“Were you working?”

You glance down at your scrubs as if you need to confirm it. “Yeah... I just... I heard about his heart, um... how long was he...?”

Sam hesitates. He doesn’t want to say it. But he does. “Two minutes.”

You suck in a breath, sharp and cold, and instinctively look back through the glass. Joaquín is still now, the chaos momentarily subdued. He’s always been restless, always in motion, a man who never seemed to sit still to save his life. And now he’s just... lying there. You feel nauseous.

You don’t know what to say. You think Sam doesn’t either.

“I’m sorry, kid.” His voice is hoarse. “I’m sorry. For Joaquín. I never meant for this to happen. I’m always telling him to be more careful, but you know how he is—”

Do you?

You don’t know how much someone can change in the time you and Joaquín have been apart. You think you still know him. You remember how he used to be—stubborn, hard-headed. Kind, too. Always quick with a response, always teasing. Always warm.

You don’t think you’re remembering him the way Sam asks you to.

“Um... sorry.” You blink, realizing how long you’ve been zoning out. You should say something more. Something meaningful. But your throat is tight, and your hands shake at your sides. Sam looks just as lost as you feel.

“Fuck, sorry,” you mutter, rubbing at your face. “Are you okay?”

Sam blinks. He looks genuinely surprised by the question. “Am I—? Are you okay?”

You nod too fast, stuffing your hands into your back pockets. The heart monitor beeps steadily in the background, grounding you in the moment. “Yeah, I just… You were out there too. Did you get hit? I can check for a concussion.”

Sam says your name, and the way he says it—soft, sad—makes your lip quiver. When he steps forward, you don’t resist. You meet him in the middle, letting him wrap his arms around you, his warmth solid and steady. You tuck your face into his chest, only realizing you’ve been crying when you see the darkened patches on his shirt. He smells like coffee, and—funnily enough—a little bit like Joaquín.

“I’m sorry, kid.” His voice is tight, thick. Like he’s been holding back his own grief for too long.

You hum under his hold. “It’s not your fault,” you say because you think it’s what he needs to hear. You don’t know what happened out there, don’t know who made what call, but Sam relaxes just a fraction at your words. You hug him back.

The hours bleed together after that. You sit with Sam in the waiting area, watching the surgery unfold from a distance. Neither of you leave for long—only to grab coffee, maybe splash cold water on your face—but you don’t sleep. Sam doesn’t either, even when you suggest it. He stays rooted to his chair, jaw clenched, watching the clock.

He doesn’t move until the surgery is almost finished, until the surgeon is finally stitching up Joaquín.

And even then, he stays put.

So do you.

It’s nice, in a way, sitting in this heavy, aching silence. You don’t know what you would’ve done if Sam wasn’t here. You don’t know what he would’ve done if you weren’t.

Sam seems to relax even more when a friend of his shows up—Bucky. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him in person before, but you recognize the way Sam’s shoulders loosen just slightly like something fragile inside him can take a break. Bucky nods at you, then at Sam, and without a word, he takes a seat next to him.

You don’t say anything either.

Because you don’t need to.

For the first time in hours, Sam exhales like he’s not carrying the world on his shoulders.

You leave only when he urges you to, though it takes less than a minute after Joaquín is sent out for recovery.

You barely remember the drive home. The world outside the hospital blurs past in streaks of streetlights and empty roads, your hands gripping the wheel just a little too tightly. Every red light feels longer than it should, every breath harder to take. By the time you step inside your apartment, exhaustion settles in your bones, but sleep never truly comes. You close your eyes and see glimpses of him—Joaquín on the operating table, still and silent in a way he never should be.

You wake up before the sun rises, restless, your body aching with the kind of fatigue that sleep can’t fix.

By the time you return to the hospital, it’s at a strange hour—too early for the day shift, too late for the night crew. The hospital is caught in that eerie in-between where the halls are too quiet, where the few people still moving about do so in hushed voices. The fluorescent lights overhead hum, stark and artificial against the pale blue of the walls.

You’re running on espresso shots and the growing pit in your stomach, a weight that presses heavier with every step.

Joaquín is here. You know that. You have known that for almost twenty-four hours now.

But the thought still makes your hands cold. It was easier when you didn’t know what State he was in, or what he was doing—if he was even in the country.

You don’t let yourself think too much about it. You go through the motions, moving from patient to patient, checking vitals, signing off charts, trying to push through the fog in your mind. It almost works—almost—until you step out of Maria’s room and spot Amanda, the Chief Nursing Officer, walking toward you.

She smiles, clipboard tucked under her arm, but there’s something in the way she looks at you. Something unreadable.

You can already feel the dread start to wrap itself around your ribs.

“Hey, how’s it going?” she asks, falling into step beside you.

“Good,” you reply automatically. “What’s up?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she takes your tablet, her fingers brushing against yours for just a second too long. You furrow your brows, taking it from her, but your stomach twists at the hesitance in her gaze.

“There’s been a bit of a change,” she finally says. “Kit’s taking over Nicholas now.”

That makes you pause.

You've been taking care of Nicholas for a little over a month, an older man who came back from the blip different, well… different was a nice way to put it.

“Oh?”

Amanda nods, opening a new file on your screen before watching you closely. “Here,” she says, passing you the updated patient file. “Your new assignment.”

You take the tablet, adjusting your grip as you glance down at the screen—only to feel the air sucked from your lungs.

Captain Joaquín Torres.

The name alone makes your heart lurch, when did he become a captain? But then your eyes drop to the image beneath it.

You freeze.

Joaquín, unconscious. His skin is bruised, his face pale under the harsh lighting of the hospital room. The ventilator is taped to his mouth, bandages covering his side where the burns must be. He looks… wrong.

Your stomach turns.

“Um.” You barely recognize your own voice. “I don’t think I can take this one.”

Amanda’s brows knit together. “Why not?”

“It’s…” You swallow, suddenly hyperaware of how dry your throat feels. “It’s a personal case.”

“I know.”

That makes you look up, and when you do, Amanda is already watching you with that same careful expression—understanding, but unwavering. “That’s why I’m assigning it to you,” she says, soft but firm.

You stare at her, trying to process the words.

“Familiar faces help in recovery,” Amanda says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Waking up to someone he knows might do him some good.”

Your grip tightens around the tablet, fingers pressing into the smooth surface as your pulse pounds in your ears.

“Not everyone gets shot out of the sky by the military and lives to tell the tale.”

She’s right. You know she’s right.

But Joaquín isn’t just anyone.

And it’s been a long time since you’ve been a familiar face.

Would he even want to wake up to you?

You don’t ask that. You don’t let yourself. Instead, you swallow around the knot in your throat and force a nod. “Okay.”

Amanda watches you for a moment, searching your face like she can see everything you’re trying to hide. Then, she squeezes your shoulder, her touch warm and grounding. “You got this.”

You wish you believed her.

You suck in your pride as Amanda walks away and your fingers tighten around the tablet as you glance down at Joaquín’s medical file, his name printed in bold letters at the top. You already know his blood type, his medical history, his baseline vitals—things you shouldn’t still remember but do anyway. It feels strange seeing them laid out so clinically like he’s just another patient.

Your thumb swipes down the screen, scanning through his injuries. Severe burns on the left side of his torso. A broken radius and a fractured humerus on his right arm. The notes estimate he’ll be unconscious for a few more days, maybe a week at most. The doctors don’t think it’ll be a long coma.

He might wake up anytime.

Your stomach twists.

The live security feed on the tablet shows a grainy, black-and-white image of him, still and silent in the hospital bed, wrapped in layers of bandages and hooked up to machines that beep in steady intervals. The sight of him like this, unmoving, is almost more unsettling than the injuries themselves.

The elevator ride to his floor feels endless, but when the doors finally slide open, the hallway ahead stretches on like something out of a dream—too long, too empty, too quiet. The soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead fills the silence, and your shoes barely make a sound against the polished tile.

You’ve never hesitated like this before. No patient has ever made your heart pound this hard before you’ve even stepped into their room.

You stop in front of the door, your ID card clutched tight between your fingers.

He is hurt, you remind yourself. A wounded soldier. He needs care. That’s all this is. Just do your job.

Your hand trembles slightly as you swipe your card for clearance, and for a second, your eyes flicker down—out of habit, maybe—toward your left hand. The ring is gone. Has been for a long time.

You press your lips together and push the door open.

The room smells like antiseptic and fresh flowers.

Your eyes find him instantly.

He’s barely recognizable beneath the layers of medical care—IV lines, gauze, the rigid brace securing his arm. But it’s still him. His curls have grown out, the longer strands curling over his forehead, though the sides are still neatly trimmed. His face is slack with unconsciousness, lips parted slightly as he breathes in slow, measured rhythms.

There’s already a small collection of bouquets on the bedside table, a mix of bright yellows and deep reds—he always liked bold colours. You know more will come, especially once his mother finds out what happened. You pity whoever has to make that phone call.

Your pulse is loud in your ears as you move toward the sink, washing your hands on autopilot before slipping on a pair of gloves. The scent of hospital soap clings to your skin even beneath the latex.

You set the tablet down and step to his bedside, the weight in your chest settling heavier now that you’re standing this close. You can see the damage now. The discoloration where the burns peak through the bandages, the bruises blooming beneath his skin. His arm rests stiffly in its brace, fingers curled loosely at his side.

You hesitate before touching him.

Then, with careful hands, you reach for the hem of his hospital gown, lifting it just enough to expose the bandages on his torso. The dressings are damp, already beginning to seep through.

Too gentle.

You’re taking too long, moving too carefully. This should be routine—cleaning, reapplying, monitoring for infection. But your hands linger a second too long over his skin, your fingers ghosting over the edge of a bandage before you force yourself to focus.

You work in silence, methodical but deliberate, peeling away the old dressings and replacing them with fresh ones. His chest rises and falls steadily beneath your hands, the only sign of life in his otherwise motionless body.

When you finish, you pull the blanket up to his chest, tucking it carefully around him.

You don’t leave right away.

You should. You have other patients to see, and other rounds to make. But you linger for a moment longer, just watching him.

Being here—being this close—feels like stepping into something half-forgotten. Something you’re not sure you’re ready to remember.

With a quiet exhale, you turn away, stripping off your gloves and tossing them in the bin before grabbing the tablet again.

This is just a job.

And you have work to do.

The next few days slip into a pattern—one you follow carefully, almost methodically, because routine is easier than thinking too much.

Joaquín remains unconscious, but his condition improves. You can see it in the subtle things: the way his breathing becomes steadier, how his colour starts to return beneath the bruising, how the tension in his features eases little by little. His body is still healing, but it’s doing what it’s supposed to—recovering, piece by piece.

Somewhere along the way, his mother and grandmother are flown in.

You make sure you’re nowhere near the hospital that day. You tell yourself it’s because you need the rest, that you’ve been pulling extra shifts, that you could use the break. But you know the truth.

You aren’t ready to face them.

You can barely bring yourself to stand in the same room as Joaquín, let alone look his mother in the eye. She always had a way of seeing right through you, of reading between the lines of what you said and what you didn’t. You don’t want to know what she’d find if she looked too closely now.

So you take a sick day. You ignore the tight feeling in your chest when you imagine them sitting at his bedside, his mother smoothing down his curls, his grandmother murmuring quiet prayers over him. You wonder if she blames you. If she thinks you should’ve been there when it happened. If she wonders why you’re here now, after all this time.

But you don’t ask. You don’t want the answer.

The next morning, when you step back into Joaquín’s room, there are more flowers.

The table beside his bed is overflowing now—bouquets of sunflowers, carnations, lilies, roses in every colour. Some are from coworkers, others from people you don’t recognize. A small card tucked between them catches your eye. You don’t pick it up, but you already know who it’s from.

His mother’s handwriting is easy to recognize.

A fresh wave of guilt washes over you, but you push it aside. You busy yourself with checking his IV, adjusting his blankets, making sure everything is in order. The steady beep of the heart monitor is the only sound in the room, save for the occasional rustling of flower petals when a breeze drifts through the open window.

Sam visits often.

He comes at random hours, able to bypass the strict visiting times the hospital has set up, sometimes lingering for only twenty minutes, sometimes staying for hours at a time. You catch glimpses of him in the security feed before you even enter the room—his tall frame slouched in the chair beside Joaquín’s bed, one ankle resting on his knee as he flips through a book.

He plays music sometimes, a quiet hum of familiar songs drifting through the room. You recognize the playlist—the same one Joaquín used to blast while working late, the one he’d force you to listen to whenever he got too excited about a new artist. It’s a mix of genres, the kind that shouldn’t work together but somehow do.

You pretend you don’t notice the way Sam watches you when you walk in, his eyes lingering like he’s waiting for you to say something. But he never pushes. He just nods, sometimes offering a small update about Joaquín’s family or a passing comment about work before settling back into his chair.

Neither of you talk about the fact that Joaquín still hasn’t woken up.

Instead, you go through the motions.

His burns are healing faster than you expected. The bandages come off, revealing raw, pink skin that will take time to fade. His arm is no longer suspended from the ceiling, the rigid brace replaced with a looser sling. His body is catching up with itself, putting itself back together the way it always does.

You try to keep the windows open as the sun sets later and the spring weather gets warmer, letting the sun come into the room. You hope it might bring back that golden tan to his skin.

The air in his room changes as the days go by. The tension shifts—subtle, but there.

The sun sets later now, casting golden light through the blinds in the evenings. You start leaving the windows cracked open, letting the spring breeze filter in, replacing the sterile scent of antiseptic with something softer.

It makes the room feel less like a hospital and more like something else. Something warmer.

But warmth can be deceptive.

Because the closer he gets to waking up, the more real this all becomes.

And you still don’t know what’s going to happen when he finally opens his eyes.

One day, while cleaning his burns, you notice something—something small, but enough to make your breath hitch.

The heart monitor.

The steady rhythm you’ve grown so used to suddenly shifts—just a faint change, barely noticeable, but it’s there. You freeze, your gloved hands hovering over his burned skin, waiting to see if it happens again. The beeping stabilizes after a moment, falling back into its familiar, constant pattern.

You swallow hard, exhaling slowly through your nose.

Maybe it was nothing. A fluke. You’ve seen it happen before—small involuntary fluctuations that don’t mean anything. You force yourself to shake it off, to keep going.

But the moment your hands brush against his skin again, the heart monitor spikes.

This time, you see it. The sudden jump, the erratic beep, the undeniable reaction.

You pull back immediately, like you’ve been singed. Your heart lurches, panic flashing through you because—did you hurt him?

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you scan his face, searching for any sign of pain. His expression doesn’t change. His eyes remain closed, his body still. But the numbers on the monitor flicker with every beat of his heart, betraying what his body won’t show.

And then it hits you.

He feels it.

He’s not just lying there, unaware of the world around him. His body is reacting. It means he’s drifting, slipping from unconsciousness, slowly clawing his way back to waking.

Your chest tightens.

This is what you’ve been waiting for. What you should want.

You should be relieved.

But you’re not.

Because for all the times you’ve wished he’d open his eyes, you never stopped to think about what it would mean when he finally did.

What if the first thing he sees is you?

What if he looks at you and all you find in his face is resentment?

What if he asks why you’re here? Why you even bothered?

Your breath catches in your throat, torn between anticipation and fear. Your fingers curl into your palms, gloves crinkling under the pressure. You wait, holding yourself still, eyes locked on his face, waiting for the inevitable flutter of his eyelids, the slow, unfocused squint as he adjusts to the light.

But it never comes.

His breathing stays even, his lashes unmoving, his expression unchanging. His body is stirring, but his mind isn’t ready yet.

Your hands feel cold.

You force yourself to take a step back, creating distance—just in case. You reach for the tablet to record the change in his vitals, trying to make sense of what just happened, of what almost happened.

You practically jump out of your skin when a voice cuts through the hallway, sharp and frantic.

“¡Mija!”

Before you even see her, you feel her—Esperanza’s presence sweeping toward you like a storm, her heels clicking against the tile. The next thing you know, you’re wrapped in her arms, your face pressed against the soft fabric of her floral blouse, caught in a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of you.

“Mi amor, ¿cómo andas?” she asks, her voice thick with worry and affection.

You barely have a chance to respond, still stunned by the unexpected embrace. She smells the same—warm vanilla and roses, a scent so deeply tied to holiday dinners that it nearly knocks you off balance.

When she finally pulls back, she doesn’t let you go completely. Her hands clasp yours, fingers curling over your knuckles like she’s afraid to let you slip away again.

“Esperanza,” you manage, breathless.

Her eyes shine with unshed tears, her lips pulling into a grin so familiar it makes your chest ache.

“What are you doing here? Visitors can’t be here for another hour,” you point out, grasping for something—anything—to ground yourself.

She waves a dismissive hand, scoffing like the very idea is ridiculous. “Ay, enough with that,” she chides. “When has that ever stopped me?”

And then she stops. Really looks at you.

Her expression softens, and suddenly, you're under a gaze so warm it makes your throat tighten.

“Wow, look at you, my dear. Hermosa,” she murmurs, shaking her head like she can’t believe it’s really you standing in front of her.

You let out a small, breathy laugh, flustered. “I look like a mess,” you correct, glancing down at yourself. You’re in scrubs, nearing the end of a long shift, and you know you must look exhausted. Especially after dealing with Maria throwing up glowing vomit all over you earlier today. There’s no way you look anything close to hermosa.

But Esperanza just smiles knowingly, squeezing your hands once before tugging you toward the chairs lining the hallway. She sits down, keeping her grip on you like she’s afraid you might disappear through her fingers if she lets go.

You follow, hesitating only slightly before settling into the seat beside her.

"It’s been so long," she says, her brows furrowing with something between disappointment and relief. "You haven’t called in months. I thought you were sick! Do you hate me?"

"I could never hate you," you say quickly, shaking your head, a little horrified she would ever think that.

And then she smacks your arm.

"Then why haven’t you answered my calls?" she scolds, her voice laced with exasperation. "Your mother tells me you moved away and what? I don’t hear a word from you?"

You blink. Your mind stutters at the revelation.

"Wait—" you pause, trying to piece it together. "My mom… and you? You’ve been talking?"

Esperanza gives you a look, like it should be obvious. "Of course," she huffs. "What, you thought just because you and Quino broke up, I was going to stop talking to my comadre?" She rolls her eyes like the very idea is ridiculous. "Por favor."

Your mouth goes dry.

Your mother and Joaquin’s mother—keeping in touch this entire time. Behind your back. Talking about you, probably about him, too.

Your stomach churns, and suddenly, there’s something heavy pressing against your ribs.

You open your mouth, but she’s already shaking her head.

"Oh, lo sé," she sighs, exasperated. "The dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. If it were up to me, you two would’ve been married by now. Given me a grandchild, too."

Your laugh comes out a little too flustered, a little too forced. You glance around the hallway, avoiding her gaze, trying to ignore the way your heart wrings at the thought.

"Yeah," you mutter because you don’t know what else to say.

Esperanza exhales, her posture softening. She lets go of one of your hands just to reach up and brush your hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with the same gentle touch Joaquín used to.

The same way he always did when you were talking too much, or overthinking, or when he just wanted an excuse to touch you.

You let out a long, quiet sigh, blinking hard against the sudden sting in your eyes.

It’s too much.

Too much familiarity, too much of your old life creeping back in all at once. You don’t think you’ve gotten enough sleep to process any of it properly.

"Mija," she murmurs, her voice softer now, more careful. "I don’t care whether you and Quino are together or not. I loved having you around. I still want to have our little chats. You are like one of my own. And when he told me you broke up, I just…" she shakes her head, pressing her lips together like she doesn’t want to say it. "I hate that it took him getting hurt for us to talk again."

"Esperanza…" you start, but she just shakes her head again.

"I know, I know. Perdóname," she says, waving it off as she stands up. She smooths down the front of her dress and sighs. "It’s so good to see you again, mi amor. You keep taking good care of my son. I’ll be in the city for another week, so please—call me. Maybe we can get coffee."

Before you can respond, she scans her visitor’s pass on the key panel and walks into Joaquín’s room, disappearing behind the door without another word.

But she leaves the question hanging in the air, thick with nostalgia and something painfully close to longing.

And she leaves the scent of rosy perfume lingering in her wake.

You stare at the closed door, your heart thudding unevenly in your chest.

You should go. You need to go—your tablet is already beeping, pulling you back to reality, reminding you that there are other patients who need you, that there’s a crisis waiting for you three flights down.

Still, you hesitate for just a second longer, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat before finally turning away.

There’s no time to process this right now.

But you have a feeling that, no matter how hard you try, you won’t be able to shake this conversation anytime soon.

Maria’s hand grips the IV pole tightly, her small fingers curling around the metal as she rolls it beside her, careful not to let the wheels catch on the tile. The fluorescent hospital lights cast a soft glow over her—too pale against her skin, too sterile—but despite it all, she beams.

You’ve never seen someone so excited just to walk.

But today is special. It’s her birthday.

She didn’t ask for much—just this. A chance to stretch her legs, to be somewhere other than her hospital room. Her parents had begged you to keep her busy while they decorated, slipping streamers and balloons inside the room like they could somehow make up for lost time.

Maria hadn’t argued. She had just grinned up at you when you asked if she wanted to go outside.

Now, she’s practically glowing, her feet sinking into the grass as you lead her through the small hospital garden.

She tips her head back, eyes fluttering closed as the breeze ruffles her hospital gown, lifting strands of hair from her shoulders. Pink cherry blossoms sway on the branches above, petals drifting onto the ground like delicate confetti.

"Did you know cherry blossoms only bloom for a few weeks?" you tell her.

Maria gasps. "Really?"

"Yep. It’s called hanami in Japan. People go outside just to watch them bloom."

Her eyes widen in pure delight. "That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. They should be watched. They’re so pretty."

You smile. "Yeah, they are."

For a moment, she just stands there, soaking it in. And you let her.

It’s one of those rare times when she doesn’t look like a patient. No tubes, no machines, no sterile smell of antiseptic—just a kid. A kid enjoying the sun, the air, the simple beauty of something fleeting.

She sighs, finally pulling herself away. "Okay. I’m ready to go back in."

"Are you sure?"

She nods. "Yeah. I don’t wanna get in trouble for being outside too long. It’s my birthday, but I think Nurse Kate would still yell at me."

"Yeah, probably," you say with a chuckle.

The hospital halls are quieter than usual, the usual hum of voices and distant beeping fading into soft background noise. Maria walks beside you, still clinging to her IV pole but with a bit more confidence in her steps.

She doesn’t drag her feet anymore. That’s new.

Her body is stronger than it was weeks ago—no more trembling hands, no more laboured breathing after short walks. It’s a victory, even if it’s small.

Maria suddenly gasps, gripping your arm and her feet skid against the floor. You barely have time to react before she jerks to a halt, her entire body going rigid, eyes locked on something ahead.

Her mouth falls open.

"The Falcon?!"

Your stomach drops.

"Maria—"

"The Falcon is here?!"

Before you can stop her, she takes off, darting toward the digital display outside one of the hospital rooms. The screen flickers with patient information, vitals, and medication logs—

Torres, Joaquín

Maria’s hands slap over her mouth. "Oh my God."

"Maria," you warn, but she’s already clambering onto one of the chairs lined against the wall, pressing her face to the glass window beside the door.

"Oh my God! It's him! It's really him!" She whirls around, panic-stricken. "Is he dead?"

You lurch forward. "What? No." Your hands instinctively find her waist, steadying her before she tips over. "He’s just sleeping."

"Can I go say hi?"

"No."

"It’s my birthday."

"Maria—"

"Please!"

You close your eyes, inhaling slowly.

This was not in your job description.

You glance at the window, frowning. You weren't supposed to let anyone into a patient’s room unless they were authorized. Especially not another patient. There were rules. Strict ones. The last thing you needed was for someone to get sick, for someone to get hurt, for someone to wake Joaquín up before he was ready—

But then you look at Maria.

She’s practically vibrating with excitement, hands clasped tightly like she’s holding back from bouncing on her toes—the youngest patient in the entire building. Wide-eyed and full of wonder, she’s looking at Joaquín because he’s a real-life superhero, someone she’s only ever seen in headlines and shaky phone recordings.

And Joaquín… Joaquín loves kids.

He always has.

You’ve seen it firsthand—the way he kneels when he talks to them, the way his face lights up whenever he makes one laugh, the way he always offers high-fives like it’s second nature. Even now, even unconscious, the thought of him being the reason behind Maria’s uncontainable joy tugs at something deep in your chest.

It feels like something he would want.

And maybe… maybe this is okay. Maybe this is good—a reminder that people out there care about him, even the ones who have never met him.

Still, you hesitate.

You’re comfortable taking care of him now.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

No more denial. No more excuses. No more pretending that seeing him like this—unmoving, caught somewhere between here and wherever his mind has drifted—doesn’t scare the hell out of you. You’ve accepted that you miss him, that you still... care for him, even after everything. But stepping into that room again—with Maria, of all people—feels like a step toward something you’re not sure you’re ready to face.

Because Joaquín is here. So close. Close enough to reach out and touch, to whisper his name and wait for that slow, teasing smile to appear—the one he always gave you when you were being too serious. Close enough that you should feel relieved.

But he’s also impossibly far.

No teasing smiles. No dumb jokes. No knowing looks from across the room. Not even anger of having you near. Just silence. Just the faint rise and fall of his chest, the machines working to keep him stable.

For days, you’ve watched him. Sat beside him. Checked his vitals. Changed his bandages. Waited.

But then Maria looks up at you, eyes round and pleading.

"Okay," you exhale, already regretting it. "But you have to be really quiet so he doesn’t wake up, okay?"

She nods, lowering her voice, "Okay."

Maria is practically bouncing with excitement as you swipe your keycard and push open the door. Sunlight spills in through the half-drawn blinds, cutting warm streaks across the floor, across Joaquín’s blankets, across his still form. The midday hum of the hospital filters in from the hallway, muffled but present. The steady beeping of the monitors tracks his heart rate, a slow, even rhythm, while the IV beside him feeds a clear solution into his veins.

Maria tiptoes inside like she’s afraid of disturbing something sacred.

You don’t blame her.

Because up close, he looks even more unreachable. The bruises along his temple have faded from deep purple to a softer yellow-red, but the cuts on his face are healing. His lips are chapped. His hair is messy against the pillow, a sharp contrast to how put-together you remember him.

You move—more out of instinct than anything—because lingering in the doorway makes it worse. The small cart beside his bed is stocked with fresh bandages, antiseptic, gauze—everything you’ve used to help keep his wounds clean these past few weeks. Without thinking, you pick up his chart because you've forgotten your tablet, scanning the latest notes, his most recent vitals. Stable. No new concerns. No change.

Maria whispers something, but you don’t catch it.

You blink, glancing at her. "What?"

She’s staring at Joaquín, her small hands gripping the edge of his blanket like she’s afraid to touch him, but wants to.

“He’s even prettier up close,” she breathes.

Despite yourself, you smile. "Yeah? You think so?"

She nods seriously.

There’s something achingly familiar about the way she looks at him—like she’s trying to memorize him, like she’s afraid he might disappear if she blinks.

You know that feeling.

Because you’ve caught yourself staring at him the exact same way.

Like if you look long enough, you might commit him to memory all over again. Like you can make up for the lost time, for the time that has slipped through your fingers. You study him—not just the broad strokes of him, not just the familiarity of his face, but every little thing you’d forgotten during your time apart, the things that had slipped from your mind.

There is a faint stubble that’s started to grow along his jaw. And now you notice little moles dotting his skin, scattered in ways you don’t recognize from your memories or dreams of him—they were always focused on the bigger picture, the way he smiled, the way he laughed, the way he loved you.

Now, it’s the details that root you to the present.

The soft rise and fall of his chest beneath the hospital blanket. The steady hum of the monitors. The warmth of his skin when you reach out, pressing two fingers to his wrist, feeling the familiar, comforting rhythm of his pulse beneath your touch.

You check his vitals—his heart rate is stable, his oxygen levels are good, and his IV fluids are running properly.

Maria exhales softly, still watching him, her voice quiet as a breath.

"I think he’s gonna be okay."

You let out a slow, measured breath, your thumb grazing over the back of Joaquín’s hand—just for a second, just enough to feel the warmth of him.

"Yeah," you whisper. "Me too."

It’s enough. For now.

Your fingers slip away from his, the warmth vanishing almost instantly, and you start to usher Maria back toward the door. But as you move, something shifts—so small, so quick, you almost think you imagined it.

Joaquín’s fingers twitch at his side, just as yours leave his.

Your heart stutters.

A rush of warmth blooms in your chest, something fragile and desperate, something that wants to hope, to believe that it means something. That he felt it.

Swallowing, you make a quick note on his chart, recording the small movement even though it could be nothing.

Even though it could be everything.

You exhale, trying to ground yourself, trying to shake off the way your heart is pounding now, loud and heavy in your ears. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until Maria tugs at your sleeve, glancing up at you, her own expression somewhere between curiosity and uncertainty.

You force yourself to move. To turn away. To guide her toward the door, because whatever flicker of hope just sparked inside you is too fragile to hold.

But then—

A sound.

Low. Faint. Hoarse from weeks of silence.

Your name.

Spoken.

Maria gasps softly.

And you—you freeze.

The breath leaves your lungs in a sharp, startled exhale, and your fingers go rigid against the door handle. A slow, involuntary shiver runs down your spine, your pulse hammering against your ribs.

Did you imagine it?

You must have.

But then you feel it—Maria’s small fingers wrapping tightly around your hand, clutching at you with quiet urgency.

Because she heard it too.

Your name. A whisper, raw and barely there, but there.

And it came from him.

Joaquín.

The hospital room feels smaller now, charged with something delicate and terrifying all at once. The air thickens, pressing against your chest as you slowly—slowly—turn around, terrified that if you look, it’ll be gone.

That it was just a trick of your desperate mind.

But it’s not.

Because Joaquín’s fingers twitch again.

His brow furrows, lips parting slightly, throat working as he struggles to form a sound, his voice raw and unfamiliar after so many days of silence.

Maria gasps, gripping your sleeve, her excitement barely contained, but you don’t register it.

Because Joaquín’s eyes are fluttering open.

For a moment, he stares blankly at the ceiling, his chest rising in a shallow, uneven breath. His body remains rigid, like his muscles haven’t caught up with the fact that he’s conscious. There’s no immediate recognition in his gaze—just a hazy sort of confusion, as if he’s somewhere else entirely.

Then, he moves.

His fingers twitch against the sheets, then curl. His breath hitches. The faint beeping of the heart monitor quickens. His body tenses, his shoulders pulling in as if bracing for impact.

His gaze shifts—and lands on you.

The second your face comes into focus, his entire body jerks.

A sharp, ragged inhale drags through his chest. His pupils constrict. His hand flinches at his side, like he wants to reach for something—like he’s searching for something solid.

His breathing changes. It’s not just uneven anymore—it’s too fast, too shallow. The rise and fall of his chest is quick, erratic, his ribs barely expanding with each breath.

Then, a whisper, barely a breath—words spilling from his lips before he even realizes he’s speaking.

"Me morí."

The words repeat, over and over, almost like a prayer.

"Me morí. Me morí. Me morí."

His voice trembles. His fingers fist the blanket. Tears well in his eyes and slip down his temples, silent, unchecked.

Your heart lurches.

You move instinctively, stepping closer, hands steady even as your pulse pounds in your ears.

"Hey, hey," you soothe, voice low and careful, placing a gentle hand on his good shoulder. "It’s okay. You’re safe."

Joaquín flinches at the touch, his muscles twitching beneath your fingers. His head turns slightly, his gaze darting, frantic, searching—taking in the room, the medical equipment, the IV in his arm. You can tell his body wants to move, to fight, to run, military instincts kicking in. But he’s still weak, his limbs heavy, uncooperative.

His pulse pounds beneath your fingertips. Too fast. His whole body is reacting before his mind can catch up.

"Joaquín." You keep your voice steady, careful, like speaking too loudly might shatter him completely. "Can you hear me?"

His gaze snaps back to you.

Something flickers in his expression. Recognition.

His chest is still rising and falling too quickly, his hands still tremble against the sheets, but his shoulders drop just barely. Some of the tension bleeds away.

His lips part, but no sound comes out at first. His throat works through the effort.

Then, at last, a hoarse, broken whisper.

"Hi."

Your breath catches.

Your fingers twitch against his shoulder, the warmth of his skin grounding you as much as you hope you’re grounding him. You press your palm there just a little longer, just to reassure yourself he’s real, that he’s awake.

"Hi," you whisper back.

His lashes flutter as he blinks at you, slow and deliberate, his eyes still wet with tears. Still searching. His gaze drifts over your face like he’s trying to map every detail back into his memory.

Like he’s afraid you might disappear.

"Hi," he says again, quieter this time.

Your chest tightens, a lump forming in your throat.

"Hi, Joaquín."

A slow, trembling exhale leaves his lips. His body sags into the pillow, exhaustion catching up to him all at once. His fingers unclench from the blanket, the tension in his muscles fading—but not entirely.

Because when you start to let go, when your fingers begin to lift from his shoulder, he twitches beneath your touch.

The hesitation is so subtle that you almost miss it—almost.

A flicker of something crosses his face, something unspoken, something aching. You worry he's hurting.

It reminds you of another time, a different moment in a different place. Years ago, Joaquín slouched in the passenger seat of your car, showing you his newly earned stitches after getting beat up by a Flag-Smasher, laughing through the pain while you frowned.

"You gotta stop scaring me like this."

"I’m trying, I swear."

You remember the way his eyes had softened in the dim streetlight, the way he had looked at you then. The way he kissed you to take your mind off of his pain—how neither of you had wanted to let go.

And now—now, as your fingers hover over his shoulder, as he doesn’t look away—it feels exactly the same.

Only this time he can't kiss you.

Only this time you can't wipe his tears away.

You force yourself to pull back, to let your fingers drift away, even as your hand aches to stay.

Joaquín swallows hard, blinking sluggishly as his gaze flickers to the IV in his arm, the monitors beside him, then back to you. His lips press together briefly as if he’s gathering himself before a rough, scratchy mutter escapes him.

"Ah, shit. I screwed up so bad."

The sound of his voice—dry, raspy, but carrying the faintest hint of that familiar humour—makes something in your chest crack wide open.

A breathy, wet laugh slips from your lips before you can stop it, and you quickly swipe at your eyes, shaking your head.

"I'm... I'm gonna go call a doctor, alright?"

Joaquín doesn’t say anything. He just watches you.

There’s something in his gaze—something unreadable, something too much. It makes your pulse stutter, makes your breath feel too shallow in your lungs.

You don’t give yourself time to process it.

Instead, you turn, pressing the call button for the doctor. "Come, Maria," you say, voice quieter than before.

Maria, who's gone strangely silent since Joaquín woke up, rushes to your side without hesitation. But she does nearly break her neck to keep looking back at him until you pull the door shut, sealing that moment away.

You exhale, resting your back against the wall for half a second longer than necessary before forcing yourself to move.

The doctor arrives quickly. You straighten up, rattling off Joaquín’s vitals, every detail you can remember—his initial reaction, his moment of panic, his response to stimuli, everything. The words come automatically, like muscle memory, like routine. You focus on that, on the familiar rhythm of procedure, handing off the responsibility to the doctor so she can begin running tests, checking his neurological responses, assessing how much damage—if any—his body has endured after so many days in forced stillness.

The weight of your exhaustion presses heavier against your shoulders as you upload his files to the system, sending them over before turning your attention back to Maria.

"You did good, Maria," you tell her softly as you lead her back to her room.

She just nods, but there’s something distant in her expression now.

You get it.

She’s just witnessed the moment. The one where everything changes.

It’s the moment where the panic stops being panic and turns into something else—something messier, something heavier.

It’s the moment where the question “what if he never wakes up?” turns into something just as terrifying:

“He’s awake. Now what?”

Her parents are waiting when you bring her back, and you don’t stay. You let them have that moment for her birthday, closing the door gently behind you before turning back into the hallway.

And then you’re alone.

For the first time in hours, in days, you’re alone with nothing to distract you.

Your hands are shaking. You hadn’t even noticed at first, but now you can’t not notice—the tremor in your fingers, the way your pulse hammers too fast against your ribs, the way your body suddenly doesn’t know what to do with itself now that you’re not running on pure adrenaline.

You sink into one of the chairs outside Joaquín’s room, bracing your elbows on your knees. The motion feels stiff, foreign—like your body isn’t quite yours anymore.

Your eyes sting.

Joaquín is awake. He’s awake.

He spoke. He looked at you. He recognized you. He remembered you.

You should feel relief. You should feel something good.

And yet.

It’s like coming up for air after being stuck underwater too long—except just as you’re about to take a full breath, it’s ripped away again.

Because now that he’s awake… he can speak to you.

He can react to what you say, to what you do.

Maybe he’ll ask for a different nurse. Maybe he’ll ask to be transferred to another hospital back in Miami or something. Maybe, when his voice isn’t so raw and broken, he’ll tell you exactly what he thinks about the fact that you were the one sitting by his bedside all this time.

And God, you don’t know if you can handle that.

You drag your hands down your face, pushing out a breath. You don’t have time for this.

The sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway reminds you that Sam—or Joaquín’s mother—is bound to show up any minute now. The news will spread fast, and soon, his room will be filled with people who have been waiting for this moment, praying for this moment.

Shit.

You squeeze your eyes shut for a second before forcing yourself up. You should be in the room right now with the doctor, checking over Joaquín’s vitals, taking actual notes instead of spiraling in the hallway. Get your shit together and do your job.

Your movements feel sluggish as you reach for your tablet, swiping your ID card at the door. The scanner beeps, and for a split second, you hesitate—your fingers still lingering on the door handle, your chest tight.

Then you force yourself to step inside.

The room is brighter now, bathed in soft afternoon light filtering through the window. Dust motes drift lazily in the warm glow, a stark contrast to the sterile white walls and the quiet hum of machines. The steady rhythm of the heart monitor is too steady, too real.

The doctor is already mid-assessment, having raised Joaquín’s bed into a slightly upright position as she runs through a neurological check-up.

Joaquín is watching you.

His dark eyes flicker to you the second you enter, and you feel it in your chest, hot and unrelenting.

You swallow hard, gripping your tablet like it’s a lifeline, and take your place near the doctor, prepared to focus on numbers and stats and anything else except the weight of that stare.

You wonder if you’ll get kicked out for distracting him.

"Oh, great, you’re back," the doctor says, breaking through the static in your brain. "Do you mind grabbing some water for Captain Torres? I’m just about done here. Everything looks good and healthy. He’s recovering well."

You nod, already moving before your thoughts can catch up. Autopilot. It’s the only thing keeping you grounded at this point.

Still, you feel it.

The way Joaquín’s gaze follows every single one of your movements, tracking you like you might disappear if he looks away.

You crouch, retrieving a bottle from the mini fridge, fingers twisting at the cap before stepping back toward the bed. That’s when it hits you—he can’t take it. His muscles are still sluggish, his coordination not quite there yet.

You pour some into a paper cup instead, stepping closer when the doctor gives a nod of approval. Joaquín doesn’t say anything.

The tremor in your hands is almost imperceptible, but you feel it when you lift the cup to his lips. The moment your fingers brush his skin, a muscle in his jaw tenses.

His heart monitor beside the bed jumps.

Your eyes snap to the screen, but the doctor catches it first.

"Interesting," she hums, her tone just teasing enough to send heat creeping up your neck. But she lets it go.

"So, Joaquín," she continues, "We’re gonna have to do some blood work tomorrow, just to make sure everything is alright internally. We’ll up your dose of painkillers now that you’re awake."

"Awesome," he mutters, voice scratchy but laced with dry sarcasm.

She smiles. "They’ll make you a little drowsy, which is normal, but we’ll need you to try and stay awake until sunset. Just to make sure you’re not slipping in and out of consciousness. But I doubt it."

Then she turns to you.

"I’ll let Amanda know he’s awake. But you did a good job—woke up sooner than we expected."

You blink, caught off guard by the compliment.

"Thanks."

"I’ll come back later for a check-up."

And then she leaves.

The door clicks shut, and there is a silence that follows.

You stand there, hands gripping the tablet against your chest, unsure of what to do. Well, you know what to do—your duty is clear. You should be checking his vitals, updating his chart, making sure he’s comfortable.

But that’s not what’s stopping you.

It’s him.

Awake. Looking at you.

Joaquín Torres, alive and conscious and blinking at you like he’s still trying to convince himself this isn’t just another fever dream.

His voice comes quiet, hoarse, a low grumble you barely hear over the rhythmic beeping of his heart monitor.

"You took care of me?"

Your breath catches.

It’s a simple question, but it knocks something loose in your chest. Because it’s him asking. Because he’s here to ask it.

You swallow, shifting on your feet. Your gaze flickers over him—not just the wounds, but all of him. The way the sunlight filters in through the window, warming the stark white of the sheets, reflecting in the deep brown of his eyes. He looks more alive now, and maybe it’s the light or the steady rise and fall of his chest, but for the first time in weeks, you allow yourself to believe it.

He’s here.

Breathing. Talking. Alive.

And yet—his dead face still haunts you.

The memory lingers in the corners of your mind, just out of reach but never truly gone. His stillness, the unnatural slack of his features, the too-loud silence of a body that had once been so full of energy, of life. The image is burned into your brain, playing over and over again like a cruel loop. The moment you thought you lost him.

The tears in his mother’s face.

The look of dread on Sam.

The guilt.

"Uh, yeah. I did."

Your voice is barely above a whisper.

Joaquín exhales, long and slow, as if processing your words. Then, he tries to smile.

It’s small, faint and unsteady like he isn’t quite sure how to do it yet. The corners of his lips curve, but there’s a hesitation in the movement, like his face isn’t used to the motion after so long.

Still, he tries.

And when his eyes meet yours again, your stomach twists, sinking deep like an anchor dropping into dark water.

"I… I know it’s just your job, but—" His voice falters, but his gaze doesn’t. "Thank you."

Right. Your job.

The words settle into your chest like a weight—familiar, suffocating.

Because you remember the last time he said that to you.

Your last fight.

Well—it wasn’t really a fight, was it?

Not the kind with screaming and shattered glass, not the kind where anger built up and spilled over, reckless and sharp. It was quieter than that. Heavier. Because in the end, it wasn’t about anger.

It was about exhaustion. About wanting so badly to hold on to each other but realizing, little by little, that neither of you had hands free to do it.

You had barely been sleeping.

Between overnight shifts at the hospital, classes, training, and trying to be the best nurse you could be, your time wasn’t your own. It belonged to the people who needed you—the patients, the emergencies, the long nights where your body ached and your mind ran on fumes.

And Joaquín?

He had thrown himself into working with Sam, into proving himself, into becoming something bigger. His missions got longer. The risks got greater. He was gone more often than he was home, and when he was home, he was bruised, exhausted, a shadow of himself trying to piece together the scraps of a normal life between deployments.

You tried to make it work. God, you tried.

You spent so much time missing each other—passing like ships in the night, phone calls that never lasted long enough, conversations cut short by a code blue or a mission call.

At first, you thought it was temporary. That one day, things would slow down. That eventually, you’d find a rhythm that let you breathe with each other again.

But that day never came.

Instead, the gaps between you grew wider.

The distance stretched, and stretched, and stretched—until one night, you were sitting across from each other, and you both knew.

"I can't do this anymore, Joaquín."

You had whispered it.

Not because you didn’t mean it, but because saying it any louder might have broken you.

He had looked at you, like he was waiting for you to take it back.

Like if he just held on long enough, you’d change your mind.

"I know... You know, I love you," he had said, low, firm, desperate.

And that had been the worst part.

Because love wasn’t the problem.

It had never been the problem.

It was everything else.

Your job. His job.

The nights spent apart, the exhaustion, the never-ending fear of opening your front door to a folded American Flag. You couldn’t stand watching him bleed.

And he couldn’t stand knowing that one day, you might not be there to stitch him back up. That was the last time he said it. "But it’s my job."

Like that was supposed to make it better.

But now, you’re standing in his hospital room, staring at proof that it never got better. Because you had left to protect yourself from seeing him hurt. And now you had seen him dead.

"Of course," you manage to say, wincing when you hear your voice break.

Joaquín hums softly, but his eyes don’t leave you. He’s looking for something in your face—like he’s searching through memories neither of you have spoken aloud in years.

But then, his gaze flickers away. Over to the table. To the mess of flowers stacked in unsteady vases, their petals bright in the afternoon sunlight. The kind of display that only happens when someone is lucky enough to wake up.

His brow creases. "How bad was it?"

You swallow, feeling something sharp lodge itself in your throat. "You were shot out of the sky by a missile."

His lips part. "Right."

"It was pretty fucking bad."

A beat.

"Right."

You don’t know what you were expecting. Some kind of reaction, some flicker of acknowledgment for the hell he’s put you through. But instead, he just takes it—like it’s another report, another piece of intel.

You hesitate, something bubbling up inside you. You can’t tell if it’s anger or sorrow. "You died."

The words hit the air, heavier than you expected.

Joaquín blinks, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly. His fingers twitch against the blanket.

"I died?"

You nod, biting your cheek so hard you taste iron.

"Yeah," you force out. Your throat tightens. Don’t cry. Not in front of him. Not again. "Two minutes."

He’s staring at you now. Eyes wide. Disbelief creeps into the edges of his expression, but not enough—not enough for someone who actually understands what that means.

What it means to you.

"Oh."

You scoff. "Yeah. Oh."

Your laugh is brittle. Sharp around the edges. Because what else is there to say? Joaquín dies for two minutes, and you’ve spent days living inside them.

He exhales, dragging a hand down his face.

"God," he mutters. "Sam’s gonna be so mad at me."

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Because this wasn’t how you imagined seeing him again.

In your head, there were a million other ways this could have gone—maybe you’d run into each other in the future when you were older. When things had settled. When you’d moved on.

Maybe you’d both be married to other people.

The thought makes you sick. But this? This is so much worse.

"Do you, um, do you need anything else? Are you hungry?"

"No."

You nod, but you don’t believe him. Patients are usually peckish when they wake up—a sign of life returning to their bodies, a reassurance that things are moving forward. And while he’s not allowed solid foods for another twenty-four hours, you could bring him a smoothie, something light.

But if he really wants something, he can call you.

You tell yourself that as you turn toward the door.

"Can you stay?"

You linger because you didn’t expect it.

Because you kind of hoped he would ask.

Because he didn’t ask you to stay last time.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, gripping your tablet a little tighter, as if the tension in your body could be contained in that single movement.

"Yeah," you say softly. "I can stay."

You turn back to him, and Joaquín is already looking at you.

His eyes are pleading.

It takes everything in you not to break right there. To not spill over.

You force yourself to move, careful, measured steps toward the chair beside his bed. It feels like you’re wading through something thick, something unseen, like grief or memory or all the what-ifs you’ve tried to bury.

You sink into the chair slowly.

A strand of hair falls into Joaquín’s face as he leans back against the pillows, the bruising on his cheekbone catching the light just enough for you to hate it.

Your fingers twitch again. The urge to brush it back is unbearable. But you don't.

He exhales.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asks suddenly.

You blink, caught off guard.

"Last night." you answer, almost automatically.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Not really."

A beat.

"Nightmares?"

"Something like that."

"Something on your mind?"

"Lots on my mind."

The words slip out easily, like an old habit. No walls. No defences. It’s like no time has passed at all, like the space between you hasn’t been filled with anger, regret, and time apart. Just raw, open honesty in the quiet of the room.

The weight that’s been crushing you for days feels a little lighter in the space between his questions and your answers. You exhale, and only then do you realize you’re holding back tears.

You wipe at your face absently, surprised to find wetness there. You hadn’t even known you were crying.

Joaquín shifts in the bed, his gaze sharpening. There’s concern in his eyes, guilt, and maybe something else—something deeper. He looks away, clearing his throat, as if trying to fight it.

"I hope it's not me you're worried about,"

"I'm always worried about you."

You glance away from him, pretending it’s nothing, but the words hang between you both, too heavy to ignore.

His breath catches, something in him faltering, and then you catch the slight, almost imperceptible way his fingers curl into the sheets. His ears are pink, the flush spreading down his neck. He’s always been terrible at hiding how he feels, and you’re helpless against it. You always have been.

You can’t look at him. You don’t want to admit how much you’ve missed him. How much you’ve been carrying around since the breakup. How much he’s haunted every quiet moment since you walked away.

"Joaquín," you start, tugging at the ring finger on your left hand, the absence of his name there like a wound you forgot was still open. "When they brought you in here—"

"I miss you."

Your chest tightens. "Joaquín—"

"It's true, I do." His voice is quiet, almost vulnerable. "I’ve been looking for an excuse to talk to you again, and I just…" His gaze drifts from yours, like he’s struggling to put it all together. "I couldn't get it out."

You swallow hard, feeling that familiar ache well up in you. “I miss you too. It’s been... it’s been really hard.”

"Yeah." He nods slowly, his voice softer now. "It has. But, you know, I’m the Falcon now. Can you believe that?" He chuckles, but it’s almost nervous, as if he’s trying to lighten the mood, trying to make you smile. "I work with Captain America. I’ve got big shoes to fill. I’ve got to show up, but this... this is all I’ve ever wanted, since I was a kid. I’ve got it now. But... there’s something missing."

You look at him, really look at him, seeing the difference in his eyes now—less brash, more tired but still so much the same. "Yeah. Yeah, I feel it too. It’s like a nagging feeling, right? No matter what we do, it’s there."

"Make me feel guilty." His lips curve into a faint smile, but it’s tired.

"Like I wanna vomit," you reply dryly, the familiar banter slipping back into place before you can stop it.

Joaquín’s eyes soften as he lets out a breath, and there’s an edge of regret in the way he says, “I’m sorry I left.”

Your heart aches at the words, and you feel the old wounds crack open. "I’m sorry I made you leave." You’re not sure whether you’re trying to make him feel better or punish him with your own guilt. Either way, it burns.

“No,” he says quickly, “It doesn’t work that way.”

"But it does," you insist, your voice soft but firm.

He presses his lips together, brow furrowed, as if trying to work through what you’ve just said. "I should’ve fought harder," he murmurs, voice cracking just slightly.

"Joaquín... c’mon. Let’s talk about this later, okay? You just woke up from a coma. I can’t be putting this much stress on your mind."

"But I wanna talk about it," he presses, desperate.

“I know, I do too,” you admit,

“Then let’s talk about it,” he says, leaning forward just a little.

"Rest first." You place a hand on his shoulder gently, urging him to lay back. “You’ve been through a lot. I can’t let you burn yourself out again.”

“I’ve been resting. Had the best nurse in the world take care of me,” he teases, trying to distract you with a smile.

You feel the tug in your chest at his words. "And I will still take care of you. But you need rest. We can talk about it tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes, tomorrow," you confirm, trying to smile, to soothe the tension you’ve both built up.

"Will you still be here?"

You glance down at him, a familiar warmth flooding your chest at the sight of him so vulnerable, so human. "I’m not going anywhere. Will you still be here?"

His smile softens, a quiet promise in his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

[firingstars]

runaway [one-shot]

bucky barnes x reader

summary: bucky comes face to face with his last living relative from his family tree, and it's an eight year old little girl running away from her adopted mom.

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, fingering, the kid is a fucking brat for like two seconds but she's cute i promise, language, alcohol, alternating pov's, thunderbolts timeline (semi movie spoilers), bucky doesn't know how to be a parental figure, you are a tired parental figure, mentions of relationship abuse (DV) not between character x reader if you or someone you know is in danger/in need of assistance please call this hotline: [phone] or text BEGIN to 88788

word count: 19.5k (????????)

a/n: this was meant to be posted on father's day but then i completely dropped the ball and then didn't finish it in time but... happy late father's day to bucky who didn't even mean to be a father in this fic LOL

masterlist

Bucky is staring at the little girl in front of him, who is missing one of her front teeth. Her hair was in two braids, though the braids were loose and falling apart with red bows at the end. She is defiant, arms crossed at her chest. On the seat beside hers is a Hello Kitty backpack– one that he only recognizes as Hello Kitty because the girl in front of him just finished a twenty minute lecture on the animated character along with all of her friends and how Hello Kitty is only three apples tall– whatever the hell that means.

“Listen, kid, where are your parents?” Bucky asked, swiping a hand over his mouth. 

“I’m staring at him,” she responded. Once again, the same fucking answer that she has been telling him since she arrived an hour ago. 

Bucky glanced over at the clock on the oven. It’s nearing four in the morning now, and he can only think that the little girl is lucky that he was home tonight, and passed over his mission to Walker who was begging to get out of Watchtower.

Bucky still isn’t sure how this girl was able to find his apartment.

“I think I would remember if I did the thing to have a child, kid. How old are you?” 

“What thing?” she asked, frowning at him.

No. Bucky is not having this conversation right now.

“How old are you?” he repeated.

“I’m eight.”

“Okay,” he nodded slowly. Eight years ago, he definitely did not have sex with anyone. He was still in Wakanda with Shuri, getting the brainwashing pulled out of his head. 

Normally he wouldn’t be hesitating like this, but staring at this little girl was giving him doubts. Bucky couldn’t help but feel some kind of uncanny resemblance to her. She looked familiar to him. Her deep brown hair, the stormy blue eyes. The chubby little cheeks that haven’t completely lost all her baby fat– she looked like his little sister.

“I’m not your dad, you know that right?” Bucky finally asked with a sigh. 

“Yes,” she nodded. 

“Alright. Then where are your–”

“You’re my great granduncle,” she cut him off, turning to her backpack. Bucky froze as she unzipped her Hello Kitty bag, pulling out both her tablet that was also cased in another Sanrio character that he wasn’t sure of the name, and a binder that he recognized.

A family tree that he helped organize.

The little girl opened up the binder, going onto her knees, flipping right to the first page and pointed at the small portrait of him. The last picture of himself– a picture that he had taken right before he went off to war. 

“That’s you, isn’t it? James Buchanan Barnes,” she said stubbornly. 

Bucky couldn’t speak. The little girl flipped forward a few pages, the portraits becoming clearer and made of color now until it landed on her page. Then, she pointed at her own picture. A chubby little infant that had just gotten out of the womb. Under her portrait read the name Rebecca Winnifred Lee. 

“My mom named me after my great grandma,” she said, as if she saw his eyes land on the words. 

“And our ma, apparently,” Bucky muttered. 

He kept staring at the book– eyes following the tree. He noticed that there wasn’t a spot where Rebecca’s father should be. Her mom’s name was Tabitha. 

“Where’s your mom, Rebecca?” Bucky finally asked, looking at the little girl. Rebecca shrugged a little then turned the binder towards herself, looking at the little portrait of her mom. 

“Dunno,” she said, her voice small and weak. “Have no clue. I don’t have a family anymore.”

Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed at this. “Are you an orphan?”

“I’m hungry, grandpa,” she said, closing the book. She stared at him with wide eyes, and a pout. “Do you have any chicken nuggets?”

“First off– don’t call me that. Second off– you can’t just ignore the question.”

“I’m hungry. I can’t think when I’m hungry,” she defended herself, frowning at him.

Bucky could only stare in disbelief. This little girl had the same fire as Becky did. He let out a deep breath before getting up to go to the kitchen. He didn’t have fucking chicken nuggets, but he could cook her an omelet or something. 

“Just stay put,” he muttered.

Even after Rebecca ate, she did not answer any questions. Maybe it was due to the fact that she was only eight years old, but she was exhausted. He still had no idea how she got to his apartment in New York all by herself, or where the fuck she came from. She gave him no answers. She was a better spy than his own teammates. In fact, it was easier interrogating enemies than it was interrogating an eight year old.

After she fell asleep on his couch, he tried going through her backpack. He turned on her tablet, which was locked, so he couldn’t find much information there. The only thing he did see was a picture of Tabitha and Rebecca from when Rebecca was a baby– Tabitha holding her close to her chest. Other contents in the backpack included a crumbled up bus pass, an alarming amount of money for a child, a couple of squished granola bars, and wrappers. 

While she slept, Bucky ran his own research. 

He needed to make sure this child wasn’t some sort of spy that was sent as a decoy for a mission to keep his guard down for whatever reason. He wouldn’t hurt her, of course, but it wouldn’t be the first time a child was sent to him to disarm him. 

Rebecca Winnifred Lee was definitely not an orphan, but she did not have any existing biological parents in the picture. In fact, Tabitha was dead. She had died when Rebecca was a baby– barely even two years old. The dad wasn’t even on the birth certificate, so Bucky could only assume that he was a deadbeat father.

Tabitha passed away from a car accident. It was sudden, and it was fatal on impact. There was no will that was left. There were no last words. Only a body bag and a call that went to her friend’s phone as her only emergency contact, and her friend immediately adopted Rebecca without hesitation. 

It wasn’t difficult to grab all of this information from the database, especially with the level of clearance that Bucky had.

From looking up Rebecca’s information– she came all the way from Newport. A five hour bus ride if there were no delays. It would take about three hours by car if you were lucky. 

Bucky dragged his vibranium hand down his face, feeling an ache beginning to form behind his eyes. He really shouldn’t be feeling this annoyed, not when Rebecca’s guardian must have torn apart the entire city looking for the little girl. He couldn’t imagine how she would feel knowing that Rebecca was actually two states away. 

Bucky tried calling Rebecca’s guardian, only for the call to go immediately straight to voicemail. He tried again, only for the same thing to happen. He let out a sigh before deciding to leave a message.

You were going to kill Rebecca. Truly. You really were. 

Well, you were going to strangle her in your arms with hugs and kisses after you found her. Then you were going to kill her for making you worry like this.

She had been giving you hell for the past six months of your life, and you really were doing your best to raise her with all your strength. You understood her, you really did. Rebecca knew that you weren’t her mother, but that you were doing everything that you could to help fill that void that was left behind. 

She used to call you Momma when she was younger. You corrected her each time, telling her that you were Auntie. She was confused, but relented and changed up her way of speaking to you. 

When she was old enough, she told you that she wanted to call you Momma even though she knew that her biological mother had passed away. From that point onwards, you allowed her to do so.

You don’t know what switched in Rebecca. You don’t know why she stopped running up to you with a big grin and a hug during pick ups after school. You aren’t sure why she stopped looking at you with happiness and love, and it hurt. You think it has something to do with the kids at school teasing her. You’re certain it has to.

During the last parent teacher conference, you sat down with her teacher and she made an offhand comment about how it must be so difficult raising a child that wasn’t yours.

Rebecca was yours. 

And when Tabitha met her untimely, unfair death, it wasn’t any question for you to take Rebecca in as your own. Because she was. You were there for every late night and early morning colicky cry. You helped change blown out diapers. You warmed up bottles, rocked her to sleep, sang her lullabies. 

And when you were alone, you did it all by yourself. You didn’t complain once because it was no longer Tabitha who needed your help. Rebecca needed you now, and you would do anything for her. 

She was your daughter as much as she was Tabitha’s.

Even if Tabitha was here, she would be your child. 

And Rebecca hated you for replacing Tabitha.

She told it to you, to your face not too long ago. She said that she wished that you were the one that died, and not her real mom. You knew that she didn’t mean it, of course. That it was words from a child that didn’t know how to express her grief– that didn’t understand that words hurt. You still loved her all the same, even though you were upset with her. 

Now, you got a call from the school in the middle of your work day. She never got on the bus that morning, never made it to school. You spent all day driving around the city, looking for her while the police were doing the same. You called your neighbors, her friend’s parents, the school again– anyone and everyone that you could possibly think of.

You went back home to search to find that some of her things were taken. Her shoes were gone. Her backpack was missing, along with her tablet, and wallet that she normally only keeps in her little crossbody purse that she wears when you two go out together. 

To your utter disappointment, her tablet was off. You can’t use the Find My feature to track her, and you check every single chance. You’re constantly looking just in case it turns on. 

There’s a million things running through your mind at this moment. Did she run away? Did she really hate you that much? 

Then, a deeper, unsettling feeling– she was taken while you were at work. Someone slipped in while she was eating breakfast and took her in your own home. The place where she was supposed to be safe– the child that you promised your best friend that you would protect.

You were terrified.

You didn’t even care if she ran away at this point. You wanted her home. You wanted to hold her in your arms and cry. 

The police had already sent you home, said they had sent a call to all surrounding stations in the area for a search, but there wasn’t much that you could do at this time. You sat alone in your dark living room, phone on the coffee table with the location of her tablet still showing up as Location Not Found. Your eyes were tired, growing bleary–

Becky Baby last seen in Manhattan. Just now.

You grabbed your car keys, purse, and rushed out the door. 

The roads were clear, which made the ride faster– but you were certain that it also had something to do with the fact that you were going twenty five miles over the speed limit. You were thankful there weren’t any cops that were out and about this early in the morning. 

You stopped momentarily for gas, and to text your boss that you wouldn’t be able to make it into the office tomorrow for the same family emergency that made you leave work early today– and found a text with an address. A Manhattan address with an apartment unit number. 

Then, you found a voicemail waiting for you.

“Hi,” the man said before clearing his throat. “I’m not too certain how to say this, but I have Rebecca in my apartment– Uh. She’s safe. Fed. Sleeping right now. I’ll text you my address to come pick her up. Thanks. Oh- My name is Bucky, by the way.”

What the fuck.

You got back in your car and drove another ten miles over the speed limit. 

You pushed past the man who let you in, your eyes zeroing in on the little girl. She wore the same clothes that she wore yesterday morning when you saw her get ready– the same clothes that she was supposed to wear onto the bus and to school. 

And she was indeed sleeping peacefully, some drool sliding down her face, hair sticking to her cheek. Your heart was thumping in your chest, tears brimming in your eyes as the weight of everything came crashing down onto you. 

You dropped onto your knees in front of the couch- burying your face in your hands. You hit the couch slightly, rustling her awake.

“Mm.. Momma..?” she murmured sleepily. Just for a moment, your heart felt full. You felt like you were looking at that small toddler who would run up to you with legos and a mission. 

“Becky– you little brat!” you sobbed through tears. “What were you thinking?!” 

You watched as sleep quickly disappeared from her face as she scrambled to sit up, eyes wide on her little face. Her eyes darted from you and the man– Bucky, you guess from the voicemail– and she looked betrayed.

“You called her?!” she shrieked.

“You can’t just run away from your mom, kid,” he sighed deeply from behind you.

“I told you!” she whined at him. “She’s not my mom!”

Your heart broke all over again, but you forced it back into place. You wiped your tears away angrily, and let out a breath. You grabbed her by her tiny shoulders, forcing her to look you in the eyes. 

“Rebecca, I don’t care who you think I am. I am your legal guardian. Until you are eighteen years old, I have legal responsibility over you. That means you can’t just run past state lines whenever you want and go into strangers' houses!”

“He’s not a stranger! He’s my great granduncle!” she complained to you, pointing at him.

“What?” you gaped at her, eyebrows furrowing. “Becks, your great granduncle would be like, a 110 years old.”

“Yes,” he said from behind you. “I am.”

You finally turned around to take a good look at the man that you had blown past earlier. He had a box of tissues in his hands, presumably for you. His hair was dark brown, long, pretty, and curly. Just like Becky’s. His eyes were a stormy grey blue that you could get lost in, one that you were certain was an unnatural color. He was a muscular man, tall, handsome. Tanned skin. There was a well kept beard on his face. Another defining feature was the metal fucking arm that peeked out of his t-shirt.

“I’m Bucky,” he said, breaking the silence again.

You blinked, releasing a breath that you weren’t aware that you were holding. You stood, clearing your throat, and introduced yourself to him. 

“Are you— You’re all over the news,” you said slowly. “Right? Or am I losing my mind here?”

“Um. No. I am, unfortunately.”

“That’s how I found him!” Rebecca chimed in proudly from the couch. You turned to look at her again. “I was going through Mommy’s old things and found the family book tree and saw his name there– and then I saw the news about him in New York, and I thought he looked really familiar so I searched it up. He’s the same person!”

If you weren’t so pissed about the circumstances you were in, you would have praised her for being so smart, and having such great skills for being so young. However, you are still in New York when you live in Rhode Island. Your head is still pounding, and Rebecca still doesn’t seem to understand the weight of her actions.

You pinch the bridge of your nose as you lower yourself to be eye level with her again.

“Do you understand how dangerous this was, Becky?” you ask, your voice lowered. You’re not condescending her. You’re not yelling at her. 

Rebecca pauses, and she curls in on herself. No matter how much she dislikes you these past few months, she still has the muscle memory of a little girl being scolded by her parent. She looks down at her hands, fidgeting. 

“What if something happened to you?” you asked, eyebrows furrowing. “You are extremely lucky that you got to Bucky safely. There are thousands of bad people in the world that would love to take little girls off the street and do horrible things to them, do you understand?”

“But it didn’t happen,” she argued weakly. 

“Just because it didn’t happen, doesn’t mean that it can’t,” you replied, shaking your head. “How did you get here? Bus?”

Rebecca nods after a few moments. You sighed deeply, running a hand through your hair as you tried to calm yourself down.

“How did you get the ticket for the bus?” you asked next.

“Used your card… and your computer. Booked it online when you were sleeping,” she admitted softly. “Printed out the ticket at home, then walked to the station after you left for work yesterday.”

You close your eyes tight to reign in the anger that you feel festering in your chest. You want to scream. You didn’t check your bank statement– it didn’t cross your mind when she ran off to look. Rebecca had never done such a thing before. You didn’t think she was capable of doing something like that. 

“Why, Becky? Do you hate me that much?” you asked finally. “Do I make you that unhappy?”

“I don’t like you,” she said stubbornly. “You’re nobody to me.”

“Do you know how hurtful that is?” you whispered to her.

“I don’t care!” she screamed at you. “You’re not my mom! Stop trying to be!”

Rebecca pushed past you, rushing deeper into the apartment. A door slams shut, and you’re left stunned. You’re helpless for a few moments before a tissue box is placed in front of you.

“She went into the bathroom,” Bucky murmured. “Can I get you anything? Water? Beer?”

You let out a dry laugh. “A daughter that doesn’t hate me.”

“Sorry. I don’t know anything about kids,” he chuckled in response.

You let out a deep sigh, shifting to sit down on the couch. Bucky moved, too. He sat beside you, the two of you silent. You let the last few moments wash over you as you replayed your conversation with Rebecca in your mind. Then, you took a deep breath.

“I’m really sorry about this,” you finally said, looking at him. Bucky turned to face you. You clarified, “About bringing our family drama into your apartment. I’m sure you’re tired… and busy.”

“It’s no worries, really,” he promised, giving you a small smile. “It was a surprise, truly. Finding out that I have living relatives.”

“Well– I’m pretty sure she’s the only one. Even though she doesn’t have your last name,” you said with a small laugh. “She kinda looks like you.”

“She looks like my little sister,” Bucky corrected. “And has my sister’s name.”

“Tabitha named her after her grandma– your sister,” you recalled. Bucky nodded. “So it was on purpose then. Maybe the two of you were meant to meet at some point.”

“I’m sure she’s a sweet girl,” Bucky said, locking eyes with you. “You’ve done a really good job raising her.”

“Don’t say that to me right now. I just stopped crying,” you scoffed, though your voice broke as the words escaped your lips.

“I’m shit at comforting people, but I mean it,” he said, sliding the tissue box closer to you. “She’s smart– I’ll give her that. I’m not around a lot of eight year olds, but I sure as hell don’t think that I could’ve gone across state lines at eight years old with the amount of confidence that she has. One of my coworkers– he’s a dad. Well, two of them are. They say that children’s confidence and pride starts at home. So you must be doing something right.”

“She gets it from her mom,” you muttered, pulling a few tissues from the box to bring to your eyes.

“As far as I’m concerned, that’s you,” he said, his voice soft. 

It was quiet for another few moments between the two of you. You weren’t sure what to say, not with tears streaming down your face. Bucky doesn’t judge you though. He waits patiently as you wipe your tears away and blow your nose, trying to calm yourself down.

It was nice to hear those words.

The sun was already starting to fully show itself, and you could hear the streets of New York begin to wake. You were certain that this man also had places to be. You couldn’t be in his hair the entire day.

“I’m really sorry for imposing again,” you whispered, finally getting a hold of yourself once more. “Would you– Can you try coaxing her out of the bathroom? I’m sure if she hears me, she won’t come out.”

“Really– no worries. I got it.”

You watch Bucky get up from the couch and make his way down the hall. You hear him knock on the door. While he takes care of that, you decide to pick up Rebecca’s things. 

You put the binder back in her backpack, along with her tablet. You find her snacks and printed bus pass as well on the table, and put that away as well. You take out the wrappers and trash from inside her bag and find the trash can under Bucky’s kitchen sink to toss the mess away.

You sat at the kitchen table, nodding off slightly. You’re really not sure how much time has passed before Rebecca is coaxed out of the bathroom. However, you jump to your feet when you hear the bathroom door open.

A few moments later, you see her walking out the hall. Her eyes are red just like her nose. She’s sniffling, one hand gripping her shirt like she’s just been scolded. The other hand is holding onto Bucky’s flesh hand. 

You let out a breath of relief as you pick up her backpack and your purse, slinging both bags over your shoulder.

“Come on, Becks. Let’s go home now.”

Panic flashes across her face, and she turns to rush to the bathroom again. Thankfully, Bucky is still holding her hand, and he keeps a firm grip on her.

“Nope,” he sighed, pulling her back. “You gotta go, Rebecca.”

“You can’t make me!” she cried, tugging on her arm. “I don’t want to leave!”

“I don’t have the facilities to raise a kid, kid,” Bucky sighed deeply before leaning down, picking her up in his arms. He gives you a nod. “Lead the way.”

You move towards the door while she squirms in his arms, whining all the same. 

You make it down the apartment building towards the street where you parked. You unlock your car and place Rebecca’s backpack beside her booster seat. Then, you turn to Bucky, who’s ready to transfer Rebecca into your arms. The second that he does, she’s screaming her head off.

“KIDNAPPER! THIS WOMAN IS KIDNAPPING ME!”

You both freeze in your spots as people on the street begin to stop and stare. Some are taking their phones out, taking pictures of you– some are calling who you assume is 911.

Rebecca manages to wiggle her way out of your arms and slams herself back into Bucky’s body.

“Daddy, don’t let her take me away!” she cried, wrapping her arms around his torso. 

Bucky is staring at her, shock and confusion all over his face. Then, he’s looking at you. He lets out a slow, deep breath before reaching behind you, shutting the door of the car. Then, Bucky reaches for your hand as he bends down to pick up Rebecca at the same time. Wordlessly, he pulls both of you back into the apartment building before more bypassers can take more photos of you or before the cops can come.

For whatever reason or purpose, Bucky gives the two of you his apartment to stay at for the foreseeable future. You want to say it’s out of the kindness of his heart, but you know it’s because your daughter cannot be trusted, and you will most likely be arrested the next time you attempt to bring her outside to your car again. 

Thankfully, Rebecca chose the last day of third grade to run away on, so she’s in the middle of summer right now. You don’t have to worry about her missing any academics. However, you have to put in an emergency request for PTO with your company for about a month since you’re not sure how long her tantrum is going to last you. 

You’re more than certain that you’ll have to run to the nearest Best Buy and purchase a new laptop within the next few days to remotely troubleshoot anything that your boss from hell's needs you to. She had two other assistants that you personally trained, but it seemed like every single time you were away from the office, the entire building would come crashing down.

One last text was sent out to your neighbor, who often took care of Rebecca when you had to work long nights preparing for presentations. She had a spare key to your house. You asked her to go around the entire house and unplug every electronic and appliance that she could find, and let her know that you found Rebecca.

Texts and emails were flooding your phone, adding to the headache that was already thundering behind your forehead. You put your phone on do not disturb, and put it face down on the coffee table before burying your face in your hands.

You allowed yourself one brief moment of silence before lifting your head. Rebecca was asleep on the couch again. After her tantrum outside, she tired herself out once more. 

You didn’t understand it.

She wasn’t like this before. She was a good, well-mannered little girl. She followed the rules, never caused you any trouble. Rebecca was more than eager to do everything right. She hated to be the issue for anyone. You never had any problems raising her. You consider yourself lucky these past eight years.

This was the first time since Tabitha passed away that you felt overwhelmed with her. You could feel tears beginning to well up in your eyes again. You couldn’t abandon her, as much as she claimed to hate you. You needed to take her back with you, and you needed to somehow get her to understand that doing all of this wasn’t right.

The door in the hallway opened, and you quickly wiped away your tears as you sat up straight. Bucky came into view a few moments later, shoving his arms through a leather jacket before fastening his gloves over his hands. You paused at the sight– gloves in the middle of summer? You didn’t ask as he pulled out a key and something else from his jean pocket. 

“Spare key,” Bucky said, handing it to you along with a black card– a business credit card.

“What is this for?”

“Groceries. I don’t know what Rebecca eats. She asked me for chicken nuggets last night, but I don’t eat any of that. Go shopping. I don’t think either of you have clothes, so buy clothes, too.”

“What– Bucky, I can afford groceries and clothes,” you said, shoving the card back in his hands. “You’re already letting the two of us stay in your New York penthouse for free. You won’t let me help pay the rent here while we stay.”

Bucky pushed the card back into your hands, “Then help me cook dinner while you’re here. I’m living off take out and shitty convenience store food, and I’m sick of it. Is that a fair trade?”

“You don’t even know if my cooking is good,” you said wearily.

“Rebecca’s been alive for eight years, so that counts for something,” he said with a small shrug. “I’ll be back later tonight.” 

“Is there anything you want then? Anything you prefer? Any allergies?” you asked, looking back up at his face. He was already looking at you. Your breath caught slightly in your throat.

“I can eat anything,” he told you, giving you a small smile. “You have my phone number– if you need anything, just call me. I’ll come back right away.”

“I’m sure the two of us will be fine for a day, Bucky,” you said, returning his smile. “Have a good day at… work?”

Bucky laughed at your words– the fact that you weren’t certain at what to call his job. He nodded. “Thank you. I’ll see you two later tonight.”

“Don’t be late. I’ll have dinner waiting,” you told him, your smile widening just a bit more at the sound of his laughter.

Bucky left you with Rebecca in his apartment. Vaguely, you wonder if he’s being a little too trusting of allowing a random adult woman in his home along with a child, but then again– he had your phone number within moments of meeting said child. The scary realization that he had the rest of your information at the tip of his fingertips made a shiver run down your spine. You were happy that Rebecca’s last living relative was an ex-Congressman-unretired-superhero.

Rebecca refused to go shopping with you, so you went by yourself. She cried that you would try to take her back home if she stepped outside the apartment with you. You relented. You didn’t need another meltdown.

You went for clothes first, and you didn’t use Bucky’s card for that. Part of you felt mildly offended that he even offered. You were certain that he knew your job, and he could definitely look into the amount of money you made if he really wanted to. Another part of you told yourself to just let it go. He was trying to be nice even though he really didn’t have to be.

You bought enough clothes for you and Rebecca to last for two weeks. You remembered seeing a washer and dryer in Bucky’s apartment– so you would be able to wash clothes when you needed to. 

However, Rebecca was a fucking brat and she liked variety in her outfits. That was your fault. You always made sure her closet was stocked and full of different things because you never had that as a child. Yet, here you were– enabling her once again. 

You grocery shopped for the two of you– enough for the week and then some. If you needed to get more, then you would come back out. You were hoping that you would be able to settle whatever you needed to with her child brain within the week, and move on with your life. A nagging feeling made you realize that it was highly unlikely.

You used Bucky’s card for the groceries. You were more than certain that he would have said something if he didn’t see the charge on his card and saw the amount of things you bought today. You got all of Rebecca’s regular staples of foods and snacks, along with some more healthy things. You weren’t sure what a superhero ate, but you would be damned if you fed some overly processed foods to someone that was meant to be saving the world.

Then again, he did mention that he was living off of shitty food. 

It takes you four trips to bring up several bags of clothes and groceries up to Bucky’s apartment from the parking garage. You’re thankful that Bucky lives in a very nice place in Manhattan– you've heard horror stories of New Yorkers living in places with only stairs with no central air conditioning in the hallways.

Rebecca is playing away at her tablet when you finally bring everything inside. 

“Alright,” you said, catching her attention. “I know you hate me, but you’re going to help me organize everything. Get up.”

To your surprise, she does. She puts her tablet down and trudges over to you, opening the first bag of groceries as you open the fridge. You’re shocked to find the thing damn near empty, save for a Brita filter, a case of beer, and a plum. A singular plum.

Bucky was a single man, you realized. 

“Hey,” Rebecca said from beside you.

“I told you not to address me like that,” you replied, turning towards the bag of frozen items. You got her ice cream sandwiches, and you were more than certain they would melt soon if you didn’t shove them in the freezer.

“I don’t hate you,” she murmured, her voice quiet. 

Your hands paused, and you let out a deep breath. You turned around to look at her. She was sheepish, looking down at the floor. She had a box of pasta in her tiny hands. 

“But you don’t want to go home with me?” you guessed. Rebecca nodded. “That’s fine for now, Becks. But let’s put everything away, and then we can figure out what we wanna make for dinner for your… grandpa?”

“He told me not to call him that,” Rebecca said, brightening up immediately.

“What are you gonna call him then?” you asked, chuckling at her. She really did have mood swings.

“He said to just call him Bucky for now,” she replied, smiling as she pulled out lettuce from the bag. “Can you make pizza tonight?”

After putting the groceries away, you pulled out all the toiletries you bought as well and set them up in the bathroom. Toothbrushes for both you and Rebecca, as well as some mouthwash and toothpaste. You got other shower essentials as well, putting them on the rack– and you let out a breath of relief to find that Bucky wasn’t a 3-in-1 kinda single man living in New York.

You cursed to yourself when you realized you had none of your regular makeup or essentials of your own. You forgot to buy deodorant, too.

After putting your new clothes in the washer, you set Rebecca up in the living room with a movie and pulled your phone out. You were going to online shop for absolutely everything else that you could possibly need.

A laptop, makeup to look presentable because you were certain that you would be called for an online meeting at some point, deodorant, perfume, and chargers for your phone and Rebecca’s tablet. Thankfully, everything would be coming in to Bucky’s address by the morning. 

With some free time, you even searched up Bucky. You wanted to know about what he did in the government. You recognized his face from brief headlines, but you never really knew what kinds of bills he passed or supported. Maybe you could use heinous actions to your advantage and get Rebecca to go home with you.

His status as an ex-Congressman and a member of the New Avengers were all over the news.  You read how he served in the second world war, and the valiant efforts that he made with Captain America. You briefly recalled that lesson in your history class. You skimmed through that section, pausing at the controversies of the Winter Soldier.

You could only read so much before you got angry.

There wasn’t much online about the details that he performed when he was under the jurisdiction of that crazy group that controlled him, but from what you could gather– Bucky wasn’t Bucky. The fact people were still using that to discredit all the good he was doing in the world was pissing you off.

You sighed deeply, looking over at Rebecca, feeling guilt build up in your stomach. Here you were, thinking that you would find dirt on a Congressman as a reason to tell Rebecca that her only living relative was a bad man. 

He was literally the opposite of a bad man. A misunderstood man, maybe– but not a bad one.

By the time you finished laundry, it was already six. You weren’t sure what time Bucky was coming home, but you would start making dinner now. You sent Rebecca off to go take a shower since she hadn’t showered all day and she was starting to stink from her long bus adventure while you went into the freshly stocked kitchen.

Rebecca asked for pizza, so you would make pizza. Bucky said he didn’t have any allergies, so you would just make it as you usually did. You usually only made one pizza for you and your kid to share, but you decided to double the batch. Bucky could probably eat an entire pizza by himself and still be hungry for more, you think. 

As you mixed the dough and spread it out on the counter, your mind wandered. You didn’t pay too much attention to the man that owned this place, but Bucky was tall. If you had to estimate, he was over six feet tall. Moreover, he was a muscular man. He looks to be a very well built– strong, sturdy man.  You struggle these days to pick up Rebecca in your arms, but he picked her up like she was nothing. She probably weighed nothing to him. She looked tiny in his arms.

He could probably pick you up like nothing, if he really wanted to. He looked more than capable of it. Plus, he had a decent amount of money to just be giving you a black card and telling you to spend it on clothes and groceries. Handsome, too. Spoke to you kindly and gently. 

“Fuck,” you curse, eyes widening at the mess in front of you. You poured too much sauce on the dough. You immediately shift to rectify the situation at hand, and you’re lucky that you didn’t ruin the pizza. 

You need to stop thinking.

He’s Rebecca’s great granduncle. A 110 years old. 

“Doesn’t look a 110 though,” you mutter to yourself as you shove the pizzas into the oven.

“You’re going home again tonight?” Yelena asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

“I pay for my place. Am I supposed to keep it vacant? There’s no point in having an apartment if I never spend time there,” Bucky grunted, removing his tactical vest from his body. 

“Aren’t you the guy that’s all about efficiency? What’s so efficient about having an apartment when you already have a room at the tower?” she demanded, hands on her hips.

Bucky let out a deep sigh. He knew that she was right, and that she was just throwing words that he said right back in his face. However, once they started this New Avengers bullshit, he couldn’t bring it in himself to get rid of the apartment that he got when he was just a Congressman. 

When missions got too hard, or the team were a bunch of pricks, there was somewhere that he could retreat to that didn’t include them. It was his own personal sanctuary of peace and quiet. None of them knew where his apartment was located, and he made sure to keep it that way. He didn’t need anyone or anything to encroach on his personal space. 

Right now, he wasn’t searching for peace or quiet. You asked him to be home on time for dinner. He didn’t know what time dinner started for you and Rebecca– he forgot to fucking ask, and it was nearing eight. Even if the food was cold, he would eat it. Either way, he promised that he would be home for dinner. He knew you bought groceries, too. He saw the charge on his card go through. 

“We don’t have anything scheduled for tomorrow,” Bucky finally said. “I am going to sleep in a room where Ava can’t ghost through whenever she feels like.”

“Woah– so our leader is just running off to let us deal with that?!” Walker complained, removing his helmet.

“If you hate it so much, then you get your own place, too,” Bucky sighed.

“With what money, Congressman?” Yelena rolled her eyes at him.

“Fontaine pays each of us a decent salary for these bullshit missions and to attend those stupid galas, if you forget. Stop wasting your stipends on stupid gadgets, and maybe put it towards a down payment,” Bucky deadpanned. 

“Yeah, yeah,” she murmured. 

They all filtered out of the locker rooms. They had all unloaded their gear and weapons, and were off to go do whatever they wanted to now that they were free from the mission.

Bucky made a quick pit stop towards his room to shower and change out of the under layer of his mission clothes– into something more harmless. Something that wouldn’t freak out Rebecca when she saw him. He took extra time in looking at himself in the mirror to make sure that there weren’t any visible cuts and scrapes on his face and arms that you would be able to notice. He scrubbed extra hard between the grooves of his metal arm to ensure there was no blood between the gears that either you or Rebecca would be able to smell when he crossed the threshold of his apartment.

He didn’t realize that he was doing all of that until he was done.

“Barnes. Wanna eat before you leave? Bob made food,” Yelena called out to him as he left his room.

“Not hungry,” he grunted, heading for the elevator with his keys in hand.

He ignored the looks from his teammates as he went straight for the elevator, hitting the button to go down to the garage. Bucky moved faster than he did when he was on the mission. He got on his bike, and raced down the street to get home. 

He could smell the food from the hallway before he even opened the door. 

Usually, when he opened his apartment up– it was dark. The lights were turned off, and it was cold. There wasn’t anything or anyone to greet him. Today was different.

The kitchen lights were on, along with the living room floor lamp. The TV was on to some cartoon that he had never seen before, playing softly in the background. He could hear the faint sound of the washer and dryer being used as well. Then, he heard the sounds of little feet scurrying across the floor followed by voices.

It sounded like he had just entered a home.

He was quiet as he moved down the hallway entrance.

“Careful, Becky. Don’t want you to get burned,” you warned her, and the little girl took two steps back as cautioned. She was wearing pajamas now, her hair no longer in the braids that he remembered seeing when he left this morning. They were fluffy and curly. 

“The smaller pizza is ours?” she asked you as you shifted to put the pizza on the cooling rack.

“Mmhm. The bigger one is for Bucky. If he can’t finish it, he can take it to work tomorrow for lunch,” you told her. “I think I saw some tupperware in a cabinet somewhere… If not, then I can just wrap it in foil for him.”

“Do superheroes eat lunch?” she asked, making a face at you.

“Everyone eats lunch, silly,” you scoffed, shaking your head as you close the oven. “Even my boss.”

“I thought you said she’s a villain,” she giggled as you ruffled her hair with your free hand.

“Well. She kinda is,” you shrugged, turning towards the sink to put the baking sheet in cool water. “But I have to feed the villain, so it’s a nice change to feed a superhero instead. Grab some plates from the dishwasher. They’re clean– set up the table, please.”

Rebecca moved right away, doing as you asked her to. She pulled out three plates carefully from the dishwasher, bringing them to the table as you grabbed the cooling rack with the pizzas to bring over as well. 

“Do you think Bucky likes pizza?” Rebecca asked you, climbing onto one of the seats as she waited for you to serve her some food.

“He was born and raised in New York. I think it’s criminal if he doesn’t,” you replied.

Bucky let out a soft laugh at your answer before shaking his head. He straightens his back and rounds his shoulders before entering the room.

“I’m back,” he called out, dropping his keys on the island counter. Both you and Rebecca perk up at his announcement, turning to look at him.

“Welcome home,” you greeted, a warm smile on your face. 

Bucky has gone through several wars in his life. He has been through countless life threatening missions and never batted an eye. He has been through hell and back. Had his mind wiped and thrown through a blender. He fought his best friend with his own two fists, fought by his best friend’s side at what seemed to be the end of the world, and was then snapped out of existence for five years and he didn’t even know it. Yet, two words and a smile is all that takes for his heart to race.

The man cleared his throat, and forced a smile on his face, giving you a nod.

“Are you hungry? Mo– Auntie made dinner!” Rebecca said, tripping over her words. Your face faltered slightly, but Rebecca didn’t catch it. Bucky did. 

“Starved. Smells great,” Bucky replied, coming closer. He took a seat at the table across from you, looking at the pizzas. 

Definitely handmade– but he was certain that he had never seen food look better in his entire life. When he took the first bite, he was sure that he had never had real food in his entire life until this point, too.

“Is it okay?” you asked him, looking a bit worried.

“It’s amazing,” he told you. “Honestly. You’re great.”

“It’s my favorite,” Rebecca piped up from her seat. She had already polished off two small slices herself, and had some tomato sauce on the edges of her mouth. Bucky watched as you reached over with a napkin to wordlessly wipe her face before she kept talking. “She works a lot these days, but she’s the best cook ever. I told her that she should’ve been a chef!”

You let out a small laugh at her words, shaking your head. “My mom taught me how to cook when I was younger,” you tell Bucky. “Just home recipes. I learned some more stuff on my own when I got older.”

“Can you teach me how to cook, too?” Rebecca asked you, excited.

“Sure. If you come home with me,” you replied, taking a bite of your own slice. Bucky watched as Rebecca paused, then sunk in her seat, grumbling to herself– she was clearly torn. 

Dinner was completed without any other incident. Both you and Rebecca finished your pizza together, and Bucky finished his pizza by himself. He definitely could have saved some for tomorrow, but he couldn’t help himself. It was nice to come home to a meal, and share it with other people. 

It wasn’t to say that his teammates and himself didn’t have meals together, either. It was the fact that neither you or Rebecca were part of that life. The two of you were normal. You were untouched by danger, and your biggest issue was trying to get your kid back home to Newport. 

Once Rebecca excused herself from the table, you began to pick up all the plates when Bucky stopped you.

“I got it,” he said, pulling the plates from your hands.

“What? You paid for the ingredients, Bucky. You’re making me feel bad here. I don’t think this is a fair living situation,” you frowned at him. Bucky won’t admit it out loud, but he thinks you look adorable like this.

He thought you were cute this morning, too. Truthfully, he thought you were a very beautiful woman when he first saw you. You came in, pushed him to the side with strength that he didn’t know a regular civilian woman could have, and stormed into his apartment with a pantsuit and a thin trench coat and heels. You looked like you had just gotten off a business meeting. 

Right now, you were no longer wearing the heels so you were missing the height he saw earlier before he left for his mission today, but you were still wearing the blouse from earlier. It was untucked now, a couple buttons undone at the top for comfort, and the sleeves were cuffed at your elbows. Your hair was tied back, possibly to keep out of your way while you were cooking.

“You cook, I clean up the mess,” he told you, gently pushing your hands away. “Besides, weren’t you grocery shopping before all of this? Running errands? You’ve been doing laundry, too. You’ve been busy all day, so go relax or something. Take a shower.”

“I’m a grown woman raising a child on my own,” you remind him. “This is my normal.”

“And right now, I’m here. So don’t worry about it. She’s watching… What the hell is that?” Bucky asked, eyes on the TV. 

“You’ve never watched Avatar before?” you asked, eyebrows raising at him. You didn’t even look back at the TV. You didn’t even need to look at it to know what Rebecca was watching. “It’s a classic.”

“You watch cartoons?”

“That cartoon aired when I was a kid, okay?”

“The cartoon that aired when I was a kid was Mickey Mouse’s Steamboat Willie,” Bucky shot back at you. “And it was played in the theatre, not in 4K HD.”

“Do all old men have this much sass in their bodies?” you ask, disbelief all over your face. “How do you find the energy to be like this?”

Bucky can’t help but crack a smile. “When you get as old as I am, you find it difficult to hold your tongue. Now go do whatever. I’ll clean up here.”

When you get out of the shower, you’re feeling refreshed. You’re more than ready to knock the hell out and sleep for four days, but you know that isn’t a possibility. If you think back on it, you haven’t slept in over thirty six hours– the thought makes you want to cry.

You hang your towel up beside Rebecca’s before exiting the bathroom. You find that the TV is off already, and you hear the hum of the dishwasher going off. The kitchen lights are off, and only the floor lamp is on now. You’re searching for the little girl, eyes scanning the living room.

“I put her to bed in my room,” Bucky said, catching your attention. He’s sitting at the table– also changed into more comfortable clothes. Sweatpants and a tank top. He also has some documents laid out on the table, along with his laptop. “You and her can take the bed while you’re here.”

“What?” You’re more than certain that you sound like a broken recording at this point. 

“I’ll take the couch,” he said, nodding towards it.

You’re still in shock before you cross the floorspace, pulling out the chair to sit beside him. He watches you for a few moments, allowing you to let your mind catch up before you speak.

“I don’t understand why you’re going this far for us. We are strangers to you. You should have kicked both me and Rebecca to the curb the second I came for her,” you said, meeting his eyes. “Is it because you’re related to her?”

“I can’t deny that it’s part of the reason,” he said, letting out a breath as he ran a hand down his face. “She just… she looks like my sister. My little sister. And I don’t know how much you know about the history of me, but I lost everyone and everything I cared about in an instant. It might make zero sense to you, but it’s nice. Coming home and there’s people waiting.”

“Is that the other part of the reason? You’re lonely?” you asked, eyebrows furrowing at him. 

Bucky let out a small laugh before nodding. “Yes. I’m lonely. And as long as Rebecca wants to throw her tantrum and say that she wants to stay here, then that’s fine with me as long as you’re fine with it. I’ll let you do a background check on me, if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

“You’ll let me do a background check on a superhero?” Your mind wandered back on the articles that you read on him. He would let you see the dirt on him that the tabloids didn’t even have?

“You’re her mom,” he said, his voice suddenly serious. “I know you would do anything for her. My status in this world does not compare to what she is to you.” 

You stare at him for a few moments before sighing, placing your elbows on the table, burying your face in your hands. “I need a drink,” you muttered.

“Beer?” he offered, standing. You nod wordlessly as he goes to the fridge. 

He cracks open the can before setting it down in front of you, and you lean back in your seat, murmuring a soft thank you before you take your first drink. Your eyes wander over the various files over the table and frown.

“Should you really have classified information scattered about where two civilians can see it?” you joke softly.

Bucky shrugs, and takes a drink himself. “Are you going to spill secret information anywhere?”

“No, but I think you should be worried about the little girl that tracked you down to your apartment and still won’t tell either of us how she did it,” you pointed out.

“She’s asleep, so I think I’m safe for now,” he chuckled. You smile at that, shaking your head as you take another drink. Bucky watches you for a few moments before he speaks again, “Has it always just been you and her?”

“Since her mom passed? Yeah. Just the two of us. Our neighbor– Mrs. Mendoza– helps out on nights when I work late. Otherwise it’s just me and her,” you nodded, taking a deep breath as you say it out loud. 

“Isn’t that hard?” he asked.

“I’m sure it’s not more difficult than keeping the world safe every other week,” you smiled at him. 

“You’re keeping her world safe. That has to count for something, too,” he dismissed. 

“Well… It’s easier now that she’s older. Though this phase she’s in definitely sucks,” you admitted before smiling at the flashback of memories of her as a small baby in your arms. “But I’ve had my moments of crying in the bathroom when she was a toddler because I was overwhelmed and alone.” 

“No one special to keep you company though?” he asked. 

You paused mid-drink, eyes flickering over to him. You raised your eyebrows, watching him for a moment. His face was calm as he took a sip of his own can, waiting for your response. Usually, you would have skimmed right over the question, but there was a certain tilt in his voice that made you stop and weigh his words over in your mind.

“Are you hitting on me right now?” you asked before you could stop yourself. 

“Depends. Do you think I am?”

“There’s a strong suggestion that you are.”

“I’m asking if Rebecca has a strong father figure in her life.”

You roll your eyes, trying to hide your smile behind the can. “You think she would have ran off to find you if she had a strong father figure?”

“You tell me,” Bucky said with a shrug, nonchalant. He can’t seem to hide the smile on his face either.

You shake your head, placing the can on the table. You move over the papers so that the condensation doesn’t ruin his files as you take in a breath.

“I don’t have time to date,” you revealed to him. “Becky is my top priority. And most guys don’t want to date someone that has a young kid. They see it as baggage. She comes before anything in my life. I closed the chapter of romance when I adopted her. I don’t remember the last time I went on a date, if I’m being honest.”

“You’re still young,” he said. “At some point, Rebecca will be old enough. She won’t be a kid forever.”

“You’re right,” you nodded, looking down at the can. Your smile turns slightly sad, somewhat melancholic before you meet his eyes again. “But she’s still a kid right now. And as much as I would like to have somebody special in my life like that… I don’t have the ability to be selfish when she relies on me. It’s not just my heart that the other person will break if they decide to walk away from me, you know?”

“I get it. Kinda.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Kinda?”

“With my job,” he explained. “It’s selfish. Sometimes, I’m away for weeks at a time, and I would be radio silent for the entire time. It would be hard on them, not knowing if I was okay. So, in a way.. I get it.”

“Is that why this apartment reeks of bachelor in New York?” you asked, tilting your head at him.

“Is it really that bad?” he chuckled.

“Bucky. Your fridge was empty. Your bathroom is barely stocked. You don't even have decorations in here,” you pointed out at him, watching him hold his hands up in defense.

“You still have my card. Go ahead and decorate the place to your liking.”

“Pardon?”

“You work as a personal assistant, right? Let me use your skills. Make my place look more homey. That way, when you’re gone, it still feels warm,” he said, giving you a small smile.

His words made your chest squeeze. When you’re gone. 

You’ve barely known the man for over twenty four hours, but it still made you feel sad in a way that you can’t explain. Maybe it was the fact he already admitted to you that he was lonely– that he enjoyed coming home to people in his house. That he liked seeing Rebecca’s face because it reminded him of the sister that he was ripped apart from when he was taken as a prisoner of war all those years ago. Maybe it was because in this moment, he didn’t look like a superhero or a congressman like in those pictures of the articles you read. He looked like a man. Just a tired man, who wanted to rest. 

“You really don’t mind it if we stay for a bit?” you asked, worry lacing your voice. “What if I turn out to be a serial killer or something?”

Bucky barked out a laugh that made your stomach flip. “Then guard my house while I’m gone, sweetheart. Consider it your work for me allowing you to stay here for free.”

Over the two weeks, your routine with Bucky continued.

You and Rebecca would wake up early to make Bucky lunch before he went off for work. You woke up at five the first day, unsure of what time he would leave– thankful it was the time he woke up himself to get in the shower. The two of you rushed to make him something. Each day was something different, and it would also be your lunch for the day as well. 

The first day, he was surprised when Rebecca handed him the bag at the door.

“Bring home the container so we can run it through the dishwasher tonight. And come home for dinner. I’ll make salmon, if you like that?” you asked him with a smile. 

Bucky’s eyes flitted over to you and Rebecca, who was about to fall over from sleepiness, still holding out the tupperware of food to him. 

“Love it,” he responded, snapping out of whatever haze he seemed to be in, taking the bag from your kid. He let out a shaky breath, and ruffled her hair. “Thank you for this. Bye–”

“It’s not bye!” Rebecca cut him off, angry. “It’s see you later! Bye is too final. Mo– Auntie said so. You have to say see you later.”

You stifled a laugh at Bucky’s face. His mouth was agape, eyes wide as he was scolded by an eight year old with tangled hair and morning breath. She was also dead serious with her words, hands on her hips. 

“See you later, Becks,” he corrected himself. She smiled, satisfied.

“See you later, Bucky!” she grinned at him.

“Have a good day at work,” you told him when his eyes went over to you, still smiling. “I’ll start decorating your place today.”

He let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “Yes– thank you. I’ll see you later tonight.”

Over the week, you ordered decoration and different furniture for Bucky’s apartment (using his card), and Rebecca helped you build everything throughout the day as packages began to arrive. In between all of it, you worked remotely as your boss had you troubleshoot items that your incompetent coworkers couldn’t seem to figure out on their own. You were damn near about to lose your mind. After all, you were on emergency PTO. You shouldn’t have to be dealing with any of this right now.

Though, it was still less work than if you were in the office on a regular day. 

All in the meantime, you were still doing your best to reconnect with Rebecca. She seemed to be warming up with you little by little again. The small child that you knew was still in there. You could see that everything she was doing was definitely a front– that there was something here that you were so close to cracking what was in her tiny little mind. 

Bucky would come home every night around eight. You would have dinner ready for him around that time as well. Sometimes, he would come home with a new bruise on his face or a cut on his lip. You told Rebecca that if she saw it, not to mention it. That he was a hero fighting bad guys, and home was a place for him to rest. She understood, and was a good girl. She allowed him the peace within these walls. Bucky seemed to appreciate it.

You would watch Bucky interact with Rebecca, too. He began to wipe her mouth when sauce or crumbs would find its way on the edges of her mouth, and she would let her. If she wanted more food, he would move before you would to give her some. When her glass of juice ran low, he would stand from the table to fill it up– but not before adding some water to it like he saw you did once before. 

After dinner, Bucky would do the dishes while you went to shower, and he would put her to bed. When you got out of the shower, he would be doing paperwork at the kitchen table that he couldn’t do at his office or whatever building that he worked at, and you two would drink a can of beer or two together while you talked. 

He would tell you about his day, and you would tell him about the copious amounts of money that you just spent on his card. He would laugh, and shake his head, but he would never get mad at you. Of course, the numbers were always exaggerated. You just wanted to see him laugh. 

Bucky’s smile was pretty. His laughter was genuine, and you enjoyed watching the way that his whole body rumbled when he laughed. The sound was low, and reverberated throughout your body when the noise hit you. You enjoyed listening to it.

“Is this your first time in New York?” Bucky asked you one night. 

This time was different. You weren’t at the table. There wasn’t any paperwork. You two were sitting on opposite ends of the couch, the TV turned on to some random movie that neither of you were watching. He had his right arm draped over the back of the couch, legs spread a bit wide as he relaxed comfortably against the back of the couch. Your back was pressed against the armrest of the other end, your feet barely brushing his thigh, your left arm on the back of the couch with your fist propping up your head as you looked at him.

“Is it obvious?” you asked, making a face.

“You sound like you’re from California.”

“Ugh,” you groaned. “I hear that all the time. Valley accent? I thought I got rid of it by now. I’ve been living on the East Coast since before Becky was born.”

“Why’d you move all the way out here?” he chuckled, taking a drink.

“It’s kinda a shit story. I haven’t even told Becky. You sure you wanna hear it?” you asked, cringing a little. 

“I’ve been through hell. I’m sure I can handle it,” he promised. 

You were silent for a few moments, trying to figure out where to start this story. After all– you’ve never said it out loud before. You figured the very first person you would ever tell it to was Rebecca. You sucked in a breath.

“Becky’s dad was a drunk… who used to beat Tabitha,” you finally start. You watched as Bucky sits up a bit straighter. He turns the TV off, and shifts to face you completely. His attention is on you, fully. “I knew, and I told her to leave him– but she would tell me she loved him, and it was hard for her to leave him. I… still don’t get it, but I’ve never been in one of those situations. Anyway– she’s my friend, so I stayed beside her regardless. 

“Then, she got pregnant, and she had a wake up call. She realized that… she didn’t want any baby of hers to be beaten the same way that she was being beaten so we finally went to the police. Unfortunately, his dad is a cop. So, they didn’t do anything… and her asshole boyfriend threatened to kill both her and her unborn baby.

“We were both twenty one years old, in our last year of college. She had no job, I was working at a mall in LA, and we had absolutely zero assets, but I suggested to her that we run to the other side of the country and start over. So we did. I transferred to a university over here to finish school. She dropped out to work full time while she still could and saved every single penny. I worked when I didn’t have school to help save money, then got a job as soon as I graduated to help out Tabitha with Rebecca. I would work during the day, and she would take care of Rebecca, then she would work night shifts. Then, Tabitha… passed away in a car accident on her way home one early morning.”

Bucky didn’t say anything when you finished. You looked down at your lap, feeling a bit nervous as you chewed the inside of your cheek. 

“That answered a bit more than what you asked, but uh– I was born and raised in California,” you added with a nervous laugh, clearing your throat. “Went to UCLA and everything.”

“Is that bastard still alive?” Bucky asked you, gritting his teeth.

“Rebecca’s dad? I have no clue,” you said, shaking your head. “I don’t have social media anymore. Tabitha and I went completely off grid when we ran so that we couldn’t be found. No Facebook or anything like that. He shouldn’t even be able to find Rebecca– she has Tabitha’s maiden name, not his last name.”

Bucky clenched his jaw, letting out a deep breath through his nostrils before nodding once. He closed his eyes tight, then pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Jesus. That’s really– I’m sorry,” he whispered your name. “That’s horrible.”

“It’s okay,” you whispered back. “Becky’s a blessing, even though there were so many things that went wrong before I managed to have her in my life.”

He stared at you for a few moments, eyes roaming your face. You didn’t cry over this story anymore. You had cried over it by yourself many years ago. You came to terms with it a long, long time ago. You were certain the next and last time you would cry is when you would tell Rebecca– and you would only cry if she ended up crying, too.

“It must have been lonely,” he murmured. “I’m sorry.”

Your lips parted as you struggled to find the words to respond to him. You wanted to deny it. Wanted to tell him that it wasn’t lonely because Rebecca was there by your side, but you knew that wasn’t the truth. You were still lonely– there was a void that Rebecca couldn’t fill, just like there was a hole that she was trying to fill by running away from you. Instead, you nodded, and gave him a sad smile. 

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I’m pretty damn lonely.”

“Cheers to that?” he offered, holding his can out to you. You chuckled, hitting the edge of your can against his. 

“Cheers.”

You both took a long drink. 

“Admittedly, I am not as lonely with the two of you around though,” he said, looking around his apartment. “My house looks… lived in.”

“That’s another word for messy, Bucky,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. 

You note the coffee table with drawings made by Rebecca. She drew Bucky and his metal arm. She drew another portrait of him flexing. There were some drawings of flowers. That wasn’t even all of the drawings– Rebecca taped a good amount of her art to the wall. You apologized to Bucky when he came home and saw them, but he told you to leave them there. He liked seeing them haphazardly taped up, even though they weren’t leveled properly. 

You also take in the stray lego blocks that are on the floor near the hall. Bucky brought them home on the fifth night, saying that he went to the store and bought them since he didn’t want her to be completely bored in his house. She did play with them, but didn’t even finish it before she got side tracked by her tablet. 

He also bought her some board games that you played with her while Bucky was gone at work– that you also didn’t manage to clean up while he was away. The games were unfinished, and Rebecca refused to let you tidy up the area until she won. 

“I like it though,” he said, giving you a smile that was contagious. 

“So you’ll miss her when she’s gone?” you asked, raising your eyebrows at him.

“I’m saying that I might need to take a trip to Newport every once in a while. Or maybe convince you to come visit me here so I can see my great grandniece.” 

“Because you’ll miss her,” you repeated, chuckling to yourself.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll miss both of you. Not just her. It’s not just Rebecca that I look forward to seeing every night when I come home.”

You stare at him for a few moments before bringing the can of beer to your lips, taking a drink to busy yourself with something. You’re hoping the liquid will be able to cool down the burning in your cheeks, but it’s unlikely that it’s doing anything for you.

“We can come back for holidays,” you said after a few moments, unable to meet his eyes. “And you’re welcome to visit us whenever. I… also enjoy greeting you when you come home, too. And talking to you every night. It’s nice.”

Bucky let out a breath of what sounded like relief. Your eyes shifted over to him once more, finding that he was smiling again. “I’m glad we’re in agreement, sweetheart.”

If you weren’t blushing before, you know that you are now.

It’s on the third week when you finish your shower earlier than usual to find that Bucky isn’t at the kitchen table like he normally is. Instead, you find that he’s in the bedroom with Rebecca. The door is slightly open, and you can see him sitting on the edge of the bed beside her, stroking her hair as she lays there, tucked in and ready to sleep. 

“You’re fighting bedtime a lot longer tonight, Becks,” he whispered to her, stroking her hair slowly.

“I’m not tired,” she grumbles, but you can hear the sleepiness lacing her words. Bucky must be able to as well, from the way he chuckles.

“Sure, kiddo. What did you do today?”

“Nothing interesting.. Momma took me to Central Park today. We walked around. Never been there before,” she told him.

“And that’s not interesting?” he asked softly. 

Rebecca shrugged slightly. “It’s hot outside. We got ice cream. I saw you in the newspaper. What did you do today?”

“Just boring stuff,” he said with a sigh, still lulling her to sleep with gentle strokes to her head. 

“Can you tell me about your superhero friends again?” she asked with a yawn.

“Which one?”

“Your favorite one.”

“I think your mom is my favorite superhero, Rebecca,” Bucky whispered to her.

“My Momma isn’t a superhero,” she frowned at him.

“Hm… I think she is,” he shrugged. “To me, at least. She wakes up early every day to make lunch for me and you. I’m sure if I stayed, I would be able to eat the breakfast that she makes, too, but I just don’t have time for that. I know you eat it. She doesn’t have to do it. Then, she makes dinner every night as well. She takes care of you, does all the chores without complaining. Don’t you notice that my apartment looks really nice all of a sudden? Your mom decorated it all by herself.”

“Don’t all moms do that?” Rebecca asked.

Bucky smiled sadly at her. “Some of my friends have really bad moms, kiddo. Some of my friends don’t have moms at all. They would have loved to have a mom like you do. So it really breaks my heart to see you treat her the way you do when all she does is love you.”

Rebecca was quiet for a few moments before she turned on her side. “I don’t hate her,” she muttered into the pillow. “I really love her.”

“I know you do. She knows that, too,” Bucky promised her, patting her back rhythmically. 

“Is she really a superhero?” she asked, peeking out of the pillow to look at him.

“Sure she is. She can be a superhero to me and you,” he told her, and she gave him a small nod. “However, a superhero needs somebody to protect– which is you. So you need to go to bed.”

“Okay,” she sighed dramatically, closing her eyes. “Good night, Bucky.”

“Good night, Rebecca,” he chuckled, rubbing her back gently. 

You step away from the door slowly, making your way to the kitchen. The dishwasher is already going, the table has already been wiped down. You decide to beat Bucky by a step and take out the beers from the fridge and put them on the table and wait for him there. 

He doesn’t keep you sitting there for too long, as you hear the door to the bedroom shut a few moments later. 

“You showered fast today,” Bucky said, opening your can before picking up his own.

“Happens every once in a while,” you shrugged as you watched him grab his backpack to pull out his files and laptop to start working. You watch in silence for a few moments, drinking as you do before a question comes to mind. “Are your teammates so loud that you can’t do your reports in the tower?”

“I can,” he said. “You get used to it. I just come home every night now, so I spend less time in the tower. Have to make up for it by doing the reports here.”

“Wait– you didn’t come home every night before?” you asked.

“No,” he shook his head. “There was no reason for me to come here all the time. No one to come home to.”

“So you lived and worked in the same place that you call your base?” 

“Pretty much. I just used this place as a space to… unwind, I guess. When things got too hectic,” he said, shrugging a bit. “This is the first time that I’ve consistently come home since I started the Avengers job.”

“Oh,” you said, and you feel a little dumb. You feel a little sad, too. You stare at him, but he’s looking at his computer. He’s typing away at things that you don’t understand. “But your team… You get along with them?”

His hands stop over his keyboard. There is a small, teasing smile on his face.

“Are you worried about me?”

“Yes,” you answer immediately, locking eyes with him. It makes the smile falter on his lips. “You said you were lonely. Your lives are in their hands right? Do you not trust them?”

Bucky pauses, running his metal hand through his hair– you learned last week that the metal was called vibranium. He contemplates your words for a few moments before nodding.

“I trust them,” he said, his voice steady. “I trust them to do the job, and to do it right. Do I trust them emotionally? That is a different level that I am not sure I will be able to reach with them. The team is still fairly new, and I’m still learning different parts of them that they’re hiding from me, too. I’m their leader. I can’t just… be vulnerable straight off the bat, you know?”

“Do you have any friends?” you asked, eyebrows furrowed. 

“I did,” he said, looking back at his keyboard. “He’s kinda suing me right now for the rights to the name of the Avengers, so there’s a bit of a rift between us.”

“The new Captain America– Sam Wilson?” You recalled the name from an article you read when you searched up Bucky on the first day you were here.

“Yeah. That guy. We’re not really on speaking terms right now,” Bucky sighed deeply. “After the previous Captain America passed on the mantle… Sam’s pretty much the only friend I have left.”

“You have me,” you offered. 

His eyes went back to you, a small smile finding its way to his face.

“And you,” he added, nodding. “Thank you. You have me, too.”

“You’ll have to put your world saving on pause during Christmas,” you said, smiling back. “Rebecca will be heartbroken if you don’t come over to celebrate with us.”

Bucky let out a laugh. “I’ll mark it on the calendar.”

You’re about to make another joke, something else to make him laugh so you can hear the sound that makes your heart soar through the roof when you hear your phone start buzzing on the couch. It’s already past eleven– you shouldn’t have anyone calling you. You and Bucky share a look before you go towards it, picking it up.

To your utter horror, the familiar caller ID of your boss is staring at you. Part of you wants to let it go to voicemail, but you know that her next plan of action is to just start spam texting you through the entire night until you answer her.

“Everything okay?” Bucky asked, seeing the look on your face.

“Yeah. Just my boss,” you sigh. “Sorry. I have to take this.”

Bucky nods at you, and looks back down at his computer as you sit down on the couch and tap on the green button on your screen before bringing the phone to your ear.

“It's so good to hear from you, Sil!” you greet with a fake cheery voice. You can hear Bucky choke on his beer behind you. You turn around, glaring at him as he coughs, trying to stifle his laughter. “How can I help you toni-”

“I need your ass back in Newport as soon as possible,” your boss, Silva, demands.

“Um, Sil, I’m still on emergency leave,” you remind her, trying to keep your tone light.

“You think I don’t know that?!” she hissed at you. “Hannah fucked up the presentation for the Morgan Corporation, and Denise somehow messed up both the catering and the hotel venue for the presentation. I need you to get back here and fix this mess otherwise you won’t have a job to get back to!”

“The Morgan presentation? The one that’s happening in two days?” you repeated, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You mean the one that I completed last week and sent back to you– the one that I finished for Hannah remotely?”

“You worry about the details too much,” Silva dismissed. “I need you here now. I’m not giving you an option.”

The line hung up, and you stared at your phone. Thousands of thoughts are racing through your mind as your cortisol levels are increasing. Then, you stood up.

“I have to go back to Newport,” you said, turning around to look at Bucky. “Can I ask you to look after Rebecca for like, two days? I’ll be back, I promise, right after the presentation is over. She’s self sufficient. She knows how to use a microwave and the toaster, I just need you to come back home after work to make sure she’s not dead or choking on anything–”

“Hey, hey. Slow down,” Bucky cut you off, voice soft and soothing. You didn’t even realize you were rambling. Bucky stood quickly, crossing over to you to place his hands on your shoulders. “What’s going on?”

“I’m going to lose my job and my only source of income that supports me and Rebecca if I don’t go home to do this fucked up presentation,” you whispered, heart pounding in your ears as you look at him. “My coworkers are incompetent and my boss fucking sucks. I’m so sorry Bucky, I know your job is so much more demanding than mine is and I would try dragging her with me, but I’m scared she’s gonna make a scene again–”

Bucky cuts you off once more by saying your name so gently your breath catches in your throat. 

“Don’t worry. I can watch an eight year old for a day or two,” he promised. “And I can take a break, too. Are you going to leave right now?”

“I should,” you said, letting out a breath. “Less traffic. And I’ll have to get in the office right away so I can fix whatever dumpster fire is waiting for me.”

“Okay,” he nodded, his hands sliding down your arms. “Go get ready. I’ll make you some food to bring with you on the road so you have something to snack on while you drive.”

“Okay,” you echoed back at him.

The second Bucky lets go of you, you’re immediately rushing to change your clothes and put shoes on.

“Where’s Momma?” Rebecca asked, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes as she walked out into the living room.

“She had to go back home. Her boss called her into the office for an emergency presentation,” Bucky answered, flipping the pancakes on the pan. “It’s just gonna be me and you for the next couple of days, if that’s okay with you, kiddo.”

“Oh,” she murmured before clambering onto one of the kitchen island’s bar chairs. “I was just asking… since she always wakes me up to help make you lunch. You’re not working today?”

“Took the day off to hang out with you,” Bucky shook his head, then plated the pancake, right next to the eggs and bacon that he had already cooked earlier. He turned off the stove, then put the plate in front of the little girl. 

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” he nodded at her, picking up his coffee mug. 

The day is fairly quiet, all things considered. Too quiet, actually. Rebecca normally isn’t like this. Bucky knows that he can’t really speak since he’s gone most of the day, but even during the brief moments of time when he sees her before he goes to work and when he eats dinner with her– she’s much more animated.

She picks at her food during lunch, even though it’s chicken nuggets. He doesn’t think that she’s playing with her food, but Bucky watches as she skins the poor nuggets of its crust before she decides to slowly eat them. Bucky even gives her an ice cream sandwich that she looks solemnly at as she eats. 

Rebecca doesn’t even pay attention to the cartoon that he puts on for her. Avatar. He even watches it with her. He hates to admit it, but it is pretty damn entertaining. He’ll have to tell you when you get home that you were right. He asked Rebecca what element she would like to have as a superpower and she just shrugged at him as she picked at her nails.

Bucky tried playing a board game with her. She didn’t argue with him, but she wasn’t paying attention to him or the game. She wasn’t into it or anything at all. There wasn’t any fire in her eyes. 

Rebecca was sad, and he didn’t understand why.

When dinner rolled around, Bucky couldn’t take it anymore. She was poking at her chow mein that he ordered because she mentioned that she wanted noodles ,and he was a shit cook that couldn’t compare to you. He didn’t want to feed Rebecca inedible food.

“Becks,” he said, putting down his chopsticks. “What’s going on?”

His eyes widened when her eyes began to well up with tears. He immediately reached for the napkins on the table– square napkins that were in a napkin holder that you bought for him. In fact, there were even tablemats and coasters on the table that weren’t there before you came into his life.

“I miss my Momma,” she wailed.

Bucky got out of his seat, pulling Rebecca’s chair out of the table so he could properly look at her. He kneeled beside her, wiping her tears as she cried. He held the napkin to her nose as she blew into it, hiccuping and sobbing. 

An idea popped into his head.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Bucky asked. “For your Momma to be gone?”

“No– NO!” she cried loudly, shaking her head. Then, she looked conflicted. “I… I mean… I thought I did…”

“Rebecca. What did you really want?” Bucky asked, taking her little hands in his. 

“My teacher… and my classmates told me that family meant blood. And that my Momma can’t be my family because she’s– she’s not blood. So.. So I came to look for you… And I really… really like you… but I love my Momma more,” Rebecca managed to stammer out between sobs and sniffles, her little body violently shaking between each hiccup.

Bucky let out a small laugh, rubbing her back as he grabbed another napkin off the table to help wipe her tears again.

“I really like you, too, Becks,” he promised. “And I know your mom loves you so much. I’m really glad that you found me. Thank you.”

“Really?” she whispered, looking at him. “I… I wasn’t annoying?”

“'Course not,” he chuckled. “I really enjoyed having you around. I’ll miss you when you’re gone. Both you and your mom. But right now– you wanna go home, don’t you?”

She didn’t hesitate to nod, “Yeah… I wanna go home, Bucky. Can you take me?”

Bucky smiled at her, even though something in his chest broke a little bit. He wiped away the last bit of her tears as he let out a breath.

“Alright, kiddo. Let’s finish dinner. I’ll take you back home.”

Rebecca’s mood instantly skyrocketed from there, as Bucky’s mood plummeted. He did his best to hide it. He put Rebecca to bed, and sat in the living room with his face buried between his hands, shrouded by darkness. 

He tried to go to sleep, but his body wouldn’t let him. Then again, he knew that sleep would only make the inevitable come by faster– that he would be alone so much quicker. Either way, the sun came up, and Rebecca got up early on her own. 

Rebecca showered, got dressed, and packed the Hello Kitty backpack that she came with.

Bucky couldn’t help but smile when he saw her with it. 

He got her situated in his car, then input the address to your house that he pulled from the background check that he did on you almost a full month ago. He found a radio station that played some kid friendly songs that Rebecca seemed to know, the little girl singing along happily to each word. She even teased him for not knowing any of the words. When she got tired and fell asleep, Bucky ended up in his own head.

The three hour drive soon passed by him quickly, and he was pulling into your driveway. Your house was cute. It was one story, with a front and backyard. White picket fence with a mailbox. Your car was parked in the driveway, and you were coming out of the front door. Your eyes fell on Bucky’s car, then on Rebecca, who was already unbuckling herself and throwing herself at you as quickly as she could.

“Momma!” she cried, running to you.

You caught her as she jumped on you, stumbling backwards slightly. Bucky got out of the car, seeing your bewildered look.

“Hi, baby,” you said, holding her head to your chest. “What– what are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry for being mean to you,” she whined, tears in her eyes. “I want to stay here. With you– I really do love you. I’m sorry!”

You blinked at her, still confused, but hugged her tight to your body. You looked over at Bucky, who gave you a smile and a nod.

“She missed you,” Bucky said. “She asked me to take her home.” 

You let out a breath, still trying to process everything. You stood up, ruffling Rebecca’s hair as you unlocked the front door to let the kid inside. She ran inside as you turned to Bucky, who grabbed her little backpack to deliver to you.

“Thank you,” you said, still a little breathless. 

“Of course,” he chuckled. “How’d your presentation go?”

“I’m actually on my way to it. I’ll have to drop her off at my neighbors– anyway. Um… Come visit for Christmas?”

Bucky stared at you for a little bit longer, taking in your appearance. You were in work attire right now. It was different from how he was used to seeing you in his apartment– he decided he enjoyed the oversized t-shirts and the cotton shorts much more than the pantsuits, but you were still pretty like this, too.

“I’ll text you,” he nodded, giving you a smile.

“Yeah. Text me,” you smiled back. “Stay safe, Bucky.”

“Yeah… Bye,” he said.

You didn’t correct his parting words as he turned around towards his car.

Bucky didn’t let himself linger on your street. He refused to. He didn’t have a place here, as much as his heart wanted him to stay here. You were only in his life for twenty-three days. That’s all it was. He told himself that he was silly for growing attached to you, to Rebecca.

He kept telling himself that as he cleaned up the board game pieces in his apartment, and as he carefully sorted the lego blocks in a way that Rebecca would be able to still be able to build the puzzle she was making according to the directions. 

Bucky continued to tell himself that he would get over the darkness of his apartment as he moved all of your toiletries to the cabinet under his sink where he couldn’t see it. He lied to himself that you didn’t make a lasting impression on his brain as he rolled over on his bed to where you slept– to where he could still smell your perfume on his pillow.

“What the fuck is wrong with you these days?” Yelena demanded as they got off the loading dock. “You look like some kind of abused puppy.”

Bucky rolled his eyes as he began to remove his gear. “The fuck are you talking about?” he grunted.

“You don’t go home early anymore. Sometimes you don’t go home period. Did your secret girlfriend break up with you?” John guessed.

Bucky frowned. “I didn’t and don’t have a girlfriend. Who came up with that?” 

“We just made up theories,” Ava said.

“And your theory was that I had a girlfriend?” Bucky sighed.

“You left the tower early, came to work everyday in a good mood, and you brought a home packed lunch everyday,” Yelena deadpanned. “So yeah. Girlfriend.”

“We thought you were getting laid!” Alexei boomed with laughter.

Bucky’s scowl deepened, and he rubbed his fingers over his eyes. He was getting a headache. Bucky was trying and failing at attempting to drown out the boisterous talk around him as his teammates attempt to come up with conspiracies on why he’s been going home earlier this past month.

“Do you think he’s been broken up with?” John asked Ava.

“Within a month? No way,” Ava scoffed. “I mean, he’s Barnes, but he’s still a handsome man.”

“Bob, what do you think?” John asked, turning to him.

“Um… Maybe they got into a fight?” the man added in nervously. “Maybe Bucky’s tryna let her cool off?”

“A fight for this long though? He hasn’t gone home early in like, a week!” John exclaimed.

“Not manly,” Alexei clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “A man should own up to his mistakes and face his woman accordingly!”

Bucky wanted to go home. 

Home to what though? 

There were no board games to play with Rebecca if dinner wasn’t done in time. He wouldn’t be able to listen to Rebecca’s nonstop tirade on what Hello Kitty character of the week is her favorite since her little eight year old mind can’t decide on a single one to keep. 

Bucky would have to stare at the lopsidedly taped drawings on the wall that Rebecca taped up– drawings of the three of them that she proudly showed him when he came home. Art that was all over his walls, the main decoration of his place. 

He wouldn’t be able to put Rebecca to bed tonight.

You wouldn’t greet him when he came through the door either. You wouldn’t smile at him with the same warmth you always do. You wouldn’t be there to sit with him after dinner and chat with him until the late hours of the night and keep him company to talk about nothing and everything at the same time. You weren’t there to giggle with him as you drank maybe a little too much, your thigh brushing against his as you sat next to him on the couch as you both pretended to watch something on the TV together.

You wouldn’t be there in the early hours of the morning, hair slightly messy as you make him lunch– lunch that the team teases him about because they once saw the sticky note that had an encouraging message written on it in your handwriting that you include with every single lunch you pack for him. At some point, you started drawing a single heart with each note, too.

There was no point in going home to an empty apartment after he knows how good it can be to return home to a warm one.

“Barnes.”

“What?” he snapped, looking at Yelena.

“Go on a vacation.”

“What?” he repeated, eyebrows furrowing at her.

“I’m not gonna ask you for any details,” she started, “Whatever is going on isn’t messing with the job right now, but it sure as hell might do it soon– so figure out your life before you start fucking up on missions. I’ll make sure Val doesn’t ask about you.”

Bucky knew Yelena– this was a nice way of her telling him to fix whatever went wrong. He let out a breath. Without another word, he turned away.

The doorbell ringing throughout your house makes you look up from your laptop. You check the time– it’s only seven. Rebecca’s at a sleepover at her friend’s house tonight, and you’re not expecting any guests. 

You make your way to the front of the house, checking the camera. Your heartbeat quickens as the screen lights up with a familiar face. You rip the door open immediately. 

“Bucky?” you asked, eyes wide. “What are you doing here?”

“Hey,” he greeted you, albeit a little awkwardly. “Nice to see you, too.”

“I mean– yeah. Nice to see you. Come in.”

You step aside to let him in, watching him take in the surroundings of your house briefly. Then, he clears his throat, eyes settling on you again. Suddenly, you feel bare even though you’ve worn similar clothes in front of him before.

“Where’s Rebecca?” he asked, shifting on his feet.

“She’s at a friend’s house tonight. Sleepover,” you answered. “Sorry to disappoint. She would’ve been happy to see you.”

“No, no. It’s okay. I–uh… I came to see you, actually,” he confessed.

Your lips parted, eyes searching all over his face again. He’s not lying. He’s staring right at you, and you’re getting lost in his eyes. You quickly pull yourself away to turn towards the kitchen.

“Want something to drink? Water? Beer?” you asked, opening the fridge and pulling out two bottles of beer prematurely. “I haven’t cooked anything yet, but are you hungry for anything?”

“Just you,” he answered.

You paused for a moment, wondering if you heard him correctly. Then, you straighten. The silence is heavy as you feel his eyes on your back. It’s burning you, but not in a bad way. It’s not desire, not lust. You can’t describe the feeling that he’s emanating right now.

You take in a deep breath before you turn around, placing the bottles on the table.

“Can you open these with your metal hand or do I need to get the bottle opener?” you asked, looking at him again.

“I got it,” he murmured, reaching for them. Both of the bottles were opened with ease, and he handed you the first one, your fingertips brushing against each other as the drink passed between you two. 

You watch as he brings the rim to his lips at the same time you do, both of you taking a long, slow drink together. It goes down your throat in a burn that you’ve never felt before. 

“What did you mean by that?” you finally asked, wetting your lips nervously. “What do you mean.. me?”

“Exactly what I said,” he replied, eyes never leaving your face. “You. I want you.”

You closed your eyes, letting out a breath. “Bucky, I told you that I don’t do–”

“And I will be here for you and Rebecca. That is not a problem for me,” he cut you off immediately, putting the bottle down on the table to place his hands on your shoulders. “You don’t understand. The last week and a half have been absolute hell for me. You showed me what a home is, and it’s gone. I miss it. I miss you, and I miss Rebecca. I know that you are a package deal. I know where you are, Rebecca is.”

“Do you miss me, or do you miss the home that I gave you?” you asked wearily.

“Sweetheart, you are home,” he whispered, stressing the words. Your chest squeezed at his confession. “I thought I was going crazy. I thought– I tried to envision somebody else. I couldn’t. It had to be you. I don’t think it can be anyone else. I need it to be you greeting me. Am I– was I the only one who thought there was something between us?”

You want to run away. You want to lie to him and tell him that he made it all up in his head. But you’ve been thinking about him, too.

You made too much food the past week and a half. You’ve accidentally made his serving without thinking about it. You’ve been waking up earlier than you need to because you still think about making him lunch, and you go to work wondering if he ate a substantial dinner. 

Other than food– you wonder if he’s lonely. He told you that he was. He told you that you and Rebecca made him less lonely. And he made you less lonely the days that you spent with him, too. 

“It’s not just my heart that you would break,” you whispered, repeating the same words that you said to him before.

“I would never,” he promised.

“You said that it would be selfish of you to be in a relationship with someone because of your job,” you told him.

“This past month showed me that I could manage,” he said, shaking his head. “I came home to you every night, didn’t I?”

He had a point.

You bit your lip, still hesitating. You were scared. Terrified. Bucky could see it in your eyes. His hands slid from your shoulders down your arms and to your hands, squeezing them comfortingly. 

“We don’t have to tell Rebecca right away, if that makes you feel better. We can feel it out. See if this works. And if it doesn’t– then she’ll never know. I know that’s your main worry,” he said, brushing his hands over your knuckles. “But please believe me when I say I would never do anything to hurt either of you.”

You know that wouldn’t be fair to Rebecca. Hell, that wouldn’t be fair to Bucky.

The two of them have bonded so well over the short time that they’ve known each other that it’s almost scary. Bucky mentioned that he didn’t have the facilities to raise a kid, but he did pretty damn well with running after her.

She hung off his vibranium arm more times than you could count. You watched as he did push-ups and she sat on his back giggling. There were times where she helped him load the dishwasher. They watched cartoons together, and she would explain the plot of the episode, and he would sit there and genuinely listen to every single word that came from her mouth.

“I don’t want to hide anything from her,” you said, sighing softly, squeezing his hands back. “Besides, I was planning on quitting my job. Do you want to hire me as your actual personal assistant? Do you think me and Becks could just move into your apartment for real this time?”

Bucky’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“I fucking hate my boss, Bucky,” you said, smiling at him. “I was your pseudo-assistant and all you had me do was buy pillows and spend your money on groceries. It was a pretty good gig. I mean, of course, if you need my resume, it’s pretty good. I can print it out for you.”

“I mean– us. You’re giving us a chance?” he asked, still in shock.

You smile wider at him. “Should I add my feelings for you on the resume?”

Bucky stared at you for a few moments before his hands cradled your face, his lips pressing against yours before you even realized it. You let out a small laugh against him, feeling him smile against you as your arms wrapped around him.

Soon, you were pressed between the counter and the solid muscle that was Bucky. His hands were on your waist, holding you close to him as you held onto his jacket, pulling him into you as you angled your head to make him kiss you deeper. 

It was almost effortless, the way your tongue met his. You’re not even sure who’s mouth opened first, but you didn’t really care. The first moan that came out was his, though. You were hungry to hear more. You rose on your toes, pressing harder into him as a hand splayed against your back. You briefly let go of his jacket to start shoving it down his arms. He let you.

“Shit,” he grunted as you broke the kiss trail kiss down his neck, a second hand moving to cradle the back of your head against him. “Sweetheart, where’s your bedroom?”

“Down the hall, last door to the left,” you whispered into his skin right before he hooked his hands under your thighs, wrapping your legs around his hips. 

Just like you thought, he picked you up like you were nothing. 

He carried you over to your room as you continued to pepper kisses against his neck, nipping and biting at his skin as he hummed in enjoyment. Once he got to your bed, he laid you down in the middle of it, kneeled between your legs.

“One of my pillows still smells like you,” he muttered, hands finding your waist again. “Your entire room smells like you.”

“Is that bad?” you whispered back.

“No. Drove me crazy. I missed you so much,” he sighed, his hands dipping under your shirt. “Is this okay?”

“I haven’t done anything like this in a really long time, Bucky,” you confessed, meeting his eyes. “Might be a little awkward.”

He smiled a bit, bending down over you to press a kiss to your forehead, your nose, then a sweet kiss to your lips. Bucky pulled away to look you in the eyes.

“It’s okay,” he promised. “It’s been a long time for me, too.”

Your stomach flipped with anticipation as he pulled your shirt off your body, eyes beginning to trail all over your bare torso. He cursed under his breath, and you felt goosebumps raise where his hands ghosted over your skin. He wasn’t touching you fully, not yet.

Then, Bucky descended, catching you in an open mouthed kiss as his hands finally closed over your breasts, kneading them. You let out a soft moan against his lips as his fingertips rolled a stiff nipple with one hand while his tongue licked into your mouth.

“It’s already hard,” he muttered, pulling away from your lips. 

“Because you’re touching me!” you complained, your chest rising and falling unevenly. Bucky chuckles above you, kissing your jaw. 

“You’re cute when you’re needy,” he said. “Are you wet, too?”

You can’t answer him– he’s already searching for the answer himself. His flesh hand is dipped under your shorts and underwear, parting your folds and humming in delight at his discovery. You, on the other hand, are at his disposal.

“Bucky,” you whispered, hands grabbing onto his shoulders.

“I got you,” he murmured, biting at your neck gently before soothing the wound with his tongue. 

You’re deliciously overwhelmed within moments. He still has his face in your neck, his metal hand teasing your breast and nipple, and the other hand between your legs, fingers just barely poking at your entrance where you want him most. He’s messing with you, you realize. He can feel your pulse from where his lips are. 

“Please, Bucky,” you moaned– only to feel his fingers press into you a moment later.

“All you had to do was ask, sweetheart,” he chuckled into your ear. 

“You’re such an asshole,” you gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulders as he finds a lazy pace to fuck you with his fingers. 

“And you look so pretty like this,” he said, eyes scanning over your figure beneath him. You could only imagine what you looked like right now. Flustered, with his hand in your shorts, one breast being grabbed by his metal hand. You must look like a work of art to him.

Another moan escapes your throat as his finger crooks just slightly, eyes falling shut. 

“Oh my God– more–” your words come out broken as he fulfills your request without another word, a second finger joining in to press in and out of you faster. Your hips buck up slightly to meet his hand, a shiver rushing through your body as you feel pressure building up in your stomach. 

“There you go,” he whispered, and you take a moment to look at him. His eyes are blown out– dark. You almost can’t see the stormy grey blue eyes with how he’s looking at you right now. Your eyes trail down his body, and you can see him straining against his jeans. “Feels good?”

“Fuck– yes. Feels really good,” you forced out, a moan following your words.

He smiles in delight at your response, fingers curling ever so slightly and hitting that slightly spongy spot inside you that makes you see stars behind your eyes. Your back arches and he takes note– and his fingers quickens. 

You can’t moan. No noises escape you as your walls clamp down on his fingers, eyes closing tight as you cum all over his fingers. Bucky lets out a moan above you, getting off at you getting off. His fingers never stop, continuing to massage you through your high.

Your body trembles slightly as he finally pulls out, and you watch him lick his fingers clean. You have never seen a hotter, more sensual sight in your entire life. 

“Bucky,” you whispered, breathing a bit heavier. “Take your pants off already.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, swallowing thickly. “If we start–”

“Oh my God, fuck me already,” you cut him off, reaching for his belt. 

A laugh escapes his lips as he moves to help your shaking hands, tossing the belt to the side of your bed. He removes his shirt next. As he throws his pants and underwear off, you do the same, and he’s above you within the next few moments. 

You don’t give him a chance to breathe before your arms are wrapped around his neck, pulling his body down against yours. You like the feel of his bare body against yours. It’s warm in a way that you’ve never felt before. Comfortable and hard– safe. 

His lips are on yours in an instant as he situates himself between your legs once more. You feel the tip of him press against you, spreading your folds just slightly. He’s hesitating. 

You grind your hips against him as you continue to kiss him, humming softly. You want him. You want this. 

Bucky lets out a small sigh against you, and finally slides home. 

Both of you let out a moan into each other’s mouths. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Bucky groaned, breaking the kiss. His forehead is pressed against yours. “You’re just swallowing me up– you’re so tight. Thought I stretched you out.”

“Told you– I haven’t done this in a long time,” you whispered back, a broken moan falling from your lips as he pushed in more of his length. 

The stretch doesn’t hurt. In fact, you’re loving every moment of it. You feel every inch of him, every groove and every vein of his cock entering you. It’s addicting. He’s addicting. When his hips are finally flush against yours, you feel impossibly full. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to this feeling. 

“Nice and slow,” he grunted, and you nod deliriously in agreement as he takes the first thrust.

It’s heaven. 

You’re falling apart, and Bucky is putting you back together just as fast with each slow roll of his hips against yours. He’s whispering praises to you as you hold onto him, but you can’t focus on his words right now. All you can focus on is the steady movement of his hips hitting yours, the sound of your own heartbeat, the feel of his heartbeat against your chest, and the way he looks at you with so much affection in your eyes that it makes you melt into the sheets beneath you.

“God, you’re so pretty,” you slur out the words, a bit breathless.

Bucky lets out a small laugh, smiling down at you in a way that makes your heart stutter. He does look so pretty. There’s a light sheen of sweat that’s covering his body right now. His muscles are rippling with each thrust into your body, and his arms are flexed as he holds onto your waist to keep you in place. 

“You don’t even know what you look like right now. It’s taking everything in me not to go wild,” he whispered back. “Wanna savour the moment.”

He pulls out until just the tip of his cock is left inside of you before thrusting back deep into you in one fluid motion, your eyes fluttering shut as your lips part in a noiseless moan. 

“God– you liked that?” he grunted, and you nodded, opening your eyes to look at him. “I could tell– you clenched around me so hard I almost came right then and there.”

“Again,” you whimpered, grabbing onto his wrists for stability. “Do it again.”

“I don’t think I can last very long if I keep doing that, sweetheart,” he admitted.

“Neither can I– please?” you begged. 

“Fuck,” he cursed, biting his lip as he tried collecting himself. “Where? Baby, where?”

“In me, on me– I don’t care,” you babbled, shaking your head. “Please, please, just hurry–”

He cut you off with another deep roll of his hips, capturing your lips once again. You couldn’t even kiss him back with the way he was fucking into you. It was slow, deep– but he was hitting everywhere that you could’ve ever needed. You were tightening around him, and you knew he was feeling it, the way his hips stuttered slightly, and hands tightened at your waist.

Bucky’s head dropped to your neck, your arms wrapping around his shoulders once more as his thrusts got sloppier, his hands moving to grab your thighs and fold them against your body. You gasped beneath him, clenching around him.

“Bucky– shit–”

“Yes, yes, I know. I got you,” he moaned into your neck,  one hand moving between you to rub tight circles into your clit– and you were done for.

You were a mess beneath him, eyes rolling to the back of your head as his fingers and hips never stopped. You felt his body shiver above you a few moments later as he groaned in your ear, and you felt an irreplaceable warmth fill your body as his hips came to a slow, cock twitching inside of you.

Bucky collapsed above you, though he kept most of his weight off of you as he tried catching his breath. Both of you were entirely spent. Eventually, he rolled over on his side, and pulled you into his chest with a satisfied sigh. He pressed a kiss to your forehead.

Then, you felt him tilt your head up to meet his lips once more. You feel his hands rest against your back, pulling you closer to him. You find that you don’t want to be anywhere else.

“I promise I’ll make you and Rebecca happy,” he murmured, lips barely pulled away from yours. “I’ll find a new apartment so Becky can have her own room.”

“You wanna cuddle with me at night, Bucky?” you ask, smiling against his lips. “Don’t wanna sleep on the couch anymore?”

“Hell no,” he snorted. “Why would I?”

You let out a laugh, pressing another quick kiss to his lips as you settle your head onto his arm. He watches you, brushing a lock of your hair behind your ear. There really is no mistaking the amount of affection that he has for you in his eyes.

“She’ll probably call you dad in a few months,” you whispered, watching his face to see how he’ll take it.

“She can call me whatever the hell she wants as long as it’s not grandpa,” he grunts, rolling his eyes. Despite the sass, there’s a smile on his face that he doesn’t bother to hide.

masterlist

taglist: @duacruel @natsomens @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @iyskgd @ifuckwithyouanyday @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels @snnoopyy @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @aekzla let me know if you would like to be added/removed to a general bucky taglist :)

[danysdaughter]

Сетка

pairing | civil!war!bucky x widow!reader

word count | 10.4k words

summary | when you, a former red room widow crosses paths with the man who once trained you—now a ghost of the monster you remember—your collision reignites memories neither of you can outrun. in a world that only ever taught you two to survive, you find something you were never trained for: each other.

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, intimate sex, enemies to companions to lovers, angst, slow burn, emotional hurt/comfort, winter soldier triggers, protective!reader, protective!bucky, mutual obsession, feral love, soft intimacy, violence, reader only speaks russian, bucky speaks english, emotionally devastated bucky barnes, shit translated russian (probably), reader does not play about her man

a/n | IMPORTANT TO NOTE: the events of black widow happen before ca:cw in this. Based on this request. (I'm posting this from work lol)

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

Москва, 2003 — Красная комната

Moscow, 2003 — The Red Room

The walls were too white.

Sterile. Silent. Watching.

That was the first thing you noticed—that kind of white that felt wrong. Like it had been bleached so many times, even the ghosts had nowhere left to hide. Even the steel doors looked polished, like they were proud of what happened here.

You sat shoulder to shoulder with the others—seven girls, fifteen on average. Not children. Not soldiers. Not yet.

The floor was colder than ice, and it bled through your thin uniform. But none of you shivered. That had been trained out early—along with tears, questions, and the word нет.[no.]

The air reeked of antiseptic and metal. Underneath it, sweat clung to the walls like memory. Like shame.

Footsteps echoed.

Three sets.

Two sharp. One heavy.

No one turned to look. That was lesson one. Looking got you noticed. Being noticed got you hurt.

But you felt him before you saw him.

The shift in the atmosphere—immediate and suffocating. Like gravity got heavier. Like breath didn’t work the same anymore.

Он пришёл. [He’s here.]

You didn’t flinch, but your muscles locked up. Your knuckles pressed into your knees until they went white.

Then: silence.

Not peace.

The kind of silence that held a knife behind its back.

“Смотри вперёд,” Madam B’s voice cut cleanly through the air. [Eyes forward.]

You obeyed. All of you did. Like clockwork. Chins lifted. Spines straight.

He stood beside her. Taller than you remembered from the rumors. Broader. Real.

Зимний солдат.

The Winter Soldier

His face was half-shadow under the fluorescents, but his eyes—those eyes—were unmistakable. Dead, pale things. A shade too light. Like they’d been bleached, too.

He didn’t look at you. Or at anyone. His stare drifted somewhere behind the wall, like even he didn’t want to be in his body anymore.

That metal arm glinted under the lights. Thick at the shoulder. Seamless. Inhuman.

Madam B clasped her hands in front of her. Her posture was perfect. Her smile was poisonous.

“Ваши инструкторы научили вас дисциплине, послушанию, терпению боли,” she said. [Your instructors have taught you discipline, obedience, pain tolerance.]

“Точность.” [Precision.]

She nodded toward him.

“Теперь вы узнаете страх.” [Now… you will learn fear.]

He moved without signal. No countdown. No command.

Just violence.

One second, stillness.

The next—he was on Yulia.

The smallest one. The quietest. The one who tried to hum to herself when the lights went out.

Her back hit the wall with a sickening crack. His left arm—that arm—pressed into her throat. Just enough to choke. Not enough to kill.

Her boots scraped the tile. A soft panic-sound left her lips—then cut off as her training kicked in.

She stopped fighting. That was lesson two.

You didn't move. Not even your eyes.

Yulia turned her head slowly. Her gaze found you. Desperate. Wild. The kind of fear none of you were allowed to show.

You didn’t blink.

“Вы будете тренироваться с ним,” Madam B continued, like this was nothing. [You will train with him.]

“Вы выучите его методы. Его инстинкты.”

[You will learn his methods. His instincts.]

Yulia let out a breath that sounded like breaking glass.

And the Soldier?

He still didn’t look at her. Or at you. Or at anyone.

Because you weren’t people. Not to him.

Just shapes to break. Dolls to test.

Madam B’s smile never wavered.

“Если вы выживете.” [If you survive.]

────────────────────────

Красная комната — Тренировка, 2003

The Red Room — Training, 2003

The floor wasn’t white.

It was concrete—cracked, stained, pitted with impact. The kind of surface that remembered every body that ever hit it.

The air in the training room was humid with breath and blood. The walls sweated under the heat of fluorescent lights, buzzing like flies in your ears.

You stood alone at the center.

The others were pressed against the wall—backs straight, eyes forward, silent as statues.

Your breathing was even. Measured.

Your fists curled tight, knuckles aching with pressure.

You didn’t shake. You never shook.

You’d already lost blood on this floor. Skin. Teeth. You’d learned how to fall without sound.

But this was different.

He stepped into the ring.

Black tactical gear. Combat boots. Gloves pulled tight. His metal arm caught the light—chrome and shadow. It wasn’t a limb. It was a threat.

He didn’t speak. He never did.

Not even a command.

Madam B stood off to the side, clipboard cradled in one arm, her pen already moving.

She didn’t call a start. She didn’t have to.

The moment his weight shifted—you moved.

You struck first.

Open palm to the throat. Hook to the ribs. Low kick toward the knee.

They were survival strikes. Precise. Fast. Smart.

He swatted them away like you were nothing.

Effortless. Mechanical. Indifferent.

Then he hit back.

His fist caught the edge of your jaw—crack—and your skull snapped sideways. Your vision pulsed white for half a second, but you stayed upright.

You had to stay upright.

Then came the sweep. His left leg scythed yours out from under you, and before you even hit the floor, the metal arm slammed across your chest.

You went down hard.

Concrete kissed your back. The air tore from your lungs.

And then—pressure.

He was on top of you. One knee against your ribs, hand to your throat.

That arm. Cold. Absolute.

He wasn’t holding you down.

He was claiming the ground beneath you.

You didn’t fight it. Not yet.

You stared up into his face, and for the first time—saw him. Not as the ghost of a myth. Not as the whispered fear behind training drills.

But as a man.

A machine.

Both.

His expression was blank. But that blankness said everything.

This wasn’t a lesson.

This was a warning.

You don’t win.

You survive.

So you reached for his sidearm.

His hand snapped around your wrist. That sound—metal joints locking down on bone.

It should have crushed you. But it didn’t.

You kneed him in the stomach—your knee landing against Kevlar with a jolt. You twisted, shoved your shoulder down, and used his own momentum to roll you both.

It wasn’t elegant.

It was smart.

Calculated. Ruthless.

You weren’t bigger. Or stronger.

But you were sharp.

You learned.

He came at you again, and this time you didn’t flinch.

You dropped beneath the punch, spun inside his reach, and used his arm like a fulcrum—flipped over his shoulder.

You landed wrong.

Your elbow scraped open.

But you were standing.

There was no applause. No approval. Only the scratch of Madam B’s pen.

The Soldier didn’t react.

He reset.

No emotion. No hesitation. Just reset. Like you hadn’t earned a single thing.

But you saw it.

The twitch of his fingers. The micro-adjustment in how his feet planted. The pause—barely a pause—as his eyes followed your stance like he was filing it away.

He wouldn’t remember your name.

You didn’t have one here.

But that day? He noticed you.

────────────────────────

Красная комната — через шесть месяцев

Red Room — Six Months Later

The mat was stained with old sweat and old blood.

You stood barefoot at the center. Bruised. Breathing steady.

Fifteen years old. One of the last still standing.

You didn’t know what day it was. Didn’t need to. You measured time in bruises, in blood dried under fingernails, in how long it took for your ribs to stop aching.

This was your fourth session with the Soldat in six days.

They were testing something.

Durability, maybe. Threshold. Obedience.

Or maybe they just wanted to see if you’d finally break.

Above, behind the black glass, Madam B watched. Her voice came cold over the intercom.

“Начали.” [Begin.]

You moved instantly.

A blur across the mat. Feint left, then up—elbow aimed for the hinge of his jaw.

His metal hand caught your arm mid-strike. Effortless. Inevitable.

He twisted. Spun you. Drove a knee into your side.

You blocked—barely. The pain reverberated through your ribcage like splintering glass.

But you didn’t grunt.

Didn’t cry out.

You never made a sound.

Pain didn’t mean stop.

Pain meant continue.

The room rang with impact. Bare feet sliding. Fists connecting. Breath coming sharp between attacks.

He was bigger. Stronger. His reach eclipsed yours, his strikes heavier, colder.

But you were faster. You had studied him. Memorized every tick, every tell. He never led with his right. The metal arm always came second—the trap after the bait.

You slid low under a hook, came up behind him, and kicked the back of his knee.

He faltered.

A grunt left his mouth—barely audible, but real.

You didn’t pause.

You spun, forearm tucked in, and drove it up under his ribs. You connected.

His breath hitched.

Your chest rose once—sharp.

You’d drawn breath from the Soldat.

His hand snapped out—metal fingers closing around your throat.

You slammed into the wall with a thud that rattled through your spine.

His grip tightened.

But you didn’t fight it. You didn’t blink.

Your stare locked with his—blank to blank.

Two weapons mid-calibration.

He leaned in. Not far. Just enough to study you.

His eyes weren’t flat. Not fully.

Something behind them… ticked.

Then—he spoke.

Low. Controlled.

Almost quiet enough not to register.

“Хватит.” [Enough.]

Your body stilled.

Muscles stopped firing. Breath locked. Every cell in you responded like a command had been entered in your bones.

That word—from him—meant stop.

Session over.

He released you.

You dropped—not from failure, not from injury, but from the vacuum left by adrenaline. Your knees hit the mat. Your hand splayed out to catch balance.

Your chest heaved. Hot. Controlled. Like a furnace behind your ribs.

He watched you.

Still silent. Still unreadable.

But his fists were clenched.

And this time… he didn’t walk away immediately.

He looked at you.

Really looked.

Not like an opponent. Not like an assignment.

Like something had clicked. Like a new file was being written in his mind.

Not fear. Not even memory.

Interest.

────────────────────────

After Hydra took back the Soldat, the others gave you a nickname.

Сетка.

[The Web.]

You weren’t the strongest.

You weren’t the fastest.

But you were the only one—aside from the one they called Romanova—to hold your ground against the Soldat.

You weren’t known for brute force.

You were known for calculated strikes.

For how you waited. For how you wrapped your opponents in silence and then struck.

You didn’t earn it through survival.

You earned it through stillness.

Through how, when the Winter Soldat looked at you—he paused.

Румыния, Бухарест, 2016

Romania, Bucharest, 2016

The world was too big.

You hadn’t realized that until you were freed.

Not with fanfare. Not with chains breaking on a concrete floor. Just… the chemicals gone. The fog lifted. Like smoke peeling away after the fire’s already eaten everything it wanted.

You were free.

And you didn’t know what to do with it.

No one gave you instructions. No handler. No target. No voice in your ear.

So you drifted.

Trains. Buses. The back of a truck once, when it didn’t matter where you ended up. Countries blurred. Time warped. Faces forgotten before they were registered.

You didn’t speak.

Not because you couldn’t.

Because your voice didn’t sound like yours yet. It sounded like property. Like training. Like the echo of someone else’s weaponized breath.

When you did speak, it was only in Russian. A comfort. A shield.

If they couldn’t understand you, they couldn’t own you.

Now—

Bucharest.

A city wrapped in damp air and dull concrete. A sky so overcast it looked like someone had smudged out the sun.

You didn’t pick it.

It just happened.

Like most things now.

No mission brought you here. No ghost pulled you.

Just the weight of motion finally running out of road.

You sat at the corner table of a café so small the world didn’t seem to notice it existed. A chipped white mug sat between your hands. Coffee, cooled and untouched. You hadn’t tasted anything in days, but the smell was something. Bitter. Familiar.

Across the street, a man adjusted a bike chain. His hands were black with grease. Someone shouted upstairs in Romanian. A dog barked. The faint crack of an egg hitting a pan cut through the air.

It should have felt normal.

And maybe that’s what made it unbearable.

You weren’t made for peace.

Peace had no rules. No orders.

Peace expected you to feel.

But you didn’t feel human.

You didn’t feel anything at all.

Just a hum in your chest where panic used to live. Just silence where purpose used to be.

Your fingertips curled against the ceramic like you were checking to see if you were still real.

Maybe you were. Maybe not.

You watched the sky for signs of rain.

And thought: Maybe tomorrow, you’ll leave.

────────────────────────

Несколько дней спустя

A Few Days Later

It started with the color of his eyes.

You didn’t recognize the rest of him at first—he moved differently now. Civilian clothes. Hair tied back. Slower, softer posture. Almost… human.

But then he turned toward the sun.

And you saw them.

That shade. That steel blue.

Unnatural. Icy.

Dead things wearing a face.

And suddenly, the world tilted sideways.

Your fingers twitched at your sides.

Солдат. [Soldat.]

The market noise dulled to a hum in your ears. Just smells and motion. Heat and light. Someone was selling tomatoes. Someone else bartered for lamb. Shoes scuffed pavement.

You didn’t blink.

Your feet were already moving.

He spotted you seconds later. His brows knit in confusion—not fear. Recognition hovered behind his expression, but distant. Faded. Like trying to remember the lyrics to a song he only half-heard.

Then—your eyes met.

His mouth opened, confused.

You lunged.

He moved just in time—sidestepped, arm up, deflecting your first strike. You twisted under him, elbow jabbing into his ribs. He caught your wrist.

“Wait—who the hell are—?”

You dropped your weight, flipped him over your hip. He hit the cobblestone with a grunt, rolled, sprang to his feet.

A vendor screamed. Then another.

Crates of fruit crashed around you. Splinters of wood. Apples underfoot.

He tried to disengage—hands up, defensive, careful.

“I don’t want to fight you—!”

You weren’t listening.

Your fist slammed toward his face. He blocked. You kicked at his thigh, drove your knee up toward his gut.

He grunted, staggered. Caught your leg mid-air.

You spun inside the hold, using the capture, and flipped over his shoulders.

Your knees slammed down on his collarbones.

He stumbled.

You slammed your palm into the back of his skull, forcing him toward the ground.

He rolled, bringing you down with him. The two of you crashed through a vendor’s table, shattering it into splinters and cloth.

“Чёрт—who are you?”

[Damn it—]

You didn’t answer. You wouldn’t.

His face twisted—half in frustration, half in dawning memory. But you weren’t a memory. You were now.

He blocked a knife-hand strike. Caught your other wrist. You twisted under, slammed your head toward his jaw.

It connected. His lip split. A child screamed nearby.

He shoved you off—but not to hurt. To breathe.

“I’m not him,” he rasped. “Not anymore.”

Your heart pounded. Your knees bent. You were ready to kill.

You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Every second he breathed in your presence felt like failure.

You were fifteen again. You were on the mat. You were under the metal arm.

You struck low—shin to his knee. He buckled slightly, but rebounded quick, grabbing your arm and twisting. You followed it, using the torque to throw yourself up and over him, body flipping above his head. He ducked, but not fast enough.

Your heel scraped his temple.

He staggered.

You hit the ground in a crouch, surged forward, fists flying—open-palm strikes, throat jabs, knife-hand to his kidney. He blocked most. Absorbed some.

But you were faster.

You always had been.

Around you, the market dissolved. Stalls crushed. People scattered. Screams and panic thick in the air. Vendors grabbed their children and ran. Tomatoes exploded underfoot like bloodstains.

He was breathing heavier now.

You could see the calculation behind his eyes—how he wasn’t hitting back.

Because he knew. He knew the precision in your strikes. He knew where you’d learned them.

“Why are you doing this?” he ground out, catching your arm again, ducking under a punch and shoving you backward into a stack of crates. “I don’t want to hurt you!”

You snapped forward, wrapped your legs around his neck, pulled.

He fell—slammed hard on the ground with you on top. You straddled his chest, brought your elbow up, and—

He caught your wrist. Locked it. Twisted just enough to force the momentum off. Rolled.

Now you were beneath him.

His knees pinned your thighs. His hand gripped your wrist above your head. Metal arm pressed against your collarbone—not choking, just holding.

Your breathing came fast. Harsh. Chest rising and falling in panic, fury, fire.

His hair hung loose now. Lip bleeding. Chest heaving.

And his eyes—

They weren’t dead. They weren’t his. They weren’t the Soldat’s.

His voice came low. Guttural.

“I’m not him.” His hand didn’t tighten. He didn’t shake. “I don't want to hurt you.”

You wanted to fight. Your body ached to.

But your eyes locked with his. And something fractured. Because the eyes that looked back at you now—they weren’t hollow. They weren’t blank.

They were human. Still haunted. Still carrying every sin etched into his bones. But there was no order in them. No command. No programming.

Just… regret.

Your body didn’t relax. But it stopped resisting.

Just slightly. Just enough.

Your breath caught in your throat—not because you were scared, but because you didn’t know what to do with stillness.

Your body had stopped moving, but everything inside was still screaming.

His grip didn’t loosen.

He was still above you, pinning you down—not aggressively. Just… securing the chaos.

You stared up at him, and he stared back, his brow furrowed like he was searching for a word he’d forgotten in a language he hadn’t spoken in years.

And then—

sirens.

Not close yet, but coming. Sharp. Rising.

His head snapped to the side. You tensed beneath him again. His eyes flicked back to you. Jaw tight. Conflicted.

Then, in a movement that felt more instinct than decision—he pulled you up.

You didn’t resist. Not out of trust. Out of confusion.

He didn’t let go of your wrist. Didn’t shove you.

He just moved—guiding you fast into a narrow alley between buildings. The noise of the street dimmed behind you. Fabric flapped on a laundry line above. The pavement here was cracked, lined with moss and cigarette butts.

He stopped. Pulled you behind him.

Pressed your back against the wall, one hand splayed across your stomach to keep you behind his frame.

You should’ve fought him again. You should’ve broken his arm. But you didn’t.

His other hand came up—not touching you, just hovering slightly, as if to say stay.

You both stayed frozen. You could feel his breath against your temple. Still steady. But his hand—

It was shaking. Not from fear. From memory.

Like his body remembered something his mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

He didn’t look back at you. But he stayed there.

And for now, so did you.

The sirens faded.

The city noise returned in slow motion—honking, voices, the far-off clatter of trams and tires. The chaos in the market had been swallowed again by the buzz of ordinary life, like the fight never happened.

Bucky shifted. Just slightly.

His hand eased away from your stomach, the other dropping to his side. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

But you did.

You turned your head—slowly—and shot him a look so sharp it could’ve cut through bone.

You shoved his chest with both hands. Not hard enough to hurt—just enough to get space between you. Your expression was blank, but your body radiated heat and fury.

He didn’t resist. He let you push him.

And you turned.

No words. No explanation. No retreat. Just your back as you walked away—shoulders squared, movements clipped, hair tangled from the fight. You didn’t run.

You didn’t need to.

“…Hey,” he called after you, stepping out of the alley. “Hey—wait.”

You didn’t pause.

Your boots clapped against the wet pavement, turning down another street without looking back.

“Where are you going?” No answer.

He caught up, boots scuffing beside yours. He wasn’t panting anymore, but he was confused. Disarmed in the way only survivors could disarm each other.

“You just tried to kill me,” he said. “You started that. You could’ve—”

He stopped. Regrouped. “Who the hell are you?”

You didn’t even glance at him.

Just one subtle shift in your jaw. Tension in your neck.

That was all he got.

He caught up beside you. Tried to get in front of you. You side-stepped him like he was furniture.

“You speak?” he pushed, breath hitching with disbelief. “You got a name? Or just fists?”

Still nothing.

You barely acknowledged his existence now. That alone made his pulse spike.

“Did we know each other?” he demanded, frustration creeping into his voice. “I mean—really know each other? Because something about you feels… I don’t know.”

You stopped. Just once. You turned your head slightly.

And said, flatly, with razor-edged indifference, “Он умер.” [He’s dead.]

Then kept walking.

The words froze him. Just for a second.

The Soldat.

Dead.

Killed in your eyes the second he hesitated. The second he showed mercy. The second he didn’t fight back.

He kept following. Not at a sprint. Not with force.

Just… there.

A shadow a few steps behind. Close enough to be felt. Not close enough to touch.

You turned corners like the city owed you space. Didn’t rush. Didn’t look back. But you knew he was behind you. Every step. Every breath.

And still—you didn’t stop.

You passed shopfronts. Faded yellow walls. Posters curling off the bricks. A cracked tile underfoot. The stink of wet bread and exhaust in the air.

“Why are you running from me?” he asked, not breathless—just bitter. “You came at me. Remember that?”

You didn’t respond.

He didn’t expect you to.

“I don’t remember everything, alright?” he pushed, his voice clipping at the edge. “There are gaps. Big ones. I don’t know who I hurt. Who I—”

You rolled your eyes.

The noise he made in frustration wasn’t a sound of anger.

It was need.

“Just—just tell me your name,” he said. “Please. I don’t care what you were trying to do. Just give me that.”

You stopped again.

Slow.

Turned slightly.

Your face unreadable.

Voice low. “Сетка.”

His brow furrowed.

“Setka?” he repeated. “That’s not a name.”

You tilted your head—just a fraction. And then you looked at him like he was insects. Not worth a fight.

Just an irritation buzzing too close to your ear.

You turned back. Started walking again.

He followed.

“Is that a code name? What is that? Russian? Hydra?” He caught up beside you, walking now shoulder to shoulder. “Did I know you?”

You gave him nothing.

But his eyes stayed on you.

And you?

You just kept walking.

Not because you were done with him.

Because you were done with what he used to be.

────────────────────────

You ducked into the café like it owed you something.

Not the same one from before—this one was smaller, grittier. Glass smudged with fingerprints. Fluorescent light overhead flickering like a dying star. But the pastries in the case were fresh, warm, and dusted with powdered sugar.

That’s all that mattered.

You didn’t look back to check if he was still following.

You knew he was.

You ordered with a short nod, pointed at what you wanted. Paid in crumpled bills. And sat by the window, legs crossed, posture casual—like this was your place and the world was just visiting.

A sweet bun sat in front of you, golden, soft, still steaming.

You tore into it with precision. First bite was deliberate—slow chew, eyes half-lidded in genuine pleasure.

And then—

He walked in.

You didn’t look up. Not at first.

You licked a smear of sugar off your thumb, eyes fixed on the glass.

He ordered something. You didn’t care what. Until he slid into the seat across from you.

Boots heavy. Posture coiled. Forearms resting on the edge of the table like he was ready to fight if the cutlery moved.

He stared at you.

That stare. Cold. Sharp. Brow low. Eyes locked in.

The kind of look that made grown men flinch. You took another bite of your pastry.

Chewed. Swallowed. Licked your lips. And looked up slowly.

Your gaze met his.Unblinking. Flat. Not intimidated. Just... annoyed.

He stared harder.

You raised an eyebrow—just one.

Bit into the pastry again with a kind of exaggerated grace. Sugar dusted your bottom lip.

He leaned forward a bit.

You leaned back, leisurely, like the air between you bored you.

The silence was so thick it should’ve collapsed the table.

Still, you said nothing. Because you didn’t need to. You’d already won.

He shifted. You didn’t. His jaw flexed. Then—

He moved.

Slowly, reluctantly, like it physically pained him to do it, Bucky brought his hand up and extended it across the table. Palm open. Fingers slightly curled. That awkward, stilted kind of offer people made when they weren’t sure they were allowed to touch the world yet.

“I’m Bucky,” he said.

The words didn’t come easy. They stuck to the back of his throat. “Bucky.” Like he was still trying the name on. Still figuring out if it fit.

You looked at his hand. Not quickly. Not dramatically.

Just… down. Like you were glancing at a smear on your table.

Then you looked back up at him. Dead stare. Cold.

“Мне всё равно,” you said softly.

[I don’t care.]

The words landed heavier than a bullet. You didn’t spit them. You didn’t hiss them. You just meant them.

His hand hovered for another second—like he thought maybe he’d misheard, misunderstood, anything. Then he slowly pulled it back. Fingers flexing once before curling into a loose fist on the table.

You went back to your pastry. He didn’t move again.

────────────────────────

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink when he stared at you across the table. Didn’t soften when he introduced himself. Didn’t care.

He’d held out his hand like it meant something—like the name Bucky still belonged to him—and you looked at it like it was rotting.

“Мне всё равно.” [I don’t care.]

That should’ve been the end of it.

He should’ve let you walk. Let you disappear like every other phantom in his half-formed memory. But—

He couldn’t.

You were like smoke in a room with no fire.

Wrong. Out of place. But present.

Cold. Controlled. Eyes like winter steel and hands trained for death.

You weren't avoiding him like he was dangerous. You acted like he was a fly. An inconvenience.

And still…

He couldn’t stop watching you.

He found out you stayed three blocks away from him, in a run-down building that looked like it had never seen heat. No lights on past midnight. You came and went like habit—not avoidance.

No weapons drawn. Just… presence.

And it started happening before he noticed it: He’d time his walks to cross your path. He’d change course just to track where you ended up. Not to hurt you. Not even to corner you.

Just to exist near you.

Because somehow, somehow—he felt more alive around you than he had in years.

Not safe. Not comfortable. Alive.

Like the weight wasn’t pressing quite as hard against his chest when you were in the room. Even if you never looked at him. Even if you never said a word.

There was something about you.

Not just the way you moved—efficient, brutal, graceful like a damn blade in water. But the way you carried herself.

Like you didn’t owe the world a thing.

You were impenetrable. And it made him feel human.

────────────────────────

Несколько дней спустя

Some Days Later

You were sitting on the edge of a crumbling fountain, half a pastry in one hand, your boot tapping against the stone.

Same coat. Same deadpan stare. Same indifference like it was armor stitched into your skin.

Bucky stood across the square, watching.

Again.

You didn’t look at him, but he knew you saw him.

You always did.

This time, he walked straight over.

No subtlety. No circling. No waiting for a moment that wouldn’t come.

You didn’t move. Didn’t shift.

Just kept eating, like the man you tried to murder in a marketplace last week wasn’t about to sit beside you.

He lowered himself onto the edge of the fountain—not too close. Close enough.

You still didn’t look at him.

“I’m not following you,” he said quietly.

You raised a brow but said nothing. The flake of pastry lingered on your lip. You didn’t wipe it away.

“I just need to know…” He sighed, hand curling over his knee. “Setka. What that name means. Who are you?”

No response.

A pause.

Then, at last, your voice—quiet, flat, “Ты думаешь, ты хочешь знать.”

[You think you want to know, but you dont]

You met his eyes. Still unreadable. Still so, so tired.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, low.

His voice was raw now—not just tired, but unraveling.

“I just… need to know.”

A pause.

“Did I hurt you?”

Your chewing stopped.

You looked forward, eyes tracking something only you could see. Your fingers flexed once on the crumpled pastry paper. Then, softly, “да.” [Yes.]

A beat.

And then, quieter still—

“Но ты также научил меня не умирать.”

[But you also taught me not to die.*]

The words hit him like a blow to the chest.

His throat worked. His fingers twitched against his thigh. He wanted to ask what you meant—but couldn’t even form the question.

So he looked at you. Not with suspicion.

But with that kind of desperate, quiet plea in his eyes—the kind that asked without sound.

Please. I need more.

You finally sighed. A long, slow exhale through your nose. Tired. Annoyed.

Like explaining this was beneath you, but his stare was loud enough to warrant an answer.

“Красная комната,” you said flatly.

[The Red Room.]

His brows furrowed.

“Гидра отдала тебя им.”

[Hydra gave you to them.]

You finally looked at him.

Your face was unreadable. Not cruel. Not soft. Just matter-of-fact. “Ты… обучал нас.”

[You trained us.]

And there it was. The fracture in his expression. Shock, but not surprise.

Like you'd just said something he already knew, deep in his bones—but didn’t want to hear aloud.

He blinked. Swallowed.

“You were a widow,” he said, mostly to himself.

Your silence was confirmation. And for the first time since he met you, you didn’t look like a ghost.

He sat there, silent. Trying to make sense of what you'd just given him. And still—he needed more.

“How…” he said quietly, carefully, “how did you get out?”

You didn’t look at him.

You exhaled sharply through your nose. That specific kind of sigh. The one that said you’re annoying, but I’ll answer because I want you to stop talking.

Then, cool and clipped, “Наталия Романова. И Елена Белова.”

[Natalia Romanova. And Yelena Belova.]

You didn’t elaborate. You didn’t soften. You tossed the empty pastry wrapper into the bin beside the fountain and stood.

Then added, almost as an afterthought:

“Слишком поздно для большинства.”

[Too late for most of us.]

And without a glance back, you turned and walked away. Boots clicking against the stone. Shoulders squared. Back straight.

Leaving him there with a realization that the only person who might know who he was still didn’t care who he is.

You heard his steps before you saw him.

You always did.

He didn’t walk like a civilian. Not even when he tried.

His boots were too heavy. His presence too loud. Even in silence.

You didn’t turn when he entered the courtyard, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he didn’t mean to be there.

But you knew better.

You were sitting on a low wall, picking at the crust of a tart. Raspberry filling on your thumb. The sun was barely up.

And there he was. Again.

You didn’t sigh. Didn’t roll your eyes. This time, you just… watched. Not with annoyance. Just observation.

He sat a few feet away. Close enough to talk. Far enough not to press.

He looked tired.

More than usual.

Like he hadn’t slept. Like being in his skin had worn him raw.

And for the first time, you wondered.

Not what he wanted.

But why he kept wanting.

You let the silence hang for a moment longer, then tilted your head just slightly.

Voice soft. Even.

“Что ты хочешь от меня?”

[What do you want from me?]

He blinked.

Then smirked—dry, thin, almost embarrassed.

“Your name,” he said. “For one.”

You gave him a look. Half-bored, half-knowing.

“и…?” you prompted, arching a brow. [And…]

That’s when he faltered.

He shifted on the wall. Looked down at his hands. Flexed the metal one like he didn’t trust it.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

Not bitter. Not confused. Just honest.

“I don’t know why I keep looking for you. I just—”

He hesitated.

“You’re the only thing that makes sense. And you don’t even like me.”

You blinked at him. Then returned your gaze forward. Back to the rising sun. And said nothing.

But for once, you didn’t get up and leave.

You stayed.

────────────────────────

The fountain was silent, just a hollowed-out shell of stone, stained with rust and time. You sat perched on the rim, arms resting against your knees, watching the last light of day catch in the cracks of the broken tiles. The warmth of the sun was soft on your face, but the air was already turning cold.

You felt him arrive before he spoke.

He moved like someone who didn’t want to be noticed, but was too heavy with memory not to be felt.

He sat beside you—not too close, but not far. He didn’t speak. Not yet. And you didn’t turn your head to acknowledge him. It wasn’t necessary.

You’d started sharing silence like it belonged to both of you.

Minutes passed.

You listened to the slow creak of birds returning to the rooftops, the faint echo of footsteps on distant concrete. The world had quieted around you, and he hadn’t left.

Eventually, his voice broke through, rough and low.

“I don’t think I'll ever stop waiting.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away. The words hung in the air, weightless and unfinished, and part of you wondered if he even expected a reply. Your gaze stayed fixed ahead, tracking the fractured pattern of shadows stretching across the courtyard.

And then, maybe without knowing why—you spoke.

Your name left your mouth quieter than you intended, like it had to sneak past the years of silence it had been buried under.

He turned to you. “What?”

You looked at him.

Met his eyes.

And said it again.

Clear. Certain. Yours.

The way he blinked told you he hadn’t expected it—not tonight, maybe not ever. He repeated it under his breath, carefully, like the syllables might dissolve if he held them too tightly. He said it like he was tasting something real for the first time in years.

Then he gave a small nod, the corners of his mouth twitching into something soft.

“Nice to meet you,” he murmured.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, giving him the same look you’d used on a hundred fools who thought they’d earned something for no reason.

His smile grew—not smug, but amused. Quiet. Unforced.

For a moment, you didn’t mind that he was there.

───────────────────────

You always took the same seat—back corner, right by the window, where the sunlight slanted across the table in late morning like gold dust.

Your coffee was always lukewarm by the time you drank it, and your pastries were always sweet. The music in your ears pulsed soft and steady, a low hum only you could hear. You never shared what you were listening to, and you never offered to.

He never asked.

But he noticed.

He noticed that when you chewed slowly, your head tilted slightly to one side—just enough to catch a particular note. He noticed that you tapped your fingers on the table sometimes, in rhythm with whatever beat lived under your skin.

It wasn’t much.

But it was yours.

And you noticed him too.

He always had the same notebook—small, black, worn at the edges, the kind that could be slipped into a coat pocket without a second thought. He never let anyone else see inside. But he wrote in it often, sometimes mid-sentence, like a thought might escape if he didn’t pin it down fast enough.

You didn’t speak for a long time.

Until one morning, when he was scribbling again inside it, you leaned slightly forward, voice low, words rolling off your tongue like it belonged there.

“Что ты там всё время пишешь?”

[What do you keep writing in there?]

He glanced up, blinking like he hadn’t realized you were watching him.

“Stuff I remember,” he answered, softly. “Names. Places. Dreams. I forget a lot, so I write it down.”

He didn’t ask what you were listening to.

But his gaze flicked toward the earbud still nestled in your ear, and you knew he was thinking it.

You didn’t offer it.

But you didn’t hide it, either.

Later that morning, you both reached for the last almond tart at the same time.

Your hand got there first.

You raised a brow. He huffed out a laugh through his nose and motioned for you to take it.

You did.

You broke it in half and pushed the other piece across the table.

He didn’t thank you. But he ate it.

That was the day you stopped sitting across from each other.

And started sitting side by side.

────────────────────────

The café was nearly empty, just the soft clink of ceramic and the distant hum of an old radio behind the counter. The pastry case had been picked clean, and the overhead light above your usual table flickered faintly, but neither of you moved to find another seat.

You sat beside him this time—shoulder to shoulder, one knee pulled up onto the booth seat, your arm resting lazily along the back of the bench. The hood of your coat was down, loose pieces of hair falling over your face. You didn’t bother fixing them.

You were listening to something again—earbuds in, eyes half-lidded.

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye. He didn’t speak. He didn’t want to break whatever this was. The fact that you were still here meant something.

You shifted suddenly.

Not much—just a lean, just enough that your shoulder pressed into his arm, your head tipping to the side until it rested against him. Light. Casual. Like it was accidental. Like he wasn’t even there.

His breath hitched slightly—but he didn’t move.

You didn’t look at him.

But you reached up, plucked one of the earbuds from your ear, and—without looking—held it out toward him.

An offering.

No words.

No eye contact.

Just choice.

He hesitated—then took it.

David Bowie’s voice filtered in, old and warm and ghostlike. Something about changes, about time bending and slipping through fingers. The kind of song that made the city feel like it was holding its breath.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t smile.

But your head stayed against his shoulder.

And when the song ended, you didn’t take the earbud back.

You just let it stay.

Несколько месяцев спустя

A Few Months Later

He was on the floor again.

The mattress had been too soft. The air too still. He needed edges. Needed cold.

But even here—against the hard wood, spine pressed into the earth like punishment—it wasn’t enough to keep the dreams out.

They started like they always did.

Flashes of corridors. Screams without mouths. His own hands soaked in red. Russian commands slicing through the dark like razors.

He heard bones snap. He heard a girl scream—

No, not a girl. You.

But the Soldat didn’t stop.

His own voice—flat, mechanized—spoke a language he couldn’t feel, barking orders at children.

And then—

He was drowning in snow. Arms bound. Blood freezing.

He gasped awake like something had clawed through his chest.

His breath came ragged. Sharp. Cold sweat clung to every inch of skin, and the room felt like it was collapsing.

But then—

A hand.

Soft.

Warm against his chest.

Not sudden. Not a jolt. Just there—pressed gently over his heart like it had been holding him for hours.

“Тише…” [Easy now…]

Your voice was the first thing to cut through the fog. Low, steady, threaded with sleep but utterly sure.

His eyes snapped to you.

Darkness wrapped around the room like cloth, but he could see you in the low amber spill from the window. You were curled against him, body bare and familiar, skin pressed to skin. Your thigh hooked over his, one arm wrapped around his waist, the other tracing slow, grounding circles over his chest.

You didn’t flinch at his shaking.

You just held him.

“Это не сейчас,” you whispered again, softer.

[It’s not now.]

And he breathed like he hadn’t in days.

Hands found your back—clutching, clinging, greedy in the way that had nothing to do with sex. Like you were oxygen. Like his fingers didn’t know how to stop searching for the edges of you.

You didn’t pull away. You let him take. You let him need.

His breath stayed ragged for a long time, chest heaving beneath your hand like it couldn’t find its rhythm. His fingers clutched at your back, shifting slightly to your waist, to your shoulder, back again—like he needed to make sure you were real every few seconds.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just kept your arm over his chest, anchoring him.

Eventually, his head turned slightly against your temple. His mouth brushed your hair when he spoke, the words low, scratchy, like they were being dragged out of his ribs one by one.

“I saw them again.”

You said nothing.

“I was holding one of them down. I don’t even think she was older than fifteen. She looked like you. I think—I think maybe it was you.”

You pressed your lips against his jaw.

Not a kiss. Not an answer.

Just pressure.

“I can’t always tell if it’s memory or something Hydra put here,” he muttered, voice splintering at the edges. “Sometimes I remember things I know I didn’t do. And other times—I know it was me. The worst ones… I know it was me.”

His hand moved to your stomach. Held you there like gravity.

“I hear screaming in Russian, and I can’t tell if it’s my voice or someone else’s. I keep thinking I’ll get used to it. That it’ll fade. But it’s like it’s burned into the back of my eyelids.”

You shifted, just slightly, fingers brushing the line of his jaw, guiding his face closer until your foreheads touched.

He exhaled like it hurt.

“I don’t know who I am outside of what they made me,” he said. “But when I’m with you, it’s the first time I don’t feel like a ghost in my own body.”

Your hand slipped behind his neck, fingertips resting just beneath his hairline.

“Ты не призрак.” [You’re not a ghost.]

The words didn’t feel like comfort.

They felt like truth.

And when his breath caught again—quiet, uneven, almost broken—you stayed exactly where you were.

Not fixing him. Not saving him. Just with him.

Because at some point, without meaning to, he had become the only thing in this world that mattered.

The room was still dark, the sky outside only just beginning to tint at the edges. You were still lying there, skin warm against his, your breath a steady rhythm he’d started to match. His body had gone still again—not tense, not panicked. Just quiet. Contained.

But his hand was still at your waist. His fingers drawing soft, slow shapes into your side like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

And you let him.

Because it wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t hungry.

It was careful.

His breath brushed the space just behind your ear when he spoke again.

“You’re the only thing I feel like I don’t need to apologize for.”

You shifted slightly—chest to chest now, one leg brushing between his. Your palm moved up to his shoulder, then trailed along the line of his throat, slow and exploratory. Not a seduction.

A recognition.

The intimacy didn’t build like a fire—it simmered, low and inevitable. He leaned into you like someone who had forgotten how to reach for warmth. His hand moved to your back, spreading wide across your spine, holding you there—not hard, not desperate, but present.

And then—

He kissed you.

Not rough. Not fast.

Just his mouth against yours, slow and searching. His breath shaky, his fingers tightening just a little in your hair.

You kissed him back. Not because you were trying to fix him. Not because you owed him anything.

But because he felt real beneath your hands, and that was enough.

When he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, his voice barely more than breath:

“Please…”

You didn’t ask what he was asking for.

Because you already knew.

Bucky's forehead stayed pressed to yours, his breath warm where it spilled between your lips, ragged in the quiet. His eyes were still closed. Like he couldn't bear to look at you yet—like the weight of being seen might break him.

You moved first.

Your hand slid slowly from the nape of his neck down to his shoulder, tracing the edge of his scars with deliberate softness. His skin twitched under your touch, not from fear—from hunger.

His metal arm lay inert beside him, but his other hand came up, slow and reverent, fingertips brushing your cheek like he still wasn’t sure you were real. His thumb ghosted over your bottom lip. His mouth followed.

This kiss was different.

No panic. No desperation.

Just need, thick and quiet and sharp.

You shifted, straddling his hips, your thighs bracketing his waist, your palms splayed flat against his chest. His skin was warm under yours, heartbeat hammering as though his body was still catching up to the permission he'd finally given himself—to want.

His hands found your waist. Traced the line of your spine. One stayed there, grounding himself in the curve of you, while the other slid up your side, fingers memorizing the shape of your ribs like he was trying to draw you blind.

When your hips pressed down against him, his breath caught sharply in his throat. He met your gaze then—fully, finally.

Not as the Soldat.

Not as a ghost.

As himself.

And you saw it—that flicker of reverence buried under the heat. Like even now, even wanting you, he didn’t feel like he deserved to have you.

So you kissed him again.

Not to reassure him.

To claim him.

His mouth opened under yours, hands gripping tighter now, pulling you down, closer, deeper. You rocked together slow, controlled, your rhythm deliberate, the pace of two people not trying to lose themselves—but trying to find themselves in each other.

You whispered between kisses—soft sounds only meant for him. He didn’t understand some of the words, but he held on to the tone, the way you said his name like it didn’t belong to anyone else.

When you sank down onto him, his whole body shuddered under you. His hands gripped your thighs, not guiding—begging. His lips trailed your throat, jaw, shoulder, anything he could reach, like touch was the only language he trusted.

You moved together slowly at first—bodies adjusting, memorizing, matching breath for breath, sound for sound. Every shift brought a deeper connection, every sigh a new thread stitched between skin and soul.

By the time your pace quickened, the air around you had changed. The city had faded. The world narrowed down to this room, this moment, this need.

He moaned your name against your neck like it was a prayer.

You held him like you were anchoring a man about to fall through the floor.

When release came, it wasn’t just pleasure. It was relief. A crashing, dissolving quiet that left you tangled together, chest to chest, sweat-slicked and breathless, your pulse finally syncing to something steady.

You didn't let go.

And neither did he.

Just stayed inside you, forehead pressed to your shoulder, arms locked around you like the world outside your bodies had ceased to exist.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

You had this.

────────────────────────

Следующее утро

The Next Morning

The market was quiet in the way city mornings could be. Early light filtered between rusted awnings, the smell of spices and stone settling into the cracks of the pavement. You walked beside him, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat of his arm near yours.

He was holding plums.

Inspecting them like they were treasure.

You watched him quietly, a faint, unreadable smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. It was absurd—how gentle he looked now, murmuring something about ripeness in Romanian under his breath. You didn't understand every word, but the tone was enough.

Then—

Something shifted.

A sharp prick under your skin.

Like static.

Like danger.

You didn’t know where it came from. A glance. A tension in the air. A silence that cut through background chatter too cleanly.

Your eyes tracked the source—an older man, just across the way, holding a folded newspaper in stiff fingers. He wasn’t watching the stand. He was watching him.

You followed the man’s line of sight, moving slowly, deliberately toward the stand. The vendor was distracted. You picked up a copy of the paper.

Front page.

Explosion at UN Assembly. Dozens dead. Suspect at large.

And beneath the headline—

His face.

Your stomach flipped. You turned sharply, plums forgotten. Walked straight to him.

Bucky looked up just as you shoved the newspaper into his chest.

He blinked. Then froze.

You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t run. You just leaned in, eyes locked with his.

“Нам нужно уходить. Сейчас.”

[We need to leave. Now.]

He didn’t ask why. He didn’t argue. His fingers clenched the paper.

And together, without another word, you turned and disappeared into the crowd.

────────────────────────

Берлин — Безопасный объект хранения

Berlin — Secure Holding Facility

You hadn't left his side since the arrest.

When the guards cuffed him, you didn’t fight them—not yet. You walked behind him, eyes narrowed, body coiled, your presence like a blade just waiting to be unsheathed.

No one could talk to you.

The blonde one had tried—gentle voice, soft posture, his hands open like that meant anything.

You stared at him like he was furniture.

His friend had watched you carefully, tension in his jaw, waiting for you to snap.

You didn’t.

You just stood closer to Bucky.

Then there was him.

The one in black. The Panther.

The moment he tried to approach, your hand twitched toward your hip. You had no weapon. Didn’t need one. Your body was a weapon. The look in your eyes alone was enough to make one of his guards step between you.

They tried to separate you.

You didn’t let them.

You didn’t speak a word—not in English, not in Russian. You were a storm in the room, silent and immovable. And even Bucky, tired and cuffed and quiet, looked at you with something just shy of awe.

Then the elevator opened.

She stepped out.

Red hair. Calm stride. Cold eyes that knew.

You didn’t need her name.

She didn’t need yours.

Natasha Romanoff approached slowly. Not cautiously. Respectfully.

She spoke in Russian, voice smooth but even.

“Мы никогда не встречались, но я знаю, кто ты.”

[We never met, but I know who you are.]

You said nothing.

She stopped a few feet away.

“Ты Сетка.” [You’re The Web.]

Still, no answer. But your gaze softened—fractionally.

Because you knew her too.

Not from missions. Not from photos.

From whispers in hallways. From training drills where instructors used her name like a warning.

Natalia Romanova. The Black Widow.

The one who escaped.

The one who survived.

“Он этого не делал,” you said finally.

[He didn’t do it.]

Your voice was low. Flat. Carved from certainty.

Natasha studied you. Something passed behind her eyes.

“I believe you,” she answered.

Then, more carefully:

“Но тебе нужно это сказать в суде.”

[But you need to say that in court.]

You stared at her.

Eyes hard.

“You’re his only alibi,” she added. “Without you, they’ll tear him apart.”

The thought made your stomach twist.

You clenched your jaw. Glanced at the camera behind Natasha—at Bucky, sitting in a metal chair, hands cuffed, head bowed.

You gave a slow nod.

And for the first time since his arrest—your eyes left him.

────────────────────────

The lights died without warning.

A loud click. A sharp hum.

Then—darkness.

Shouts echoed down the corridors. Metal scraped. Radios crackled with confusion. Power was down, systems offline, backup still lagging behind.

People froze. You didn’t.

You moved.

No hesitation. No questions.

The moment the lights dropped, your body remembered.

Because this kind of darkness only ever meant one thing.

You sprinted through the corridor like blood in a vein, bypassing the agents stumbling toward emergency protocols, your feet silent, lethal. Every step was muscle memory. Every twist and turn of the hallway a reflex carved into you long before freedom ever tasted real.

The door to the security wing came into view.

Ten guards. No time.

The first went down with a strike to the throat, his flashlight bouncing twice against the wall before silence claimed him.

The second reached for his radio—he didn’t get the chance. You broke his wrist, then slammed his head against the concrete.

They didn’t scream.

You didn’t give them the chance.

Three. Four. Five.

A baton cracked across your ribs—you spun and caught the next one mid-swing, driving his weapon into his own throat. The others hesitated.

That was their mistake.

Six. Seven. Eight.

Blood sprayed against the wall, glistening in the emergency red light now blinking to life.

Nine and ten dropped nearly at once—one from your heel, the other from your elbow, the weight of him crumbling against the wall with a breathless grunt.

You didn’t stop moving.

Not for breath. Not for pain. Not for blood.

You reached the holding cell just as the red emergency lights revealed him through the glass.

Bucky.

No. Not Bucky.

The Soldat.

His expression was blank. Eyes lifeless. Shoulders squared in that familiar, bone-deep way.

Inside the glass room, a man stood calmly—his voice rhythmic, deliberate.

“…Грузовой автомобиль.. Отчет—м…”

[Freight car... Mission report—m…]

You moved. Fast. You didn’t shout. You didn’t warn.

You slammed into the door controls, cracked them open with a guard’s badge, and dove through just as the man turned.

Your fist collided with his jaw before the last word could leave his mouth. He hit the floor, unconscious, blood blooming from his temple.

And then—

Silence.

Just the sound of the red lights humming.

You turned slowly. And looked at him.

Not Bucky. Not anymore.

Those eyes—the ones you’d let kiss your neck, trace your waist, breathe your name like it was prayer—were gone.

What stared back at you now was him.

The Soldat.

Empty. Programmed. Cold.

Your chest rose and fell with sharp, silent breaths. Not from exhaustion—but from adrenaline. From the ache that started deep behind your ribs and crept outward the moment he turned and looked at you with those eyes.

Cold. Vacant. Not his.

Your fingers curled slightly, tension trembling just beneath your skin.

You took one step forward.

“Бакки,” you said softly. [Bucky]

Nothing.

Not even a blink.

Another step.

“Бакки,” you tried again. [Bucky]

Still nothing.

Your throat tightened.

You didn’t let it show.

Then—voice quieter, firmer, the way you’d been taught to never say unless you meant it—

“Солдат.” [Soldat]

His body shifted. Barely.

But his head tilted, just slightly, like the command lodged itself where language became law.

“Готов к выполнению.”

[Ready to comply.]

You closed your eyes for half a second. Just long enough to breathe.

And then you moved toward him. Hands raised.

No fear now. Not anymore. Not after all this time. Not after all the nights he’d held you like you were the only thing in the world that stopped him from drowning.

“Это не ты,” you murmured, approaching slowly. [This isn’t you.]

He didn’t respond. Didn’t move.

You laid your palms on his chest, feeling the warmth there—his heartbeat still steady, still human. You let your fingers spread, grounding yourself in the body you knew like your own.

“Ты не он.” [You’re not him.]

Your hands slid upward—over his collarbone, along his jaw, up to the sides of his face.

His eyes didn’t change. But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t react.

“Посмотри на меня.” [Look at me.]

Your thumbs traced just beneath his eyes. Soft. Intentional.

“Вернись ко мне.” [Come back to me.]

Stillness. And then—

A flicker. Just a breath. The barest crack behind his gaze.

His lips parted slightly, brows knitting, as if a noise were caught in his throat—something unsaid, something struggling to be remembered.

Your voice stayed low. Calm.

“Ты со мной сейчас.” [You’re with me now.]

His breath was just beginning to shift. Something in his face softening, eyes twitching with confusion—recognition pulling like a thread through fog.

Then—

Footsteps.

Boots on tile. Raised voices. Weapons ready.

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Steve’s voice broke through first. “Bucky—!”

And in an instant, the tension returned.

Bucky’s body went rigid beneath your hands. His spine snapped straight, jaw locked, breath shallow and clipped. The softness vanished like it had never been there.

You felt the shift. Felt the Soldat rising again.

“Нет,” you whispered, voice firm, thumb still pressed to his cheekbone. “Нет.” [No.]

His hands twitched at his sides. You didn’t flinch.

You pressed closer, chest against his, forehead nearly touching his now. Then—

Movement behind you.

A shuffle of armor. The slight drag of a weapon’s safety clicking off.

You turned your head sharply—just enough to meet them.

Steve. Sam. T’Challa, face hard with fury, muscles taut with the restraint of a man who wanted to strike.

You stepped slightly in front of Bucky, still keeping one hand on his chest like you were holding a live wire.

Your eyes burned into all of them.

Then you pointed down at the unconscious man—Zemo, still bleeding from where you struck him.

“Вот ваш подрывник,” you spat, low and lethal. [There’s your bomber.]

None of them moved. Not yet.

Steve looked between you and Bucky, guilt bleeding into his features. Sam lowered his weapon just slightly. T’Challa’s jaw worked, but his eyes flicked to the man on the floor. Realisation behind his misplaced anger.

You didn’t wait for them to speak. You turned back to Bucky. Hands on his face again.

“Ты здесь,” you whispered, not begging—commanding. [You’re here.]

His breathing slowed. Not calm. But contained.

The emergency power roared back to life.

Lights flickered overhead, harsh and unforgiving. Cameras reactivated. Screens across the control room sparked awake, broadcasting every inch of the cell.

Security forces tensed.

Steve took a step forward—halted only by the look you shot him.

Deadly. Final. And then.

You turned back. Everyone was watching. But none of it mattered.

You pressed your hand gently to Bucky’s chest again, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt like you were anchoring him there—in this moment, in this body.

His face twitched. Brows drew together in pain. His jaw clenched. The lines of the Soldat’s posture—so rigid, so familiar—began to shake.

You stepped closer still, voice low, Russian rolling like smoke from your lips. Words meant for him and no one else.

“Ты здесь. Это прошло. Это я. Только я.”

[You’re here. It’s over. It’s me. Only me.]

You said it like a vow. Like something you’d carve into him if you had to.

He blinked once. A flinch. Barely visible. Then his eyes met yours. Not hollow. Not gone.

Still struggling. Still fighting. But there.

His breathing hitched—once, then twice—and then with something like agony, he let out a sound low in his throat.

He bowed his head. And leaned into you.

Forehead against your shoulder, arms rising slowly—tentative at first, then tighter, until he was holding you with a force that felt like drowning. Like if he didn’t hold you, he’d disappear.

Your hands slid into his hair, your fingers cradling the back of his skull.

Not protectively. Possessively.

He wasn’t a soldier anymore. He wasn’t a ghost. He was yours.

You didn’t look up. Not at Steve. Not at T’challa. Not at the dozens of cameras now recording this moment in real time, every politician, every soldier, every damned spectator watching the Soldat become Bucky Barnes again in the arms of the only person who knew how to bring him back.

And inside, rage burned in you like wildfire.

Not at him. At them. All of them.

For letting this happen to him. For dragging him back into it. For daring to treat him like a threat when he was barely holding himself together.

You hated them. Every last one of them.

But him?

You buried your face in his neck, whispering words no one else would ever hear.

He was the only thing you loved in this broken world.

The best way i can describe Bucky and Reader : Docile Dog and Feral Cat

[borsukuje]

more mutt doodling~

[propussyslayer]

[rubyin-wonderland]

Swimming

opla!Zoro x gn!reader

Summary: a day at the beach can be fun, until you can't participate in certain aquatic activities

WC: 3.3k

Warnings/tags: feeling left out, reader has a devil fruit and can't swim (my knowledge might be innacurate, sorry), one suggestive comment, nothing too bad she's fluffy, Zoro is an attentive bf because I said so

You sat on the beach, on a towel, looking out at the shining sea, crystal blue waters lapping at the shore.

The sand clung to your feet, wet from your earlier adventure into the shallows. A small collection of pretty shells and rocks sat next to you, scrounged up from the pebbled water. You leaned back on your arms, feeling the water on your legs slowly drip down onto the yellow sands. It was a perfect beach. If someone were to tell someone to imagine the perfect beach, it would not look unlike this.

A bright blue sea, layers of foam where the land met the shore and where light waves peak. A field of sand, lively yellow with a hint of brown to dull the vibrancy. On the edge of the sand, a line of palm trees that faded into a lush forest. You could hear birds deep in the forest squawking at each other, that accompanied with the sound of gentle water drifting in and out in waves making a gorgeous soundscape for your ears.

You looked out at the sea and smiled. All but one of your crewmates swam in the water, splashing each other, having fun.

You enjoyed watching them having their fun, but you still felt the ache of missing out. Luffy was off chasing a brightly coloured bird down the sand, not as bothered by his exemption from this activity.

You admired his optimism. You wished you could be less unhappy with your situation. You supposed he was more used to not being able to swim and would reasonably be more willing to let his crew have fun while he split off.

You still felt wrong. You were supposed to be in the water, like you were last time. Before that day. Before everything changed.

A lot of things had changed, and you still weren't used to it. Sometimes you felt yourself getting angry or excited, and had to calm yourself before you got out of control.

You had changed a lot. You felt strange in your body, now wielding a power you still worried about when your emotions ran high. However, that was not your concern at the moment. You were mostly grieving your swimming. You had loved to find yourself in the water, but due to your new situation, you were no longer capable of doing it.

You had loved the way everything seemed to slow down when you were in the water, the gentle waves around your body, pushing you towards the shore, the way the feeling stayed with you even on land, and the naps you used to take on the beach afterwards, waterlogged and happy. You missed it terribly.

Despite your pain about the situation, you refused to voice it. You weren't going to ruin everyone else's beach day because you couldn't swim.

The rest of the day had been fine, most of the time spent on the sand, or in the shallows, but the group wanted to go deeper, and you couldn't. Your boyfriend, Zoro, had decided to stay at first, joining you in your attempt to sunbathe, he even took a small nap, but you refused to let him miss out on the beach day because of you, even if you selfishly wanted him to.

You watched the fun from afar as the crew played in the water, a cluster of heads bobbing up and down in the water, moving back and forth. You watched as Zoro and Sanji's heads moved away from the group and swiftly returned. A race. You saw a few playful splashes exchanged between the group and Nami being hefted onto Sanji's shoulders for whatever reason.

You missed splashing the others. You missed being challenged to races and making excuses as to why you lost. You missed everything.

You must've looked disappointed, because Zoro split off from the group, trudging up the beach and kneeling in front of your towel.

His shirt was off, which made you feel a little better, seeing the trails of water shining on his bare skin. He had been shirtless the whole day in order to soak up the sun's rays of course, but he was currently covered in water, which was dripping down his body and reflecting the sun. He was shiny. Your eyes trailed over the muscles moving under his shiny skin and you smiled faintly, looking up at his face. "Hey."

"Hey yourself, what's wrong?" He spent no time trying to pretend he thought you were alright. It was apparently very evident that you weren't having fun, as his eyes searched yours. You didn't want to make him feel guilty for being able to indulge in something you couldn't, or ruin his fun by moping on the shore.

Your eyes looked guiltily towards the ground as you futilely tried to make up some stupid excuse and lie that there was nothing wrong. He just lowered his head so he could continue looking at you.

"It's nothing, Zoro. I'm just being weird." You gave him a half hearted smile, trying to convince him that you weren't upset.

That wasn't good enough for him. He leaned forward, until his forehead pressed against yours, looking up at you, and it made your heart flutter. "Zoro, you're dripping on me." You said through a hiccup of a laugh, a little flustered by his action, but making no move to push him away. He continued to lean forward and gently pushed you to the ground. You were grateful for the towel between you and the sand.

"Zoro." You tried to scold him but you couldn't help but let out a laugh after his full weight fell on you. You could feel the water soaking through your clothes. "Zoro, you're getting me wet."

"What's wrong?" He asked again, head resting on your chest. "Tell me and I'll get off." Both of you knew that he would get off if you asked him plainly, but it was a small bit of incentive for you to tell him.

"I miss swimming." He nodded on your chest, but didn't get up just yet. You struggled to find the right way to phrase how you felt. "I love my powers, they're cool and all, but I miss what it was like beforehand." You took a deep breath, ready to voice something you had yet to say out loud. "Sometimes I wish I hadn't eaten that Devil fruit."

It was well known amongst the crew that you had no choice but to eat it. At the very least, you had no choice if you wanted to save your crew, which you obviously did.

Even then, it had not been easy for you to do it. Knowing the risks and consequences, the responsibility and the pain. You still got thanks for saving the crew that day. For sacrificing your safety on the sea in exchange for the control of winds so strong they could flip a ship upside down.

You felt Zoro press a kiss to your neckline, leaving the skin wet. "I'm sorry."

He had never been good with words, but he was always able to show you his affection with his actions. Before your official beginnings as a couple, he had helped you with chores, fought close to you and even dared to talk with you, albeit about casual topics. His love language had always been acts of service and you had never forgotten it once during the length of your relationship.

He knew it too, which was why he tended to communicate his emotions with actions as opposed to words. It was easier for him.

You kissed his head in return, slicking his wet hair back first. "It's not your fault. I'd do it again one million times." You ran your fingers through the short green hair, gathering little drops of water in your fingers and flicking them into the sand. You felt him relax on you, as your fingers went through his hair over and over again. He hummed happily and you supposed he did it because nobody else was around to hear his moment of weakness.

You messed up his hair when you were done playing with it, and lightly tapped his shoulders.

"Don't let me ruin your fun, Zoro. Go back out there, merman, swim all you want." He shook his head firmly, but got up, your shirt now thoroughly soaked through and clinging to your skin. "Come with me." He insisted. "I can't swim." "I can."

Despite your confusion, he got you to strip down to the swimsuit you had on, originally to make it easier to wade as deep as you could without getting your other clothes soaked, but Zoro had already ruined that by practically using you as a towel.

Zoro turned around, exposing his back for you, legs bent, and told you to climb on. Despite your confusion, you obeyed, stepping on his thighs to push yourself up higher.

Your arms linked around his neck, legs crossed around his stomach. Your head nestled in next to his, your nose barely brushing his ear.

"You ready?" He asked. You pressed a kiss to the side of his neck in response. "Let's do this."

He walked in at first, and he was holding your legs up, but had to let go when he was about waist deep.

When he leaned forward to swim into the deeper area where the rest of your friends were convened, you moved your head beside his so that he could lift his head up to breathe. He wasn't used to swimming with someone on his back, but he adapted to it quickly. The water barely made it to your back, but your front half was completely submerged, and you pulled yourself closer to Zoro.

When he met up with the others, he straightened up again, standing on the sandy floor, allowing you to be submerged up to your shoulders. You held on tight, even though the water still wasn't that deep. If you fell under, any one of them was more than capable of retrieving you and getting you back to Zoro, or if need be, drag you to shore.

"Look who's here." Nami smiled, and you felt like you could breathe easier. You were in the water again. You resisted the urge to detach from Zoro and stand on the ground yourself, aware that if you did so, you would be helpless against the will of the sea.

"You okay?" Nami asked, looking a little worried for you. Obviously this was not an ideal situation, but she wasn't going to openly oppose what was clearly working.

"Yeah." You breathed shakily, still a little nervous yourself about the vastness of the ocean and how quickly you could be lost in it. The thought made you shiver, but you played it off as if the temperature of the water was what was bothering you, having just got up from the warm sand and hot sun.

Usopp splashed you first, sneaking up behind you with a puddle of water cupped between his hands that he flung at the back of your head, splashing your hair. You looked around to see him duck under the water and swim to the other side of the group, pretending nothing happened. You tightened your fist and a small gust of wind pushed a wave of water onto him at your command, soaking him entirely.

You felt the vibrations of Zoro's laughs under your hold as more splashes of water were exchanged. At first the splashes at you were smaller, they didn't want to make you or Zoro go under, but they soon realized that neither of you would be going down without a fight. Small splashes become waves of water that you sent back eagerly with the aid of your wind. You were laughing by the end, as water dripped from your face, hair and shoulders, leaving you completely drenched.

The water surrounding you weakened you a small bit, but not enough to deter you from your amusement. You were having too much fun to call it quits.

"Hey!"

The call came from the beach. The group turned to see what was going on, Zoro grabbing hold of your legs with one hand, your arms with the other as he turned around, making sure you didn't fall off.

On the beach, Luffy stood, looking out at the congregation, though he hardly looked upset to be missing out. He looked at you with a gleam in his eye and a smile on his face. "I want to go in too!"

Without another word from your captain, Sanji took off and let Luffy climb up on his back as Zoro had done with you, arms around his shoulders, legs crossed around his stomach. Sanji swam back in, and the crew was reunited in the ocean.

The day went on, more than enough fun was had, and as the water began to prune fingers and tiredness took over, the crew slowly left the water to go dry off, one by one, until you and Zoro were the only ones left.

You were tired as well, and definitely pruned, but the feeling of the water around you was too comforting to miss.

The sun had begun to set, painting the sky in a variety of warm colours that were reflected on the sea, creating a lovely view.

Your head rested on your arm, leaning against Zoro's head. He had refused to leave until you wanted to, weathering the conditions for your comfort and amusement.

"Enjoying the water?" Zoro asked as you watched the sunset. "Yes. Thank you." "It's nothing." He insisted. "It's nice." "Anyone capable of carrying you should do it." He brushed aside the praise with a huff. "I know some who could but wouldn't. You would. That's what matters. You're good Zoro. The sooner you admit it, the better."

You felt him sigh under you, but you could tell it was a good sigh. The kind he did when he saw your crewmates getting in an argument and he found it amusing. The kind he did after a good drink of sake. The one he did after falling away from your lips deep in the night, your name coming out in satisfied breaths.

Your heart beat faster and you wondered if he could feel it against his back the way you could feel the way he breathed and the vibrations of his voice.

When the sun was nearly gone over the horizon, a majority of the sky was purple, nearing deep blue, as vast and merciless as the depths of the ocean, The crew started a bonfire on the shore.

You saw this and decided it would be best to leave soon and huddle around the comforting warmth of the fire when a thought wormed its way into your brain.

Even though you were alone in the water, you wanted to try something. "Can I try standing in the water?" You asked softly. You could feel Zoro tense under you at the idea. "Are you sure?" He sounded reasonably doubtful, having saved you from the water before. "I know. I just want to try."

He stayed still for a moment, struck with indecision. He didn't want to risk it, but he knew that you wanted to do this. That you missed this. So he was going to support you.

And so, after wading to a slightly shallower area, he let you unwrap your legs from around his body, hanging on to him by his neck, letting your feet touch the sand, most of your body supported by the arms around his neck. He reached an arm around and moved you around so the two of you were face to face. He held out his arms so that he could catch you if necessary.

When your arms dropped from his neck and you put your full weight on your legs, they failed, and you sunk into the water.

Zoro tried to catch you as you went down, but you sank too fast, like a giant stone, going down faster than you expected. You felt helpless as your back touched the sandy sea floor and a little silly for requesting something that was obviously rigged to fail.

Zoro fell into the relatively shallow water and grabbed you from the sandy ground. You wanted to wrap your arms around him when he reached down so you could hold him on your way up, but the curse of the sea kept you from doing anything but sit limply at the bottom, waiting for help.

Zoro pulled you up above the surface, draping your arms over his shoulders. As soon as you felt strong enough to move them, you wrapped them tightly around his neck. His one arm reached up to hold the back of your head, the other under your legs as they wrapped back around him. On the beach, the patrons of the bonfire were alerted to your fall, all of them standing at the shore, feet in the water, prepared to get you if needed.

They all stood ankle deep in the water, watching the scene, and you waved a weak hand in the air to show them that you were alive, and no less worse for wear.

Zoro buried his face in the nape of your neck and held you tightly to him, arms wrapping around your back, holding you tight. "I think we should go back." You coughed out quietly, feeling the way his heartbeat had sped up.

"I think so too."

He brought you back from the water, not even bothering to move you back around. When you reached the shore he let you go, and you stepped onto the dry sand, legs stabilizing on proper land.

Zoro stayed next to you as the two of you walked towards the fire the crew had started up. They all looked nervous as you came over, like they wanted to ask why you fell, but weren't sure how to say it. You felt bad about startling them.

Nobody said anything about it and you were thankful for that, even though you knew they were all thinking about it.

In the light of the fire, you curled up next to Zoro, pressed as close as you possibly could be. He had wrapped his towel abound both of your shoulders while the two of you sat on your towel. You tentatively kissed his cheek before whispering in his ear. "Thank you for taking me out there." He looked at you when you moved away. "I'll do it again a million times as long as it makes you happy."

He looked back to the fire as if what he said meant nothing. And you supposed that, to him, it might have been nothing. A simple expression of what he was willing to do for you. No problem. But it was everything to you. You felt tears prickle at the corners of your eyes. "I love you."

"I love you too." He looked over when your breath hitched. "Why are you crying?" "Because you said you'd do that for me as long as it made me happy." "That's what I'm supposed to do." "I know. But I'm glad anyways." "If sitting in the water with you on my back is what makes you happy, I'll do it."

You rested your head on his shoulder. "I'm sorry about falling in." "Nothing to be sorry about. Luffy falls in every other day." You stayed quiet. "And you had a strong swordsman to look out for you." You could hear the soft, proud smile in his voice.

You smiled. "I know. I'm very lucky to have you." "Not nearly as lucky as I am to have you." He pressed a kiss to your forehead, and in that moment, you felt a warmth spread through you, just as a light gust of wind blew over the beach, and for the first time in a very long while, you felt like yourself again.

[solbaby7]

High For This

pairing: eris x reader

warnings: jealous!eris, swearing, another overindulgent ball hosted simply for conspiratorial purposes, sexual themes, wrote this with the implication of Beron being dead, abrupt ending bc if i didn’t stop there i prolly wouldn’t stop at all, not edited

summary: Eris is a jealous man and you’re determined to see exactly how hot his fire burns for you.

—

“Excuse me?”

Your eyes roll on their own accord, hands fluffing through fresh curls as dark mascara dries on thick lashes. A tinted gloss stains full lips and Eris hates the way his lungs greedily gulp in the sensual oud permeating the air.

Everything in here smells like you and he doesn’t resist the indulgence of looking around to take in the fluffy duvet sheets neatly strewn over the mattress and the cream throw pillows tucked near your headboard. The canopy drapes are tucked to each post, the middle dripping dreamily like clouds hovering in the sky.

You’re meticulous, he notes; every item you own continent in their convenient little homes. “I said,” The tone you hold makes his jaw clench, his body visibly perturbed by your nonchalance while he felt himself slipping deeper into your pull. You barely spare him a proper glance—too occupied in looking over yourself in the floor length mirror. “I have a date so you don’t have to wait for me. We’ll meet you there.”

“A date?” Eris repeats sharply, staring at you through the mirror.

“Is there a problem with that?” You know the answer before the question is even fully spoken, a smug little smirk ghosting in the corner of your lips as you sift through your jewelry box. Rings are slid onto your fingers, gold bands and pretty emerald cut jewels glittering in the faelight. “I specifically remember you saying that you didn’t need a plus one.”

“Because,” Each syllable is drawn out, his restraint slipping as you pushed his buttons with such expertise. “—I already had one.” You read between the lines, a brow raising as you settle in the knowledge that the High Lord had expected you to hang off his arm.

“I don’t recall you asking.”

“It was implied.”

Dark kohl lines your eyes and accentuates full lashes, a pretty blush placed on the high points of your cheeks and such beauty seems lethal when you stare through the mirror. “You’ve never had an issue articulating your wants before—if you desired it bad enough, of course.”

You leave room for a response, trying desperately to mask the flicker of hope beginning to drudge to life within the embers. Centuries of waiting for Beron to no longer be an issue, no longer looming over both of your shoulders and destroying every meaningful moment.

Things were supposed to be different when he was finally dead.

Easier.

Only, Eris had grown more guarded. Terrified that showing a hint of affection would backfire as it had so many times before. He takes his time, smoothening out his tone and compulsively straightening out the neatly folded handkerchief sticking elegantly from the breast pocket of his perfectly tailored suit. “This is not up for debate, bunny. Turn your little friend away and let’s go before we’re late.”

“No.” You shove past him, clutch tucked under your arm and high heels clicking furiously against the hardwood.

It stuns him for a beat of time but he recovers far quicker and Eris all but barks out your name as he exits your door, following a few paces behind with a snarl working its way up his throat. “Get back here!”

“I am not some object that you can just command when you please.” Elegant curls bounce angrily with your every step, jewelry chiming with each little bounce down the stairs. One hand grips at the banister for balance, the tight fit of your dress forcing you to move slower than you’d like. “You do not own me.”

"You're right, bunny. I don't own you but I am your High Lord and you will stop walking this instant."

The immediate fae-like stillness of your form has Eris’ heart thumping with excitement against his ribcage. A perfect mask is painted across your features when you slowly turn on the balls of your feet to face him but nothing could ever quench the fire that burns behind your retinas. “My Lord?”

A noise is hummed low in his throat—pleased or patronizing?—you weren’t sure but judging by that leisurely stride and the special time he takes in looking you over, it has to be a mix of both. “I like that tone much better.” Eris’ hands are warm when he brushes a lock of hair away from your face, fingertips grazing against your neck with such care that you have to suppress the shiver threatening to rake up your spine.

You refused to allow him the satisfaction of knowing how his touch affected you.

Not when he was acting like such an entitled toddler.

“Wonderful,” Venom burns under every word, even if it is wrapped in a sickeningly sweet tone. “I aim to please.”

A smile bleeds its way onto his face, the faelight casting shadows over the handsome contours of his features and frustration forces your fingers to fidget when the intoxicating oud of his cologne engulfs your senses. “I’m thrilled to hear that, bunny.” Eyes narrow up at Eris as you clock that tone of voice—that devilish look burning behind amber irises. “Let’s hope all that enthusiasm helps you survive the night.”

“Funny you should say that,” The way your hand elegantly rests in the crease of his extended arm feels utterly natural, no matter how much contempt is quivering behind the movement. “It’s not me who needs to worry about surviving the night.”

—

Playing the part of the demure, doting date is a million times more difficult than you make it look. Sweet smiles and the inviting shape of your figure brings in more attention than normal—or maybe it was because of who’d been permanently fused to your side since the second you’d arrived.

Eris had never been so on guard, amber irises raking over anyone who came within a five foot radius and most of your time is spent wading the rigid line of his shoulders. “Quit it,” You snap through your teeth, concealing the bite if your words with a bright grin. “You forced me to be here with you and now you’re scaring everyone off.”

“Forced you?” He doesn’t even sound offended—just smug as he motions to your hand curled comfortably around his bicep. “Is that the narrative you’re running with tonight, bunny? How unoriginal.” The body language portrays anything but ‘forced’ and once he’s pointed it out, you’re quick to pull away, snatching your hand back and grumbling profanities under your breath.

“What else would you call it?”

Eris feigns aloofness when responding, refusing to grant you the decency of his gaze and your spine goes ramrod straight when his words sink in. “I’d say it’s no different than when any of the other High Lords attend with their plus ones—though it seems theirs are more well behaved.”

“I’m not some hound who submits to your every command, Eris Vanserra.” Hurt lingers in the words you spit out just loud enough for him to hear. “What the other High Lords have are wives, partners—mates. They’re not cowards; wanting someone and stringing them along.” Tears well in your waterline, grip shaky around the flute of champagne until you abandon it altogether. “You’re wasting my time and I have little patience left to offer.”

You’re forced to walk away before the dam breaks, refusing to wear your heart on your sleeve for it never worked well before. Makes you too vulnerable; too tethered to a male too afraid to return the sentiment.

Balcony doors creak under your touch, opening just enough for you to slip through and close it behind you. For once, you’re grateful for the solitude. Basking in the cool breeze and the comforting smell of fresh flora, you let your eyes slip closed, a single tear falling free and your back bows as you sag against iron railings.

Just a single moment of weakness.

And it’s completely shattered by another presence.

“Want me to kill ‘em?”

You snap up like a spring, neck nearly snapping with the force it takes to turn so quickly. Palms wipe at your cheeks, straightening out the fabrics of your dress. “Sorry,” You quickly flush the moment realization sinks in, eyes taking in the towering Illyrian standing just a few feet away. His hair held in a neat bun at the nape of his neck, burly form slouched in a lounge chair, wings stretched high behind him. “I thought I was alone out here.”

“Looking how you do, I doubt you’re ever really alone.”

You scoff, this hateful, bark of a noise that refuses to be tampered down or subdued. “Not everyone shares your sentiment.”

“Date ditch you?”

“A girl could only dream. No, my ‘date’ is spending his time being a grade A douchebag—needed fresh air before I did something stupid.”

He hums in acknowledgment, a chilled glass of amber liquor dripping condensation down the thick stretch of his forearm. His head cocks to the side when he looks you up and down, making note of that forlorn expression casting shadows across pretty features. “Want to make him jealous?”

You should be ashamed for how abruptly the notion piques your interest. For how quickly satisfaction settles within your bloodstream at the thought of Eris watching you waltz around with this brick wall of a male and his effortless presence. “What’s in it for you?”

“Pretty thing on my arm is prize enough, even if it is just for show.”

There’s a pause where the Illyrian can literally see the gears turning in your head. Outweighing the risks. Mulling over potential consequences.

He can tangibly grasp the exact moment you shove all that aside—too scorned to give a shit about retribution. Too much time had gone into getting ready to waste it all on a male too prideful to cherish the gift wrapped before him. You head nods with finality, one hand outstretched before him. “It’s a deal.”

His hand is warm against your own, significantly larger and riddled with callouses. Tattoos the shade of obsidian is etched into tawny skin, arms rippling with muscles that bulge against the tight fit of formal leather attire. “I’m Cassian.”

“I know who you are.” Hesitation lingers in the set of your shoulders, spine not fully lax though Cassian doubts that’s fully possible with the skyscraper for heels adorning your feet. “Do you know who I am?”

His grin only grows when he stands at full attention, so tall your neck cranes just to meet his eye. “I’ve got a pretty good idea.” Ice clinks against his glass as he offers it to you, lifting the rim to your lips and muttering a soft praise when you drink obediently. “There’s a girl. Drink up, you’ll need the liquid courage.”

Liquid courage. Makes sense when it burns on the way down, easing frazzled nerves and a short temper until your arm slips in the crease of Cass’ elbow like it was a regular occurrence.

He’s confident. Borderline cocky with the way he urges you closer, hips bumping into one another with each step. The closeness does the trick though, a smoldering set of sandy eyes fall on you the moment you’re thrusted back into the fray. “Chin up,” Cassian murmurs softly, lips barely even moving over the words.

You’re led to the dance floor, situated smack dab in the middle. It’s a spectacle but something tells you that’s the whole point when Cassian circles a hand around your waist. The other reaches for your free hand, easing your fingers against his own until you’re palm to palm. “Do you even know how to dance? I don’t recall that being apart of Illyrian curriculum.”

It’s a harmless tease—the jab earning you a laugh so organic that it shows both rows of shiny teeth and a pantydropping set of dimples in his cheeks. “Pretty and funny. You really should consider not being so charming, I have an awful habit of hoarding treasures like you.”

Your head dips, a blush growing along the apples of your cheeks that only grows when Cassian is emboldened, ushering you in closer until you run the risk of stepping all over his toes. If he cares, you can’t tell, too washed up in the feeling of being shown off—proudly at that. “I appreciate you doing this for me. Even if it doesn’t work.”

“Trust me,” Cassian drawls, his gaze far off as he focuses on something behind you. “It’s working.”

He doesn’t elaborate, though he doesn’t really have to when you pick up on a familiar step pattern. Nose catching the earthy scent of spicy cinnamon and nutmeg. Of pine trees and bonfire smoke. “Bunny,” Eris fixates on the Illyrian’s hold on you, the corded muscle in his jaw jumping with the effort it takes to restrain himself from burning Cassian’s hands to a crisp. “Mind if I cut in?”

“This dance is nearly done.”

“And you’ll be finishing it with me.” It’s sick how desire pools in your belly at the possessive tone. How pleased you feel with yourself when Eris all but pries you away from Cass and into his own arms. You barely have enough time to say thank you to the Night Courts General before the eldest Vanserra has whisked you far, far away from those giant wings and the enigmatic wearer of them. “Where’d you run off too? I was worried.”

“Worried about what? That someone else was cherishing what you neglect?” You hum to yourself at the raw guilt that screws up the handsome pout of his mouth. “What’s that saying? One males trash…”

“You aren’t trash. You know I don’t think of you as trash.”

“No, you just treat me like it.” The chattering of guests drowns out your words from prying ears. “Hiding me at the bottom of the bin like you’re ashamed of me or something.”

You’re working yourself up again. Overthinking. Self-depreciating. Resenting. Digging a hole with no means of pulling yourself out but Eris halts that train of thinking with a hand to your jaw. The grip is gentle but firm, guiding you to look him in the eye; insisting you see the seriousness that swirls in the copper tones of his iris. “You are everything to me,” His confession stops you in your tracks. Steals your breath away at you hang onto every constant and vowel like a lifeline. “I wake up everyday just so I can see your face and I lay my head down every night praying that it’s filled with dreams of you—of us. Everything I do, anything I’ve ever done is to ensure your happiness. Your safety.”

“Eris..”

“No, listen to me.” Both hands cup your cheeks, all space eaten up until each breath he exhales in the air you inhale. Two halves of a whole slowly sliding into place. The final pieces of a puzzle connecting as one to fulfill the bigger picture. “You are mine.” Thumbs brush over the curve of your cheekbones, tracing at the slope of your nose and memorizing the shine of your lips. “My woman,” Tenderness leaks from every syllable, sincerity bleeding from every pore until you’re unable to fight back the rushing currents of your tears. “My love, my mate and while I can never promise to be a perfect male, I can vow that I am thoroughly vested in all things categorized as your best interest.”

“If I’d have known dancing with another male was all it took for such a confession, I’d have done so long ago.”A breathless laugh emits, one that softens the stern line of his brow and eases the fear his father engraved in his soul.

Noses brush, lashes kissing until your lips meet his own and all of your doubt is washed away. “I love you.”

“All I’ll ever love is you.”

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: can u believe we've actually made it to chapter eleven... 😲 i cannot! alas thank u so much again for being patient with me <3 i think i'm much better locked in now so MAYBEEE we'll see something other than longing glances soon ehehe <3 ok mwah thank u for reading, enjoy <3

word count: 4.5k

synopsis: Trouble sleeping leads you to wander the halls of the House of Wind, finding a friendly face. Azriel stews in his misery—but not for long.

CHAPTER ELEVEN :: FRIENDS (AGAIN)

You have a problem.

Despite the training and the fresh, rich and plentiful food—despite the bed that’s softer than anything you’ve touched in decades—it becomes rapidly apparent in the next week that rest does not find you easily in Velaris.

The first week it’s easy to chalk up the discomfort to your still healing body.

You weren’t high Fae by any means. The bruises that matted your skin were bone-deep and injuries of that kind took time to recover from.

Yet, as time rolled forward and the stiffness retreated, even as wounds turned to scabs, sleep did not claim you. In fact, it rather stubbornly avoided you.

You find you can only sleep after exhaustion kicks in, certainly no earlier than a couple hours of tossing and turning. It only takes a couple days of restless sleep to figure out the suspect.

The pillowy bed.

All your life, sleep has meant a hard surface, only differing from the ground in its protection against the chill of the mountains. But still, you’ve slept better nights on the ground than you have in this bed.

It’s so soft. It pulls you in and makes you feel as though you’re sinking into a cloud. Your pillows are plush and feathery, your sheets delicate and silky to touch.

It’s too soft.

So, when the aches of your injuries recede and the sleep still doesn’t come, you say to hell with it, even if a small part of you fears what the Highlord might say.

You keep the comforter but leave everything else behind — tugging it off the bed and curling up on the stone floors, bundled in the fleecy, warm blanket.

The sleep is better.

Still, as your days training with Cassian continue, it’s not a proven cure.

Some nights, like tonight, it evades you so severely that after a hour or two blinking at the floor, counting the spots on the ceiling, something stirs in you to move. You begin to wander.

Even with Rhysand’s assurance, it’s hard not to feel like an imposter as you creep through the halls of the house.

You’re silent on your feet. There’s only a whisper of your presence as you pass door after door, each of them ornately designed and firmly closed.

You’ve only done this wandering once or twice. The first time you got the itch to explore, you barely made it down the hallway you started in. Something dark had fluttered in the distance, taking you by surprise.

Heart pounding in a hair-raising chill, instinct forced you back into your room in a mad dash. Pressed up against your locked door, it had felt eerily similar to your old cabin.

But even so, you’ve haven't run into anyone else.

This time, your fourth time wandering, you take a different route, rubbing tiredly at your eyes with a hint of irritation. Even if sleep evades you, you’re tired, there’s no doubt of that.

Warm sandstone keeps you company. As you take a left where you’ve always taken a right, a pair of gilded glass doors you’ve never seen tucks itself behind an unsuspecting corner.

You have a rule not to open any closed doors.

This one, however, tempts you with a pool of pale moonlight cast through its windows. Besides, a quick glance through the glass tells you you’re alone.

It’s another balcony. Like all of them, you suspect as you open one door silently and step out, it overlooks Velaris. The city sprawls out from the foot of the mountain, glorious and alive.

The title of City of Starlight certainly seems fitting tonight. It glows, a thousand specks of light dancing across the air to you.

Beyond it, the blackness of the ocean calls out to you, a salty spring in the air. Seeing the edge of the continent, something stutters in your chest.

How big the world really is... How small it seemed to you not too long ago. You’re learning there’s much more than just frost and mountains.

Your gaze drops back to the city, its lights winking at you almost enticingly. Even from afar, you swear you can hear laughter carried on the warm wind.

How it is this lively when, based on the high and bright moon, it must be nearing morning baffles you. Tentatively, you approach the ornate railing and place your hands on it, leaning forward. How would it look from the skies, you wonder...

Someone clears their throat behind you.

Despite the gentle attempt to get your attention, it doesn’t stop you from startling violently, whipping around in a half second. Your heartbeat races, climbing up to too fast in a manner of moments.

It's Rhysand. That fact doesn’t help your panic but the sight of him reminds you to throw up the brick wall in your mind, just as he's been teaching you. The focus on the task ebbs away some of your panic.

“Can’t sleep?” Rhys’ asks, kindly ignoring your frenzied panic for your sake.

Taking a controlled inhale to calm yourself, your shoulders drop an inch. You nod slowly.

“Let me guess,” He says, taking a slow step in your direction.

He’s got his hands in the pockets of his sleek pyjama pants — a motion you now recognise not as arrogance, but instead to show that he means no harm. He tilts his head to the side, violet eyes narrowing as he hmmms.

“Bed too soft?”

It’s so spot on that you mentally check your walls, finding them still in tact.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t read my thoughts.”

Rhys smiles, giving a soft chuckle. He shakes his head. “I haven’t. You just…” He pauses, choosing his words carefully.

He glances up at the moon and then says, “Azriel was the same.”

The name makes your heart twist painfully. It's like pressing on an old bruise.

“Cassian too,” Rhys continues, giving a little shrug. “But Az more than anyone else. Spend enough time sleeping on the floor and anything else feels too wrong.”

Gingerly, you nod. Somehow, hearing about Azriel feeling the same as you— imagining him dragging the covers off his bed and burrowing on the floor— makes you ache a little bit.

Maybe you hadn’t realised how alike the two of you were.

“How did he…?” You wave an awkward hand and fumble for the right words. “Or Cassian—I mean, how did they get over it?”

Rhys gives another subtle shrug, his smile turning a little wry. “Not sure if Az ever did. I mean, he’s not big on sleeping for sleepings sake. Cassian on the other hand…”

He trails off and it makes you laugh softly, covering the noise behind your hand. Cassian has certainly let you know his distaste for early rising, even if he is always punctual. Though, you wonder if that’s more to with leaving his mate behind…

“I think,” Rhys starts, then stops. He clicks his tongue, mouth twisting to the side. “I think Azriel had trouble thinking he deserved it. As though he hadn’t earned it.”

The words pierce through you, panging painfully with the familiarity which they resound within you.

“I hope you know that nothing as essential as rest or food or safety—” Rhys stresses each word carefully. “—needs to be earned. Not here.”

Not here—because he’s vividly aware of where you’ve come from.

Because he’d come from it too. Because even though he’s an Illyrian male, at some point so were you, and that means he knows.

He knows. He chooses to be better.

You open your mouth, no clue what response is on your tongue, when the door opening behind him stops you.

Rhys turns and your eyes take in a Fae more beautiful than you could imagine, standing on the doorstep.

You hadn’t known females could… radiate as she does. Females in Exordor are more brutish, more hardened, as it's the only way they truly survive. This Fae is beautiful. She'd be torn apart in Exordor.

If Rhys is the night, she is a star within it. Glowing and warm, the spectacular sight to awe at.

Everything you’ve been leaning into since your arrival, the new identity, the idea of being a she for the first time properly, shrivels up suddenly.

You swallow thickly. You know without a doubt that you are not comparable to this Fae.

“Rhys?”

Cauldron, even her voice is sweet. She’s smiling softly, directed at the Highlord before you who has—what you can only describe as—melted at her presence. She steps down onto the balcony, draped in a soft, ashy nightgown.

“What are you—oh!” Her grey eyes lift as she notices that Rhys is not alone on the balcony.

The smile on her face shifts towards more friendly and welcoming. “Sorry, I thought I was just hunting down a runaway mate, not that he was actually busy.”

She reaches out and ribs Rhysand, as though he should’ve told her not to come looking for him somehow.

As they share a look long, you realise maybe she did mean that literally. She did say mate, after all.

“Who I am to deny myself the pleasure of being hunted down by my lovely wife?” Rhys drawls smugly, grinning as he catches her hand when she tries to rib him again.

He twists it and plants a devoted kiss on the back, evidently pleased when she brightens instantly.

“I’m coming back to bed now, anyways,” He says, murmuring into her skin before he restrains himself, straightening up.

You see his mate cast a quick, concerned glance your way but Rhys shakes his head. “She doesn’t need to hear any more of my blathering, I’m sure.”

He turns to you with a grin and a wink. You blink, perturbed, and completely unsure how to react.

“I hope at least some of what I said you'll find useful,” Rhys says, beginning to wander backward towards the door.

His arm finds the curve of his mate's waist like a magnet and a new emotion surfaces within you, tinged green. She steps back through the gilded doors first, waiting just inside for him.

“But more than that,” Rhys says, hovering on the doorstep. “I hope you’ll get some good sleep.”

He turns and disappears down the hallway, following his star into the darkness of the house. You watch them both go.

Somehow, you think he really means it.

—

Azriel's shadows appear to lose their penchant for mischief overnight.

Which naturally means there’s a healthy dose of suspicion that brews in his mind. As Azriel walks towards the training ring, he eyes the unusually calm blackened spirits. Gone is their frantic energy and instead, they laze about, content to curl up around his shoulders today.

Suspicious indeed. Azriel makes a mental note as he casts a glance out of the windows carved out of the mountain rock.

It's dusk. Night lingers, waiting to drape itself across Velaris in a glossy, inky blanket. Twinkles of light begins to burst forward in the darkness. For all the sour reasons he's making himself train at night, Azriel has to admit it has some perks too.

Like they do most days, his thoughts drift to you.

There's a slight hitch on the thread between you and Azriel and he feels his wings give a little involuntary shudder in response. Thanks to his pestering shadows, he's still being fed little updates about your whereabouts and wellbeing — still a perfect torture.

But you've graduated to training with Cassian.

No longer just cautious friends, no, you're standing up and fighting against him, as you had done with Azriel all those months ago. It had been another morsel of information dropped in his ear by his shadows that made him stumble in his motions.

He had hardly given you a choice, back in Exordor. Azriel remembers it now with a wince, wishing in hindsight that he had been kinder. He had exposed your secret of helping the girls in the camp, infiltrated your home, and all but enforced it on you.

It came from good intentions but if he knew what he knew now, he'd do it differently.

There's... lots of things he'd do differently.

But, with the past set in stone, it didn't matter. Cassian was about choice. Rhys was about choice — and Azriel knew there was no way either of them would've gone near you without your permission, let alone engage in combat.

Besides, he's fairly certain that his brothers were aware of how Azriel would tear them limb from limb if they threatened his mate in any shape or form.

Mate.

The word is still fresh on his tongue and Azriel has to swallow thickly around it, feeling clunky and wrong in his mouth. It doesn't feel as though he's truly earned it yet.

Funny how he spent so many years waiting for one, yearning for his mate, aching for the other half of his heart.

To now be here — travelling through the House of Wind during the evening, to keep his distance from you.

There's another hitch on the tie that binds you and Azriel raises a scarred hand to brush his knuckles along the tender ache in his chest.

He wasn't sure what the little tugs and pulls throughout the day meant. He wasn't sure if it was him or you that was responsible for them.

Even if it feels like a daydream more than anything, he lets himself pretend it means you're thinking of him.

"Give it time," He murmurs to himself, his voice a raspy whisper.

It was Rhys' advice, given to him after that last meeting on the balcony. Give it time. It's what you deserve, what he owes to you.

It doesn't mean it doesn't still sting.

His eyes track the tiles on the floor as he rolls his shoulders back, already preparing for the next couple hours spent training. He can hear the sounds of Cassian out in the ring already, the scuff of his boots against the hard ground.

"Give it time," Azriel urges himself again, under his breath, willing the words to give him some more of his desperately lacking patience. He steps down onto the balcony.

Then, he promptly freezes, because it becomes rapidly apparent that Cassian is not alone.

You... You're there.

In the ring, your wings stretched out in the lowlight of the rising moon, your face relaxed in a way he'd nearly forgotten.

Mother, he’d already thought you were the most beautiful Fae he’d ever laid his eyes on, even back in Exordor, but one short month in Velaris has transformed you.

You had always been strong—your muscles wiry and slender, but hardened. Not having to guess when your next meal is, sleeping with both eyes closed… the effects of being cared for is magnanimous on you. You look better.

To Azriel, you glow.

Then your head towards him and the easy expression of your face shifts to something he desperately wants to be able to read. Cassian has noticed his entrance too, hovering just behind you, but there’s nothing Azriel can look at other than you.

Your eyes meet his.

Stretched out between you, invisible and humming like a live-wire, the mating bond gives a pang.

Azriel feels it burrow beneath his skin, feels it through every nerve and even though he doesn’t deserve it, his heart still croaks forlornly tell me, tell me you feel it too.

The corner of your mouth tugs up and it takes Azriel a whole moment to realise it's almost a smile. Directed at him. Is he still sleeping? Is this some wondrous dream he wishes to never wake from?

He murmurs your name, his voice as rough as a thunderstorm.

"Az," Cassian responds instead and Azriel's hazel eyes snap up to his brother.

He's still frozen in place, paused on the edge of the balcony, even his wings stilled. The only movement is his rapid shadows, bursting forward and reeling themselves back in, like they want to cross the space but know they're not allowed to.

When Azriel doesn't say anything for a long moment, his name is spoken again, this time from you.

Gods, even your voice has changed ever-so-slightly. No longer are you straining it, leaning into the lower tones to sell your façade. There's a softness to it that hadn't been there before.

Azriel thinks he could drink the way you say his name, get drunk on it, and be merry forever.

He still can't move. Did you know he was training here during the evenings? Is that why you're here? Is this some forced intervention for the two of you, set up by his scheming brother?

His body sways forward, wanting, but he can't bring himself to move.

You step forward first instead, treading lightly til you stand before him. In the background, he can see Cassian turn and busy himself, evidently giving the two of you some time.

"Azriel," You say his name again — and it goes down like a shot of moonshine, burning fiercely, warming him from the inside.

He's still taller than you, forcing you to tilt your head back to face him properly and at this angle, he can see the sheen of moonlight reflected in your eyes. You’re utterly beautiful to him, furrowed brow and all.

His beautiful mate— and he left you.

Left you to be taken, to have your wings pinned down, to have their hatred carved into the scars on your spine.

And he left you to think he was right to do so.

Agony, like nothing he’s felt before, rips through him, a fierce hurricane, violent and betrayed. He will never forgive himself.

"I'm sorry." He says earnestly, his voice low but not quiet. The words burst out and he can’t contain them - not when it’s all he’s wanted to say to you these past weeks.

"Leaving you behind—”

There’s an audible shudder in his breath, his eyes fluttering as if admitting his mistake aloud causes him physical pain.

“It will never stop being the regret that haunts my every waking moment and every moment asleep.”

“Azriel—” You murmur, seeing just how deeply he cuts himself with his words. You can tell now that Cassian is right; the soldier before you would punish himself far longer than you ever deigned to.

“Please,” He cuts you off gently, swaying forward again and forcing himself to have restraint. His shadows barely obey, mere inches from you.

“Let me-” His voice is almost a whisper, his hands curling into loose fists before he releases them with a soft sigh. “I will spend every day of my life making it up to you, if you allow me to.”

For a long moment, you stare up at him, searching his eyes for something he doesn’t know. The bond between you thrums quietly behind his ribs.

“I know you will.” you simply say.

Not assuming but… understanding. As if your picture of him is suddenly clearer.

“But either way, I forgive you.”

The air in his lungs disappears, like a punch to his gut. Even as his face barely shifts, well-trained after centuries, his shadows betray him, exploding into a frenzy.

They dart forward, bating into your arms and neck with enough speed to surprise you, but your response is only a puff of air, almost a laugh. The edges of your mouth turn up. Azriel scowls at them, a flustered hue rising to his cheeks.

“…Why?”

You don’t seem surprised by his question, even though the moment it leaves him mouth, Azriel wants to stuff it back in. Who is he to question your forgiveness?

You take a weary breath in and for the first time, break eye contact, casting your to the ground.

“You… You made a mistake. You know that now.” Your eyes flash up to meet his. “You also came back. I think that’s maybe just as important.”

Azriel blinks, more surprise rearing up within him.

How are you so calm, so levelheaded? Where is the angry warrior forged in icy heart of the Illyrian Mountains? The ones who fight first and ask questions never?

Forgiveness, Azriel knows, is not a concept among Illyrian warriors.

His eyes glance up to the other occupant of the balcony. You surely can’t have got it from hanging around with Cassian, of all people. Hot-headed, easy to anger, grudge holder for all eternity Cassian?

Perhaps, Azriel thinks, he doesn’t give his brother enough credit.

“Besides, I also can only hope I’m treated with the same kindness when I make my next mistake.”

Your words soften him. As Azriel swallows the lump in his throat, he finds it in himself to take the forgiveness as easily as you’ve offered it to him.

He nods, then draws his hand from his side and holds it out, “I would hope then, that you wouldn’t mind starting over. As friends?”

Not allies, companions, or teachers.

You put your hand in his, setting the bond twanging between you, and nod. This time, when your lips curl up, it’s in a real, genuine smile. It’s small, but there — and it’s for him.

Azriel could probably fight the moon at this point.

“Friends.”

“You guys done over there? Friends yet?” Cassian calls out callously, having heard almost every word and trampling over the moment without regret. You drop Azriel's hand quickly, turning back with a somewhat flustered expression.

Azriel narrows his eyes at him and Cassian grins deviously in response.

“Great. Does this mean we can all go back to training together in the morning?” Cassian tilts his head to you, gesturing. “She’s been putting through the wringer. I think it’s your turn.”

The words make you grin fiercely and suddenly, Azriel finds he has no trouble with that idea in the slightest.

—

The trio of you train into the twilight, even with the agreement of tomorrow’s early training.

Like an old habit, you fall back into sync with Azriel so easily it’s nearly scary. While your training with Cassian has been about teaching you a variety of new techniques, with you and Azriel it’s always been one on one.

Tonight is no different. Squaring against him in the ring, your new strength and arsenal of moves makes you an equal match. No longer are you trailing behind by one second, stuck on the defence.

Steel of swords clash and you bare your teeth in delight. Just months ago, you were still like an apprentice to him.

Now, you hold your own, new scars and all. You’ve adapted to change in your wings and when you fight with Azriel, it’s fluid. It's a dance.

It also exhausts you like nothing else. When Cassian finally calls it, the fight unwon by either of you after nearly ten constant minutes, you feel tired in a way you haven’t in an age.

It feels good. You’d almost feel bad at Cassian’s exclusion if he wasn’t grinning as widely as you. The sight doesn't jar you but the realisation that it’s happiness for you does. You're still not used to having people in your corner.

As you pant and step out of the ring, Azriel speaks your name.

“May I walk you to your room?” He asks, still panting lightly. The nod in reply comes easily.

Azriel smiles, one of his real ones, teeth and all. His canines are sharper, giving him an almost fanged grin. You’ve never seen that smile before, as eased and relaxed as it is.

You wonder for a moment how much the Azriel you met in the mountains, the colder and harsher version, is the real one.

Here, in his home, you can see that every corner of him is softened.

And then whatever you’re thinking is wiped in an instant as he pulls his black training shirt to wipe the sweat from his face—revealing his glistening, tanned and toned stomach that ripples with every breath.

Cauldron. A heat you’ve never felt quite before burns through you, like a paper going up in flames.

Something strung between your ribs stings in the most perfect way. You feel your lips part instinctively, your heartbeat suddenly louder than it was a moment ago.

Smothering the feeling, you make sure to school your features into something neutral, your open mouth snapping shut.

You have no idea what expression you’d made but you don’t doubt it’ll be something Cassian can laugh at. A quick glance at the male shows you’ve gotten away with it this time.

Turning, you pad across to the weapons rack and lay your broadsword to rest, waiting for Azriel to do the same. He sheathes the sword with ease and then tilts his head towards the doors.

Together, you bid your friend adieu. Something glimmers in Cassian’s responding smile, his dark eyes watching you with a look that tells you he knows more than he says. You don’t give any reaction, not wanting to encourage him.

Besides, you’ve learnt that Cassian has that expression most of the time. You've just grown use to putting him on his ass afterwards though.

Instead, you turn and face the other warrior on the rooftop. He's watching you closely, his shadows, which had been banished during your fight, back and lingering around him in a relaxed way.

You lead the way. He follows. Neither of you speak.

It's something timid and new, trying out your friendship again. Despite how easy it was to fall back into fighting with him, you have to admit that your fragile friendship back in Exordor was founded on your lie.

He didn't know who you were, even if you did share many quiet evenings in your cabin. The ground you're starting on is new.

The quiet walk seems just the way to begin.

Something stirs in your chest, almost akin to a purr, warm and welcoming as you walk. Your arm brushes against Azriel several times on the walk, each time setting off a flare beneath your skin. You're too busy watching your feet to notice the fervent glances Azriel can't resist stealing.

You arrive at your room what feels like far too soon.

As you raise your hand to the knob, the silence continues, broken only when you begin to turn it.

"I wanted to say thank you," Azriel says, the words rushing out of his mouth. It makes you pause in your motions. You look back at him.

He seems hesitant but sincere, as though he feared bringing up your forgiveness in case you decided to revoke it.

His hazel eyes dart away, breaking contact briefly, before he clears his throat and meets your eyes. "For allowing me a second chance."

"You know Azriel," You say, your voice warm in a way he's never heard before. So, so different from the warrior in the mountains, in all the best ways, he thinks.

"I think you've been giving me a second chance from the first day we met."

Then, you bid him goodnight and slip into your room quietly.

Exhaustion drags you down to your pile of blankets and sleep is swift to claim you, not even giving you a moment to fixate on the tenderness of Azriel's last smile.

That night, for the first time since you've arrived in Velaris, you sleep the whole night through.

tags below!

@strangerstilinski @janebirkln @itsswritten @mischiefmanagers @hnyclover

@waytoomanyteenagefeels @idkitsem @illyrianbitch @jeweline16 @fightmedraco

@iamjimintrash @maendering @spideytingley @aneekapaneeka @cassianswh0reee

@viciane @astarlitsoul @mybestfriendmademe @archiveofcravings @reputaytionn-13

@bionic-donut @chessebookgirl @itseightbeats @littleblackcatinwonderland @twsssmlmaa

@fanworrior @skysayhi @vintageoldfashion @tequilya @fabulouslyflamboyant5

@rhysandorian @laughterafter @brieftriumphnightmare @hirah-yummar @some-person-somewhere

@scooobies @sfhsgrad-blog @cherry-cin @bookloverandalsocats @megscabinetofcurios

@doodlebugsblog @landofpetrichor @acourtofdreamsandshadows @florabelll @tanyaherondale

@aomi-recs @letmejustreadthanks @problemfinder @sevikas-whore @doodlebugg16-blog

@meandmysillywriting @justingnoreme @krowiathemythologynerd @hanatsuki-hime

[spideytingley]

i love me some ? to ? to friends to lovers THIS IS DELICIOUS

[olive-main]

Hi hi! Ive just stumbled across your writing and i adore it so much! You capture Azriel so perfectly!! I don't really have much of a specific request in mind (but trust me, I'll think of one and come back if that's okay??) But could I ask for something with our Az and a super strong, independent, sarcastic reader. I just love the idea of totally smitten Azriel and just all the fluff. I'm so sorry this is so vague but

Happy holidays!!

No Damsels Here

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: A fiesty Valkyrie with a sharp wit and the brooding Shadowsinger find their lives slowly intertwined through training, quiet moments, and unexpected gestures, leading them to realize there may be a growing connection they can no longer ignore.

Wc: 2.7k

A/N: Ok be honest, did you hack into my account and read my drafts bcs….I had just the fic for this request rotting for far too long. I hope you enjoy, it’s not my fav since I think my writing is better now hence why it’s been in my drafts lol and it’s like semi proofread—BUT thanks to this request y’all get more fluff. Everyone say thank you! :b

——

The morning air is cool and sharp, biting at your skin as you jog toward the training ring, late as usual. The sun hasn’t fully risen yet, its rays barely spilling over the horizon, but Nesta is already there stretching, as she is every morning. Ever the Valkyrie.

“You’re late,” she remarks as you step onto the mat beside her.

“Fashionably late,” you correct, tying your hair back. “Besides, I needed an extra five minutes of sleep. Someone decided to keep me up last night with her endless talking about smutty romance novels.”

Nesta doesn’t bother to hide her smirk. “Don’t act as if you’re not interested in my books.”

Before you can retort, Cassian’s booming voice cuts through the quiet. “Alright, enough about your romance book things. You’re here to train, not gossip.”

You glance over the training grounds, your eyes instinctively flicking toward the familiar figure standing on the far edge of the ring. Azriel is adjusting the strap of his leathers, his wings half-furled behind him as he surveys the weapons laid out with his usual quiet focus.

Nesta catches the direction of your gaze and nudges you with her elbow. “Still brooding, isn’t he?”

“He’s not brooding,” you reply, a little too defensively. “He’s… serious.”

Nesta gives you a knowing look but doesn’t press further as Cassian begins pairing everyone off for sparring.

“Y/N,” Cassian calls, grinning wickedly. “You’re with Azriel today.”

You blink, trying not to focus on how your heart jumped. Across the ring, Azriel’s eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you think you see the faintest hint of amusement in his expression.

—

Sparring with Azriel is both exhilarating and frustrating. He’s fast—almost impossibly so—and he moves with a precision that leaves no openings. You’re strong and quick on your feet, but against Azriel, every strike feels like a gamble.

“You’re hesitating,” he murmurs, dodging your swing with ease.

“I’m calculating,” you snap back, twisting to block his next move.

His lips twitch, the faintest ghost of a smile. “You’re thinking too much.”

“And you’re talking too much,” you retort, aiming a strike at his side.

He blocks it effortlessly, his wings shifting slightly as he steps into your space. For a moment, you’re close enough to catch the faint scent of cedar and something darker, something so distinctly him.

“Focus,” he says, his voice low and even, and you can’t help the way your pulse quickens.

But you don’t let him see that. Instead, you smirk and lunge to the left before sweeping his legs out from under him. He lands on his back with a soft thud, his wings flaring slightly to cushion the fall.

“Gotcha,” you say, planting your hands on your hips.

Azriel props himself up on one elbow, looking up at you with an expression that’s almost impressed. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” you echo, laughing. “That was a textbook takedown.”

From across the ring, Cassian claps his hands. “That’s my girl! Show him who’s boss, Y/N!”

You smile proudly at Cassian, bowing exaggeratedly before turning back to Azriel with a proud smirk.

“Again?” he asks, his tone calm but with a flicker of challenge in his eyes.

“Obviously,” you reply, and the sparring begins anew.

—

You’re sitting on the edge of the ring after the session, toweling the sweat from your face as the others disperse. Nesta sits beside you, nursing a bottle of water and watching Azriel, who’s speaking quietly with Cassian.

“You know he likes you, right?” Nesta says, breaking the silence.

You choke on your water. “What?”

Nesta gives you a look, one brow arched in that infuriatingly smug way of hers. “Don’t play dumb. He’s been watching you all morning.”

“He watches everyone,” you argue, though your voice lacks conviction.

“Not like this,” Nesta counters. “Trust me, I’ve seen the way he looks at you. It’s different.”

You shake your head, refusing to entertain the idea. “He’s just… observant. It’s his job.”

Nesta doesn’t respond, but her silence is louder than words.

—

Over the next few weeks, you start to notice the little things. The way Azriel lingers near you during training, offering quiet pointers or stepping in to demonstrate a move. The way he always seems to know when you’re pushing yourself too hard, handing you a water bottle or calling for a break just as your muscles start to protest.

And then there are the gloves. The day before you’d worn down your leather gloves to their last seam, small tears at the knuckles.

You find them waiting for you one morning, neatly folded and left on the bench where you always sit. They’re sleek and well-crafted, the leather soft and pliable. With your name written on a piece of parchment laid neatly on them, in his writing.

“Nice gloves,” Nesta remarks as you slip them on.

“They’re… new,” you say, frowning slightly.

“Azriel left them,” she says, her tone far too casual.

You freeze, glancing at her. “How do you know that?”

Nesta smirks. “Because I saw him put them there.”

You open your mouth to respond, but before you can, Azriel approaches, his expression as unreadable as ever.

“Do they fit?” he asks, his gaze flicking to the gloves.

You nod, flexing your fingers. “Perfectly. Thank you.”

He inclines his head, his lips curving into the faintest smile before he turns and walks away.

“Hopeless,” Nesta mutters under her breath, but you don’t bother arguing this time.

—

It’s late one evening when Azriel finds you sitting on the balcony of the House of Wind, staring out at the twinkling lights of Velaris below.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, his voice soft as he steps into the night air.

You glance over your shoulder, surprised but not unwelcome. “Something like that.”

He leans against the railing beside you, his wings folding neatly behind him. For a while, neither of you speaks, the quiet stretching between you like a warm blanket.

Finally, Azriel breaks the silence. “Something is on your mind”

“Oh? Am I that easy to see through Shadowsinger?” you ask, turning to face him.

“No, not always” he says, his hazel eyes meeting yours. “But you only come out here when something is.”

You hesitate, unsure how to respond. But before you can, he continues, his voice low and steady.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he says. “But if you ever want to, I’m here.”

The sincerity in his tone takes you off guard, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him.

“Thanks,” you say finally, your voice softer than usual.

He nods, his gaze lingering on you for a heartbeat longer before he turns back to the view.

The silence stretches, comfortable but crackling with unspoken words. You lean your elbows on the railing, the cool metal pressing against your skin. Azriel doesn’t move, his presence steady beside you, a quiet sort of comfort.

“So,” you say at last, breaking the stillness. “Is brooding a full-time job for you, or do you just do it in your free time?”

His lips twitch, though he doesn’t take his eyes off the city below. “Depends. Are you asking because you want tips?”

A laugh escapes you, sharp and unrestrained. “Please, I could out-brood you any day of the week.”

Azriel turns his head slightly, enough that you can see the amusement flickering in his hazel eyes. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Oh, you will,” you quip, straightening up and crossing your arms. “But don’t come crying to me when I leave you in the shadows.”

“I don’t cry,” he replies smoothly, his expression as impassive as ever.

You snort, shaking your head. “No, of course not. The great spymaster of the Night Court doesn’t have emotions, right?”

His mouth curves into the faintest smile, and for a moment, you swear you see something softer beneath the usual calm exterior.

“Wrong,” he says quietly.

The sincerity in his tone catches you off guard, and for once, you’re at a loss for words. Before you can respond, Azriel shifts, his wings rustling softly as he straightens.

“I should let you get some sleep,” he says, his voice low and even.

“Sure,” you reply, recovering quickly. “I’ll need it for when I take you down in training tomorrow.”

His soft chuckle is the last thing you hear before he disappears into the shadows, leaving you alone with your racing thoughts.

—

The next morning, you’re determined to shake off the lingering feelings from last night. You throw yourself into training with a vengeance, sparring with Nesta and Cassian until your muscles burn and your breath comes in ragged gasps.

But no matter how hard you push yourself, you can’t ignore the fact that Azriel’s eyes are on you. He’s not overt about it, of course—he never is. But you’ve gotten good at reading him.

“Do you think he’s capable of blinking?” you mutter to Nesta during a break, jerking your chin in Azriel’s direction.

Nesta smirks, following your gaze. “Why? Is it distracting you?”

“Hardly,” you scoff. “I just don’t want him pulling something from all that intense staring.”

“Maybe he’s impressed,” Nesta says, her tone teasing.

You roll your eyes. “He’s impressed by my fighting skills, obviously. Who wouldn’t be?”

“Obviously,” Nesta echoes, her smirk growing.

“Don’t start,” you warn, grabbing your water bottle.

Nesta raises her hands in mock surrender, but you can see the gleam in her eye.

—

After training, you’re stretching near the edge of the ring when Azriel approaches. You glance up, noting the slight crease in his brow as he surveys the scrape on your arm.

“You should get that looked at,” he says, nodding toward the cut.

“It’s nothing,” you reply, brushing it off. “Barely a scratch.”

Azriel doesn’t look convinced. He crouches beside you, pulling a small vial of salve from his pocket.

“Hold still,” he murmurs, reaching for your arm.

You consider protesting, but the look in his eyes stops you. So instead, you sit there, watching as his fingers work with careful precision, his touch surprisingly gentle.

“You know, this is the second time you’ve fussed over me this week,” you say, breaking the silence. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to impress me.”

Azriel doesn’t look up, but you catch the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. “Is it working?”

The question takes you off guard, and for a moment, you’re not sure how to respond. So instead, you settle for sarcasm.

“Not yet,” you say, grinning. “But keep trying. You might get there eventually.”

His quiet laugh sends warmth curling through your chest, and as he finishes wrapping your arm, you find yourself wishing the moment would last a little longer.

—

Later that evening, you’re in the kitchen with Nesta, raiding the cabinets for a late-night snack.

“So,” she says casually, popping a grape into her mouth. “What’s going on with you and Azriel?”

You freeze mid-reach, turning to glare at her. “What do you mean, ‘what’s going on?’”

Nesta shrugs, far too nonchalant. “I mean, he practically hovered over you all day. And don’t think I didn’t notice him patching you up earlier.”

“It was a cut,” you say defensively. “Hardly life-threatening.”

“Uh-huh.” Nesta leans against the counter, studying you with those sharp eyes of hers. “And the gloves? Or the way he’s always watching you during training?”

You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m really not,” Nesta replies, a sly smile creeping onto her face.

“Well, even if he does… like me, that’s his problem,” you say, crossing your arms. “I’m not some damsel in distress, waiting for someone to sweep me off my feet.”

“No,” Nesta agrees, smirking. “But maybe you’re someone who could use a little… sweeping.”

You throw a grape at her, and she laughs, ducking out of the way.

—

The realization of Azriel’s attention lingers in your mind longer than you’d like to admit. You try to shake it off—try to convince yourself that it’s just his nature to watch everyone, to care quietly. But there’s a warmth to his gaze when it falls on you, a softness that feels different, deliberate.

And once you notice it, you can’t stop seeing it.

Like during training the next day, when Cassian barks at everyone to do laps. You’re running alongside Nesta, your legs burning and breath hitching, when Azriel quietly falls into step beside you.

“Don’t overthink your breathing,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “I’m not overthinking it.”

His lips twitch, almost imperceptibly. “You were counting your breaths.”

You narrow your eyes, your tone laced with mock offense. “You’re watching me breathe now? That’s not creepy at all.”

Azriel doesn’t rise to the bait, but the faintest smirk graces his lips. “Just trying to help.”

“Uh-huh,” you reply, rolling your eyes. But when you refocus on your breathing, following his advice, the run feels a little easier.

—

A few days later, you find yourself in the House of Wind’s library, searching for a book Nesta recommended, the one she had mentioned to you a few days ago. You’re muttering under your breath, cursing the ridiculously high shelves, when a familiar voice speaks behind you.

“Need help?”

You whirl around to find Azriel standing there, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“Not unless you’ve got a ladder hidden somewhere,” you reply, crossing your arms.

Azriel steps closer, his wings shifting as he glances up at the shelf. “Which one?”

You point to the book near the top, and without a word, Azriel extends a wing, brushing it against the shelf as he pulls the book down with practiced ease.

He hands it to you, his fingers brushing yours briefly. “There.”

You take the book, trying not to let the warmth of his touch distract you. “Thanks. I guess having wings is good for more than just flying, huh?”

His smile widens slightly. “They’re versatile.”

“Show-off,” you mutter, but there’s no bite to your tone.

Azriel doesn’t respond, just tilts his head as if studying you. The silence stretches, heavy but not uncomfortable, and you find yourself wondering what’s going on behind those hazel eyes.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask finally, your voice sharper than you intend.

Azriel blinks, as though pulled from his thoughts. “Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to figure something out,” you say, narrowing your eyes.

He hesitates, his gaze steady but unreadable. “Maybe I am.”

Before you can press him further, he nods toward the book in your hands. “Enjoy your reading.” And then he’s gone, slipping back into the shadows as easily as he came.

—

The tension between you grows, subtle but undeniable. It’s not something you can ignore anymore—not when his gaze lingers just a second too long, or when his words carry a weight you can’t quite name.

One evening, after another long day of training, you find yourself wandering the halls of the House of Wind. You end up on the same balcony where Azriel joined you that night, the city lights below twinkling like stars.

You’re not surprised when he appears again, his presence so quiet you almost don’t notice until he’s standing beside you.

“Do you ever sleep?” you ask, glancing at him.

“Rarely,” he admits, his voice soft.

“Figures,” you mutter, leaning against the railing.

The silence stretches, but this time, it feels charged, as though both of you are waiting for the other to speak.

Finally, Azriel breaks the quiet. “You confuse me.”

You blink, turning to face him. “What?”

“You’re strong, stubborn, sarcastic…” He trails off, his lips curving slightly. “But you care. Even when you try not to show it.”

You stare at him, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he says, his gaze meeting yours, “that you make it very difficult to stay in the shadows.”

His words hang in the air, and for once, you don’t have a witty comeback. You’re too busy trying to process the way your heart is racing, the way his eyes seem to see straight through you.

“Well,” you say finally, your voice quieter than usual. “Maybe it’s time you stepped out of them.”

Azriel’s smile is small, but it’s real. And in that moment, with the stars above and the city below, you feel something shift between both of you—something neither of you are sure you can ignore anymore. Not when he feels that golden thread that glows in his chest, connecting his soul to yours.

——

Are y’all interested in a tag list?? I’m gonna be more consistent in posting hehe.

Thank you for reading my lovely humans. Requests are still very open ;)

[jjenthusee]

Handshakes And Trash Cans

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

a/n: simply, i wrote a lot and i didn’t wanna release it in parts, so i squeezed the entire fic here. I’ve been having fun writing small excerpts and then they turn into full fics. Jason deserves all the love, so i focused on a neighbors to lovers? No mention of vigilante stuff, but tons of domesticity. With some mentions of big brother Dick (i’m a firm believer that he’s the number one supporter of Jason and just wants the best for him), a bit of steaminess if u squint, and a very devoted Jason. leave me any comments if your comfortable sharing because i wanna know what u guys think XD and if you were crying screaming sliding down the wall like i was (also despite me still being in my repenting era, i wanted to release this as an early apology cause i wanna write another angsty drabble so maybe…maybe not look forward to that) ENJOY (link to the work before this one here)

word count: 7.1k

tags: pining, tons of fluff, strangers to friends to lovers, heartfelt confessions, big brother dick shenanigans

When you got your first two-bedroom apartment, you always thought the dream would only be possible with a roommate. You didn’t have much money during college and transitioning into a full-time job didn’t allow you to freely spend outside of necessities and rent.

But you did it. You got two bedrooms and you didn’t initially know what to do with the extra room. A hobby space, a library, a guest room, or an office? There were too many possibilities.

This was your space, so you combined it all. A basket to keep all of your current craft obsessions next to a bean bag, two full shelves of books from your childhood to your university years, and a desk in the corner to write. It was everything you hoped for. A spot to leave work out of, to decompress and remember the things that made you happy.

You were proud you did it on your own. You could enjoy solitude, your hard work and give time to prioritize yourself.

But an unexpected accomplishment came with an unexpected visitor. A handsome visitor no less. Maybe being an adult wasn’t so bad all the time.

…

But meeting new people was bad. Or you were bad at it.

When you were up at two in the morning, doing normal two a.m. activities like trying to turn your entire life around, you believed that dragging yourself to one of the community events at the apartment complex would help you get to know your neighbors. Then you could scope the scene to see if you wanted to hide forever or maybe have a friendly acquaintance you acknowledged in the hallway.

Now you wanted neither as you sat, alone, at a bar stool in the well decorated community balcony. Although you were distancing yourself from the main party, you couldn’t help admiring the string lights they hung up, the pristine décor, and new furniture. They clearly went through a grand renovation before you moved in.

Despite your need to socially decompress from all the small talk, you did feel mellow in the warm lighting, listening to the slow music you quietly hummed to.

The view was great from your table, you got to see from the edge of the balcony into the city view. Gotham City did have its moments and lots of outsiders tend to see all the bad that overruns it, but when the city is calm, it has its own virtue.

As you watched the sky line, a man also decided to join in, admiring the city lights. He stood farther from where you sat, leaning against the glass and steel railing. He was probably distancing himself from the party like you were. You could only see half of his face from your current angle and distance, but he was…charming. Broody and charming.

Gotham did have the best views, but staring was bad. A little bit of hope crept into your mind at the thought of a handsome neighbor living in the same apartment building.

Another pretty man joined him. Wow, you never realized that Gotham had a lot of great views. Maybe you needed to get out more, enjoy the scenery a bit.

The two beautiful men seemed to know each other. One more talkative than the other, but they seemed close. It was amusing watching the way they contrasted one another, a man clearly dragged to be here tonight and the other fueling himself with the night vibe.

As much as you wanted to continue to be nosy, maybe it was time to call it a night, it was late and you got enough of your pretty boy fill for the evening. Which would have been the plan if you didn’t make eye contact with the second model that blessed your eyes.

You nervously observed the charismatic man walking toward you with a bright friendly smile.

“Hello, I just wanted to ask if my brother—the tall very alone one standing over there—could be tall and very alone over here, in this seat.” He dragged the stool out from underneath the glass table you were resting your arms on.

You looked at the empty seat across from you, then glanced at his presumed brother you were staring at earlier. He clearly didn’t agree to this sudden turn of events as he watched the two of you talk and he looked more mortified than you were. It was…cute. It brought a smile to your face.

“Well, your tall and very alone brother looks scared of me.” You glanced back to the man still holding the chair out.

Your comment must have been hysterical at the way the man was almost leaning forward from laughing. His dimples fully visible and his hair falling forward. Everything he did looked stunning.

“I promise he’s friendlier than he looks.” He breathlessly held his stomach still amused at your first impression of his broody brother. “He’s tall, alone, and friendly if it helps.”

You thought for a moment, debating on your options: leave or sit with a handsome man in possibly awkward silence.

“I don’t mind being alone together.” You smiled more, giving into the curiosity of the man leaning against the railing.

You were a simple human and apparently the man in front of you was too when he ushered his brother over. A man much too large for the bar stool, but you got a good look at his full face.

The curls, defined dark eyebrows, a white streak. His face had definition, a particular beauty that differed from his brother. Not less beautiful, but you were more drawn to the rougher look.

You definitely made the right choice.

Before you had any time to say anything, the conspirator left to go mingle with another bunch of attendees. You watched him hop from one conversation to another, you didn’t know whether he knew them or he just met them like you had five seconds ago.

“I think social anxiety is scared of him.” You laughed in disbelief to your new companion.

“Trust me, you have no idea. I’ve seen him wear some of the most horrendous outfits in public, willingly. What’s worse is—I hate to admit it—but he can pull it off, in a horrifying way.” The stranger shook his head, no mortification in his voice, and you almost unconsciously lulled to the sound. “But he means well, uh, sorry he dragged you into whatever he’s planning. I could leave you alone, he tends to unintentionally be pushy.”

Oh? Broody, charming and thoughtful. Was the bar low or were you easily impressed? Maybe the husky voice is blurring the distinction.

“No, it’s okay, he seemed worried about both us being ‘very alone’ as he put it.” You spoke, glancing into the eyes of the man in front of you. Greenish blue. A wave of amusement washed over you and with the most serious expression you could muster, you decided to test the waters. “From one alone person to another, let’s be alone together.” You reached out your hand to introduce yourself.

He coyly smiled at your formal gesture, leaning in to mimic your movement. You were both leaning onto the glass table, close enough to see the slight scaring on his face. Faint enough to see them only if you were close enough, wanting to drag your thumb across them.

His warm hand engulfed yours. Calloused. A firm handshake.

“Jason, alone man, and been alone for twenty-one years.” Jason gave you the most breathtaking smile, never letting go of your hand. “I’m looking forward to this opportunity…alone, of course.”

You laughed, almost giggled from how charming this man was.

“It’s been twenty-three alone years and still counting.” You mischievously smirked, glad he joined in on your antics. “I’m glad to let you join the team. I expect great things from you.”

“And I hope to learn a lot from my superiors, I’ll be in your care.” Jason’s voice was so low at the end of his statement. It caught you off guard that you almost missed the way he held onto your hand just a tiny bit longer than you anticipated. So short that you felt like you imagined it.

The warmth still lingered on your hands after you let go.

You were so engrossed in Jason’s company and Jason only had the eyes to look at you, that neither of you could see the man, who schemed your interaction, was beaming from watching the connection spark.

…

That single handshake and nonchalant agreement that you shared with an unknown neighbor actually kept it’s promise. That evening, you found out that Jason lived on the same floor as you did, that his brother visited him a lot, and he took out the trash on Wednesdays.

He didn’t tell you the last one, but you found out the last bit of information by accident when you bumped into him on your way back from the trash room. You thought the evening you met Jason would be the first and last time you would see him, but your laziness prevented you from taking out the garbage on your designated day and you were graced with seeing his lopsided smile as you passed him in the hallway.

You were so giddy from the surprise and seeing Jason’s captivating smile, you tested your luck and took the trash out on the same day and time the following week.

You listened out in the hallway, trying to hear a door open, it was honestly crazy behavior, but you continued your slow pace, but with no tall alone man in sight and a defeated sigh, you walked to the trash room with no Jason by your side and swung the door open.

Like a beam of light cascading over you, the man in question was standing in front of you, opening the trash shoot. You never thought a man in a trash room would be sexy, but with his shirt tightly straining on his body, a flushed face, and his muscles eye level with you, anything was possible.

May whoever told this gorgeous man to live at this apartment complex eat delicious meals, have working phone chargers, and a lifetime of happiness.

Somewhere off in the far distance, Dick sneezed.

You almost forgot the reason you were in the trash room after you set your eyes on Jason’s post-workout state. He kept the shoot open for you and with unsteady steps you threw your trash bag to disappear to the unknown. You were trying to not trip up with Jason’s defined arm holding the handle open and the close proximity of his chest to your face.

Maybe you need to go on a run. Why were you acting like this right now?

“Hey, neighbor.” Jason casually spoke to you. His voice felt airy, probably winding down from the exercise. “You come around here often?”

You cleared your mind from any thoughts, the trash room was not the place to start flirting, but what were you supposed to do when Jason started it? Or what you assumed to be flirtatious conversation.

“Nah, I’m new to town.” You glanced over to him, leaning your neck back to grasp his full height. Jason hadn’t missed the movement, combing your collarbone with his gaze. “But, I might stay a while.” You melodically spoke.

Before your stare and voice settled in the air, you stepped to the side to add a little distance between the two of you. Pulling away from the tension.

“Just so I can continue my alone things.” You explained trying to smoothen the mood with a playful tone.

Jason stayed quiet like he was contemplating something in his mind. Then he let the trash shoot close and with small steps the both of you walked out into the hallway.

“What alone things do you have planned tomorrow?” Jason nonchalantly asked, so casually you almost thought you heard wrong.

“Uh, work in the morning, but nothing planned for the evening, I wanted to try out a new cookie recipe.”

“Do you wanna come over to my place—I wanted to cook something for dinner, but it just hasn’t worked out yet. Maybe you can bring those cookies?” Jason didn’t look at you, suddenly interested in the pure white walls of the hallway. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand.

You were stunned. How was such a beautiful man asking you to come over to his place with the promise of him cooking you dinner and all you had to do was bring your shitty cookies?

“I want to warn you that my cookies aren’t award worthy. I just follow the recipe, they’re nothing special.” You wanted to ensure that Jason was really inviting you over.

“Then I can’t wait to try your ‘nothing special’ cookies.” He reassured.

…

You spent the entire afternoon making sure your measurements were precise, not a lump of flour above the rim of the measuring utensils you haven’t brought out in a while. Usually you winged the ingredients, not really worried about the quality too much since it was just you.

But now you wanted to cry.

How did you properly fold ingredients, were you whisking right, maybe you should’ve got the too expensive butter from the store?

It took three full hours to prep, bake, and try your hand at cutely packaging the cookies. It took four attempts to arrange the cookies in a way that didn’t make you want to cancel the dinner.

But after a few pep talks in the mirror and reassuring yourself that this was a hang out and not a date, then you were able to walk over to his unit number.

You hesitantly knocked on the door, five minutes after seven because you would torture yourself thinking about arriving right on the dot before you fell asleep tonight and every night after.

Your worries left your mind when you saw Jason open the door in an apron.

“You’re just in time, I’m ready to plate everything.” He beamed.

Your heart might not be able to survive tonight. But it was just dinner.

You awkwardly handed Jason your tin of homemade cookies. You tried to limit your snooping around his apartment when he told you to wait for him to get the drinks, but curiosity was coursing through you once you realized that you were being invited into a part of Jason’s life and home.

You were no longer going to be strangers. You didn’t know if this qualified to make you friends, but you knew you were two people about to eat dinner together. A dinner he made and cookies you made as thanks.

Once you were ready to eat, you stared at your plate filled with spices, fresh veggies, a meticulously cooked entrée and a…homemade lemonade? You stared up at Jason, watching you look at his food.

“I feel like bringing you cookies isn’t enough.” Although you felt guilty, you took a bite because you didn’t want to look at one more second of Jason’s shining eyes.

You could only sigh, which made Jason worry.

“I think I’m going to name my children after you.”

Jason chuckled at your exaggeration.

“I’d be honored.”

The rest of the meal was relaxing. You didn’t have to force yourself around Jason. Your conversation flowed easily and you were interested in learning about the man you met on the balcony.

…

After many trips to the other side of the apartment building and a couple of deep cleanings of your apartment, you got accustomed to having Jason walk around your kitchen, rummaging the cabinets and organizing your spices the way he likes it.

One shared meal after another. Sometimes several times a week or spaced out further when work got busy. It was nice to look forward to a meal with Jason.

Now you had text messages from him on your phone, a designated mug for him, and a couple of his snacks that he wanted you to try.

You traded recipes. Jason gave you his favorites and you mainly just gave him ones you were curious about, not very fond of your kitchen.

After several failed attempts at convincing him that it was your kitchen that was the problem and not your ability to cook, he came over more to prove you wrong.

Now you sat at your kitchen island to watch him concentrate on mixing an assortment of spices and herbs while you memorized as much of his face and hands as possible. The TV was on, but you had no interest in whatever movie played.

“I have a confession to make.” You sadly looked at Jason.

He glanced over from the pan on the stove to your face. Confusion in his eyes from your sudden change in tone.

“I actually don’t really like cookies.” You threw your hands up in a guilty pose. “Now it’s eating me inside that I had to give those to you when I first came over to your place.”

Jason hummed and tilted his head with one of his eyebrows raised in a teasing manner.

“So, the guilt finally got to you, huh?” He grinned moving his attention back to the food cooking in front of him. His nonchalant voice resonating around you.

“I can’t sleep at night anymore.” You exaggerated, walking a little closer to his side. “Well, once you became my personal chef I realized I had to make it up to you.” You could smell the food better now that you were standing next to Jason.

“I can see the guilt in your eyes.” He flatly said watching you eyeing the food.

“We always eat when we hang out and I can make simple foods, but if I can follow a recipe I was going to suggest if I should cook something, but you are also here to prove me wrong that my kitchen isn’t cursed. Which it is by the way—”

“Your kitchen is not cursed.” He warmly scolded you. “I’ll come over everyday to prove it if I have to.”

You always had to reset your brain when he used that tone with you. It just felt too…sincere. Too intimate.

You wanted him to come over everyday. You took a breath.

“I make more money than when I was still in college, but I don’t think I can afford that many grocery bills.” You teased him. “Why do you think I go over to your place?”

You wanted to evade any serious topics and humor was the best at evading. You were good at avoidance.

“So, I’m a free pantry to you?” His eyebrows rose, questioning you. “I knew you were using me!” He faked a flabbergasted voice like he just heard his life-long partner declare they were cheating on him for months.

He turned off the stove, covering the pan with the lid and turning to face you.

“I didn’t mean to, it just sort of happened.” You gave him your best dejected look. “I promise I’ll pick up more shifts to help restock your fridge, but let me just taste your homemade ravioli one last time.” You begged as he moved closer to you, closing you in with the kitchen island behind your back.

His height and broad shoulders easily caved you in. You gulped watching his face lean down and inch closer.

“If I can’t trust you with my fridge, you don’t deserve my ravioli.” He lowered his voice, gazing down at you with a look that made you breathless. You couldn’t move with the counter behind you and Jason hovering dangerously close to you. “But, you can make it up to me.” He brought his thumb to your chin, barely a wisp of touch.

“How?” You stammered, wondering if the bit was still going.

“Let’s go to the farmer’s market tomorrow.” His hand moved from your face to the edge of the counter, close enough to touch your side and his voice returning to normal, but he didn’t pull away.

“Okay, uh, I’m off tomorrow.” You stared, darting your eyes between Jason’s eyes. Trying to adjust to the tension that was radiating off of him.

“Good, foods ready.” Jason pulled away, moving to the cabinet to grab your glass plates. He was too familiar with the layout of your kitchen.

That night you quickly learned how easy Jason was able to turn the tables. Your racing heart and shallow breathing were the only evidence of it ever happening.

…

The heat beat down on you. Of all days for Gotham to finally clear it’s clouds, it chose today.

Although you weren’t fond of the warm air, you liked watching all the colorful tents, the food on display, and seeing the various local products. Everything looked intricately cared for and it brought a proud feeling to contribute to the locals.

“Bags?” Jason asked, going through his mental checklist.

“Check.” You raised the reusable grocery bags in your hands.

“Hats?”

“Check.” You nudged the baseball cap on your head.

“Money?” Jason smirked.

You grabbed onto Jason’s bicep. Giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Check.” You grinned up at Jason looking at the placement of your hand. “Now let’s go!” You gleefully led him to the first tent with your hand still on him.

You had no idea how you ended up carrying all the bags, but you were trying to ease your mind that this could be considered a date. Jason didn’t call it that and you never asked to clarify, but you couldn’t help it itching at your brain.

You didn’t want to label anything, out of respect for Jason and what he wanted, but you noticed he had started to touch you more and the contact makes you giddy that you had to put all of your focus on making sure you don’t drop his produce.

You stood by Jason, looking at various jars of loose leaf tea. He was smelling all the aromas, helping to move the jars to your nose, so you could smell them too. He insisted on helping you since you refused to give him a bag, but you also didn’t have a free hand to grab the jar.

After a couple more sniff tests, he settled on a jar of prickly pear tea, a lemon-ginger flavor, and he was contemplating on some earl grey cookies. You were watching him, entranced by his concentration. His brows lowered, a small line appearing between his brows. You could see more of his face with a cap on, no messy curls on his forehead and his side profile was really something.

You broke out of your trance when he offered you a piece of the earl-grey cookie, holding it in front of your mouth.

“They’re free samples, try it.” He looked at you, waiting patiently. “I know you don’t like cookies, but these are made with the tea sold here. I saw all the tea you keep in your pantry, so I think you would like it.”

In your lost state at this man in front of you, that could’ve sounded like a proposal to you at that point.

You inched forward, opening your mouth for the cookie. You hesitated at the intimacy, but how could you tell that face ‘no.’ Staring at the small piece of cookie, baked a quarter of the original size they sold, you also saw all the scars that littered Jason’s hands. Many healed over, but you could see the faded lines.

You dangerously wanted to kiss each one.

You grabbed the piece in your mouth, but you didn’t realize that you accidentally touched Jason’s finger with your lip.

You quickly glanced at Jason, but his eyes were glossed over. His attention focused on your mouth.

What a sight.

You chewed and hummed. They were good. Jason cleared his throat at your approval.

“I’ll get a bag and the tea. I’ll be back. You can put the bags down for a bit because there’s a small line.” He quickly turned around, a small tinge of redness left on his ears with his head turned away from you.

You watched his back walk away, then settled the bags down to give your arms a break.

“Excuse me, I just wanted to tell you that you two are adorable.” A honeyed voice spoke trying to grab your attention.

Your head whipped back to the table of teas. An older lady restocking the various collection had a mischievous look in her eye. You hadn’t noticed her there at all.

“The way your boyfriend looks at you, I haven’t seen a look like that since my husband passed many years ago.” The lady gushed.

“Wha, no, I—“ You stammered, trying to clear up the confusion, but your flustered face must’ve amused the woman.

“That made my day, so I wanted to give you this lemon bar we just started selling. Go on, take it and share it with him.” She pressured you to take the free treat. You were too speechless to try to refuse it and insist that you pay before she placed it in your hand herself and she walked off to help another customer wanting a sample.

Your face felt hot and you hoped it cleared before Jason came back, but before you could fan the redness away he appeared next to you with his purchase.

“Hey, you okay? Where’d you get that lemon—”

“Let’s get some lunch!” You grabbed the bags and nudged him to the food trucks lining the edge of the market, trying to hide your face with your hat and leaving the comments from the woman behind.

…

“Wow, this might be the best empanada I’ve ever had.” You chomped at your lunch.

Jason found a waffle place and settled on a berry topping. It was wrapped perfectly to fit in his hands.

You sat across from Jason at an outdoor table with an umbrella to shield you from the sun, sitting away from the rush of people lining up to also eat. The midday lunch rush got to you and you wanted to have a bit of privacy before you went back home.

“How long have you known about this place?” You asked Jason, a slight breeze grazing your face. Watching a kid nudging his dad for a piece of banana bread he found on one of the vendor’s tables.

“Last year? It was recent, but I’ve heard it’s been around for a while. Maybe over five years?” Jason took a bite of his waffle.

“I wish I had found this during my university years. This is a bit out of the way of my walk route, but it would’ve been awesome to browse with my friend.” You saw the boy you were watching earlier smiling wide as he held his dad’s hand and the banana loaf as big as his head. You smiled at the interaction.

“But I probably would’ve sent my friend into shock.” You continued, the boy and his dad disappearing into the crowd. “I wasn’t very social during my university years.” You glanced at Jason, his waffle gone and he was neatly folding the wrapper.

“My friend would joke that I would only meet someone if they magically met me at home. Like that was the only way I could score a date.” You pitifully joked at the old memory. “Sounds absurd doesn’t it, but she wasn’t wrong—“

You saw a shift in Jason’s eyes. He had an oddly serious look, it stopped you from talking and you sat up straighter, wondering what he was thinking about.

You waited, watching him internally fight with whatever he wanted to say.

“That’s not true.” He hesitated. “You’re funny, you’re able to connect with others, you’re a great listener, and you’re honest. You don’t have the heart to be mean to others and your facial expressions are adorable.” His voice rose the longer he defended you. His serious expression further amplified with his furrowed eyebrows. A part of his face obscured by his cap, but you felt the raw emotion emanating from him.

“Anyone would be enamored with you, even if they met you in the hallway or walking down the street.” He puffed, crushing the waffle paper on the table.

You were surprised, glancing over at Jason, watching him get this frustrated. You realized you’ve never seen him this…emotional and he refused to look at you.

The sudden development and his clear thoughts about you stunned you. You joked with Jason how alone you both were, it even brought you together thanks to his brother, but you didn’t really know how alone he truly was. You don’t think he really understood how lonely you were too.

You enjoyed your shared meals, you craved his time and attention.

You got so used to his presence that the days you didn’t see him, you felt like you were dreaming. Waiting to wake up when you heard that familiar knock on your door.

Your heart raced and you hoped he cherished your time together like you did.

You didn’t want to assume his witty personality as being flirtatious, you didn’t want to misunderstand any of his intentions because he was funny, charming, and awkward in ways that you just wanted to grab his face and protect him.

You didn’t particularly need Jason as your person, that felt too selfish, but you also wanted to be somebody to him. Either next to him or from a distance.

A friend, a companion, a lover. The label didn’t really matter to you because you were open to any role. A lover wasn’t more significant than a friend would be. They both had the same foundation, to care for someone unconditionally.

You convinced yourself that you were happy alone, but not until recently you realized you weren’t living. You were asleep in the routine of life.

And when Jason entered your life, you felt like you woke up for the first time.

Like he was the only one who could wake you up.

All you knew was that you wanted to be there. Through his pain, his suffering, his happiest moments, his accomplishments, his anger. To be his person.

To also help him wake up.

Your silent contemplation made Jason panic.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get worked up—“

“I think apartment community events count.” You softly whispered, indecisive of whether you wanted him to hear you or not.

“What—“

“And secret meetings in the trash room too.” Your voice meek.

You were shaking, too tense to look at his reaction to your words.

“Despite what she told me, I still managed to meet you. And I was able to have some of the best meals. I’ve never laughed as hard as I have when we joked. I’m able to try new things.” You raised your head, overwhelmed by your feelings, but you hoped to convey yourself properly to Jason. “I’ve never felt so comfortable and safe with anyone else.”

Jason looked at you wide eyed and speechless, his mouth slightly agape. You took the disbelief as a sign to continue.

“I’m able to be all those things that you said because I’m with you.” Your voice filled with more resolve the more concrete your feelings felt, the more sure you became. You squeezed your eyebrows together, complete sincerity in your gaze, your heart filled with so much emotion.

But your eyebrows relaxed once you saw Jason’s face turn red. His ears a crimson shade. Before you could engrave it in your memory, he tilted his head down, covering his face with the front of his baseball cap.

“Wait, wait, wait—I didn’t expect this.” Jason rubbed a hand down his face, but the redness contrasted the skin of his hand. “You were so shy every time I tried to push the boundaries between us, but now your directly confessing everything at once.”

He stopped rubbing his face and rested his hand on the table. Meeting your gaze, a tint of red still on his skin but not as deep as before.

“I’ve been trying to get closer to you. I’ve been hoping to run into you since we first talked on the balcony. When we met in the trash room, I purposely tried to meet you again. I’ve looked forward to every meal I’ve cooked for you and although I haven’t been clear about my feelings, I didn’t want to pressure or rush you.” Jason took a breath, closing his eyes for a moment.

When they opened again, his eyes were completely focused on you.

“I want us to be more than friends…I want to be able to come over when I miss you, fold laundry together, buy you things when they remind me of you, I want you to call me when you need car maintenance.” He kept his eyes trained on you, but his voice faltered. “I want to hold your hand and to kiss you. I want us to go on dates.”

You raised your hand to the table, placing your hand over Jason’s, but he quickly flipped your hands so he was holding yours a little more firmly.

“I want to know if you snore while you sleep, to have your things at my place, so I see you in every inch of my life. I want you to know how much I’ve fallen for you.”

“I want that too.” Your voice trembled. “I’ve been wanting to hold your hand while we walked today and I want you to come over more often.” You choked as Jason leaned in to caress your face with his hand. A sickening sweet touch that you never knew you would get to feel. You cupped your hand over his.

“I’m so happy. I’ve been wanting to tell you for a while.” Jason whispered to you, his voice so honey sweet.

You looked up to him. A gentle gaze reflecting back.

“I probably look like a mess right now.” You shakily laughed.

“Of course not, you’re breathtaking, sweetheart.” Jason rubbed a thumb on your cheek, completely enamored by you.

“As much as I would love to hear you continue, I’m worried about the stuff you bought and this heat.” You tried to focus, but the smooth touch of Jason was difficult to ignore.

“Yeah, we probably need to make our way back.”

Despite his words, he didn’t move. He lingered on your face a while longer before he looked at all the bags he accumulated this morning.

“Will you let me help you carry some of the bags?” He asked. “I also want to hold your hand on the way back.”

You beamed at him. Reaching for his hand as you stood up.

…

Your walk back was refreshing.

You were exhausted from the intense flux of emotions you released, but Jason’s grip on your hand stabilized you.

You couldn’t stop smiling, the heat no longer bothering you. You swung your interlaced hands to the motion of your steps and Jason let you do what you wanted as long as you still held on.

When you got to the entrance of your apartment building, you were graced with the AC hitting you. Your hair would definitely be messed up from the sweat and your cap.

You waited in front of the elevator doors as it descended from the last person that used it. The lobby was empty, except from the usual leasing office workers inhabiting the space, but it was just you and Jason off to the side.

As you glanced around, making sure the employees were occupied, you used your grip on Jason’s hand to pull him down enough for you to kiss his cheek. A little awkward with your cap in the way, but you were able to surprise Jason.

He stayed hunched forward, shifting his face to look at you closely and digest what you did.

Ding. The elevator doors opened and you pulled Jason in the elevator.

You felt accomplished as you pushed the button to your floor. When you moved back to Jason’s side, you looked up to him, but he grabbed your face.

His hand pushed your cap up, so he could lean in and kiss you. His hat also moving up at the angle he was in.

You closed your eyes, disoriented at the feeling and because Jason completely blocked your view of the elevator, so you only heard the doors close.

Lost in the feeling and the movement of his lips, you dropped the bags in your hand to grab at Jason’s sleeve, wanting to grasp at something.

You’ve never felt so desperate to get Jason even closer and he must have understood or he craved it more because he pushed you back against the elevator wall. You felt the cold metal against your back and you gasped.

Jason devoured the sound, motivating him to hold your waist, but it wasn’t enough for him. He crouched a little lower to grasp you behind your legs to lift you fully off the ground, inching your body up, higher and more level with his face.

The angle changed and you easily wrapped your arms around his neck while simultaneously wrapping your legs around his waist. The moment intensifying as you pulled at his hair below his hat and you swallowed the low groan that left his mouth. You were drawn to the deep sound and the feeling of the hum you felt on your mouth.

You were practically flush against his body and you were down to your last few breaths, but you didn’t want to pull your face away from Jason.

You nipped at his lower lip and he lifted his hands to cup the sides of your face, digging his fingers into your sweaty hair and rubbing the back of your ears. You opened your mouth wanting to feel more of him when you heard someone loudly clear their throat.

You pulled away, shoving Jason by his shoulders as he whipped his head to see where the voice came from. You fell to your feet trying to lean against the wall with the sudden motion, hair a mess with your cap lopsided as you looked past Jason to see Dick standing there with a hand on his waist and the other holding the elevator door open. He didn’t look at the two of you directly, more like a lost look to the side.

You breathlessly adjusted your cap as you frantically smoothed out your shirt.

Jason pulled his cap down as he sighed then redirected his attention to you, gently reaching out to you to smooth out some of your hair and help you stand up straighter. Then he grabbed the bags you both dropped on the floor as he turned around to face his brother.

“I didn’t know you were coming over. You should’ve texted.” Jason walked past his brother, annoyance laced in his voice.

“I did.” Dick replied. He looked at you then followed after Jason. “But it seems you were a little occupied.” Amusement coating his voice and visible in the way he walked.

“I see you’re getting to know your neighbors very well.” Dick teased, a giant grin on his face. “I’m glad.”

What a way to meet Jason’s brother again after all this time. You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you away from the lack of awareness you had to make out with Jason in public.

You couldn’t decide if it was worse that a stranger could’ve saw you or that Dick was the one who did.

“Yeah, yeah, come inside.” Jason unlocked the door to his apartment. You nervously followed after the two.

“No seriously, I’m glad you two continued to see each other.” A genuine comment from Dick. “I’ve never seen you so comfortable with someone, Jaybird.”

A small hum from Jason as he set the bags down onto the counter.

With no indication that he wanted to speak further, you decided to talk.

“I’m sorry we’re meeting again like this. I promise I’m usually a better influence.” Hopefully your lighthearted tone would give off a better impression than the one on the elevator.

“Ha! I know you are because,” Dick moved in closer, lowering his voice. “This is the most behaved I’ve seen Jason in months.”

“Alright, enough, dickwa—Dick,” Jason cleared his throat. “But we just got back and I want to shower. It was too damn hot today.”

“Oh, I bet it was—“

“Thank you! Never come by again. See you. Good Night.” Jason raised his voice, shoving his brother out the door.

“No, please, I swear I’m done!” Dick pleaded as he was trying to hang onto the door frame, but Jason closed the door before he could start to beg.

“Are you sure he’ll be alright?” You questioned Jason.

He didn’t bother to answer your question as he closed the space between you and wrapped his arms around you, resting his forehead on your shoulder and letting his hands intertwine around your waist, falling onto your lower back.

Jason signed into your shirt. The feeling slightly tickling you.

“I wasn’t done earlier.” He whispered against you. “Then that dickhead had to interrupt.”

You laughed, loving the pouty sound of his voice.

You embraced him back, leaning your head against his.

“I think the elevator interrupted you.” You rubbed his back in soothing circles.

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting a silence fall in Jason’s apartment before your curiosity got to you.

“Jaybird?”

“It’s a nickname.”

“It’s cute.”

“Enough about him, we need to put away all the stuff we bought.” Jason lifted his head to sullenly look at the numerous bags.

“That reminds me.” You let go of him to dig around the bags, trying to find your earlier gift. “I was told to share this with you by an older woman who thought my boyfriend was adorable.”

Jason shifted behind you. Closing his hands on the edges of the counter, both of his arms on your sides. Once you found the lemon bar, you turned your body, careful to lean against the counter with Jason’s body still in front of you, around you practically.

“It’s a new product. She said I could have it for making her day, but I have to thank you because we wouldn’t have gotten it without you.”

You opened the wrapper, breaking a piece off to feed to Jason.

“How does it taste?”

Jason lingered. You anticipated what he thought, but he leaned forward to kiss you. You held onto the lemon bar, but lowered it the more heated your kiss became. The tangy taste invading your mouth.

“Amazing.”

[sanguineterrain]

holiday spirit | jason todd

Summary: Stuck at a shitty office party for your shitty job on Christmas Eve Eve, you’re at your wit’s end. The last thing you expect is to play vigilante for a night with the Red Hood.

Pairing: Jason Todd x fem!reader 

Word count: 7.2k

Warnings/tags: panic attacks, reader has anxiety, creepy coworkers, office party shenanigans, canon-typical violence, jason being both a menace and a sweetheart, attempts at humor, fake relationship, silliness!

the divider

You’re grateful for a reason to escape. Someone announces that the lights on the obnoxious eleven-foot Christmas tree are burned out and you’re already on the elevator, volunteering to find spare lights. 

You hate these office parties. They’re just a way to play politics, show off fiancés, and reaffirm cliques. You wanted to skip it all together. But Mr. Emerson, your boss, had insisted that attending tonight’s party was mandatory.

Alma had told you about a hundred times to skip tonight, but Alma’s worked here since the Reagan administration and has too much pull to be fired. You, conversely, have been here eight months, and if you get fired, your next job is going to be as a henchman for a B-list Gotham villain. 

Being painfully ordinary and anxious is a toxic mix. Your doctor still thinks all your worrying is because of your menstrual cycle. He doesn’t believe in work-related stress.

So anyway. You’re just trying to get through tonight. And find some tree lights that work. 

You unlock the spare office where all the holiday junk is stored and turn on the light. 

The motherfucking Red Hood looks at you, one leg dangling outside of the window and one leg inside the office. He unclicks his harness. 

"Oh my God,” you say, hand frozen on the light switch.

Red Hood pulls his leg in from the window and steps into the office. He puts the harness in a duffel bag and roughly zips it, then tosses it unceremoniously onto the floor. 

"Oh my God.”

He glances at you, helmet eyes glowing. "No God here, just me.”

"Oh my God," you say again, near hysterics. "Oh my God, Red Hood."

"Always nice to meet a fan," he says irritably, brushing snow off of his jacket, flashing his holsters. Oh, fuck. That's a lot of guns.

"What, um—" You close your eyes, lick your lips, try to find your sanity. "To what do I—why—are you gonna kill me?”

"The fuck? You think I'd sneak into an office and kill someone in cold blood? What kinda operation you think I'm running?"

Your mouth opens and closes in horror. "Wh–I... I don't—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you, Mr. Hood."

"Please, Mr. Hood was my father."

He laughs. You taste bile in your throat. 

Hood sobers. "Damn. Tough crowd. Look, sorry to freak you out, but I got shit to do. If you'll just point me to Hershel Emerson's office, I'll be on my merry way."

"That's m-my boss. Are you gonna kill him?" You can’t handle murder tonight. You’ll have a breakdown for sure. 

"Literally, what did I just say?" Hood throws his hands up. "Not one minute ago. I'm not killing anyone!"

"Yet?" you ask weakly, mind inundated with too many mob movies to watch your manners. You know what the Red Hood is all about. Everyone does. 

"No. I'm not killing Emerson. But he is a bad dude, so I gotta take care of business. Actually, I should kill him. He deserves it."

You squeak in horror. He raises a hand.

"But I'm not!" he says gruffly. "Respectfully, get a grip. You live in Gotham."

You swallow. "What're you gonna do to my boss if not kill him?"

Hood shrugs. "Eh, maybe scare him a bit. Mostly get intel to take him down. He's currently sitting on five million dollars of stolen life savings from clients."

You blink. "What?"

"Yup. What I really wanna know is which of his employees are in on it. He didn't do this alone."

Hood takes out a small roll-up pouch of what looks like lockpicking tools. You release your sweaty death grip on the doorknob, causing it to squeak. Hood doesn't look up.

five million dollars is ringing in your head. That happened here. Where you work. Your boss is even scummier than you thought.

“Is that a lockpicking kit?” you ask.

“Yup. Good eye.”

"This seems... illegal.”

"Well, I won't lie to you, most of what I do is. You won't be implicated though.”

He looks at you. You flinch. Even with the lights on, the Red Hood is scary as shit. 

"Yeah..." he says, shaking his head. "You wouldn’t do well in prison. I can tell."

Your chest hurts. "I don't think anyone does well in prison," you say, eyebrows scrunching. "Have... you been to prison?"

"Only to break out a friend. You ask a lot of questions."

"Sorry. Um, Mr. Red Hood—"

"Ah-ah. Call me Red. Or Hood. No Mister-ing."

"Okay.” You lick your lips, hoping he doesn't go back on his temporary no-kill policy. “Hood, do you think you could come later? After the Christmas party?”

He tilts his head at you. You keep talking. 

“Not that I don't admire what you're doing! Because I think taking down my boss for stealing money is great, eat the rich and all that, but, um, I came up here to get lights to replace the ones that burned out downstairs because that's a normal thing that happens and now you're here, at my job, and I'm freaking out. Oh God, oh my God—”

You grab the wall for stability, feeling like you've been rocking on a boat for hours. Sweat beads on your forehead. This time, you really do feel like you’ll throw up. Throwing up in front of the Red Hood would be humiliating. 

“Look, I got shit to do, okay? I'm sorry you're freaking out but your boss is gonna cash out in a few days and then I lose him and that five million. It's now or never."

You should've just stayed home and baked cookies. Fuck being social! This is what happens when you're social: you meet morally gray vigilantes who force you to be complicit with their crimes.

Your cheeks feel wet. Are you crying? Maybe it’s sweat. 

Hood points to the hallway. "Is there a camera outside?"

"Y-yeah.” Your voice is weak. “I think I’m having a heart attack. Can you call security on your way out?"

“Does your left arm hurt?”

“No, but—”

“Are your limbs stiffening?”

“No, but—”

“You’re not having a heart attack. Your speech is fine.”

Hood takes out a few more things from the duffel, then kicks it under a desk with his foot. You wheeze and grab onto the doorknob again. 

It’s quiet for a second. Then— 

“Shit. You're having a panic attack,” Hood says.

"Mm, probably," you say, hunched over like an armadillo. Fuck your stupid doctor. 

There's silence as you wheeze quietly. Then something small hits your head. You flinch and squeal.

"You don't need to throw things at me!" you say, beyond defeated, near tears.

"No, I wasn't—sorry. It's a Warhead. I have one when I'm feeling… not my best. They're s’posed to help occupy your other senses so the panic disappears."

You stare at the candy, confused and suspicious at once. "Is it spiked?"

"Again, what sorta operation do you think I'm running? It's not drugs. Look." Hood unwraps a Warhead and sticks it in his mouth underneath his helmet. You hear him suck on it. "Eesh, that's sour. Okay? No drugs."

So you take the candy from the floor, unwrap it, and pop it into your mouth. The sour taste immediately overwhelms you. It's like your brain resets. You pant through the sour.

"Ough," you say, face scrunching from the taste.

"Yeah, right? Life changing hack."

You suck on the candy desperately and close your eyes, trying to find your breath. 

“It’s okay,” Hood says, stilted and awkward. “Just, uh, focus on your breathing. Exhale longer than you inhale. Breathe through your nose.”

It takes another few minutes, but the feeling passes. Your chest lightens. It’s the quickest you’ve ever recovered from a panic attack. 

“I was just kidding about the prison thing,” Hood says. “You’re not gonna go to jail ‘cause of this, I promise.”

Yeah, but what if you lose your job?

You spit the Warhead into a trash can and smack your tongue a bit. “Are you sure you can’t come back tomorrow night?”

“No can do,” Hood says. “Your boss will be gone by then.”

“It's just that I'm really bad with keeping secrets and according to Google, that's how ulcers form and I really can't afford any sick days off, so—"

You yelp as the door suddenly swings open, hitting your shoulder. You spin around.

"Hey," Bill says, squinting at you. "Where have you been?”

"No!" you yell, and turn off the light. 

Bill stares at you, illuminated by the hallway light. “Uh…”

You clear your throat. "Ahem. I'm fine. It's just taking me a moment to sift through all these decorations. Please return to the party.”

You hate Bill. He’s a sleaze and doesn’t do any work. More than once, he’s trapped you by the water cooler in a conversation about his “smokin’” imaginary lawyer girlfriend.

“If you wanted me to come help you, you could've just said so," he says, reaching for the light, way too close. You don’t like his tone either.

"No!" you yell, blocking the light switch with your hands.

"What the hell? Why not?"

"Because—"

There's a creak from the back. You wince. 

Bill immediately whips his head toward the sound. "Is someone here? Hello?"

He reaches for the light. Again, you block him, swatting his hands away.

"Would you stop—is someone here?"

"My boyfriend!" you blurt.

Bill stops, looking at you. "Your boyfriend? You've never mentioned a boyfriend."

"Well, I have one and he's here."

"Okay. Why can't I turn on the light and see him?"

"Because he's... um..."

You spot the red Santa suit out of the corner of your eye. 

Oh, this is a terrible idea.

"He's changing! He's our Santa for the party. Surprise!" You make weak jazz hands.

Bill looks into the dark where you're pretty sure Hood is hiding. You hope, anyway. Otherwise Bill is going to tell everyone that you're making up boyfriends. "Really?"

"Yeah, really," comes Hood's unmodulated, deadpan reply, and you jump. "Don't turn on the light. I'm naked."

"Oh..." Bill looks queasy for a moment. "Uh—" He looks at you and suddenly grins. "Oh, I get it. You two were having fun before going to the party, huh? Didn't know you were such a wildcat."

"That’s disgusting,” you say. “I would never do that in the office.”

Bill wiggles his eyebrows. "Me-ow. Does the Santa thing turn you on?"

"I'm right here, Bill, and naked or not, I'll kick your ass," Hood says.

Bill pales and quickly backs out of the room. "Right. Sorry. Uh, carry on."

He closes the door. You push your back against it and exhale, heart racing.

"Bill is a shithead," Hood says. 

“How… do you know his name?”

“Employee background check,” Hood says mildly. 

"Oh… yeah, he's been written up a bunch of times for inappropriate behavior, but he's close with Emerson, so he never gets fired."

"Want me to kill him for you? Free of charge."

"What? No! Hood—"

"Oh, relax. I was kidding."

"Uh-huh." You turn on the light. Hood has his helmet on, and his voice is modulated again. "What're we gonna do?"

"Well, I'm gonna go make sure Hershel doesn’t fuck off to Bermuda. The lights you wanted are here, by the way."

Hood tosses you a box of multi-colored tree lights. Then he walks toward you. You plaster yourself across the door.

"Wait! You can't leave. I said that my boyfriend is going to be Santa. Bill will tell everyone. They’ll expect you.”

"I appreciate your quick thinking, but that's a hard pass,” Hood says.

"You can't leave now! Bill's gonna tell everyone I'm a liar and they'll think I was up to something worse in here, like snorting coke."

"I mean this gently: I think you should look into anti-anxiety meds. My brother swears by Xanax.”

“My doctor won’t prescribe it to me,” you say glumly. “He thinks my anxiety is made up.”

“Huh. Want me to kill him? I know a better doctor.”

"Well…” You hesitate, then shake your head. “No! No. Hood, please. They’re all gonna expect a Santa. And when I don’t show up with Santa, they’ll remember that I didn’t participate in White Elephant or any of that other office nonsense that I don’t want to waste my money on. I need this job!”

“They’re not gonna fire you for not doing White Elephant,” Hood says. 

“You don’t know them! It’s a popularity contest.”

But Hood is indeed disinterested in the fact that you'll be the office pariah. Probably because he’s never worked in an office. 

Instead, he ushers you aside without a struggle. Then he turns the doorknob.

"Wait! Wait, listen. If you dress as Santa, you'll have access to the party and offices. You won't have to sneak around. And people get really drunk at these. They'll talk. You can figure out who's helping Emerson steal money."

His hand pauses. He looks at you. You look back, wringing your hands.

"You're pretty crafty," he says. 

"...Thanks?”

Hood releases the doorknob. "Alright, fine. I'll do the Santa shtick.”

“You will?”

He tilts his head. “Should I not?”

“No! No, you should. It’ll be a good disguise.”

He hums. “Sure. But we're in this together now, got it? You blow my cover and we both go down."

"Y-yeah, got it."

Hood heaves a gusty sigh. "Next time, I'm sending Roy in to do this shit."

"Who's Roy?"

"Ah." He holds up a finger. "Too many questions."

He makes a beeline for the Santa costume and then looks at you expectantly.

"Yo. Boyfriend or not, you're not watching me change. Guard the door, Mrs. Claus."

"Oh, right. Sorry."

You turn off the light and go into the hall, shutting the door behind you. It's empty, luckily. You rap your fingers on the box of lights, leg jiggling. 

This is insane. You should just tell Hood you can't do this and let him figure out his own plan.

But then... this would make it easier to find Emerson's crime partner. And you're really sick of Bill being a jerk. You don’t want to be called a liar, or get iced out for the rest of your time here because you didn’t bring Santa. Maybe having Hood be your Santa-boyfriend would make people leave you alone. Which is a crazy reason to stick to this plan, but still. You're trying to find the bright side.

And all those people that Emerson stole from... surely, you have a responsibility to help get their money back and bring him to justice, don't you?

The door swings open. You turn around.

“You wear a mask under your helmet?” 

“As a precaution.” He sounds defensive. “Lots of people in my profession do it.” 

You doubt that. “Don’t you think it’ll be weird if Santa has a mask on?” 

He hesitates, evidently debating between protecting his identity and arousing suspicion.

“Fine.” He carefully peels off the mask and tucks it into his pocket. The surrounding skin is slightly pink from irritation. His nose and cheeks are dotted with freckles. 

And wow. The Red Hood has beautiful eyes. So vibrant and clear, like seafoam. And young! How old is he, anyway? He doesn’t look much older than you, if at all. 

His eyes are framed by thick, dark lashes, and it makes sense, Hood being a brunet.

“What?” he snaps, glaring.

“Nice eyes,” you blurt.

His brows furrow. You remember the guns.

“Um, anyway. Should we go?” you squeak out, backing away.

Hood huffs through the beard. It flutters. "We need to have some ground rules."

"Okay."

"First, you should know that I will shoot if there's a physical threat at this party. Two, you're gonna call me Todd at the party. Three, if you try to tell anyone that I'm Red Hood or that I'm taking down Emerson, I will make your life hell. And if you're his partner, you'd better tell me now or I'm gonna be a lot less jolly."

"I'm not!" you say. "I would never do that. And I won't tell anyone you're Red Hood."

"Good. Let's go. Keep your ears open for hints about Emerson's partner."

He takes off in long strides. You hurry to keep up. The Santa costume doesn't slow him down.

"So how did you find out that Emerson's stealing?" you ask.

"Got a tip. You really didn't know he was stealing?"

“I don’t have access to the finances. I work in user interface. Website design.”

"Yeah? That's pretty cool. I got a brother who's into that stuff," Hood says.

"The same one who takes Xanax?”

“Would you believe it?”

You try to picture Red Hood with a regular family. With a brother or a sister or a father. It's hard to imagine.

“How come you don’t take anti-anxiety medication?” you ask. 

“I have Pit Madness Syndrome, and it has a weird chemical reaction with that stuff.”

“Oh.” Subject change. Quickly! "Do you celebrate Christmas?" 

"Not really. I'm not a believer or celebrator of much. You can see what my plans are two days before Christmas."

"Your family doesn't celebrate?"

Hood just grunts, eyes suddenly stormy. You take the hint and stop talking.

The room where the party is isn't particularly special. It's big enough to fit about a hundred people. For all the money the company makes, you'd thought that they could afford to splurge a little and rent an actual hall. Now you know what the profits have been going toward. But the decorations are decently lavish.

"Oh, wait." Hood leans in to speak in your ear. Lightning shoots down your spine. "I don't know your name."

You give it. He repeats it, and you shiver, like your boyfriend just said your name.

"'Kay. Stay in this room. We don't know how much Emerson or his partner knows, but assume they’re willing to do anything to get away with the money."

You nod. “Got it.”

“Hey, it’s Santa!” Bill shouts from across the room. “He made it!”

You smile tightly. “As promised.”

A few people wave. Others cheer. 

“These people really like Christmas, huh?” Hood asks.

“You have no idea,” you say, hyperaware of his hand brushing your back.

“Don’t think I got your name, man,” Bill says as he approaches. He sticks a hand out. “Bill.”

“Todd,” Hood says, taking his hand and shaking. Bill winces at the handshake. You hide a smile.

“Ah, Todd. Right.” Bill looks at you, trying to subtly soothe his hand. “You’ve never mentioned him.”

You shrug. “Never came up.”

“I’m pretty private,” Hood says, putting an arm around your shoulders. “But we’re very much in love. Ain’t that right, baby?”

“Th-that’s right… honey,” you say, face going hot.

“So what do you do for work?” Bill asks. “My girlfriend’s a lawyer.”

You roll your eyes. Hood snorts.

“There’s no way you’re dating anyone. You look like you got dressed in the dark, Billy.”

You cough your laugh into your arm. Bill’s eye twitches.

“Enjoy the party,” he says icily. He glares at you, then stomps away.

“That was amazing, but I think Bill might retaliate,” you say. 

“Don’t worry ‘bout him,” Hood says. “I’ll take care of it.”

You look at him with big eyes. “Hood—”

“Not like that. Just… it’ll be handled. Okay?”

You nod. Maybe it’s insane, but you trust him. “Okay. Want some punch?”

Hood hums. “No alcohol. Thanks.”

You go to the punch bowl, a little relieved to escape Hood’s piercing ocean-eyed stare. He’s intense. Whoever dates him for real is in for a ride. 

Then again, you can’t imagine Hood meeting someone for coffee or dinner. You giggle at the image of him showing up with his guns and helmet. 

“Hey, IT.” A woman in a white sweater you’ve seen maybe once waves at you. “Cool idea, bringing a Santa.”

“Yeah, Emerson’s too cheap to,” the man next to her says. They laugh.

You smile. “Glad you like it.”

You serve yourself two cups of the alcohol-free punch. Then you turn. 

Your smile falls. Across the room is Hood and Tanya Donaldson, resident shit-stirrer. She’s trying to cozy up to him. You sigh and walk over, bracing yourself.

“Hey, baby,” Hood says, practically dragging you into his side. He takes a cup of punch. “Just met Tanya.”

You can guess exactly how he feels about that.

"Oh, is he your boyfriend?" Tanya asks, eyeing Hood like he's a slab of steak. “I had no idea!”

"Uh-huh," you say. "This is Todd."

She wiggles her fingers, grinning. “So how often do you go to the gym, Todd?” She rests a hand on Hood's arm. "I didn't know Santa was so big and broad."

Your gaze drifts to where you're pretty sure Hood has a gun strapped to his ankle, and the temptation does appear, you won't deny.

But you need this job and it's going to be really hard to explain why Santa's armed and dangerous, so you just grit your teeth. Tanya's the worst for this kind of behavior and she doesn't respect you, so bringing your hunky boyfriend is like dangling a bunch of carrots in her face. 

And it’s not like Todd is actually your boyfriend. 

"Are you flirting with me in front of my girlfriend?" Hood asks, prying her hand off of his arm.

"Flirting?" She claps a hand over her mouth, the movement slightly delayed from all the wine. "No, oh my God! I was just saying—"

"That's really pathetic," Hood says. "Don't do that."

He walks away and you follow, leaving a wobbly Tanya on her own. You smile to yourself.

"Thank you for that," you say.

Hood gives you a thumbs up. "I can plant evidence on her and get her fired if you want."

"No, I don't want to feel damned for eternity. Thanks anyway."

"You have a lot of assholes at your job," Hood says. "But you're not one. I admire that.”

You sigh. "They're not all bad. Alma is cool. She keeps me from quitting.”

"And where is she?"

"At home. She's a sixty-two year old accountant who doesn't care about these parties. Her hip aches when it's cold."

"Mm. Maybe you should follow her lead," Hood says.

"But then who would help you with your spycraft, Hood?"

He allows himself a tiny laugh at that. You wonder how often he laughs. If ever.

“Well, suffering Tanya wasn’t in vain. She said this whole party cost twenty grand.”

“So?”

He gestures grandly. “Does this look like it cost twenty grand to put this together?” 

It's true. The alcohol is the most expensive thing here. No food, except for some people that participated in the potluck, but you don't trust anybody's food here. The decorations are old. Not to mention the Red Hood as your Santa. Your boss might have spared a thousand for tonight. No more. 

“So where did all that money go?” you ask. 

Hood snaps his fingers. “Bingo.” 

“That is so shitty. I got a chocolate-covered pretzel as my Christmas bonus,” you say. 

“A bag of ‘em?” He shakes his head. “Pretty cheap.”

“Ha, no. No, I got one big pretzel. In a box. The box cost more than the pretzel, I think.”

His eyes widen. “Jesus. Even I give more than that to my guys.”

“Got any openings?” you ask, half-joking. 

Hood snorts. “Don't think you'd like what we do. Why d’you stay?” 

You shrug. “Nowhere else to go. I have to eat somehow.” 

“Crappy boss, crappy coworkers, no Christmas bonus. Hell, I feel sorry for ya.”

The Red Hood feels sorry for you. Perhaps you've reached a new low. 

He drinks the punch and coughs. “Ahem, wow. Did you make the punch?”

“No, some people mixed it here.”

“Oh, then I'll be honest. Tastes like a flavor that's not found in nature.” He throws his cup away. You trust him and set your still-full cup on a table.

“I won't even mention the potluck,” you say. 

“Yeesh. Can't eat at everyone's house.” 

“That's what I say!” 

He winks at you. You look away, flustered. 

The crazy thing is, you could get used to this. Well, not specifically Red Hood, but having a boyfriend to bring to these functions, who’ll warn you against gross punch and defend you against Tanya. 

And Hood is surprisingly good at this. If you forget the past hour, you can almost pretend that this is just another office party that you happen to be spending with your new boyfriend. 

"Hey, look! It's Santa! Dude, check me out with Santa!"

One of the finance guys who's very drunk—you want to say that his name is Matt—bounds up to you and Hood. Hood tenses, reaching for his hip (gun!) and you touch his elbow, reminding him to relax. He drops his arm. 

Matt reeks of alcohol, the front of his shirt stained with bourbon. He laughs, forehead shiny with sweat.

"Santaaa, hey, Saint Nick, take a pic with me, man!"

Matt throws his arms around Hood. Hood does not like that and shoves him off accordingly. But Matt doesn't seem to notice and holds up his phone, camera facing front. Hood slaps the phone out of his hand.

"No pictures," he says.

You wince. The guy stares and blinks, taking three to five business days to process what just happened.

"What the fuck, man? That was my phone!"

"Sorry. I'm drunk." Hood sighs like he's physically in pain, then leans back and makes drinking motions with his fingers. "Fuckin' wasted! Did you try those rum shots? Lit, dude!"

The guy cheers up, forgetting all about the phone. "Oh, yeah, for sure! I'm gonna go get one right now! Thanks, Santa!"

"You do that!" Hood says cheerily.

As soon as the guy leaves, Hood returns to his resting scary face.

"Wow," you say.

"I know. I threw up in my mouth a little."

You laugh. Hood grins. Then it fades.

"Damn it. We're getting no closer to finding Emerson's partner. I should just interrogate Emerson until he tells me."

Interrogate makes you feel woozy. You're pretty sure you know what Hood's idea of an interrogation is.

"Wait! We just need to lure them out. If they think their money might be in jeopardy, they'll sneak out of the party to go check on it, right?" you ask.

"Potentially, yes. But how do we lure 'em?"

"There's an alert if someone withdraws more than ten thousand dollars from the company. But I don't have access to the accounts," you say.

Hood smiles slowly. "You don't need it. Remember I mentioned my computer whiz brother?"

"Yeah…” You grimace. “This sounds illegal again.”

"Hell yeah it is. He owes me a favor too. Lemme call him."

You two go off to the side while Hood dials.

"Yeah?" comes a voice on the other end. He doesn’t sound at all like Hood, more like a one percenter from the Diamond District. This is Hood’s brother?

"Aliases only. I need you to withdraw fifty grand from Emerson Corp,” Hood says. 

"Why?”

“‘Cause you owe me a favor. Just do it.”

“Zombie breath.”

“Shortass,” Hood says, voice taking on a distinct older brother tone. 

“You’re such an asshole,” the voice says. He yawns. “B’s wondering if you’re coming tomorrow.”

“I’d rather die again,” Hood says. “And you can tell him I said that.”

“The broody emo bullshit is getting old, dude,” the voice says.

You giggle. Hood looks at you sharply. You press your lips together, properly chastened. Sorry, you mouth.

"Who's that?" the voice asks.

"No one," Hood says. "Did you do it?"

"Chill out. I'm getting past their firewall. So who is that?”

“It’s the TV,” Hood says.

“No, it’s not. That was a lady's laugh, IRL. And you wouldn’t lie if it was someone we know…”

“Mind your damn—”

“I’m helping him with a case,” you blurt. 

Hood throws his hand up, glaring at you. It’s silent on the other end of the phone for a solid ten seconds. Then…

“Holy shit,” Hood’s brother says. “You do have a girlfriend. Wait. Hold on. This is wild. You don’t even have a social security number.”

“I do not have a girlfriend!” Hood snaps, drawing the attention of some coworkers. You nudge him. He exhales through his nose.

“I don’t have a girlfriend, you little fucker,” he says, quieter. “She’s telling the truth.”

“Can I ask your girlfriend a question? Respectfully, what were you thinking? You can do so much b—”

“Text me when it’s done,” Hood growls and hangs up.

You look at each other for a moment. 

“You didn't hear any of that,” Hood says. “Got it?”

“Got it.” 

“Good. Let's see who gets scared. He should do it right about…” 

His phone beeps. You look around the room. 

Soon, your culprit reveals himself. Matt!

Holy shit. 

"He didn't want a picture," Hood says slowly. "He was frisking me! Motherfucker."

"But isn't he drunk?" you ask.

"No." Hood sighs in disgust. "How did I miss that? Br—someone I know does that all the time, spilling alcohol on himself so he smells like he's been drinking. God. Oldest trick in the book!"

"Do you think he knows you're the Red Hood?"

"No. But he might suspect something. Let's go.” 

You follow Matt out of the party. He's walking fast. Yeah. Definitely your guy. 

Down the hallway, Matt turns around and makes direct eye contact with you. You panic. 

“Hood!” you whisper. 

“I know,” he says. “Follow my lead.” 

Loudly, he laughs and puts an arm around your waist. “C’mon, baby, no one’ll know.”

And then you're being herded into a janitor’s closet. 

You stumble in, confused and reeling from how easily Hood plays the affectionate boyfriend role. He follows you in, shuts the door, and pulls the chain dangling from the ceiling. The single light bulb turns on. 

You take care to not knock over any cleaning supplies. You don't see the mop on the floor, however, and you trip backwards on the handle. 

Hood's reaction time is impeccable. He jerks forward to catch you, tugging you back on your feet with his hands on your arms. 

“Y’alright?” he asks. 

“Uh-huh,” you say, mildly mortified. “Thanks.”

He lets go. You shift on your feet. 

“How long are we gonna stay here?” you ask. 

Hood checks his phone. “Well, he should've moved on by now. Let's—”

The doorknob jiggles. You look at Hood in fear. His expression is similar. 

“Pretend!” you whisper, and that's all he needs to understand and move. 

You're expecting your arms around Hood, maybe exaggeratedly feeling him up. You are not expecting Hood to hoist you up by the backs of your thighs and press you against the wall. You squeal, arms shooting out to hold onto his neck. Hood's beard ends up in your mouth and you spit it out. 

The door swings open, revealing a very tipsy couple. 

“Oops!” the woman says, grinning. “Sorry. Carry on.”

The guy gives a thumbs-up. “True love.”

You smile awkwardly. Something is pressing into your hip.

“True love,” Hood deadpans. “Rock on.”

As soon as the door closes, you're squirming. 

“What is that?” you hiss. 

“My gun! Oh my God, it's my gun,” Hood says, quickly setting you down. “It's not…”

He trails off and backs away. You stand there, processing what just happened. 

“That wasn’t—”

“I didn’t—”

You both stop. Hood adjusts his beard. 

“You're really strong,” you say, wringing your hands. 

Hood nods. “Sorry about the, uh…”

“Yeah, let's just not talk about this.”

“Yup. Find Matt?” 

“Absolutely.” 

You open the door and peek out. The hallway is empty. Glory be.

“All clear,” you say, and Hood is on your heels as you sneak out. 

“Any ideas on where he'd go?” Hood asks. 

“Matt works in a cubicle like the rest of us. Emerson’s office is on the twelfth floor.” 

“Fine. We'll hit Emerson's office first. More privacy, and maybe they'll both be there. Two birds.”

“Emerson's office is protected by a password lock. He changes it every night,” you say, scurrying to keep up with Hood. 

“That's fine. I got a key right here,” he says, patting his holster.

“Wait! If the lock is tampered with, it sets off an alarm and security will come. You can't shoot it, Hood.”

He stops and sighs. “Why is everything so goddamn complicated? Alright, new plan. I'm gonna get my stuff from where we were and I'll break in the old-fashioned way.” 

Fifteen Minutes Later.

“This seems really unsafe!” you say, watching Hood dangle outside a three story window on a wire. He's attached to a grappling hook but still. Still! 

“Eh, I died once. Didn't stick. Hold the hook.” 

“I am!” As if you'd do anything but. You don't want the Red Hood to become Red Goo. 

Chilly December wind makes your eyes water and your nose cold. Still, you hold on. 

“Almost there!” he says. 

“Hey! What're you doing?” 

You whirl around and close your eyes due to the flashlight shining at them. Even though the lights are on. 

An elderly security guard glares at you. It's a good thing you're not an actual criminal… though after tonight, you're not so sure. 

“Um.” You try to hold onto the hook while hiding it behind your back. “Bird watching?”

The guard turns off the flashlight and tucks it into his belt. He slowly walks to you. 

“If you're doing something illegal, Miss, you're in big trouble.”

Well, this is fantastic. Of course it would be you that gets caught. 

The guard is getting closer. Your grip is sweaty. He peers over your shoulder. You let go of the hook, praying to every spirit out there that Hood is as good as everyone says he is. 

The guard looks around and scratches his head. You shrug, heart in your throat. 

“See?” you say. “Bird watching.”

He frowns at you. “I've got my eye on you.”

“And I commend you for that.” 

“Are you sassing me?” 

Are you? You might be. You've been spending too much time with Hood. 

Hood! You turn and look out the window. You don't see any red goo below, but it's also cold and foggy. Shit. You hurry to the elevators. 

“Okay, happy holidays, bye!”

The elevator doors open. You press twelve and close the door before the guard can consider getting on with you and shooting you a hairy eyeball all the way down. 

You hurry out and run down to Emerson's office. The door has been left ajar, which is good, right?

Bang!

You throw yourself against the wall. Shit. Maybe not. 

Ugh, you told Hood no shooting! Son of a bitch. 

“We're doing this tonight!” That's Emerson's voice. “I don't care if I have to shoot my way out.” 

Shoot? Oh no.

You carefully peek through the crack. Hood is standing with his hands behind his head. His beard has blood in it. Emerson is in front of him, gun to his head. 

Hood catches your eye. He gives you the tiniest head shake. You swallow. 

You can't just leave him there. 

Okay. Think. Emerson's back is to you. You can't see Matt, but you figure he's far enough away to not immediately shoot you. Hopefully. 

Anyway, what's your other option? The feisty relic upstairs? You can't risk any civilians getting hurt. 

Technically you're also a civilian but not tonight. Tonight you might as well be Batman. 

You slowly pull the door open further. You sneak in, then hide behind the secretary's desk.

“Is it done?” Emerson snaps.

That's when you see Matt in the corner on a laptop. 

“It takes time,” Matt says, obviously stressed too. 

“Well, hurry up!” Emerson looks at Hood. “Then we'll dispose of Santa here.”

Hood shrugs. “You can certainly try. Many have. ‘M still here.”

“Lots of bravado for a man in a costume,” Emerson sneers. “What are you, police?”

Hood groans. “As fucking if! I'm not a cop.” 

He hums. “Perhaps not. Otherwise this place would be crawling with them already. But you're alone.”

“How d'you know I'm alone?” Hood asks. 

You're glad he's calm because you're feeling the beginnings of another panic attack. But you can't panic, not now. The adrenaline pulsing through you is the only thing keeping you from going catatonic. 

You have no weapon, no plan. How the hell are you supposed to help Hood?

“You're bluffing,” Emerson says. 

“He has a girlfriend,” Matt says. “Some IT girl. She might come looking for him.”

“Then we'll take care of her too.”

Matt looks uncomfortable but he doesn't say anything. Hood is still cool as a cucumber. 

“She won't look for me. We had a fight. I forgot to buy the candy she likes.”

Candy? Why would—oh!

On the secretary's desk is a glass bowl filled with mini candy canes. You wrap your hands around it. 

“She knows my favorite,” Hood says, locking eyes with you.

You throw the bowl with all your might. Emerson is too slow—Hood grabs the bowl one-handed and swings it, knocking the gun from Emerson's hand. The candy explodes into pieces. Hood swings again, this time into Emerson's head. The bowl cracks. Emerson crumples to the floor. 

“Are you o—”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

In a blink, Hood wraps one arm around your waist and yanks you to the floor, covering your body. You curl into him on instinct. 

“I got you, I got you,” he says, patting your shoulder. “You okay?”

You nod, words not coming right now. You squeeze his hand. Hood seems to understand and he scoots you both behind Emerson’s desk. Then he loads his gun and cocks it.

“Stay here,” he says, then fires six shots. 

“Goddamnit!” Matt yells across the room. “This wasn't the plan! You're not supposed to be here!”  

Hood laughs, which is absolutely terrifying. “Don't talk to me about ruined plans, buddy. I've been waiting all night for an excuse to shoot somebody. Please make my night.” 

Matt fires four more shots. 

“Fuck you, cop!” 

“What the fuck? Fuck you more! I'm not a fucking cop!”

“Maybe it's the way you stand,” you say, teeth chattering from anxiety. 

Hood squeezes your shoulder comfortingly. “I stand like a cop? Gross. I gotta work on that.” 

“You're somebody!” Matt yells. “You're not just some guy, Todd, don't lie to me. You and that chick from IT are in cahoots.”

You huff. “He knows your name but not mine?”

“I’d take it as a compliment.”

Matt fires again. Hood tucks you behind him. 

“He won’t kill anybody,” he says, with way too much confidence, in your opinion. 

“Oh, is that why he's peacefully shooting at us?”

“He's scared, sure. But he can’t kill. Trust me, I know. Hey, Matt!” 

“What?”

Hood stands up. Your eyes bug out of your head. 

“Hood!” you hiss. “Hood!”

He ignores you, of course. 

“You won’t hurt anyone,” Hood says. He starts walking toward Matt. “You're not a killer, Matt.”

And all this time you thought Hood was sort of sane. Nope. 

“I will shoot you!” Matt warns. 

“Aw. You wouldn't shoot Santy Claus, would you?” 

Matt pulls the trigger. You gasp. It clicks. The magazine is empty. 

Hood closes the distance between them and grabs the gun, then elbows Matt in the face. Matt sprawls onto the floor. 

“Yeah, I don't risk my life on human emotion,” Hood says, loud enough so you can hear. “People can be so unpredictable. I will take a chance on a gun that only fires seven rounds, though. For a guy in finance, you're not very good with numbers, Matty.” 

You sigh in relief, slumping against the desk. After tonight, you're retiring. 

“Y'okay over there?” Hood asks. 

“Yeah.”

It's quiet for a bit. Then Hood returns and offers you a hand to help you stand. You do so on shaky limbs. 

He's got a cut on his eyebrow and a bruise on his cheek. You frown. 

“I'm sorry I let go of the hook. I thought—”

“You let go of the hook?”

You stop. “Um. No?” 

Hood squints at you. “Choosing to forgive you for that.” 

“I knew you were inside the office!”

“Yeah, sure.” 

“I'm not the only one taking risks,” you say. “Matt still fired at you.”

“Eh.” Hood shrugs. “He’s a crap shot. And I counted the rounds. I maintain my point. Factually, he could not shoot me.”

“You could've told me the gun was empty,” you say. 

“I wanted you to think I was cool and brave.” 

You laugh. “I already think that.”

Hood looks at you for a moment, like he’s trying to see right down into your soul. Intense. You cross your arms.

“So, um, ready to ditch this party?” you ask. 

“With pleasure.”

“What about them?” you ask, pointing to Matt.

“I have backup arriving soon. Let's get your coat.” 

You get your things while Hood changes back into his usual garb. He meets you at the back exit, the one that leads to an alleyway, Santa suit gone. The party's winding down and most are getting into their cars. You're grateful no one stops to ask where you disappeared to. 

There's police outside, but they're not here for Emerson. It's Bill that's being questioned by Commissioner Gordon. You stop short at the sight. 

“Hood… what did you do?” 

“Hm? Oh! There might have been some discrepancies in Bill's finances and he might have committed fraud to pay off his gambling debts. All circumstantial, though.”

“Please don't tell me you framed my coworker because he's a jerk,” you say. 

“No, but I'm not above that, for the record. I recognized Bill from when I was casing the Iceberg Lounge. That's where he racked up all that debt.”

You nod slowly. “That's how you knew his name.”

“Yup. He was a nobody, so I didn't bother with him. Had I known he was such a menace at work, well…”

You grin. “It's okay. I appreciate it now.” 

Hood nods. The silence is awkward for a few seconds. 

“So—”

“You don't have to keep working here,” he says. “You can leave if you wanna.”

“Hood…”

He puts up a hand. “Hear me out. I have a contact at Wayne Enterprises. I can get you an interview. Hell, I can get you the job.”

“And what would I owe you?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. Think of it as a thank you for tonight. You didn't have to help me but you did.”

You open and close your mouth. “I don't… I don't know what to say.”

“Don't gotta say a thing,” Hood says quietly. “If anyone deserves a new year, it's you.”

“Oh.” Your throat feels tight suddenly. “Oh, Hood, that's really—that's nice of you.”

“It's been known to happen. Don't spread it around though.”

“But I don't want the job without interviewing!” you say. “I want to get it on my own.”

Hood nods. “Deal.”

You want to hug him but that seems like too much, even with all you’ve done tonight. So you take out a candy cane instead.

“I salvaged one from the bowl,” you say. “Merry Christmas, Hood.”

He takes it, tucking it into his pocket. “Merry Christmas. Need a ride?”

You shake your head. “I'm fine. See you around?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Stay safe, alright?”

“Oh, I will. Will you?”

He laughs. “No promises.” 

Then you blink and he's gone. You shove your hands into your coat pockets. 

In each pocket, there's a handful of Warheads. You smile.

[levanswrites]

Steve Rogers cafe au - (cap)puccino, w/ milk and sugar masterlist

pairing: steve rogers x reader warnings: fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, slow build, eventual romance summary: running a tiny bakery+cafe offers little surprises to a creature of habit like her. ...that is, until Captain America walks in one day asking for a coffee recommendation. aka the Steve Rogers coffee shop AU no one asked for word count: 8.8k (complete)

Chapter 1 - house blend, hot, no milk or sugar

he changes everything with a single question.

Chapter 2 - choc chip cookies and milk

you happen to be baking cookies.

Chapter 3 - triple shot cold brew, pump of caramel

you meet a couple of his friends.

Chapter 4 - london fog, hot

you miss him.

Chapter 5 - tomato soup, garlic bread and merlot

you share a meal, a dance, and a kiss.

Chapter 6 - stay

you ask him to stay.

Chapter 7 - (cap)puccino, w/ milk and sugar

you come full circle.

[aquaticmercy]

Papercuts

Summary : You, a mutant loyal to Magneto, gets transported to a world where mutants don’t exist. As you fall in love with Bucky Barnes, you start questioning Magneto’s views and start embracing the ideas of your old teacher, Charles Xavier.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x mutant!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Violence, trauma, implied sex (steamy not necessarily smut), cursing. This story spans like 3-4 years so husband! Bucky. pregnancy. Angst with a happy ending. Fluff!!!!

Word count : 11.1K whoops

Notes : The reader has papyrokinesis (the ability to control paper or paper-like objects). The reader isn’t from a specific X-men universe (but it is a universe where the Avengers don’t exist). This story starts shortly after the events of FATWS and ends probably shortly after Thunderbolts*. Also the reader is unaware that Kamala is a mutant.

The battle with the Sentinel raged on around you, fire painting the battlefield in shades of red and ash. The machine’s red eyes locked onto you, marking you their next mutant target. Its metallic hand reached forward, sweeping a nearby building as you narrowly avoided it.

You were fighting for survival— not just for yourself, but for your kind.

You gritted your teeth, raising a storm of paper shards from the remains of nearby books and documents, scattered across the asphalt after an office building collapsed. The paper, sharp as blades under your control, danced in a cyclone around you. You hard red them, willingly shifting its density before sending it surging forward, slicing deep into the Sentinel's armour.

Sparks flew, carving fissures into the robot’s chest. It staggered but didn’t fall. You clenched your fists, commanding the shards to twist and dig deeper, commanding the paper to cut through the wires that kept the mechanical beast together. 

This monstrosity—this beast forged from the depths of human hatred to destroy mutantkind—was living proof of their instinctive hatred. It was all they knew, it was all they could know: fear of the unknown.

Erik— Magneto had trained you for this, shaping your power, your will. He told you that you were a soldier in a war for mutantkind’s survival, and soldiers didn’t ask for peace. They demanded it, fought for it, took it by any means necessary.

The Sentinel lunged, trying to swipe at you. You dove out of the way, landing hard on the cracked asphalt. You spat on the sidewalk, chest heaving, sweat dripping down your temples. Raising your hands again, you summoned more paper, pulling it from the rubble, willing it to swirl around you in a deadly cloud.

But before you could deliver the finishing blow, the Sentinel’s chest began to glow. A low hum resonated through the battlefield, growing louder and louder. 

Shit. It had never done this before.

This was different. This is wrong. What the fuck is happening? What new technology did Trask fit it with?

The air crackled with an overload of energy, the core rapidly heating up.

It wasn’t just preparing another attack. It was self-destructing.

Suddenly, you heard someone shout your name.

Your eyes darted to the side, catching sight of red hair— Jean Grey was fighting to reach you, flying through the air as quickly as her powers allowed.

She was trying to save you.

Jean—your friend. The closest thing you’d ever had to a sister. Both of you had been one of Charles Xavier’s first students, bright young mutants destined to be peacekeepers. You had been a promising member of the X-men, once. Before you lost one too many people. Before you joined Magneto. 

And now, after all you’d done, after you betrayed your X-men, Jean was still trying to save you.

"No!" The cry ripped from your throat like a prayer. You couldn’t let her reach you. Not if it put her in the line of fire.

With every ounce of power you had left, you summoned a protective dome of paper, the fragments swirling and solidifying into an unbreakable barrier around her.

And after all you’d done, you would not let her die saving you.

The explosion that followed was deafening. 

Light, brighter than anything you’d ever seen, erupted from the Sentinel, tearing through the battlefield. The explosion hit you like a tidal wave— and nothing.

You didn’t hurt, you didn’t die.

For a moment, you thought you’d managed to evade it.

Then, reality itself seemed to splinter.

The world dissolved into a blinding whiteness, and you felt as if your body had become untethered. 

You waited. And waited. And nothing happened. It was as if you were stuck in this vast nothingness.

Time lost meaning. You didn’t know if you were falling or floating, if moments or hours passed. All you knew was the unbearable brightness, the feeling of being pulled apart and stitched back together creeping up your body as you struggled to feel anything at all.

Then you blinked.

You stood up in an empty field.

What? Where were you?

You looked around to see a big city nearby, studying the lights emanating from towering skyscrapers.

The world around you was eerily quiet, unbothered by war or conflict. The sky was clear, the air was not filled with smoke. There were no sentinels here. 

You blinked again. Where were the ruins? The scorch marks? The desperate cries of mutants fighting for their lives?

You staggered to your feet, scanning the unfamiliar ground beneath you. You breathed in air that didn't taste like poison. This wasn’t Genosha. It wasn’t the ravaged streets of your dimension, where mutants fought tooth and nail for survival.

This place felt... peaceful. It felt safe.

You wandered into the city in search for anything familiar. But there was no Magneto on the news, no Brotherhood, no X-men at all. Instead, the headlines featured someone called Captain America—a man wearing a bizarre bird-themed suit—delivering a speech against a group they called the Flag Smashers. You flipped through the paper, searching for something relevant, but you found nothing. 

Apparently, this was the biggest news here. No human-mutant war, no Sentinel attacks, nothing. Just people going about their lives, blissfully unaware of the struggles that defined your existence.

As you walked, their eyes followed you. Your leather suit drew glances and whispers. 

"Mommy, which Avenger is that?" A little boy tugged on his mother’s sleeve, pointing right at you.

An Avenger? What the hell was an Avenger? Your fists clenched as your eyes twitched, trying to stifle irritation. 

This world—with its strange heroes and its mundane problems—wasn’t yours. 

This wasn’t just another city. This was another universe.

And even if there were no mutants here, it didn’t mean the threats that you faced had disappeared. It meant it was hiding, waiting to strike. If humanity hadn’t yet turned on mutants, it was only a matter of time. 

You’d lived through this before. You’d seen how quickly smiles turned to sneers, how flat hands became fists.

But… where exactly were you?

This wasn’t your reality— you couldn’t let your guard down. Somewhere in this world, there had to be answers about how you’d ended up here, about whether mutants existed here, about how to get back.

You would find those answers. And if this world turned out to be as hostile as your own, you would be ready.

—

It didn’t take long for you to realise that mutants didn’t exist in this world—or if they did, they were quiet. If they did, they stayed unnoticed.

You had no idea where to begin your search for answers until you stumbled across whispers of S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra— two intelligence agencies that had collapsed more than a decade ago.

If anyone had ever documented the existence of mutants, it had to be them. So you started raiding the remnants of old Hydra and S.H.I.E.L.D. bases, hoping to find something, anything at all.

Today was no different.

The Hydra base reeked of decay. Dust and mildew stuck to the crumbling walls, the lights coming in and out of life as they please. Broken computer screens flickered weakly as you wrenched open file cabinets and rifled through stacks of yellowed documents, letting your powers filter through the files for you.

You were determined to find something about the existence of mutants in this world, about the threat of Sentinels. But every file you opened was a dead end. Hydra’s obsession with weapons and enhanced soldiers was evident, but there was no mention of mutantkind at all.

There was, though, mentions of an interdimensional portal, by some guy called Dr. Pym, that could get you back. It was all blueprints, and every file indicated that every test had failed, but it was a start.

“Usually I’d thank you for tearing up old Hydra bases,” a voice said from somewhere in the dark, startling you. “But… something tells me you’re not just doing this for fun.”

You spun around, paper swirling around you like a storm in an instant. A man stepped out of the shadows, his blue eyes locked on you. He was broad-shouldered, clad in tactical gear, and his left arm gleamed under the dim light. Metal. Adamantium?

No, no, you realised, vibranium.

He was one of those soldiers you had seen in the files. 

“What are you?” he asked, eyeing the paper blades spinning in the air. He didn’t call you mutie. He didn’t even seem the slightest bit afraid of your freakish powers.

“I’m not a ‘what,’” you snapped, stepping closer, paper twisting into folded to resemble throwing stars. “You human filth.”

The insult came out before you could stop it, but you didn’t care. He was human, and humans were nothing but enemies.

He raised his hands slightly. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he said.

You scoffed, laughing bitterly. You knew better.

Your hand snapped forward, and the paper flew toward him in a flurry of precise strikes. He dodged effortlessly, blocking each paper star with his metal arm. You started sending more paper blades his way, but he weaved through them with a superhuman agility.

“I don’t want to fight you!” he called out, but you didn’t stop.

“Liar!” you yelled, your voice brimming with anger and fear. You pushed harder, summoning more paper from the cabinets, each shard sharper and deadlier than the last. He was human, and humans couldn’t be trusted.

The man lunged forward suddenly, closing the distance between you. His speed surprised you, freezing you into place. His metal hand grabbed one of your paper start midair, crushing it. 

He didn’t hurt you, though. He just stood there, breathing heavily.

“What are you after?” he asked, his tone firmer now. “Revenge? Were you one of Hydra’s experiments?”

“I’m not—” you stammered, then shouted, “I’m not an experiment! I’m a mutant. And I don’t want revenge. I want answers.”

The man blinked, his brow furrowing. “What the hell is a mutant?”

You snarled, sending another wave of paper shards at him, but this time his arm shot out sooner, deflecting them like they were nothing more than leaves in the wind. Eventually, a paper star hit its target, drawing blood from the man’s cheeks. “Look, if you want answers, stop trying to kill me,” He said, “I can help.”

Your hands faltered, a storm of paper freezing in midair. One was dangerously close to his throat. “Why would you help me?”

“Because I know how it feels to want answers,” he said simply. “And to not have anyone willing to help.”

His sincerity caught you off guard. You narrowed your eyes, letting the paper shards fall to the ground. “Fine,” you muttered. “But if you try anything—”

“I know, I know,” he interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m not stupid.”

You hesitated for a second, before holding out your arm. You introduced yourself, an offer of a truce. 

His human hand shook it, “Bucky.”

And Bucky Barnes wasn’t lying. He led you to a locked section of the facility, using his metal arm to bypass biometric scanners and access restricted files. You kept your distance, watching his every move like a hawk.

But he didn’t betray you— didn’t even seem weirded by your powers or your hostility, as most humans did back in your reality.

As the files began loading on an ancient Hydra terminal, Bucky leaned back on the dusty chair, crossing his arms. “Alright. Now that you’ve got access,” he asked, “what’s your deal? Why’s someone like you tearing apart Hydra bases?”

You hesitated, unsure how much to reveal to a man you just me. But as the minutes passed in silence, something about his patience wore down your defenses.

“I’m from another reality,” you admitted, your voice low. “A world where humans hate mutants, where they create machines to hunt us like prey. I’m part of a war there, fighting alongside one of the greatest mutants who ever lived—Magneto.”

Bucky tilted his head, “So… these ‘mutants.’ That’s what you are? What makes you different?”

You raised a hand, and the papers scattered on the floor lifted into the air, twisting into intricate shapes before exploding into tiny, adorable confetti. You used to do this a lot, making confetti for the younger kids in the X-mansion, doing it for school events. But now, you could not remember when you last used your abilities for something so trivial— something other than harming or shielding in battle. 

“Powers,” you said bitterly. “We get it from the X gene. Humans built machines to detect this… to help sentinels know who to kill.”

For a moment, Bucky said nothing. Then he exhaled sharply. “No wonder you’ve got trust issues.”

You stared at him, surprised by his bluntness. But there was no judgment in his tone, no fear in his face. Just… understanding.

“You’re really not like the humans I know,” you muttered.

“And you’re not like anyone I’ve met before,” he replied. “Guess that makes us even.”

You didn’t know why, but he made you feel… less alone.

—

You tolerated Bucky now. 

That was the best way to describe it. You didn’t trust him, and you certainly didn’t really like him. He was still human, still a symbol of everything you’d been taught to fear and hate. 

Humans in your world had built the Sentinels. Humans had burned your cities, betrayed your trust, and forced you into war. Sooner or later, you were convinced that Bucky Barnes would show his true colours.

And yet, he kept showing up.

Every time you broke into another Hydra facility, hoping to find evidence of mutant existence in this reality—or more clues on how to get home—Bucky was there. Every time you clashed with local authorities, he intervened. He didn’t stop you or turn you in. He only offered help.

At first, you lashed out, dismissing his assistance as pity, convincing yourself it would only lead to manipulation. “I don’t need your help,” you’d say. 

Sometimes, you’d hiss, shoving past him. “Why are you following me, human scum?”

But Bucky never took your bait. “You need someone to watch your back,” he’d simply say. And then he’d stay until he knew you were safe, matter how much you insulted him, no matter how much you pushed him away.

It was maddening, his patience. The way he could just wait. He was hard to trust, and how could you, when every fiber of your being screamed that humans were the enemy? That trusting them was a fatal mistake, the one Charles Xavier made?

And yet, you can’t help but think he was different.

He never mocked your powers or called you names like "freak" or "mutie." He never flinched, never jumped in fear, not even when your papyrokinesis grew uncontrollable during one of your outbursts, tearing through windows, slicing wires to ribbons. While others would have screamed or run, he just stood there, watching. 

Not afraid— curious.

One night, after another failed attempt at powering up a makeshift portal in an abandoned building, he showed up again. His timing was utterly irritating.

“My sensors detected a power surge,” Bucky said calmly, as if you’d invited him here. “Thought it might be you.”

You sat stiffly against a cracked concrete pillar, arms draped over your knees, head bowed low. 

You had tried again and again, looking at old Hydra blueprints— but the portals didn’t work. The effort left you drained. “I’m just trying to get home,” you muttered. You didn’t have the energy to argue— or even care— that he was here.

Bucky stepped closer. “Still no luck?” he asked.

You shook your head silently, the frustration bubbling in you. All the knowledge, the equations you raided all the Hydra bases for— and you still couldn’t do it. Still couldn’t get back to your world.

There was a long, suffocating silence, broken only by the faint whistle of wind through broken windows. Finally, he spoke again. “Tell me more about your home.”

You looked up at him through bleary eyes. “Why?”

He met your eyes without flinching. “Because I want to understand why you’re so desperate to get back to a place where humans hate you.”

He didn’t sound accusatory, he just genuinely wanted to know you, to understand you. Patient, as always. His presence was infuriating, but it also made it so fucking hard to hate him. You hesitated, your instincts telling you to run, to shut him out, but there was something in his eyes— something that said he wasn’t here to judge.

So, you told him.

You told him about your early days as part of the X-Men, about the dream you’d once believed in: a dream of peace, of coexistence between humans and mutants. You spoke of the friends you’d made— Of Jean. Scott. Ororo. Hank, the others. You told him of the battles you’d fought together. 

For a moment, your voice softened as you talked about your old team— your family.

But then, the tightness in your voice found its way out as you told him how it had all gone wrong. How that dream had crumbled in the face of human hatred. How you’d watched Sentinels tear through your friends, their metallic claws slicing through flesh as though it were paper. How mobs of humans had burned your cities, their shouts of “monster” and “abomination” drowning out the cries of dying mutant children.

“They hated us,” you said bitterly, hands clenching into fists. “No matter what we did, no matter how hard we fought to prove we weren’t a threat, they still wanted us dead. They’d rather destroy the world than share it with us.”

Bucky listened without interrupting. When you finally fell silent, he spoke quietly.

“So that’s when you joined Magneto.”

It wasn’t a question. Just a statement. 

You nodded, “He was the only one who understood. He knew humans would never accept us. For mutants to survive, humans had to die. I believe him. And now…” Your voice faltered. “Now, I just want to go back. There’s still work to do. I left them, Bucky. I abandoned my kind when they needed me most. I can’t—” Your stopped, the words stuck in your throat. 

You expected him to recoil, to tell you how wrong you were, how monstrous you have been for hurting humans. That’s what they all did— between the X-Men and the Brotherhood you were only ever one of two: Soldier or Traitor.

But Bucky didn’t say any of those things. Instead, he leaned back slightly, the faint glint of his metal arm catching the dim neon light. “I get it,” he said quietly.

You blinked, stunned. “You… what?”

“I get it,” he repeated, “When people push you into a corner, when they make you feel like there’s no way out… you do whatever it takes to survive.” He continued. “Doesn’t make it right. But it doesn’t make you a bad guy either.”

You stared at him, eyes wide in bewilderment. No one in your world had ever said that to you. Not Magneto, who demanded loyalty above all else. Not the X-Men, who felt only betrayal when you left. But Bucky… he saw through that.

“You don’t think I’m a monster?” you whispered, more to yourself than to him.

He let out a quiet, almost cynical laugh. “Trust me, I’ve seen monsters. I’ve been one. You’re not. You’re just… lost.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, something inside you shifted. The walls you’d built so carefully, the armour you wore to keep the world out— they cracked, just a little. 

—

Still, you were too headstrong to see Bucky’s persistence as more than just another annoyance. His offers of help, his refusal to see you as a threat—it all felt like a game, but soon, you found that you started listening. 

Then he offered you a spare room.

“You can’t keep squatting in abandoned buildings,” he said one night after finding you nursing a fresh wound in a damp alley. “It’s not safe.”

“And you’re offering me a place that is?” you shot back, glaring at him.

“Yes.” he replied simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You hesitated. The idea of accepting help from a human—of living under the same roof as one—felt like a betrayal of everything Magneto had taught you. But the exhaustion of endless nights spent running and hiding wore down your resistance. 

Reluctantly, you agreed.

Bucky’s apartment was clean, quiet, and far more comfortable than the ruins you’d been hiding in. At first, you kept your guard up, barely speaking to him unless necessary. But Bucky, as always, was patient. He gave you space, only engaging when you initiated first.

As the weeks passed, the walls you’d built between you began to crumble. It was subtle at first—the occasional shared meal, a rare smile, a private conversation. You still didn’t trust him entirely, but you couldn’t deny the flicker of comfort he brought into your life in this strange, new, world.

He didn’t demand answers, didn’t force his way through, but when you offered glimpses of yourself—of your struggles, your powers, your past—he listened.

One evening, he asked about your powers. The question was casual, but there was genuine care in his tone.

“So…  paper manipulation,” he said, leaning back on the couch, his metal arm resting on the armrest. “It’s cool and all but… I’ve seen you do more than just... throw death stars.”

You smiled faintly at his phrasing. “It’s not just paper," you said, raising your hand. You folded some napkins into swans with a flick of your wrist. "It’s anything that’s paper-like. Fabric, tissues… anything thin and pliable enough."

He tilted his head, interested. "So you could, what, turn my t-shirt into a weapon?"

Intrigued, you were unsure if he was joking. “If I wanted to.”

“Good to know,” he said, a grin tugging at the former of his lips. “I’ll keep the good shirts in the closet.”

The banter always eased the tension, and you found yourself talking more. You told him how your powers had first manifested when you were a child, how you’d accidentally shredded your favorite storybook in a fit of frustration. 

You told him how you developed control, how you’d learned to change the density of paper-like objects, turning even the simplest objects into weapons under both Professor X’s and Magneto’s training.

“Erik called me a soldier,” you said quietly, your eyes fixed on the floor. “But sometimes… I think he just saw me as another tool.”

Bucky didn’t respond immediately, choosing his work carefully. “I know what that’s like.”

—

One night, after another failed attempt to build a working portal, your frustration boiled over. The living room was strewn with bits of paper, torn diagrams, and scattered notes. The faint buzz of the portal’s malfunctioning energy core filled the air before it fizzled out with a disappointing pop.

You sank to your knees, clutching your head. “Why won’t you work?” you cried out. “I’ve tried everything!”

Bucky, who had been quietly watching from the doorway, stepped closer. He crouched beside you, resting his vibranium hand on your shoulder. “You’ll figure it out,” he said firmly. “You’re too damn stubborn not to.”

His frustratingly kind reassurances didn’t magically fix the portal, but it helped. Slowly, you started to breathe again, leaning back against the couch as Bucky began gathering the scattered paper for you.

You sighed. You could not let him clean up your failures.

You clicked your fingers, and suddenly all the papers were nearly stacked on the table

“I don’t know why you’re helping me,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper— you’ve given him nothing but grief since you met, after all.

Bucky glanced at you. For the first time, he did not have an answer.

Deep down, it was because he saw a part of him in you— a desire to fix yourself, and everything around you.

—

Over time, your grudging tolerance towards Bucky turned into companionship.

You found yourself laughing at Bucky’s dry, sarcastic humor. He had a way of slipping in sharp quips that broke through your walls, even when you didn’t want them to. 

Slowly, his stories began to pull you in. He told you about missions he often went on, about antics he had to endure from Sam Wilson. There was something disarming about the way he spoke of them— equal parts exasperation and affection. It reminded you of what you’d once shared with the X-Men. 

For the first time in years, you caught yourself smiling, a small spark of affection creeping past your defenses.

He started recruiting you to go on missions, since he suggested the answers you were looking for may be there.

So you met Sam. 

Captain America (bird-man, as you called him when you recognised him from the papers), sharp-eyed and quick-witted, was wary of you at first, sizing up whether you were a threat. But Sam didn’t judge you for your powers or your past. Over time, he started joking with you, his teasing lighthearted and never cruel. He asked questions about your abilities. He treated you like an equal, someone worth knowing.

“You’ve got some serious skills,” he said after watching you dismantle a hostile drone with a flurry of razor-sharp paper daggers.

The admiration in his voice caught you off guard. You weren’t used to humans praising your abilities— especially not without the edge of condescendence or caution. But Sam wasn’t afraid of you. 

He didn’t look at you like a freak or a threat. He looked at you like a person.

Then, Bucky introduced you to Clint Barton, always sporting an easy grin and unshakable confidence. He was straightforward, a little goofy, and completely unbothered by your powers. He said he’d spent years working with gods and green monsters— you were normal, as far as he was concerned.

“Cool trick,” Clint once said after you turned a pile of napkins into makeshift throwing stars during a particularly boring stakeout. “Think you can teach me that? I’m always running out of arrows.”

You told him, a little shyly, about how Charles Xavier had insisted you learn origami to help control your abilities. The precision, the focus—it had all been part of his plan (curriculum) to help you master your papyrokinesis.

When he brought it up again, genuinely interested in learning, you found yourself teaching him. It was strange, watching the Avengers’ master archer fumble over folding paper cranes and stars, but it was also… comforting. Before long, Kate Bishop joined you in your origami lessons, and both Hawkeyes were now equipped with the knowledge of how to fold throwing stars that could at least inflict papercuts.

—

One day, in between looking for leads to find a way back to your world, you had offered— reluctantly— to help Bucky with some housework. You were staying with him, after all. Charles always said you needed to be a good guest.

The idea of folding laundry or scrubbing dishes wasn’t exactly thrilling, but after months of living under the same roof, you’d started to feel restless. Maybe even a little guilty.

To your surprise, he agreed. “Sure,” he said, his tone casual, but you could tell he was excited. 

Offering a human help? That was progress. 

And so, there you were, standing in his living room, surrounded by piles of clean clothes. 

He was watching you, arms crossed, using your papyrokinesis to do the chore effortlessly.

You’d been doing fine until he sneezed.

It wasn’t just any sneeze. It was one of those soft, unexpected ones, the kind that caught you so off guard you had to freeze mid-fold because it was just so damn cute. 

You had found him, a deadly ex-assassin, too damn cute.

It caused a momentary lapse in concentration, and before you could stop it, one of Bucky’s sweatpants was disastrously sliced straight down the middle.

You stared at the ruined fabric in horror, your heart sinking as you braced for him to shout, because that’s what always happened when your powers went wrong, wasn’t it? Anger. Fear. Accusations.

But instead, Bucky let out a low chuckle, a grin spreading on his lips. “Well, doll,” he drawled, his voice laced with amusement, “if you didn’t want me to wear pants, you could’ve just asked.”

You blinked, completely thrown.

“I—what?” you stammered, heat flooding your face.

He stepped closer, his lips curving into a playful smile as he held up the tattered pants. “Just saying, if this is your idea of flirting, it’s pretty creative.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands, but you couldn’t stop the embarrassed laugh that bubbled out. “It was an accident!”

“Sure it was,” he teased, his tone light any playful.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t look at you with fear or anger. He just… laughed. Like you were someone he trusted. Someone who didn’t need to be perfect to be worth sticking around for.

For the first time in years, you felt something stir deep within you: hope. These were humans, and they accepted you. They didn’t try to control you, hurt you, or treat you like a threat.

You began to question Magneto’s teachings. Maybe not all humans deserved to die. Maybe, just maybe, coexistence was possible.

—

Six months. It's been six months.

After half a year of trying to get home, you were no closer to returning than you were when you first got here. Each attempt chipped away at hope, leaving you feeling more and more like a stranger in a world that didn’t belong to you. 

And now, after all this time, here you were—in Wakanda.

The Wakandan sunset bathed the land in brilliant shades of orange and gold. Through the wide windows of the lab, you could see the horizon where the jungle stretched endlessly, blending into the marvel of the city. The balance was otherworldly— nature and technology living in harmony, neither overshadowing the other.

Ororo had told you about Wakanda. She’d spoken of its beauty, its culture, and its people. But her Wakanda had her husband in it, this one didn’t.

You tried not to dwell on it as you turned your attention back to the room. Around you, this world’s most brilliant minds were working on a multiversal portal.

Shuri darted around the machine, her hands tweaking wires and making adjustments. "This component will stabilise the temporal flow," she explained, almost to herself.

Hank Pym stood nearby with a tablet in hand, overseeing Shuri's every move. "The stabilisation won't matter if you don't account for the quantum drift," he said.

Bruce Banner sat at the corner console, his large hands delicately typing away on the holographic interface. He was the calmest one in the room, his brow furrowed in concentration. "We’ll need to recalibrate the energy source mid-activation if the system overloads again."

And then there was Bucky.

He stood a little apart from the others with you, watching everything unfold. Bucky had no business being here, but he had pulled every string he could, called in favours you didn’t even know he had, all to get you the help you needed.

You glanced at him, your heart twisting. You didn’t know why he’d done all this for you— a mutant he’d found in an abandoned Hydra base. 

Was it pity? A sense of obligation? You didn’t know, and part of you didn’t want to ask.

Shuri’s voice broke through your thoughts. "Alright," she said, standing back. "It's ready."

The portal stood before you, a towering structure of vibranium, pulsing with energy conduits on either side.

"Powering up," Hank announced, his voice filled with anticipation.

The room fell silent.

Your heart began to pound as you watched the machine light up. A gentle buzz filled the air, growing louder with every passing second. The vibranium glowed brighter, shifting through colours as the machine began its work.

You held your breath, your eyes fixed on the center of the portal as you waited for it to open, to tear through the fabric of reality and show you the way home.

And then—

Crack!

A shower of sparks erupted from the machine, and a deafening bang rang out as the entire system short-circuited. Smoke filled the room, and the acrid smell of burnt circuitry stung your nose.

The portal had failed. Again.

Shuri let out a frustrated growl, slamming her tools down onto the nearest surface. "This should’ve worked!" she shouted, pacing back and forth. 

"It’s not the design," Hank said sharply. “The issue is quantum instability—I told you this before we started!"

Shuri turned around. "It is accounted for!"

"It’s not quantum instability," Banner interjected, his tone still calm but growing firmer. He pulled up a holographic blueprint, pointing to a section of the machine. "The energy signature is what’s causing the problem. If we can—"

"You’re both wrong," Shuri interrupted, her voice rising. "The system needs—"

Their voices overlapped, escalating into a heated argument as each brilliant mind tried to make themselves heard. Soon, their once-coordinated efforts dissolved into chaos.

You stood frozen, their words blurring together, becoming an unbearable noise that echoed in your head.

Stop.

You felt your control slipping, your emotions bubbling to the surface in a storm of frustration, guilt, and sadness.

"STOP!"

Your voice rang out, cutting through the chaos like a blade.

The papers in the room began to stir, the fabric everyone was wearing began to sway. First one, then two, then dozens if pages—all lifting into the air as if carried by an invisible wind. 

"JUST STOP!" you screamed again, dropping to your knees. The papers swirled into a furious tornado, swirling around the room like a storm.

All eyes were turned to you. 

Then, you felt a hand on yours. You looked up to see Bucky kneeling beside you, his steel-blue eyes locked on yours.

"Hey," he said quietly, a few papercuts on his skin as he fought to get to you. His voice was calm, gentle. "Take a deep breath."

You didn’t realise how shallow your breathing had become until he said it. Slowly, the vortex collapsed around you. With his hand still on yours, your breathing steadied. The papers stopped moving entirely, settling into silence like fallen leaves. "I’m not worth it," you whispered, your throat tight. "I’m not worth any of this."

Their human effort, their human brilliance, their human hope. And all for you. A failure. A traitor.

Your chest tightened, and you felt tears welling up in your eyes. You couldn’t stay here—not like this. You wrenched your hand free and stumbled to your feet, ignoring the concerned looks of everyone in the room.

And then you ran.

—

The sun was setting as Bucky found you on the cliffside, perched on the edge of a boulder overlooking Wakanda’s trade center. The air felt alive, carrying the faint hum of Wakandan technology and the distant rustle of wildlife.

But none of it felt real to you.

It was beautiful, yes, but it wasn’t your world. The mountains on the horizon weren’t your mountains. The air didn’t taste the same. The people here weren’t your people. Your kind didn’t even exist. Not to your knowledge, at least. 

You didn’t turn when you heard his footsteps behind you, though you could tell it was him. 

You didn’t understand how Bucky, fragile and flawed— so devastatingly human— had become the person who understood you best.

He stopped a few steps behind you.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his tone almost apologetic.

You didn’t move.

“I don’t think… They don’t think they can do it,” he continued. You could hear the frustration in his voice, as though he hated saying the words as much as you hated hearing them. “There’s too much they can’t figure out. The travel requires a very specific energy signature, and…” He sighed heavily, his boots scraping against the rock. “It just doesn’t exist in this world.”

Your stomach sank.

A specific energy signature. You knew exactly what he meant. The Sentinel energy signature. It had been so obvious— so abundant in your version of Earth that you hadn’t even thought about its absence here. But this world had no Sentinels. No mutant hunts. No Magneto leading the charge against humanity.

And because of that, you couldn’t go home.

“I guess I’m not going back,” you said quietly, the words tasting bitter on your tongue.

Bucky stepped closer, lowering himself to sit beside you on the edge of the cliff. His shoulder brushed against yours. He didn’t speak for a moment, just sat there, staring out at the city below with you.

Then, without looking at you, he reached over and took your hand.

You turned your head, watching him, studying the way the sunset amplified in his beautiful features. 

“Is that really so bad?” he asked quietly.

You blinked.

His voice was almost casual, but you could tell he was struggling to get the words out.

Is it really so bad to stay?

You looked away, staring out at the skyline again.

How could you stay? You didn’t belong here. You weren’t supposed to want this. To want love in a world that did not birth you. You were a mutant, born into a world that hated and feared you. You’d been raised to fight for your place in the world, then eventually you learned to reject humanity before it could reject you.

Magneto had taught you to see humans as the enemy. Weak, selfish creatures who would never understand what it meant to be more. To be different.

But then there was Bucky.

Bucky, who had fought tooth and nail to get you here, just to give you a chance to go home. A home that wasn’t his. A place he’d never even seen.

Bucky, who had spent so much of his life being used and hated and feared himself, who knew what it was like to be broken— and who still believed you deserved to be whole.

You weren’t supposed to love him.

But you did.

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. 

He turned to you then, and the affection his eyes nearly unraveled you. They were so open, so unguarded, so… human. 

How could he look at you like this? Like you weren’t the sum of all your mistakes? Like you weren’t someone who’d once hated everything he is?

But here, on this cliffside, you weren’t a mutant and he wasn’t a human. You were just two people, broken in different ways, trying to make something whole again.

“I don’t know how to say this,” he said, his voice quiet and almost shy. “I’m not… I’m not good at this. But maybe you don’t need to go back. Maybe…” He paused, his gaze searching yours. “Maybe you’re not supposed to.”

You stared at him, your breath caught in your chest.

He leaned in then, slowly, hesitantly, giving you every opportunity to pull away. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

His lips met yours, gently at first, like he was afraid you might disappear. But when you didn’t pull away, when your hand tightened around his, the kiss deepened.

It wasn’t perfect. It was messy and unpracticed. But it was real.

His vibranium hand cupped your face, cold metal against warm skin, and you felt something crack open inside you. For so long, you’d held onto the idea of home, of going back to the world you knew. But in this moment, you realised this could be home, too.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“Stay,” he whispered, his voice barely audible but filled with quiet conviction. “Please.”

You closed your eyes, tears slipping down your cheeks.

From that night on, everything shifted. The walls you had spent years building—the bitterness, the anger, the belief in Magneto’s vision—began to fade. Slowly, painfully, you started to peel away the layers of Magneto’s ideology, the belief that humanity’s destruction was the only way mutants could survive.

It wasn’t easy. 

Erik’s voice was still there in your mind, as sharp and commanding as it had been when you stood at his side. His speeches were etched into your brain like scars, each one a reminder of the battles you’d fought and the people you’d lost. For so long, you’d believed that hatred was your weapon and victory was the only way you could survive.

But Bucky… Bucky reminded you there was another way.

In the silent moments, you found yourself recalling Charles Xavier’s words—the ideals of coexistence, of understanding, that you had dismissed as naïve all those years ago. Charles had raised you in the mansion— gave you a family. He dreamed of a world where humans and mutants could live together in harmony, a world built on hope instead of fear.

And once again, you found yourself believing he might have been right.

Bucky showed you that every day— he treated you with a kindness that felt foreign, a patience that felt endless even when you stumbled. 

A month after Wakanda, you told him you were going to stop searching for a way back to your old universe.

At first, you told yourself it was because the leads had gone cold. There were no more portals, no quantum theories left to pursue, no trace of the world you’d left behind. 

But deep down, you knew that you stopped because of him.

Bucky Barnes had become your anchor in this strange, mutantless world. With him, you found something you hadn’t dared to hope for in years: peace.

And one day, you stopped seeing the world in absolutes. It wasn’t mutants versus humans anymore; it was just people. Broken, complicated, beautiful people.

Bucky helped you see that. He reminded you, every day, that life wasn’t about mere survival—it was about connection. About finding the people who made the fight worth it.

With him, the anger that had defined you began to fade. 

And with that, you began testing boundaries you wouldn’t have, normally.

The room was dim, the light from the bedside lamp casting a gold glow across the walls. 

Bucky’s hands found your waist, pulling you closer. His lips met yours with a passion that burned the edges of your heart, and before you knew it, you were pressed against the wall, fingers threading through his hair. His kiss was unrelenting—hot, heavy, and all-consuming. 

It felt… divine.

He backed away only long enough to guide you to his bed, his hands firm on your hips as you sank into his lap.

His lips found yours again, this time slower, deeper, his tongue teasing against yours as his metal hand trailed up your back. The coolness sent shivers down your spine, and you arched against him instinctively.

His flesh hand slipped under your shirt, splaying across your bare skin. His touch ignited a fire that you didn’t know you were capable of feeling. You gasped into his mouth, and he took the opportunity to kiss you harder. His lips moved to your neck, nipping before soothing the spot with his tongue.

Your hands curled into a fist in his shirt, your hips shifting against his, and he groaned— a sound so deep and raw it made your heart swoon. 

But then you froze. 

His hands slid higher, and the heat coursing through you was suddenly eclipsed by a sharp pang of fear.

“Wait,” you said breathlessly, pulling back.

Bucky immediately stopped, his brow furrowing as he looked up at you. His flesh hand stayed still under your shirt, warm against your skin. 

“You okay?” he asked, his voice husky but laced with concern.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” you admitted, your voice shaky.

His hand slowly brushed against your side in soothing circles. “Talk to me, doll.”

You took a steadying breath, trying to avoid his gaze. “Sometimes, when it gets intense, I... lose control. It’s only happened a few times, but... it’s dangerous.”

His hands didn’t move, but his grip tightened just slightly. “Dangerous how?” he asked.

“I was a teenager, but it happened with my first boyfriend,” You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his eyes, “I didn’t realise I was losing control. A sheet wrapped around him, tight enough that he could barely breathe. After that, I’ve only been with mutants. People I knew could match my powers. I-I don’t want to hurt you.”

His lips parted, but he didn’t speak immediately. He took a moment to process your words, the lines of his forehead softening with understanding. Then, to your surprise, he smiled, the corner of his mouth tugging up in that infuriatingly confident way of his.

“I’m a super soldier, baby,” he said, his voice dropping to a near growl as his hand slid to the small of your back. “I’ll survive you.”

You hesitated, the memory of your past mistakes still hauntingly clear. “Bucky, I’m serious—”

“So am I,” he interrupted gently, cupping your cheek with his metal hand. “I can handle it. I want this. I want you.”

The sincerity in his voice, the conviction in eyes bled into you. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t running away. 

Slowly, you nodded. “Okay,” you whispered.

He smiled, leaning in to kiss you again, softer this time. “If anything feels off,” he murmured against your lips, “tell me, and we’ll stop. Deal?”

“Deal,” you said. When his lips claimed yours again, you let your inhibitions go.

This time, there was no hesitation.

—

Afterward, the two of you lay tangled in the sheets, your arm draped across his stomach, your thumb brushing lazy circles against his skin. 

“See?” he said with a grin, “Told you I’d survive.”

You rolled your eyes, but the hazy pleasure in his features made your lips twitch into a smile. 

“Nice work, by the way,” he continued, his smirk widening. He lifted his wrists, which were still held together by a strip of bedsheet. “restraining my hands with the sheets. Very creative”

Your heart skipped, and you immediately flicked your wrist, the papery tendrils releasing his hands. He chuckled as he flexed his fingers, inspecting the faint crease the fabric had left behind.

“That wasn’t intentional,” you muttered, your cheeks flushing.

Bucky sat up slightly, propping himself on one elbow as he leaned closer, his smile somehow even more smug. “Still hot,” he said, his voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine.

—

Two years passed, a blur of growth and change that transformed you from a stranger lost in a foreign universe into someone who… belonged. 

It was mostly Sam’s relentless prodding that gave you the push you needed, but you stepped into the role of a hero— not Magneto’s soldier, not a weapon of war, but a protector. You had chosen to use your powers to save people, to inspire hope rather than fear. And Bucky found his place, too— with a band of misfits Alexei had called the Thunderbolts (Bucky still complained about it).

And then, you married Bucky.

The ceremony was small, intimate— just a handful of friends who had become your family. Sam stood at Bucky’s side as his best man, wearing a suit so nice he spent the entire morning making sure everyone noticed it. Clint was there, cracking jokes and pretending to be annoyed when Yelena stole his drink. Kate arrived late, as always, but she made up for it by pulling you aside to tell you how beautiful you looked.

The ceremony took place in a national park. You had planned it to be simple, but Shuri had insisted on designing the decorations herself—a canopy of woven vines and blossoms framing the altar. 

As you walked down the makeshift aisle, your heart pounded in a way that had nothing to do with nerves. Bucky stood waiting for you, his blue eyes filled with something you could only describe as wonder. His hair was a little bit longer now, a few strands charmingly falling onto his face.

Sam whispered something to him as you approached, and Bucky shook his head with a soft laugh, his eyes never leaving yours. You caught yourself giggling, unable to stop the sheer joy bubbling up inside you.

When you reached him, he took your hands in his, and the world seemed to fade away. His metal hand, once a weapon of destruction, held yours as gently as if you were made of glass. His voice was as steady as it was when you first heard him in that Hydra base as he said his vows. 

“You pulled me out of the dark,” he said, his voice cracking just slightly. “I didn’t think I’d ever feel… whole again. But with you, I do.”

By the time it was your turn, you were shaking. You spoke your vows through tears. You told him how he’d shown you a world beyond the one Magneto had painted for you, a world where hope was more powerful than hate.

When the officiant pronounced you married, Bucky pulled you into his arms, and his lips on yours as soft as the first time he kissed you on the edges of the Wakandan cliff.

For a fleeting moment, guilt frayed the edges of your joy. The X-Men weren’t here— your first family, the ones who you had grown up with. Memories of your youth resurfaced, back when you were all just teenagers. 

You could almost see yourself rolling your eyes at Jean as she spoke dreamily about spending her life with Scott. You’d both been so young then, so brimming with hope.

And now, here you were, marrying the love of your life. A smile tugged at your lips at the thought: if the X-Men knew, they’d be stunned to learn you’d fallen for a human.

—

And then you were pregnant.

The news hit you like a whirlwind—joy, fear, disbelief all mingling together. You had only been trying for a few weeks— you blamed Bucky’s super soldier sperm for that.

You and Bucky spent hours staring at the four positive tests, letting reality fully sink in. 

The pregnancy wasn’t easy. Your papyrokinesis, always a temperamental force, became even more unpredictable as your body changed. Bucky joked that he was becoming a human pin cushion, collecting little papercuts here and there whenever your powers flared.

“How’s your paper-cut tally today?” you asked one evening, guilt creeping into your voice as you noticed a fresh nick on his human arm. But Bucky never once complained. He’d just smile and wave it off. “If this is the price for having a family with you, I’ll gladly pay it,” he’d say, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

Still, you could not help but let anxiety take over. You worried about what kind of parents you would be, how you’d manage your powers while taking care of a baby. You worried about the unknowns of your child’s future—what they might inherit from you, from Bucky, and what kind of life they would have in a world that could be so cruel to those who were different. 

But Bucky was always there, kind and reassuring, his hand on your back or his lips brushing your temple as he whispered, “We’ve got this, doll. We can handle anything.”

But as a mutant, your powers had always been a core part of who you were, something that set you apart from everyone else. It’s made your life both extraordinary and painfully difficult. You had spent years learning to accept and control your abilities, but the scars of rejection and isolation lingered. Deep down, a small part of you quietly hoped your child would be spared that burden, that they might be born without the mutant X gene— that they would be… human. It was a shameful thought, one you tried not to dwell on, but it lingered all the same.

The day Becca was born was the happiest—and most terrifying—day of your life. Labor was intense, your powers flaring uncontrollably with every wave of pain. Shuri and Bruce Banner had been in the room, monitoring your vitals with advanced Wakandan technology. This was uncharted territory—the first recorded instance of a mutant giving birth in this universe—and only the most brilliant minds and capable hands could possibly navigate the risks. Yet even they hadn’t anticipated the sudden chaos when papers began swirling wildly around the room. 

Through it all, Bucky was by your side, gripping your hand, anchoring you in the midst of pain. He whispered words of encouragement, as if his determination alone could carry you both through this moment.

And then Becca entered the world.

The moment they placed her in your arms, she took your breath away.

She was so small, so perfect, her tiny fists curled as though she were already prepared to take on anything. Her eyes blinked open, still adjusting to the light… and you froze. 

They glowed faintly of an unmistakable golden hue that neither Bucky nor you had. 

Bucky reached for her next, his vibranium arm cradling her with a gentleness that melted your heart. Tears welled in your eyes as you watched him, his expression one of pure, unguarded awe. He gazed down at her as though the entire universe had reshaped itself in her presence. “She’s beautiful,” he whispered, “So beautiful.”

You couldn’t speak, your throat tightening—not just from the miracle of her existence, but from the realisation of what her golden eyes must mean. 

Becca was a mutant. 

Her powers hadn’t yet manifested, but you could feel it, as surely as you’d always felt your own. It was a subtle, invisible rhythm, a pulse of energy that tethered her to you in a way deeper than blood.

—

One evening, as you stood over her crib, watching her tiny chest rise and fall with each peaceful breath, your fears became too much to bear alone.

“She’s a mutant,” you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper. You had a feeling that Bucky knew, but he didn’t say anything, didn’t bring it up until you were ready to. 

Your mind swirled with anxiety. If the world was anything like yours, she was going to grow up in a world that didn’t understand her. That feared her.

The memories of your own painful existence caged you, bullied on the playground as a child, hunted on the battlefield as an adult.  

What if… your own life was a blueprint for hers? What if your beautiful girl was hated for just existing?

Bucky stepped closer behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. 

“She’s perfect,” he said, his voice firm yet gentle, like an anchor pulling you back from the tide of your fears. “Just like her mother.”

You turned to face him, tears welling in your eyes. In his face, you saw no fear, no doubt—only pride.

“She’s going to have a good life,” he continued, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “Because she has us.”

So for the first time, you allowed yourself to believe that Becca’s future didn’t have to mirror your past. She would grow up surrounded by love, raised by two people who understood what it meant to survive in a world that didn’t always make room for them.

As if sensing the shift in the room, Becca stirred in her crib. Her golden eyes blinked open, fixing on you with a calm, curious gaze that made your heart swell. You reached out, your fingers brushing against her tiny hand. She grasped your finger instinctively, her grip surprisingly strong for someone so small.

—

When Doctor Strange told you that America Chavez could open a portal to your home dimension, it felt as though the air had been ripped from your lungs. 

For so long, you had tried every scientific method, pursued every theoretical breakthrough, exhausted every ounce of hope to find your way back. And now—magic. The one thing you hadn’t considered.

Strange’s words felt distant as he explained how. “America has mastered enough control over her powers now,” he said, “She can pinpoint your universe using your energy signature and open a gateway to take you home.”

Home?

Your idea of home has shifted so much over the last few years that the idea of going back now felt… foreign.

You nodded mechanically, not truly hearing him. Memories you had carefully buried began to break free— The hum of Sentinel engines flying through the sky. The terrified cries of mutants as they fled for their lives. The conviction in Erik Lensherr’s  voice as he waged wars against humans. The hope in Charles Xavier’s eyes. 

So that night, after Becca had fallen asleep in her crib, you found yourself pacing in your living room. 

It was cosy, but the walls were still bare. 

You had gotten a house in the suburbs when the two of you realised Becca was coming. Now, not even a year after moving in, you’re thinking of leaving. 

Bucky sat on the couch, silent but watchful.

Finally, you stopped, staring out the window into the beautiful garden. You had spent the last few weeks planting wildflower seeds, telling Bucky how excited you were to see Becca play out here. Your breath fogged the glass as you whispered, “I think I need to go back.”

Bucky leaned forward, resting his vibranium arm on his knee— he had been bracing for this. “Why?” he asked, a sadness in his voice. 

You didn’t turn around. “The Sentinels are still out there,” you said, your voice trembling. “Mutants are still being hunted. I fought so hard to protect our kind, to give us a chance to survive. And now I’m here—safe, comfortable—while they’re still dying. It feels…” You swallowed hard, “It feels wrong.”

The silence that followed felt suffocating, stretching long enough for doubt to creep in. When Bucky finally spoke, his voice was barely audible. “And what happens if you go back?”

You closed your eyes. “Maybe I can convince Magneto that coexistence is possible. We’re proof of it.” You turned to face him, desperation leaking into your voice. “He’s not all bad, Bucky. He’s just… lost.”

Lost.

Like you once were. 

Bucky stood, stepping closer to you. The faint glow of the fairy lights outside casted his silhouette on the glass. “You’re not just thinking about Erik,” he said, his voice smaller than it had ever been before. “You’re thinking about the X-Men, too.”

“They’re my family,” you nodded, your voice breaking, “They raised me and I… betrayed them.” Tears welled in your eyes, “I don’t know if they’ll ever forgive me. But I- I have to try.”

Bucky gently grabbed your shoulders and turned you around, his blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your knees weak. “And Becca?” The question struck like a hammer, her name a blow to your conviction. “And me?”

“You and Becca can’t come with me.” The pain in his eyes nearly undid you, “She’d be thrown into the middle of a war where she’d be hunted just for existing. She has to stay here, where she’s safe, with her father.”

Bucky’s eyes watered, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He looked down for a moment, struggling to keep his composure. When he finally spoke, his voice was so quiet it was almost drowned by the pounding in your ears.  “I’m going to miss you.”

“You and Becca are my whole world,” you said, choking on the words. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Now, your tears came freely, spilling down your cheeks unrestrained. He made no move to wipe them away, granting you the space to feel raw. “But I need to fix this”

He stepped closer, his hands coming to rest gently on your waist. He kissed you, slow and lingering, as though trying to memorise the feel of you before it’s too late. When he pulled back, his grip tightened, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of letting you go. “I’m not going to stop you.” He paused, as if every word cost him every bit of energy he had left, “I just want you to know—if you leave, Becca and I will be okay.”

His words shattered something deep inside you, and you shook your head, tears blurring your vision as a sob escaped your throat. “I— don’t— deserve— you,” you hiccuped, burying your head in his chest, remembering how it felt to be in his arms.

“Oh, no, no darling,” his arms tightened around you as his voice started breaking more and more until it was in a million pieces. “D-Don’t say t-that,” he said firmly. “Y-You deserve to be happy. Wherever that is.”

“I love you,” you said, your voice muffled. It must have been the millionth time you'd told him that, yet the words still carried as much meaning as the very first time you admitted it.

“I love you, too.” he murmured, pressing a tender kiss to your temple.

That night, you didn’t sleep. You sat by Becca’s crib, your fingers brushing against her tiny hand as you watched her chest rise and fall in time with her breathing. Her little fists curled and uncurled as she dreamed, her face the picture of innocence. 

You had to go. You had to. Right?

—

The next day, the portal shimmered before you, alive with swirling light and possibility. 

Its star-shaped crackled faintly, a gateway to another life, another universe. America Chavez stood beside it, her hands glowing as she focused on keeping the connection stable. 

Oh. You gasped, still not quite believing that this was real.

Beyond the portal was your old room in the X-Mansion. Your breath hitched, realising that no one touched your room after you left, after you betrayed them. 

The bedspread was still the ones you had picked out as a teenager, your favourite books stacked haphazardly on the desk. You noticed that the faint glow of a lava lamp Charles got you for your birthday, the stacks of origami craft along the window, the paper boats scattered across the floor—it was all there, as though no time had passed. 

It was so close, so real. A piece of your past, waiting for you to reclaim it.

Behind you, Bucky stood holding Becca. 

You had said your goodbyes in private, cried when you needed to. You had left notes for the friends you’d made in this universe, because facing them one by one would have been too much to bear. 

Becca squirmed in Bucky’s arms, her tiny cries almost desperate, as if she understood what was happening. As if she knew.

You stepped closer to the portal, toying with your wedding ring nervously as you often did. You tried to think of home—of the X-Mansion before you, of late nights talking to Charles, of Anne Marie’s southern-dripped laughter echoing through the halls. But when you thought of home, all you could think about was Bucky and Becca. 

You looked back at the room through the portal, the memories rising like in the back of your mind. Sleepovers with Jean and Ororo, talking about dreams, fears, and futures. Helping Scott with his homework while he pretended not to be annoyed. The warm smell of freshly baked bread from the kitchen when Hank experimented with culinary science.

Through the portal, you caught a snippet of conversation—Hank McCoy’s calm, thoughtful voice drifting through the hallway, followed by Remy LeBeau’s unmistakable Cajun accent.

So close, get so far.

So close, yet you did not have the heart to step through just yet.

And then Hank said something that stopped you cold in your tracks. “Jean’s doing well—third trimester already.”

You froze. Jean was happy? She was having a child?

“Scott’s happier than a gator in the bayou,” you heard Remy say, you could imagine him smiling in your mind, twirling with his beloved playing cards. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Scott’s child. 

They were starting a family. Building something beautiful. 

They were happy. They had a future.

If they deserved that… didn’t you? Didn’t your husband? Didn’t your daughter?

You took a shaky breath and glanced back through the portal. So many years, so much left unfinished. 

Could you really walk away from the people who had shaped you? The family who had loved you, even when you had left them behind?

Then Becca cried again, her wail sharp and insistent. She’s stubborn like her mother, Bucky once chuckled. 

You turned, her tiny face scrunched in frustration, her little hands reaching blindly. 

It was heartbreaking.

“I—I can’t,” you stammered, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. Your voice cracked. “I can’t do this.”

Bucky’s eyes widened, just slightly, but he didn’t speak. 

Your legs felt like they might give out as you stumbled back toward him. Your hands shook as you reached for Becca.

When you finally took her into your arms, Bucky wrapped his arms around both of you. He’s kissed your temple, tears of joy peppering his cheeks.

“I can’t leave her.” You whispered, your voice trembling, tears tracing hot trails down your cheeks. You cradled your daughter, holding her fragile, precious frame as if letting go would shatter you completely. Your eyes flickered to your husband’s—the human who had taught you how to love unconditionally, the human who had earned your vulnerability and trust.  “I can’t leave you.”

His shaky hands came to rest gently on your back as his grip tightened. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” You nodded, your face pressed against his chest. “I’m already home.”

Behind you, America nodded, letting the portal flicker and fade. The shimmering light dimmed, and with it, the tether to your old life dissolved into nothing.

—

Back in your home universe, Charles Xavier sat bolt upright in his wheelchair. 

“She’s alive,” he murmured, his voice disturbing through the silence of his office. His hands gripped the arms of his chair, his eyes unfocused as if searching the invisible threads of the mind that had just manifested in his— but you were gone as quickly as you had reappeared.

Jean, seated near the fireplace, gasped. She turned toward Charles, her green eyes alert. “I felt her too,” she said, her voice unsteady. The presence had been faint but it was unmistakable, like a star flickering to life. Her hand moved instinctively to her swollen belly as if to soothe the child from her shock.

Scott stood in the doorway, his arms crossed. His brows knitted, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Who?” 

Jean closed her eyes, focusing on the faint impression left in her mind like a handprint. She said your name.

Everyone in the room held their breath.

Ororo, who had been standing by the window with her back to the room, turned to both telepaths in the room. “Are you certain?” she asked, “It’s been so long since either of you felt her, since we thought she was...”

“I’m sure,” Jean said with absolute conviction. “And she’s not alone.”

“She has a little one,” Charles murmured, his voice unusually gentle. His usual stoicism, forged by the fires of conflict, melted away, “A very powerful little one.”

-end. (?)

shall I make an extra chapter about Becca developing powers?

[writingcroissant]

A Locket Through Time | Azriel x reader

Summary: When Y/N touches an ancient artifact, she finds herself falling through time.

A/N: It’s not the most thought-through story I’ve ever posted, but we’re here for a good time and not to win a Pulitzer amirite? Also, once again I have rushed the ending because who has the time lol

Word count: 5800

Warnings: mild description of injuries, language, some implications of sexy time

-

“I want to touch it.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Y/N snickered as Rhys’ arm shot forward to slap Cassian’s hand away from the gleaming crystal.

The Lord of Bloodshed rolled his eyes. “It’s a crystal, Rhys. It won’t bite my hand off.”

It was Azriel’s calm tone that now sounded from behind Y/N’s back.

“Given that it was Devlon who discovered it, I would suggest treading carefully, brother.”

Cassian rolled his eyes and crossed bulging arms over his chest in a display of annoyance. He stood tall enough for his head to brush against the roof of the makeshift tent the Illyrians of Windhaven had erected on the edge of their camp. It stood just a few steps away from Rhys’ cabin, shielding a low stump atop which a comically small crystal rested for them to inspect.

“What did he say it was?” Rhys asked as he circled the stump with a pensive expression.

“He thinks it is a relic of the gods that ruled over Prythian before the age of the Fae,” Azriel explained calmly, hands crossed behind his back with his wings neatly folded. He was the picture of professionalism. Ever the spymaster.

Y/N smiled at him and felt her nose crinkle with delight at the smile he gave in return. His lips curled barely noticeable, but the secret lay in the spark that set his eyes aglow. It was the smile he reserved solely for her. It was accompanied by a tug of the bond.

“It could just as well be an ordinary crystal,” Cassian intervened. “I say we take it with us and ask Helion to have his librarians take a look at it.”

“What if it’s an ancient weapon though? We could accidentally set it off,” Y/N said, looking from Azriel to Cassian and back. “Did Devlon say how he got it up on the log without touching it?”

“He used sticks.” Azriel’s face twisted into a grimace as though to express his discomfort with the Illyrian warlord’s simple methods.

Cassian snorted at that. “Elegant.”

Rhys sighed, running a palm down his face. “Azriel, could you try having your shadows lift it? I fear Cassian might be right and Helion’s libraries are our best shot. I don’t want to spend the rest of my day here because of a shiny rock.”

Azriel gave a single nod, and at once, shadows swarmed in from every direction to draw tight around the crystal.

One of the shadowsinger’s brows quirked up. “It’s surprisingly heavy.”

Y/N felt her forehead crease with worry as she watched the shadows begin to rise with the object they’d circled—their movements slow, sluggish even.

“Be careful not to drop—”

But before Rhys could finish his sentence, Azriel’s shadows shuddered as though they’d been hurt, and the crystal fell from its encasing.

Y/N lunged without a second thought, and as her fingers wrapped around the cool, smooth surface of the cylindric crystal, the last thing she heard was her name—twisted with panic as it fell from her mate’s lips in a call to rattle her bones.

-

A low roar rang through Y/N’s head as she pulled open her eyes, squinting against the blinding beams of the setting sun.

Had it not been noon just now?

And had there not been a tent?

There was dirt beneath her palms as she pushed to her knees, sharp pebbles pressing deep into her skin. Every bone in her body was aching, a slight sense of nausea sitting in the very pit of her stomach.

As she lifted her head to look around, everything seemed normal enough. There was Rhys' cabin behind her, sitting right on the border of a war camp that had just moments earlier been bristling with life. She could still hear faint voices, but something seemed ... gloomier than usual.

Turning her head, Y/N found only empty space where Azriel, Rhys and Cassian had stood just a moment ago, and at once, her heart picked up its pace. There was no sign of the tent. No sign of her friends.

No sign of her mate.

"Azriel?" she heard herself call into the eery silence of approaching nightfall.

Had that crystal knocked her out? Surely, her friends wouldn't have just left her there if that had been the case—Azriel wouldn’t have left her. Something had to have happened.

It took a few tries to force her body back on her feet. Her knees were wobbly, dizziness washing over her in waves, and just as she was about to call out for Azriel again, she spotted something gleaming on the muddy mountain ground.

The crystal.

She knew better than to touch it again, pulling the sleeve of her fighting leathers over her hand as she reached out to carefully pick up the crystal to push it into the depths of her pocket.

Whatever was going on, it had started when she touched the crystal—she was sure of it.

The shockwave must've knocked her unconscious somehow, but that did not yet explain what had happened to Azriel and the others.

A lump of worry sat in the pit of her stomach, though she got momentarily distracted as a voice sounded behind her and her heart gave a startled leap.

"Can I help you, girl?"

Turning, she found a large Illyrian male, arms the size of tree trunks crossed over a broad chest, and thick brows tugged deep into his face. He looked grim in the way he scanned her from top to bottom.

"You haven't by any chance seen the Shadowsinger anywhere, have you?" He stared at her, unmoving, unblinking, so she cleared her throat, and continued, "Or perhaps the General? The High Lord?"

His eyebrow quirked at that. "And what business might you have with the High Lord, woman?"

She bristled at his tone. She was used to the Illyrian disregard towards anything female, but ever since she'd been mated to Azriel and frequented the camps accompanying Cassian or the Valkyries, most had gotten used to seeing her around.

"That is none of your concern," she said. "I was merely asking whether you'd seen him. He was here just a moment ago. Along with the General and the Shadowsinger."

"There you go with that word again," the Illyrian said, tilting his head with a mildly condescending glint in his eye. "What might a shadowsinger be?"

She stared at him.

He stared back.

As she turned her head, she assured herself that they were, in fact, in Windhaven. Perhaps she’d been transported to some other camp somehow?

But no, that was definitely Rhys’ cabin behind her.

Had this male spent the last five hundred years in a cave? How was it possible for him to not know of Azriel?

Surely, he was mocking her.

"I shall go look for them myself," she muttered, turning to head for the heart of the camp. "Perhaps Devlon knows where they went."

Suddenly, a large hand wrapped around her arm, its grip tight enough to bruise her skin even through her leathers.

Turning abruptly, she found herself face to face with the stranger.

"Who do you think you are to speak of Lord Devlon in such a way?" the Illyrian growled so close to her face that she could smell meat on his breath. "I don't know how you got into this camp in the first place, but unless you intend to get on your back, spread your legs and work on popping out a few half-breed soldiers, I suggest you hurry back to where you came from. High Fae have no business in Illyria."

She stared at him. "I beg your pard—"

"Galen,” a new voice called from behind the stranger, who in return twisted his neck to see who had called for him. “What do you have there?”

Galen’s face never lost its scowl. “I caught a High Fae female snooping around.”

Laughter rang across the clearing—growing nearer by the second—and it was that moment that Y/N decided that it was best to not stick around.

With a skilled kick of the knee—a move Cassian had taught her—she sent Galen’s body curling into a ball as his hands flew to his loins with a pained groan falling from his lips.

Before his friend had a chance to catch up with her, she turned, and she ran.

-

Breath was tearing in and out of her lungs as Y/N jumped behind a nondescript hut at the corner of the camp, praying to the Mother that her pursuers had lost her trace by now.

It had taken every bit of the knowledge she’d gathered over the past decades to navigate the camp and lose the growing group of angry Illyrians attempting to catch her. She did not want to entertain the thought of being caught, as it had dawned on her by now that for some reason, they had no idea who she was. There was no telling what they would do without the protection of her name.

She held her breath as she observed Galen and his fellow warriors taking a route that led them to the centre of the courtyard and therefore a bit further away from her hiding place. A sigh fell from her lips.

Her relief, however, was short lived, as she soon noticed a figure moving from the corner of her eye—a figure close enough to capture her.

But when Y/N spun around with her dagger lifted in defence, her knee still digging into the dirt, she saw herself faced with a boy no older than eight or nine.

"By the Mother," she hissed, lowering her dagger, though she didn't yet sheathe it entirely, for fear the large Illyrian brutes would return any moment to snatch her. "Don't sneak up on people like that or you will catch an accidental blade to the gut one of these days."

The boy didn't say anything. He observed her with interest flickering in his eyes, though the rest of his face remained perfectly neutral, his arms crossed behind his back.

His hair was as dark as that of most Illyrians, shaggy in the way the strands dangled before his deep brown eyes. But other than most Illyrian children she'd seen over the past few decades, he was smaller, paler, his wings folded neatly behind his back, though somehow ... thinner than she'd come to know.

She cleared her throat. "Listen, I would be immensely grateful if you didn't rat me out."

His eyes flickered to something behind her then, but when she turned, she saw nothing, and when she peeked around the corner of the hut once more, the commotion in the courtyard had cleared, the booming voice of her pursuer growing more and more distant.

"I heard you ask for a shadowsinger," the boy said quietly, and it was the first time she heard him speak. His voice was calm, though there was a rasp to it that suggested disuse.

"Yes," she said, her heart leaping with hope. "Have you seen him?"

The boy looked at her, and for a moment it almost seemed like his eyes carried all the wisdom in the world—wisdom far beyond his age, and grief he shouldn't yet know.

"What is a shadowsinger?"

She sighed, slumping back against the wall of the hut when she concluded that the boy would most likely not slit her throat. This situation was a mess, and she was starting to grow tired of it.

"You'd know if you'd seen him," she muttered. "He commands shadows. They follow him around, circle his limbs, that sort of stuff."

It was silent for a while, but when the boy spoke again, his tone had changed, a note of curiosity bleeding into his words.

"I didn't know that's what they called someone who could do that."

She offered him a small smile, but when she noted a shadowy tendril curling its way up her arm, she bolted upright, her back suddenly straightened from the hunched position she'd kept.

"Are you doing this?" she asked, watching as the shadow detached itself from her to scurry across the muddy ground towards the boy's feet.

When she looked at him, he gave a single nod, his chin now lowered a fraction as though bashful.

"So you are a shadowsinger, too!" she smiled. "That's a rare and powerful gift you have there."

The boy hummed, the tip of his boot kicking at a pebble as he took his eyes from her for a moment. "My father says it's nonsense."

"Then your father is a moron," she said, grimacing when she realised what she'd said. "No offence."

She thought she could see the slightest twitch of his lips, but it was gone faster than it had appeared, and he swiftly slipped back into that seriousness that seemed much too heavy for his age.

"My mate is a shadowsinger as well," she offered. "He's the spymaster, right hand to the High Lord. He's one of the three most powerful males of this court."

The boy tilted his head. "He's who you're looking for?"

She nodded. "I think I ... I might have hit my head and passed out, and now I can't find him anywhere." She cleared her throat as she hugged her knees, the dagger now forgotten on the ground beside her, the mountain wind blowing the hair from her face. "I'm starting to get worried something bad might have happened."

He seemed to contemplate her words for a moment. "I could help you find him."

She looked at him. "You'd do that?"

He gave another single nod. "I could ask the shadows to tell me where he is."

Her shoulders sagged a bit with relief. She knew the power of shadows, knew their infallible ability to locate.

"That would be—" but she didn't get to finish her sentence, as the last of her words got stuck in her throat when the boy lifted his hands to gather a dark cluster of shadow before him.

She stared at him then, at the dark eyes, at the tilt of his mouth, the soft round cheeks, the shaggy black hair covering his forehead. There was a freckle just beneath the corner of his left eye, and as her gaze flickered back down to his bandaged hands, the world seemed to tip to its side.

She noticed his lips moving, a puzzled look on his face when she only stared at him.

She blinked, shook her head.

"I'm sorry," she muttered. "What did you say?"

"I asked if you're okay."

"Oh ... yes, yeah." Running a hand through her hair, Y/N turned to check if they were still alone. "I, uhm," she cleared her throat as she turned back. "I'm sorry ... what happened to your hands?"

At once, the shadows scurried away as the boy moved his hands back behind his back, chin dipping even lower as he avoided her gaze.

For a long while, she thought he wouldn't answer, but finally, "I burned them."

She blinked again, taking a deep breath through her nose against the growing dizziness.

There was no way.

This was a coincidence. It had to be.

"What is your name?"

The boy looked at her as though contemplating whether it was safe to tell her, and when he spoke his name, it felt as though the very ground gave in beneath her feet.

"Azriel."

-

She'd touched the crystal. All she'd done was touch the crystal—there was no way she'd somehow travelled back in time.

Over 500 years back in time.

It explained why that Illyrian had never heard of a shadowsinger. Why he did not know her. Why the tent was gone.

Somehow, she’d fallen out of her time.

Her breathing quickened then. Because what if this was permanent? What if the crystal only worked once, or only worked to send you back in time, not forward? What if she'd be forever stuck in this reality?

What if the only way she’d ever see her mate again was by watching his eight-year-old self grow into the man he’d become?

"Lady?"

She blinked at the boy before her, and her heart gave a painful twist. Those were Azriel's eyes looking at her with mild concern, Azriel's hands that had been burned by cruel brothers not long ago. She was looking at the tortured child version of her beloved mate, knowing everything that had already happened to him, everything that would happen to him before things finally got better, and her heart was breaking.

"Yes," she cleared her throat. "I'm sorry, I was just ... thinking."

He watched her, observing, quiet.

"Did you want me to find your mate?"

"Oh ... no, that's okay. I just felt him tug on the bond, so he's fine." Curiosity entered his eyes at the mention of the mating bond, so she changed the subject before he could ask further questions. "Would you like me to take a look at your hands?" she asked with all the gentleness she could muster. "I'm a healer, you see. Maybe I can help."

He didn't say anything, but something within her face seemed to make her seem trustworthy enough and so after a long while, he hesitantly pulled his hands from behind his back.

"They're ugly," he spoke as though in warning as she began to unwrap the bandages.

Her brows twitched together. "Now, that's nonsense."

Beneath the bandages lay blistering, burned skin—raw flesh torn by flames and twisted into angry red welts.

"They're not ugly," she said quietly, her voice thick as she took gentle hold of his left wrist to steady his hand as she hovered her palm over his without touching the wounds. "They've just been through a lot. You're incredibly brave, you know?"

She met his eye briefly, and she saw then that a part of him wondered whether she knew the true cause of his injuries without him having told her about them.

Sending warm, healing light to glow from the palm of her hand, she focussed on mending his flesh, on soothing his pain and fixing what had been torn so viciously. When she was done, his skin still lay twisted by the scars she knew so well, but at least his open wounds had been healed.

She repeated the procedure with his other hand, and when she was done, she observed his expression.

Baby Azriel stared at his open palms before turning his hands to stare at their backs too, taking in the healed expanse of his injuries.

"Thank you," he finally said, curling his fingers into fists. "They don't hurt anymore."

And yet, she could tell that he still hated the way they looked. She could tell from his face, despite his best efforts to hide his grief behind a well-practiced mask. She could tell because she knew him.

Taking his hands in hers, she offered him a smile. "It'll take some time for you to learn to live with it, Azriel. But it's not impossible. Let your scars be a reminder of your bravery. Let them show all that you have survived."

He looked at her, nodding slowly.

As she held his gaze to properly convey her words, she suddenly realised something.

Of course.

Lifting her hands, she unclasped the locket Azriel had gifted her upon their mating ceremony, and suddenly everything seemed so ... clear.

Baby Azriel's eyes flickered to her hands as she offered him the cobalt blue locket on a chain. He seemed a bit unsure of what to do with it, and so Y/N offered him a smile.

"I want you to have it," she spoke gently. "It's been dipped in magic, bewitched to protect whoever carries it. It will keep you safe."

Baby Azriel hesitated, though she could see in his eyes what those words did to him. How much he longed for protection, for safety. "Won't you miss it?"

She looked at the locket with softening eyes, thumb brushing across the gem.

"Very much," she spoke quietly before lifting her gaze back to him. "But you need it more than I do. I am already protected—my mate protects me every day. I don't need it anymore." She lifted her hands to carefully drape the thin chain around Azriel's neck. "You deserve to be protected, Azriel. You deserved to be loved. Don’t ever forget that."

It was with those words that she slipped her hand into the pocket of her leathers to wrap around the smooth surface of the crystal.

-

Rhys' hut was bright with warm gleaming faelights, laughter and chatter droning from the inside as she approached. She wondered how much time had passed since her accidental excursion to the past.

She thought about knocking, but before she raised her knuckles, she peeked through the window by the door, and her heart promptly sank.

They were all there—Rhys, Cassian, Azriel—and they looked as they did in her time. Broad bodies lounged in cushioned armchairs, fighting leathers covering every inch of their bodies. But there was something different to them, something ... lighter.

Cassian's wings were missing the scars they'd sustained in Hybern, and Rhysand's eyes were brighter. They were missing the heavier undertone they'd taken on during Amarantha's reign. Azriel's fighting leathers were void of Siphons, as were Cassian's, and she could tell even from a distance that he still carried the locket beneath them—the thin silver chain peeking from his leathers on the back of his neck.

And then there was the small but important detail that all three Illyrians carried females on their laps that most certainly weren't their mates.

Cassian was tongue-deep in the throat of a beautiful Illyrian woman, his hands roaming the ample curves of her hips, fingers digging into her flesh to pull her closer while Rhys laughed at something the blonde girl on his lap whispered into his ear.

It was the sight of another's lips on Azriel's throat that had her blood boil with anger despite herself.

She knew this was the past. Knew that this was their youth, that he hadn't even met her yet. But that didn't change the fact that she didn't want to see him with someone else.

The female was Illyrian, too, but from the large gash in her right wing, Y/N could tell that she'd been clipped already. Her hair was as dark as that of most Illyrians, falling in luscious waves almost all the way down to her ass, and when Y/N watched scarred fingers tangle in the strands—scarred fingers she herself had healed—, she finally took a step away from the window.

There was no reason to torture herself, after all.

The bright side was that the crystal actually did allow for her to travel forward in time, though by her own calculations—assuming that the boys were somewhere in their mid to late twenties in this current timeframe—it only allowed jumps of some 15 to 20 years at a time, which promised a tedious process given that she'd still have to skip a little over 500 years to return to her own time.

"Can I help you?"

She spun around at the low voice coming from behind her, and swallowed thickly as she met a familiar pair of dark eyes.

Azriel stood looming before her, his face carefully neutral, his stance casual yet alert. He kept his wings folded neatly, shadows circling their claws.

"Oh, uhm," her eyes flickered to the side in search of an excuse. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt. I was just ... leaving."

Azriel's eyes flickered to her feet and as she followed his gaze, she spotted shadows gathering beneath her shoes, black puffs of night circling her shins, only visible due to the faelight streaming from the hut's windows.

"Do I know you?" Azriel asked.

When she lifted her head, she found his eyes already on her. She knew him well enough to spot the curiosity in his gaze, no matter how well he'd gotten in hiding his expression since she'd met his eight-year-old self. A mate could tell.

"I doubt it, I'm just visiting from Velaris," she said, smiling.

Azriel gave a hum, eyes flickering to his shadows by her feet again. "It's just that my shadows seem somehow drawn to you. They told me you were standing outside the door."

"Oh, well," she cleared her throat. "That's sweet of them."

This time, when Azriel looked her in the eyes, she felt exposed. Like he'd be able to tell if he were to look too closely. Like he'd be able to recognise the one his soul was tethered to, even if another 300 years would pass before they were destined to meet.

"What's your name?"

Y/N opened her mouth, not knowing what she would say, since she couldn't risk telling him her real name. But she didn't get far, as the door soon opened to flood the night with warm light and reveal the girl with the clipped wings, her lips pouty as she searched the darkness for Azriel.

When she spotted the two, her eyelids lowered considerably, lips curling seductively as she trailed her attention down Y/N's body. "You didn't mention we'd be getting more company, Az. Not that I'm complaining." She tilted her head and offered a smile, tugging her bottom lip between her teeth as she did so. "I'm Willa. Are you going to be joining us?"

"Oh," Y/N gasped, feeling her cheeks heat at Willa's implication. "Oh, no I ... I was just leaving, actually."

The Illyrian shrugged before turning to go back inside, though not without a few last words purred over her shoulder.

"Hurry up, Az. Otherwise Cass and Mel are going to be done before we even start."

Y/N cleared her throat as the door shut, once again dimming the light to a soft glow.

"I'm sorry for interrupting." She had to force the words from her mouth, bile rising in her throat at the thought of what would go down as soon as she left—what Azriel would do, and who he would be doing it with. "It was nice meeting you, Azriel."

Azriel's gaze lay heavy on her—heavy and assuring and so full of interest that part of her wanted to tug on the bond just to see what would happen.

"Likewise," Azriel said, eyes still on her as she turned to leave. "Though I'd be interested to hear how you know my name."

She froze at that. "I think Willa mentioned it."

Azriel tilted his head, eyes narrowing a mere fraction. "Willa called me Az."

"Well, I ... guessed the rest," Y/N said, lifting a shoulder as she carefully began walking backwards. "Like I said, it was nice meeting you."

Before she’d reached the line of trees that bordered on the camp, she shoved her hand into the pocket of her pants, and as her fingers closed around the cool crystal, she hoped that Azriel—whose gaze she could still feel boring into her back—would assume that she'd simply winnowed away.

-

The sun was bright in the sky this time around, and cautious optimism took a hold of Y/N as she once again neared Rhys’ cabin, the soothing weight of the crystal in her pocket.

The state in which she’d find Azriel and the others would determine whether she could truly only jump 20 years at a time. It would determine the effort it would take to return to her own time.

Like the last time, she could hear voices coming from the hut, though they weren’t inside.

It was just as Cassian and Azriel rounded the corner that she managed to jump behind a nearby tree. They looked older than they had last time. Some scars had appeared on both their wings, but with a slow sinking of her heart she noticed the locket dangling from Azriel’s neck.

Still too early then.

She was just about to shove her hand in her pocket to touch the crystal, done with this tedious business, when she heard the mention of her own name.

Looking up, she spotted Cassian now lounging on the stairs leading up to the cabin, rolled up mirth root lodged between his lips as he grinned up at Azriel, who stood with his arms crossed and his feet wide.

“What are you, twelve?” she heard her mate ask, his voice as low as ever, though there was a distinct note of amusement in his tone.

Cassian snickered, taking the mirth root from his lips for smoke to plume before his face. “What? Given that you’re so convinced she’ll turn out to be your mate, I’m just trying to make sure that you don’t have an eternity of sexual frustration ahead of you. Cauldron knows you’ve had enough to last you a lifetime.”

Azriel snorted. “Thanks, brother.”

Cassian grinned. “So?”

Even from her hiding place, Y/N could hear Azriel’s sigh. “So what?”

“So, are you sleeping with her?”

“I’m not talking about this with you.”

“Because you’re suddenly so shy about sex?”

“Because I don’t want her thinking I go around bragging about intimate details.”

The Lord of Bloodshed groaned, tilting his head back to stare at the sky. “I didn’t ask you to draw a picture of the position. It’s a yes or no question.”

Silence settled for a moment, and Y/N watched Azriel’s shoulders growing tense, until—

“No.”

Cassian looked up at that. “No?”

From her position behind the tree, Y/N could only see Azriel’s side profile, but it was enough to see his jaw clench. “No, we haven’t had sex yet.”

Amusement flickered across Cassian’s face. “Well, it seems she might just be the only female in all of Prythian that can withstand your charm, brother.”

Azriel seemed to hesitate. An unusual picture.

“It’s just …” he stopped, clearing his throat as he watched his left foot dig the tip of his boot into the soft earth of the ground. “I’m worried she might be … disappointed.”

Y/N flinched as Cassian threw back his head and barked laughter into the skies.

“The shadowsinger,” Cassian chuckled. “Insecure about his sexual prowess. Who would have thought the day would come.”

“Well, it wasn’t important before,” Azriel snapped, to which Cassian lifted a brow. With a sigh, Az continued, “You know what I mean. I want to spend the rest of my life with her, and so I want it … I need it to be good for her.”

Y/N smiled to herself, well aware of how entirely unfounded Azriel’s worries would turn out to be. She’d never realised her mate had troubled himself with this.

Cassian took a deep breath through his nose. “Well, I’m gonna go ahead and say that—should you truly end up being mates—the bond will probably take care of it.” Face twisting into a grimace, he added, “And even if not, judging by the past 300 years that I’ve had the pleasure to share a bedroom wall with you, I doubt you have any reason to worry.”

Azriel clicked his tongue, an exasperated expression on his face, and before she could stop herself, Y/N snorted a laugh.

At once, Cassian and Azriel’s demeanour changed entirely. Rising to their full height, tension crept into their shoulders, eyes firmly locked on the little cluster of trees she was hiding in.

Her heart dropped as she watched them share a look, and when Azriel sent his shadows rushing for the treeline with only the slightest wave of his hand, she quickly buried her hand in her pocket.

-

This time, when she woke up, there was no headache. There was no dirty ground, but the soft panelled flooring of a makeshift Illyrian tent. There were warm palms cupping her cheeks, a voice calling her name.

“My love,” it said, a distinct note of worry shaking the words. “Please open your eyes.”

She did as he’d asked, and as soon as she met Azriel’s gaze she knew for a fact that she’d made it. She was back.

Before she could open her mouth, Azriel had already scooped her into a tight embrace, palm cupping the back of her head as he pressed her against his body, muttering a quiet thanks to the Cauldron into her hair repeatedly.

As she raised her gaze to look at Cassian and Rhys, she was met with all the more concern.

“By the Cauldron, you gave us a good fright there, sweetheart,” Cassian muttered, the usual ease missing from his tone.

“What happened?” She asked as Azriel loosened his arms to instead focus his attention on scanning her for any obvious injuries. When he did not find any, he took gentle hold of her hand.

“Can you get up?”

She gave a nod.

“What happened?” she asked again.

Cassian and Rhys exchanged a look.

“You vanished,” the High Lord said finally, and as though in reaction to his words, she felt Azriel’s grip tighten on her hand.

“You caught the stone and then you were gone,” Cassian added. “Good thing you’re back now—Az nearly tore down the camp.”

A crease appeared between her brows. “How long was I gone for?”

It was Azriel’s calm voice that spoke now, though she knew that he’d slipped back into his mask of composure. The bond told her of his true emotions—of his rapidly beating heart and the panic he’d endured.

“Three hours.”

She ran a palm down her face.

“Can you tell us where the crystal took you?” Rhys asked as he knelt down next to the crystal she must have dropped upon her arrival.

Y/N gave a gentle scoff. “You wouldn’t believe me if I did.”

It was then that she felt a featherlight touch on the side of her neck—Azriel’s fingers skimming the bare skin that an hour earlier had been adorned with the locket he’d gifted her upon their mating ceremony.

As she met his gaze, she could see the question sitting there, and when she lifted her hand to catch his own between her palms, she offered a soft smile.

“I gave it to someone who needed it more than I did,” she whispered so only he could hear. “He deserved to be protected. He deserved to be loved. And I didn’t want him to ever forget it.”

It took a short while for her words to settle in, but finally the crease between Azriel’s brows softened with realisation, and his eyes flickered to the scarred hand she held safe between hers.

“Of course,” she thought she heard him breathe as he shook his head in mesmerisation. “It was you.”

And when he lowered his lips to hers, she felt the bond glow brighter than the sun.