Summary: the start of your shifts begins horribly, leading you bloodied and second guessing yourself. Dr. Abbot knows where you've gone to over-think and finally gets closer a little closer after small moments of connection in the ED.
Words: 7k
Warnings: assault (code hula hoop), descriptions of various medical treatments and presenting problems, dr. robby being an ass, smoking.
a/n: who would have thought in the 2026 I'd be posting a fic. I know I had teased smth earlier in the year with bucky but I just couldn't finish it, the fic was so self-indulgent to help process personal issues going on. I absolutely LOVE the Pitt and may have a teeny-weeny crush on Shawn Hatosy...yes, I bought a Quinn subscription. Maybe they'll be a part two, maybe there won't...who knows with this blog. Anyways, enjoy. Rambo <3
You remembered the announcement as if it were yesterday; it sparked a lot of new gossip and polar-opposite opinions. When Gloria announced the “Mid-day Shift,” people were not impressed, mainly because it was not about hiring new people but about shifting current physicians around. Instead of starting at the normal Day or Night shift times, the Mid-Day shift would start halfway through either shift. The goal was to help with continuity of care and to get, for example, the Day shift out sooner, because someone was there to continue with patients instead of passing off information to someone new. Upon announcement, it was met with many questions.
Is this person going to be responsible for all the patients, and the other shift takes the new ones?
How many people will be on the mid-day shift?
Will there be a mid-night shift?
Why is this the focus when there are so many existing problems that need to be addressed?
Gloria had scheduled each resident to be on the mid-day or mid-night shift for a month. Today was your first mid-day shift; you’d start at noon and go until midnight. Typically, you were a Night shift resident and preferred to work at night. You had little social life and were content to spend your nights in the hospital working with everyone.
There weren’t friends you met up with to get coffee, there weren’t parents to call to check in, there wasn’t anything like that. Though it helped you graduate and get lots of opportunities, you had realized that spending so much time studying and keeping to yourself had very real consequences. Many of the friends you once had didn’t speak to you anymore, they put in the same effort you did, which was next to none. It wasn’t all bad; you had your friends on the Night shift, sometimes grabbing an ice cream at nine in the morning because it was a treat after a very long day. Or…night.
The blizzard of fluffy snow outside turned into a blizzard of bodies in chairs. People were taking up so much more space with their puffy jackets, and some had snowpants on. Piles of snow gear appeared on chairs, and mothers who looked half-dead, though they weren’t patients, held many toques and mittens. Pushing past, you made it to security and found your way back into the Pitt.
It was in full swing; no one had the time to greet you. This wasn’t the very first time the shift was occurring; other residences had their month of doom. However, it was still hard to get used to.
You settled in and looked around for a moment, wondering where to begin since everyone was already with their patients. Dana made her way back to the desk, smiling at you once she saw you.
“Now look who is so late, Robby is already ticked off, y’know?” She shook her head, immediately grabbed the phone, and began dialling a number.
“It’s my-”
“Hey, where the fuck have you been?” Robby suddenly appeared from behind you, “You think you can just waltz in here?” Obviously, something had happened this morning.
Honestly, you were surprised by the level of hostility; he should have known, since it was the first day of the month. “I'm on the id-day shift this month.” You said plainly, already losing the energy to hash it out with Robby.
His eyebrows shot up. “Oh…” was all he could manage for a moment, “Never mind then, come with me, I have a case for you.” He blew past you, not looking over his shoulder once.
Your relationship with Robby was complicated. You used to work during the day; it worked out that way; you didn’t have any preference. However, after a while, you had begun to notice the small ways in which Robby would treat you differently. He’d always pull you away from current patients to work on hard cases, ones that could have benefited from someone else’s perspective. Anytime you were having a hard day, stuck on a case, or not feeling your best, you could tell he judged you.
It was hard to talk to people about it, for many, Robby was their favourite, or at least someone they were scared to talk shit about. You found yourself second-guessing everything you knew and everything about you. He had eroded your confidence so slowly you didn’t realize until it was almost gone.
That all came to a head when you overheard him speaking to Dana. You were about to turn into the break room, but for some reason, you stopped in your tracks, wanting to listen to the conversation before entering.
“-Isn’t tough enough, she doesn’t have it,” Robby said.
“You’re too hard on her, you don’t give her a moment to breathe,” Dana replied.
“My job is to be hard on her. It’s my job to put pressure on her because she needs to know what she’s getting into,” you could hear what sounded like the coffee pot being placed down more aggressively than normal, “I can’t have a weak link, and I think it’s y/n.”
At that moment, your blood went cold. Not only did he speak so lowly of you, but he didn’t even use your title. Your first name sounded foreign, and for a moment, you genuinely believed he was talking about someone else. That shock lingered for a moment too long because before you could move, Robby came flying out of the staff room, running into you and spilling his coffee down your scrubs.
“y/n- I-” he stood for a moment, knowing what you had just heard.
You started him down, not even looking at Dana when she left the room, “call me Doctor l/n, Dr. Robinivich,” you spat before walking to the machine to get new scrubs.
Shortly after you moved to the night shift.
Walking in behind Robby, you were greeted by an extremely incapacitated middle-aged man wearing golf attire. His eyes were barely open, and he was constantly muttering about something you could not pick up. Robby moved to the other side of the bed and pulled up his digital chart. It seemed as though this man had just been moved into the back rooms.
“They had to sedate him on the ride over here, I guess he was an angry drunk.” Robby said as he slipped on a new pair of gloves, “Friends came by and…well…” he sighed, “I actually don’t know if they’re his friends; they wanted to see if they could go back to the course or something.”
“Huh,” you took off the stethoscope from around your neck and quickly listened to the man’s heartbeat.
“You ever golf?” Robby asked; he was never one for sitting through tension.
“Heartbeat and lungs sound good, and no.” You answered plainly, then moved on to a general scan of his body to see if anything else was wrong. As much as you could stomach the awkward silence, there was a limit to how much you could take. “There’s no adrenaline, so…no signs of discomfort in the four quadrants…” You trailed off, hoping that was a good enough answer for him to consider it small talk.
“Yeah,” Robby nodded, “makes sense,” he peeled off his gloves, moving one hand to rub the back of his neck, “what are you thinking?” he nodded toward the patient.
“Well,” you sighed and crossed your arms, taking one last good look at the man who was slowly coming to. “I think we need to first figure out how much alcohol was taken and see if any other drugs were taken. I feel like there is something else here.”
Robby nodded, making his way to the door. With his gloveless hand, he opened the door for you. Before the two of you could depart, he pivoted to face you, “Let me know when the labs come back, alright?” He stuck his hand under the automatic sanitizer dispenser.
“Will do,” you give him a tight lip smile before turning away to find another patient. As you reached the front desk, you heard the doors open, and you could hardly hide your shocked face at the tall man being wheeled in.
“A twenty-five-year-old man collapsed in pain, complaining of a searing pain in his chest as well as his back. ECG is normal on the way here, with decent blood pressure.” They pushed in quickly, swerving after hearing which trauma room was open. Robby trailed in behind you, still letting you lead. “Gave him aspirin-”
“This seems more than a heart attack,” you moved to one side of the patient while Robby moved to the other, taking off his stethoscope and checking his heart and lungs.
The paramedic rolled his eyes, “gave him aspirin and heparin when the aspirin had little to no effect.” Robby stressed that door-to-balloon time was the only important stat for the Pitt; patient satisfaction and the rest of the stats were not their concern in the slightest.
“Did you check the BP in both arms or one?” you asked, “We need to stabilize the blood pressure right away.” As you moved around the room, calling for different medications, you kept looking back to the two parademics, “Did you check both arms, yes or fucking no?”
“I didn’t check the other,” one said, looking at the other, who also shook his head.
Robby, ever the teacher, asked, “Why is that needed?”
“Because these fucking idiots were too focused on treating a heart attack to help the stats instead of realizing this is an aortic dissection, you gave blood thinners to someone who is already internally bleeding!” Right as you finished, all the machines began to scream, “Asystole!”
You jumped up, beginning chest compressions right away, “I needed an OR yesterday, we need to stabilize and get him into surgery now.” The pads were on his chest, someone yelled clearly. Your hands flew off his chest as his entire body pulsed with the electric current. “Resuming compressions- did he have any medical conditions, hypertension?” You spared a quick glance at the paramedics.
“He-he just collapsed, was in too much pain to really talk-”
“Get the fuck out, I’ll curse you two out later- I need an amp of epi and-” you let out a groan from the compressions, already feeling your brow begin to sweat, “I need to-”
Perlah reached for the phone, “OR is ready-”
“Let’s move!” You threw your leg over the man and continued compression. Everyone in the room began to push you out and past the medical desk. Everyone in the ED paused for a moment, watching you continue compression as your hair fell into your face from the force. Those pushing the gurney managed to get those in the elevator out.
Before the doors closed, the last thing you heard was Robby, “Get back to work!”
You probably should have stayed to scrub in; you weren’t yet married to the ED, but to you, you were engaged, waiting to be wed. The ED was your favourite: it was fast and unpredictable, its own world. The adrenaline high you got was closest to hard drugs as you’ll ever be; well, illegally distributed hard drugs that is. It felt euphoric to make decisions in the moment that could impact a person’s life, for better or for worse. Whittaker once said he liked being there for people, and on what is most likely their worst day, he couldn’t have said it better.
There was pressure to get a more well-rounded residency before picking a fellowship, but there were things that were too slow for you. There needed to be a reason to push, something had to be chasing you. Abbot had noticed early on your pull to the ED, taking every chance to be stationed there. It seemed he understood the need for, it was chasing you to be the thing that pushed you forward. He didn’t know about your past, even though you spent a lot of time with him at night, but he knew there was a specific type of person who went through specific things for them to be interested in working at night in the ED, and he liked you for it.
While you didn’t know about his past either, you knew the basics. You knew he served but liked to talk very little about it, you knew about his late wife, you didn’t know what he was like before he saw a therapist, but you knew he was a better person because of it. He was kind yet firm when he needed to be. He took the time to get to know each person in the ED beyond their first name and one fun fact to remember them by. For most people, conversations typically stick to one topic. You always spoke about the weather with Dana and your shared favourite artist with Dr. Ellis. Maybe Abbot had those relationships with other people, but not you.
The one moment that stuck with you the most was one winter night. A blizzard had struck Pittsburgh, and people were ordered to stay indoors. Roads and shops were closed; the blizzard was not letting up at three in the morning. A few patients were rolled in, thinking they were the hero, going for a run, and slipping on the ice. Teenagers who guessed correctly that it would be a snow day so they got in bikinis and jumped into the snowbanks at the ends of their driveways.
You were sitting in the break room, sipping a hot chocolate you made from the powder that someone had brought, knowing you would all be here for a while. Abbot walked in, nodding your direction. He seemed to stop dead in his tracks, “is that…” he trailed off and looked over to the tin, “you’re drinking hot chocolate?” he laughed, “what are you, twelve years old?” he took another look at your mug, before you could even get in a comeback he placed his hands on his knees as he doubled over in laughter, “with fucking marshmellows, now that is amazing?”
“Someone brought the stuff!” you sounded like you were twelve, trying to come up with an excuse to avoid being made fun of even further, “you can judge me all you want, but whose here enjoying a little moment of peace?” you asked, adding a “hmm?” to the end of it.
Abbot nodded with that stupid smile on his face. He didn’t say a word, but he reached over and flicked the kettle back on. “If you can’t beat ‘em, I guess,” he sighed and leaned against the counter, facing you. “You drive here?”
You took the mug away from your lips, shaking your head, “subway,” you took a sip before placing the cup down, “you?”
Abbot pulled back one side of his mouth, “drove.”
You both waited in silence for a moment, neither saying anything because there was nothing to say. In that moment of silence, you both dropped into your own little worlds, not feeling the need to keep up with the small talk.
“How are our swimmers in the snow doing?” he asked once the kettle had clicked off, referring to the teenagers who had most likely come in an hour ago; time was relative.
You nodded, “Good, yeah, I think they’re just waiting for discharge papers.”
Abbot muttered a quick nice before making his cup, “where are the-”
“The cupboard right in front of you,” you laughed.
“Perfect,” he whispered and opened the cabinet to grab the marshmallows. “Wanna do something?” he asked.
That something could mean anything, it could be let's ditch this place and go make-out in my car, let's go to the roof and catch snowflakes on our tongues, let's pull a prank on-
“Did you hear me?” he waved a hand in front of your face, giving you a smile.
“What?” You physically shook your head to shake those thoughts away.
“Wanna go give them some hot chocolate? I don’t know when they’ll be able to actually leave this place.” Abbot filled the kettle up and flicked it back on, “It was three of them, right?”
You couldn’t contain your smile, standing with your mug in your hands. You walked over to the paper cups and grabbed three. “Right,” you muttered, grabbing the tin and preemptively portioning out three drinks.
“Powder first?” Abbot questioned, “You’re crazy.”
“You’ve never seen crazy, my friend,” you giggled, turning to face him while the sound of boiling water began to grow louder. In that moment, your eyes drifted behind Abbot, “Actually, maybe you have seen crazy.”
He laughed, “I have, and I like it,” was all he added for a moment. “I can tell you like crazy as well, and I respect you for it. It takes a certain breed of person to do this, and I don’t think you’re told enough that you’re doing a really great job.”
All you could do was stand there with your mouth hung open, “What?” you breathed.
He shrugged, “I see you, the way you command the traumas, the way you keep cool in all the chaos. Not everybody can do that, not everybody wants to do that.” The kettle clicked off, but neither of you moved. He could see the way you grew uncomfortable from the praise, “No one ever told you that before? That you’re good at what you do?”
“No,” you wanted to say more, but the words died on your tongue.
“Then I’ll have to do it more often,” he then turned and poured the water in.
While the snow hammered down, you and Abbot stood in the small patient room with the three teenagers, engaging them in small talk as the five of you sipped your hot chocolate. It was hard to really pay attention to the teens talking; your mind continuously wandered back to the conversation in the break room. Your eyes slipped over to Abbot; he was listening attentively, yet he could feel your eyes on him and would quickly glance your way.
After that kind moment in the break room the two of you grew closer. He’d come in with larger dark circles under his eyes, a little more snappy than usual, but never to you. You’d saddle up beside him as he walked, asking quietly if everything was okay. If it were anyone else, they’d say they're fine, keeping it robotic. But Abbot, who had now asked you to call him Jack, admitted he hadn’t been sleeping well.
“Try a weighted blanket, it works wonders for me,” you mentioned. A few days later, Jack asked how heavy your blanket was, and a few days after that, he gave a sincere thank-you for the recommendation. Another day, you stood at the desk rubbing your temple. Bright lights and loud sounds triggered powerful pulses throughout your body. Working a double was never easy, and coffee walked a thin line between being an angel and the devil. You had off-handedly mentioned you were extremely dehydrated, just never getting a moment to fill your water bottle. It didn’t help that you were chugging coffee to try and stay alert for the first push of the double.
“Here,” Jack had placed your water bottle in front of you as you charted, “and here,” he also pushed a sandwich in a little baggy toward you.
All you could do was look up at him. “Thanks,” you said, a little breathlessly. When you picked up your water bottle, it was slightly heavier than usual.
“I know you like ice-cold water,” he smiled before walking off, leaving you completely speechless.
In the small moments you had of peace, much like the elevator down from the OR floor to the ED floor, you found yourself replaying all the small moments with Jack. A silly little crush could get you through the day and give you moments of bliss amid the chaos. It was fun to yearn, fun to think back to small moments of eye contact, little brushes of your shoulders when you walked past each other, it was fun to let your mind wander.
But those thoughts vanished instantly when the elevator doors opened. You were back in the Pitt, immediately being approached by Perlah. She gave you a sympathetic look before turning to walk with you, “Here’s the labs back on that angry drunk, looks like he had a little more fun than his golfing buddies.
You took the chart and did a quick read-over, nodding as you walked toward his room. “Playing something as boring as golf might make a person do drugs to find a sliver of fun in it,” you laughed.
Perlah shook her head, “Of course you’d say something like that, I’m actually heading this way.” She pointed in the opposite direction.
You stopped before entering the room, “let Robby know I’ve got this covered, he brought me over to the patient earlier.” Perlah gave you a nod before walking down the hall. You took a deep breath, attempting to let that aortic dissection go as it was no longer in your hands.
When you walked in the room, he was still sedated; you could hear a few groans, and he was twitching slightly. As you took the stethoscope off your neck, you looked up at his vitals, checking his heart and lungs as you contemplated what his numbers were saying. He was stirring more, his groaning growing a bit louder.
You felt his hand grab your wrist, the one on his chest connected to the hand holding the stethoscope. “Hello, sir,” you spoke softly, “you’re at-”
In an instant, you felt yourself being pushed back. The adrenaline from him had overpowered the last bit of the sedative; he managed to get to his feet but wasn’t able to stand on his own. His hands quickly grabbed hold of you for support. This, coupled with the fact that he was in a strange room with a stranger, led him to lean on your neck.
He was not steady yet; his momentum pushed you back into the wall. For a moment, right after your head smacked against the drywall, you blacked out. When you came to, most likely seconds later, those hands were still around your throat, but you were flat on your back, seeing the man’s blurry figure above you.
With all you might have tried to yell hula hoop, but there was little to no air coming out of your throat. You struggled for a moment, trying to roll him off of you. Between coming back from blacking out and losing your oxygen, there was not a moment you had clear vision. Your hands worked desperately, clawing at his forearms.
The only thing you could think of at that moment was something cruel.
With your middle and index finger, you jabbed him in the eyes, hard.
Oxygen rushed into your lungs like water crashing open a dam. You rolled on your stomach, bracing yourself on your forearms, gasping for air. For a moment, you thought you were crying, a hot drip fell down your face, but when it hit the floor, it was not a tear; it was blood. As you tried to stand up, you saw the blackness clouding your vision again. Your throat was burning, and your hand shakily reached up to the back of your head, only to reveal a large amount of blood rushing from the crack.
“Hola Hoop!” you screamed, before slowly melting into the floor.
The first thing that seeped into your consciousness was the pain. You felt it behind your eyes and around your throat. In your throat, it was a hot burn; you could feel the tenderness every time you tried to swallow your saliva. At the back of your head and in the centre of your forehead was a throbbing pain, getting more intense when you cracked your eye open. With your eyes still shut, you reached around the bed, trying to find the pager for the nurses.
Before anyone had come in, you were already performing self-status checks. You named the date, what hospital you were in, who the president is (sadly), and more. The scene before you was knocked out, replayed as well, and the last image you saw was burned into your eyelids. The man above you with a blank face, as if he were being controlled by someone else to attack you. There was no furrow in his brow, though you remember the large vein protruding from his forehead. His face is red, along with his dead eyes. Finally, your finger found the page button.
Dana pushed the door open, immediately dimming the lights. “Hey, kid,” she whispered, coming to your bedside. You could barely open your eyes, but you managed to squint and give her a smile. “How are you feeling?”
“Like shit-” you broke into coughs, your throat tight and dry. Dana muttered something about water, squeezed your arm and left the room. You focused on sitting up a bit, trying to scoot your body back. You could open your eyes more now, as the dimmed light helped avoid any increase in pain. Dana came back with your water bottle, “thank you,” you said.
Dana pulled up a chair. “What do you remember?”
“Not much.”
She took a deep breath, taking your hand into hers. “You were attacked. The man was transferred to a different hospital, I’d say about a little over an hour ago.” You nodded along. “He had taken a large dose of cocaine and then drank a lot of alcohol; he had high levels of Cocaethylene.”
“How long have I been out?” You sipped the water carefully, as much as you wanted to take greedy sips, your throat burned with each swallow.
Dana sighed, “About two and a half hours, we also gave a light sedative to do your stitches on the back of your head. We did ten stitches back there.”
“I’m not surprised, first mid-day shift and my sleep schedule has been fucked because of it.” You could finally open your eyes now, seeing the concern on Dana’s face. “I’m okay now,” but your voice betrayed you, sounding like sandpaper rubbing together.
“I’m sure you are,” Dana chuckled, “I think you should go home and think about pressing charges, no need to rush anything right now because it’s all fresh but…” she glanced down at the floor, shaking her head, “I really think you should, and this is me giving advice as a friend.”
A friend.
You had never thought of Dana as a friend; you saw her for only a few hours at a time, since you mostly worked nights. Back when you were on the day shift, you didn’t talk much; she almost never had time for small talk, and if she did, she had other people to talk to. It was a big deal when Dana was assaulted; she took some time off but, like anyone else who worked in the ED, the addictive relationship lured her back in. When she came back, she didn’t talk about it, pretended it didn’t happen. You could tell she had gotten stricter on her boundaries for herself and her nurses, but it was never because she was scared it would happen to her again; she was scared it wouldn’t be her next time.
“Thank you,” you whispered, “but I’m going to stay.” She looked almost disappointed at that, “trust me, I’m okay.” You both knew you were far from it.
Dana squeezed your hand once more, knowing that trying to get you to go home was a losing battle. She left you in the room, the light still dimmed. For a moment, it was close to silent; there was a steady hum of the machines working in the room; the other time you could hear it was when a patient died, and everyone sat in the moment of shock.
Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you reached your hand back and gently touched where the pounding resonated. Your finger carefully hovered over the stitches as you counted them, nodding to yourself when you hit ten. Then, your hand moved down to the other source of pain. There were no mirrors, so you were unsure if bruises had begun to bloom, but the moment you touched the sides of your neck, your hand retracted in pain. If there wasn’t a bruise already, there would be soon.
Slowly, you stood, gently moving your head from side to side. You tried to slowly touch your ear to your shoulder, feeling the stretch and burn that came with it. Behind your eyes, the pounding was still there, steadily increasing with your heart rate from standing.
Right as you were about to shove everything down, saving it for the end of your shift, the door opened once more.
Robby.
The absolute last person you wanted to see.
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “So…” he nodded towards you. “How are you doing?”
You swallowed hard, looking for your water bottle, “I’m fine, give me two minutes and I’ll be back out there.” You were shocked to hear a laugh come from him, “What?” you spat.
“You need to go home, you have no reason to be here right now.”
“I am fine, I can get through the shift and then maybe- maybe -take some time off.” You rolled your shoulders back, taking a deep breath.
Robby wiped his hand down his face, “You are not invincible, why do you act like it?”
“I know I’m not invincible, but I know when it is too much, and it’s not too much.” You tried to walk to the door, but he didn’t move. “Move out of my way.”
Robby scoffed, “That is not how you speak to an attending. When I give you orders, you follow them.”
You looked up at him, “Are you an attending or a fucking general?” You crossed your arms, feeling the ache in your back but not letting it show on your face, “We both know that if this happened to you, you would be right back in there.”
“Yeah, well, it wouldn’t have happened to me, let’s be honest.” He stepped to the side, pulling the curtain to cover the window into the room. “If I were there, it would not have happened.”
You shook your head, “What are you trying to say to me right now? That this was my fault?”
“I’m not saying that,” Robby spoke quietly, but he didn’t elaborate.
“Just fucking say it.”
The words were caught right on the top of his tongue; his jaw flexed as he tried his hardest to keep it all in. You repeated yourself, egging him on. “You went in there because you were high off your save with the aortic dissection that you thought you could handle on your own.”
It was a slap in the fucking face. “You have to be joking. It hurt to laugh, but you did it anyway: “Not everyone has a death wish like you, not everyone needs to stroke their ego every chance they get!” Yelling was worse, but you needed to do that too, “I was going in to get a status update to then get you, if I had gotten you first, you would have yelled at me for wasting your time- I can’t fucking win with you!”
Robby shook his head, “There is nothing wrong with me; you’re the one who bites off more than they can chew.” In all honesty, you could have fought him right then and there.
“But if I stay conservative, checking in with you at every moment, then you say I’m not independent and not confident enough.” You threw your arms up, “You think you’re this all-knowing, omnipotent being that has graced the ED with your presence, but no, you’re a fucking tyrant that sees everything as an attack on you- it’s not fucking about you!”
Robby stepped forward again, “You better watch it,” he snapped, “I have full control to report you.”
Your lip was caught between your teeth; you had so much more to say to him. “Exactly my point,” you whispered before leaving the room, waiting to hear if he’d follow you, but he didn’t.
Abbot walked into the ED and immediately approached Dana at the desk. A black phone was tucked at her neck, her shoulder pressing it to her ear. She looked sad, maybe exhausted was a better word; it was the end of her shift after all.
“Hey,” he muttered when she put the phone down with a heavy sigh. He decided to let her come to him. “How’s the night been?” He circled the desk, placing his bag and coffee by his computer. When she didn’t answer right away, he froze, looking at her hunched shoulders and bowed head. “Hey,” he whispered and walked up beside her, placing a light hand on her back, “what’s wrong?”
Dana placed her hand over her mouth when all she could do was mutter your name, and his heart sank. “She…she was assaulted,” Jack felt as if a bucket of ice water was dumped on top of him.
“What?” he breathed, “what happened?” He looked up, and around the ED, you weren’t anywhere to be found. “Where is she? I need to go see her-”
“I just left the examination room, gave her a couple of minutes, she basically just woke up, was asleep for a couple of hours.” Dana looked up at him, nodding as he took in the information, “she wants to stay, and I don’t think I can convince her otherwise, take it easy on her for the rest of the shift, alright? Especially-” she points to the phone that was just hung up, “-especially after this.”
“After what?” Jack turned his body to face her; he was caught between staring holes in her head and scanning the ED.
“Her patient died in surgery, Robby mentioned the paramedics did a shit job, I don’t think I have the heart to tell her.”
“I’ll-” his voice got caught in his throat, for a moment, he saw you. You looked like you were in a rush, shoving open the door to your room, your head down, and your footsteps never faltering. “I’ll tell her,” he saw the way you pushed past everyone, heading to the stairwell, he knew where you were going. Right before he left to follow you, he saw Robby leaving the same room.
In that moment, he chose to stay, seeing the way his brow was furrowed and his hand rubbing the back of his neck. Something had happened, he trusted you not to do anything stupid on the roof. He didn’t trust Robby not to blow up and make a scene. He watched as Robby walked over, hand rubbing the back of his neck.
Jack didn’t start the conversation, Robby barely waited to get close enough to him and Dana to start shit-talking one of his residences. Robby wiped a hand down his face, “Some people, man…” he sighed.
“What’s up?” Jack pretended not to care, pretended he didn’t just see you flee. All Robby could do was sign your name, annoyed out of his mind. “What about her?”
“She just tries to be the hero time and time again; she never learns that there are other people in the ED.” At that, Jack scoffed. “What?” Robby looked over at Jack, no longer flipping through charts.
“You could say the same about you,” Jack said plainly. Dana walked away. “Not everyone is attacking you; you don’t always need to be the victim.”
“The victim?" Robby laughed, “I’m just sick of other people not seeing how she is just constantly trying to prove something.”
“She’s not proving anything,” Jack snapped, taking the iPad out of Robby’s hands so there was nowhere for Robby to escape. “She was attacked, and she still wants to work, that’s what I call resilient- maybe a little dumb -but resilient.” Robby didn’t seem to be really listening, “Maybe if you took a second to get to know her, to build a relationship with her, you’d understand who she is and how selfless she is.” Jack waved his hand, deciding he was now going to find you, “You just can’t comprehend someone who doesn’t kiss your ass twenty-four-seven!”
A few other nurses and doctors turned their heads. Jack was worried about the wrong person making a scene. He knew exactly where you were; he had mentioned the roof being his spot a while ago. He left out key details, such as which side of the railing he stood on; he was more focused on the view from up there, especially during sunset. He had time to find you since he was early, as always, but he knew you were technically still on the clock, though you were considered extra.
The elevator ride up was painfully slow; he rocked back and forth as the anticipation grew. Once he hit the top floor, he made his way to the stairwell, the only way to get to the roof. The stairs never got easier; no staircase was easy. Over the years,, he learned to adapt, but there was always discomfort with certain things.
The industrial door scared you when it opened. You jumped as you turned back, almost dropping the lit cigarette in your hand. You swore you heard a subtle ‘thank god’ from Jack as he approached you.
He nodded to your hand, “What the fuck are you doing with those?” he shook his head, trying his best to be upset with your decision.
“Leave me alone,” you turned back to the last bits of the sunset, “I just needed something.”
Jack nodded, standing beside you, “I get it…I mean, I don’t like it but I get it,” he reached his pointer finger and thumb out, pinching once.
“Hypocrite,” you laughed, passing it over to him.
For a moment, you stood in silence, letting the sound of the cigarette fill your ears with every drag. He gave it back to you, muttering that you could finish it. Your hands brushed when he passed it to you, his dry fingertips scraping over yours.
“I heard about-” he could barely say, “how are you doing?”
You shrugged. From the corner of your eye, you could see him look at you. The exhaustion was catching up; you moved to the ground and sat cross-legged. Looking up at Jack’s shocked face, you pat the ground beside you. He sat with a groan, sticking his legs out and bracing his hands behind him.
“I’ve got a heavily bruised throat, ten stitches, and yet the thing that hurts the most is Robby.” You felt like a child admitting it, blaming someone else for how you felt about something that had nothing to do with him. His reaction bypassed all the other issues during the day. “I’ve got this patient in surgery, he will probably die because the paramedics were so worried about treating a heart attack to help our ratings, heart-to-ballon time is all Robby cares about, and now this, basically, kid might die because-”
“He did.” Jack couldn’t hold it in any longer, your head whipped to look at him, and he could see the grimace in the fast movement. “When I walked in, I-...” he looked back out to the city, “Dana just hung up the call, had just come from seeing you, and I offered.” He looked back at you, “I’m sorry, it wasn’t your fault.”
You nodded, biting your lip hard. Jack’s face contorted with worry as he saw your eyes well up with tears, “I can’t believe that,” you whispered, “I just-...” your hand moved to cover your mouth, “I mean I get it, people make mistakes and I don’t blame those paramedics, not fully but…” you looked over at Jack, “Robby basically said it was my fault, getting attacked,” you could see the rage forming in Jack, “he said that because ripped a new one in both paramedics I was high on-” you waved your hand, “I forget what he said but he basically said I should have gotten him before checking on this patient, that I got one win and ran with it.”
Jack shook his head, “That’s ridiculous.”
You looked down, and the cigarette had burned to the filter. You flicked it away and placed your head in your palms. “But what if he’s right?” You couldn’t even look at Jack when you said, “What if I bite more off than I can chew?”
“Hey,” Jack placed a hand on your shoulder, “Robby is-...” he sighed, “well, Robby is a lot of things, but most importantly, he’s oblivious.” Jack followed your eyes to make sure you were looking at him when he spoke, “You truly are a once-in-a-lifetime doctor, you’re talented and smart, you’re a go-getter, you’re funny,” he laughed, “you’re someone I look forward to seeing every shift.”
You could help but smile; the tears fell down your face from the soft squint of your eyes. “Me too,” you whispered, “I think you’re an incredible person,” for a moment, you wanted to say attending, and maybe you should have. But it felt right, “I still think back to making those hot chocolates with you.”
Jack smiled, “Me too.” For a moment, you just stared at one another, the first time you could do so unabashedly. “It would be such a loss to lose you to Robby, especially to him. I know it’s hard, but you can’t let him get to you. I mean, I love the guy, we’re each other's emergency contacts, but…he’s a good doctor but not a good teacher, and I hate when that becomes a detriment to the students.”
“Yeah,” you managed to get out, letting your head fall onto his shoulder. You could tell from the way he froze that he wasn’t expecting the touch. But quickly moving his arm to wrap around your shoulder told you he welcomed the touch.
“You’re one of a kind,” he rested his head against yours, “I’ll remind you every day if I have to.”
Summary: When Jack met you, his world shifted. He began to speak in plurals, in groups of three. It was him, and then it was you, and then it was Penny. He’d do anything for his girls, and he wanted to make that clear. Official. Concrete with titles and questions and the ring he kept mulling over. And then life happened.
Word count: 5.1k
Warnings: Angst!, injury, inaccurate medical happenings, accident/crash
a/n: GIRL DAD JACK 🗣️ This was fun to write let me know if you'd like something without so much angst for this little family 😌 but you all voted angst in my last poll so this is the outcome. Heheheh anyways love you bye <3
~~
Jack Abbot had stopped assuming children were in the cards for him. In another lifetime, another decade, he had considered the possibility—him as a father, his wife a mother. But life changed, time passed, and Jack Abbot had given up on that notion. Instead, he lived vicariously through his coworkers and told himself that he liked the freedom of a childfree life. He volunteered his time to dangerous proclivities in the name of the greater good and sat in the silent hum of his apartment.
And then he met you.
And he met what came along with you.
You had been dodgy about your daughter at first, sharing the information as if it were a combination of landmines and wincing as if he were already edging up from the table to run. It made sense that he didn’t know about her. He had met you in a coffee shop after a fourteen-hour shift and still thanked whatever higher power was responsible for the delirium-infused confidence that led him to you, but he didn’t know much. He just knew you were beautiful and you were in front of him and you stared up at him with eyes that made him blink faster, so he asked you out.
You told him about her on the third date, and Jack couldn’t stand the way you flinched, so he held your hand across the table, rubbed his thumb along your knuckles, and said, “Whenever you’d let me, I’d love to meet her.”
“Are you serious?” had tumbled out of your mouth directly after, and Jack couldn’t take that either, knowing that so many people had missed out on you and told you that that reaction was warranted. So he pressed your fingers to his lips and quirked his mouth into a smile despite his uncovered frustration.
“Of course I’m serious. I’m always serious.”
Jack Abbot fell in love with Penny almost as fast as he fell in love with you. Middle-of-the-night illnesses frequently tainted his exposure to children, so Jack had almost forgotten how energetic and full of life a four-year-old could be. Penny was shy, bashful in ways like her mother, but she was also intelligent and loved squids (you said it was a phase) and asked Jack questions about bones because you told her he was a doctor and she had just learned about bones in preschool.
“Have you ever seen a bone?”
“I’ve seen lots of bones,” Jack had whispered back to her, eyes flashing wide for emphasis.
“That’s literally crazy,” Penny had gasped, looking over her shoulder at you as you paid for a snack at the farmer’s market stall. “My mommy says that if I ever see one of my bones, I need to tell her right away.”
Jack knelt beside Penny on the grass. “Your mommy’s right. You want to see something cool? I don’t have a bone in my leg.”
“What!”
It hadn’t taken long for Penny to become accustomed to Jack’s presence. She asked about him when he wasn’t around. She joined calls when you checked in early during his shifts. She saved a book full of stickers to show him when he came over for dinner, which he did often. Said stickers also somehow appeared on his prosthetic, something your daughter still had a hard time believing to be real.
And Jack hadn’t been expecting it, but he had begun to think of children again—thinking of his life in squid stickers and irrational questions and a weight on his lap as he sat on your couch and watched an animated dog teach him a life lesson.
He had begun to enjoy getting out of work. He got to bring bagels to your place early in the morning and kiss you against your kitchen counters and fix Penny’s wild hair as she tumbled into the living room. His hobbies had changed; adrenaline was replaced with soccer games and sticky fingers and lying in bed with you right up until he had to throw his scrubs on.
Everything had become simple in Jack’s life. There was work, there was you, and there was Penny. And in a few weeks, he would ask you to make his life even simpler.
~~
A gratefully unfamiliar dread pulsed through Jack’s chest as he turned the corner of the Pitt and saw you. He took inventory instantly, cataloging the tone of your skin, each of your limbs, the small smile on your face as you spoke casually to Mateo. You were fine, you looked to be fine, but Jack still picked up the pace because you were in the emergency department, and you never came to visit without Penny.
Jack’s eyes shot to your legs, and more panic filled him at the empty space.
“Hey,” Jack breathed, his mouth twitching into a smile that did not reach his searching eyes. He placed a hand on your cheek and tried not to furrow his brows. “You okay? Where’s Penny?”
Your smile was much warmer. You gripped his wrist, and Jack felt the almost imperceptible way you leaned your face into his touch. “I’m fine, and Penny’s fine. I did late pickup so I could see you before we take the train upstate.”
Upstate. Upstate—right. Jack had primed his brain to work a double, so that often meant blocking the shifts with tasks. He was just about finished with the day shift, and your trip to see your family was a night shift event. Your train was leaving at 7:30 pm—an in-between-shift event, then.
“You coulda brought her by, too,” Jack quietly replied, brushing his thumb along your cheek as Mateo swiveled his stool to the other side of the nurse’s hub. Relief was slowly trickling through the shock of seeing you unannounced.
“Oh, I see. If I don’t bring Penny, I shouldn’t come at all?” you teased.
Jack moved his hand down to fix your scarf, tucking it closer to your neck. “Didn’t say that,” he argued. “I just wanted to say goodbye to both my girls.”
Your face heated furiously, an outcome Jack had been hoping for. He loved to get you flustered, and that was the quickest way to do it. Never failed.
“We would’ve missed our train if I brought her.” You poked Jack’s chest. “You two always get into it, and then I have to drag her away because she gets too upset to leave you.”
“Can’t help it. I’m just so much fun to be around.”
“Yeah, well, you’ll have to be fun over FaceTime for the next few days, Dr. Abbot.”
Jack tsked, looking off to the side to tamp down his disappointment. You’d had this visit planned for a few months now, but it didn’t make watching you go any easier. He had wanted to go with you, eager to meet your family, but the Pitt needed an attending on doubles, and Jack was the only one available. You’d assured him several times that it was fine, and there would be more opportunities to come. He knew it was fine. What wasn’t fine was watching his family leave and feeling incomplete.
He needed to ask you that question.
“You sure you can’t wait until tomorrow so I can drive you up?” Jack tried. He moved his fixing touch to the zipper on your jacket, tugging it up to keep in the warmth. “No train that way.”
You brushed his hand off and stepped closer, raising your brows. “Right. Have you drive that far after working a double? Just for you to drive back home, sleep for 45 minutes, and then work again? Not happening, Jack. The train is fine. We’re fine.”
“You keep saying that,” he murmured under his breath. He placed his hands along your jaw, holding you again, even though he knew several eyes watched on. “Call me when you get on the train. And have Penny bring that spray hand sanitizer she made me spend ten dollars on. It’s flu season. And—”
“Jack,” you gently interrupted. “I love you. So much. But when I say we’re fine, I mean it. And stop buying her everything she sees in Sephora. She doesn’t even need to be in Sephora. She’s five.”
“I love you more,” was how Jack decided to respond. He tilted his head back and looked at you fully, his hands moving your face to one side and then the other.
“Memorizing me?” you teased.
“Something like that.”
Continuing his shift was difficult. Jack had already felt the weight of the double being exacerbated by your departure, but then you FaceTimed him on the train, and the night got heavier. Penny held up her hand sanitizer with a mouthful of marshmallow muffling her words, and Jack just wished he could be sitting beside you on that stupid train. He’d paid more for the two of you to have a private compartment, and it was nice knowing you were cared for, but he had become the one taking care of you.
He felt his back stiffen as the night went on.
“You gotta loosen up, Dr. Abbot,” Mateo called out after five minutes of Jack scrolling through his camera roll. He’d stopped on a picture of you and Penny on the hood of his truck. “You knew they were leaving all day. We still got nine hours before you can go home and make scrapbooks.”
Jack hooked his chin over his shoulder, placing his phone face down on the charting station. “Mind your business.”
Mateo put his hands up in surrender. “They’re coming back in three days. You work all three of those days. It’ll be quick.” The younger man patted Jack’s shoulder. “Then maybe you can finally fish that ring out of your locker.”
“What do you know about that, huh?” Jack accused, crossing his arms in a show of intimidation that didn’t match his almost-smile.
“Nothing you didn’t just confirm,” Mateo quipped back. “I’ve babysat at her place enough times to catch a vibe.”
“Catch a vibe?”
“Yeah. It’s emanating from you.”
Dr. Shen passed by the pair, settling into a stool and logging into the computer. “What’s emanating from him?”
“My vibe, apparently,” Jack spoke to the ceiling.
Mateo cut in, resting his arms on the counter. “That he’s gonna propose.”
“I did not say that,” Jack shot back.
“You don’t have to say anything if it’s a vibe,” Shen informed him, gaze focused on his notes. He took a casual sip of watered-down coffee. “Can you do it within the next three months, though? I want to win the pool to pay off my car.”
Mateo let out a hiss, resting his head on his elbows. “Dude. He wasn’t supposed to know about the betting pool. Now he’s gonna be weird about it.”
“He’s not going to—”
“Okay, what?” Jack almost sighed, head jolting back. “There’s a betting pool? Since when?”
“Since you started wearing that little bracelet with the sea creatures on it. It got bigger after y/n came by that one time with lunch and you practically ran down the hallway.”
Jack stared at Shen as he recounted the betrayal happening under his nose. “Alright. Who’s in it?”
“Who isn’t—”
“Got incoming traumas. The T Line crashed. Unidentified number of casualties, but we’re getting at least a dozen wounded.”
It took a moment for the humor to dissipate from Jack’s body. He heard the charge nurse’s calls to clear the trauma bays and could recognize the movement in the room. Mateo was staring at the side of Jack’s face and Shen had shot up from the charting computer to do… something, but Jack was swimming in a state of thick confusion.
He did some math in his head.
It might not have been your train. You FaceTimed him thirty minutes ago, and the train hadn’t left yet. You were just sitting with Penny. You had said there was a small delay, but you both were settled into the “stupidly-priced private seats,” and Penny was eager to watch Bluey during the wait. You were wearing an old college sweater he’d left at your apartment.
But that was thirty minutes ago.
It could have been your train.
“Dr. Abbot?” Mateo’s call was a jumbled haze. “Dr. Abbot, what can I—”
“My girls are on the train,” Jack muttered to himself.
“What?”
“My girls are on the train,” he said again, clearer this time. His gaze shot to the board as if he’d see your name, a pinpoint focus washing over him. If he were calm enough, nothing could happen.
Mateo said something else, maybe a reassurance or a passing encouragement, but Jack couldn’t register it. He took his shaking hands and donned the PPE needed for a disaster of this magnitude, drowning out the orders ringing through the ED. Shen had taken over as head, and Jack couldn’t remember if he’d told him to do that. He probably hadn’t.
The first patient wasn’t you. Neither was the second. Or the third. At some point near the beginning, Jack had texted you—a quick text, asking if you were okay, even though that was a ridiculous question. But if you weren’t a patient, and if you didn’t answer him, then the unidentified number of casualties Lena announced was a harrowing reality.
But it couldn’t be you.
Jack was doing everything right. He was calm and working doubles and he had paid for you to have better seats. Penny wouldn’t get the flu and he was going to have the lattice on your balcony fixed before you got home.
You couldn’t be an unidentified casualty.
“Hey, you good?” Dr. Ellis barked at Jack as he blinked hard in a trauma bay. The man lying in the bed had his arm in the wrong direction, bruises already covering the left side of his body.
Every moment he wasn’t checking the incoming patients was a moment he couldn’t be sure of you. A moment Penny could be wheeled by.
Jack cleared his throat harshly. “I’m good. Roll him on three.”
You weren’t the fourth patient he saw, either.
But you were the fifth.
He had prepared himself for it, but nothing would have been enough, he soon realized. No amount of grounding or breathing exercises or visualization would have made it easier. Your eyes were open, but they couldn’t focus on him, not even as he stuttered out a breath and shot to the side of the gurney, his feet quick beside you.
He said your name, repeated it, but your eyes kept flashing past the overhead lights. An EMT was shouting out your vitals and Jack heard them, but his waterline was burning and the collar of your sweatshirt was rimmed red with blood. His sweatshirt. He’d left it at your place a few days ago.
Crush injury. Fully conscious but lacks verbal response. Jane Doe—you weren’t Jane Doe. You were his.
As they landed you in trauma one, Jack began to assess. He ignored that his hands had begun to shake again. “I need you to hear me, baby,” Jack called as he moved meticulously through his assessment. “I just need to know that you can. Can you do that for me? Let me know if you can hear me?”
A nurse was untangling an ultrasound machine as Jack moved to palpate your abdomen. You flinched. He felt himself unravel.
“I needed that yesterday!” he shouted, ripping the machine from the older woman’s hands. It wasn’t her fault. Jack would apologize later if he could ever form words again. “Why isn’t anyone giving me info?”
Dr. Ellis entered the trauma bay, confusion laced with apprehension at the sound of Jack’s anger. All the confusion was wiped clear when she saw who was on the bed. When she saw the blood sticking to the cracks in Jack’s hands and the sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“You need me to take this?” Dr. Ellis asked, but it was hardly a question. She was direct when she needed to be, even towards an attending, but Jack was not in the mind to be overpowered by reason and level-headedness.
“No,” he simply replied, eyes glued to the grainy screen of the ultrasound.
“Are you sure you should—”
“Free fluid in the abdomen. I need—”
Jack stopped cold when a sound escaped you. It was breathy, barely even there to make out, but he felt his gaze drop to your face before his mind could even register it. Someone took the Doppler from his hands and the room erupted in movement and calls and beeps from machines, but Jack had his hands on your face as he had just a few hours ago, begging your eyes to focus on him.
“What was that?” he breathed back, eyes racing over every inch of your face. He cataloged four bruises before you finally found his eyes. “There you are. There’s my girl. You’re doing so good, and we got you, okay?”
“P-Penny,” you uttered. Your hand twitched up to grasp Jack’s arm, and he silently thanked god that you could move it. “Penny.”
Jack had been thinking about Penny since you entered the Pitt. He had hoped, in some unreasonable way, that she would be with you. That you both would be fine, maybe with minor injuries, and he would sweep you away into the break room while he managed the crisis. But you were the crisis, and Penny wasn’t here. He had no idea where she was.
“I know, baby. I know. I’m gonna find Penny. She’ll be just fine. Both my girls will, okay? Promise. Promise on everything.”
He was speaking so low, his hand on the top of your head and his face close. He felt the dread pool in his gut at the lies he was telling. Jack had no way of finding Penny. He couldn’t leave you and search the wreck for a little girl. They probably wouldn’t let him past the police tape.
“F-find. Her. Jack, please,” you pleaded. Your nails dug into his arm and Jack had to move his jaw to stop from crying. Your face was becoming pallid and someone was calling surgery.
“I’ll find her,” he smiled. A sad smile. A waning one. “You don’t worry about a thing. I’ll find her and bring her right to you.”
“Jack.”
It was Robby’s voice that tore Jack’s face from yours. He had to have ridden fast to get there. His hair was swept back and he still had his jacket on and Robby was supposed to be out on vacation for another few days, but he was there. He was there, and he shook his head when Jack turned to find him.
“Let them take her. You gotta back up.”
They must have been asking for a while. Jack hadn’t registered a single request for him to move; he had been too caught up in tracking each minuscule twitch of your face—in remembering you before life changed, because it still felt the same, just more urgent, more scary. If he stopped looking at you, if you were taken away, there was the chance that you wouldn’t come back. That he would look up and find that Penny was gone.
He hadn’t been ready for the after.
Robby forced it, anyway.
Jack felt like he was going to throw up as they wheeled you away, Dr. Walsh sending worried looks to each person in the trauma bay who wouldn’t meet her eye. Your blood was on the floor in free-flowing streaks that Jack couldn’t look away from, and he felt like he was going to throw up. The bay felt stagnant. The walls moved when he did not. His back hit a hard surface, and Jack let it hold him as he sank to the floor.
He went to press his face in his hands, but stopped when he saw your blood filling the lines in his palms.
He hadn’t told you he loved you. He let them take you, and he hadn’t reminded you.
Robby crouched in front of Jack, hands flexing between his knees. “She’s gonna be okay.”
Jack felt his head roll against the wall as his jaw trembled. “What’re you doing here?” he croaked out.
“Mateo called me. Said your girl was in the crash. I was already home, so I came as fast as I could.” Robby paused, scratching his jaw. “Is Penny—”
“I don’t know where Penny is.”
“Okay. Okay, we wait then. We wait and see, and we fix what we can—”
“I can’t just fucking wait, Robby,” Jack finally sobbed, the adrenaline from keeping you awake and talking wearing off in a hard crash. “I can’t wait to hear that she didn’t make it. Or that y/n doesn’t get out of that surgery. I can’t—I have to do something, and there’s nothing—there’s nothing I can do.”
Jack's hands were raised in a helpless motion, his eyes fixed on the back wall of the trauma bay. He couldn’t see much through the tears, couldn’t feel much past the all-consuming fear, but he would try for you. For Penny. If the two of you were gone, he wasn’t sure if he could.
“They’re all I got,” Jack nodded to himself, hands hanging over his tented knees. “And if I have to walk out there into a world where I’m alone again?” Jack pointed towards the door, finally meeting Robby’s pinched expression. “Not sure what I’d be doing it for.”
“Don’t say that,” Robby cut through. “You don’t know that they won’t make it. You don’t. Stop giving up before you have to.”
“I don’t even know where my little girl is.”
“So we find out. But we can’t do that from in here. We can’t do that when you’ve given up already.”
So, Robby hauled Jack up from the floor of trauma one, and Jack followed him to the nurse’s hub. He washed his hands, he cracked his neck, and he let the central heating dry the stickiness of his tears as he stared up at the news reports of the crash. He wouldn’t be able to work; that was why Robby came in, but he could make calls. Jack knew people who knew people, and those people were in law enforcement. Those people would know more than he did.
Jack was glued to the red phone in the Pitt for fifteen minutes, asking about a little girl that no one could find. Lena had sent him a concerned look one too many times and had yet to scold him for using the emergency line, but Jack hardly noticed. Robby was popping in and out of rooms in the role he was supposed to fill, but Jack hardly noticed.
“Sorry, Abbot. Haven’t gotten the list yet. I’ll send you the info as soon as I get it.”
Jack squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the growing ache above his nose. He shot out a quick thank you that didn’t sound genuine, and jumped out of his skin when a hand met his shoulder.
“Anything I can do?” Lena asked.
Jack only shook his head and went through his contact list in his head once more. It was all looking bleak. Jack’s world was looking bleak. And then the ambulance bay doors burst open, a bed being shoved down the hall, and Jack dropped the phone onto the counter. And then he was sprinting.
“Straggler from the crash. Says she’s five and asking for her mom, but mom couldn’t be found on scene. No obvious signs of trauma other than some cuts and bruises, but—”
“Oh, fuck. Penny,” Jack gasped out, reaching for her on the bed that was far too big.
To her credit, it was only then that Penny started crying. She had been strong-faced when she got in, fear a shadow on her innocent face, but the moment she saw Jack, that was gone. Penny threw her arms around Jack’s neck and let out a wail he hoped never to hear again. She was trembling against him, retelling events no one could make out, and Jack pressed his nose to her temple as he rocked her where he stood.
“I know, baby,” he shushed, words so similar to the ones he had spoken to you. “But you were so brave, you hear me? So brave. Your mom’s gonna be so proud of you.”
Through hiccuping breaths, Penny asked, “Where is mommy?”
Jack’s chest caved. “She’s getting fixed up upstairs. Mommy got hurt, but they’re fixing it.”
“I didn’t get hurt because mommy was holding me.”
“What was that, baby?” Jack asked, tucking Penny’s hair back from her face as he continued to sway.
Penny looked up at him with big, watery eyes. “When the train started making noises, mommy grabbed me and held me really tight. I didn’t get hurt, but she did.”
And of course you did. Of course that was why Penny was safe in his arms, and you were fighting for your life upstairs. Jack couldn’t imagine a world where that wasn’t the outcome. You would do anything for her. You were always going to do anything for her.
Jack looked for you in Penny’s face as he offered the best smile he could muster. “She’s gonna be alright. She was protecting you, Penny. Mommy always protects you.”
“Like how she used to check for monsters?”
“Just like that. But I check for the monsters now. Safer that way.”
“I wish you were with us on the train,” Penny choked out, clutching Jack’s scrubs in her tiny fists. “To make mommy safe, too.”
Jack’s chest hurt. He pressed his forehead back to Penny’s temple, collected himself with a tight scrunch of his eyes, and grounded. “C’mon, sweetheart. I gotta check you over, okay? Make sure nothing’s wrong.”
Jack cared for Penny in the same meticulous way he did you. He cleaned her scrapes and assessed her bruises, relishing the small giggle she let out when he prodded around to make sure nothing was happening internally. He felt the weight of the day in a lopsided, confusing uneasiness, one part of his life complete, the other in the balance. He would start to think of you, start to feel the dread, but then Penny would lay her head on his chest as he held her in the break room, and he had to snap back.
You would want your daughter to feel safe.
He needed to be a safe place.
So Jack held Penny, bumping his knee to help her sleep, and he considered what he would have done a year ago. If he had been inundated with a tragedy, he would have thrown himself into work as a distraction. He would have thrown caution to the wind and taken case after case until his leg ached too much to continue. They would have had to tell him to stop, forced him to go home, and Jack would have done so only when he knew he would fall dead asleep the second he hit the mattress.
Because that was what his life used to be.
Today, no one had had to beg Jack to slow down. No one pulled him from patient rooms and gave him a stern talking to. They had called Robby as soon as they knew you were involved. They had expected him to slow down for you—for his family.
Jack pressed a kiss to Penny’s head and enjoyed the difference.
It was another hour before any news of you came. Penny had finally dozed off, and Jack’s left arm was dead from the weight of her head, but he was alert when Dr. Shen poked into the dim room and smiled softly.
“She’s out. Asleep, but in recovery. They said she can have visitors, but I don’t know if—”
Jack gazed down at Penny, still knocked out on top of him. “Can you get Mateo?”
The pass-off was seamless, Jack running a hand over Penny’s head as Mateo nodded to the older man and promised to take care of things. It would be better for her to wake up with someone she knew, and Jack wasn’t going to leave her with anyone he didn’t trust. He trusted the entire staff, but Mateo was different. Mateo loved Penny.
Jack cleared his mind on the elevator ride up, and then cleared it again as he walked through the maze of the ICU to find your room. He would bring Penny up when you were more stable, when he had a better idea of the state you were in. You hadn’t looked scary, but you were her mom. You were her mom, and Jack was—
“Jack?”
He hadn’t been expecting your voice; Jack felt the breath knock from his lungs at the sound of it. His tears were fresh as he rounded your bed, checking vitals in a quick sweep before putting his hands anywhere they could reach. Your eyes were hazy as he leaned over you, but you had said his name, and something in him righted.
“Hey,” he practically cooed, brushing your hair back as his eyes traced the shape of your face. “Didn’t think you’d be awake.”
“Penny—”
“Penny’s okay. She’s not hurt, sweetheart. Mateo’s got her.”
Jack wasn’t sure he’d ever spoken so low before, so soft amidst beeping machines and the footsteps of nurses in the hall. You let out a breath, and your lashes fluttered shut, and it was clear to Jack that you shouldn’t be awake. That you had fought through exhaustion just to make sure your daughter was okay.
Pride swelled in his chest, the first emotion to override the fear. “I’m so damn proud of you,” he softly stated. He fixed the blanket around your shoulders and felt his mouth twitch. “Protecting our girl like that. Making it through.”
In response, Jack saw your own lips form a tired smile, hoarse voice asking, “Our girl?”
“Yeah, our girl.” Jack kissed your forehead, then your cheek, and then checked the vitals again. “I’ll make it official soon,” he said, almost under his breath.
“What—does that mean?”
You were losing the fight to sleep, relief palpable in the room and lulling you off. Jack swung a chair by your bed, clicked his phone ringer on low for any texts about Penny, and waited for you to sleep. Waited to be there when you woke up.
“You’ll see,” he affirmed, ignoring the wetness still on his cheeks. “I love you. Sleep. I got you.”
when you receive your first ever daisy award, you insist that you don’t need to have a pining ceremony. you’re used to celebrating your accomplishments quietly, on your own. you have your whole life. but jack abbot is determined to change that.
fic is based on this random thought i had
warnings/tags: nurse!reader, unspecified age gap, reader’s family is emotionally absent and unsupportive, minor angst, mentions of blood, mentions of pittfest and pittfest level injuries, reader is besties with cassie, possible medical inaccuracies, no physical descriptions, no use of y/n, not explicit but mdni!
flashbacks are in italics!
⋆｡°✩
One of the earliest memories you can vividly recall from your childhood is a kindergarten spelling bee.
Halfway through the school year, you and a dozen or so other students were placed in an “academically gifted” class for children who were highly proficient in reading and writing for five year olds.
The day before school let out for summer break, your teacher thought it would be sweet to invite all of the parents to an end of the year class party and spelling bee, to celebrate how much everyone had learned since the beginning of the year.
Ironically enough, the final word was family, but none of your family was there to see you win when you spelled it correctly.
Your parents had to work. That’s what you had told your teacher and all of the other parents when they asked why yours couldn’t attend. It wasn’t really a lie. Both of your parents did have to work that day. What you didn’t tell them is that you hadn’t even bothered to give your parents the newsletter your teacher had sent home about the spelling bee, because you already knew the chances of them actually showing up were slim to none.
They likely would have to work. And if by some miracle one of them didn’t have to work, they’d have some other prior obligation that would take precedence over a school party. One of your grandparents would need help getting to a doctor’s appointment, or one of your siblings would be sick. There would be car troubles, or one or both of your parents would have an appointment that they just couldn’t find a way out of.
As an adult, you now realize that their excuses were usually somewhat reasonable on the surface. But it wasn’t ever the excuses themselves that hurt, it was the absence that you learned to expect. Damn near every time.
It only got worse with age. When you were little, they would at least tell you that they were going to make an effort to show up to whatever party, ceremony, recital, game or graduation you had coming up. But as soon as you started to approach your teen years, there seemed to be an unspoken agreement: you kept expectations low, and they stopped bullshitting you.
They came to the bigger events - the ones that their coworkers and acquaintances would side-eye them for missing, like high school and college graduations. But even then, they did the bare minimum of showing up. There were no parties thrown in your name, no thoughtful gifts or handwritten cards signed with love and well wishes for your future.
The closest thing you ever got to a celebration was the Facebook post that your mother made when you graduated from Penn Nursing. But that was for her. Not for you. She had to let everyone know that she raised someone smart enough to graduate from one of the most prestigious nursing schools in the world.
She didn’t even bother to tag you in it. God forbid she gives you credit and takes the spotlight away from herself.
That was years ago, and the last time that you tried to include her (or anyone else in your family for that matter) in any life event that one would normally excitedly text or call their closest family members about.
Moving to Pittsburgh and getting your own apartment. Starting your first official “big girl” job at PTMC. Obtaining your SANE certification.
And, most recently, being nominated for your first Daisy award.
⋆｡°✩
“Hey,” Dana calls as she walks past where you’re staring up at the patient board, checking out exactly what you’ve walked into this morning. “Walk with me for a sec.”
She doesn’t wait for you to respond before she’s walking in the opposite direction, leaving you to follow.
And follow. And follow. Until you reach the empty break room.
“Listen,” you start, your thoughts spiraling with reasons she could be taking you somewhere private at the very beginning of the shift, “if this is about the anti-vax mom that didn’t want to let her toddler get a tetanus shot after stepping on a rusty nail yesterday, I already told you. I did not call her stupid. I asked her if she’s stup—”
“Relax,” Dana cuts in dryly. “We’ll deal with that later. This isn’t about that.” She pauses, just long enough for confusion to grow on your face. “This is about the little girl you gave blood to during the PittFest mass casualty.”
You blink in surprise, the eight year old’s face appearing clear as day in your mind . “Ellie? What about—?” Your heart sinks to your stomach. Your voice rises an octave in panic. “What happened? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine, thanks to you,” Dana assures. The momentary relief that washes over you when you hear that she’s alright is quickly replaced by the fear of something else - something that has been looming in the back of your mind since the day of the mass casualty.
“Look,” you sigh, lowering your voice slightly when Cassie steps in to put her lunchbox in the fridge. “I know what I did was against protocol, but she was going to die. We were out of O-Neg and we didn’t have time to wait for more to arrive. Her mother agreed, and Dr. Abbot gave me verbal consent to—”
“Jesus,” Dana interrupts, shaking her head. She’s smirking with a kind of glint in her eyes that isn’t out of the ordinary for Dana but you can’t begin to decipher right now. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a tendency to jump to the worst possible conclusions? I’m trying to tell you that Ellie’s family has nominated you for a Daisy Award.”
For a split-second, the room is filled with the kind of silence where a pin drop could be heard.
“Wait. I’m not in trouble?”
Dana scoffs. “Not unless you keep bullying anti-vaxxers.”
A Daisy Award. The last thing you expected when Dana pulled you into this room. Some nurses go their entire careers without ever receiving a Daisy, you never would have guessed that you would be nominated for one so early in yours.
It makes sense, you suppose. If breaking about a dozen different rules and protocols by donating your own blood to a dying child in the midst of a mass casualty incident didn’t get you nominated for the award, then you doubt anything ever would have.
You exhale slowly, your brain still buffering. You’ve yet to take two sips of your coffee, so this is a lot for seven o’clock in the morning.
“Wow,” you breathe, your face suddenly warm. “I…don’t even know what to say.”
“No one ever does when they’re receiving their first Daisy,” Dana shrugs with a proud smile. “I just wanted to give you a heads up before Robby gets in and makes a whole production out of it.”
Your stomach instantly sinks to the floor. You had been so taken off guard by the news that you’re receiving a Daisy Award that you had completely forgotten what receiving a Daisy Award normally entails.
A pinning ceremony. A speech from the chief or director. All of your coworkers. Everyone in the room, staring right at you. Clapping. Pictures. Congratulations, and congratulations, and more congratulations.
“Oh, no.” You shake your head. “No, that isn’t necessary. He doesn’t need to do all of that.”
Dana folds her arms, unimpressed. “All of that is the standard procedure for a Daisy Award, kiddo.”
“Really, it’s fine,” you insist, trying to conceal the panic from your voice. “Everyone is busy enough as it is without stopping what they’re doing for me. Robby can just give me the pin and certificate and whatever else when he has time in between patients. I don’t need…” You gesture vaguely, “…a whole thing.”
She stares at you for a moment, head tilted and lips pursed like she’s trying to psychoanalyze you. “You sure?” She finally asks. “This is a big deal, you know. It’s okay to let people celebrate you for a few minutes.”
You drop her gaze. “I just…don’t want an audience. I’m good. Really.”
The look on her face says that she wants to protest, but the look on yours must convince her otherwise. “Alright,” she concedes. “Whatever you want. I’ll let Robby know before he drags half the department into the conference room.”
You exhale in relief, managing a small but grateful smile. “Thanks, Dana.”
She wraps an arm around shoulders on your way out of the break room. “Congrats, kid. We’re lucky to have ya.”
You just smile at her and nod, because those words sound like a foreign language that you’re still in the process of learning and aren’t quite comfortable speaking yourself yet.
Cassie catches up to you just moments later, on your way back to the nurse’s station. You had noticed her slip into the break room while you and Dana were talking, and judging by the smirk on her face, she definitely overheard the gist of the conversation.
“Hey, Daisy Girl,” Cassie hums under her breath as she catches up to you, lightly bumping her shoulder against yours. “Congratulations.”
You roll your eyes but the corners of your mouth threaten to betray you. “Please don’t call me that.”
“Oh, I’m absolutely calling you that,” she grins. “You deserve it, you know.”
You shrug, choosing to look up at the patient board to avoid her stare that is entirely too motherly. “I don’t know. It feels weird to be given an award for donating blood. People donate at blood drives all the time and get nothing in return.”
“I suppose,” she sighs. “People don’t always donate blood while actively performing CPR on the recipient, though. In the middle of an unprecedented mass casualty—”
“Okay, okay,” you shush her, looking around to make sure she isn’t drawing anyone’s attention. Princess and Perlah stand a few feet away, talking amongst themselves, and Jack sits at his desk, working on his charting from the night shift he’s finishing up.
As far as you can tell, he isn’t paying any mind to the two of you, but the last thing you want is to draw any unnecessary attention - especially from the doctor who is perfectly within earshot. Your cheeks blaze at the thought. “You’ve made your point. Keep your voice down.”
She shakes with silent laughter, a knowing look in her eyes. She lowers her voice. “So, what are you gonna do to celebrate?”
“Nothing,” you mumble. “I just told Dana that I don’t want a pinning ceremony or anything.”
“Yeah, I heard that,” Cassie snorts. “I mean what are you going to do to celebrate yourself.” She raises her brows. “An overpriced coffee? A pedicure? A new pair of those tennis shoes that you’re always hyping up? Take-out from your favorite restaurant? All of the above?”
You sigh, knowing that she won’t relent until you give in. “I have to buy groceries after I get off work tonight. Maybe I’ll get myself some flowers or something at Trader Joe’s.”
She smiles, accepting that’s the best she’s going to get from you. “Good. Start there.”
Dana calls her name and she walks away, leaving you alone with your thoughts for the first time since you stepped through the hospital doors this morning.
Of all the days that you’ve worked here, PittFest is by far one of the most traumatic. But it’s also the day that Ellie’s life was saved. The day that a mother didn’t have to watch her little girl bleed to death on an operating table. And that’s thanks to you.
You, and Jack Abbot backing you up.
⋆｡°✩
“She’s lost too much blood. We need O-Neg stat!” Whitaker’s voice calls through all of the chaos surrounding you. He looks over his shoulder towards Dana. “What’s the ETA on the donor blood?”
She checks her radio, her face paling. “Still twenty minutes out.”
You stare at the monitors - at Ellie’s stats that are rapidly plummeting - and then at Ellie, motionless on the table, her skin growing grayer by the second. “She doesn’t have twenty minutes,” you murmur to Whitaker, too low for Ellie’s mom to hear you. “She’s not going to make it that long. There’s no way.”
Whitaker looks around for an available attending or senior resident while you look to Ellie’s mother. “Ms. Martin, do you know Ellie’s blood type?”
“B-Positive,” she manages through a sob. “She’s - she’s B-Positive.”
You’re moving before the thought fully forms. Darting around the room, yanking open drawers, frantically searching for an empty blood bag, tubing, a sterile needle, everything that you could possibly need—
“Uh—” Whitaker freezes as you slam the supplies onto a rolling tray. “What are you doing?”
“She’s B-Positive. I’m B-Positive.”
“We can’t - we can’t just give a patient unscreened blood,” he sputters, his voice as panicked as the expression on his face. “There’s too many risks—”
“The risk right now is her dying if she doesn’t get blood immediately.” The words come out louder than you intend, earning another sob from Ms. Martin, and the attention of Dr. Abbot.
“Fill me in.”
He isn’t talking to anyone in particular. His focus is on the little girl laying on the gurney in front of him, taking in her current state - the gunshot wound in her abdomen and the increasingly concerning stats displayed on the screens beside her.
You open your mouth to answer, but Whitaker beats you to it. “Ellie needs blood. She wants to donate hers. I told her we can’t—”
“Please,” Ellie’s mother cries from behind him. “Please let her. I can’t lose her. Please, do whatever you can, whatever you need to do. Anything.”
You haven’t worked with Dr. Abbot very much. He’s covered a few day shifts here and there since you started at PTMC, and you’ve worked a couple night shifts when needed, but for the most part, you don’t see him outside of shift change in the mornings.
But you’ve heard a lot about him. And in the years that you’ve worked here, you’ve never heard a negative word.
In fact, just earlier today, you overheard a conversation between Robby and Dr. Collins. You hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, it just happened - clear as day, you heard the words from Robby’s own lips: So, what are you saying? That Abbot low-balled his measurements to help a teen get the abortion that she wants?
If that’s true - and you’re willing to bet that it is - then that tells you everything you need to know about the kind of doctor that Jack Abbot is.
The kind that not every patient is fortunate enough to have on their side. The kind who always has his patient’s health, safety, and best interest in mind - even if it breaks protocol, even if it goes against the standard of care, even if it later comes back to bite him in the ass.
If it were any other attending or senior resident standing here right now, you might shrink. You might think that arguing your case is a lost cause. Because Whitaker isn’t wrong - there are risks with transfusing unscreened blood. It isn’t standard protocol, and most doctors would probably shut it down.
But something in your gut tells you that Jack Abbot isn’t most doctors.
“Ellie is B-Positive like me.” You turn to Jack, looking up at him, earnest and pleading. “I donate blood every six months. I’m clean. I don’t do drugs, I don’t smoke. The the donor blood is still twenty minutes out. She needs this now.”
Jack stares at you for one tense, loaded moment. You wouldn’t be able to read his expression even if you had the free time to stand here and try to figure it out. Then, he gives you a tight-lipped, curt nod before looking to Ellie's mom for consent.
The following fifteen minutes feel like something out of a fever dream.
One minute Perlah is inserting a needle into your femoral vein so that you can still have use of both of your arms and the next, Whitaker is yelling that Ellie is crashing and you’re starting compressions while blood is still being siphoned from the lower half of your body.
Jack all but pulls you off of her to take over so that Perlah can withdraw the needle from your leg. Warm blood trickles down your thigh before she has a chance to press gauze hard against the site but you barely register anything except the sound of Jack’s voice speaking low to Ellie, telling her to hold on.
Suddenly, the room around you begins to go fuzzy. The people, the monitors, everything shifts and your ears start to ring, making the voices that you’re desperately trying to pay attention to sound like you’re listening through water.
“Sit. Now,” Perlah orders, already guiding you to the closest empty stool while keeping pressure on your leg. The adrenaline that has been coursing through you for the last ten minutes begins to crash all at once, leaving your limbs feeling jellied and useless.
It takes every ounce of focus to register that Ellie has stabilized and the transfusion is now in progress. The pit of nausea in your stomach lessens the tiniest bit as Jack steps back, letting Whitaker and Cassie take over.
He turns to you now. You’re slumped in the stool, sweating, with your pants still positioned awkwardly at mid-thigh as you hold the gauze in place while you wait for Perlah to return with a bandage.
“I’m fine,” you mumble automatically, but the words sound breathless and slurred. “I’ve just gotta wait for Perlah to secure a bandage around this and then I’ll get back up—”
“No way,” he breathes, crouching down to get a better look at you. “You’re benched for twenty. You need fluids, and—”
“But—”
“No buts.” His voice is gentle but firm, leaving no room for objections. “You just lost a lot of blood in a very short amount of time. We need you out there, okay? I can’t have you passing out on me.”
The intensity of his stare is enough to make the room spin all over again. So much that all you can do is nod.
“What you just did took a lot of guts,” he says, voice low. “And it took heart. You saved a life today. Ellie’s mom won’t ever forget that. And I know I won’t, either.”
⋆｡°✩
At approximately 10:15 in the morning, you’re flushing an egregious amount of wax out of a ten year old’s ear when you see Lupe walk past the room with a colossal bouquet of flowers.
Daisies, specifically.
It causes you to momentarily lose focus and accidentally spray the kid in the face.
Daisies. A giant bouquet of daisies, on the day that you’ve received your first Daisy Award. It would be quite the coincidence if they were for someone other than you, now wouldn’t it?
But who knows. Maybe they’re not for you. Victoria has gone on a few dates with that one guy she’s been telling you about at this point. Maybe daisies are her favorite flowers. Maybe it’s someone’s anniversary and their husband sent them flowers, and they just happen to be daisies. Maybe they are for a sick patient. It is a hospital, after all.
All you know is that you don’t have anyone who would send you flowers. Dana, maybe, if you hadn’t already expressed your wishes to be as lowkey as possible with receiving your Daisy Award.
Word had still gotten around the ED, and there was no shortage of congratulations. Perlah and Princess, Whitaker and Santos, Victoria and Samira. You didn’t mind the sweet sentiments, truly. You appreciated all of them, even if the special attention is unfamiliar.
But flowers? Would someone really send you flowers?
Your question is answered by the look on everyone’s face as you walk towards the nurse’s station.
Dana, Perlah, Princess, Victoria and Santos are all huddled around the extravagant bouquet of daisies, baby’s breath and various greenery. You freeze when they all turn their attention to you, smirks and toothy grins confirming your suspicion before any of them can say a word.
“Don’t worry,” Santos snorts, holding out a small envelope. “We didn’t read the card.”
“We decided it would be much more fun to watch you open it,” Princess adds.
“And because it would be rude,” Dana says with a pointed glare.
You exhale before reluctantly taking the envelope from Santos. Your name is written across the front. Without saying a word, you open the tiny envelope and pull out the card stock note.
(And, because no one has ever done anything like send you flowers to your place of employment, your hands shake an embarrassing amount).
Your eyes skim over the words written on the note. And then you read them again. And again, and one more time for good measure.
You can buy yourself flowers, but you shouldn’t have to.
You flip the card over, expecting a signature, but it’s completely blank.
You can feel five pairs of eyes staring holes into you, just waiting for an answer to the question that you have no more of an answer to than they do.
“There’s no name, you noseys,” you sigh. “It isn’t signed.”
“What?” Princess gasps. “They’re anonymous? This bouquet had to cost more than my car insurance, and they aren’t even going to take credit?”
“You really don’t know who they’re from?” Victoria asks.
“Nope. I mean, it has to be someone here, because I haven’t told anyone outside of work, but….I don’t know who.” You shrug, glancing back down at the handwriting you don’t recognize. “Lupe didn’t say who brought them in?”
“Sorry, kid,” Dana answers. “The florist dropped them off. All she told Lupe is that they’re for you. We know as much as you do.” She smirks, her eyes crinkling in the corners. “Whoever sent them must be really fond of ya.”
And have money to blow, you think to yourself.
To your relief, they all disperse and go back to doing their jobs, leaving you with the vase of dozens of daisies and an unsigned card. You stare at the words as if you can will them to change and reveal the identity of the sender.
You can buy yourself flowers, but you shouldn’t have to.
Suddenly, your earlier conversation with Cassie echoes in your mind. In an attempt to appease her, you had told her that you might buy yourself some flowers when you go grocery shopping later today. You had no true intention of actually doing that, so you forgot the promise by the time you saw your first patient of the day.
You find her hunched over an iPad reading x-ray results.
You stand beside her, your elbows braced on the counter. “I take you didn’t believe me when I said I was going to buy myself flowers?”
She freezes, cutting her eyes to you. “What are you talking about?”
You can’t tell if she’s fucking with you or not. You stare at her for a long moment to see if she’s going to break composure. “The shit ton of daisies at the nurse’s station? The card? You can buy yourself flowers but you shouldn’t have to? Ringing any bells?”
Cassie straightens, looking over her shoulder in the direction of the nurse’s station, realization and amusement blooming across her face. She lowers her voice a smidge. “You think those are from me?”
“Who the hell else would they be from?”
She laughs. “Your guess is as good as mine, but they aren’t from me. I love you, but I’m not in love with you.”
You groan, raking your hands down your face in frustration. If they aren’t from Cassie, then you really don’t fucking know.
“I assume there’s no card?”
“There is,” you sigh, pulling the card from the breast pocket of your scrubs. You lay it down on the counter. “It’s not signed. Lupe said the florist dropped them off at check in.”
Cassie stares at the words, her eyes narrowing in thought. “Was the florist a man by chance?”
“Uh - no. I don’t think so. Why?”
She snorts a laugh, turning her attention back to the clipboard in front of her. “Because that’s definitely man-writing.”
Man-writing. Man…handwriting. The words replay over and over again in your mind for the next few hours.
Cassie’s right. The handwriting does appear to be on the more masculine side. It isn’t illegible by any means - you can make out each word. But it’s somewhat scrawled and untidy in a way that reminds you of a stereotypical doctor’s scribble.
The thought occurs to you as you’re wheeling a patient to radiology. Man-writing. Doctor’s scribble.
Jack. Jack had been sitting at his desk this morning, just feet away as Cassie had so lovingly lectured you about treating yourself for receiving your first Daisy. She hadn’t been talking too loudly, and Jack had given no indication that he had been listening to your conversation, but it isn’t impossible. He could have overheard, even unintentionally.
But that’s crazy, right?
Jack wouldn’t send you such an extravagant bouquet of flowers. Would he? For that to even cross your mind as a possibility is simply wishful thinking.
Jack, who makes your brain short-circuit in ways that are entirely, utterly irrational every time he greets you in the mornings. Jack, whose mere occasional and fleeting presence makes you realize that it’s for the better that you typically work opposite shifts because you are unable to think straight when he’s near. Jack, who you’ve had a big, fat, embarrassing crush on ever since he looked you in the eye and told you that he would never forget what you did for Ellie.
For a while, you were in complete denial that the way you feel about him is indeed a crush.
At first, you chalked it up to something in between appreciation and admiration. Appreciation because he’d given you the go ahead to donate your blood to Ellie when Whitaker had tried to stop you, and admiration because he’s one of the best doctors that you’ve ever known.
Then, you even tried to blame the feelings on daddy issues, for lack of a better term, because that was easier than being honest with yourself about your feelings. An older man supporting you and vocalizing that he’s impressed with you? It makes perfect sense that would have a lasting emotional effect, seeing as your own father has the emotional range of a teaspoon.
But months have passed since the PittFest MCI and no amount of attempted rationalization or therapy has stopped your heart from racing a little faster anytime you’re in the same room as him.
⋆｡°✩
Approximately sixteen hours into your double shift, you’re remembering exactly why you hardly ever volunteer for double shifts.
The day had been a series of unfortunate events since the moment you opened your eyes - nearly twenty minutes later than you were supposed to. You had forgotten to plug your phone into the charger and it died during the night, so your alarm didn’t go off. You were in such a rush to make it to work on time that you left your lunch box sitting on your kitchen counter.
Then you realized your gas tank was damn near empty, so you had to stop for gas, and then you got stuck in traffic. So, you ended up being fifteen minutes late for work, anyway.
It didn’t even dawn on you that you had left your lunch box at home until earlier this afternoon, when you managed to find five minutes in between patients to try to scarf down a few bites of the leftover lasagna you had packed. You opened the break room fridge to find only the same old McDonald’s bag that has been sitting on the top shelf for the last month, a Tupperware of something that looks like a biohazard, and a camo lunchbox that definitely is not yours.
Therefore, it was cafeteria corn dogs for lunch. Now, it’s nearly midnight and your options are limited to vending machine snacks.
You end up settling on a bag of pistachios and a Slim Jim.
You’re eating the last few nuts when Jack walks into the break room.
He’s only a few hours into his shift and he already looks exhausted. Still as handsome as ever, but exhausted. You briefly wonder when his last full day off was, between being here at night and working with the swat team during the day.
He acknowledges you with a small nod and a tired smile before opening the fridge and pulling out the only lunch box inside.
“Please tell me that’s not your dinner.”
You glance up as you’re dumping the remaining pistachios into the palm of your hand. He’s watching you from over the fridge door, his eyes darting between you and the empty Slim Jim wrapper on the table. The back of your neck suddenly burns hot.
You huff a tired laugh. “I woke up late this morning. I was in a rush and forgot my lunch box. Then I got talked into working a double when Mateo called out, so…” You shrug. “I’m making do.”
He stares at you, a look that says “you’re joking, right?” on his face as he unzips the lunch box without looking away from you. Then, he closes the fridge door and walks to the table, standing opposite of where you sit. He reaches in the sack, pulling out a sandwich in a ziploc bag.
“Take this,” he says, sliding it across the table.
You shake your head immediately. “No, I’m okay. Really. I’ll survive until morning.” You lean forward, pushing the sandwich back across the table. “Thank you, though.”
You expect him to protest, but instead, he reaches back into the lunch box and pulls out something wrapped in wax paper.
“Do you like chocolate croissants?”
You snort a laugh. “I mean, yeah…but I’m fine. I don’t want to take your food from you—”
“I packed two,” he says, pulling out another croissant, now holding one in each hand. “Take one. If you don’t, I will eat both of them, and I do not need to eat both of them.”
You hesitate for a second longer, your stubbornness putting up a losing fight against the fact that you are, in fact, still starving.
“If you insist,” you sigh, reaching for it. He smiles, obviously satisfied with the small win.
“You won’t regret it. Best chocolate croissant you’ll ever have.”
You unwrap it, revealing the flaky croissant with chocolate oozing out of the layers. “Did you make them yourself?” You ask, bringing the pastry to your lips.
“God no.” He takes a seat in the empty chair across from you. “They’re from a bakery not too far from here. Madeleine’s. They’ve been one of my favorite places for years.”
You’re only halfway paying attention to what he’s saying because it tastes so fucking good. Your eyes close to savor the flavor, humming in approval.
“See? Told you.”
You nod, mouth still too full to verbally agree. He stretches his legs out under the table and watches you chew, his face relaxing in a way that makes you think your ongoing streak of bad luck today has finally come to an end.
⋆｡°✩
“Your secret admirer strikes again.”
Cassie’s voice makes you look up from your current task of restocking a crash cart. Your face must give away the surprise you feel at seeing the small brown paperboard box in her hands, because she looks thoroughly amused, unable to stop herself from giggling at you as she walks towards you.
“What the hell,” you sigh under your breath, taking a step closer to inspect the box. There’s a sticker on the lid that says Madeleine Bakery & Bistro. You instantly recognize the name to be a popular bakery here in Pittsburgh.
“Having any luck figuring out who it is?”
“Not really,” you grumble as you lift the lid. “I mean, I have a suspicion, but there’s no way—”
You freeze mid sentence.
“What?” Cassie asks, confused by your abrupt pause. “What is it?”
“Holy shit.”
Inside the box lies a half dozen chocolate croissants.
Right away, your thoughts go back to that night in the break room only a month or so ago. The night you were sixteen hours into a double shift and making a meal out of vending machine snacks when Jack insisted that you take one of his chocolate croissants - the best chocolate croissant ever, as he had claimed.
The chocolate croissant from Madeleine’s.
You’re staring at the pastries, mouth agape, when you notice a folded note taped to the inside of the box. You grab the note and unfold it, ignoring Cassie's continuous questions until you’ve read the words written in the exact same handwriting as the note that came with the flowers you received.
Tradition says that Daisy recipients get cinnamon rolls. I don’t know if you like cinnamon rolls, so these felt like a safer bet - J
“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on? What does it say?”
You exhale a laugh in disbelief and hold up the note to let her read it. Her eyes skim the words, her brows furrowing together. “Remember when I told you to lower your voice this morning? Who had been sitting just a few feet away from us?”
“J…” She murmurs, glancing back and forth between you and the note, the gears in her head turning as she pieces it together. Then, realization comes over her face - visible shock that mirrors your own.
“Jack?”
⋆｡°✩
Jack.
You were right. You couldn’t fully believe it even as you were staring down at a box filled with chocolate croissants.
No, you didn’t fully believe it until you read the note inside the box and saw that it was signed with a singular initial. J.
There’s no denying it now. The daisies and the chocolate croissants were both Jack’s doing, and there’s no combination of words in the English language to accurately describe exactly how that makes you feel. The only word that begins to come close is surreal.
Surreal because no one has ever sent you flowers. No one has ever sent you baked goods. Let alone both on the same fucking day, and to your job. No one has ever gone out of their way to celebrate you so intentionally. The level of thoughtfulness is completely foreign.
So foreign, in fact, that you aren’t even sure how to approach him about it.
Of course you’re going to say thank you. But should you call him? Text him? Wait until you see him in person again? He doesn’t work tonight, so you won’t see him at shift change, and then you’re off work for the next several days. You won’t see him again until the beginning of next week at the earliest, and that feels like an awkward amount of time to wait to say thank you.
Thanks to a work group chat that Robby made forever ago so everyone could have easy access to coworker’s phone numbers if anyone ever found themselves needing to get in touch with someone, you already have Jack’s number.
But you’ve never texted him outside of messages exchanged in the group chat on rare occasion, so when you type a message in a private message thread, you read it at least twenty times before actually pressing send.
Hi. I hope it’s okay I got your number from the work group chat. I didn’t want to wait until next week to tell you thank you…so thank you. For the flowers and the croissants. You really didn’t have to do that, but it means a lot.
And then, like a fucking idiot, you send a second text clarifying that it’s you, as if he wouldn’t be able to deduce that using context clues and common sense.
The message gets marked as read within a matter of seconds. Jesus, does this man ever sleep?
He types. And types. And then the dots at the bottom of your screen disappear. And then reappear, and he types some more. It’s silly and childish, but your heart is racing as you wait for a response to come through. You’re about to give up for the time being - you’ve been sitting in the bathroom for so long that you’re surprised no one has come looking for you yet - when a new message finally appears in the thread.
Of course it’s okay. You don’t have to thank me, but you’re welcome. Next time you’re planning to buy yourself flowers, just give me some advance notice.
Before you can even start to process that, a second text comes through.
How committed are you to your plans to go grocery shopping after work tonight?
Your phone falls out of your hands and clatters against the bathroom floor.
“Shit,” you hiss under your breath, scrambling to pick it up.
Don’t seem too eager. Don’t seem too eager. Don’t seem too eager. Be cool.
Well, my fridge is pretty bare bones right now, so I’m only committed to those plans if I want to eat dinner tonight.
The bathroom door creaks open then, drawing your gaze away from your phone screen as you press send. Dana’s voice calls your name. “You good in here? Or did you fall in?”
“Yeah!” You squeak. “I’m here. I’ll be right there. Sorry, I’m uh…little backed up.”
Dana is silent for an awkward, loaded second. Long enough for you to physically recoil at your choice of words. Really? Constipation? That’s your excuse?
“Alright,” she huffs, a noise somewhere between amusement and annoyance. You can so clearly picture the expression on her face at this moment. “Sorry I asked.”
The door shuts a moment later. When you glance back down, your heart palpitates at the realization that Jack replied. Simple and straight to the point.
I could take you to dinner instead, if that sounds better than grocery shopping and cooking for yourself after a twelve hour shift.
⋆｡°✩
You do let him take you to dinner, and it is far better than grocery shopping and cooking after a twelve hour shift.
You’d be lying if you were to say that you hadn’t been nervous. That your fingers didn’t shake as you replied saying yes, and as you gave him your address, and as you agreed upon a time for him to pick you up.
You’re out of practice as far as the dating game goes. When you first moved to Pittsburgh, you knew no one. You’ve made a few friends (okay, Cassie and a couple other coworkers), but for the most part, you’ve kept to yourself. Focused on your career, furthered your education by becoming a Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner, and spent your free time investing in your hobbies and interests.
There have been a few random dates here and there, but nothing worth remembering. Nothing that made you desire a second date. They either talked too much about themselves and didn’t seem interested in you as a person, or there simply wasn’t that telltale spark that one hopes to feel on a first date.
Basically the complete opposite of this date with Jack so far.
He picked you up - right on time. Opened the car door for you, and the door at the restaurant he decided on - one that happens to serve your favorite kind of food. You aren’t sure if that was a lucky guess on his part or if he’s overheard you talking about food that you enjoy at some point in the last few years and happened to remember, but either way, it gives you the kind of butterflies that you haven’t felt in a long, long time.
The fact that he looks even more handsome in clothes that aren’t scrubs certainly doesn’t hurt, either.
Jack sets his drink down, fingers tapping lightly against the table like he wants to say something but can’t find the right words. His mouth forms a nervous smile, but he doesn’t break eye contact. He hesitates for a split-second more before speaking. “I have a small confession to make.”
Your stomach flutters, suddenly as nervous as he appears to be. “What is it?” You ask softly.
“The day of PittFest…” He trails off, shaking his head slightly. “You inspired me.”
Your brows raise in surprise. Despite your actions during PittFest being the reason you received a Daisy Award - which lead to Jack sending you flowers, which then lead to the two of you being here right now - neither of you have actually mentioned that day until now.
“I’m O-Negative,” he continues simply. “I’ve donated before. Plenty of times. But that day, in the middle of all that chaos…you didn’t even hesitate. You didn’t care about rules, or protocol, or repercussions. All you cared about was saving a life. And it inspired me to do the same.”
The admission takes you completely off guard. “It did?”
He nods. “After Ellie stabilized, I donated. Drew from my femoral vein while working on another patient. Just like you.”
For a moment, you can only stare at him, warmth settling into your bones at the revelation. “I didn’t know that,” you murmur.
He gives a small shrug. “I just thought that now would be a good time to tell you. You deserve that award. For acting selflessly and saving Ellie’s life, of course. But you also…made me a better doctor that day.”
Your throat tightens with emotion. You reach across the small table, placing your hand on top of his and giving it a gentle squeeze that you hope conveys just how much his words mean. “Thank you,” you whisper. You don’t pull your hand away. “I have a small confession of my own,” you add with a nervous laugh.
“Oh, yeah?” He places his other hand on top of yours, sandwiching yours between his own and rubbing lazy circles over your skin with the pad of his thumb. “What’s that?”
You take a deep breath before speaking. “I’m not really used to this. Being celebrated. By myself or by others.” You glance down at where your hands are joined because it’s easier than looking him in the eye while you try to find the right words. Words you’ve never really said out loud. “I usually just do what I need to do and move on. I don’t let myself dwell on it for long enough to wonder if anyone else is going to be proud of me. It’s easier that way. Saves me from a lot of disappointment.”
“I only told Cassie I would buy myself flowers because I knew she’d keep nagging me about it if I didn’t do something,” you admit with a humorless laugh. “I wasn’t really going to.”
Jack remains quiet, giving you time and space to say whatever you want to say. His grip on your hand tightens ever so slightly. Just enough to let you know that he’s absorbing every word.
“But then you sent flowers. And the croissants.” You look back up with a shy smile. “And it caught me off guard. In a good way. I didn’t realize just how much I needed someone to notice me. Until you did.”
He leans forward, the tea light candle in the center of the table making his hazel eyes twinkle. The way he looks at you, so intensely and so sincere, makes you feel seen in a way that is entirely unfamiliar but not at all unwelcome.
“I would very much like to keep showing you just how much I notice you. If you’ll let me.”
And for the first time maybe ever in your life, you think you’ll let yourself want that, too.
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thank you for reading!! if you comment/reblog i love you so much <3
FELL IN LOVE WITH HER IN STAGES; dr jack abbot x dr!reader
a part two to THE FIVE STAGES but can also technically be read independently
words: 12.4k
content warnings: 18+ smutty!! medical procedures, mentions of death, my fluffy cutie pies
notes: sorta kinda based off of a couple lines in this banger
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Jack Abbot used to despise sleep. Even if he had managed to get himself to fall asleep, there was no way he had ever stayed asleep. It was quite ironic, really. A doctor, who knew the very real and serious ramifications of a bad sleep schedule, who never slept anyways.
It wasn't his night shift sleep schedule that kept him up, though. It was the nightmares.
It was the sand in his mouth after the IED that took his leg went off. The high pitched, loud ringing in his ears. The puddle in his pants. He had been so naive. He thought he had peed himself. He hadn't realized it was his own blood, bone, and flesh blown to smithereens until hours later - on a makeshift operating table while falling in and out of consciousness.
It was the memories of his buddies who lost far more than a limb. The wails of their families at their services. The buttons falling off of his formal army uniform. Worn to one too many funerals held for people who passed far too young.
It was his late wife. Although, those ones were a welcome visit, they still stung the worst of all. It left him with the kind of bone heavy sadness that felt like an excruciating hangover when he woke up.
If you would've told the Jack Abbot of five years ago that now he relished sleep, even looked forward to going to bed, he would have called you a liar. He would have never believed that he could fall asleep and stay asleep at the drop of a hat.
But it was true. On one condition, though. He could sleep soundly as long as she was in his bed. In his arms.
They had only officially been together for about four months but the second he had gotten a taste of what it was like to be with her, share a space with her - he couldn't give it up.
He had practically begged her to move in with him when her lease had been up at the end of the summer. Not that she had needed much convincing. Her only hang up had been not wanting to leave her roommate, Dr Ellis, high and dry with her half of the rent. So Jack paid a year's worth up front. Now that both her and Dr Ellis were on attending salaries, that was more than enough to get her through. They were both still thanking him profusely for it.
He felt like he should be thanking them. Now Jack and her shared an address and most importantly a bed. A bed where they got exceptional sleep - unless involved in other exceptional extracurricular activities.
Her back was to his shirtless chest, her hands tucked under her cheek and his arm slung over her waist. He was in one of those lucid states where he was asleep but he knew he was in a dream. He was hoping this dream wasn't a far off reality, though.
Oh yeah, he dreams now. No more nightmares.
A normal person probably wouldn't have even called what Jack had dreamt about that night anything particularly special. But it was to him.
With the leaves changing and Halloween only a week or so away, he had been having this dream all month - the details becoming sharper with each one.
He dreamt of them married, of course. A large, sparkling rock on her left ring finger. Probably one he at least had to get some help in picking out. She was the stylish one in the relationship - not him.
He dreamt of their new house. One big enough for the kids he dreamt about to grow up in. Not too big, though. Still homey and very much, unmistakably theirs.
In this particular dream, they had twins. One perfect boy and one perfect girl. It was Halloween and they were barely toddlers - dressed up in the same Harry Potter costumes as their parents.
He made her some cocktail she had found on Pinterest called 'Witches Brew' even though it was really just a festive Moscow Mule. He'd put it into portable mugs for them to sip on as they strolled the neighborhood, trick or treating with their kids.
Their kids had manners like their mom. Said please and thank you, all the time, not only when trick or treating. One would get tired way too early like their dad and retreat to their warm stroller while they waited for the other to finish up at the neighbors' doorstep.
It wasn’t cold outside - simply crisp. As they waited, he turned to her and opened up his arms, letting her cuddle into his chest. He wrapped her up in his coat, knowing she purposely hadn’t brought one so he would do this. He loved it. He loved her.
She kissed his collarbone, murmured an 'I love you'. He blushed. Then tugged at the Hogwarts school girl skirt she had on. It felt like a super power that he didn't even have to say anything to make her blush. She whispered 'Perv' in his ear and he cracked a laugh, blushing even more at the feel of her smile against his neck.
Then their perfect baby skipped down the neighbors' yard to them - beaming with pride at their new candy. Neither of them had ever acted so excited to see a Crunch bar in their life.
He had become more conscious than not. It was quiet outside. Wind softly knocking at their bedroom windows. The sun was low. Barely up - letting Jack know he had woken up before the alarm he had set for her. Dr Al-Hashimi had called her last night with the flu, asking her to fill in the rare day shift today.
He snuggled himself closer to her, tightening his grip around her waist and tangling their legs. His hand traveled up under his shirt that she was wearing. Stopped right below her boob, at her rib, feeling for her steady heartbeat. The thud lulled him to sleep every night and woke him up every morning. The beat of her heart was her literal lifeline and his metaphorical one.
He wouldn’t tell her about the dream. He didn't want to pressure her with the kid stuff. They had already moved pretty fast. And of course he would help as much as humanly possible, but with kids she would be doing most of the sacrifice - her body, her time, her hormones - everything. He'd like to have kids but he would be okay otherwise. It was up to her. As long as he had her - he was perfectly happy.
He indulged himself a bit. Moved his hand to splay against her stomach, imagining the same thud of a baby heartbeat. He relished in it for a moment and then went back up to cradle her rib.
He was content to stop there - was going to. Until her hand intertwined with his and placed his palm over her boob. Her nipple was already hard and a breathy moan tumbled from her parted lips.
Jack could take a hint - slowly kneading her boob as he placed soft kisses down her neck. Her hand reached behind her, finding its home in his curls and tugging just barely - like his chest wasn't already as close to her back as he could get. He rucked her tshirt up to give him better access to her tits as he planted his thigh between her legs. She was fucking soaked all the way through her panties.
"Dreaming about me?" Jack let out, gruff and far less awake than he thought he would sound.
"You have no idea." She breathed, needy.
"Trust me. I do." He grunted, pressed his already hard cock to her ass. She whined as he twisted her nipple.
"Sensitive, hm?" He mumbled into her neck, sucking lightly.
"I wonder why." She sassed, alluding to last night. Jack couldn't help that he liked marking her where no one else could see but him.
"Mm sorry, baby. Lemme make it up to you."
He flipped her over, her back hitting the mattress as he hovered. He lowered slowly, dropping down to suck on her tits. Keeping to himself that he was imagining them full. The same thing he was imagining about her stomach. He pressed down on it to stop her from squirming against his thigh.
"Patience." He rasped against her chest, "You gonna be good for me?”
"I am gonna be late." She tried to rock herself against his thigh again but he held her hips steady, tilted his chin up to look her in the eyes.
"I think we have time for a little breakfast in bed, don't you think?"
"No, I don't thi-" She moaned loudly as his tongue licked up her pulsing cunt, her vision blurring. He had kept eye contact as he kissed down her body, settled his face between her thighs, tugging her panties down with him and wasting no time in getting his mouth on her dripping center.
He made a mental note to ask her later what the hell she had been dreaming about. She was already halfway to her first orgasm and he had barely touched her properly yet.
He spit on her clit before tugging it gently between his teeth. This was his favorite view, her writhing above him. Tugging on his hair and pretty little noises falling from her lips. Jack slipped two fingers into her as his tongue swirled around her. Her drawn out wispy whines gave way to more concrete, high-pitched and quicker moans.
The second his fingers felt that familiar pressure and his tongue felt the same distinct quiver in the bundle of nerves, he pressed his tongue flat against it. He let her ride out her first orgasm against his tongue and fingers, pulling her hips down further onto his face, making her chase her high rather than run from it.
She had other plans, hurriedly tugging him back up to her. He barely got out a rough, "Ya taste fucking incredible, sweetheart." before she was slotting her mouth against his own.
He groaned into her. The thought of her tasting herself on his tongue really did it for him. His hand caressed her thigh, hooking it over his own hip. He squeezed her ass as she scratched at his freckled back. She reached to pull his boxers down. His erection slapped against his stomach as she lined herself up.
Jack whistled out a low, mocking laugh and stilled her hips, "What'd I say about patience, baby? You forget who's in charge here or what?"
He flipped her around, back to their original position - her back to his broad chest. Except this time he had one hand kneading her tit while the other put her in a headlock. His arm wrapped around her neck and his bicep pressed deliciously against her throat.
"Jack, c'mon. I am gonna be late."
"I know my good girl can be much more polite than that." His hand trailed to her clit, rubbing the sensitive bundle as she continued to whine.
"Need to feel you. Need it so bad, c'mon."
She rocked her hips back against him again, hoping for some kind of relief but he stopped her. Landed a hard slap to her ass before going back to her clit.
"Thought you were gonna be late?" Jack mused, lips preening in satisfaction. All he got was whiney babbles in return.
His hand traveled up to splay against her cheek, turning her face towards his own so he could press his lips onto hers. Her tongue found its way into his mouth almost immediately. Jack would’ve stopped and enjoyed it for a moment more if he didn’t know exactly what she was trying to do.
Her hips rolled again, desperately searching for any friction. He pulled away from her swollen lips, pursed his own as he slapped the tip of his hard cock against her dripping cunt. She whimpered at the sensation.
A trail of spit connected their lips, his words skidded roughly down her spine, “For someone who is so damn smart you’re sure having a tough time listening, huh?”
He dragged the tip of his cock against her again. Slower this time. Torturous. His tone was sickly sweet and bordering the kind of condescension he knew turned her on, “I’ll give you what you need if you show me you can listen. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”
All she could manage was a whine and a barely there nod in response, her eyes fluttering closed. Jack swiped his thumb over her bottom lip, gently tugging her mouth open, “Eyes on me, baby.”
Her dazed eyes slowly came back to his own, a cocky smile spreading on Jack’s lips as they did. Not even 7 AM and he had her looking at him like that. He was one lucky bastard.
“Swallow.” He ordered, the same way he would if they were at work. The commanding way he knew got her worked up. He dribbled his own spit onto her tongue, cock hardening at the feeling of her throat swallowing against his headlock.
“Good job, baby. Knew my smart girl could listen.” He cooed, soothingly.
He placed a gentle kiss to her forehead and then her lips, his hand released her face and traveled back down to rub her clit. His tip rested right at her entrance.
She writhed against him, increasingly desperate for contact. Jack teasingly tutted at her best he could. He loved hearing her beg for him but he could only keep his composure for so long. He wanted her just as bad - if not more.
"Say please." He demanded.
"Please, please, please Jack." She begged. It sounded like music to his ears.
"There's my good girl. There she is." Jack murmured as he pressed kisses into her hair.
He couldn't keep his groan contained as he slid into her, "Ugh fuck mm fucking love you so much."
His pace was torturously slow for the both of them. He could feel her frustration in the way her soft, wet walls were gripping him. She tipped her head down and lightly bit onto his bicep at the stretch of him. That made Jack's head dizzy.
He dragged her free hand under his own and stopped at her sopping clit, "Touch yourself for me, baby. Wanna play with these pretty tits."
Her moan vibrated against his bicep, slobbery with her spit as he went back to kneading her tits, twisting and pinching at her nipples. He could tell she was close by the way she was squeezing him and the pace at which she was rubbing herself. God knew Jack was always fucking close when it came to her. All she had to do was breathe and he was turned on.
He knew he wasn’t gonna last long. He never did in the morning and she already had him so impossibly pent up.
"C'mon baby, want you to come with me. Can you be a good girl and do that for me?" Jack barely got the words out, his own release shuddering through him at the same time as hers, panting out yes yes yes as she did.
He collapsed down onto her boobs, placing feather light kisses on them. He didn't even bother to pull out as he wrapped his arms around her, laying right on top of her.
She pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, playing with his curls as she huffed, "How am I supposed to go to work after that?"
"Easy. You're not." Jack grumbled.
"I gotta go, baby. I am gonna be late."
"Okay. Go." Jack knew he was being petulant. She couldn't go anywhere with all of his body weight on top of her.
"Jack."
"Yes, my love?" He acted innocent, pressing more lingering kisses across her chest as he hummed.
"You're not playing fair." She whined.
"Well it's not fair that Robby gets to spend the day with you and I don't." Jack was not above pouting if it meant they got to spend the day together as they originally had planned.
"You'll see me later."
Yes, he would see her later. At the department Halloween party after shift. The department that had no idea they were actually together other than their respective best friends, Robby and Ellis.
"Yeah, but I have to behave there." He groaned at the torturous thought.
She was an attending now. They technically didn't have to hide but they figured it didn't hurt to push off going to HR. They were afraid it would impede on them being able to work the same shifts. Neither of them were ready to give that up. He didn't think they ever would be. They hoped they wouldn’t have to.
They were more than capable of keeping it professional at work. Honestly, he was probably worse the past couple years when he thought he was silently pining over her than he was now. He used to be so desperate for any time or interaction or attention he could get from her at work because that was all he got. But now he had her at home too.
"Honestly, one of us is bound to get us caught eventually." He didn’t miss her heavy implication that she meant him.
"Oh, I know you're not talking about me." Jack feigned offense and squeezed at her sides, starting to tickle her. A big grin spread across his face as the sounds of her laughter reverberated off the walls of their bedroom.
The trill of the alarm went off. Jack cursed himself for being a good boyfriend and setting it for her the night prior after she’d fallen asleep. He reluctantly moved off of her to reach for his phone and shut it off, "Saved by the bell." He grumbled.
He cleaned them both up with the tshirt she had slept in before she lazily rose from the bed. Then she gently helped him into his wheelchair. He didn't need the help. He had done it for years without her. But she had taught him to learn to accept the help. The same way he did for her. Because she loved him. The same way he did her.
They brushed their teeth together before she headed for a quick shower and Jack slipped to the kitchen to pack her breakfast. He knew she'd be rushing out the door and she wasn't missing a meal on his watch. He purposely didn't pack her lunch so he had an excuse to swing by and see her during the day.
He wheeled himself down the hallway to their shared bedroom. He could partially see her stood in front of their dresser, donned in a large tshirt she had thrown on after her shower in lieu of her robe being in the washer.
She was tugging on panties when he stopped in the doorway. She peeled off the tshirt next, leaving her in nothing but her underwear. Jesus Christ Jack thought. No wonder they never got anywhere on time.
"Oh and I am the one not playing fair?" Jack nodded his chin at her naked frame.
She balled the shirt and threw it at him, laughing.
"You are such a drama queen."
"I love your brother and all but I would much rather go golfing with you."
"Well, think of it this way - at least you'll actually finish the entire round without me there." She pulled her scrubs on and passed him in the doorway. Jack wheeled himself around to follow her.
Her and Jack hadn't started golfing because they were good at it. Quite the opposite, actually. They had started because he needed a hobby that wasn't life endangering. They had continued golfing because she liked wearing cute, short golf skirts and Jack really liked watching her in them.
They usually made it about halfway through the round before one of them would get a little too handsy in the golf cart. Jack would make some dumb joke about engaging in 'fore-play' and then they'd be dragging each other home. No recollection, or really care, for whatever the score was. It was quite the understatement that Jack was happy he had swapped the SWAT hobby for golf.
She flashed around their kitchen. Gathering the bag Jack had packed for her - full of snacks and her various beverages she swore she needed to make it through every shift. He watched her fondly, savoring her while he had her. Before the Pitt sucked her in for the day.
He handed her her coffee as she plopped herself down on his lap for a moment, "Thank you." She nodded to all the stuff he had done for her that morning and placed a sweet kiss on his lips.
Jack saw his opportunity and he took it. Securing her in his lap with one arm wrapped around her waist, the other cradling her cheek. She let him deepen the kiss for a minute before she pressed her hand to his chest, murmured against his lips, "I love you but if I let this go any further then I really am gonna be late and I would like to keep this job."
She reluctantly got up. He reluctantly let her. She was a flurry of 'love you' and 'thank you' and a 'have fun at golf!' before she was out the door. Her car rumbled alive in the garage and he accepted defeat.
Her loud pop music blasted for a split second before it went quiet. The door to their garage was opened again as she burst through it, "I knew you couldn't resist me!" Jack teased.
She playfully rolled her eyes as she snagged her badge off the counter in dramatic fashion, thankful she didn't forget it. She pecked him on the lips one more time and then the house was quiet again.
Jack checked his phone for the time. Only like twelve more hours till he got to see her again.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Jack was latching on the special prosthetic he wore for golf when his phone lit up with a text message from the Pitt ED group chat. It was from Robby.
From Robby: Documenting history - she is wearing the right uniform for once in her life. Only took like five years.
Attached was a photo of her. She sat at the hub, chatting with Donnie and ignoring Robby as she flipped her middle finger at his camera.
She had a very well known affinity for wearing anything but the black scrub top that was technically required for all physicians in the PTMC emergency department.
Jack let it slide on the night shift. Partially because that was the unspoken rule of being saddled with working the night shift. You got to wear what you wanted, your stethoscope could go around your neck, and you could eat at the hub without Dana castrating you.
But mostly for selfish reasons. She usually replaced the black scrub top with a much more form fitting Lululemon short sleeve. And if Jack was lucky and it was cold, she wore the extra sweatshirt he would bring for her. For years he pretended he brought it for himself but he ran hot.
He admitted that to her about a week into dating. She then confessed to never bringing her own sweatshirt, even though she ran cold, because she liked wearing his.
Her hair was in its usual half up half down style, clipped back and out of her face. Her undershirt was a bright, spring yellow - one of Jack's favorite colors on her. Her badge was tangled and clipped backwards against her shirt pocket. Another night shift habit. There had been one too many weirdly inappropriate patients who took a name badge as an invitation to look their doctor up through social media and ask them out.
A dopey smile tugged on his lips at the sight of her. He felt like a dork, grinning at his phone screen alone in their living room, but he couldn't help himself. Not when it came to her.
Jack Abbot loved an image
From Santos: Abbot ghosting the group chat for months and coming back just to love that picture is very on brand
From Shen: Fork found in kitchen
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Jack was supposed to be having a relaxing day at the golf course. The eight year old boy who climbed up on top of a golf cart and fell off of it onto hard pavement - had other plans.
"Kid needs an airway before he arrests." Jack announced to the room. He knew she knew that but sometimes muscle memory took over his mouth in the trauma bay.
It earned Jack a look from her. Silently asking, 'Do you think I am stupid?'. He would never make that mistake. She was the smartest person he had ever met.
They worked in tandem - like they always did. Jack called for broselow tape, a pedes cart, and to set up suction. She called for a five and half ET tube, 30 of rock and 50 of ketamine - causing Whitaker to pause his rapid movements.
"You're gonna paralyze?" He asked.
"Yep." She gloved up as she answered.
"If we can't intubate...we crike?"
"He is too young for a crike."
"Needle crike?" Whitaker suggested, his voice wavering as he realized both their options and the kid’s time were very scarce.
"Can't ventilate through that." She answered calmly. Like she had access to a solution no one else did.
"Sats down to 78." Jack interrupted. This was her trauma bay right now but again, muscle memory. He couldn't help himself. He loved working with her. Even if he was technically off of the clock.
"I need an 11 blade, Kelly, and a pedes bougie, please. One quick look and then we cut." She directed sharply but also politely. It was not lost on Jack or the rest of the staff that she never forgot her pleases and thank you's no matter the stress of the situation.
They all muttered a low fuck when the scan came up blank. Jack studied her - trying to read her next move. Normally, he could, but right now it seemed like the kid was running out of options…and time.
"Okay - towel roll between the shoulder blades, please." She requested pointedly.
"Heart rate down to 49 - headed into cardiac arrest! Trake's gonna take 20 minutes. This kid isn't gonna last 60 seconds!" Robby trilled, needing no introduction as he burst into the trauma bay.
Jack bit back his laugh at the eye roll she gave Robby’s dramatics.
"Thank you, Captain Obvious. That is why we are doing a slash trake."
The air was sucked out of the room. She said it calmly. As if it was something they did everyday. Like it was as easy as an IV. They all froze, stared at her in disbelief.
"Don't know it." Jack admitted, breaking the silence. He could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on him. Shocked that he of all people didn't know the procedure. Especially, because she seemed to. He had been her attending for the previous four years. If she had learned this from somewhere - they just figured it had been him.
"Me neither. Boss?" Whitaker asked Robby who had taken up residence at the head of the bed.
Robby reluctantly shrugged. Seemingly thinking 'What the hell'. They had no other options, "Nope. Show me what you got, kid."
Not that she needed his permission, but she took that as her directive. Whitaker handed her the blade and in she went. Unhurried but precise. Slow is steady and steady is fast. Jack always told her that.
"Pull up the trachea between your thumb and middle finger. Vertical incision right over the trachea. Vertical. Not horizontal or you transect the trachea and cut the jugular veins."
"That's a lot of blood." Whitaker went sheet white.
"Now it's a tactile procedure. 2 centimeter incision through the tracheal rings. Finger in the trachea. Bougie into the airway. Thoughts on what's next, Dr Whitaker?"
Jack knew she noticed Whitaker's uneasiness and was purposely keeping him engaged in the job at hand with that question. That’s what made her such a great teacher. Usually people as smart as her were not good teachers. But she was. She was perceptive and empathetic and patient. Knew when to be firm but never unkind. It was one of the many, many things Jack loved about her.
"Insert the ET tube into the trachea."
She nodded her approval, "Suction. There is lots of blood in the airway."
Jack watched her study the pool of blood as it dried up. Diligently making sure it was gone before she spoke, "Okay, bag him. Check the CO2."
Her wish was his command. Jack answered, "Sats coming up. In the 80s. Bilateral breath sounds. End tidal CO2 is 70.”
“That's crazy high." Whitaker's voice shook as he spoke.
"It'll come down. Tie down the tube, control all the bleeders. Spray an amp of epi on a stack of four by fours." She showed not one sign of worry as she lifted her blood soaked, gloved hands from the kid's throat. Carefully peeling them off herself so as to not get blood on her new yellow undershirt.
"Okay, Sats are up to the 90s. Good. CO2's in the 50s. Good heart rate." Robby closed his eyes and rubbed his temples as he spoke. Jack couldn't remember the last time he had heard Robby sound that relieved.
A beat of silence and then, Whitaker blew out a huge, rattling breath. Wiping sweat off of his forehead, "You forgot the last step - change your underwear. Holy shit!"
The nerves and worry in the room fell to relief - everyone let out an exasperated, albeit tired, laugh.
"What the hell do you guys get up to on the night shift!?" Robby chuckled, hand swiping over his beard as he shook his head in disbelief.
"That was all her!" Jack shot his hands up in surrender, then pretended to bow down towards her, a proud smile plastered across his face.
"When have you done that before?" Robby asked her, genuinely curious.
"I haven't.”
Jack could have dropped to a knee and proposed right then.
The nonchalance dripping from her tone paired with the slightly cocky but mostly confident smirk on her face took him back to her first shift of her intern year. When she did an emergency reboa for the first time unattended and in the middle of the hallway during a mass casualty incident.
Jack remembered trying to look pissed off when Langdon told him. He knew he had to reprimand her - no matter how thoroughly impressed he was with her.
He wasn't even sure if he could reprimand her and she hadn't even been here for one full shift yet. That was bad. He had to prove to himself he could do it.
He marched over to her, uncharacteristically avoiding any eye contact because he knew he would fold the second she looked up at him. He leaned over her shoulder as she worked. Not wanting to make a show of it, whispered huskily, sternly into her ear, "You never should have done that on your own, ever.”
He expected her to look up at him with a scared expression. He was almost bracing himself for it. He'd reprimanded enough interns to know the kind of puppy pouty look that was coming his way. Usually, it would not phase him. But he knew with her - it would rip his heart out.
So when her eyes lifted to his, almost in amusement, and her full lips he definitely was not staring at quirked up into a barely there smirk - he was surprised. And that was to say the least.
Her curt nod had indicated her understanding but he was so thrown off by her atypical reaction he had to be sure. He leaned closer, their arms brushing, "Do you understand?"
She nodded again, kept her same expression steady like she saw right through him. Like she knew he was impressed but couldn't encourage her behavior because he was in charge. No matter how well they both knew she had performed that procedure.
She was lightyears ahead of every other intern in her year, almost everyone in the department. She was too humble to explicitly say it but they both knew it.
Jack could see the full grin fighting to appear on her pretty face. She was hiding it. Selfishly and probably unprofessionally, he wanted to see it, "But that was pretty badass. You saved a life. Good job."
And there it was. That smile. Coy and even more captivating than he remembered it being from that interview a couple months back.
It took everything in him to walk away then - but he did. Backed away like she was a hot stove he shouldn't touch. Jack knew he was in trouble the day she walked in for her residency interview but her first shift - that was the day he began free fall.
She had teased him about it a month into dating. They were stumbling into Jack's house after a nice dinner, all teeth and tongue. A little tipsy and very handsy. She had on a little black dress and had been rubbing her foot up his leg under the table all throughout dinner. How was Jack expected to keep his hands off of her?
Jack had paused his assault of his lips onto her neck and asked her if he had been too stern, genuine concern filling his face. She laughed. Said she had seen him be much more forbidding at work. Which he refuted with, "Yeah, but not to you. Never to you."
Then he pressed her back up against the hallway wall, tried to slot his mouth back on hers before she interrupted him, that same roguish grin playing on her lips.
"You literally told me good job and that it was badass."
"You have selective hearing."
"Or you have selective remembering." She practically purred in his ear, as she unbuttoned his slack pants, pulled down the zipper, and stroked his rock hard length through his boxers.
"So, I wasn't too harsh?" He was struggling to speak through the rough groan that reverberated up through his chest.
"No - it was hot."
Then she slipped out from under his hold, leaving him in the dust. Sauntered towards the bedroom as she slipped the dress straps down her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
Jack ran a hand through his silver curls. He didn’t think it was physically possible but he somehow had gotten even harder now that he knew she hadn't had anything on under that dress the whole time they had been at dinner. He could not believe this was his life.
Her words had caught him by surprise but once he had collected himself, he hurriedly followed her into the bedroom. She was already spread out for him. Leaning against his pillows - her hair a little mussed from him tugging at it, her center glistening, her lip combination smudged from Jack kissing her swollen the whole Uber ride home, and her eyes half lidded.
"I was..." Jack debated on what word to use as he stopped at the foot of the bed, admiring her. In awe, turned on, inspired - he could go on forever.
He settled on, “…impressed but I couldn’t necessarily send the message to the rest of the interns that they could start doing rogue reboas. And I was trying to prove to myself that I could treat you the same as everyone else."
She bit her lip as she giggled, teasing, “Oh yeah, how’d that work out for you?”
He held her eye contact as he kissed her ankle tenderly, before settling in between her legs, draping his body weight over hers and growling against her lips, “I’d say pretty damn good.”
Whitaker's voice took Jack out of the fond memory and back into the trauma bay.
"What do you mean you haven't done that before?" Whitaker questioned, in awe. Welcome to the club, Jack thought to himself.
"Well, not really. I just practiced in the sim lab when I was at Stanford." She shrugged, her tone respectful but almost bored - like she didn't see the big deal. Like she could have been doing something as simple as ordering lunch.
She pushed out the door with her shoulder, Jack hot on her heels, "Marry me? Please?"
"You know if you missed me so much - you could've just brought me lunch."
"Who said I didn't?"
She raised her eyebrows at him as he tugged a sandwich out from his back pocket and placed it on the hub counter in front of them. It was her favorite one from the country club's cafe.
"That's been in your pocket this whole time?”
"Well, we were a little busy. You were a little busy fucking rocking that shit in there. That was the hottest thing I've ever seen!" Jack hissed excitedly. He was trying to keep his voice low so no one would hear him but he wanted to shout how much he loved her from the goddamn roof.
"You have something seriously wrong with you to be turned on in the trauma bay.” She crossed her arms over her chest, leaning in closer to whisper in his ear.
“With you running around here - it wouldn’t be the first time.” He winked. He knew that always got her. She had a mutually beneficial habit of kissing on his crows feet before they went to sleep every night.
“Is that a double entendre?” His favorite little smirk of hers played on her lips. They had both gotten the other hot and bothered in the trauma bay on numerous occasions. Both intentionally and unintentionally.
“Your words - not mine, sweetheart. Now eat, please.”
She got one bite in before she was interrupted by Dana yelling about how not eating at the hub was another rule the night shift didn’t bother to follow.
They all laughed when Dana teased that Jack was a bad influence on her. Jack could read his girlfriend’s thoughts as she grinned to herself - if only Dana knew the half of it.
She got one more bite in before Javadi was tapping her on the shoulder, her big brown eyes filled with tears.
Jack studied his girlfriend closely as her face dropped - her lips curving into a frown and a crease notched between her brows. She nodded solemnly and her own eyes started to water as she followed Javadi away without another word. The pair seemed to have had a whole conversation with just their eyes.
Jack went sick to his stomach. For better or for worse, his girl did not cry often. She was unhealthily good at being able to handle the kind of trauma they experienced in the emergency department everyday.
He hadn't planned on hanging around for the rest of her shift. She was barely halfway through it and he had a text on his phone from her brother asking if 'Dr Sexy' wanted to be picked up from the ED so they could finish their golf round.
His eyes followed her across the ED. Her usual poised posture was replaced by a slight slump of her shoulders and a dragging of her feet. Her hand shook slightly as she grabbed the door handle. Jack's mind was made up as soon as she disappeared behind the patient’s door. He wasn't going anywhere until he knew she was okay.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Jack was running out of excuses for why he was choosing to stay for a slow shift that he was not scheduled to be on when he finally spotted her at a hub computer. She rubbed a hand over her face, trying to hide the fact that she was wiping tears from her eyes. Noone else would've noticed but Jack knew her too well for that.
Jack saddled up next to her as she charted. He waited a beat, checking their surroundings before deeming them alone. He grabbed her hand that rested on her thigh. The other was busy on the computer mouse.
He just held it for a moment. Waiting to see if she would say anything. He didn't want to push her. Especially in the middle of the department. She was already on the verge of tears. His heart ached for her.
He gently squeezed her hand under the desk, dipped his head, looking for eye contact “Hey.” he murmured low.
“I’m fine.” Was all she gave him. Not turning her gaze from the computer for a second.
“Look at me.”
“I’m fine.” She grit out again. Still not even sparing him a glance. It was killing him.
“Sweetheart-“
She turned her head to him, eyes glossy and as quick as one tear dropped she wiped it away. Jack hadn’t even had a chance to lift his hand nevertheless do it himself. She stood up, pushing her chair back roughly. A juxtaposition to the way she gently, finally squeezed his hand back before icing him out again, "I am fine."
And then she was gone. Off to another patient, Jack presumed. Again, he studied her as she walked away. What the hell was going on?
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Jack had taken a picture of the board and was studying it in the break room. He was trying to find out which patient had his girl so upset and what had happened when he heard it. Heard her. Using a tone he was thankfully, incredibly unfamiliar with.
She always teased him about his eavesdropping habit. Called him Dr Nosy. He justified himself listening in on whatever this was from the break room doorway in the name of protecting her. From what? He had no idea.
"What the hell was that?" She hissed.
Oh, she was pissed.
"That was teaching her a lesson about why we don’t bring our personal issues within these walls.”
She laughed. He didn’t.
“Oh, you’re serious?” Her tone was dry and dark and Jack was scared for Robby even if Robby wasn't scared for himself.
“Why the fuck would I be joking?!”
“Open your eyes. You’re the poster child for bringing personal issues into this ER. Is it not weird to you that as the chief of the department and residency program - you haven’t been asked for one letter of recommendation this year?"
Robby took a beat. Jack could tell by his stuttering that he hadn’t even noticed.
“I didn’t. I didnt- I don’t. That's not true. I’ve written-“
“Who’s?”
“I don’t know - I think -“
“I don’t want to hear it. All I wanna hear is you apologizing to Samira. Unless you wanna berate me for my mommy issues too? She’s dead but I’m sure you’d be able to find something.” Her words dripped with sarcasm.
To keep quiet, Jack had to clamp his hand over his mouth at that one. He forgot how feisty she could get. She could shoot to kill with her words sometimes. Never directed at Jack, of course. Or anyone without good reason. That was how Jack knew Robby deserved whatever he was getting right now. She wasn’t like this often. Jack wondered what Robby had done. Didn't matter - Jack would always be on her side.
“Hey! I know you’re a junior attending now but I am still the chief of this department!”
Robby's gruff, raised tone and the emphasis of 'junior' made Jack want to step out from his hiding place. Who the fuck cared what her title was - she was the best doctor in this place. But he stayed put. He knew she wouldn't be happy with him trying to fight her battles for her.
“Well, here is an idea - start acting like it.” Jack admired the way her voice never wavered or even raised, despite Robby's insistent pushing - hoping she would stoop down to his level.
“Robby!” Jack heard Perlah call, distantly.
“I’ll apologize to Samira. I was out of line. Are we done here? Are we good?”
“Yeah, sure." Her tone was snippy but her cadence was languid. Jack could picture her pretending to pick at her nails just to look bored and get under Robby's skin, "As long as you apologize.”
“Robby!” Perlah again, closer this time.
Jack didn't hear footsteps. Robby seemed to have stayed right in place.
“Are you waiting for an invitation?" She questioned him, "Go!”
“No apology?” Robby asked. Jack could hear the cocky ass smile through the door.
“For what? Pulling your head out of your ass? Over my dead body, Robby."
They both huffed a laugh at that. Knowing the use of his nickname was a truce. A proverbial olive branch. If they were going to run this department together for the rest of the day - they couldn’t be fighting while doing so.
“You’re starting to sound like Jack.” Robby's voice sounded more distant now. He must've been moving towards wherever Perlah needed him.
“Jack is nicer.” She wasted no time in answering. A joke laced with a bit of a warning.
Jack was nicer than her when it came to Robby. And he probably shouldn't have been. As Jack was working through his own crap, he had let Robby get away with a lot of bullshit over the years.
He wasn't proud of it. He couldn't change the past. But he could change how he acted moving forward. And that was what he had begun doing.
He made sure the coast was clear before he popped out from the doorway, “And he is also incredibly turned on.”
She jumped - startled at his voice. She placed her hand over her chest, not realizing she and Robby had had an audience, “Jesus, Jack!”
He stalked towards her. Both their shoulders now leaned against the wall as they tried to keep an appropriate distance between themselves.
“You’re hot when you’re pissed.” Jack mused.
“I’m not pissed. I’m just over his bullshit.” She grumbled.
“Okay…” Jack drawled, not wanting to argue with her, “…you’re hot when you’re over Robby’s bullshit.”
“Are you done?”
His plan was working. He could see the one dimple on her right cheek, pulling her lips into a smile like a curtain.
“I mean I can keep going. You’re hot in an infinite number of scenarios.”
There it was. That smile. It didn’t reach her eyes but it was genuine. He’d take the win, “I know what you are doing.”
“I’m not doing anything.” Jack whistled, feigning ignorance to his attempts at cheering her up from whatever was going on today.
She placed her soft hand on his bicep, “Yes, you are. And I appreciate it. Appreciate you.”
“You wanna talk about it?” His eyes bored into her own, searching for any hint he could use to make this better.
His voice was soft and warm. She had told him once that it sounded like her own personal safety blanket. He hoped that was the case now.
“Not right now. Not with everyone -“ She waved her hand around and her sentence dropped. He knew what she meant. He always did.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I blew you off earlier. At the hub. I was trying not to cry for my patient’s family and for Javadi. I knew if I talked to you about it I wouldn’t be able to...not cry.”
Her chin wobbled and that was all it took for Jack's chest to crack wide open. He knew he was one of, if not the only person, she felt safe enough to be this vulnerable with. He wore that as a badge of honor.
All he wanted to do was hold her. But he couldn’t. Not there. The break room hallway was secluded but still - not at work. Not without her permission. She had more to lose than he did. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose to stop any tears.
“Hey. I know everyone in here likes to pretend otherwise but you’re a human. It’s okay to be upset.”
“I know. I just - can you just hold me for a sec, please?”
"Hold you for a sec? Hold you for a sec!?" Jack asked low and incredulously. Like he would ever dare deny her such a thing? His arms wrapped around her instinctively.
He tugged her as tight against his chest as he could. She nuzzled into the crook of his neck as he held the back of her head, rubbing up and down her back with his other broad hand. She was squeezing around his waist tight, with a grip so firm on his golf polo - like he might disappear if she loosened it a bit.
“Hold you for a sec? Have you met me?” He whispered playfully into her ear, “I could hold you for the rest of my life. That would actually be my preferred way of spending it.”
He felt the ghost of a smile against his neck, then a soft kiss. He pressed slow kisses into her hair over and over again. Letting her know that he was here in this moment and would be in every other one. As long as she’d have him.
He pulled the clip from her hair and massaged her scalp. He waited as her deep, shaky breaths eventually turned to steady, peaceful ones. He felt a few wet tears against the collar of his shirt but he just squeezed her tighter. He'd hold her all the way home if she needed. For forever, really.
“Hey, kid! Robby said you were back here. Heard you gave him an earful. He deserved it. Good on ya but we need you in-“ Dana stopped as she looked up from her iPad to see them embraced.
Dana gave her a sympathetic smile as she separated herself from Jack. Dana technically didn't know they were together but Jack wouldn't be surprised if she intrinsically just knew. They weren’t exactly subtle. She'd watched everything unfold over the past couple years. She'd been witness to the mess he was years prior to that. Dana knew everything that went on in the department.
“You good, hon?” Dana asked, genuine concern lacing her features as well as her voice.
“Yeah, yeah." She blew out a breath as Jack handed her her hair clip back. He wanted to put her hair back up himself but he figured that would be pushing their luck.
She reclipped her hair, "Where do you need me?”
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Jack peeled out of the locker room in a fresh pair of scrubs from his locker. If he was going to stay all shift - he may as well change out of his golf clothes.
His next order of business was to track down his girlfriend. He had made it his own personal mission to put her smile back on her face today. He was hoping that she wouldn't be able to resist making a quip at his purposely mismatched outfit of a brown undershirt, black scrub top, and navy blue cargo pants. Probably something along the lines of, "You get dressed in the dark today, Abbot?"
He accidentally ran right into Dana as he turned the corner back into the ED. Absolutely not who he was looking for.
"Just the man I was looking for! I've got someone I need you to take a look at in Room 14."
Jack groaned inwardly. He knew he shouldn't have changed into scrubs. He wasn't here to work - he was here to make sure his girlfriend was okay.
"Dana, I'm actually looking for-"
"I know," Dana gave him a wink and patted his shoulder as she walked off, "Room 14, Abbot."
Jack yelled a thank you over his shoulder at her and was off to Room 14 as quickly as his body would carry him.
He heard her before he saw her. He pulled back the curtain, revealing her. Curled into a ball in the bedside chair, tears streaming down her face as she held a piece of paper to her knees. Her whole body wracked with sobs. He drew the curtain back over the door and swiftly made his way to her. Crouching down so he was eye level with her. His heart broke at the sight.
"Oh sweetheart, come here." He took her hair clip out again and smoothed her hair over. Standing up, he placed his hands under her armpits to lift her up just enough so he could sit down on the chair and place her side saddle in his lap.
He held her for a bit, slightly rocking her. Wiping her tears with his thumbs, and then kissing over the spots where his fingers had just been. Her arms looped around his neck, gripping the curls at the nape for dear life. His shirt collar was soaked as she cried into him.
"You're okay, baby. I've got you, let it out." He cooed into her ear. He pressed kisses to her hairline as he rubbed soothingly up and down her back with one hand and her legs with the other.
Eventually the sobs reduced to stray tears. The cries waned to hiccups. He gently gripped her chin and tilted her face up to meet his.
"What's been going on with you today?"
He felt her chin quiver in his hold. Felt his own lip reflecting her pout. He just wanted to make it all better for her. She shook her head no. Jack knew what she meant. She didn't want to not tell him. But if she did - the water works would start again. She handed him the piece of paper she had been clutching.
He was confused at first. One side of the paper was collateral that was used in the patient passports. He didn't realize until he flipped it over. The usually blank side was scrawled all over. Messy, quick penmanship. Pieces of the paper had damp circles, as if someone had cried over the letter. He didn't know if it was her or whoever had wrote it.
It was a letter from her patient's husband. Now, her patient's widow. So she had lost someone today.
The man was profusely thanking her. Explaining that their family was so thankful that she was working today. That it was her who tenderly treated his wife through her last moments. That held his hand after he lost his other half. That treated him like a person rather than just another patient satisfaction score.
Jack's eye prickled with tears as he saw the army rank scrawled next to the man's signature.
"Mm sorry" She mumbled against his chest.
Jack tugged her back a bit so he could see her face. Her red, teary eyes glassy as he cradled her, wiping her tears, "You have nothing to be sorry for."
"You have to die first. Please. I still won't be able to live without you but you can't go through that again. You won't."
Jack didn't think he could love her any more. But then again he always did tell her, "I love you more than yesterday and less than tomorrow." before they fell asleep every night.
He thought she was upset about losing her patient. Which he was sure she was. But now everything made much more sense. She almost never got like this over losing patients. That was what had Jack so worried. But she was so upset because she was worried about him.
"Hey-" Jack started but stopped as soon as she cuddled her face back into his neck, hiding herself.
He gently pulled her back again, holding her eye contact and cradling her squished cheeks between his hands, "You listening?"
She nodded, sniffling.
"I love you, you know that? So much. More than I ever thought was even possible. So much it literally hurts. Loving you for five minutes would be worth the pain of going through that all over again." She turned her head slightly, placing a delicate kiss onto his palm that held her face.
Jack's voice broke a bit as he continued, "Through every stage of my life, of my grief, I’ve fallen more and more in love with you. Even if I didn’t know it yet. That pain is the reason I even have you. Is the reason I even know how to love and cherish you properly. The way you deserve, okay?”
He knew she knew that was true. Everyday was all there was. She had said that to him off hand one random day. She had a way of saying the most profound things in the most simplistic of ways. Like she didn't even notice the way she could change his life with a single sentence.
Everyday was all there was. He had since internalized it. The way he adored her showed in silly ways. Like when they'd go out to eat and when the server would ask them if they wanted dessert he would say, "Of course, it's her day!"
Which of course prompted the question if they were celebrating a birthday which Jack always shut down with, "No. S'just everyday is her day."
It usually earned him an eye roll and a shy, smiley lip bite that he'd kiss away when the server left.
He adored her in the serious ways too. Listened to her deepest, darkest thoughts. Inspired her to be a better person, a better doctor. Held her when she cried - like right now.
She propped herself up, ran a hand across his stubble and then placed a gentle kiss to his lips, spoke against them, "You're not going through that again. Not if I have anything to say about it"
“What are you gonna kill me or something?”
"Jack, I'm being serious"
"And I'm being serious. Neither of us are going anywhere for a long long long time, okay?"
She nodded. Absentmindedly kissing all over his neck, jaw, and face as she held onto him. He drew shapes across her thigh that was propped up over his lap.
"Thank you." She choked out, looking up at him with those big, bright eyes he loved so much.
Jack chuckled, "For what?"
"I think it kind of hit me how much you must love me for you to open yourself up to grief like that again. I know we've talked about it. And I watched my dad go through it but holding someone’s hand as they actually went through that today - I don't know. I don't know, I don't know." She rambled. Kissed him again and then settled on, "Just thank you for loving me. It's brave. You're brave. And I knew you were brave in the traditional way. But I don't think I have fully appreciated how brave you are in here." She tapped his chest where his heart was.
"You don't ever have to thank me for loving you. It's the honor of my lifetime. It's the easiest thing I do every day. It's like breathing. I could've used her passing as a way to sulk through life. And that's what I was doing. For a decade, until a certain someone," He lightly tickled at her sides before continuing, "waltzed into Robby's office a couple years ago and told me life should come from me and not at me. You saved my life. So if anyone should be thanking anyone it's me."
"I did not save your life. You did that, Jack. I may have just happened to be there but you did all of that. Don't sell yourself short."
"I scheduled my first therapy appointment after that interview. Because of what you said." Jack admitted.
Her breath hitched in her throat. She stuttered a bit before answering, clutching at his shirt collar. "You did?"
"Yeah, I used to go up to the roof all the time before you started here. Still do sometimes. Very rarely. But I never stand on the other side of the railing."
She gasped, "You used to stand on the other side?"
"Yeah - after almost every shift."
Her eyes were blown wide. Jack sometimes forgot how bad it was before her. The version of him that does not reconcile with the better one he was today. The version that she inspired.
"You...you don't do that anymore, right?"
"No baby, I'm not an idiot. Got something to live for now. Got you to live for. Our future to live for.”
She pressed her lips against his. Harder this time, her palm traveling to hold the back of his head, fingers latching onto his curls.
She rested her forehead on his as she spoke, "Keep that in mind because even though I said you could die first - you do still have to live till at least 100."
"I couldnt keep you out of my mind if I tried. Wouldn't wanna!" Jack placed a loud, sputtering kiss to her cheek. Popping off with a pucker that made her giggle. Finally Jack thought. He had desperately missed that sound all day.
"Smooth, Abbot."
Jack rubbed his hand up her back until one arm slung around her shoulders and the other pressed her bent legs tighter into his chest. He hugged her as tight as he could, rocked her back and forth in his lap, "I love you, I love you, I love you."
"I really love you. Like so much." She mumbled into his neck, placing a couple kisses there like she always did.
Jack hummed at the sensation and then laughed, "I know, baby. I love you too."
He held up the letter between two of his fingers, "Seems like you've got a way with widowed veterans."
"Only the old, disabled ones." She giggled.
He lightly pinched her thigh, "Well, now I know you're feeling better if you're making old jokes."
There was a slight knock on the door. She told him it was Dana. Dana had saw the man give her the letter and figured she would need some privacy to read it. Dana told her she'd hold the room for her as long as she could and that she would knock when time was up.
Jack lightly patted her ass to get her up. Hands not really ever leaving her body, just settling against her waist as they both stood up, facing eachother.
Jack stepped closer, hands sliding from her waist to the ends of her stethoscope at her chest.
He tugged, pulling her in as close as she could get by the ends of her stethoscope, “You know wearing your stethoscope like that is a choking hazard.”
That pulled a real smile from her. Jack's heart soared. It even reached her eyes as she rolled them at him. He wore his stethoscope the same way constantly - she had gotten the habit from him.
“You’re a choking hazard.” She mused at him.
“You could say that again, baby” His hands moved up to cradle her neck, thumbs lightly pressing on her throat as he placed a gentle kiss on her lips
She whispered against his lips grinning hard, putting her hands in his cargo pant pockets before kissing him again, “You’re such a dork.”
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
"Don't let him rub his loser off on you." Dr Ellis smacked Jack on the shoulder as she jutted her chin towards Robby. The whole crew had been giving the two older men shit for not wearing costumes to the Halloween party.
"You do realize you are in my house drinking my liquor, yes?" Robby laughed - playing along and in a much better mood than he had been earlier in the day.
They had all piled into Robby's kitchen after their shift. The locker room didn't leave much space for a costume contest so everyone was sizing eachother up now as they unpacked various food items across Robby's counter.
Jack wasn't surprised when his and everyone else's phones buzzed with a message from Shen in the Pitt groupchat. It was Shen’s turn to miss the Halloween party this year. They all took turns working it every year. He had to imagine Shen was bored at the Pitt.
His suspicisons were proven correct. There were a chorus of 'huh's' and 'what's?' as everyone was left confused by Shen's message. It was a response to the photo of her that Robby had sent this morning.
From Shen: You know impersonating a medical doctor is a felony
All she responded with was a bunch of ‘???????’
From Shen: Didn't know Abbot was on the sched today
Jack answered that he wasn’t. Shen sent a zoomed in photo of the one Robby had sent that morning. The one of her flipping him off. It was zoomed in on her badge. Or in this case, Jack’s badge.
The badge was tangled and clipped backwards against her shirt. But the way she was leaned forward tilted the badge - showing just enough of a headshot that was unmistakably Jack.
From Shen: Can't believe no one on day shift caught this all day. Y’all are a bunch of rookies. Run me my money ASAP. If I can't be at the party at least I can win the betting pool
Jack gasped. He heard her suck in a breath also. Both of them falling into nervous giggles as everyone stared back at them. He figured they weren't shocked that they were a couple. It was kind of an open secret that they had had it bad for eachother the past couple years. But he figured they were all shocked that Jack finally had the balls to do something about it.
The silence didn’t last for long before people were clapping them on the back, shouting “I knew it!”, and exchanging money.
Jack looked over at her, shrugging. A smile cracked his lips as he pointed at her from across the island where she was standing in her matching Cheetah Girls costume with Dr Ellis, "And you said I was gonna be the one to get us caught!”
Her eyebrows shot up to her hairline as she reached into her bag. She dug out the badge and lightly tossed it at Jack, feighning offense at his accusation, "This is your fault for rushing me this morning!"
Robby intercepted the badge. He clipped it on himself as he clipped his own onto Jack, "See - now we have costumes."
She crossed her arms, still adorably faking mad as she leveled at the two of them, "Impersonating a medical doctor is a felony."
"You would know." Jack winked and slid both her and Dr Ellis drinks across the island.
They both took a sip as Jack rounded the counter, slinging his arm around her shoulders as she groaned into his chest, hiding from everyone's hoots and hollers.
"Thank god. Now I can publically berate you for stealing my roommate." Dr Ellis smacked Jack lightly again, teasing. All three of them laughing as "You guys live together!?" echoed throughout the kitchen.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Everyone interrogated them for the better part of the party before families began to arrive and people started to disperse amongst Robby's first floor.
Jack's leg had been bugging him. He had been sat in one of the chairs in Robby's living room, thanking Dana for her help earlier today before she had gotten up to get herself a refill.
His face lit up at the sight of his girlfriend entering the room. He nodded at her, silently asking her to come sit with him. She didn't need to be asked twice. She sat on the arm of the chair but that wasn't close enough for Jack. He didn't have to pretend anymore. He pulled her down onto his lap - her arm wrapping around his shoulders.
They sat like that in silence for a bit. Just watching Cassie with Harrison. Princess with her new baby girl. Langdon with his two kids.
She mumbled into his ear. He could tell she was a little buzzed but definitely not drunk, "Kinda want one."
He stilled, his hand that was around her waist pausing the mindless shapes he had been tracing on her hip, "You do!?"
She chuckled breathlessly and then shrugged, "Yeah. Being a mom was the furthest thing from my mind but then...you happened. I thought maybe I didn't want kids but now I realize I just didn't want kids that weren't yours."
"I’m obsessed with you, ya know that?”
"So you don't think I am crazy for bringing that up four months in at our work Halloween party?"
Jack laughed, kissed her hard, "Oh no, you're definitely crazy," she giggled, lightly smacked his shoulder, "but fortunately for you - so am I. It's all I've been dreaming about for the past month or so. I didn't want to pressure you by telling you."
Jack froze again, speaking before she could even respond, "Wait - I have to plan a proposal first. You wanna get married, right?"
"No, I moved into your house for the ADA accommodations." She deadpanned.
"God, I want nothing more than to marry you and your smart ass mouth."
He kissed her into a fit of giggles, squirming all over his lap as his fingers ghosted up her sides, threatening to tickle. She did her best to speak through the laughter, "Is this all because of the slash trake?"
"Don't remind me of that - I'm gonna get turned on and you're already not helping." His arm that was wrapped around her waist tightened, stopping her from wiggling around in his lap.
He was already half hard at just the mere thought of her wanting to have his babies. He did not need the extra motivation while they were still in public.
"You wouldn't change your last name right?"
"Wouldn't dream of it. I don't recall you going through med school twice."
"Just wanted to make sure..." Jack's voice had a teasing lilt to it, "...you did practice all day as Dr Jack Abbot with my badge."
"You're annoying." She groaned.
Jack shrugged, placing a chaste kiss to her cheek, "We'll work on those vows."
"Are you gonna take me home and practice putting a baby in me or what?" She whispered, shifting so her ass was now fully on top of his bulge. To everyone else, they looked innocent but Jack was well aware of what she was up to.
They both knew she had an IUD. Didn’t mean Jack still didn’t choke on his sip of beer at her words.
"Can you behave?" He managed to wheeze out, squeezing her hip in warning.
"I mean...I could..." Her hand lifted from where it had been massaging the nape of his neck. Jack grabbed her wrist and placed it politely in her lap before she could tease him any further. He didn't even know where she was planning on putting that hand but he didn't want to find out until they were in private.
"I hate you." He sing-songed lowly, half hard as she began to make her way to standing.
She ran a seemingly innocent hand over his bulge in the transition - to 'steady' herself she had said. Jack hissed quietly. She giggled, sweetly kissed his cheek and then whispered, "Somehow, I am not convinced!" before running off to wherever Ellis was calling for her.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Jack found himself in the same position he had been in the previous morning. And every morning before that for the past couple months. A position he was oh so fortunate to be in. A position he had quite literally dreamt of.
He was halfway still asleep with her cuddled up against him. Except his dreams had been far more R-rated last night than the night prior.
His brain had fixated less on the kids and more so on how the kids were made. She was still fast asleep, he didn’t want to wake her up. He was doing his best not to get hard again but his brain couldn’t stop replaying last night.
Her breathy moans of his name - chanted for what felt like a heavenly eternity. His filthy words. She had a way of bringing that out in him.
“You’re such a tease, you know that? Would punish you if I didn’t want to fill you up so bad.”
She had dropped to her knees the second they made it through the front door last night - begging for him to fill her mouth before he filled her belly.
“So proud of you. Look at you. Taking me so well. Gonna look so pretty with my baby in your belly. Fuck these tits milky full. Just want you so. fucking. full.”
He’d enunciated his last couple words with each thrust of his hips. Every press of his lips against hers. Glued together from their foreheads down to their toes. They would crawl into eachother’s skin if they could.
“Want me to fuck a baby into you, huh? Gonna be a good girl and make me a daddy?”
She had begged him to fuck his cum back into her. He happily obliged as he pressed kisses to the corners of her teary eyes. She told him she had dreamt about this the previous night - was the reason she had woken up dripping for him.
“I’ll give it to you, baby. You know I will. Give you anything. Give you the whole fucking world - I love you.”
None of it was a lie. Or even an exaggeration. He would give her anything. She was his everything. He was too lost in thought. Hadn't realized she was awake until the sun reflected off of her phone screen, almost blinding him.
He trailed kisses up her neck, "What are you doing?"
She placed her phone back on the nightstand. Turned to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and her leg over his hip, "I just made an appointment to get my IUD taken out."
"For when?" Jack's smile was so bright the sun was probably reflecting off of him now. This was really happening.
"Six months from now."
He settled a hand on her upper thigh, squeezed it. He could barely get the words out before she was kissing him senseless, "Sounds like we’ve got a wedding to plan."
He pulled the clip from her hair and massaged her scalp. He waited as her deep, shaky breaths eventually turned to steady, peaceful ones. He felt a few wet tears against the collar of his shirt but he just squeezed her tighter. He'd hold her all the way home if she needed. For forever, really.
Oh so you want me to actually combust on the spot????
summary: on your very first day as an attending at the ptmc, you're forced to navigate the chaos of the night shift, a code silver, and the fact that jack abbot would (and did) take a bullet for you. (7k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, samira mohan, john shen, crus henderson, princess de la cruz, michael robinavitch, jack's dead wife also gets a wee mention
contents: friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, heavily inspired by greys anatomy s6ep24, not proofread soz cw for so many medical inaccuracies (like so many), hostage situations, heavy mentions of blood and gore, mentions of trauma and grief
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
It was your first day as an attending, and almost your very last.
Other than your newfound position, there was little else different about this night compared to all the others. The late evening was filled with all the usual chaos that you’ve come to find a strange sort of refuge within. Your first patient of the day was a woman in a pretty sequined dress, who’d sustained a collapsed lung after screaming a little too hard to “Bohemian Rhapsody” during karaoke — something you’d only find while working the night shift.
“First needle aspiration as an attending…” Jack Abbot said with a nod of approval when the procedure was done. “How’s it feel?”
The simple question made you dizzy. It was as much of a reminder of your new ranking as the foil balloons in the break room, bobbing lazily against the ceiling tiles. Or the crooked banner strung above the coffee maker, reading CONGRATS in cheap gold letters. Or the plastic container of store-bought cupcakes someone definitely bought last-minute, with neon-colored frosting smeared slightly on the lid.
But what really sent you reeling, though, was the inadvertent acknowledgment of the simmering tension between you and Jack — which had always been there in some ways, but was much easier to ignore before now.
The constant will-they-won’t-they between you was buried under layers of hierarchy, rules, and morals — under the unsaid understanding that whatever this thing between you was could never be acted upon. Not while you were his resident, anyway.
The obvious power imbalance was a line Jack Abbot would not let himself cross, no matter how desperately he wanted to.
Only now, that wretched line isn’t there anymore. For the first time since he met you, you’re both on even ground. The world is your oyster, as it were; all the opportunities lie now at your feet. You need only to reach out and take it.
“First intubation as an attending,” Jack hums from the opposite side of the hospital bed, eyes glittering with amusement behind his safety glasses. “How’s it feel?”
You scoff a quiet laugh and shake your head. “That question got old about the fourth time you asked it, Dr. Abbot…” you deadpan, sewing the trachael to the unconscious patient’s neck.
Reggie Brice; thirty-two-year-old male; exhibiting crush injuries to the chest and pelvis from a gnarly car pile-up. Seven people, including this one, were rushed in requiring immediate assistance. The rest were brought in with sustained head injuries, concussions, or minor fractures that needed tending to. You know that there has been at least one confirmed death.
“Well, it’s a big deal,” the man scoffs. “Why do you think we all chipped in two dollars to decorate the break room? Those grocery store cupcakes actually mean something, you know?”
“Well, I am honored…” you sigh in a distracted monotone.
Jack squints. “Yeah, I can tell. You look downright emotional—”
You take a step back to assess, gaze flickering to the monitor at your side. You find the man’s blood pressure continuing to climb, which is less than ideal for the injuries he’s sporting now.
“Pressure’s too high. We gotta fix that, or he’s gonna crash,” Jack announces in a sharper tone, though it never quite loses its laid-back edge. He always works best under pressure, in truth. “We could always crack the chest, cross-clamp the aorta— buy him some time till we get him a room.”
“What about preperitoneal packing?” you suggest, gesturing over the patient’s lean stomach with gloved hands. “We do a simple midline incision below the umbilicus, pack like hell around the bladder, keep the bleeding in check until we get him upstairs.”
Jack’s silence is less than reassuring.
You peer at him behind the glasses sitting low on your nose, stumbling over yourself as you brace for an inevitable rejection. “I know it’s more of an OR procedure, and I’ve only done it once, but—”
“Hey…” Jack cuts in softly, brows raised to his hairline. “You’re the boss here, kid. Remember? We’ll do whatever you wanna do.”
Your eyes narrow, despite the funny feeling flaring in your chest. His voice, all deep and gravelly and gentle, has always had a way of piercing right through you.
“I’m not a kid anymore, Abbot,” you remind him.
So there’s nothing standing in your way anymore, old man, you’re really saying.
Jack grins wide, like he can hear it in your silence.
“Force of habit,” he shrugs. “Now, c’mon. Let’s do it your way, boss.”
You’re wrists-deep in the conscious man’s pelvis, packing the blood clot around his bladder while Jack holds the Deaver retractor in a steady head. You fall into a strange sort of rhythm together, the way you always do, moving with each other without ever having to speak. Though, for some reason, you can’t seem to stop your hands from shaking.
“This is good, right?” you murmur behind your mask, shoving more gauze beneath the man’s sliced skin.
“You’re doing great,” Jack praises muffedly, without missing a beat, though he flashes you a stern look behind his glasses a second later. “You’re an attending now— You know what you’re doing.”
You swallow hard with an unsure nod. “Right… Yeah…”
Jack smiles at your sheepishness — a stark contrast to how methodically your hands move — though the expression gets hidden behind his blue surgical mask. “Don’t worry. It’s always a little weird at first. You’ll settle in in no time.”
You scoff a harsh breath through your nose. “You’ve been uncharacteristically sweet to me today. You know that?”
“I’m always sweet,” Jack squints. “But I can always get meaner, if you want. You know, if my kindness isn’t impressing you.”
“Hm,” you shrug and swipe your gloved fingers under the fatty tissue of the fleshy linea alba. “Jury’s still out.”
“Well,” his brows bounce. “I guess I’m just gonna have to try a little harder, then, aren’t I?”
“What can I say? I have high standards, Dr. Abbot.”
Your concentrated gaze flickers from the incision to the man standing across from you. Something mischievous glimmers in your eyes, crinkling at the edges with a smile he can’t see behind your mask. The air between you charges in a flicker.
“You doin’ anything after this shift?” the man wonders suddenly, passing you another stack of gauze with his free hand. “You know, to celebrate?”
“I don’t know…” you sigh and turn away again. “I guess it depends.”
“On?”
“Whether someone can give me something better to do than collapsing face-first into my bed.”
“I think I could make a pretty strong case,” Jack quips.
“Ooh…” you hum. “Do tell.”
“Something involving food. Definitely,” he starts. “Maybe something a lot more filling than two-dollar vending machine snacks.”
“Very compelling start, Dr. Abbot…”
“And maybe— if you’re so inclined,” he croons drily. “Something where we don’t talk about work for an hour. At least.”
You flash him a deadpanned stare. “Well, now, that’s just way too far.”
“Hm. It was worth a shot,” he shrugs.
“I guess we’ll just have to see how the rest of your performance goes...”
His eyes widen in amusement at your sudden teasing, not nearly as shy as he’s grown accustomed to. “Oh, so I’m the one being evaluated now?”
“Yep,” you nod once, popping the p.
“And what happens if I pass?”
You meet his gaze once more, with something a little shier around the edges. “Then I’ll… let me take you somewhere for breakfast in the morning,” you shrug, trying to be casual, though your wavering voice gives you instantly away.
A smile curls slow at Jack’s mouth behind his surgical mask. You can see it squinting the very edges of his light eyes as he nods in response. “Looking forward to it—”
The glass door across the room swings open without warning.
Your heads whip simultaneously, half-expecting to find a grey-scrubbed nurse standing there, hopefully with some information about the state of the suddenly flooded OR. You find a strange man there instead — late fifties, bearded, tall but with a beer gut that hangs over the top of his baggy jeans. There’s dark blood on his t-shirt and the collar of his beige jacket, dripping from a cut on his temple.
His narrow face is strikingly hollow; his eyes are painfully empty. You figure he must be one of the victims from the pile-up. He wears the shock of it all over, no doubt.
“This is a sterile room, sir,” Jack tells him, authoritative but never unkind. “If you’re family, I’m gonna need you to wait outside. I’ll have a nurse give you the details— and maybe take a look at the cut of yours.”
“I’m not his family,” the man says in an even monotone, with a gritty drawl that insists he’s from somewhere further south. There is little inflection in his voice, the same way there is little emotion on his bearded face. He just lingers there in the doorway, frozen still in a way that feels almost uncanny.
Your wide eyes flit to Jack, glimmering with apprehension. Your stomach twists with it, too.
Jack’s firm gaze never wavers from the stranger across the room. “Either way, sir, you can’t be in here—”
The older man’s weathered right hand reaches slowly for the inside pocket of his jacket. Something silver glints beneath the bright white fluorescents overhead. It takes you a second too long to realize what it is — a gun.
The world narrows in an instant. The oxygen gets sucked out of the room all at once. Your chest hitches for a breath it cannot take.
You don’t realize until then that you’ve never seen a pistol this close before — or at all. Your brain detaches in an instant accordingly, protects you now by convincing you that this is no longer your reality. That you’re only dreaming. That everything around you is just a movie you’re watching from faraway.
“Hey, hey, hey…” Jack cautions on bated breath, bloodied hands raised in surrender.
His wide eyes dart between the man and the glass door, where the stranger is just out of view of the hallway. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, as he takes slow steps towards the assailant.
“Let’s just— Let’s just take a breath here, alright, man?”
The monitor beside you begins to beep wildly when your hands freeze. Your body jerks when the sound fills the silent room.
Your gloved hands move on autopilot, adjusting the Deaver retractor in Jack’s absence and continuing to pack the bladder with the remaining gauze. The work is the only thing anchoring you now — the glaring acknowledgment that, if you don’t finish up here, the man in the bed will die before he makes it to the OR.
“That man there…” the stranger says in a distant voice, like he’s not all the way here either. “He was driving the car that hit my wife… Blew a red light… Came out of nowhere…”
Jack’s expression shifts. He reaches for his jaw with slow hands, plucking the surgical mask from his right ear, and letting the left side hang by his chin — allowing the man to see his face.
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”
“He killed her… On the scene…” the man continues, gravelly voice tighter now. “I was trying to scoop her brains back into her skull— Do you have any idea what the kinda shit does to a person?”
“That’s hard, man,” Jack nods sympathetically but stands his ground at the head of the hospital bed all the same, planting himself firmly between you and the stranger across the room. “I get it.”
“You don’t—” the man snaps, harsher now.
You flinch when his voice rings suddenly through the room, trying to pack the wound tight with half-numb fingers.
“You don’t just get to— to fix him like nothing happened. Like her life didn’t matter—”
“It does matter,” Jack assures with a rapid nod. “Your wife matters, I promise.”
“Then let me do something about it—”
Jack’s chest tightens when the man’s knuckles turn white around the gun. He holds it steady despite his troubled state, like he knows exactly what he’s doing with it. Jack understands, then, that if he lets that gun off, it’ll hit exactly whatever this man wants it to — wherever he wants it to.
“There are two other people in this room who had nothing to do with what happened to your wife, man,” Jack tells him. “And I know you don’t want anyone else to get hurt. I know that.”
“You’re right… I don’t want anyone else to get hurt…” the man nods, voice heavy and trembling. “So tell her to stop—”
The gun shifts over Jack’s shoulder, aiming right for your head.
A pained whimper sounds in the pit of your tightening throat. You can hardly see the incision below you as burning tears gather at your waterline. Your shaking fingers scramble for the sutures to stitch him back up again.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Jack blurts, stepping in front of the gun again without a second thought. He keeps his gloved hands raised, but his sympathetic stare turns stern in a flicker. “You’re talking to me right now, alright? So put the gun back on me— We’re gonna figure this out together.”
“I said— tell her— to stop!”
His thumb flicks the hammer of the gun with a daunting click.
“I know, kid…” he says without looking back at you, with a voice much more even compared to yours. “I know. Just keep going.”
“Stop!” the man bellows. “Or I swear to god, I’ll shoot you both in the goddamn head!”
Jack is not perturbed by his yelling. He wants him to yell, wants him to cause a scene so that someone’ll check in and call in a Code Silver. He just doesn’t want that gun to go off. So he keeps his voice calm as he counters gently, “And what happens next? If you kill us— If you kill him. What are you gonna do after?”
The man hesitates for a moment. His grip falters on the gun, as if he hadn’t considered the question until that very moment.
“I know you want your wife back… But this isn’t gonna make it any better.”
“Maybe not,” the man says. “But it’ll make it stop.”
He doesn’t elaborate on what ‘it’ exactly is, but Jack doesn’t need him to. He’s been where this man is standing — not physically, maybe, not with a gun in his hand; but in the deep, dark void reserved only for a special, gut-wrenching sort of grief.
“It won’t. Trust me,” Jack says with a shake of his silver head. “I lost my wife ten years ago. Not like you did, but it still hurt like hell, man, I can tell you that…”
The man softens slightly. It’s the first time since the crash that someone’s tried to level with him, that someone’s actually understood.
Jack takes a hesitant step forward when he catches the stranger’s resolve starting to slip.
“And I can tell you it doesn’t stay that way forever…” he continues. “Whatever you’re feeling right now, I know you think it’s never gonna stop. But it will. You just have to let it.”
Another step forward.
“You see the woman you’re pointing that gun at?” Jack wonders with raised brows, nodding his silver head in your direction. “I like her… I really like her. And I didn’t think I was capable of feeling anything again.”
Your chest aches at his words. Your glasses fog from the warm tears clinging to your bottom lashes. Your clammy hands fumble with the surgical needle.
The man’s finger loosens slightly on the trigger, and Jack takes another cautious stop.
“And this is really bad timing, man, ‘cause I was gonna take her out after this,” he confesses with a not-quite smile. “But for that to happen, I need us to walk out of here. All of us.”
The beat of silence thereafter feels borderline suffocating. It wraps its cold hands around your neck and strangles you.
Jack almost thinks he’s gotten through to the man. He can see the cracks starting to fissure throughout his hollow face; the flicker of hesitation, the realization of what he’s doing — where his dark mind has led him.
“So you’re saying…” the man trails off and swallows hard. His drawl is much too soft for the words that spill from his mouth a second later. “…If I shoot her, you’ll understand how I feel?”
Your blood runs ice cold in an instant.
Jack’s shoes squeak hard against the tile as he lunges for the man before you can blink. He pushes him into the wall with an aggressive thud and tries to shove his gun out of your direction. You bend over the bed on instinct, covering your patient without a second thought.
Two shots ring out.
You expect to feel both of them, or perhaps nothing at all, as your limp body hits the floor. You keep your eyes shut and your jaw clenched tight, bracing yourself for pain or certain death.
The harsh ringing in your ears is slow to fade. When your hearing finally returns to you, and your eyes peek slowly open, you find a sea of bodies crashing into the room like a tidal wave — and you, yourself, still standing.
Your head swivels on your shoulder, still half-hunched over your patient. Your gaze drags unwillingly past the blur of bodies and dark scrubs until it finds Jack, lying flat on the ground instead of you.
It takes your brain a long moment to make sense of it — the strangle ngle of his body, the stuttering of his chest, the tear in his shirt from the bullet, and the wet crimson darkening the tile beneath him. The sight doesn’t fit, doesn’t belong. Not to Jack, anyway; not to the man who’s far too steady, too solid, to ever look like this.
And the worst part of it all — the part that will follow you long after this moment ends — is that that bullet was meant for you, and that Jack didn’t even hesitate to take it instead.
The ED descends into a different sort of chaos than you’re used to. The PTMC fractures, splinters into something unrecognizable, as voices overlap and distort in your ears. “Gunshot wound— Attending down!” you hear someone shout, followed by a quieter, “Help me get him up,” and a harsher, “Someone get me a fucking line!”
None of it feels all the way real.
It’s like looking through the rest of the world through a fishbowl, where everything is blurred and warped and muffled. You can see armed guards detaining the crying gunman in the foreground of it all, along with Jack’s body being transferred to a stretcher, right before Samira ducks into your tunnel vision.
Her dark brown eyes are lined with exhaustion from her double shift as they dart attentively across your face — the first person to reach out for you in the midst of all the chaos.
“What do you need me to do?” is all she says.
Your voice comes out strangled. It sounds like it’s coming from somewhere else entirely as you choke through panted breaths, “F-Finish up his— his sutures, and… and get him to the OR... Walsh has a… has a room ready for him, I think—”
Your legs feel half-numb as you step back from the patient before you, left totally unaware of the chaos surrounding him. You stumble for the entrance, peeling off your stained gown and bloodied gloves as you go, and follow Jack’s body as they lead him out of the room.
You migrate to his side like it’s muscle memory to you, struggling to find your footing in the midst of the growing crowd as the doctors rush the gurney to the elevators. For every step you take, Shen and Crus seem to take three more. It makes it nearly impossible to keep up in your stupor.
You crane your head to catch a peek of the man from behind the towering bodies before you. “I-Is he okay?” you wonder breathlessly.
The gurney jerks too hard around the corner, scraping the side of the wall.
“Motherfucker!” Jack groans.
“Well, shit— He definitely sounds the same,” Parker quips from beside you.
“How are you feeling?” Crus calls from the man’s side. “Talk to me, Abbot— You’re still with us, right?”
“Not unless you two learn how to maneuver a goddamn gurney,” Jack jokes through gritted teeth.
“Page Walsh,” Shen tells Lena with a stern nod, pushing the button for the lift. “Make sure she’s got a room open.”
The doors part with a ding. They wheel the stretcher inside, and you make sure to squeeze in with them, elbowing past the attendings and nurses to get to Jack’s side.
He’s clammy and pale when he comes into view, writhing in place as he clutches at his ribs. His black scrubs are stained a darker color from the blood spilling from the wound, which turns the white towel pressed there a deeper shade of scarlet than you think you’ve ever seen.
Your trembling hand reaches for him on instinct. You press your palm over his bloodied knuckles — keeping some pressure there, reminding him that you’re still here.
“Jack?” you call to him in a voice taut, as your teary eyes dart wildly across his scruffy face. “Jack? A-Are you okay?”
He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. His head turns slowly, just enough to find you, and he blinks wildly to clear the blur in his vision. The corner of his mouth twitches in a faint hint of a smile when he spots you standing over him.
He clears his throat, but his words still come out a little gravelly as he arches an expectant brow and says, “Told ya…”
You shake your head, features screwing in confusion. “Told me what?”
“That I’d make a good case…”
Your chest flares. Something wells suddenly in your throat, though you can’t be sure if it’s a laugh or a sob. You just scold him instead. “It’s not funny, Jack—”
“Hey. You’re the one who said you had high standards, kid…” he rasps.
His eyes fall over your form, trying to assess you despite his dwindling vision. You watch his scruffy features twist with concern a second later. His chest stutters as he questions breathlessly, “Whoa— Is that… Is that my blood? Or yours?”
You tilt your chin to follow his gaze. Only then do you feel the warm blood trickling down to your elbow; only then do you feel the white-hot, searing pain of the bullet that had grazed your shoulder.
You feel very suddenly like the world is spinning around you.
The stares you get return, as everyone else seems to notice too, only adds to the dizziness.
“You’re bleeding,” Shen observes sharply. “Why didn’t you tell anyone you got hit?”
“I-I’m fine,” you insist despite the waver in your voice, shaking your head to fight the lightheadedness away. “I can’t— I can’t even feel it, okay? I swear.”
“Get someone to take a look at that when we get upstairs, alright?” Shen commands with a stern glare. “I mean it.”
Your wet eyes harden in an instant. “I’m not leaving—”
Jack’s hand, still weak on his side, twists over the damp towel to grab yours. His bloody fingers are cold and trembling as they struggle to find purchase on your smaller ones. You hold him with enough strength for the both of you.
“You got hurt ‘cause of me, kid. At least let someone—”
“Hey,” you snap, meaner than he’s ever seen you. “That was not your fault.”
“Let ‘em take a look at you, alright?”
You shake your stubborn head. “I need you to focus on yourself right now—”
“I am,” he insists. His gravelly voice never loses its humorous edge, and neither do his glassy eyes lose their tenderness as they flit back and forth between yours. “And I’m not gonna be okay if you aren’t, alright? So just… please.”
Your features crumple at the pleading look he gives you — with his eyes all squishy around the edges, and glazing over with unshed tears.
The elevator stills with a ding, shattering the tense moment. It jolts faintly, just enough to make your swimming stomach feel sicker. You catch yourself nodding despite your better judgment.
“Fine…” you tell him in a fragile voice.
Jack tries to smile but finds the strength to slowly leave him, a little like the blood trickling from his side.
“I’m in good hands,” he assures you, then turns to the attending on his left. “Right, Dr. Shen?”
The younger man’s brows lower. “Didn’t you just call me a motherfucker?” he quips.
Jack’s weathered face twists as he’s wheeled out of the elevator. “…Did I?”
Your hand slips from his as you watch him go. Something about it feels wrong, though you can’t exactly place why. You just know it feels like something ripping in two — like the torn skin of your bloody shoulder, times a thousand.
The room they put you in is achingly quiet; the kind of quiet that makes everything else seem ten times louder. The green-white fluorescent bulb clicks and buzzes mercilessly over your head, drilling straight into your skull. The AC hums gently alongside it in a mundane sort of symphony that matches the empty room you’re in — where only one hospital bed sits beside a shuttered window, in front of a porcelain sink and mirror.
Everything smells like stale air, sharp antiseptic, and metallic blood.
You stand before the cloudy mirror with your scrub sleeve pushed up your shoulder, kept awkwardly in place by your chin. You struggle to do your sutures with a hand that won’t stop trembling.
You don’t realize how ardently you’re still shaking until the needle slips across your skin — not enough to do any real damage, but enough to make you hiss through your teeth when it stings. You clench your jaw and pull the thread through, until the raging skin around the laceration pinches together again. Your features flicker as you try and fail to ignore the dull burn that spreads up and down your arm a second later.
The fiery sensation is the only thing keeping your mind distracted from all the rest of it — the way the gunshot made your ears ring; the way Jack’s body jerked before it hit the ground; the way the man called out for his wife when security pinned him to the floor.
You tug the sutures harder, relishing in the sting. You push the needle through once more, harder than necessary, and let it slip a little sloppier than you should — anything to take your mind off of it.
“Careful…” a voice cautions from the doorway.
Your head whips over your shoulder. You blink rapidly as your brain struggles to catch up — like you half-expect to find yourself back in that room; like you half-expect to find the man from before standing there.
You feel a little like the ground has been pulled from underneath you when you find Robby there instead, rubbing disinfectant between his calloused palms.
Someone downstairs must’ve called him about Jack, and about the Code Silver currently turning the PTMC to shambles. And, based on the surgical mask sticking out of his jacket pocket, you figure he must’ve just gotten back from checking in on him in the OR.
His dark eyes flit from your face, to your shoulder, and to the supplies scattered across the sink before you.
“They said you were supposed to be getting looked at,” he says. “Not playing DIY surgeon.”
You huff out a breath that would’ve passed for a laugh any other time.
“Everyone else is busy… At least I can make myself useful this way…”
You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. You can’t stand the way he’s looking at you now. His gaze is too sharp, too focused. It’s like he’s studying you, cataloging, assessing — the same way you do with your patients. The thought of being so helpless makes your stomach twist.
Robby doesn’t argue, but instead lets his eyes linger on the slight tremor in your hands. The leftover adrenaline is likely buzzing like electricity in your veins just now. You’re bound to crash at any second.
“I know you don’t want my help,” he starts slowly, sauntering further in with his arms crossed over his chest. “But at least lie and say I did your sutures— so Jack doesn’t try to kill me when he wakes up.”
“I think he’ll know you didn’t do ‘em when he sees how neat they are,” you joke drily.
“Rude…” Robby scoffs, sneakers scuffing as he plants himself at your side. You can see the leftover slumber in his swollen eyes more clearly now, as he ducks down to look at you. “Want me to get you something for the pain, at least?”
You shake your head instantly, not trusting your voice enough to speak without wavering.
“You sure?” he presses.
“I’m fine,” you snap. “I’m not the one in surgery.”
He is not dismayed by your anger. He knows it’s not meant for him.
“Well, Jack’s doing just fine. Walsh is finishing up with him now,” he tells you. “Honestly, I think the hardest part is gonna be keeping him off his feet for the next little while…. ‘Cause there’s about a hundred percent chance he’s gonna want to come back to work when he’s discharged.”
You exhale sharply through your nose in place of a laugh as you tie the sutures and cut the excess with a pair of small medical scissors.
You just barely catch sight of your delirious smile in the cloudy mirror before a chuckle sputters suddenly from your mouth. The sound of it fills the quiet room as you tumble into a fit of half-drunken giggles, bowing your head and propping your gloved hands on the porcelain sink.
Your shoulders shake as your laughter turns quickly into sobs.
Robby softens instantly. “Shit… I’m sorry…”
“I’m fine,” you blurt once more and shake your head. Your voice is strangled through the tears in your throat, but you dismiss him anyway. “I’m fine. I-I don’t even know why I’m crying, so..”
“You went through something traumatic tonight,” he coos. “Everything you’re feeling is completely normal.”
You shake your head again. “I should’ve gone with him— I should be helping in there—”
“You’d just be a liability,” Robby shrugs, a little blunt but not entirely unkind. “You’re still in shock. Your hands are still shaking— I wouldn’t let you anywhere near an OR like this… You’re better off here, and you know it.”
You turn your head to flash him a teary-eyed look. Your chin quivers as your taut voice trembles, “He asked… He asked me if I wanted to go out with him when we got off,” you confess in a strangled whisper.
Robby’s brows raise to his hairline. “Did he?”
You nod slowly. “And I was gonna say yes…”
“Good…” the older man nods, lip flickering into a smile beneath his beard. “About time…”
“So he can’t… He doesn’t get to…” You stumble over yourself to get the words out. “He doesn’t get to not come back after that.”
Robby’s sympathetic grin widens at the stern, wet-eyed glare you give him. He takes a slow step closer and splays a warm, comforting hand along your back.
“Jack Abbot is the most stubborn son of a bitch I’ve ever met,” he tells you. “If there’s even the slightest chance of him coming out of that OR just to take you out, then… He’s gonna take it. Trust me.”
“Yeah,” you quip drily. “He better…”
Jack wakes after surgery to a tingling ache in his side and a heart monitor beeping faintly overhead, pervading the strange silence surrounding him — a silence he doesn’t usually allow himself.
His eyes crack slowly open, dry and unfocused for several long moments. They dance across the ceiling tiles as he blinks the haze of sleep from his gaze. He struggles to recall how he got here — in this dim recovery room, which he had never seen as a patient until now. He remembers the stranger with the gun first, the warmth of the blood that came spilling from his side second, and the way you cried from him third.
Your name spills from his dry mouth like it’s the only word he remembers.
“Great. Now I owe Crus twenty dollars,” he hears a familiar voice joke from his side. Jack’s head swivels until he finds Princess standing there, checking the IV hanging by his bed. She smiles softly down at him and quips, “He said the first thing you’d do is ask for her. I thought for sure you’d want a beer.”
“Yeah…” Jack rasps, then clears the gravel from his throat. “I could go for that, too…”
“Want me to go grab her for you?”
He hesitates. “Is she… Is she okay?”
“She’s great. Last I heard, Robby was patching her up,” the woman grins. “And, for what it’s worth, she was asking about you, too…”
The anticipation of seeing you again was somehow worse than the pain, blooming something sharp in his abdomen, and only slightly ebbed by the morphine drip.
The minutes drag on. The heart monitor at his side counts the seconds instead of his pulse. His fists curl against the stiff hospital sheets when he remembers the sticky red blood that had dripped slowly down your arm — the way you so easily brushed it all off, the way you so desperately wanted to stay at his side.
The door creaks softly open.
Something tightens in his chest.
You linger in the doorway for several long moments, as if you aren’t allowed to come any closer just yet. You’re bathed in the shadow of the lamplit recovery room and backlit by the too-bright hallway outside. He can only vaguely see the outline of your features from here — weighed down with fear and exhaustion and relief.
The laceration on your arm has been cleaned and sewn. It’s still raging a little around the marred edges, but will heal into a thin scar in a few weeks’ time — a story you’ll tell for years to come.
Jack grunts as he struggles to sit further up on the raised bed, but hides it by clearing his throat. “You look good…” he observes in a rasp.
“Are you flirting with me, Dr. Abbot?” you joke with narrowed eyes.
“I am,” he quips back. “Thanks for finally noticing.”
You scoff a faint laugh and shut the door behind you with a quiet click. You can’t help but feel a little like the air has thinned as you walk further inside. You focus on your wringing hands the entire way to his bedside. You don’t have the strength to meet his unwavering stare, still puffy from a medically induced slumber, but never once straying from your face.
“You okay?” he wonders aloud, shattering the silence between you.
You huff a weak laugh. “I’m not the one who just came out of surgery, Jack…”
“Fair point…” he nods.
“But yes… I’m okay,” you add, if only to appease him. “What about you? How do you feel?”
Jack exhales a heavy breath, chest deflating behind his thin hospital gown. “…Like I got shot.”
That almost gets a real laugh out of you.
“Yeah. That— That makes sense…”
You flounder in place for a moment, before reaching for the chair by the curtained window and dragging it closer to his bed. Jack is able to eye you more clearly when you settle into the cushioned seat by his side. He can see the redness in your eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way your clammy hands hover like you’re not quite sure what to do with them.
Whatever closeness you had before those shots rang out is long gone now. You orbit around him like he’s a stranger to you, like you’re not quite sure what to do with him, like you’re too scared to get any closer.
He bows his head, made of mussed silver curls, in a feeble attempt to meet your stare. He silently begs you to look back at him, but you never do.
“I’m okay, you know?” he coos to you, equal parts because it’s true and because he knows you need to hear it from him.
“No, I know, I just—” You cut yourself off when your fragile voice finally breaks. You shake your head to yourself and swallow hard, picking at the skin of your thumb until it starts to bleed. The scratch there blurs as burning tears gather once more in your gaze. “I can’t stop thinking about it, you know? If you wouldn’t have— have gotten as hurt if… you know, if you weren’t standing in front of me like that—”
His chest twists at the thought of you blaming yourself for it. The burning sensation there hurts him far worse than the one at his side.
“You would’ve gotten it a lot worse if I hadn’t.”
Your eyes snap finally to meet his gaze, though your stare is much more hardened than he’d like.
“But what if something worse had happened to you? Huh? What if you died, Jack?” you scold in words that spill faster from your lips than you can stop them. “Were you even thinking about that?”
“No.”
His honesty stops you cold as much as his lack of hesitation.
“I guess I was just thinking about you…”
The room goes eerily quiet, saved only by the even beeping of the monitor at his side and the distant voices talking in the hall.
Jack holds your gaze even as it weakens around the edges, even as it glazes over with burning tears you can’t seem to keep away. A rogue droplet clumps your bottom lashes together when your eyes flick down to his abdomen, to the place beneath the blanket where you know the damage lies.
“You’re not supposed to do that to a person, you know?” you whimper. “It’s cruel.”
Jack’s brows furrow. “Do what?”
“Make someone like you, and then— And then get yourself shot,” you stammer, gesturing wildly with your anxious hands. “Make someone almost lose you before—”
Your breath hitches.
Jack leans further in. “Before what?” he presses gently.
“Before they’ve even gotten to have you…”
His lip flickers with a weak smile. “You do have me,” he assures. “You’ve had me way before I ever asked you out— You know that.”
“Yeah,” you scoff with a grin of your own, much sadder in comparison. “So much for that date, huh?”
Jack’s eyes narrow in a challenging stare. “And what makes you think it’s not happening?”
You blink owlishly back at him. “Do you want a list, or…?”
That earns a weak chuckle from him, until he winces at the ache it puts in his side a moment later. He cradles the bandaged wound with a grimace, and your chair scrapes the tile when you stand. “I’ll tell Princess you need more morphine,” he vaguely hears you say, though he reaches for your hand before you can stray too far.
You still in place. Your wide eyes fall to the fingers around your wrist, warm like a furnace, and calloused like softly textured velvet.
“I’m okay,” he tells you, then takes a wavering breath in before repeating more firmly. “I’m okay— And you’re not going anywhere— And I’m not missing our date for the world, alright?”
Your features screw, hardly convinced.
“We’ll order something here,” he shrugs. “Hell, we can eat the cafeteria food for all I care, just… Don’t leave. I mean, I kinda got shot, so…The least you could do is indulge me a little…”
You cave instantly under the weight of his light-eyed stare. Your chest hitches with a quiet laugh. “It’d be a pretty grim first date…” you quip.
“Yeah, well…” he trails off, smoothing his thumb over your knuckles. “I plan on having plenty more, less grim ones with you, so…”
Your eyes narrow in a cynical squint despite the smiling tugging at the edges of your mouth. “That’s very presumptuous of you, Dr. Abbot…”
“Well, you could always so no,” he croons drily.
“Not a chance,” you argue without pause, gripping his hand with great strength — an unsaid promise. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
“Getting rid of you?” Jack echoes with a scoff, wincing when it hurts him but smiling up at you anyway. “That was never a part of the plan, kid— I took a bullet trying to keep you, in case you forgot."
SUMMARY: Anyone who’s ever met Dean Winchester will tell you the same thing: he’s a good soldier. His father's death left him forlorn and stray, a veteran discharged and without a home to return to, a devoted follower who witnessed the demise of his Lord. That is, until you become his new god. 7.6k
WARNINGS: angst. set on season two. established relationship. canon-typical violence. blood and gore. minor character death. hurt/comfort. ptsd. dean winchester is terribly traumatized. mentions of binging. unhealthy codependent relationship. grief is a bitch. john winchester's A+ parenting.
Anyone who’s ever met Dean Winchester will tell you the same thing: he’s a good soldier.
Some will say he’s the kindest man they’ve ever known, some will scoff that he’s a jackass. Some will flush at the cheeks and swoon a little, some will turn red in the face and white in the knuckles with fury. Some will claim he’s an angel, some will spit that he’s the devil.
But every single one of them will tell you that he excels at one thing. Following orders.
More than that, he seems to thrive in it. It’s as if a switch goes off in his brain with every command. As if something in his gut snaps into place, falling back into a painful but familiar sense of comfort. As if it’s tearing him into tiny pieces, but he’s lived in tiny pieces for so long that he doesn’t know what to do when he’s whole. As if he needs to be torn apart.
Like a dog that mourns the tapeworms after being dewormed—the emptiness in his stomach so unbearable, his body so big once he’s left all alone inside of it—that he runs into the woods and swallows mouthfuls of dirt as soon as his owner’s eyes flicker away.
It comes natural to him, an instinct that’d been beaten into his very soul by the one person that was meant to protect him.
John Winchester had relished in it when he was alive, a sick pride glowing in his eyes like venom every time Dean surrendered. Every time his son’s will faded into the shadows at his orders, every time the boy stood a little straighter and more vigilant at his present, every time whatever attempt at a backbone Dean’d grown while his father was away crumbled when he came back.
Dean was nothing but a military dog to his father—loyal, violent, and submissive.
“Watch out for Sammy,” “kill that son of a bitch,” “stop crying and help me carry him to the pyre,” “Man up!”
At twenty-six, at twenty-one, at seventeen, at fifteen. At twelve, when Dean had to kill that hunter. At six, when John took him shooting for the first time. At four, when he had to carry his baby brother out of that burning house.
An attack dog, Sammy’s shield, Daddy's blunt little instrument. Never a son, never a child, never loved.
Never Dean Winchester.
But now John is gone, and the leash that hangs from Dean’s neck looks like a noose more than ever. He sits around, teeth bared and claws sharp, begging for someone to take it. For someone to pick him up from the side of the road, to smack him in the snout and complain about the dirt on his fur, but to finally boss him around.
For someone to use him, to give him purpose, to blow the whistle and give him a reason to live.
So he follows Sammy around, with his tail between his legs and ears plastered to the top of his head. He’s loud and obnoxious and annoying, but all it takes is one sharp order from his little brother for Dean to succumb to the boy’s every wish.
It isn’t quite the same as John. Sammy’s commands don’t hurt him, Sammy’s wishes don’t strip him down until he’s a rotting pile of bones and skin, Sammy isn’t cruel. It still feels good to do as he’s told.
And then there’s you.
You’ve always been careful not to tug at the leash too hard, not to string Dean along wherever you go, not to choke him with the barbed wire that wraps around his throat. At first, you didn’t want to hold it at all, but Dean had quietly placed the handle on your hand and stared up at you with pure, unequivocal supplication.
How could you say no?
With time, you’ve learned that it isn’t all that bad. Yes, Dean’s complete surrender at the hint of an order is still devastating in every way possible, but it also has its perks.
Because that man has a masters degree in self-destructive behavior. He throws himself into every fire, downs every bottle, takes every bullet. He collects scars like trophies, breaks bones like records, chases death like a nascar racer.
It makes you want to kill him yourself.
“You can’t keep doing this, De. You’re gonna end up dead,” you tell him every time, while patching up his wounds or cuddling him through a hangover morning—or, in the worst of times, holding his hand on a hospital bed. “Don’t you understand how much I fucking need you? How much I love you?”
But that’s the thing, he does. You know he does.
It’s in the ways he always curls against your chest after being woken up by a nightmare, in the way he doesn’t complain anymore when you pepper kisses over every scar marring his body, in the way he always crawls back to you, even if he has to hold his guts inside his body with his hands to do so.
He knows you love him. God, you make sure he’s aware every single day. But the long-term sequelae of John’s abuse is now integrated into his being, flowing through his bone marrow and red cells and cerebrospinal fluid.
So instead of fighting it, you utilize it. Not like John did, not like Sammy does sometimes in little-brother fashion. You use them to his own advantage, to take care of him, to keep him safe and protected like no one else ever cared to do.
You know what they say: If you can’t beat them, join them.
[⫘⫘✯⫘⫘]
The first time it happened, you didn’t know what you were doing.
You’d been in Northeast Pennsylvania following a Wendigo’s fading trace when Bobby had called you for help. The bastard hadn’t shown signs of life in days, and once he finally did, he’d barely waited for Dean to pick up before grumbling, “Help. Covington, Louisiana. Get here ASAP,” and then the line went dead.
Naturally, you and the brothers had scrambled into the Impala and dashed away from the Pocono Mountains at a speed that must have broken the sound barrier. A few minutes later, a message with the address of some Holiday Inn came through. Dean broke every traffic law racing down the interstate.
You tried to get him to stop at least once in the twenty hours it took you to reach south, sleep a bit in the car or even shuffle into a motel on the side of the road. But his blood-shot eyes stayed on the highway and his foot on the pedal, through sunset and twilight and midnight.
It was John going missing all over again. You didn’t insist further.
Sammy and you got some rest, with his huge frame curled up in the passenger seat and yours draped across the back bench. Dean stayed up on pure adrenaline and fear all the way to dawn, calling Bobby’s number every few minutes, blunt nails leaving half moon indents on the leather of the steering wheel.
By the time you drove into Covington, the bags under his eyes were bruise-purple and his movements jerky and frantic.
All of you were restless, though. Sam couldn’t stop tugging at the ends of his shaggy hair, a habit Dean remarked he’s had since he was a kid. Your lips were bitten bloody and your leg bounced incessantly as you sat on the curb, waiting for Dean to come back from talking with the motel’s receptionist.
You blame Bobby for adopting three stray kids with severe Childhood Emotional Neglect. None of you were being chill about the situation.
“She says a scruffy guy wearing a baseball cap checked in around eight yesterday,” Dean grumbled as he walked across scorching pavement, the bright spring sun highlighting the greenish paleness of his skin.
“Sounds like our guy,” Sam sighed, relieved.
You could see in Dean’s face that there was more to it, so you pushed yourself up on your feet and moved to press against his side, your hand wrapping around his. His shoulders slackened then, like the reassurance of another body against his made everything a little less fuzzy, a little more real.
Not a Djinn vision, not a dream that will soon turn nightmare, not a demon messing with his brain. Just real life, with his real girlfriend and his real brother.
Small comforts.
“Yeah, but she says he drove away in a red pickup around lunchtime yesterday, and she hasn’t seen him since.”
Your teeth broke the scabbed skin of your lower lip, metallic filled your mouth.“That’s around the time he called us.”
A thick silence dropped around you like smoke in the air, poisonous and heavy. You felt Dean’s fingers tighten on yours, mind surely reeling with all the possibilities, all the outcomes, all the pain.
Your pretty boy, consumed by death—always expecting the worst of life, because that’s all he’s ever known.
“Bobby is the most resilient fucker we know, he must be okay.” Sam walked in circles in front of you, tugging at the long wisps of hair on the nape of his neck hard enough for it to truly hurt. “We should get going, start tracing his steps now.”
“Did the receptionist say anything else? Did Bobby mention why he was in town?” You turned to Dean, searching for his tired eyes until they focused on yours. The fog that’d settled over them faded slightly. You ran your thumb over his sharp knuckles.
“Lady’s like—ninety. It's a miracle she even remembers him at all.” Dean shook his head, his free hand running though his already messy, spiky hair. “I tried asking her for the truck’s plate, but the cataracts in her eyes told me all I needed to know.”
More silence, filling your lungs and sitting heavy in your gut. You licked the blooming blood from the corner of your lips, about to suggest to try calling again, when—
“Y’all look like a bunch of wet ducklings. Whose funeral are we attendin’?”
The gruff voice broke through the air like lighting, making the three of you jump in your place. The relief that flooded your body at the familiar drawl in the words was so strong that you had to lean further onto Dean, spinning on your heels to find Bobby calmly strolling down the sidewalk, hands in pockets and all.
Turns out all the “help” Bobby needed was instructions on how to log into Myspace.
The skinwalker he’d been hunting was contacting his victims through the internet, sharing bad poetry full of dog imagery and angsty buzzwords before he asked them to meet at some woods behind an old construction on the edge of town. Completely lost to the secrets of modern technology, Bobby decided to call while scoping out the crime scene.
“The son of a bitch jumped me out of nowhere, chewed the phone right out my hand. I thought I’d have to roleplay as a cheerleader to find him or somethin’, but the mutt found me first. I put a bullet through his heart in a second.”
“You could’ve called from a payphone!” you huffed then, teeth blood-stained and patience running thin. “We were worried sick, Bobby!”
“I didn’t think y’all would rush here like that.”
After a long moment of buzzing disbelief, the three of you gaping at Bobby like fish out of water, you dragged Dean into a room in determined silence, if only to keep yourself from smashing your knuckles on the old man’s face before crying your eyes out with a mix of guilt and joy.
“We should go back to that Wendigo, sweetheart, try and see if we can still find him—”
“Nuh uh.” You pushed Dean onto the bed until he was sitting on the edge of the mattress, kicking the door closed behind you. Standing between his spread legs, arms crossed and eyes squinted, you stared down at him with what you hoped was inexorable resolve. “We’re not hitting the road again until you’ve gotten at least twelve hours of sleep.”
“I get four in a good night, baby—”
“I don’t care!” You started to tug his leather jacket off his shoulders, your gentle hands not matching the scowl on your tired face. Surprisingly, Dean let you slide it down his arms and throw it somewhere behind you. “You’re sleeping twelve today.”
You expected another retort, him teasing you about being bossy or flipping you around in bed and shutting you up with kisses. Instead, Dean’s already cloudy eyes glazed over even further as he kicked off his boots. He stared down at his jeans, giving the denim a slow blink before glancing up at you, all mellow muscles and silent doll lips.
In the green of his irises, you saw everything he’d never say. A silent plea. His torn-up heart, exposed and bleeding.
“Uhm—” You took a slow breath, like the slightest disturbance could break the fragile atmosphere that’d filled the room. “Want me to help you with that as well, darling?”
Red splotched his cheeks, shame and pleasure and bashfulness at all once. All the answer you got was an uncharacteristically-shy nod.
It was more than enough.
In what felt like slow motion, you dropped down to your knees, hands reaching for Dean’s fly. You’d been here a million times before, but for once the air wasn’t filled with heat and hunger.
Your fingers were careful on his zipper instead of desperate. The noise Dean made when you tugged the rough fabric down his legs was tender instead of ardent. His cock stayed soft in the thin fabric of his briefs, even as you placed a fluttering kiss over a silvery scar on his inner thigh, soft hairs brushing your lips and the pure scent of Dean filling your nose.
Once the jeans were off, you discarded them along with his socks. The rise to your feet was tense, like walking onto a mine field and waiting to be blown up in pieces. Instead, Dean shuffled further into bed, his head falling on the pillow and his body sinking on the mattress.
You cleared your throat. “There you go. Now you can rest.”
You blinked down at him in disconcert when his mouth parted with a yawn, as if sleep had overcome him on cue. As if he needed permission to unwind.
Testing your luck even further, you tugged one of the blankets from under his body and draped it over his frame, tucking the edges under his sides when he simply gave a low grumble but didn't stop you. In a minute, you had Big-Bad-Hunter Dean Winchester effectively wrapped up in a blanket burrito.
You took a cautious step back, admiring your work with wide eyes and a slack jaw. Dean looked adorable, hair mussed and eyelids heavy, but that wasn’t shocking—he’s always fucking adorable. What left you dazed is how comfortable he looked.
His eyebrows tugged down every few minutes just to return to their original place, like he was trying to frown but couldn’t quite get there. His cheeks were still rosy under his freckled skin, his face half buried on the pillow as he tried to hide another yawn.
Dean usually lets you get away with a lot—changing his music or drinking sticky drinks inside Baby or teasing him about his Wild West obsession—but coddling is something that usually takes lots of kisses and sweet-talking for him to accept.
Who knew all you needed was a firm command and some sleep deprivation?
But you hadn’t connected the dots then, convinced that something else had to be influencing him, so you carefully placed a hand on his forehead to check for a fever.
“Whatcha doin’?” he muttered, eyelashes fluttering as he leaned toward your touch, like he only did when he was too drunk or too grief-stricken.
“...are you okay?” You brushed his messy hair back from his face.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low and a little sluggish, but he sounded sure. For the first time ever, you believed him. “You’re right, I need a nap. So stop fussing and c’mere.”
Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, you wormed your way under the covers and tugged at Dean until his head was resting against your chest, ear pressed to your heart. He followed willingly, a little sigh escaping his lips and warming your neck.
“I love you,” you whispered, just in case this was actually the end of the world. “Go to sleep.”
Your boyfriend, the famous insomniac known to roll in bed for hours before his eyes can fall shut, was asleep in all of five seconds.
[⫘⫘✯⫘⫘]
The second time was a lot more obvious.
It’d been a terrible night. Sammy was down in Nebraska at the Harvelle’s roadhouse, looking for the location of a new potential Special Child. Dean had wanted to go with him, but you were in Montana looking for a Rugaru with a sweet tooth for children. At the end, you’d all agreed it’d be best if you split up.
So Sammy had borrowed—stolen—a car and headed south while Dean and you continued to search for the creature, who’d somehow been able to dodge the police, a furious local Parents Association group, and now two fake-FBI agents.
“Sneaky son of a bitch,” Dean had snarled under his breath as you sneaked into a kindergarten principal’s office.
Finally, after twelve long hours of watching glitchy security cameras and stalking the town’s playground like a pair of creeps, you’d gotten your hands on the child-eater.
It was the local youth pastor—there was a joke there you were too tired to make—who’ve been convincing his Sunday school students to come around the church after dark, for “extra holy lessons.”
Dean and you barged through the backdoor of the cathedral just in time to find the old man with his teeth sunk on a tween boy’s neck, mouth and clerical collar smeared with blood as he held the poor kid down against a pipe organ.
You ran toward the rugaru as Dean landed a well-aimed shot on his chest, sending him stumbling backwards and away from the boy. The pervert ended up with his back against a giant crucifix, the blood dripping from Jesus’ wounds blending with the one dripping from the pastor’s mouth.
Taking advantage of the slight moment of confusion, you quickly dozed him in lighter fluid, throwing your open zippo at him before he could realize what happened. Soon his body was consumed by flames, the fire reflecting in Christ’s porcelain eyes, the crucifix around his neck melting onto the wooden floor.
You turned around to find Dean kneeling on the floor with the bleeding boy in his arms, wide palm wrapped around the oozing wound in his neck, whispering what you imagined were low reassurances.
The boy’s skin was pale and thin, wrapping around his bones like a veil. He had shaggy hair and wide, muddy eyes that stared up at Dean with pure terror, trembling fingers latched onto the older man’s jacket like he was an angel, here to save him from the pain of the mortal world.
At first glance, under the flickering light of the fire and the moonlight filtering through stained glass, he looked just like Sammy.
“It’s okay, kiddo. You’re gonna be fine, you hear me? We’re gonna get you home safe,” Dean feverishly whispered under his breath as you walked closer.
But then your boyfriend looked up at you, and you knew—the boy was dying. The pain that burned on Dean’s eyes was hotter than the blaze behind you, abrasive and destructive. A flick of panic flashed on his face once his gaze met yours, broken and guttering, right before he pulled on his almost-perfected mask of stoicism.
“That’s it, buddy. Just—let go. It’s over. I’ll take care of you, you can let go.”
You dropped on your knees next to him, watching as the light slowly left the kid’s eyes, the now blueish orbs locked onto Dean’s green ones, bloody hands still holding onto his arms.
For minutes or years, Dean continued to cradle the boy against his chest, body growing cold and stiff between his warm arms. The blood dried an ugly brown shade, the fire spread all through the altar, sirens started to echo from the distance.
“De, we gotta go.”
But he was irresponsive, gaze lost somewhere too faraway to reach, body shut down. With what felt like a blade stuck in the back of your throat, you forced yourself up and ripped the boy away from his grasp, having to ignore the heartbreaking noise that Dean let out as you yanked the boy across the hardwood flooring.
Knowing that the corpse was now covered in Dean’s DNA, you caressed the boy’s cheek and silently apologized to him before resting his body amidst the flames, tears stinging on your eyes as you dragged Dean back to the Impala.
Even hours later, sitting in a hotel room’s toilet, Dean’s hands still held the shape of the boy’s throat. His eyes were lost somewhere in the ugly floral tiles, his clothes blood-stained and his breath shallow.
The hotel you’d found nearby was still tacky and cheap, with horrendous bed covers and too-strong flowery scent, but it was clean enough for you to run a bath and lead Dean into it.
Undressing him had become a bit of a habit after the last time. Not always, not when Dean was present enough to be self-conscious about it. But on nights like this, it’d become normal for you to pull his shirt over his head, undo his shoelaces and tug down his pants and underwear until he was naked and unguarded in front of you.
“C’mon, sweet boy.” You grabbed his hand, the one that’d tried to keep the kid from bleeding out, and guided him toward the bathtub, filled with a-little-too-hot water, enough to get the blood and grime off his skin. “Let’s get you clean, hm?”
You didn’t expect a verbal response, not when Dean got like this. After rough hunts, those too bloody or too deathly, he just… went quiet for a while. Sometimes he wouldn’t speak for a few minutes, sometimes he went without talking for hours. One time, when you got hurt so bad your heart stopped for a few seconds, Dean had gone nonverbal for a whole day.
So he settled into the bath in perfect silence, long limbs folding to fit in the small acrylic, the water slowly growing darker. You sat on the edge of the tub and pulled his hand to rest on your palm, gently scrubbing at skin with a damp rag, washing away the filth under his nails and between the crevices of his fingers.
Once his hands, arms, and upper chest were clean enough, you moved to his face. Dean continued to stay marble-still, rigid and expressionless. But when your hand cupped his cheek, the rag brushing over the maroon smudge on his temple from where the kid must’ve tried to reach for his face, his lower lip started to tremble.
“...I—” The word was hoarse and rusty as he forced it out, his face scrunching with effort. “I’m s-sorry…”
“Shhh.” You dropped the rag on the bathtub, both your hands now cradling his jaw, leaning closer until all Dean could see was your face. “Don’t talk. You don’t have to talk, baby.” You ran your fingers through his damp hair, still stiff and tangled. “Just close your eyes and let me take care of you.”
As if you’d just spoken an enchantment, Dean’s eyelids fell heavy and his back dropped against the side of the tub, his body finally letting go of the tension. Something buzzed in your veins, powerful and terrifying.
You reached for the hotel’s complementary shampoo, warming it up between your palms before working it into Dean’s short strands, fingertips massaging his scalp, dirty water running down his neck. His lips parted slightly, the tiniest of breathy sounds leaving his throat before he melted under your hands.
Soon after, you emptied the bathtub and tugged Dean up for a quick shower, washing away any lasting residue from tonight with clear running water. Once he was clean and a bit more present, you wrapped a towel around his hips and sent him out the door, placing a quick peck on his lips.
“Get to bed, hm? I’ll join you in a second.”
You waited until you heard the bedframe squeak under his weight before turning on the shower again, the rot of the hunt ultimately seeping out from your chest and molding on your skin. You rushed under the warm rain, hoping it would wipe away the memories. Someone needed to keep their composure tonight, and it had to be you. Still, tears joined the water dripping down your cheeks, the smell of burnt flesh and holy oil still clinging to your lungs.
There was something so wrong about child death—something unnatural and immoral, that claws at your intestines and poisons your brain. You allowed yourself to break for a minute.
But after a while, you glued yourself back together and slipped out of the bathroom in one of Dean’s shirts and your underwear, desperate to wrap around your boyfriend and sleep with his skin pressed against yours, to be reminded that no matter how horrible your world is, you still have him.
You found Dean on the flowery bed, as you expected, still on the hotel brownish-pink towel, his glistening skin reflecting the swan-patterned wallpaper. What you didn’t expect was the brand-new whiskey bottle in his hand, now more than half empty.
Your eyes flashed toward the digital clock on the bedside table. You’d been in the shower for a little less than an hour—longer than you’d planned, but still not enough time for Dean to drink three-fourths of a bottle of hard liquor.
At least, it shouldn’t be.
“Sammy called,” he murmured, his voice less cracked but still forced, like it was being dragged from the back of his throat. He soothed the pain with a long swig. “Ash and him haven’t found much. He wants us to meet him at the roadhouse.”
“You shouldn’t be drinking, baby.”
Dean ignored you, throwing his head back against the headboard and closing his eyes right before they snapped open, as if the demons in his head were waiting for him in the back of his eyelids.
“We take off at dawn.”
Your eyes slid back to the clock. 3:45 AM.
“No, we won’t.” You walked closer to the bed, knees pressed against the edge of the mattress, hovering over Dean’s taut frame. “Especially not when you’re getting hammered.”
“‘M not hammered, sweetheart.” The drag of Dean’s words made you flinch. That was the way he spoke to witches and demons and spirits—flirtation laced with venom. “I can hold my fucking liquor.”
“Okay,” you scoffed before reaching for the bottle, ready to snatch it out of his hands. Dean swiftly yanked it away from your grasp. “Dean—”
“Stop,” he grumbled your name, scowling as he turned to lay on his side, his back to you as he brought the bottle up to his mouth. He took a sip so large that the liquid spilled down his chin, his cheeks already flushed with drunk anger. “Leave me alone.”
The words are so childish that you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Jesus Christ.” You tried reaching for the bottle again, but Dean growled—though it sounded more like a bratty whine—and curled in on himself, hiding the whiskey under his body. You gaped at the sight. “You’re such a fucking child.”
“Yeah?” He looked at you over his bare shoulder, the towel threatening to slip from his hips, his eyebrows raised. “What’re you gonna do ‘bout it?”
He was probing, testing you. A drunken attempt to rile you up, to get what he actually wanted. The way he’d intentionally bump the buffest guy in the bar when looking for a fight, the way he’d poke at witnesses until they broke and vomited the truth all over themselves.
He was daring you. And this time, you knew exactly what to do.
“Dean Winchester, give me that damn bottle.” He blinked at you—once, twice. His spine showed through his skin as he made himself smaller. “Now.”
That’s all it took. The scowl faded, the pettiness disappeared, the whiskey was instantly placed on your extended hand. Dean slumped against the peony-printed duvet, staring up at you, wide-open and bare.
“Good.” Dean made a small noise at that, his hand twitching as if to reach for you before he stopped himself. His lips parted with words that never came, all his inhuman, self-destructive resolve evaporating at your stern look. “Now, I’m gonna dump the rest of this on the toilet, and you’ll wait here, all quiet and pretty. Then we’re gonna sleep, wake up at a reasonable hour, and meet Sammy at Ellen’s. Okay?”
Dean nodded, his eyes glittering with a light you saw on such few occasions. The alleviation of coming home, of sinking back into a familiar place. A place that used to be cold and sharp, but that has transformed into a warm cloud of comfort. The solace of being taken care of.
“Good boy.” You planted a kiss on his forehead before rushing to the bathroom, because the pure adoration that broke on Dean’s face was enough to make you tear up again.
It was so heart-wrenching to see him like that. So needy, so lost. A puppy abandoned on the side of the highway, begging for scraps. Dean had been stripped of everything, until all that was left was raw nerves and a bruising soul. A thing to be utilized, burning metal that you could mold into whatever you wanted.
There was a fine like between using the power you’d been granted, and abusing it. You’d spend the rest of your life being careful to stay on the right side of it.
Waiting for you in bed was the same Dean from the bath, closed eyes and guards down. You approached with slow steps, leaving the now empty glass on the dresser before siding under the covers, tugging them over Dean as his breath stuttered.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“It’s okay, baby. You don’t have to keep fighting, I got you.”
“...Promise?”
A smile tugged at your lips, your heart swelling as Dean pulled you closer, wrapping all around you, holding you down like an anchor.
“I promise, De.”
[⫘⫘✯⫘⫘]
It became a routine. As mundane as your morning coffee and as instinctual as drawing salt lines.
Dean would start chewing his nails during a research session, and the words “Dean, stop.” would leave your mouth before you realized. He’d try to keep driving after a fifteen hour journey, and all it took was a firm “find a motel now, baby.” for him to swerve into the first exit in sight. He’d try to pull of some crazy suicidal plan during a hunt, him and Sammy barking back and forth until you cupped his face, looked into his eyes, and said low and stern: “You’re not risking your life like that. Quit it.”
Every time, the same dazed look would return to his eyes, a dopey kind of satisfaction. Sam would stare at you with wide, confused eyes, but you’d all learned not to question when a good thing came your way. You’d found a way to keep Dean’s self-destruction in line, that was all that mattered—no matter how fundamentally toxic it was.
Things were looking up. There was still the Yellow Eyes, and the Special Children, and Sam’s own suicidal ideation—but over all, it was good. Dean’s cholesterol must have gone down as you pushed him toward healthier meals, his liver must be thanking you for the break, and the almost-death experiences had been lowered to once a week at most. You were thriving.
And then, grief attacked.
John’s death still hung over the brothers like a ragged sword, rusty metal hungry to impale their waiting heads. Some days it was just a vague threat, distant and shapeless, almost nostalgic. But on others, when the brothers read one of their dad’s too-personal journal entries, or when you encountered one of John’s old friends, or even when the sky was too dark and the breeze too cold—the sword dropped lower.
This time, there were no warning signs. Because grief is a bitch, and it can flare from nothing and everything, no matter how beautiful or common or insignificant it is. It might’ve been the color of the flowers on the side of the road into town, or the fried oil smell of the diner that morning, or the soft-rock song on the radio—but whatever it was, it led Dean into a motel couch, binging on the food hoarded on the bottom of his duffle bag.
You’d known about the stash for years.
You’d seen him slipping protein bars and candy and fries into a rip he cut on the inside of his bag, in the space between the liner and the outside nylon. The bump in the bag was obvious, the smell of the perishable food filtered into the front of the Impala on very hot days, the grease of the half-eaten cheeseburgers sometimes spread and stained his t-shirts. It was no secret.
Usually, the stash would stay there until the stink got so strong that Dean would throw away the bag and buy a new one from some thrift shop. But in the last months, after John’s death, when things got bad enough for the food to mold and half of Dean’s clothes became bio-hazards, you’d started cleaning it up every weekend for him.
When Dean left to buy more beer or pick up lunch, you scooped all the unpreserved food out of the inner lining and replaced it with non-perishable ones—jerky and trail mix and crackers. Just so Dean felt the reassuring weight of them every time he reached for his bag, a constant reminder that he never has to go hungry again.
Unfortunately, that weekend you’d left on a mini-girls trip with Jo, hustling scumbags in Las Vegas and drinking mojitos by the pool, helping her through her dad’s death anniversary and forgetting about the impending doom of the world for once.
Which meant that the food you found Dean shoving down his throat when you walked into your room had been in his bag for two weeks, under the summer heat of the midwest through the metal cage of the Impala’s trunk.
“Hi, baby. Got us ice cream.” You closed the door behind you, kicking off your shoes and keeping your gaze low. “And guess what? There’s a theater down the street! They’re screening that new James McAvoy and Keira Knightley film—”
Your words were interrupted by a groan, low and wounded. Your eyes snapped up to catch your boyfriend curled up on the couch, arms around his stomach and knees drawn up to his chest, a half-eaten slice of pizza laying on the cushion next to his head.
“De, what happen—” That was when you noticed the green dots on the cheese, the faint black smears on the pepperoni, the slight grayish hue of the dough. Subtle, but there. Between his arms, he held his duffle close to his chest, not wanting to let it go even now. “Oh, sweet boy…”
Dean groaned again, whole body trembling as he shifted in bed, hiding his face against an ugly decorative pillow in shame. You dropped the convenience store bag on the floor and rushed to his side, skipping through a mess of snack wrappers and napkins and a half-eaten sub scattered on the carpet.
“Darling, what did you do?”
You sat on the edge of the couch, gently lifting Dean’s head until it rested on your lap, your hand threading through his sweaty hair and pushing it away from his forehead. Dean heaved as you tugged the bag away from his grasp, a desperate little sound leaving his mouth, his nails digging into the meat of your thighs.
“I—I was hungry,” he managed to get out, his throat contracting around the words, his eyes still tightly shut.
You hummed lowly, still petting his hair in soothing motions. You’d eaten lunch with Sammy just half an hour ago, some Texan barbecue place. Dean had eaten a whole plate of dino ribs you’ve bought him as a treat, just to see his goofy smile as he put on a fake southern accent and mumbled about some Western with sauce all over his mouth. There was no way he was hungry.
“I just—I felt so empty inside.” His hand moved to press against his stomach, over the hollow space under his sternum. Your free hand draped over his, drawing soft circles on his rough skin. Dean shivered, a dry sob making its way through his clenched teeth. “I hadn’t felt that way since before I met you. It’s like this… black hole that’s trying to consume me whole. I was so hungry.”
And when his eyes finally snapped open, and they rose to meet yours, you knew he wasn’t talking about today anymore.
“I was just—so hungry.”
You did your best to hold back the agony that threatened to spill down your cheeks, cradling Dean against your chest and rocking him back and forth, one hand rubbing over his tummy and the other one cupping the back of his head.
“I know, my love. I know. I’m sorry.” You leaned back until you could search his face, worry tugging at your heart along with the sorrow. “How much did you eat? Should I take you to the ER?”
Dean shook his head, his lips pressing together as he tried to straighten up, his arms giving up when another wave of cramps hit. You helped him sit up next to you, but kept him pressed against your side, your hands and eyes all over him.
“Nah, most of it was good. The things you put in there.” His skin went paler suddenly, but his face stayed impassive, the only sign of pain being the way he clawed at the fabric of the cushions under him. “I ate some of that sub, and the pizza—”
Dean dry heaved again, his whole body twitching as he doubled over.
“Oh, my baby.”
You rubbed a hand on his lower back, your heart breaking into tiny pieces for him. This sweet, caring, beautiful man who's been beaten by life over and over again. How you wished you could reach into his body and fix him, exorcise all his demons and wash away all the spilled blood he’s been stained with.
“It–it’s okay. I’m okay,” he choked out, because he’s Dean Winchester, and of course he’d say he is. “It’s not even that bad. We can still go to the movies if you want—”
“No fucking way.”
Your voice came out harsher than you expected, less like the softened orders you’ve been using and more like an actual command. You were terrified it’d make Dean flinch, or that it’d upset him even further, but instead he turned towards you as if he was hanging onto your every word, as if you were about to spill the cure to all illness.
“You have food poisoning, Dean. We’re not going anywhere.” You cupped his face, cheeks squeezed between your fingers, leaning forward until all you could see was the green of his eyes. “You need to stop treating your body as if it’s expendable. You are not expendable.”
Dean looked as if he wanted to argue, always the stubborn one, but you didn’t give him a chance.
“No, that’s not up for debate. Shut up.” Like magic, Dean’s mouth snapped shut. A part of you felt terrible about it, a little ill at the power you held over him. Another part, one that was steadily growing more and more dominant, was intoxicated by it. “You’re sick. So we’re staying home, and you’re gonna let yourself get better. Okay?”
Home. The word hit both of you equally hard. You didn’t have a home, not really, not in the traditional sense. But wherever Dean was, that was home. By the way his expression crumbled, Dean seemed to feel the same.
“Yeah, okay,” he whispered after a few seconds.
And only then, because Dean Winchester was the only person that could force back something like foodborne illness, his face scrunched up and he vomited all over your lap.
There wasn’t an ounce of you that felt repulsed by it. Dean was yours, in every way, and no piece of him would ever disgust you—no matter how ugly, broken, or gross.
“That’s it, darling. Let it out.” You petted his hair again as he retched, all choked-out gags and pained whines, tears joining the junk now staining your pants and the couch. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”
Because like this—dismantled into his most fundamental pieces, stripped down and willing, begging for you to put him together the right way—Dean could finally be okay. You’d make sure of it.
After a long warm shower, a quick call to Sammy, and lots of Pedialyte, you found yourself snuggled up in bed, watching an old soap opera on the TV while you rubbed Dean’s tummy and he held onto you like a teddy bear.
Your head stayed on his shoulder as the cramps got worse, his skin glistening with a sickly sheen and his chest rumbling with sore little sounds. You kept a bucket by the side of the bed for when he had to vomit again, and you stayed by his side through it all before going to empty it on the toilet and returning with another water bottle and a new dose of Pepto Bismol.
“Here, I know it tastes gross,” you cooed as you brought the medicine up to his lips, kissing the creases of his frown. “But you have to drink it. C’mon, swallow it all down.”
Eventually things got better. Dean stopped throwing up so often, even being able to keep down a few bites of the banana Sammy had bought along with the meds. He nibbled on it as the man on TV, a big guy with a thick mustache and a very obvious toupee, was about to find out that his wife cheated on him with his long-strained twin brother.
Dean gasped loudly as the wife revealed her pregnancy—twins, from different fathers. You turned to him with a wide grin, ready to tease him to oblivion for getting so invested in the cheap drama, when his phone started ringing from the bedside table.
“Saved by the bell, Winchester.”
Dean simply rolled his eyes, tugging you further onto his chest as he pressed the phone against his ear.
“Ellen, whassup? Everything alright?” There was distant murmuring from the other side of the line, barely audible over the close thumping of Dean’s heart under your cheek. Your boyfriend hummed hesitantly, scratching the back of his neck. “A case? In Arizona?”
You tilted your head, propping up your chin on Dean’s pec and staring up at him in silence, raising an eyebrow. This time, no words were needed.
“We’ll have to pass, Ellen. I’m a bit under the weather, and my house nurse has prescribed me bed-rest and incessable coddling.”
You heard Ellen laugh through the phone, a contented smile settling on your lips as you dragged yourself up, planting a sweet kiss on Dean’s cheek. A reward, a gratitude.
Thank you for letting me do this. Thank you for letting me love you.
The rest of the afternoon went by in peace. Dean ended up hunched over the toilet just once more, the cramps soon fading away and no fever in sight. You made sure to keep him hydrated, feeding him bits of crackers and soft fruit in between water sips, checking his temperature and wiping away his sweat every so often.
“Don’t you hate that I’m a mess?” he asked later, when the moon was high in the sky and the lights were off. His face stayed hidden against the crook of your neck, the words whispered against your skin.
“No, I don’t.”
Dean huffed, his fingers tightening around your waist. “It has to annoy you, at least sometimes. Having to deal with all my crap, picking up the pieces of my explosions.”
“It doesn’t,” you said, solemn and certain. “You’re not a burden, Dean. You’re everything to me. I’d spend the rest of my life scrubbing vomit off of carpet floors and washing blood from your fingers if it meant keeping you with me.”
A second of silence. Then a laugh, rough and heavy.
“That cannot be healthy. I’m gonna drag you down with me, baby.”
“Good. Don’t leave me.”
The command hung in the air, denser than all the others, because it was the only one that mattered.
Don’t leave. Don’t fade away. Don’t die.
You knew your control over Dean went way further than it could ever be good. It was codependent, symbiotic, almost parasitic. A piece of you had implanted itself inside of him and kept growing until you melted together, becoming one single being.
Not master and dog, or warrior and weapon, but more like a bullet and gunpowder—useless by themselves, in need of each other to function, bound together by fate and nature.
Still, when the moment came, you were not sure it would be enough. When Death called, tempting Dean to jump over the edge and join her in her inebriating darkness, you didn’t know whether your command would be enough to keep Dean away from it.
Whether his will was strong enough to fight his insatiable crave for his own demise, or if you’d lose him regardless of how tightly you held onto the collar around his neck.
Whatever it’d be, tonight he was still here, safe and sound in your arms as he slept, sacrosanctly under your dominion.
Toxic, but yours.
NOTES: SHE'S BAAAAAACK. i'm gonna be honest, this isn't my best work, but i'm very excited about a fic i'm working on so i just wanted to put out something quick before that. hope y'all like it, and hopefully i'll see you again a lot sooner. love you!
You launched at him with, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck. You could feel the pure shock and confusion radiate off his stiff body. His arms had yet to wrap around you, but all you did was hold him closer.
“Woah,” he said softly, finally placing his large hands on your back, gently soothing you with one. It must have been without him realizing but he began to sway in his spot. “Hey, whatever happened it’s okay, everything is okay, you’re okay,” he muttered into your hair. But when you shook your head his movements stopped. “Then what is it? You can talk to me.”
“I’m so sorry,” you whispered, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
It had taken a moment. As quickly as you had lunged for a hug was as quickly as Bucky staggered back. A look of pure confusion and disgust spread over his face. “What?” was all he managed to spit out. “Did Steve tell you?” he whispered, looking around the room again.
“No, I-”
He took another step back, “then how the fuck did you find out?” he caught himself getting loud and drawing attention to the both of you. “What is wrong with you? That is not your business.”
“I know,” you held both hands out, “and I’m sorry I shouldn’t have-”
“No” he cut you off once more, “you shouldn’t have done anything except stay in your own goddamn lane.”
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader
Word Count: 17k
Genre: smut, pwp, strangers to fucking
Warnings: Smut (!MDNI!), oral (f&m recieving), handjobs, unprotected sex, bucky has a praise kink, piv, creampie, subby bucky barnes lmk if theres anything else
Summary: Being a bartender at a strip club means you get to meet all sorts of men. You recognize regulars, and are appropriately wary of new faces. When one of your trusted regulars, Sam, brings in some friends, one of them catches your eye.
Once again unbetad because we ballin' (someone help me), so feel free to point out the errors of my ways (kindly if you don't mind ((if ur mean at least make it hot)))
The bar lights always felt a little too warm this time of night—low amber glow catching on spilled sugar rims, half-melted ice, and the shimmer of body glitter that never really left the counter no matter how hard you scrubbed. You’d been here long enough to know the rhythm of the place, the bass thrumming up through the floorboards, the dancers laughing backstage between sets, the regulars who tipped well and the ones who didn’t but swore they “would next time.”
You were wiping down a row of glasses when the front doors opened—no fanfare, no dramatic gust of neon-soaked air. Just a man walking in like he belonged anywhere he put his boots down.
Tall, broad shoulders beneath a worn henley. Hair tied back, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, and eyes that flicked around the room in one slow, assessing sweep. Not leering, not hungry, like most of the men who come through. He moved through the space without brushing against a single drunk patron, as if the crowd parted for him.
He approached the counter, stepped close enough that you could smell leather and winter on him, and rested one forearm on the bar like he’d done it a thousand times before.
“Evenin’,” he said, voice low and warm, with the hint of a rasp that curled around your spine.
You cleared your throat. “What can I get you? And before you ask, no, the ladies aren’t on the menu.”
He lets out a surprised laugh, “No way people have actually said that.”
“Oh, sweetheart, is it your first time at a strip club?” you say, leaning an elbow on the bar like you’re settling in for story time, “Everyone is either here for something on the rocks or the get their rocks off. Usually it’s both.”
His grin goes crooked, flashing for a second before he reins it back in. “Bold of you to assume I’m not here for the drink,” he says, eyes dipping to your mouth for a beat too long to be accidental.
“Well then, what can I get you?”
He drags a knuckle along the edge of the bar, slow, thoughtful, like he’s actually considering his answer carefully instead of just picking the first liquor he recognizes.
“Something strong. god knows I’ll need it, with the guys I'm waiting for..” He says with a huffed laugh, half a sigh.
“Cheap strong or good strong?” You ask, grabbing a bourbon.
“Good strong,” he says without hesitation. “If I’m gonna suffer tonight, I’d like the drink to be the one part that doesn’t suck.”
You glance up at him as you uncap the bottle, catching the faint tightness in his jaw—annoyance, maybe, but not at you.
“Sounds like you’re expecting trouble,” you say, pouring the bourbon over ice.
He huffs out a humorless laugh. “Expecting? No. Already promised it.”
You raise a brow. “Ah. Work friends?”
“Worse,” he says, tapping the bar lightly with two fingers. “Actual friends.”
That startles a snort of laughter out of you. “Poor you.”
“Yeah.” His smile tilts, resigned and warm. “Poor me.”
You slide the glass toward him, and he takes it with a soft “thanks,” swirling it once before taking a slow, appreciative sip. His eyes flutter shut for the briefest second—just enough for you to see the tension ease out of his shoulders.
“Yo Buck, you started without us?” You recognize the voice, how could you not? Everyone knows the black Falcon, the new Captain America, but to you? He's just one of your favorite regulars, Sam. His voice carries across the room—loud, easy, unmistakably pleased with himself—and you watch the man in front of you go still for half a heartbeat, like he’s bracing for something.
He turns just enough to look over his shoulder, his expression already sliding into something irritated but undeniably fond.
“Yeah,” he calls back. “’Cause someone told me eight-thirty and it’s—” He glances at the clock above your head. “—not eight-thirty.”
Sam just grins as he approaches, sunglasses pushed up on his head even though it’s dark as hell in here. He’s got one guy trailing behind him—shorter but broad, his smile already bright and excited as he takes in the room like it’s Disneyland with boobs.
You lean your elbows on the bar as Sam reaches you. “Hey, Sam. Heard you from halfway across the room.”
Sam beams at you. “Good. Means I’m doing my job.”
“Your job is being loud?” you tease.
“Absolutely,” he declares. “It’s my gift to the world.”
Behind him, the shorter guy points at Sam. “Unfortunately.”
Sam ignores him with the practiced skill of someone who’s spent too many years dealing with idiots. You pour his usual without asking.
“He treating you okay?” Sam asks, jerking a thumb at Bucky. “This one gets grumpy when he’s sober too long.”
“I heard that,” Bucky says flatly, finishing the last of his drink.
“Good,” Sam shoots back before looking at you again. “You take good care of my boy?”
You open your mouth, but Bucky beats you to it, turning toward the bar with color rising high on his cheeks—whether from the drink or your attention, you're not sure.
“Stop bein’ a nuisance,” he mutters. “She’s just doing her job.”
Sam lets out an obnoxious “Ooooh,” grinning between the two of you like he’s watching the pilot episode of a romance series. “Should’ve known you’d be flirting with the bartender the second I stopped watching you. And I bet you flirted back, you minx!”
You snort. “I flirt with everyone, Wilson. Don’t get jealous.”
“Oh, I’m jealous,” Sam says dramatically. “But only because Barnes here never looks that pretty when I serve him a drink.”
You roll your eyes, sliding him his regular. “Then maybe you should leave that to me. What can I get your friend?”
The shorter guy hops forward, practically vibrating. “Whiskey sour, please. Heavy on the whiskey, light on the sour, and if you can make it look cool while you do it, I’ll appreciate that.”
Bucky snorts into his empty glass.
“That’s Jaoquin," Sam says with the long-suffering tone of someone who regrets most of his life choices. “We don’t claim him.”
Jaoquin throws both hands up. “Lies. They love me.”
You grin as you reach for the whiskey. “Sure they do, sweet thing.”
He beams like you handed him a winning lottery ticket as you finish the whiskey sour with a flourish.
Sam takes a long sip of his drink, eyes darting between the men and then back to you, brimming with mischief. “Look at you, handling us like a pro.”
“I am a pro,” you shoot back. “Dealing with drunk idiots is my job.”
Jaoquin gasps like you just stabbed him through the heart. “Hey! I’m not even drunk yet.”
“Yet,” Sam echoes, patting him on the back with faux sympathy. “Give it twenty minutes.”
“Ten,” Bucky mutters.
You set Jaoquin’s drink in front of him, sliding it over with a practiced flick of your wrist. He watches the glass like it’s some rare artifact, then looks up at you with genuine awe.
“You’re like… a wizard,” he whispers.
You pick up a bar towel, toss it over your shoulder, and wink. “Don’t tell the others, I charge extra for magic.”
Sam cackles. “Don’t joke about that, that one’ll believe you.”
You ignore him, choosing instead to study the newcomers. Bucky’s staring at his glass, it’s subtle, but you see the way his breathing shifts, the way he pretends to be very interested in the melting ice at the bottom.
He’s not subtle enough.
You lift a brow at him, voice smooth. “You want another, or are you just gonna stare until the glass refills itself?”
Sam chokes on his drink.
Jaoquin does not bother hiding his delighted “Oooooh.”
The stammer is delicious. You take your time grabbing the bottle, letting him sit in it.
“Alright,” Sam says, elbows on the bar, chin in hand, watching all of this unfold like it’s exactly the show he came for. “Y’all ready to watch some dancin’ ladies? Shows about to start.”
Bucky groans into his hands. “Can we not—”
“Hey, you were whining about how people don’t dance like they used to” Sam cuts in. “This is where we dance.”
Bucky drags his hands down his face, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like a prayer. Or a threat. With him, it’s hard to tell.
“This is not what I meant,” he says, finally lifting his head. “I meant swing dancing. Or a waltz. Something with—y’know—clothes.”
Sam barks out a laugh. “And I told you, Barnes, if you want to waltz, you can waltz your ass back home. We,” he gestures broadly toward the stage, “are here for culture.”
Jaoquin nods solemnly, as if Sam has just announced a lesson in classical literature. “Very important culture.”
You snort under your breath and slide Bucky his fresh bourbon. He takes it like he needs it, fingers curling around the glass just a little too tight. He doesn’t drink right away though—he looks at you again, eyes flicking up beneath thick lashes.
“Thanks,” he mutters.
You lean in just enough to make him swallow. “Anytime.”
Sam kicks Bucky’s boot under the bar. “Man, you’re hopeless.”
“Shut up,” Bucky mutters, cheeks still pink.
But he doesn’t look away from you. Not even when the stage lights shift from soft blues to hot pinks, signaling the start of the next set. Not when the DJ announces the performer with an overly dramatic flourish. Not when half the men in the room perk up like dogs hearing a treat bag crinkle
A cascade of laughter erupts from Jaoquin. Bucky, though—Bucky just stares, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.
The stage music kicks in—slow beat, deep bass—but no one at your section notices, not immediately.
“Come on,” Sam finally says, tapping the bar. “Let’s get a good table before Buck turns into a puddle.”
Bucky tries to stand, but he’s still looking at you, fingers lingering on his glass like he doesn’t want to leave it—or you—behind.
Sam grabs his arm. “Let’s go, loverboy.”
“Sam—”
“Up. Move. One foot in front of the other, buddy.”
Jaoquin is already halfway to the stage when he turns back and beams at you again. “I like her,” he announces.
Sam calls back, “Hey, she’s my favorite bartender, choose your own.”
You toss Sam a salute with two fingers. “Damn right.”
“That’s cold,” Jaoquin says, but he’s grinning, already scanning the tables to see which ones are closest to the stage. Bucky trails after them, last to move, steps reluctant.
They melt into the swell of people migrating toward the stage as the music shifts—thicker now, the bass rolling like smoke across the room. You can still spot them from behind the bar, Sam weaving confidently, Jaoquin practically vibrating, Bucky walking like a man being marched to his execution.
They claim a table near the back of the main floor—close enough to see the stage, far enough that Bucky won’t spontaneously combust. Jaoquin plops down instantly, bouncing in his seat. Sam drags his chair out and kicks it back on two legs like he owns the place.
Bucky stands for a second too long, clearly debating whether sitting makes him more or less of a target. He chooses to sit and nurse his drink, almost choking on it when the dancer comes out. It’s almost endearing, the way amongst the howling and hooting men in the room you can see his face go red in the dim light. He’s trying so hard not to look—then trying even harder not to be caught looking—and somehow managing to fail at both.
You catch yourself smiling as you dry another glass, watching from your place behind the bar. Most men in this club are predictable— their reactions are loud, messy, hungry. But Bucky? He sits there like he’s being personally tested by god.
Jaoquin elbows him so violently the chair squeaks. “Dude, relax,” he stage-whispers. “It’s just a girl.”
Bucky shoots him a murderous look. “I am relaxed.”
“You’re sweating,” Sam observes, not even trying to hide his smirk.
“I’m not—” Bucky touches his forehead, frowns, and mutters something into his bourbon.
You shouldn’t be watching—you have tables to check, bottles to refill, drinks to pour—but your eyes keep drifting back to him. The way his jaw clenches, the way his fingers tap nervously against the glass. The way he’s pretending the swirling pink lights are the most fascinating thing in the building while doing everything in his power not to look directly at the dancer.
And then he makes a mistake.
He glances toward the bar.
It’s quick—half a second at most—but in that heartbeat, your eyes meet across the distance.
He freezes like he genuinely forgot how to move when confronted with the fact that you were watching him watch the stage.
You raise a brow, purely on instinct.
His response?
Immediate, pure panic.
He tears his gaze away so fast he almost knocks over his drink.
You set the glass down, shaking your head fondly, and wait for the next wave of customers, but your attention drifts—again—to their table as the dancer finishes her first pole run and moves downstage.
Jaoquin is loving it, leaned forward like he’s front row at a concert. Sam is nodding appreciatively, respectful but still clearly enjoying himself. Bucky looks like he’s trying very hard to merge with the backrest of his chair.
You have two choices.
You could let him be—let him stew in that adorable swirl of fluster and nerves and misplaced chivalry.
Or…
You could have a little fun.
And you’ve never been one to choose the boring option, so you grab your tray.
It’s not your section tonight—you’re strictly bar—but management doesn’t care if a bartender floats for VIP-ish regulars, and Sam always tips well. You abandon the safety of the counter and slip into the crowd, tray tucked under one arm, weaving through sticky floors and pulsing neon. A handful of patrons call your name on instinct; dancers wave as they pass; a few regulars lift empty glasses hopefully. You wave them off.
“Be right back, boys,” you call. “Got a special delivery.”
You weave through the crowd, catching snippets of laughter, catcalls, the thud of heels on stage. Closer, you can actually hear Jaoquin commentating like a sportscaster.
“She’s gonna do the twirl—she’s gonna—OH, SHE DID THE TWIRL—Sam, did you see—”
Sam spots you first. His eyebrows shoot up like he just watched the plot twist of the century.
“Oh HOH-ho-ho,” he says, smacking Jaoquin’s arm. “Look who decided to do table service tonight.”
Jaoquin grins up at you like a golden retriever offered bacon. “Hi!”
You shift your weight to one hip, tray balanced against your palm, giving Jaoquin a gentle pat on the shoulder like he’s just said something extraordinarily brave.
“Hi yourself,” you say, amusement tugging at your mouth. “Heard you boys might be thirsty.”
Sam leans back in his chair—well, “leans” is generous. He more or less sprawls, legs stretched out, hands folded smugly behind his head.
“Mmm,” he hums, eyes flicking from you to Bucky like he’s tracking prey. “Funny. I don’t remember flagging down a bartender.”
“No?” you ask sweetly. “Must’ve been the wind.”
“Mighty helpful wind,” Sam murmurs.
Jaoquin elbows him. “Don’t scare her off!”
“Oh, I’m not scared,” you assure him, setting the tray down on the tiny round table with a practiced flick. “I deal with his brand of idiocracy all the time.”
“Hey Buck,” Sam echoes, grin sharpening. “You gonna ignore her or be polite and say hi?”
Bucky flinches like he’s been struck by a stray spotlight. He’s trying so hard to look normal—back straight, shoulders square, jaw set, but the second you turn your attention toward him, he panics and aborts all that posture entirely, slumping into what must be the world’s least casual lounge.
His hand shoots up in a weird half-wave, half-surrender.
“Uh—hey.”
You look down at him, letting the corners of your lips curl in a slow, deliberate way. His grip tightens around his bourbon, just slightly, so slight you almost miss it. But you don’t.
“Hey yourself,” you respond.
Jaoquin lets out a delighted, “Oh, he’s gone.”
Bucky shoots him a death glare. “Do you want to keep your teeth?”
“Nope!” Jaoquin chirps, absolutely fearless. “They weren’t even that great to begin with.”
“Don’t say that,” You say, patting Jaoquin’s shoulder once again, “You have great teeth.”
Sam’s wheezing laugh practically rattles the table.
You reach across Bucky, plucking his near-empty glass from his hand. His fingers brush yours—just a graze, barely there—but it still hits him like a truck. His breath stutters.
“Gonna top you off,” you say.
“I—yeah—please,” he says, voice an octave lower than before, thick with something that makes Sam raise a knowing brow.
You pour the bourbon slowly—not provocative—just slow enough that Bucky has no choice but to watch your hands.
When you set the glass back in front of him, he looks at it for a second like he forgot why it exists.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, and then—without lifting his gaze from you—adds, “You didn’t have to come over here.”
“Sure I did,” you say, brushing a stray drop from the rim with your thumb. “Would’ve been rude to ignore Sam’s table.”
Sam slams a hand on the table. “AH-HA! See? She loves me.”
“Not even a little,” you say, sliding a tequila shooter in front of him.
Jaoquin beams like you just adopted him. “You get me.”
Sam and Jaoquin start bickering about how many drinks Jaoquin is allowed to have before he tries to dance onstage (Sam says one, Jaoquin claims three, Bucky mutters “zero”), but you’re not listening to them anymore.
You’re watching Bucky.
You tilt your head. “You alright there, sweetheart?”
Sam’s head snaps toward Bucky so fast his sunglasses nearly fall off.
“I’m breathing,” Bucky insists.
You rest a hand on the back of his chair, leaning in just slightly—close enough for him to smell your perfume, close enough that his eyes flick to your lips again.
“You sure?” you ask, soft but pointed. “Because you look a little overwhelmed.”
Jaoquin whispers, stage-loud, “He is SO overwhelmed.”
“I’m fine,” Bucky croaks.
You nod, solemn. “Then you won’t mind if I check on you again later.”
His pupils blow wide. Bucky clears his throat, straightens his back, and tries—god bless him—to pull himself together.
“Yes, ma’am.” he says.
Quiet.
Rough.
Like the word costs him something.
You smile—slow, wicked, sweet.
“Good boy.” You say, squeezing his shoulder lightly.
You pick up your tray, give them a lazy salute, and melt back into the crowd. You don’t have to look back to know he’s still watching you, you can feel it.
A prickle low on your spine, the weight of a gaze that is not leering—not hungry in the greedy way most men get in here—but sharp. Attentive. Pulled. Like he’s trying to figure out whether you meant any of that, or if you’re just doing your job.
Spoiler: you meant every last second of it.
You make it about ten steps before Sam’s voice rises above the music.
“BUCKY. CLOSE YOUR MOUTH.”
Then Jaoquin, scandalized, “Did you just salivate??”
And Bucky—poor, poor Bucky—muttering, “Both of you will die tonight.”
You bite back a grin and keep moving.
A new cluster of customers is already flagging you down, and you settle back behind the bar with ease, sliding into the rhythm of mixing drinks and slinging sarcasm. Even then, your head’s still half-turned toward their table, checking on them without ever looking directly.
They don’t notice you watching, but Bucky? Bucky notices everything.
He tries not to stare—tries really, really hard—but he keeps slipping. Every time he takes a sip, his eyes flick toward the bar. Every time someone cheers at the stage, his gaze jumps instinctively to you instead. When you laugh at something a coworker says, his head snaps up like he’s been called by name.
And every time he catches himself doing it, he looks away like you might set him on fire.
Cute.
The dancer finishes her set to roaring applause, glittering under the spotlights, and the next performer is announced. Sam and Jaoquin dive into another argument about whether the next set will involve “the chair move,” whatever the hell that means.
But Bucky?
He’s back to swirling the ice in his glass like the world’s gentlest threat, eyes drifting to you again.
You decide to test him.
Not much, barely even a glance. Just a slow drag of your gaze across the room until it lands directly—purposefully—on him.
He freezes.
Then straightens.
Then immediately slouches again like he doesn’t know what posture looks like anymore. His grip tightens around his glass, his jaw flexes, and his cheeks are still pink. When you let your lips curl in a soft, knowing smirk he looks down so fast you half-expect his neck to snap.
Yeah, you want him. Normally, customers are off limits— not because of a rule, but because you work at a strip club and the men that come in aren’t exactly your type— but this one? You’ll make an exception for him.
A few minutes pass before Sam wiggles two fingers in your direction from across the floor—an unmistakable “come here” gesture.
You shake your head and mouth, Busy.
Sam dramatically clutches his chest like you just rejected a marriage proposal.
Jaoquin waves both arms frantically like he’s trying to guide a landing plane.
You finally make your way back over—mostly because you’re low on lime wedges, but Sam doesn’t need to know that. When you approach the table again, Sam is mid-sentence.
“—swear to god, if you don’t at least try to talk to her without sounding like you’ve been concussed—”
He stops when he sees you. “Ah. Speak of the devil.”
Jaoquin waves. “HI AGAIN.”
Oh, the poor thing is already drunk off his ass.
Bucky goes unnervingly still, like maybe if he doesn’t move, you won’t notice him melting into the floor.
You set your tray back on their table. “You boys good over here?”
Sam nods toward Bucky. “He’s does.”
You rest one hand on the back of Bucky’s chair again—just like before. Just a gentle anchor.
“Is that so?” you murmur, “What can I get you? More bourbon?” you offer.
He swallows. “No. I mean—yes. No. I’m good. I’m fine. I’m—”
You lean in, close enough that he has to look at you.
“Sweetheart,” you say softly, “you’re rambling.”
His mouth opens, then closes again—once, twice—like he’s trying to reboot himself. The tips of his ears are already a deep, traitorous red. Joaquin slaps a hand over his own mouth to hide a squeak, and Sam is biting his knuckle like he’s physically holding in a laugh.
Bucky, bless him, is fighting for his life.
“I’m not— I’m not rambling,” he mutters, voice hoarse.
“Sorry, he's old,” Sam says, mocking and delighted. “My man needs some buffering time.”
“Don’t be mean, Sam.” You chastise with a smile, keeping your focus on Bucky, “You should take some buffering time, maybe you won’t say things so stupid.”
You tilt your head, keeping your hand exactly where it is on his chair. Your fingers graze the warm skin at the nape of his neck when you shift—totally accidentally, obviously—and the tiny inhale he gives is embarrassingly loud.
He tries again. “I’m, uh…” He clears his throat. “Good. Really. I don’t need anything.”
His eyes flick up to yours, just for a second, and then down again, like the look alone is too much for him.
“You sure?” you ask, voice dropping to a whisper. “Because you look like a man who needs something.”
Sam kicks the table hard enough that the drinks wobble. “OH MY god.”
Joaquin is gripping the edge of the table like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
Bucky glares at them, then looks back up at you—actually looks this time. Slow, painful, deliberate.
“…What do you think I need?” he asks.
It’s quiet, soft, honest enough that it makes the air between you thrum. You just smile.
“I think,” you say lightly, “you need to breathe, first of all.”
He does—sharp and shaky and way too obvious.
“And maybe,” you add, brushing your fingers once more along his neck as you straighten, “you need to relax a little.”
Bucky’s hand curls around his glass like it’s the only stable thing in his life.
“I’ll bring you boys some water,” you say, stepping back with a wink aimed directly at Bucky. “You’re starting to look a little dehydrated.”
You pivot away from the table, tray tucked against your hip, and you don’t have to turn around to know they’re all losing their minds behind you.
You take your time at the service station. Maybe a little more time than necessary. You slice the limes slowly, drop fresh ice into a metal scoop, prep their waters with a bartender’s practiced detachment that absolutely is not detachment right now. Every time you pause, every time your mind drifts, it drifts right back to him—those wide eyes, that pink creeping down his throat, the way he tried so hard to get a sentence out like you were stealing the words right from his tongue.
You grab the tray again—three waters, extra napkins, a few spare lime wedges—then head back.
Before you’re even in earshot, you hear Joaquin whisper harshly,
“You have to say something to her—”
Sam interrupts, louder, “No, he absolutely does not. Let him simmer. Let him marinate.”
Bucky groans. “I hate both of you.”
god, he’s adorable.
You arrive just in time to set the tray down before Sam can respond with something catastrophically unhelpful. Each glass lands with a soft thunk, condensation beading instantly.
“You boys are a mess,” you say cheerfully, placing a water in front of each of them. You save Bucky’s for last—sliding it in front of him slowly, your fingers grazing his.
He jolts like you zapped him.
“Hydrate,” you tell him, leaning in with that same warm, pointed tone.
Sam kicks Joaquin under the table so hard the poor man yelps.
Bucky shuts his eyes, inhales through his nose, and then—finally—manages real words.
“You… do this to every guy who comes in?”
His voice is low. Rough. A little defensive, but more than anything, it’s vulnerable, like he genuinely doesn’t know if he’s imagining all of it.
You let your lips curl. “No.”
A beat of silence.
His eyes snap up.
For the first time tonight, he doesn’t look away. Not for a heartbeat. Not for anything. He just… holds your gaze, like he’s bracing himself, like he’s stepping off some invisible ledge.
“…Oh,” he breathes.
It’s barely a sound. Barely anything at all.
But it hits you like a hand around your wrist, tugging you closer.
You take the empty bourbon glass from him, fingers brushing his again—longer this time, intentionally.
“Let me know if you want another drink, and if you want to stick around,” you say quietly, “I get off at 2.” You let the implication hang like smoke between you.
He nods once, slow and controlled. But the tips of his ears have gone bright red again.
When you start to walk away, you swear—swear—you hear Jaoquin whisper, “Holy shit, he’s cooked.”
Sam snorts so loudly half the table across the room turns to look. “Cooked? My man is burnt to a crisp. He’s a whole ass rotisserie chicken.”
“Shut up,” Bucky mutters, but there’s no heat in it. His voice is too thin, too shaky, too wrecked for anything resembling indignation. He’s still staring at the spot where you’d been standing, like his brain hasn’t caught all the way up to your absence.
Joaquin fans him with a napkin. “Breathe, old man. In through the nose, out through the crippling anxiety.”
“Jesus Christ,” Bucky mumbles, dragging a hand over his jaw. His fingers tremble, his knee bounces— he looks like someone unplugged him and plugged him back in wrong.
Sam leans back, folding his arms like he’s witnessing a historic moment. “You good, Barnes?”
Bucky doesn’t answer. Just stares down at the water you placed in front of him, like it’s suddenly the most complicated thing in the world.
Then, very softly—barely louder than the bass thrumming through the floor—he says:
“She wants me to stay.”
Sam claps him on the back. “Yeah, bud. That’s what happens when a hot girl says, ‘I get off at 2.’ It’s not code for a tax seminar.”
Bucky glares half-heartedly, cheeks still flushed pink and warm. “I know what it means.”
“Oh, do you?” Sam grins. “Because you look like a Victorian man who just saw her exposed ankle.”
“Both of you are insufferable,” Bucky mutters, voice low, but the tension’s softened somehow, the sharp edges of his embarrassment melting into something warmer.
He picks up the water you gave him, fingers curling around the glass like it’s the only stable thing in the world, and takes a long sip—slow, deliberate, grounding himself. His gaze flicks toward the bar again, searching for you, and when he finds you, it’s like he’s memorizing every movement, every tilt of your head, every glint of light on your hair.
“…I’m staying,” he says quietly, more to himself than anyone else, but loud enough for Sam and Joaquin to hear.
Sam whistles low, shaking his head. “Atta boy. That’s how it’s done.”
Joaquin pumps a fist in the air. “Yes! Look at him, owning it!”
Bucky doesn’t flinch at their cheering. He just sets the glass down, shoulders settling slightly, and leans back like he’s finally allowed himself to exist in the moment. His eyes never leave you.
And you keep working, letting him watch, letting him simmer just enough. Because the look he’s giving you—curious, tentative, utterly undone—is exactly the kind of fun you came here for.
Tonight, he’s yours to play with, and you’re suddenly a musician. You don’t rush. You don’t linger too long. You just conduct.
A new song thrums through the speakers—low, slow, bass that rolls like a heartbeat—and you let it guide you, let it shape the sway of your shoulders, the tilt of your neck as you reach for a bottle on the top shelf. You know exactly what it looks like from a distance. You know exactly what it does to a man already on the edge of unraveling.
When you glance over your shoulder, he’s right where you left him—leaned back, hands braced on his thighs, jaw slack, eyes locked on your shape like he’s afraid to blink.
And god, he looks gone.
Not drunk or sloppy. Gone.
Caught in the orbit you’ve spun around, caught in every little baited hook you’ve laid out, one by one.
You pour a drink for a customer without looking down, letting muscle memory take over, and when you slide it across the bar, you drag your gaze back to Bucky on purpose.
His breath hitches. You see it from across the damn room.
Sam and Joaquin immediately lose their minds—Sam grabbing Bucky’s shoulder to physically force him to stay seated, Joaquin slapping a napkin over his own face like he’s shielding his eyes from the sun.
You give him the smallest smile—tiny, secret, meant for him and him alone—and watch the way it hits him like a punch.
He swallows hard. His hand flexes on his thigh. His entire body shifts forward, just an inch, like every instinct he has wants to stand, walk across the room, and put himself directly in front of you.
You turn back to your work, pulse buzzing with satisfaction.
Sam groans, “She’s playing you like a fiddle, man.”
Joaquin adds, “No—like a whole Stradivarius.”
But Bucky just murmurs, barely audible, eyes still glued to your silhouette:
“…yeah.”
Two in the morning comes quicker than normal. The midnight rush slows, your tips pile up, your smile never fading as you serve drinks. Your gaze flicks over to Bucky every few seconds—just enough to keep him warm, never enough to cool him off.
Sam leaves around midnight, shooting you a knowing grin and slipping a generous tip onto the bar.
“Don’t break him,” he whispers conspiratorially.
You wink. “No promises.”
He cackles and drags a nearly comatose Joaquin out the door by his hood.
When you glance back at Bucky after they leave, it’s almost unfair what you find.
He hasn’t moved.
Not even a little.
Same chair, same posture, same empty glass in front of him. Same hands braced on his thighs like he’s keeping himself from doing something reckless.Except now that his friends aren’t distracting him, he watches you openly—hungry and cautious and reverent all at once. Like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. Like every second between now and two a.m. is just another step closer to you.
You feel the weight of his attention from across the room. The heat of it.
Every time you move, his eyes track you. Every time you bend to grab something off a lower shelf, he shifts like it physically affects him. Every time you so much as breathe in his direction, his jaw clenches.
By one-thirty, he’s running a hand through his hair over and over again, tousling it into something almost boyish. He keeps adjusting in his seat too—stretching his legs out, crossing them, uncrossing them, tapping his thumb on his knee. Anything to give himself away.
By one-forty-five, he turns his empty bourbon glass in slow circles on the table, watching the way the dim lights catch the edge. Waiting. Debating. Working himself up over what comes next.
And by one-fifty-eight—just as you’re wiping down the bar and counting the last of your cash—he finally stands.
Not fast or confident.
Slow. Like approaching a wild animal. Like any sudden movement might spook him or you or both.
You don’t look up immediately, you hear his footsteps first—heavy, steady, dragging slightly from nerves. Then the way he pauses just shy of the bar, breath catching like he might turn back.
The way he gathers what courage he has left.
“Hey,” he says softly.
You look up.
He’s a mess in the prettiest way— mussed from his own hands, cheeks still flushed warm from earlier, blue eyes bright under the neon glow. He’s trying so hard to look calm, but his fingers curl on the edge of the bar like he’s grounding himself.
“You, uh… still getting off at two?” he asks.
You glance at the clock behind you. One minute to go.
“Looks like,” you hum.
He swallows hard. “And you still want me to, um, stick around?”
Oh, he’s adorable when he’s brave.
You lean your elbows on the bar, tilting your head.
“Depends,” you murmur. “You planning on behaving?”
His breath stutters.
“…Probably not.”
You smile.
“Good,” you say. “I was hoping you wouldn’t. Wait here, I’ll be right back, m’kay?”
His answering inhale is sharp enough to hear over the speakers. He nods—slow, stunned, like you’ve just handed him something delicate and dangerous.
Of course he will. You could tell him to wait all night and he would, happily, reverently, flushed right down to the collar of that worn henley.
You slip into the back hallway, pushing through the staff door with a soft click. The noise of the club dampens instantly—bass turning muted, lights dimming to bare bulbs humming above lockers.
You toss your apron aside, shake out your hair, swipe a bit of shimmer off your cheek where someone from the floor must’ve brushed past you earlier. Your pulse is still thrumming from the way he said “probably not,” warm and sweet and more honest than anything he’s managed all night.
You take a deep breath, then another. Because you’re not nervous, but something about the way he looks at you curls just right under your skin.
When you come back out, it’s like the whole club has shifted around him.
Most of the lights are up now, the last stragglers trickling out, chairs getting stacked on tables, but Bucky?
Still hasn’t moved.
He’s still standing at the bar, hands shoved in his pockets now like he’s trying to look casual—completely failing, but god love him for trying. His head snaps up the moment he hears the door, eyes dragging over you in a slow sweep that he never would’ve dared two hours ago.
It hits him visibly— his posture straightens instinctively, breath catches, and for a second he seemingly forgets how to blink.
“Hey,” you say softly as you walk toward him, bag slung over your shoulder.
He swallows like he’s clearing space for the word before he lets it out.
“Hi.” It’s raspier than before, lower and warm. “You, um, ready?”
You stop in front of him, close enough that he has to tilt his head down to keep eye contact.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “You?”
He lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped in his chest all night.
“…God, yeah.”
His voice has finally caught up to the way he’s been looking at you.
You have him take you to his place, because cute as he is and as much as you like him, he’s still a man and you’re better safe than sorry. Not that he seems to mind in the slightest, the entire drive he was practically vibrating in your passenger seat—from nerves or excitement you aren’t sure. Probably both. Unable to stop yourself, you let your hand move to rest on his thigh, relishing in the way his breath hitches instantly, the muscle pulling taught under your finger tips. You squeeze slightly, running your hand up and down in a soothing motion.
“Relax. Do I make you that nervous, Buck?”
You glance over to see him gulp, to enjoy the way pink flushes up his neck to the tips of his ears just from the sound of you saying his name for the first time. You drag your fingertips a little higher, just to see what it does to him, and oh, does it do exactly what you hoped.
Bucky’s hand flexes against his jeans, fingers splaying like he’s trying to find something to hold onto that isn’t you. His knee twitches, breath leaving in a half-choked exhale that he tries—fails—to disguise as a cough. Another quick glance lets you see the tent beginning to form even under the stiff jeans he’s wearing.
“Yeah,” he manages, voice embarrassingly thin. “Yeah, you— you kinda do.”
You smile to yourself, eyes back on the road, but your hand stays right where it is.
“Good nervous or bad nervous?” you ask lightly, thumb brushing the inside seam of his thigh.
“Good,” he says immediately— too immediately. “Really good. Like—fuck, I don’t know—the stupid kind.”
You bite back a grin. “Stupid kind?”
He groans softly, head thunking back against the seat. “The kind where my brain’s all scrambled and I keep saying dumb shit because you—”
He stops, realizing what he’s about to admit.
You squeeze his thigh again. “Because I what?”
Silence stretches for a beat. Then, in a small, wrecked, painfully honest voice, “Because you’re… kinda perfect, and I’m trying so hard not to screw this up. God, I sound like a fucking loser.”
That pulls your gaze from the road. He’s staring out the window like the passing streetlights might rescue him, jaw tight, lashes low, cheeks pink like he’s confessing a secret he didn’t mean to let slip.
You soften.
“Bucky,” you murmur, running your thumb soothingly across tense muscle, “you’re doing great. Promise. You’re a very cute loser.”
His eyes flick to you—quick, startled, hopeful. You give his thigh another quick squeeze before turning back to the road. You can’t help the small giggle that escapes you when a startled noise leaves him.
“Fuck, you’re doing that on purpose, aren’t you?”
You hum like you’re thinking about it, even though you absolutely are.
“Maybe,” you admit. “Hard to resist when you react like that.”
“Like what?” he demands—except it’s not demanding at all. It’s breathless, shaky, too soft around the edges to be anything but pleading.
“Like you’re two seconds from falling apart just ’cause I touched your leg.”
He makes another sound—half whine, half exhale—and drags a hand down his face.
“Jesus,” he mutters, sinking lower into the passenger seat like that’ll hide him. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Mm, don’t think so,” you tease. “Just having a little fun.”
He turns his head, finally looking at you fully again. Neon from a passing sign washes over his face in a soft pink glow, catching on the messy strands of his hair and the flush high on his cheekbones. He looks undone, and beautiful. And so very, very gone for you.
“You’re evil,” he says weakly.
You smile. “You like it.”
His throat bobs, so you do the only thing you can think of. You let your fingers slide just a fraction higher on his thigh, moving over the fabric stretched taught over the bulge. You press down, just barely letting the heel of your palm apply slight pressure.
The reaction is instant—violent, helpless, gorgeous. His hips jerk like he didn’t mean to move, like his body betrayed him before his brain could catch up. A strangled noise punches out of his chest, halfway between a gasp and a plea, and his hand clamps down on the seat like he’s holding on for dear life.
“Fuck—” he chokes out, eyes squeezing shut for one long, agonizing second.
When they open again, he’s looking at you like you’ve just flipped the world upside down.
You keep your eyes on the road, but your hand stays exactly where it is, palm warm over him, thumb brushing a slow circle like it’s nothing.
“You okay over there?” you ask, tone deliberately gentle and sweet.
“Y-yeah. Fine.” His voice cracks.
You hum innocently. “Want me to keep going?”
“Please.” he breathes, sounding ruined already.
“Oh, sweetheart,” you murmur, dragging the words out like silk, “you really are sensitive, aren’t you?”
He shudders a breath that starts in his chest and gets stuck somewhere in his throat. He nods—tiny, desperate—and the sight alone nearly makes you moan.
You slow your hand but don’t stop, letting the heel of your palm glide over him again, just enough to keep him barely thinking. Barely breathing. Barely holding on.
“Good boy,” you whisper.
He makes a sound he definitely didn’t mean to make—sharp and soft all at once, something that shoots straight to your core and curls your smile at the edges.
“Holy shit,” he whispers back, visibly trembling now. “You— you can’t just say stuff like that while I’m— fuck—”
“While you’re what?” you press, voice low. You drag your palm over him one more time, slow and deliberate. “Hard? Squirming in your seat? Doing everything you can not to fall apart before we even get to your building?”
He grips the seat again, knuckles white.
“I— yeah— that,” he stammers, breathless and shaking. “All of that. You’re— fuck.”
You don’t let him finish, fingers deftly undoing the button on his jeans and slipping beneath the fabric to cup him over his boxers. You feel the heat of him through the thin cotton—nothing more than a warm, aching outline beneath your palm—but it’s enough to make him gasp like you’ve knocked the wind out of him.
His hips jolt, his breath stutters, and his hand shoots out blindly until it finds your knee, fingers clutching hard like he needs the anchor.
“Hey,” you murmur, keeping your voice soft despite the wicked curl in your smile, “eyes on me.”
He tries—god, he tries—but he can only manage a flicker of a glance before his lashes drop again, his whole body leaning forward like the pull between you has its own gravity.
“Too much?” you ask, even though you already know the answer.
He shakes his head fast, hair brushing his jaw, breath coming out in short, uneven bursts. “No. No—just— you’re—” He swallows, struggling for words. “You’re messing me up.”
“Mm.” You let your fingers press just a little more firmly, still over the fabric, still barely giving him anything real. “I know.”
His entire body shudders.
The city lights flash across his face as you make a turn—cool blues, sharp whites—catching the way his jaw tenses, the way he bites down on a sound he doesn’t want to make in the quiet car.
“Bucky?” you murmur, dragging his name out just enough.
He looks at you again, pupils blown wide, lips parted.
“You still with me?”
He nods, tiny, helpless.
You trace a slow, lazy line with your thumb just over where you feel his head leaking precum already.
“You’re doing so good for me,” you say, gentle but devastating.
He sucks in a breath—sharp, high, helpless. His hips twitch up like the movement has been building in him for minutes, like your words alone pull the string tight inside him.
His fingers dig into your knee, not painful, just desperate. Pleading.
“Oh my god…” he whispers, voice cracking right down the middle.
“Shh.” You soften your tone, brushing your thumb again, slow and deliberate. “I’ve got you.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, breath shaking out of him. “I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” you murmur, leaning back just a little to watch him squirm in the seat. “Look at you. Taking every little thing I give you.”
His eyes flutter open—barely—but it’s enough. Enough for you to see how undone he is. How close. How much he wants to be good for you even when his body is betraying every attempt at composure.
“Say it,” you coax softly. “Tell me you’re still with me.”
He nods, too fast, like he’s afraid he’ll lose the ability if he waits a second longer. “With you. I’m— I’m with you, I promise.”
“Good boy,” you breathe.
The reaction is instant—his whole body tenses like a chord pulled tight, breath catching in his throat, something raw and needy flashing across his face.
He’s not even aware he’s leaning closer to you, like your voice is the only thing tethering him to the moment.
“You like that?” you ask quietly. Not mocking or teasing, just curious. Intent.
He nods again—small, jerky. “Yeah. Too much. It’s—god—it’s too much.”
You smile, hand never leaving him. “But you don’t want me to stop.”
He shakes his head, helpless, barely holding himself together. “No. Please— please don’t.”
Your thumb traces that same slow, devastating circle. “Then breathe for me, Bucky.”
He drags in a breath—shaky, uneven, a half-whimper caught in his chest.
“And keep your eyes open,” you add, soft but firm.
His lashes lift. Barely. But they lift. Blue eyes blown wide, glassy with need and trust and something deeper that he probably hasn’t even realized he’s giving you.
“There you go,” you murmur. “Just like that.”
He swallows hard. “Drive faster.”
You laugh—quiet and delighted. “You want me to take you apart that badly?”
He makes a noise that could be a yes, could be a plea, could be both, and you decide to be nice. You slip your hand beneath the fabric of his boxers, letting your fingers curl around the warm, sensitive curve of him, skin to skin for the first time. He’s already rock hard in your hand, precum leaking down his trapped length. You slide your hand up and down once, just to spread it, and the sound he makes is immediate and wrecked—half inhale, half sob, half disbelief.
“Easy,” you murmur, though your voice is anything but innocent. “I’ve got you.”
His head falls back against the seat, jaw clenched, throat working around a breath he can’t quite catch. His knees spread a little wider without him even realizing he’s doing it, like his body is offering itself up to you out of pure instinct.
“Oh my god,” he whispers, voice shot to hell, “I’m— I can’t— I’m not gonna last.”
“You don’t have to,” you say gently, your hand stroking again—slow, warm, devastating. Not even a real rhythm, just enough for him to feel every second of it.
His entire body jolts.
“Holy—fuck—” He reaches blindly for you with his other hand, fingers barely brushing your wrist before he snatches it back like he’s afraid touching you might actually break him. “No—wait—I don’t wanna— not yet—”
You soften instantly, easing the pressure but not letting go.
“Hey.” Your voice quiets, warm and steady. “You okay?”
He nods, then shakes his head, then nods again—completely undone. “I— I don’t wanna finish in your car.”
A soft laugh escapes you. “Sweetheart. I’m not gonna make you.” You give him one slow stroke, just enough to keep him dizzy. “Not unless you ask.”
His breath catches on the word ask.
You see it. The way his hips twitch. The way a sound slips past his lips before he can swallow it. The way a blush creeps all the way down his throat.
You ease your hand back to a gentler hold beneath his waistband—still teasing, but slightly more reassuring.
“Almost there,” you murmur. “Couple more minutes and we’ll be parked. Then I’ll give you exactly what you need.”
Bucky nods again, this time slower, more controlled, though every muscle in his body is trembling.
“You’re doing so good,” you tell him softly.
His eyes squeeze shut for a beat, and when he opens them, they’re shining.
“Please don’t stop touching me,” he whispers, barely audible.
Your heart pulls tight at the sound of it—soft, wrecked, so honest it punches straight through your chest.
“I’m not stopping,” you promise, thumb brushing slow circles over the edge of his waistband, your fingers cupping him in a way that’s more comfort than torture now. “I’ve got you.”
He exhales shakily, like those three words alone are enough to hold him together. His hand finally settles on your wrist—not gripping, just resting there, warm and tentative, like he needs the anchor. Like he needs you.
“That’s it,” you breathe, leaning just a little closer, letting your shoulder brush his. “Let me take care of you.”
He nods, eyes fluttering shut again as his body slowly unwinds from that razor-wire tension. Not completely—never completely—he’s still trembling under your touch, still fighting every instinct telling him to fall apart right here, right now. But he’s listening. He’s trying.
You keep your voice low, steady, something he can follow out of his own head. “Good. Just breathe. We’re almost there.”
The city lights slip across his face as you turn onto his street, painting him in gold, then shadow, then gold again. He slowly starts grinding against your palm and you can’t help the smile on your lips. His lashes flutter with every shift, his mouth parting on these tiny, helpless breaths he can’t seem to swallow down.
“You’re really good at this,” he manages, though it sounds more like a confession than a sentence.
“Good at taking care of you?” you murmur.
He nods, embarrassed but honest. “Yeah. That.”
You stroke your thumb up the line of his hip, slow and soothing. “Then let me.”
He shudders—full-body, involuntary—like that permission alone nearly undoes him.
You pull into his building’s parking lot, engine idling as you slip the gear into park.
“Hey,” you say softly, turning toward him fully, your hand still warm beneath the denim of his jeans. “Look at me.”
He tries—god, he really tries—but his eyes open only halfway, heavy and dazed and already surrendering.
“There you go,” you whisper. “Still with me?”
“Yeah,” he breathes, voice trembling. “Just really, really need you.”
Your chest tightens again—fondness, heat, something dangerously close to affection. You lean in, brushing your nose against the edge of his jaw, slow and sweet.
“Good,” you murmur. “Because I’m about to take you inside.”
His breath stutters.
“And once we’re alone?” Your hand slides just a bit deeper into his boxers, the gentlest brush of your fingers against hot skin. Enough to make him gasp, to make his hips jerk helplessly.
“I’m going to take my time with you,” you whisper. “Make you fall apart exactly how you wanted to.”
He makes a sound that’s nothing but need.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” you say softly, easing your hand free and reaching for his. “You inviting me up?”
His reaction is almost instant, hands shakily fixing his pants as he opens the door, nodding. He stumbles out first, like he can’t get upright fast enough, one hand braced on the car door, the other fumbling with yours cutely. His legs are unsteady—too warm, too shaky, too wound up—and when you close your own door and come around to him, he’s standing there blinking at you like you’ve knocked the breath right out of him.
“Hey,” you murmur, sliding your fingers through his. “You ready?”
He tries—god, he really tries—but the moment your hands lace together, his grip tightens with barely-contained urgency. He starts walking toward the entrance with you at his side, but every few steps he wavers, breath catching like the memory of your touch is still ricocheting through him.
Inside the lobby’s dim lighting, he’s even more undone. His cheeks are flushed, eyes wide and glassy, lips parted like he’s been running instead of just trying desperately to keep himself together.
He swipes his key fob over the elevator panel, and his hand is shaking so badly he has to do it twice.
You catch his wrist gently. “Bucky.”
He looks up at you, startled, like he forgot people could still see him.
“You sure?” you ask—soft, not teasing this time. “You want me up there with you?”
He swallows, throat bobbing hard. “I—yeah. Yes. Of course I do.” His voice cracks, heat blooming across his face. “I just… I can’t think straight when you’re touching me.”
You step closer—not crowding him, just enough that he can lean, if he wants to. Suddenly clarity flashes through your mind. “You had a lot to drink, I don’t know if—”
“I can’t get drunk.”
At that, you can’t help the laugh that escapes you. “I know you’re a big guy, but everyone can get drunk.”
He just shakes his head, pulling you inside the elevator as the doors open and pressing the button quickly, “No, like I can’t get drunk. Super soldier stuff. Test me, I’m sober. Nervous as fuck, but very sober. This would be a hell of a lot easier if I could get drunk, trust me.”
You blink at him, the elevator doors sliding shut behind you with a soft thud. For a moment you just… stare. Because he looks wrecked, trembling, flushed, eyes blown wide—not drunk, but something else entirely.
“So,” you say slowly, brow lifting. “You’re telling me you’re like… biologically incapable of getting drunk.”
He nods quickly, almost offended you don’t believe him. “Yeah. Metabolism’s too fast. It sucks. Can’t get tipsy, can’t get buzzed. Can barely even get caffeine to hit me.” Then, with a helpless gesture toward his whole entire body, “This? This is just you.”
Your stomach does a dangerous little flip.
You lean in a fraction, voice dropping. “So you’re saying all of this—” Your fingers ghost down the front of his shirt, not even touching, just hovering close enough to feel the warmth of him. “—is because of me?”
A sound escapes him—quiet, rough, like he’s trying not to whine. His head knocks lightly back against the elevator wall.
“Yeah,” he says, the word almost whispered. “You’re messing me up, doll.”
“Well,” you murmur, stepping close enough that your bodies almost touch, “I’m flattered.”
He huffs out a breathless laugh that dissolves into a soft, shaky exhale when you lay your palm flat against his chest.
“And you’re okay with this?” you ask, softer now. “Really okay?”
His hand comes up—hesitant, trembling—fingers curling around your waist like he’s afraid you might disappear if he holds any tighter.
“I’m way more than okay,” he says, voice low and honest and cracked open. “I just—” His eyes drag down your body, back up to your mouth. “God, I want you so bad I can’t think straight.”
You slide your hand up, brushing your knuckles along the edge of his jaw. “Then breathe, sweetheart.”
He sucks in a breath—sharp, needy.
“And when those doors open,” you add, stepping even closer, lips brushing the corner of his mouth without touching, “you’re going to show me exactly where your apartment is.”
He nods instantly, desperate, already lifting his chin like he wants to meet your mouth.
The elevator dings.
The doors slide open.
And Bucky is already reaching for your hand, voice barely steady as he murmurs. “Come with me.”
He pulls you to a door, fumbles slightly with his keys, and immediately is on you. The moment you step inside, he pushes the door closed and you against it. His mouth doesn’t quite find yours—he’s too frantic for that—but his hands do, one splayed over your hip, the other braced beside your head like he’s trying to cage in everything he’s been holding back.
“Jesus—” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours for a second, his breath hot, uneven. “I’ve been trying to be good. I swear. I was trying so hard in the car.”
Your lips curl. “You did so well.”
The praise hits him like a physical touch—his fingers tighten on your waist, his hips pressing forward before he even realizes he’s doing it.
“Don’t—” His voice breaks, a little desperate. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”
You reach up, brushing a thumb across his cheekbone. “I always mean it. You did so good for me, baby.”
He lets out a shuddering exhale, eyes squeezing shut for a moment like that alone unravels something in him. When he opens them again, they’re darker—clearer, somehow, but wrecked in a way that says you’ve completely undone him.
“Can I—” He stops, swallows, tries again. “Please tell me I can touch you.”
You take his wrist gently and guide his hand to your waist, then higher, sliding it up your ribcage slow enough that you feel every tremble roll through him.
“You can touch me,” you whisper. “Anywhere you want.”
His breath leaves him in a soft, wrecked sound—relief, hunger, awe tangled together.
His hand curves around your side, fingers tentative but desperate, as if he’s memorizing the shape of you. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath warm against your neck.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, barely audible. “God—thank you.”
You tilt his chin up with two fingers, forcing his gaze to meet yours.
“Bucky,” you say softly, deliberately, “you don’t have to ask for permission to want me.”
His lips part—slow, stunned, like the words knock the air right out of him. He leans in again without thinking, his nose brushing your cheek, his mouth hovering over yours.
“Then kiss me,” he whispers, voice trembling. “Please.”
The moment your lips touch his, Bucky breaks. Not with sound, not with intensity—but with need so palpable you can feel it in the way his body melts against yours. His mouth is warm and desperate, kissing you like he’s been starving for it, like he’s trying to breathe you in.
His hand cups your jaw, thumb tracing your cheek with a tenderness that contradicts the low, hungry sound he makes into your mouth. The other wraps around your waist, pulling you flush to him, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he loosens his grip for even a second.
You nip his bottom lip lightly—just enough pressure to make him gasp.
“God—” he whispers against your mouth, voice wrecked. “You don’t even know. I’ve been—” He cuts himself off with another kiss, deeper this time, like he can’t stand the space between syllables. “—thinking about you all night.”
Your hand slides down his chest, slow, and teasing as you smile into the kiss. “Yeah? How much?”
He swallows, breathing ragged as he leans his forehead to yours again. “Enough that the second you touched me tonight, I nearly—” He lets out a shaky laugh, embarrassed and turned on all at once. “You felt what almost happened.”
Your smile softens. “You don’t have to be embarrassed.”
“I’m not,” he says quickly, grip tightening around your waist. “I just— I didn’t want it to be… over before we even got here.”
Your fingers trail down his torso, feeling him shiver beneath your touch. “Sweetheart. I wasn’t planning on letting you off that easy.”
His breath stutters again.
Then—slowly, carefully—you push off the door and guide him backward into the apartment. He follows instantly, hands never leaving you, eyes glued to your mouth like he’s under some kind of spell.
“Bedroom?” you murmur, brushing a kiss along his jaw.
He nods, breath catching. “Down the hall. Left.”
You lace your fingers with his again, tugging gently.
“Show me.”
Bucky doesn’t hesitate.
Doesn’t falter.
Doesn’t even look away.
He just leads you down the hall, shoulders tense with anticipation, pulse fluttering beneath his skin—every step bringing him closer to exactly what he’s been unraveling for in your passenger seat, your hands, your voice.
He kisses you deeper, pushing you into the room and to the bed, desperate and messy as you fall onto the comforter and—
Meow
You both freeze. There’s a beat of absolute, bewildered silence.
Then—
Meow.
It’s small, indignant, offended, even.
Bucky closes his eyes like he’s just been shot.
“...no,” he whispers to himself.
You blink, propping yourself up on your elbows. “Was that—?”
Before you can finish, a blur of white fur hops onto the bed with all the confidence of a creature who pays rent.
A very round, very fluffy, very unimpressed cat waddles across the blankets, stops right at Bucky’s hip, and meows again—louder this time—like it’s scolding him for bringing a guest home without prior approval.
Bucky rubs both hands over his face and groans into his palms. “Alpine…”
You bite back a smile. “Alpine?”
Bucky drops his hands and glares at the cat like a betrayed parent. “Yeah. She’s— she’s usually asleep by now.”
Alpine meows again, this time shorter, sharper. Very judgmental.
“Is she… mad?” you ask.
“She’s always mad,” Bucky mutters.
Alpine ignores him completely and climbs onto his thigh, plopping herself down like a soft, angry sentinel. Her tail flicks at you once—analyzing, assessing—before she lifts a paw and places it squarely on Bucky’s stomach.
Another meow.
You cover your mouth to keep from laughing. “She’s policing us.”
“She’s policing me,” Bucky corrects miserably. “I swear to god she—”
Alpine slowly turns her head, locking eyes with him.
Bucky stops talking.
You raise your brows. “She doesn’t like sharing?”
“She doesn’t like—” He gestures vaguely at her. “—surprises.”
Alpine then pads forward, plants herself between the two of you with a heavy flop that jostles the mattress, and stares up at you with large blue eyes like she’s waiting for you to justify your existence.
You smile softly and reach out your hand, palm up. “Hi, sweetheart.”
Alpine leans in, sniffs…
…then immediately bumps her head into your fingers.
Bucky sits up straighter, stunned. “Are you kidding me?”
Alpine purrs, loudly and dramatically, like she’s decided she loves you more than life.
You stroke behind her ears, and she melts further, rolling onto her back and exposing her fluffy belly.
Bucky looks personally attacked. “She doesn’t even do that for me.”
You smirk. “Guess she’s got good taste.”
He scoffs—but his cheeks are pink, eyes soft, pride bruised but heart obviously melted.
Alpine rolls over and kicks at his hip, like move over and let her pet me more.
You laugh quietly and lean in closer to him. “So… what now?”
Bucky glances at Alpine. Then at you. Then at Alpine again.
“Alright, you little cockblock. That's it.” He picks her up and you laugh as she meows indignantly. “Shoo.” He places her gently outside the room and shuts the door, moving back to the bed and sitting down. He leans against the headboard with a defeated sigh.
You have to bite your lip to hold back your grin. “You really just kicked your own cat out.”
“She deserved it,” Bucky mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m just reclaiming my space.”
You crawl closer on the mattress, slow and deliberate, watching his eyes track every shift of your body like he physically can’t look anywhere else. He relaxes a little as you settle in front of him, knees brushing his.
“You okay?” you ask, soft and teasing at the same time.
He lets out a humorless laugh. “I was about to combust in the elevator, then my cat judged me to death, and now I’m sitting here trying not to look as pathetic as I feel.”
“Pathetic?” you echo, tilting your head.
He nods, rolling his lips together. “Yes, pathetic. I have the most stunning girl ever in my bed, I’m so hard for you it hurts, and I’m five seconds away from losing it.”
Your chest tightens—warmth, heat, something fond that you don’t want to look at too closely.
“Bucky,” you murmur, sliding a hand up his thigh, slow and reassuring, “that’s not pathetic.”
He huffs, still trying to breathe steady. “Feels like it.”
“Feels like honesty,” you counter. “And last I checked, I like that.”
His eyes flick up to yours, searching.
“You do?”
You smile. “Yeah. I do.”
Something in him eases. His shoulders drop, his jaw unclenches, and that overwhelmed, glassy look comes back—only softer this time. More open.
You shift forward, swinging one leg over to straddle his lap. His breath catches instantly, hands hovering like he’s not sure where to touch.
“Relax,” you tease gently, guiding his hands to your hips. “She’s not here anymore.”
He lets out a shaky laugh, fingers settling in, gripping like he’s been dying to.
“Thank god,” he murmurs, voice low.
You lean in, brushing your lips just against his—close enough for heat, not enough for contact.
“Then lose it,” you whisper.
His breath shudders, hands tightening on your waist.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, forehead resting against yours.
“Mm, baby,” you breathe, lips ghosting his again, “I’m gonna take care of you.”
His eyes flutter shut, his exhale breaking into the tiniest whimper as you grind down over him, pressing your lips back to his. Bucky’s whole body jolts—like every nerve lights up at once—and the sound he makes into your mouth is low, wrecked, grateful.
His hands slide up your back, strong and trembling, pulling you closer like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t keep touching you. You can feel how tightly he’s holding himself together, how close he is to just giving in and letting that composure shatter.
You kiss him slow, deep, coaxing, until his head falls back against the headboard with a broken sigh. His fingers flex on your hips, dragging you down again, helping you move over in time with his bucking hips.
You smile against his lips, trailing a kiss across his cheek, then his jaw, then lower, feeling the way his breath stutters with every inch you descend.
“That’s the idea,” you murmur against his throat before sucking gently at the pulse there.
His grip spasms and he lets out a breathy moan.
You pull back just enough to look at him. His hair is falling over his forehead, his cheeks flushed, his chest rising fast. He looks overwhelmed, needy, perfect.
You rock against him again, letting your teeth scrape lightly at his collarbone as another sound rips from his throat. You pull away just to take off his shirt and toss it off the bed before attaching your lips to him again, sucking marks across the expanse of his chest, reveling in each shiver and tremble of him beneath you.
Bucky’s head drops back against the wall with a thud the second your mouth touches his chest.
“Fuck—” he chokes out, voice cracking in the middle, hands flying to your hips like he needs the anchor. His fingers dig in, half-desperate, half-pleading, guiding your slow grind like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.
You drag your tongue up the line of his sternum, feeling the way his breath stutters, how his whole body arches—instinctive, involuntary, like he’s trying to give you more. You kiss across his pec, then lower, letting your teeth scrape just enough to make him gasp.
“Please,” he groans, voice a wrecked whisper, “Oh fuck, please.”
You smile against his skin, warm and wicked, mouthing at a spot just under his collarbone until he sucks in a sharp breath, chest jerking. His hand slides up your spine and into your hair, fingers threading through like he’s afraid you’ll stop if he doesn’t hold on.
“I told you,” you murmur, lips brushing over his warm skin, “I’m taking care of you.”
His breath shudders again—his whole body shudders—his hips lifting under you like he can’t help it. His free hand splays across your lower back, broad and firm, pulling you in closer, closer, like he physically needs you there.
“You… fuck, you feel unreal,” he pants, voice breaking on the last word.
You kiss down the center of his chest again, slower this time, savoring the way his muscles go tight, then soft, then tight again beneath your mouth. He’s trembling, actually trembling, like every kiss steals a little more of his ability to think.
You pause, hovering just above the waistband of his jeans, breath ghosting over his skin. He twitches like the anticipation alone is going to ruin him.
“Baby,” he begs under his breath, a sound so unsteady, so raw, you feel it all the way down your spine. His metal hand cups the back of your neck, gentle despite the tremor in it. “Please, don’t tease.”
You look up at him through your lashes.
“Oh, Bucky,” you purr, slow and sweet, hands sliding up his torso, “I’m not teasing.”
You finally tug his waistband down, and he makes quick work of his jeans and boxers, cock slapping against his abs in the process. You take a moment to just sit back, admire the man in front of you. He’s stunned, chest heaving, pupils blown wide, every inch of him glowing under the dim bedroom light. His skin is flushed, fine lines of heat spreading across his chest and neck, hair mussed in a halo around his head. Each ridge of his body is defined, the planes marked with your lipstick, nipples hard peaks. And his cock, god, you can’t even breathe. It’s pretty in a way that feels illegal, standing tall and proud and heavy between his thick thighs. Curved up, tip red and angry and weeping for you, he’s absolutely perfect.
You trail a hand down his side, letting your fingers brush over him lightly, teasing at the way his muscles twitch under your touch. He shudders instantly, hips tilting up without thinking, cock twitching as his eyes lock onto yours with a mix of need and awe that’s almost unbearable.
He watches you with a kind of helpless reverence, like you’re a vision he’s afraid he might have imagined. His breath hitches as your fingers trail lower, skimming the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, and his whole body tenses in anticipation.
“Please,” he whispers again, the word barely audible, ragged with need. “Don’t just look.”
You smile, a slow, wicked curve of your lips, and finally wrap your hand around the base of his cock. The sound he makes is a choked-off gasp, his head falling back against the headboard, eyes squeezing shut. His hips jerk forward, a desperate, instinctive thrust into your palm.
He’s hot and heavy in your hand, silky skin over steel, and the way he trembles at your slightest touch is intoxicating. You give him one slow, deliberate stroke, from base to tip, and his whole body arches off the bed.
“Fuck—” he chokes out, his metal hand flying to your thigh, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “Oh, god, please—”
You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his hip, your thumb smearing the bead of precum already leaking from his tip. “Please what, sweetheart?” you murmur, your voice a low hum against his skin. “Tell me what you want.”
His eyes flutter open, glassy and unfocused, and he looks at you like you’re the only thing holding him together. “You,” he breathes, the word a raw, broken thing. “Anything, everything, please.”
You reward him with another slow, tight stroke, twisting your wrist just enough to make him cry out. His hips buck wildly, chasing the friction, and you can feel the frantic rhythm of his pulse hammering through his cock. He’s already so close, so wound up, every nerve ending frayed and exposed.
“Easy,” you soothe, your free hand coming up to rest on his heaving chest. “Breathe for me, Bucky.”
He tries, he really does, sucking in a ragged breath that does nothing to calm the frantic race of his heart. “Can’t,” he pants, shaking his head. “Can’t breathe when you’re—oh, fuck—when you’re touching me like that.”
You shift, settling between his thighs, and lower your head until your lips are just a breath away from his flushed, weeping tip. His whole body goes rigid, his breath catching in his throat as he watches you, mesmerized.
“Then don’t,” you whisper, and then you take him into your mouth.
The sound he makes is half-sob, half-groan, a raw, guttural noise of pure, unadulterated relief. His hands fly to your hair, one tangling in the strands, the other cupping the back of your neck, holding on like you’re his only anchor in a storm. You take him deep, your tongue flattening against the underside of his cock, and his hips lift off the bed, a desperate, helpless thrust that you meet with a slow, deliberate swallow.
“Jesus—Christ—” he chokes out, his voice cracking, his thighs trembling on either side of you. “Oh, god, doll, your mouth—”
You pull back slowly, letting him feel every inch of your lips and tongue, then sink down again, taking him even deeper. The taste of him is salty and clean, and the way he falls apart beneath you is the most intoxicating thing you’ve ever felt. His grip on your hair tightens, not to guide you, but just to hold on, to ground himself as you slowly, methodically ruin him.
You look up at him, at the wrecked, beautiful man falling apart under your hands and mouth. His eyes are locked on yours, wide and dark and full of a desperate, pleading awe.
“Don’t stop,” he begs, his voice a ragged whisper. “Please, god, don’t stop.”
You have no intention of stopping. You set a rhythm, slow and deep, your hand working in tandem with your mouth, stroking what you can’t take. His hips begin to move, a slow, rolling thrust that matches your pace, and the sounds he’s making now are constant, a litany of choked-off moans and broken whispers of your name.
He’s close, you can feel it in the way his body tightens, in the frantic, uneven rhythm of his breathing, in the way his cock pulses against your tongue. His grip on your hair becomes almost painful, his whole body bowing off the bed as he teeters on the edge.
“Gonna—” he gasps, his eyes squeezing shut. “Oh, fuck, I’m gonna—”
You pull off and his eyes fly open, wide and wild with disbelief. A raw, wounded sound escapes his throat, a desperate, confused whimper that makes your stomach clench. His hips jerk forward, chasing the warmth that’s suddenly gone, a frantic, mindless search for the release you just denied him.
“Wh—” he chokes out, his voice cracking, his hands tightening in your hair almost painfully. “Why—? Don’t—”
“Shhh,” you soothe, your voice a low, calming murmur as you press a soft kiss to his trembling hip. You can feel his frantic, racing pulse against your lips. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”
He’s panting, his chest heaving, his whole body strung tight with a need so sharp it looks like pain, his tip a furious red, cock twitching desperately. He stares down at you, his expression a shattered mix of desperation and confusion, like he can’t process anything beyond the sudden, agonizing emptiness.
“Please,” he begs, the word a ragged, broken sob. “Please, doll, don’t… I can’t—”
You trail your fingers up his inner thigh, a slow, gentle caress that makes him shudder violently. “I know, baby,” you whisper, your breath ghosting over his slick, flushed skin. “I know. But I don’t want it to be over yet.”
His breath hitches, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your mouth, a dawning, terrifying understanding slowly replacing the confusion.
You smile, a slow, wicked curve of your lips, and lean in to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the base of his cock. He jolts, a sharp, choked gasp tearing from his throat as his hips buck helplessly.
“Just for a second,” you murmur, tracing a vein with the tip of your tongue. “Wanted to feel you shake.”
And shake he does. A full-body tremor racks him, his muscles clenching and unclenching as he struggles to hold himself together. He’s so close, so painfully, achingly close, that the slightest touch is almost too much to bear.
“God,” he whimpers, his head falling back against the headboard with a dull thud. “You’re trying to kill me.”
You chuckle, a low, throaty sound that vibrates against him. “Not kill you, sweetheart. Just… take you apart.” You shift, moving to hover over him again, your lips just inches from his. “Wanna see how long I can make you last.”
His eyes are dark, almost black with need, his pupils blown so wide they swallow the blue. He looks utterly wrecked, completely at your mercy, and the power of it is a heady, intoxicating rush.
“Please,” he whispers again, but this time it’s different. Not a plea for release, but a plea for you. For whatever you’re willing to give him. “Anything.”
You lean in, capturing his lips in a slow, deep kiss, letting him taste himself on your tongue. He kisses you back with a desperate, hungry fervor, his hands releasing your hair to cup your face, holding you like you’re the only real thing in his world.
When you finally pull back, he’s breathing hard, his lips swollen and slick, his eyes glazed with a mixture of lust and adoration that makes your heart ache.
“Good boy,” you murmur, and the praise hits him like a physical blow. He lets out a shuddering moan, his whole body melting into the mattress, his surrender complete.
You smile, and then you sink back down, taking him into your mouth once more. This time, there’s no teasing, no slow build-up. You take him deep, your movements sure and deliberate, and the sound he makes is one of pure, unadulterated bliss. His hands fly back to your hair, his hips lifting to meet you, and you let him set the pace, let him fuck your mouth with a desperate, frantic rhythm that speaks of a need so profound it borders on worship.
It doesn’t take long. He was already right there, hovering on the edge, and the denial, the praise, the overwhelming sensation of your mouth on him again is all it takes to push him over.
He comes with a hoarse, broken cry, his body arching taut as a bowstring, his hips jerking as he spills down your throat. You swallow, taking everything he gives you, your hand stroking him through it, coaxing every last drop of pleasure from his trembling body.
He collapses back against the headboard, boneless and spent, his chest heaving, his eyes squeezed shut. You release him slowly, pressing a soft, final kiss to his sensitive tip before crawling back up his body to press your lips to his.
“You did so good for me, baby.” You whisper softly, running your hands through his hair as he shivers. You pull back, but his hands grab your waist, thumbs slipping under your shirt with a soft whine.
“Wait… just gimme a second to breath, I’ll take care of you too. Promise.” He says. The cold metal against your hot skin makes you shiver slightly, kissing his cheek.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he breathes, the word a low, earnest rumble against your lips. His eyes, still hazy with bliss, are suddenly sharp with a new kind of intensity. It’s the look of a man with a mission. “I wanna make you feel good. Wanna make you fall apart like you just did for me.”
The sincerity in his voice, the raw need to reciprocate, is more potent than any touch. You smile, a slow, genuine curve of your lips, and lean in to kiss him again, deeper this time. “I’m not going anywhere, Bucky.”
He takes a deep, steadying breath, and you can feel the shift in him. The boneless, spent man is still there, but now he’s overlaid with a renewed focus, a determined energy that makes your own pulse quicken. “James. Call me James.”
With that, his hands, which had been resting on your waist, start to move. They slide up your sides, his flesh and metal thumbs tracing the curve of your ribs with a reverence that makes your breath catch.
“Can I…?” he asks, his voice still a little rough, his eyes asking for permission to undress you.
You answer by lifting your arms over your head, a silent invitation. He takes it, his movements slow and deliberate as he gathers the hem of your shirt. He pulls it up and over, his knuckles brushing against your skin, sending a trail of fire in their wake. The cool air of the room hits your heated skin, and you shiver again.
His gaze drops, and the way he looks at you—like you’re a masterpiece he’s only just been allowed to see—makes your heart stutter. He reaches out, his metal hand hovering for a second before his fingers gently trace the line of your bra strap. Plain ugly cotton, one of your favorite comfortable bras because you weren’t expecting this absolute specimen of a man to walk into work today, but he does seem to care in the slightest. The cool touch is a delicious contrast to the heat blooming under your skin.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, the words a quiet, worshipful breath. He leans in, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the swell of your breast above the cotton. “So fucking beautiful.”
His hands move to your back, his fingers fumbling slightly with the clasp.You reach back to help him, but he shakes his head.
“No, I got it. Just… been a while.” he insists, his brow furrowed in concentration. A moment later, the hooks give way, and he lets out a soft, triumphant breath. He slides the straps down your arms, his eyes never leaving yours, and tosses the bra aside.
His hands are on you then, warm and cool, cupping your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your already-hard nipples. The touch is gentle, exploratory, and you arch into him, a soft sigh escaping your lips. He takes that as encouragement, leaning down to take one peak into his mouth.
The wet heat of his tongue is a shock, a jolt of pure pleasure that goes straight to your core. He sucks gently, his teeth scraping lightly, and you cry out, your hands flying to his hair to hold him close. He groans against your skin, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through you.
He switches to the other side, giving it the same devoted attention, his hands roaming your body, mapping every curve and dip like he’s trying to memorize you. He’s learning you, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you shiver, what makes you moan his name.
“James,” you breathe, your voice tight with need. “Please.”
He pulls back, his lips swollen and his eyes dark with a hunger that mirrors your own. “I know, doll,” he murmurs, his hands sliding down to your hips, hooking into the waistband of your pants. “I know.”
He makes quick work of your remaining clothes, his movements sure now, driven by a singular purpose. When you’re finally bare before him, he just looks for a moment, his gaze so intense it feels like a physical touch.
“Lie back for me,” he says, his voice soft. “Please.”
You do, settling against the pillows, your heart pounding with anticipation. He kneels between your thighs, his hands resting on your knees, and just looks at you, his expression a mixture of awe and adoration.
“So fucking wet, doll.” He says, fingertips sliding through your folds softly, making you clench in anticipation. He pulls them up, coated in your arousal, and brings them to his lips. He groans like you’re a delicacy.
Finally, he leans down, and the world dissolves. The first touch of his mouth against your core is hesitant, a soft, exploring press of his lips. It’s a question, and you answer with a soft sigh, your hips tilting up to meet him. That’s all the encouragement he needs. He groans, a low, guttural sound of pure relief, and then he’s tasting you.
His tongue is a revelation. It’s not clumsy or unsure; it’s deliberate, curious, and devastatingly thorough. He starts with long, slow licks, savoring you, learning your taste, your texture. The cool metal of his hand rests on your lower belly, a grounding point, a stark, thrilling contrast to the wet heat of his mouth. His other hand grips your thigh, holding you open for him, his fingers pressing into your flesh with a possessive gentleness that makes your head spin.
“James,” you gasp, your hands tangling in the sheets, your back arching off the bed.
He hums against you, the vibration a jolt of pure electricity that shoots straight through you. He’s found a rhythm now, a slow, maddening circle of his tongue around your clit that has you seeing stars. He’s watching you, his eyes dark and intense, locked on your face as he learns what makes you gasp, what makes you shudder, what makes you cry out his name.
And he’s a fast learner.
He shifts, changing the angle, and his tongue dips lower, teasing your entrance before sliding inside you just a little. The new sensation makes you whimper, your hips bucking wildly. He takes the hint, his tongue fucking you in shallow, teasing thrusts while his thumb comes up to circle your clit.
“Oh, god—right there,” you choke out, your hands flying to his hair, holding him in place. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop.”
He doubles down, his movements becoming more confident, more demanding. He’s devouring you with a single-minded focus, the metal hand on your belly sliding down, his fingers joining his tongue. You cry out as two thick, cool fingers slide inside you, curling instantly to find that spot that makes your whole body light up.
“Jamie!” you scream, your vision whiting out as pleasure, sharp and overwhelming, crashes over you.
He groans at the nickname, working you even harder than before. He’s relentless, his tongue and fingers moving in perfect, devastating harmony, pushing you higher and higher, until you’re a writhing, sobbing mess beneath him. The coil in your belly tightens to an almost painful degree, and you know you’re right there, hovering on the edge of a precipice.
“Come on, doll,” he murmurs against you, his voice a low, rough command. “Please, you’re doing so good. Give it to me. Please, lemme see you, pretty.”
With one final, perfect curl of his fingers and a hard suck on your clit, you shatter.
Your orgasm rips through you with the force of a tidal wave, a blinding, deafening rush of pleasure that leaves you gasping and trembling. Your body bows off the bed, your thighs clamping around his head as you ride out the waves, his name a broken chant on your lips.
He doesn’t stop until you’re completely spent, his tongue gentling, his fingers stilling as you slowly come back down to earth. He presses soft, open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, his hands stroking your trembling body, coaxing you back to him.
When you finally open your eyes, he’s looking up at you from between your thighs, his face glistening with your arousal, his expression one of pure, unadulterated awe. He looks like he’s just witnessed a miracle.
You reach down, your hand trembling slightly, and cup his cheek. He leans into your touch, pressing a soft kiss to your palm.
“Come here,” you whisper, your voice hoarse.
He moves up your body, settling his weight over you, and captures your lips in a deep, slow kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, a heady, intimate reminder of what he just did to you.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice soft, his eyes searching yours.
You let out a breathless laugh, your arms wrapping around his neck. “Okay?” you echo, a wide, satisfied smile spreading across your face. “More than okay. You did such a good job for me.”
He grins, a real, genuine, breathtakingly handsome grin that makes your heart do a dangerous little flip. “Thank you.” he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours.
He kisses you again, your taste on his tongue almost dizzying. It’s soft, slow, almost sweet. Then you feel his cock against your thigh and can’t help but grin.
“Already, baby? You liked eating me out that much?”
A deep, dark flush spreads across his cheeks, a stark contrast to the confident grin he was wearing just a second ago. He ducks his head, burying it in the crook of your neck for a moment as he lets out a shaky, breathless laugh.
“Don’t tease,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against your skin. But the way his hips press forward, the hard, insistent length of him digging into your thigh, betrays him completely. “You have no idea. The sounds you make, the way you taste, fuck, doll. I could do that all night.”
You slide your hands down his back, your nails scraping lightly over his skin, making him shudder. “Yeah?” you purr, arching your hips up to meet his. “What else could you do all night, Jamie?”
He whimpers and lifts his head to look at you. The awe is still there, but now it’s mixed with a raw, hungry need that makes your own arousal flare back to life, hot and demanding.
“I could fuck you,” he says, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. He rocks his hips against you, a slow, deliberate grind that sends a jolt of pleasure straight through you. “I could stay right here, buried inside you, and never leave.”
You giggle lightly, flipping him over so you lay on top of him. “Yeah, baby? Want me to cockwarm you all night? Want a reward for being a good boy?”
The surprise on his face is comical, his eyes widening as you effortlessly reverse your positions, landing back on top of him with a soft thump. For a second, he’s just stunned, his hands coming up to rest on your hips as if to steady himself.
“Yeah,” he breathes, the word a whimper that vibrates through his chest and into yours. He bucks his hips up, a slow, deliberate grind that reminds you just how hard he is, how ready. “Yes please, fuck. Please? I was good, right?”
You laugh, a low, throaty sound as you rock your hips against him, teasing him with the promise of friction without giving him what he really wants. “You did,” you purr, leaning down to brush your lips against his ear. “You were so good for me, Jamie. A very good boy.”
He groans, the sound raw and broken, and his hands tighten on your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh. You reach down between your bodies, wrapping your hand around his thick, hard cock. He hisses, his head falling back against the pillows, his whole body tensing in anticipation. You guide him to your entrance, teasing him, letting him feel the wet heat of you without letting him inside.
“Please,” he whispers, his voice ragged, his hips jerking up in a desperate, instinctual search for more. “Please, doll.”
You smile, a slow, wicked curve of your lips, and then you sink down on him, taking him in one slow, deliberate movement.
The sound he makes is half-sob, half-groan, a raw, guttural noise of pure, unadulterated relief. He’s so deep like this, filling you completely, and the feeling of him inside you, hot and hard and pulsing, is intoxicating. You stay still for a moment, just savoring the sensation, letting him feel you wrapped around him, hot and tight and perfect.
“Fuck,” he chokes out, his hands flying to your waist, his grip almost painful. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” He whispers repeatedly, eyes squeezing shut, “God, you’re so tight, fuck—”
His whispered gratitude is a broken, beautiful thing, a raw testament to how undone he is. You let him adjust, let him feel the weight of you, the heat of you, the sheer, overwhelming reality of being buried deep inside you. His eyes are squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration, like he’s trying to commit every single sensation to memory.
You lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and start to move. It’s a slow, lazy rhythm, a gentle rocking of your hips that’s less about chasing release and more about drawing out the pleasure. You’re making good on your promise, letting him feel you, letting him stay buried inside you, a warm, welcome home for his cock.
He lets out a shuddering breath, his hands loosening their grip on your waist, instead roaming up your back, tracing the curve of your spine. He’s pliant beneath you, more that glad to have you lead, to let you use him for your own languid pleasure.
“Look at me, James,” you murmur, your voice a soft command.
His eyes flutter open, and they’re hazy, unfocused, swimming with a dizzying mix of lust and adoration. He looks completely wrecked, and it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
“You’re so good,” you whisper, rolling your hips in a slow, deliberate circle that makes him gasp. “So patient. Just letting me take what I need.”
“Anything,” he breathes, his voice hoarse. “Anything for you.”
You smile, leaning down to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his lips. It’s a slow, sweet kiss, a stark contrast to the desperate, hungry kisses from before.
You break the kiss, resting your forehead against his, your hips still moving in that slow, steady rhythm. “Is this what you wanted, baby?” you whisper, your voice a low, seductive hum. “To be inside me all night? To be my good boy and let me use you like a
“Yes,” he breathes, his voice a ragged, broken whisper. “Yes, please.”
The raw, desperate plea in his voice sends a thrill straight through you. He’s so beautifully, completely undone, willing to give you anything, to be anything you need him to be.
“Good boy,” you purr, the praise a low, intimate hum against his lips. You reward him by clenching your inner muscles around him, a slow, deliberate squeeze that makes him cry out, his hips bucking up involuntarily.
“Ah—fuck,” he gasps, his eyes flying open, wide and wild. “Don’t… don’t do that. Please, doll, I can’t—”
“Can’t what?” you ask, your voice dangerously soft as you do it again, a slow, milking grip that has his whole body trembling. “Can’t take it? But you’re my good boy. You’ll take whatever I give you, won’t you?”
He whimpers, a high, desperate sound, and his head thrashes against the pillows. “Yes,” he chokes out, the word torn from his throat. “Yes, I’ll take it. I’ll be good. I promise.”
“I know you will,” you murmur, and then you start to move in earnest.
It’s not a fast rhythm, but it’s deep and punishing, each roll of your hips designed to hit him as deep as possible. You’re not just riding him; you’re using him, grinding down onto him, taking your pleasure from his body without any regard for his fraying control. His hands are useless on your hips, gripping and releasing like he can’t decide whether to hold on or let go. He’s completely at your mercy, a beautiful, writhing mess beneath you.
“Please,” he begs, his voice a ragged, broken whisper. “Please, doll, let me… let me move. Let me—”
“No,” you cut him off, your voice sharp, firm. You still your hips, pinning him to the bed with your weight. “You don’t move. You don’t do anything. You just lie there and take it. Understand?”
He stares up at you, his eyes wide with utter, desperate surrender. He nods, a jerky, almost frantic movement. “Yes,” he breathes. “I understand.”
“Good,” you purr, and then you resume your rhythm, slow and deep and utterly maddening.
You can feel the tension coiling in him, the desperate, frantic need for release that he’s fighting to hold back. You speed up, riding him harder, your body moving in a fluid, primal rhythm, your breasts bouncing with each thrust. The room fills with the sounds of your pleasure—his ragged groans, your breathless cries, the slick, rhythmic slap of skin on skin.
You can feel your own release building, a familiar, delicious pressure coiling in your belly. You reach down, your fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, hard circles in time with your thrusts.
“Gonna come, Jamie,” you gasp, your voice tight with need. “Gonna come all over your cock. You’re gonna feel me, aren’t you? Gonna feel me squeezing you so tight.” He whimpers, his whole body arching off the bed, a desperate, helpless plea for release.
“Please,” he begs, tears welling in his eyes. “Please, let me come with you. I’ll be so good, I swear, I’ll—”
“Come with me, Jamie,” you gasp, your voice tight with need. “Come with me. Now.”
The world whites out for a moment, a blinding, deafening rush of pleasure that leaves you gasping and trembling. Your body convulses around him, milking his cock for all it’s worth as you cry out his name. Beneath you, he sobs, a raw, broken sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure as his own orgasm tears through him with a hoarse, broken cry. You feel a flood of warmth spill into you, his hips jerking erratically as he shudders under you, his grip on your hips bruising in its intensity.
For a long moment, you just stay there, collapsed against his chest, both of you boneless and spent. His heart hammers against your ear, a frantic, wild rhythm that slowly, gradually, evens out into a deep, steady beat. His body is still trembling, the aftershocks of his release wracking his frame.
You finally muster the strength to lift your head, looking down at him. His eyes are closed, his face slack with a blissful exhaustion, his lips parted as he breathes in ragged, shallow gasps. A single tear tracks a path through the sweat on his temple.
You lean down, pressing a soft, gentle kiss to his lips. He responds sluggishly, a faint, tired murmur against your mouth.
“You okay?” you whisper, your voice hoarse.
He lets out a shaky breath, his eyes fluttering open. They’re hazy, unfocused, but they’re soft, filled with a dizzying mix of adoration and utter, bone-deep satisfaction.
“Yeah,” he breathes, his voice a low, contented rumble. “Yeah, I’m… wow.”
You let out a breathless laugh, snuggling closer. “Yeah,” you agree, a wide, satisfied smile spreading across your face. “Wow.”
His arms tighten around you, holding you close, his metal hand a cool, comforting weight on your back. He presses a soft, lazy kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering for a moment.
“I… uh…” He hesitates a moment, looking down at you in his arms, “Really like you, in case that wasn’t clear.”
You raise an eyebrow, tracing shapes absentmindedly on his chest. “Like me? You don’t even know me.”
He gently tilts your chin up. His gaze is soft, but nervous. Vulnerable. “I know. But I’d like to get to know you, if you’ll let me.”
Your heart does a funny little flip, a confusing mix of surprise and warmth. This is new territory. The power dynamic has shifted so completely, leaving you both raw and exposed in the aftermath. You expected him to be cocky, or maybe just ready to pass out. You didn’t expect this quiet, sincere confession.
You study his face, searching for any hint of a line, but all you find is that same open, hopeful vulnerability. It’s disarming. You, who had been so completely in control just moments ago, suddenly feel a flutter of uncertainty.
You take a moment to respond, “Yeah.” Your voice is quiet, more nervous than you’ve felt in a long time. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
You're similar to Bucky. It's why the two of you are good friends. You both appreciate dimly lit bars, prolonged silences, and violence being the answer to most problems. The sex isn't half-bad, either.
She's the complete opposite of you. Sunshine personified. She bakes, wears colorful dresses, and is never in a bad mood. But it seems like she might be exactly what Bucky wants, and needs.
Content Warning: FWB!Bucky x Avenger!F!Reader, mature themes, smut, angst, unrequited feelings, jealous!reader, insecurity, pining, nightmares, trauma, PTSD, i started writing this before watching thunderbolts so this is a good old-fashioned Avengers tower fic.
word count: 14k
"We head out in the morning," He tells you, his voice at a low hum. "Gonna be my longest mission in a while."
You turn your head to face him, raising a brow as your finger runs around the rim of your beer bottle. "Are you trying to bait me into saying I'm gonna miss you, Sergeant?" You ask him, pulling a smirk from his lips.
"I know better than that, gunner," He replies before taking a long sip of beer. "Just letting you know ahead of time, so you can prepare for the cold, lonely nights ahead."
"Steve's not going, is he?" You question coyly, holding back your laugh.
All you get in response is an eye roll.
You like the bar when it's empty. No lavish party being thrown, no strangers attempting to socialize with you, no pressure. Just you and Bucky making a dent in Tony's good stuff, and christening a couple of the couches while you're in here.
"So, you'll be gone when I wake up," You begin, meeting his eyes with yours. "I think that means you owe me a good night."
"Yeah?" He utters, before wrapping his hand around the leg of your stool and dragging you closer to him. "And how, exactly, do I give you that?"
"You should know by now, Serge," You reply, tracing his right bicep with your finger. His arms might be your favorite thing about him.
"No, I wanna hear it from you," Bucky says lowly, leaning in closer. "In detail. Tell me what you want me to do to you."
Your stomach flips, and your heart beats a little faster. Don't show him how much he affects you. Don't give him the satisfaction. "I want you to bend me over this bar and fuck me," You say bluntly. "Hard."
"Yeah?" He mumbles, getting that dazed look in his eyes as he places his hand on your thigh and squeezes it. "Do you deserve it?"
Unable to keep collected, you let go of your pride and give in. He's the only one who gets you like this - the only one you trust with this side of you. "Bucky," You almost beg. "Please."
"There it is," He breathes out smugly. "That's my girl. Keep going; I'm not sure you've earned it yet."
Needing to feel him against you, you get off your stool and onto his lap, legs on either side of his. "Please, Sergeant, I need you really bad," You whine, moaning as you feel his boner against you.
His lips part and a shaky breath escapes his mouth. You're the only one who gets him like this - the only one he trusts with this side of him. "Give me a kiss, baby," Bucky mumbles, his hands moving down to your waist.
And, to his credit, he gives you a fucking great night. And, like you expected, he's gone in the morning.
"Couldn't this wait until next week's debrief?" You complain as you walk alongside Natasha down the corridors.
"Tony said we needed a short catch-up; there are apparently a few important updates he wants to give us," She tells you as you approach the meeting room.
"Is he finally gonna tell the spider boy to stop eating my protein bars?" You grumble before pushing open the door to the room.
You're surprised to see not only Avengers, but SHIELD agents in the room, too, as well as some others you don't recognise. The chairs around the table are all taken, so you and Natasha elect to stand against one of the walls, next to a group of agents that are familiar to you. Everyone's talking amongst themselves as it seems Tony still hasn't arrived. Trust him to be late to his own meeting.
"Good morning, Bloodhound," An agent standing next to you says with a nervous smile on his face, making you grimace.
The name that Oscorp gave you during their experiments on you unfortunately stuck in the minds of the public and anyone else you're not close to, and though you're not fond of it, you're not sure what else you'd rather they call you. The other Avengers usually use your first name, but you wouldn't want to give the agents that same access to you. Bucky calls you gunner as a reference to your time in the army, and as a response to you refusing to call him anything but Sergeant. Though the name Bloodhound has dark memories attached to it, you've learned to live with the fact that it's what you'll always be known as.
"I, uh, saw you running in Central Park this morning," The agent continues. "I see you there quite a lot, actually."
With narrow eyes, you glare at him. Your runs are an escape from reality, so to know they're being infiltrated by a stalkerish agent isn't the best feeling in the world.
"I was thinking," He goes on to say with a small smile. "Maybe we could run togeth-"
"What the fuck are you doing?" You cut him off coldly. Have you not built up your reputation enough? Why does he feel confident enough to ask to join you on your fucking runs?
His face drops and his cheeks flush pink, and he immediately turns to face the front.
Natasha snorts before nudging you. "Be nice," She mumbles.
You turn to her with an incredulous look. "Why?" You ask her, genuinely curious to hear her answer.
It's no secret that you aren't the most welcoming or warm of people - it took you three months to let Natasha into your room - and you don't care how it comes across. Admittedly, the trauma you faced at the hands of Osborn and Oscorp rid you of any fucks to give when it comes to being nice. Maybe you sound bitter and unfair, but you've done the therapy thing and you know it's not right to blame the world for what you went through- but that doesn't mean you have to be friends with everyone.
Most people suck. You'd rather not waste your energy on them.
Finally, Tony walks into the room with Pepper. "Sorry I'm late, folks," He calls out as the hubbub in the room quietens. "We haven't got a lot to get through, though, so I promise I won't be long."
While he talks through the more boring updates, you pull out your phone to check if Bucky's messaged you. It's a bad habit, and one that's only recently started. You've found yourself anticipating him; waiting for him to say something to you. It's a bad habit.
Sergeant Barnes
Just landed in Croatia.
It's been a full ten minutes and Sam hasn't mentioned Steve yet, so you owe me twenty bucks
Your lip pulls up at the corner but before you can subtly text him back, Natasha nudges you hard.
"Is he serious?" She asks you, looking at Tony with her brows furrowed.
Deciding to listen in, you put your phone away and focus on the meeting. "There won't be a huge difference and it'll be business as usual, but a few of you are being moved into other departments as a result of the government's involvement," Pepper says, to which Tony rolls his eyes. "They think it would be beneficial to create a role specifically focused on wellbeing."
"They still don't trust that I know what I'm doing," He adds, failing to hide the bitterness in his tone. "So I'd like everyone to welcome Poppy Newton; our Team Coordination and Wellness Officer."
Everyone's eyes go to the woman sitting in the middle of the table, including yours. Her baby blue dress and yellow-rimmed glasses make her stick out like a sore thumb among the agents in their dark tactical suits. The bright smile on her face only widens as the spotlight falls on her, and she looks around at everyone while she speaks.
"It's lovely to be here, and to be part of the team," She begins. "While I will be mainly stationed in the tower with a strong focus on the Avengers, I want the SHIELD agents to know that I'm just an email away."
"Lovely," Tony says, before clapping his hands together. "Alright, that's all for today. If anyone has any questions about their changed roles, ask Pepper, not me." While everyone else begins to file out of the room, Tony points at you and Natasha. "Girls, would you please be so kind as to show Poppy around?" He asks, though you know it's more of an order.
You grab Natasha's arm. "Hey, so uh, I was planning on training-"
"No, you're not getting out of this," She cuts you off bluntly. "Come on. It'll be good to meet her. After all; she's here to look after us."
With an inward sigh, you follow Natasha out of the meeting room where Poppy is waiting. She perks up when she sees you both, flashing you another one of those bright smiles.
"It's such an honour to be working with you Ms Romanoff, and Sergeant Y/L/N," She says.
"It's great to have you with us, Poppy, and please just call me Natasha; no need for the formalities," She responds politely. "Shall we start the tour?"
"Please!" Poppy chirps, before the three of you begin walking.
The tour consists of Natasha chatting away with Poppy, while you trail close behind. You know she's a part of the team now, but you can't see yourself being friends with Poppy - she describes things as wonderful and cosy, where you just see sweaty gyms and dusty common areas.
When the tour finally comes to an end and Poppy is dropped off to her room to settle in, you let out a long sigh and rest against the wall.
"She's nice!" Natasha exclaims, already knowing what you're thinking.
"She's exhausting," You grumble. "How can one person be so constantly... on?"
"You know, there are happy people in the world," She teases, nudging your shoulder before beginning to walk away. "Not everyone is as dark and gloomy as you!"
"Nah, I've sent Sam out on a beer run, and we're about 20 miles away from the nearest town, so I'll be alone for a little while," Bucky tells you over the phone. "How's it going over there? Steve said something about a big, important meeting we missed."
"I don't know about big and important," You reply flatly while mindlessly scrolling through movies on the TV opposite your bed. "Mostly just updates for the agents that make no difference to us. Oh, and Tony's had to hire someone to look after us."
"Look after us?" Bucky repeats with confusion in his tone.
"Yeah, I'm not actually sure what her job is, but the government sent her to make sure we don't go crazy or something," You tell him absentmindedly. "So far, she's printed off everyone's schedules on coloured paper, and I think she gave Steve a massage."
"A massage, hmm? You're making me excited to come home," He says, and you can hear the smirk.
"Oh, yeah? The idea of a woman you've never even seen gets you more excited than me?" You ask dryly, not genuinely offended but still wanting to push the boundaries of whatever your relationship with Bucky is.
"Is she hot?" He asks.
You think about it, tilting your head. "She's definitely pretty," You say. "I don't know if she's your type, though."
"So what you're saying is, she looks nothing like you?" He questions, to which you snort.
"Are you saying I'm your type?" You ask slyly. "And here I thought you were just getting your dick wet with the first person who could get it hard."
"Hey, you weren't the first," Bucky says defensively.
"I was the first who managed to keep it up," You point out.
"Doesn't that technically make you my type?" He wonders.
"Maybe I intellectually turn you on because of how smart I am," You poise. "Doesn't mean I'm physically your type. But I think Poppy definitely isn't your type."
"Poppy, huh? Sounds cute," He quips.
"Oh, cute is the perfect word for her because she uses it to describe, like, everything," You say with a dry laugh. "And she wears a lot of colors, and is always smiling, and bakes cookies every night."
"Alright, I'm beginning to see what you mean," Bucky says with a chuckle. "She's not you, baby."
As much as you hate that your heart takes him seriously when he makes off-handed comments like that, you can't help it when your stomach flips. "Anyway, when are you coming back? I'm bored and want sex," You say flatly. That's it. Make it about sex. Nothing romantic or emotional at all.
"We'll be back at some point tomorrow, we just need to wrap a few things up tonight," He tells you. "Then I'll wrap my thing up tomorrow night... and put it inside you."
"That was terrible. We don't even use condoms," You utter. "But I'm looking forward to it."
"You're not leaving me, are you?" He asks.
"I have my show to catch up on," You tell him.
"But I thought, you know, with Sam gone for a little bit, we could have some fun," He says suggestively.
You smirk to yourself and sink back into your pillow. "I don't think so, Sergeant," You reply. "You know I love it when you get back from a mission with all that pent up frustration you can take out on me. I'm not ridding myself of that opportunity. Especially not when you've been gone so long."
"Fuck, you're killing me," He groans. "You're really not gonna help me out?"
"No, and you're not allowed to help yourself out, either, so don't take it out your pants," You order him sternly.
"Too late. It's been out since you picked up."
"Sergeant Barnes!"
"You know your voice is enough for me. Can't I just listen to you rant about your show, or Poppy while I... help myself out?" He inquires.
"Absolutely not; you've been waiting all week so you can wait another night. And I don't want you to jerk off while I talk about another woman," You say curtly.
"Jealous, are we?"
There it is. The stinging J word. You tease each other with it, knowing it's the second emotion you aren't allowed to feel - the first being love. You and Bucky are just friends who have a lot of sex, and emotions would just get in the way of that.
"No, it's the principle," You claim. "I'm not helping you get off to someone else."
"I don't even know what she looks-"
"Listen, Sergeant, you are not allowed to cum until you next see me," You cut him off, sick of him thinking he has you on strings. "Put your pathetic little dick away and count sheep. And when you see me tomorrow, you're gonna fuck my brains out like it's the last time. Do you understand?"
There's a brief pause and he lets out a shaky breath. "Yes."
You sigh. "Yes, what?"
Another brief pause before he responds. "Yes... mommy."
"That's a good boy," You say. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"If you haven't killed me by then," He says with a strained voice. "Fuck, I can't wait to fuck you."
"Good night, Sergeant," You sing teasingly.
"Good night, you little shit."
Team dinners are one of the first things Poppy implemented as the Wellness Officer. She claims that quality time can lead to a 25% increase in efficiency and communication in the field, and you wonder what branch of the army she learnt that from.
While the others converse among each other, you play with your stew. It's almost 8pm and Bucky and Sam still aren't back, and if you have to wait another day, you aren't sure that you'll survive. One of the reasons you and Bucky started sleeping together was stress relief, and with Poppy's delightful presence having you on edge, you're as stressed as ever.
"More bread?" Steve asks as he holds the basket out to you.
"No, thank you, Captain," You reply, unable to speak to him any less formally. Your time as a weapon for the army left you with traits and behaviors you couldn't control, most of which you therapied away, but respect for those who rank above you is one of those things that just doesn't seem to budge.
Steve knows that, and though he hates that you're constantly at attention around him, waiting for an order or scolding, he understands that it's how you're wired.
"Poppy made it fresh," Tony tells you as he takes another piece, his eyes fluttering shut as he smells it. "And it's glorious."
With pink cheeks, Poppy shyly looks down at her bowl. If nothing else, it is interesting to have her around. Though nobody is quite as stoic or cold as you (besides Bucky on his bad days), none of the Avengers are anywhere near as upbeat and joyous as Poppy, either. You wonder how it works. Where does that energy come from? Is it naivety that makes her see the best in everything? Has she never been hurt, or betrayed? What's wrong with her?
Would you be like her if you didn't go through what you went through?
"Finally," Tony says as he looks down at his watch that just flashed with a notification. "The boys are back!"
Although you want to rush to the hangar and steal Bucky away to the nearest bed, you have an image of nonchalance to uphold, so you remain seated, taking another bite of your stew. It takes almost ten minutes for Sam and Bucky to get to the dining room, each minute driving you closer to the brink of insanity.
When you see him walk in, you shift in your seat but remain sitting. His eyes immediately land on you, and he shoots you a sly wink that makes your thighs squeeze together.
"Hey, come on in, sit down," Bruce greets them, pulling out the empty chair next to him. "You must be hungry."
"Nah, we filled up on MREs on our way back," Sam tells him, to which Wanda grimaces.
"I don't know how you guys actually eat those things," She says with a look of disgust on her face.
"They're army boys; they're used to 'em," Natasha says with a laugh.
"And they're much better nowadays than they were in the 40s," Bucky adds.
"Sure? Poppy made stew and fresh bread," Tony tells them, before perking up. "Oh! This is Poppy, by the way, our new Wellness Officer. Poppy, this is-"
"Sergeant Wilson, and Sergeant Barnes, it's an honor to meet you both," She says as she rushes to her feet, shaking each of their hands.
"Please, we're just Sam and Bucky in here," Sam tells her with a chuckle. "So, wellness, huh?"
While they chat, Bucky walks over to you. "Hey, do you mind if I discuss something with you? We found some files that might be linked to Oscorp, so I wanted you to have a look at them first," He says, and you know he's lying through his teeth and just wants to get you alone so he can ravage you. And, more than happy to comply, you stand up.
"Ooh, hold on!" Poppy calls out to you both. "As Sergea- Bucky has just arrived from a mission, I need to go through the debrief with him."
"We don't have debriefs until Captain Rogers and Tony look through the intel," You point out to her with a frown.
"Oh, no, not a mission debrief, per say," She says with a soft laugh. "More of a personal debrief. Just to make sure everyone comes back feeling good."
"I feel fine," Bucky says flatly.
Poppy laughs again, and you realize it's something she does when she's nervous. "I'd much prefer to talk about it one-on-one with you, Bucky," She says. "It's a new policy that's been put in place. I'll talk to you first, and then Sam, if that's okay?"
"Sure," Sam agrees while taking a piece of bread from the basket on the table.
"It's policy, Barnes," Tony sings, giving him a pointed look.
Letting out a sigh, Bucky nods. "Alright," He says, shooting you a quick look. "We'll discuss the Oscorp files later."
"Yep," You say, trying not to let your annoyance show as Poppy leads Bucky out of the room.
"Ooh, Y/N's boyfriend just got stolen," Clint sings teasingly, making Sam snort.
A cold glare is shot his way from you. "Fuck off, Barton," You utter. "Don't you have kids to raise?"
"They're at sleepaway camp!" He exclaims.
"You two should fight to the death," Tony casually suggests, standing up. "I'm taking bets, people."
"I'll put ten on Clint," Bruce says, raising his hand.
"What? Y/N's a super soldier that can make his blood explode," Wanda says with a scoff.
"That was one time, and I still haven't figured out how I did that," You tell her, before focusing your glare on Clint. "But what I do know is how to dislocate your shooting shoulder in less than a second."
He clutches it protectively. "Alright, I yield," He says, sitting back in his chair.
"Anyway, I'm going to bed before Poppy comes back and makes us all sing kumbaya," You say flatly, standing up.
Thor snorts, shaking his head. "She's a lovely girl, Y/N," He comments while you walk towards the door. "You oughta learn a thing or two from her!" He manages to get in before you leave the room.
You grumble all the way back to your room. Learn from her? What, how to perfectly place stickers on a chart?
You manage to watch an entire episode of your show and Bucky still doesn't arrive. For some reason, even though you know it likely isn't his fault that his talk with Poppy is taking so long, you still want to punish him, so you leave your room and head to one of the common rooms you know will be empty at this time.
This common room is filled with lava lamps and low lighting; Tony said it would be relaxing. Relaxing isn't something you're capable of, though, so you pace around the couch instead, letting your mind wander to dark places. Are they fucking? Or worse, emotionally connecting? What if he falls in love with her?
"Thought I'd find you here, gunner."
You spin around to see Bucky standing in the doorway in nothing but a pair of briefs, taking you aback.
"You're naked," You utter.
"I'm sorry I took so long," He begins. "It-"
"I don't care, Sergeant," You cut him off curtly. "Get over here, already."
He obeys you without another word, striding over to you. Once he reaches you, he immediately crashes his lips onto yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth as his hands squeeze your ass. It doesn't take long for him to remove your t-shirt and pyjama shorts before throwing you onto the couch with a look of hunger in his eyes.
"I thought about this every second that I was gone," He utters lowly, sinking to his knees. "Are you nice and wet for me, baby?"
Your hips lift up in anticipation as your breath hitches in your throat. "So fucking wet for you," You whisper.
He crawls over to you before leaning up and using nothing but his teeth to pull down your panties. Once they're off, he tightly grabs your thighs and spreads your legs. When he dives into your pussy, you cry out, your head thrown back against the couch.
Bucky wasn't always this good at eating you out- in fact, at first, he was borderline terrible. It was his first time going down on someone since the 40s, and you could tell. He was happy to take on your constructive criticism, though, and now you can honestly say he's the best oral sex you've ever had - you could also honestly say he's the best sex you've ever had, full stop, but you don't want to give him a bigger ego.
"Just like that, Bucky, don't stop," You whimper, tugging on his hair. His eyes are on you, his pupils so dilated you can barely see any blue.
His hands trail up your stomach, up to your tits. While his tongue fucks you, he pulls and twists on your nipples, making your legs shake. Your eyes roll back and your back arches. The long wait for this has meant you're not lasting very long at all, ready to cum already.
"That's it, baby, let go," He mumbles before sucking on your clit.
You let out a strangled cry, pulling his hair so hard you're sure you've left a bald patch, as you reach your climax. Bucky keeps going while you shake beneath him, letting out weak whimpers.
He eventually gives you a break and pulls away, crawling up onto the couch and settling between your still-shaking legs. His hand cups your face as you breathe heavily, his thumb stroking your cheek, watching you. Many times before he's told you how much he loves watching you during this part - coming down from your orgasm. Watching as your heartbeat returns to normal, your breaths less deep, your wits slowly returning to you. Bucky lets you come down completely before kissing you. He's always been a good kisser; that was one you thing you didn't have to train him on.
"How was that?" He whispers against your lips.
"It was alright," You answer with a grin.
"Hmm. One step up from okay," He says, rubbing your earlobe between his fingers. "Ready for me to fuck your brains out, now?"
"No, I wanna suck your dick, first," You tell him. "Needa return the favor."
"That wasn't a favor; that was me doing what I wanted to you," He corrects you. "And now, I wanna fuck you."
"But I wanna suck your dick," You counter, digging your nails into his shoulders as you grind your hips, rubbing your wet pussy against his clothed boner. "Please, Sergeant Barnes, I want it in my throat."
"Fuck, I'm gonna cum if you don't stop," Bucky says with a shudder. "How do you get me like this so easily, huh?"
Using more of your strength than usual, you push him off you and get on your knees on the floor in front of him. He balls his hand into a fist and bites his knuckles, throwing his head back over the sofa. It drives him crazy when you manhandle him; it's the reason you can't spar together.
"Give me a second," He whispers, his chest heaving while you slowly peel his boxers down.
"I'm sorry, Sergeant, but I'm impatient," You say teasingly before wrapping your mouth around his thick cock and taking a few inches of it in.
"Oh, fuck!" He cries, running his hand through your hair. "Baby, I swear, I'm gonna cum so fucking fast if you don't give me a second-"
"So cum," You say, though your words are muffled due to the cock in your mouth. Pulling your mouth off him with a pop, you give him a blank look. "Cum down my throat, and then you can have two minutes to recover before you rail me."
He lets out a shaky breath, and lets out what almost sounds like a sob when you take him back in your mouth and start bobbing your head up and down. "Fuck, baby, you'll kill me one of these days," He groans, staring down at you as strings of pre cum and saliva coat his cock and your lips. "That's it, get it nice and messy. You like getting messy, don't you?" He rubs the cum onto your cheeks, shuddering when you wink at him. "You suck my cock so good, baby. My good little cumslut, aren't you?"
You let out a moan as his words send sparks through to your core. His dirty talk drives you insane, and he knows it. He could destroy you by just whispering a few words into your ear, and he especially loves doing so in public when there's nothing you can do about it.
"I'm close, baby," Bucky warns you.
As much as you would feel good about making him cum right now, it sounds like am even better idea to prolong his frustration- so you pull your mouth off of his dick.
"What the fuck?" He whispers between heavy breaths.
You stand up with a coy look on your face. "I changed my mind," You say simply. "Just want you to fuck me, now."
He clenches his jaw while you bite your lip, recognizing the dark look in his eyes. Not only is he frustrated, now he's irritated too. And he always fucks you harder when he's irritated.
Bucky stands up and grabs a fistful of your hair before forcing you face-down onto the couch. He mounts you from behind, using his metal hand to keep yours behind your back while he pushes his cock into you.
"Is it in yet?" You ask with a smirk, trying to hide your gasps as he fills you up.
"Fuck you just say?" He shoots back, lowering his head so his mouth is at your ear. "Gonna be like that, huh?" Without warning, he starts fucking you, hard.
Sex was something he was good at from the start, too, but he only gets better the more he learns what makes you squirm, what makes your eyes roll back, what makes your cunt tighten around him.
One of the other reasons you and Bucky decided to start sleeping together was the fact that, as you both had serum running through your blood, and had been through the worst kind of physical pain already, you can be as rough with each other as you want (which is a lot). Bucky doesn't have to worry about hurting you, which is what stopped him dating normal people, and you can manhandle him when he's in the mood to be submissive (which isn't often enough, in your opinion).
"Fuck, I missed you," He groans as he slams in and out of you. "Did you miss me, baby? Tell me."
You turn your face so your cheek is smushed against the couch. "I missed you, Serge," You let out weakly. "So fucking bad."
"Yeah?" Bucky presses, his lips nibbling at your earlobe. "Bet you couldn't stop thinking about me. Because I couldn't stop thinking about you."
Your heart flutters at his words. Don't take him seriously. It's just horny sweet nothings.
He slows down his thrusts but still fucks you just as hard, letting out a grunt each time he bottoms out in you. His face is buried in your neck, while you feel your second orgasm quickly approaching.
"Bucky," You whimper.
"Tell me, baby," He whispers softly, though his thrusts are anything but.
"I'm- I'm gonna-"
All of a sudden, you hear it. Footsteps. Then you smell it. Strawberry perfume. Bucky's thrusts stop at the exact same time your sentence is cut off - someone's coming.
The second he pulls out, the doors open. Bucky gets off you and tosses you your shirt, which you rapidly put on.
"Oh!" A familiarity grating voice chirps. "I wasn't expecting anyone to- oh."
You pull on your shorts before standing and turning to see Poppy, and you can't help the way your eyes narrow at her.
"Sorry, Poppy," Bucky says as he uses a pillow to cover his bare chest, his boner poking through his briefs.
"No, I'm sorry!" She says. "I'm just doing my nightly sweep of all the common areas to make sure they're fit for use in the morning- I assumed everyone was in their rooms by now."
"It's barely 9pm," You point out flatly, frustrated that she interrupted when you were so close to finishing.
"I'm so sorry for just bursting in like that," Poppy said, hugging a decorated clipboard to her chest. "There's never anyone in these rooms past 8."
"You've been here a week, so how would you know?" You question her.
"Alright," Bucky utters sternly, giving you a pointed look before turning back to her. "It's our fault, Poppy. We shouldn't have been... doing that here."
She nods slowly. "I wasn't aware that the two of you were a couple," She says. "There's actually a policy in place for this kind of thing - you know, to keep the both of you safe."
"I think we're plenty safe, Newton," You utter curtly. "We don't need a color-coded schedule for when we're allowed to fuck."
Bucky hides his snort with a cough.
"Of course not!" Poppy exclaims with flushed cheeks. "I don't expect you to have to schedule... that. I just want to make sure you're both alright."
"We're fine," You tell her, folding your arms across your chest. "Neither of us rank higher than the other, so there's no abuse of power. We're both consenting adults. You don't need to be involved. At all."
She winces at your words, but keeps that damn smile on her face. "I completely appreciate that, but I really do need to follow policy and speak to you both alone, just a quick catch up so we're all feeling comfortable," She says. "Bucky, could we please have the room? I'll speak to you tomorrow."
Bucky glances at you and nods. "Uh, sure," He replies, before coming closer to you and whispering in your ear. "I'll be in your room."
You clench your jaw as he walks out, watching as Poppy shyly looks down when he walks past her.
"So, that's nice! You and Bucky!" She exclaims as she closes the doors and walks further into the room. "Now that we're alone, I can ask you some questions to make sure everything's fine- which I'm sure it is."
You say nothing, your fingers twitching.
"This won't take long at all," She assures you. "Let's get started - how did this all begin?"
"Do you really need the whole story?" You ask her.
A nervous laugh escapes her mouth. "I guess not. It's just that, with you having a relationship with someone on the team, we need to ensure a healthy and respectful workplace," Poppy explains.
"I was horny one night. Bucky was there. The rest is history," You say bluntly.
Her cheeks flush pink and she nods quickly. "Right. Uh, to begin, I'd just like to ask if there have been any concerns raised by your fellow teammates about your relationship with Bucky?"
A sigh leaves your nose. "It's not exactly public knowledge," You tell her. "We've never explicitly told anyone, anyway. And to be honest, I'm not sure anyone cares."
"...Right," She says, before scribbling something down on her clipboard. "And if the relationship was to come to an end, do you foresee this resulting in any conflict, if you're still expected to work together?"
"No," You utter. "We're mature adults. I think we can handle it."
"Right, and um, just to make sure we protect you in the case of a pregnancy, would you be happy to do a monthly test?" She asks you with a raised brow.
"That won't be needed," You tell her flatly. "Oscorp didn't think it was necessary for their weapons to be able to reproduce."
Her lips part and she sucks in a sharp breath, before pursing her lips together and nodding quickly. "Right. Right."
"Will that be all?" You ask.
Poppy nods at you. "Of course. Oh, one more thing," She begins. "I would really appreciate it if you and Bucky kept your... relations... strictly in your own rooms, and not in the common areas. Alright, you're free to go!"
"I hate her," You mumble as you repeatedly open and close your switchblade. "I fucking hate her."
"She's not that bad," Natasha says. "You just need to get used to her."
You let out a grumble, staring at the breakfast counter. It's a quiet Sunday in the tower, which you're grateful for. Bucky's looking through the cabinets while Natasha paints her nails next to you. Suddenly, he gasps.
"No way. Chocolate cookie mix," He says, holding the box up. "Check it out!"
"Looks like it's been in there for years," You comment.
He reads the back and shakes his head. "It's not expired yet," He tells you, before giving you a grin. "Wanna help me make them?"
As much as you wouldn't mind baking with Bucky, you can't. Domestic, romantic tasks like that are exactly what will cause you to slip up and do something stupid like catch feelings for him. And you'll also look like a total sap in front of Natasha.
"Come on, gunner," He presses. "I'll even let you crack the eggs."
"I'm good," You say, standing your ground.
Bucky pouts at you, and before he can beg you further, someone else enters the kitchen. And of course, it's her.
"Hey, gang!" Poppy greets with a grin, her eyes widening when she sees what Bucky's holding. "Ooh, what do we have here?"
"Uh, chocolate cookie mix," He tells her. "Just in the mood for something sweet, so I thought I'd make 'em."
"That sounds like fun!" She exclaims. "Can I help?"
"Sure," He replies quickly. A little too quickly for your liking.
"First - aprons," Poppy says with a giggle, tossing him one of the aprons hung by the oven before putting on her personalised pink one that has 'Pop!' embroidered onto it. She takes the box from Bucky and reads the back. "Hey, these kind of cookies were pretty popular back when you were a kid, right?"
A warm smile grows on Bucky's face. "Yeah, they were. My grandma made the best chocolate cookies," He tells her. "I, uh, thought it might be nice to have a taste of home."
Fuck. You feel awful for rejecting him now, knowing he wanted to share a heartfelt memory with you. Shit.
"Judging by these ingredients, I don't think this box mix will taste anywhere near as good as your grandma's," Poppy says, before tossing it in the trash. "I happen to have my own recipe for chocolate cookies, passed down my family through generations. Wanna give me a hand making them?"
"Of course," Bucky says, his face absolutely lit up.
You feel a little nauseous, watching them bake together. You've never seen this side of him before. He looks... happy. At peace.
Sometimes, you wonder if you make him worse. If every time he looks at you, he's reminded of his own sordid past. If every time you refer to what you went through, it gives him his own traumatic flashbacks. He tells you his nightmares aren't as bad anymore, but he could easily be lying. At first, with everything you had in common, it made sense for you to spend time with him. But maybe he's grown out of you. Maybe he needs someone more like Poppy to show him everything good in the world, rather than remind him of all the bad.
Maybe it's best for you to withdraw.
"You okay?" Natasha asks with a whisper before blowing on her nails.
"Perfectly fine," You mumble, your eyes still on Bucky who's laughing while Poppy places balls of cookie mixture on the tray.
"All you gotta do is tell him how you feel," Natasha says.
"I don't feel anything," You state adamantly.
"Sure," She says with narrow eyes. "I see through you, ice queen. You gotta melt before you lose him."
With a huff, you leave the kitchen and make your way to the living area just outside it, slumping down on the couch. Natasha may be right, but she's also wrong. It's not about you telling him how you feel or admitting that you want more than sex - it's the fact that he deserves better than you. Someone who will light him up. Make him feel joy and excitement, not bring him down.
You're watching a mind-numbingly boring documentary when Bucky walks out into the living room, smiling when he sees you. "There you are," He says, walking over to where you're sitting.
"Here I am," You reply, your heart racing the closer he gets. Get a grip.
"Thinking about me?" Bucky asks you, standing next to the couch.
"Not at all," You lie through your teeth.
He leans down and lowers his voice. "Are you sure about that?" He questions you teasingly, before leaning in and giving you a soft, slow kiss.
His hand slips under the band of your shorts and bypasses your panties, and he rubs his fingers up and down your wet pussy. A whimper escapes your mouth, and he pulls away from the kiss with a smirk.
"I knew it," He utters, taking his hand out of your panties. "Always wet for me, aren't you?"
"No. It's this documentary," You claim stubbornly. "I'm really into... the process of making sheet metal."
"Oh, yeah?" Bucky asks with a smirk. "Got it. That's my next Halloween costume settled."
"Sorry for not making cookies with you," You say, blinking up at him. "If I knew you'd emotionally blackmail me with the dead grandma thing, I'd have said yes."
A grin spills out on his lips. "Gunner, are you feeling bad for me right now?" He wonders with a look of delight in his eyes. "Don't worry, baby, I got my cookies in the end. Poppy is a wonderful baker, by the way."
"So I've heard," You say with your eyes on the TV screen.
"She's also got a great ass," He adds, trying to get a reaction out of you.
"Yep."
"And is probably a great kisser."
"Mhm."
"Baby," He mumbles in your ear, rubbing your thigh as he finally gives up trying to lure you into an outburst. "Let's fuck."
You snort. "We're not allowed to fuck in common rooms anymore," You remind him.
"So, let's go to my room," He suggests.
This wasn't the plan - but how are you supposed to withdraw from him when he looks at you like that? Maybe he is happy with you. He's been a lot less stressed out and snappy ever since you've been sleeping together - everyone can see that. He seems happy right now, anyway.
"Fine, but you're carrying me," You say, holding out your arms.
Just before he can pick you up, Poppy bursts into the room with a wide smile. "The cookies are done!" She sings, waltzing over with a plate which she places on the coffee table. "Everyone, dig in!"
Natasha's behind her, already chowing down on a cookie. Bucky immediately reaches out and picks up two, handing you one. Hesitantly, you take a small bite. You hate that it tastes amazing.
"Oh, my God," Bucky says with a mouthful of cookie, swallowing before he continues. "Poppy, this tastes exactly like grandma's."
"Ah, I'm so happy to hear that!" She gushes.
"These are incredible," He all but moans, sitting on the arm of the couch next to you. "You sure you shouldn't be a baker, instead? I'd pay good money for these."
"Oh, no," Poppy says bashfully. "I like taking care of you guys too much."
He chuckles at that, while you bitterly eat your cookie.
He wouldn't be happier with her. He wouldn't. He would not be happier with her. He categorically would never be happier with her.
That's the mental mantra you find yourself repeating as you stare at yourself in the mirror. You're not insecure about your looks. You believe him when he says you're the most attractive woman he knows. You know you're great in bed. Your physical strength is one of his biggest turn-ons. Besides your inability to love, you're the full package. But Bucky doesn't want love, anyway. He's never asked for it. That's not what this is. The both of you are traumatised beyond belief, so all you want is a warm body and orgasms; not a fragile emotion that could fall apart at any moment.
"Done checking yourself out?" Grant cuts in dryly as he stands behind you, his arms folded across his chest and an unimpressed look on his face. "I came all the way up here to spar, Bloodhound, not watch you fall in love with your own reflection."
With an eye-roll, you turn to face him. Grant is the only Agent you semi-get along with, and the only one you'd ever spend time outside of work with. He doesn't ask stupid questions, pry into your personal life, or try and suck up to you, which is more than you can say for the rest of the agents.
"Alright, Ward, let's do this," You say, walking over to the boxing ring.
Grant gets a lot more out of these sessions than you - you have to hold back your strength to make sure you don't kill him, while he gets to go as hard as he can to test his own strength and agility. The only reason you agreed to these sessions is because you've learnt that it's good to have a high-up agent in your pocket for when you need information about a mission or target that you wouldn't otherwise be able to get.
The gym's empty when you begin to spar, and slowly fills up with your teammates as the sun rises outside the window. Among the agents, you spot Bucky walk in at some point too, unable to help his wandering eyes from watching you fight. You barely break a sweat while Grant is fighting for his life, before he eventually taps out.
"Alright, alright, I'm done," He says between heavy breaths. "Next time, you can go a little harder."
You snort and raise a brow. "Are you sure about that, Ward? Know what you're getting yourself into?"
He just nods, grabbing his water bottle from the side of the ring and chugging.
"Oh, Y/N! It's great to see you here!"
You can't help but immediately roll your eyes at Poppy's chirpy voice, slowly turning to face her.
"I know you usually train alone, so it is brilliant to see you working with the agents," She goes on to say with a grin, before craning her neck to look behind you. "I hope she didn't go too hard on you, Special Agent Ward!"
"Not at all," Grant replies, wiping his sweaty forehead with a small towel as he stands next to you and wraps his arm around your shoulder. "Bloodhound looks after me very well."
With a grimace, you shove him away from you. "Consider it charity," You tell Poppy.
"Well, it's very kind of you," She says, before her eyes light up. "But if you want a more challenging partner, why don't you spar with Bucky? I know he's been complaining about Steve missing their last few sessions, and he'd likely appreciate training with someone more on his level."
"Good luck with that," Natasha calls out to Poppy with a smirk. "Barnes and Y/N don't train together."
Poppy frowns at Natasha's words. "But why not?" She asks.
"He's scared of me," You throw out as Grant clambers out of the boxing ring.
From the other side of the gym, Bucky snorts. "You fuckin' wish, gunner," He calls back smugly. "I'd have you on your back in seconds."
Ignoring his quick wink, you shoot him a glare. "You'd be knocked out before you even realized what was happening," You fire back.
"Well, why don't we find out?" Poppy asks with a grin. "It'll be good for you both to train with someone at your level so you can really give it your all. Holding back on training will only weaken you."
"Does this really fall into your remit?" You wonder.
"Of course!" She exclaims. "I need to look out for your wellbeing on the field, too!"
The truth is, the reason you and Bucky don't spar - or rather, can't spar - is because he gets far too excited whenever you exhibit your strength against him. You've sparred him exactly once, and when that ended with him jizzing in his pants, you both agreed it would be best to train separately from then on. And that was before you started sleeping together.
"I'll tell you the truth, Poppy, about why they don't spar," Sam inserts as he strolls over with a smirk on his face. "Because they're both too scared to find out who number two is."
"Number two?" Poppy repeats with a confused look.
"You know; Steve is the strongest on the team in terms of human physical strength," Sam explains. "He's beaten both Bucky and Y/N in strength tests before. So, he's number one - and if Bucky and Y/N ever fight, we'd find out who number two is."
"And they're both too scared of the shame they'd feel if they ended up being number three," Natasha adds with a shrug. "It's all very juvenile."
You hold back your smile. It's cute that they think Steve is number one. The only reason he's beaten you in training sessions is because you don't use your full strength against him - he's your Captain, your senior, and you've frustratingly got it stuck in your head that you're to be subordinate to him, and beating him would be disrespectful.
"Alright, fuck it," Bucky states as he makes his way over. "Let's do this, gunner."
You raise a brow as he climbs into the ring, and admittedly your heart flutters. Though you're much better at hiding it, there's no denying you get just as excited as Bucky at the prospect of being manhandled by him.
"This is gonna be good," Sam says with a smirk. "Tasha, get your hundred bucks ready, because Barnes is going down."
Moving closer to Bucky, you lowly warn him, "You better keep your shit together, Serge."
He clenches his jaw as you walk circles around each other. "Go easy on me, baby," He whispers.
Although you know it's best to do as he requests, you can't ignore your competitive streak - especially knowing that Natasha's bet against you. You and Bucky start slow and carefully, but it quickly turns into a brawl.
You've forgotten how much fun it is to use your full strength in a fight when you know your opponent isn't actually trying to kill you. At one point, you slam Bucky onto the ground and straddle him, pinning him down. His eyes darken and you feel his boner poke against your inner thigh.
Bringing your lips to his ear, you whisper, "You're far too easy, Sergeant."
With a huff of frustration, Bucky all but throws you off of him. He's slower and weaker than he can be, too turned on to think straight. His new goal is to pin you down, to take control, in an attempt to drive you as crazy as he feels. You fight back against his attempts, catching on to what he's trying to do.
Meanwhile, Natasha nudges Sam from the sidelines. "Is it just me, or is this incredibly sexually tense, right now?" She mumbles.
Sam just continues watching on with wide eyes.
When Bucky grabs your waist, it immediately gives you flashbacks to all the times he's grabbed it before - and you falter. He takes the opportunity to grab you and throw you down, crashing down onto you and pinning your arms down on either side of your head.
His eyes burn into yours, and suddenly, all you can see is him. The world melts away as his crystal blues hook you in, holding you captive. His boner rubs against you, stealing your breath.
With a new wind of determination, you rip your right hand out of his grip and wrap it around his throat, before pushing up your waist against his and forcing him onto his back, sitting on top of him.
He lets out a grunt and shudders beneath you, to which you grin.
"That was a new record," You mumble. "You lasted a lot longer than usual. I'm proud of you, Sergeant."
"Fuck you," He hisses through gritted teeth.
"Well, we should probably go," Sam calls out awkwardly as he claps his hands together. "I think you owe me a hundred bucks, Romanoff."
"Are you sure?" She asks, tilting her head. "I have no idea what just happened."
"I think I do," Sam grumbles before him and Natasha share a look and leave the gym.
"That was exhilarating to watch!" Poppy exclaims, entirely unaware as to what Bucky just did in his pants. "Bucky, do you want another shoulder massage? You said it really helped after your last training session."
Your eyebrows fly up. He didn't mention a fucking massage to you. And he let her touch his shoulder?
"Uh, no, I'm alright, Pop," He replies. "Think I need a shower more than anything."
Pop? That bastard.
Before he can leave first, you climb out of the ring and speed-walk out of the gym, refusing to be the one left behind.
This is a dream. This is a dream. This is a dream.
So why aren't you waking up?
You see flashes of their faces. The innocent lives you took without hesitation. The families you destroyed.
And you see the faces of your captors. The doctors who experimented on you, pushed the limits of pain until you forgot what comfort felt like, who turned you into an inhuman weapon. Not only do you see their faces, you feel them. Their fingers, their grip, their pull.
And you see him. Bucky. He looks soft and sweet and everything you know him to be.
But you're hurting him. Chasing him down like one of your victims, watching as his skin is coated with his blood, destroying him. He's screaming. Begging you to stop. Asking you why you're doing this to him.
You sit up in bed with a gasp, breathing heavily. A sheen of sweat sits on your skin. The bed feels cold and empty, and you think you might have a panic attack if you don't get proof that Bucky is safe, so you rush to your feet.
The clock on the wall tells you it's 2am, so you know it's likely that Bucky isn't in his bedroom. He'll be in one of the common rooms, the one with the lava lamps, probably recovering from his own nightmare. You've told him numerous times that you don't mind him waking you up when he needs to, but he says he'd feel too guilty to wake you up in case you're actually having a good night's sleep; a rare occurrence for you both.
You make your way to the common room, making sure to grab a packet of Bucky's favorite cookies from the kitchen on your way. As you get closer to the common room, you can hear his breath, but you stop in your tracks when you hear someone else.
"That's what I do, anyway," Poppy says softly. "That, or a warm glass of milk and counting sheep - my mom's method."
They laugh gently together, and you lean against the wall in the dark corridor so that you can peek through the crack in the door. He looks beautiful, his skin free of any blood, his face free of any pain. He's smiling. He looks at peace. He's safe, so you can rest easy.
But it still kills you that it's not you who he's safe with.
"If you ever need to talk, about anything, I'm always here," Poppy goes on to tell him, making your stomach churn.
Slowly, you back away. Thankfully, it doesn't seem like Bucky heard you at all; a testament to your sneaking skills. Though the feeling of panic and dread isn't quite fully quelled, you at least you know he's okay. Maybe even happy.
And you know you're selfish and a bad person for resenting Poppy for being the one to make him feel that way. It should be you - but you know you can't be that for him. So now you're stuck in a cycle of hating her but also hating yourself and appreciating her for being what you could never be for him.
It's painfully conflicting, so instead of thinking too much about it, you leave the tower, hoping to find some lowlife criminals you can beat up instead of yourself for once.
No matter how many fancy parties Tony throws, you'll never get used to the sight of yourself in a nice dress. You opted for a silky, black number, and you're glad when you see the myriad of colorful outfits that help you blend into the background as you enter the bar. Making a beeline to where Sam and Steve are chatting by the balcony doors, you avoid making eye contact with Tony's annoying business partners.
"Hey, here she is," Sam calls out with a wide grin, holding him arm out. You give him a quick side hug before standing up straight when you face Steve.
"Evening, Captain," You say firmly.
He sighs. "What's it gonna take for you to call me Steve, huh?" He asks, to which you glance down.
"I'm sorry, Captain Rogers," You say sheepishly. "It's built in."
"Maybe you two need to spend more time together so that you can see what a goof this guy really is," Sam suggests with a laugh. "All that respect will drop real quick."
"I'd really like that," Steve says, holding his arm out to you. "C'mon, Y/N, let's get you a drink."
With a nod, you link your arm with his and allow him to lead you to the bar.
"Y'know, I've been meaning to spend more time with you anyway," Steve admits. "With how close you and Bucky are getting, I figure I better make more of an effort."
"Oh, it's not like that between him and I," You assure him.
"No? Could've fooled me," He says teasingly as you reach the bar. "What's your poison?"
"Uh, just a whisky for me, please," You say, feeling entirely odd. It's not like you to engage in casual chit-chat with Steve, let alone get him to order you a drink.
Once the bartender slides your glass over, Steve takes your hand and walks you over to the floor-length windows. "This is killing you, isn't it?" He asks with a chuckle. "Holding your Captain's hand?"
You squeeze your eyes shut, using all your will-power not to pull your hand out of his and give him a salute instead. "I'm fine, Captain Rogers. This is fine," You claim.
"Alright, I'll be nice," He says, dropping your hand with a grin. "Anyway, I don't want to be holding your hand when Buck gets here. He'd probably throw me through this window."
You laugh at that, shaking your head. "I'm sure he wouldn't. He'd be too busy dodging all the women fawning all over him, as per usual," You say with a smile.
"Crazy how that's changed, right?" Steve says with a playful frown. "I used to be the one fighting off the attention, and now he's come in and stolen it all."
"I'm sure you still get plenty of attention," You mumble without meaning to.
"Are you flirting with your Captain?" He asks in a stern voice, making your eyes widen.
You straighten your back and look up at him. "No, Captain Rog-"
"I'm messing with you," He cuts in with a chuckle. "I'm sorry. That was mean." He then takes out a flask from his inner jacket and looks around to make sure no-one's watching, before pouring a splash into your glass. "Asgardian. Consider it a gift."
As much as you didn't think so, Sam seems to have been right, and the more time you spend chatting with Steve, the more comfortable you feel around him.
"Alright, as much as I'm enjoying this, I should go speak to some of Tony's partners," He says reluctantly. "Save me a dance later, yeah?"
"Will do, Capt- Steve," You say, smiling when his face lights up.
He puts a hand on his heart as he walks backwards. "We did it!" He cheers, before leaving you alone.
You turn towards the bar in search of another drink when you almost bump into Poppy, who looks equally as surprised to see you.
"Oh, hello!" She greets you cheerily, before looking you up and down with wide eyes. "You look absolutely gorgeous!"
"Oh, uh, thanks," You reply curtly, taking in her lilac dress. "You look nice, too."
"You're too kind," She says with a grin. "Hey, I've been meaning to speak with you a little more, one-on-one. I feel like I don't give you as much of my time as I do the others."
"That's not a problem," You assure her quickly. "I don't need therapy, or anything like that."
"Well, that's not all I offer!" She claims. "I'm here to help you meet whatever needs you feel aren't being met. That could be anything and everything."
"Right," You mumble. "My needs are being met, Newton, so I don't need you."
She looks disheartened at your words, but you don't care. "Um... how are you and Bucky doing?" She questions you carefully.
"What?" You ask, getting more irritated by the second. "Bucky and I are nothing, so you don't need to keep asking."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," She says, taking your words to mean that you've ended it between yourselves.
And then you get an idea: if she thinks you and Bucky are over, she'll stop pestering you about it every week.
"Well, it was only ever sex between us, so it's not a big deal," You say casually. "I'll find someone else to screw."
"Right," She utters.
"So, like, what's wrong with you?" You can't help but ask, the Asgardian ale loosening your tongue.
"What? What do you mean?" Poppy asks you with wide eyes.
"I mean, what's your deal?" You question. "You're just always happy, and upbeat, and seeing the brighter side. What's up with that?"
She looks taken aback by your words. "Oh. I guess... I just like being happy? There's far too much sadness and gloom in the world as it is, so why add to that? I just want to make sure everyone's comfortable to be themselves, and remind them that there is so much beauty and joy to be experienced if you just let it reach you."
Taking in her words, you nod slowly, and realize exactly how different you really are to her. Where you see failure, she sees opportunity. Where you see disappointment, she sees a second chance. Even now, with you being cold and closed off, she's still trying with you. She hasn't rolled her eyes or gotten annoyed at how stand-offish you are. She listens and engages and, even though she never could, she does her best to understand.
She's the complete opposite of you.
Suddenly, you get that sixth-sense feeling. You smell his aftershave as he approaches the room, combined with the perfume he only wears on special occasions. Your stomach flips. You're facing the doorway before he even appears in it, and it's like the whole room quietens down by twenty decibels when he walks in. Everyone turns to look at him, just as you look away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing you're anticipating him. Instead, you look at Poppy, and you instantly recognize the look on her face.
Her eyebrows are raised slightly, her lips parting. Her eyes are locked onto him as if he's the only thing she sees.
And you can't blame her for feeling that way. You'd be a hypocrite if you judged her at all.
She starts fidgeting, looking down at her dress and smoothing down any creases, tucking her hair behind her ear and taking in a deep breath. Almost as if she's preparing for him to-
"Hi."
Your breath hitches in your throat. With your focus solely on Poppy, you didn't sense Bucky getting closer. You turn to him, his all-black suit destroying any sense you had left in your head, and just stare at him dumbly. He's looking back at you, warmth in his eyes.
"Hi, Bucky," Poppy replies nervously.
You look back at her. She's good. She would be good for him. Better than you could ever dream of being for him.
So you pat his shoulder and give him a nod as if he's nothing more than a colleague to you, and walk away, leaving them to it.
It feels like you're being torn apart as you hear them talk, so you speed to the balcony, focusing your heightened hearing on the wind, instead. Regretfully, you take a look back just as the French doors shut behind you, only to see Bucky laughing at something she said. It's his genuine laugh; the one where his eyes light up and his eyebrows fly up in delight.
She'd be good for him. For his mental health. How could you come in the way of that? If you truly care about him, how could you stand in the way of his health and happiness? He'd probably lose the abs from all the baked goods, but he'd be happy. How could you stop that?
"Hey," A voice calls out from behind you.
You turn to see Wanda who has a knowing look on her face. "Get out of my head, Maximoff," You utter sternly.
"I couldn't help it. You looked so... sad," She says, walking over to where you're standing by the railings and looking out at the city.
"That's none of your business," You say with a bitter tone. You're angry that she's read your mind, but a part of you is slightly relieved to know it isn't just your secret anymore.
"He really, really cares about you," She claims. "It's very obvious."
"That doesn't matter," You reply, tightening your grip on the railings. "He could be in love with me, for all I care. It doesn't change the facts."
"And what facts are those?" She pushes.
"That I'm bad for him," You reveal. "I'm... I'm just a walking reminder of everything he went through. At the start, it was nice to have someone who truly understood what we went through, who could genuinely relate. But now... he's come so far, and all I do is drag him back to the past. I can't keep doing that to him. It's selfish."
"Is that how you feel?" Wanda asks you. "That Bucky just reminds you of your past? Does speaking to him, being around him, take you back to your days at Oscorp?"
"No," You answer instantly. "Never. Even when he talks about HYDRA, all I can think about is how... angry I am at them for hurting him. How much I want to make him feel better."
"So why do you believe it's any different for him?" She questions with a quirked brow.
You let out a long sigh, staring up at the sky. Barely any stars are visible thanks to all the light pollution, but the moon's still shining. "He still has a chance. There's still light and love in him; I can see it. It comes out around... people like her. She brings out the best in him. Makes him smile and laugh, and bakes fucking cookies with him. I can't do that. Her magic doesn't work on me. I'm too far gone," You tell her, the Asgardian alcohol allowing you to open up in ways you wouldn't usually dream of. "I could never be like that. In fact, I'm so unlike her that I resent her for how happy she is. How positive her outlook on life is. I'm... jealous and I wonder why the fuck she gets to be like that. Why didn't she have to go through what I went through? Why does she get to live her life in a bubble? Why does she get to be happy and patient and kind? I hate her for something that she can't control, and convince myself that it's fine for me to treat her like shit because nothing I do to her will ever even come close to they did to me. It's like I'm... punishing her. Which makes me a bad person, with a rotten soul. And proves that Bucky deserves better."
"I think you'd be surprised at how wrong you are," Wanda says simply, before squeezing your shoulder and leaving you alone again.
After a few more minutes of listening to the traffic below, you decide to head back into the party. It's warmer inside, though seeing that Bucky is still talking to Poppy sends a cold shiver down your spine.
"I was wondering where you were," Steve says as you approach him and Natasha in the middle of the room.
"Just needed some fresh air," You tell them casually.
"I'm gonna head to the bar; I think Bruce is trying to play bartender again," Natasha says with a grimace before she walks away.
Steve gives you an expectant look. "Come to give me that dance you promised?" He asks.
"Sure, Steve," You say, still feeling incredibly weird using his first name.
"That's it; you're learning," He teases before taking your hand and leading you to the makeshift dance floor.
You dance to the slow rock song for a short while without speaking, your mind racing with a hundred thoughts. Would you be able to watch Bucky with her? It would probably kill you to see them kiss. You'd need to move out of the tower, and maybe even leave the Avengers as a whole.
"What's on your mind?" Steve asks, interrupting your overthinking.
"I don't know," You answer dumbly.
"Is everything okay?" He questions with concern on his face. "You and Bucky all good?"
A dry laugh leaves your mouth. "I don't know," You repeat.
"What did he do?" Steve utters, looking around the room in search of his idiot best friend.
"Absolutely nothing," You assure him. "Bucky is... perfect."
A warm smile takes over and he leans in closer. "I have it on good authority that he feels the same about you," He whispers.
Your chest tightens but you keep the pain off your face. Instead of responding, you rest your head against his shoulder. It does feel nice, being friends with Steve and not having to be on edge around him just because of his status in the army all those years ago.
Once again, you feel it - that sixth sense. Bucky's approaching. You remain as you are, hoping he's just walking past, not sure you're able to handle a conversation with him right now.
"Uh-oh. I'm about to be thrown through a window," Steve mutters, to which you snort.
"You could take him any day," You say, purposely loud enough for the brunet to hear as he reaches you.
"Is that really how you feel?" Bucky asks from behind you. You lift your head off of Steve and turn to face him, everything inside you stilling as you see the small smile on his face. All you want is to melt into him.
"I mean, I've never seen you pull down a helicopter, Sergeant," You say teasingly, to which Steve chuckles.
Bucky's smile gets a fraction bigger, before he gives Steve a nod that says, alright, your time's up, leave us alone. And Steve, knowing his friend well, bids you both farewell before doing exactly that.
"You're avoiding me," Bucky says bluntly once Steve is out of earshot.
With a sigh, you place your hands on his shoulders. "Let's dance," You say, not giving him a choice as you start swaying to the beat.
His hands find your waist and he pulls you closer. "I don't dance," He utters bluntly.
"Neither do I," You return.
"Why did you tell Poppy we broke up?" He questions you with a frown.
"Broke up?" You repeat with a confused look.
"You know what I mean," He says with an eye-roll. "You told her you're not screwing me anymore."
"Just wanted to get her off my back about it," You answer casually.
He purses his lips and nods slowly. "But I... you are still screwing me, right?"
A breathy laugh leaves your mouth, but then you falter, and don't reply.
Bucky stops in his tracks. "Okay. You're scaring me now," He says lowly.
"Let's go talk about this outside," You say, taking his hand.
"What? No," He replies stubbornly, planting his feet on the ground. "Tell me what's going on, right now."
You look around the dance floor at all the other guests before looking back up at him. "I don't think this is the best place to-"
"I don't care," He cuts you off, his brows furrowed. You can hear that his heartbeat has quickened. "Just talk to me. What is going on?"
You run a hand through your hair and let out a sigh. "I just... I've been thinking lately, and..." You trail off, hoping he'll jump in and say something, but he just looks at you expectantly. "Bucky. I don't think we should do this anymore."
His hands fall from your waist. "You can't do that," He mumbles. "You can't just do that to me, gunner."
"It's for the best," You claim, feeling like your insides are being ripped apart.
"What the fuck does that mean?" He asks, getting the attention of a few people around you.
With a wince, you shake your head before running away, like a coward. He chases you out, obviously, grabbing your arm just as you press the elevator button.
"You have to explain yourself," He says, his eyes filled with rage and pain. "You can't just... you don't get to just drop me like I'm nothing and leave me to find out from the fucking Wellbeing chick."
"And? You're just gonna give me up without a fight?" Bucky asks you incredulously. "As if I'd ever just step to the side cause some other guy had a crush on you? You're not gonna tell her to fuck off, and that I'm yours? I mean, this is Poppy we're talking about; who the fuck is she compared to you?"
You hear a short gasp and turn your head to see none other than Poppy standing at the entrance, her eyes wide. Fuck.
Bucky glances over at her, but he's too mad to even acknowledge her presence. "C'mon, let's go upstairs and talk about this," He says as the elevator arrives and opens up, and pulls you into it before pressing the button for your floor.
The doors slowly shut just as you see Poppy wiping away a stray tear. And for the first time since you were a child, you feel bad for someone.
"That wasn't nice, Buck," You say lowly, surprising yourself with your empathy.
"I'm not a nice man," He says bluntly.
"Yes, you are!" You claim, turning to face him. "You can be. If you're with someone like her."
He gives you an incredulous look. "Is that seriously what you think?" He asks, offence in his tone. "What, you think she can fix me?"
"You don't need fixing," You retort. "But she can make you happy."
"You make me happy," He shoots back at you.
"I'm just a warm body; I can't help you feel better," You say, feeling sick to your stomach.
"What are you talking about?" Bucky asks as the elevator comes to a stop.
The doors open up and you step out, with him hot on your trail as you walk towards your room. "I'm like you, Bucky. Exactly like you. Too much like you," You say as you reach your door. "I just... I don't want to bring you down. Remind you of all the... all the shit we went through. We fuck, and it's great, but I can't... I can't bake fucking cookies with you. I can't go on dates to Coney Island. I can't wear dresses like this every night and... I can't marry you or have kids. I'm nothing like her. Maybe... maybe if I wasn't taken by Osborn and turned into a weapon, I'd be more like her. But I was. And you deserve to feel normal and safe. And to go on cutesy fucking dates and eat homemade brownies and... she'd be so good for you, Bucky. And if not her, then someone like her."
"So, you'd be happy with someone more like her, too?" He asks you. "Someone more normal?"
"No, and that's the point!" You exclaim, entering your room. "She asks me to do pottery painting and I'd rather smash the clay over her head. She wants to go on fucking nature walks and play board games and I'm too bitter and resentful to play along. It's like I... I don't want to be happy. I'm fine the way I am. But you're... I see the way you laugh with her. I can imagine it. Maybe not her specifically, but someone you could have a picket-fence life with. A healthy relationship that fulfills you in every way, not just sexually."
He doesn't say anything, processing your words as he follows you into your room. You collapse onto your bed with a heavy sigh, lying back and staring at the ceiling. He shuts the door with a soft click before pulling off his jacket and tossing it onto your drawers. For a short while, neither of you speak.
"I don't even know where to start," He mutters, taking a seat at your desk. "I... I had no idea you felt like that. As if you've been doing anything but bringing me peace."
You let out a dry scoff. "Buck, I cry to you almost every Saturday night about all the fucked up shit I've been through," You remind him. "I dump my trauma onto you as if you don't have more than enough of your own. That can't be healthy."
He stands back up and sits on the opposite site of your bed, lying down so his head is next to yours. "Remember that first time you opened up to me, all those months ago? When you first had Thor's beer and were drunk for the first time since you were a teenager, and all you could do was cry?" He asks you, making you cringe.
"All too well," You whisper.
"And I kept you in my room because I knew you wouldn't have wanted everyone to see you like that. And the next morning, I thought you'd just leave, but you stayed. And you talked to me. Opened up to me about your feelings and your triggers and... fuck, you were hugging my arm so tight, and..." He shakes his head, letting out a short sigh. "That was the first time in a long, long time that I felt like I could help someone. The fact that you felt comfortable enough around me to speak about your deepest wounds... Letting me hold you while you cried, like I wasn't a monster. Like I could be someone that protected you."
"You were that person," You mumble. "You are."
"And since that day, I've never stopped wanting to be that for you," Bucky tells you, turning his head to face you. "That's how you make me feel. When you trust me with your secrets and let me carry the burden of your past, I feel more human than ever. This isn't just sex to me, my girl. You mean so much more than that."
You turn your body to face him and rest your hand on his chest, feeling each of his breaths with a rise and fall. "I'm not the kind of girl you can take bowling, and I'd rather die than kiss you in public," You point out. "I'm not gonna be your Valentine, or celebrate anniversaries. I'm-"
"I'm not asking for anything to change between us," He cuts in, placing his hand on top of yours. "I'm just telling you that... you're it for me. This is it for me. I don't need anyone else or any other kind of woman. As long as you want me, I'm yours. You fit me, more than anyone ever has and ever could."
You lean forward so your noses touch. "I... I'm not going to say this often, Barnes, so take it in while you can," You pre-warn him. "I love you."
A grin spills out on his lips. He doesn't try to hide it. "I love you, my girl," He whispers back. "We're all we need."
You smile back at him.
"I didn't get the chance to tell you how incredible you look tonight," Bucky says softly. "When I walked in, all I could see was you. It's like that every time I walk into a room. Even when you're not there, I look for you. Just... wanna be wherever you are."
"I, uh, have this weird thing," You begin with a laugh. "You know how we can tell when someone's about to walk in? We hear the specific weight of their footsteps, or smell their perfume, or whatever? Well, with you, it's like... I know it's you before I even hear your footsteps. And not just because I recognize your aftershave. I just... feel you. And it puts me at ease, knowing you're nearby. I'm not exactly a damsel in distress, but I feel safer when you're with me. I've never depended on someone like that. Even though it terrified me at first, I've grown to appreciate it."
Bucky's eyes flutter shut as his grin stays up. "You have no idea how much it means to me to hear you say that," He says, turning his body to face you and cupping your cheeks in his hands. "And I know it's hard for you to drop your guard. I'll never do anything to make you regret it."
"I know," You mumble, before laughing. "You look weird upside-down."
"I was just thinking whether I'd be able to kiss you in this position," Bucky admits with a chuckle.
You lean forward and shuffle down so your lips are level with his. Slowly, you close the gap between you, and though it's slightly odd at first to be kissing his mouth upside-down, you quickly get the hang of the tongue logistics.
"As much as I love you in it," He begins saying between kisses. "How about we get you out of this dress?"
You grin into the kiss, tugging on his hair. "I thought you'd never ask, Sergeant."
a/n: eek so this has been in my drafts for a good few months. been a concept i've wanted to write for soooo long. reminds me a little of one of my first ever (potentially my first ever) bucky fic, silent girl and the winter soldier. hope you enjoyed <3
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I’ve never read a fic this good where Bucky is the sunshine and the reader is grumpy. This is so so so please write another…maybe expand on that mommy kink
synopsis: Stark Industries took everything from you, and you're determined to get your revenge back—by killing Tony Stark. The plan was simple: infiltrate the Avengers, gain trust and get Tony alone. You didn't anticipate how you'd fall for Bucky Barnes, having to break his heart in the worst way possible. Years later, you're faced with him again, but if you can't forgive yourself, how can he?
tags: ANGST. slowburn-ish. smut; hatefucking, crying during sex. betrayal. reader is morally grey. hurt!comfort. violence; mention of blood, gun violence. panic attack. trauma bonding. kinda found family. unreliable narrator.
wc: aprox 19k (longest fic I’ve ever written???)
a/n: life got in the way but hey, I’m back! This is not proofread, and i need to get this out cause it’s consuming me and i kinda hate it but fuck it, we ball. Glossing over the blip here so it’s left more for interpretation.
If anyone knew how to ruin something good, it was you.
All that you had to do was get inside and make friends with some of the people in the Avengers tower. But the mighty Avengers were a group of saps, and that made your plans so much harder to carry out.
They practically melted for you.
Against your better judgment, you let yourself into their lives. Everyone there loved you, and you let them think you did too. Even though deep down a part of you wanted to let it be real, you remind yourself of what they lacked, and what you'd lost in the face of these so-called “heroes."
At first, Steve was the one who felt the most for you. He took pity and empathized with you like a kindhearted moron, thinking he'd made a grave discovery and recognized the potential you posed for the team. As if you didn't plan for that to happen all along and planted that seed in his mind the moment he met you.
You were trained for this kind of manipulation, and you weren't going to feel bad for it, not when you had something to achieve and no one to fall back on.
With nothing to lose, what's a little heartbreak?
You told them of your parents' passing when you were young, leaving you with no family other than the immediate ones who were already dead. What you didn't tell them was how they were killed, just brushing it off as something that happened too young for you to remember. Though you knew it all too well, and you were there for a reason.
You let Steve take credit for your idea of becoming an Avenger, and they all fell perfectly for your little plan.
It was Steve who introduced you to Tony—the man you were there to kill.
You put on a fake smile and tucked your hands behind you, keeping yourself from inching forward and carrying out your mission. You'd spent so many years of your life having Tony's image drilled into your mind as the villain who was posing himself as a hero, telling yourself that he was utterly deserving of the smear campaign you originally planned to put him through. That was before you got close to the team. Before you landed on the idea of killing him, because you were finally close enough. The proximity that joining the team allowed you, it tempted you regularly, but you had to wait for the right moment. Pretending like you didn't hate Tony's guts was probably the hardest part.
You infiltrated their trust and broke into their space. You took root inside their lives from the inside, and they welcomed you in with open arms. Like the perfect orchestration of a gorgeous tune, you drew the trap and they all fell inside, letting the kindness you showed them translate into trust and love. But you? You played the greatest trick on yourself.
The grandest part of the scheme was the relationships you formed and the love you pretended to have for too long. Until that became real, because the truth was, you were never faking.
Bruce offered up his friendship and Clint his home like you were one of their own. Far too trusting for people who were meant to be protectors and careful assessors of danger. It was hard to pretend like the warmth you felt wasn't real when Clint baked cookies with his family and brought you some, or when Natasha would peel an orange and hand you half quietly. Natasha made it infinitely harder to hate her when she'd train with you endlessly as though she wanted to prepare you for when she wouldn't be around. She became your closest thing to a best friend you were sure you ever had— until she died.
They were all family that you loved despite it all. You let yourself believe that maybe you could have some sense of normalcy, that you could let your guard down even a little bit, and you let too many people in.
Some people more than most— like Bucky.
You didn't plan on falling for Bucky; you didn't even want to pretend like you loved him until you really did. But you had your own plans, your own mission, and your own vengeance to achieve, so stepping on some toes and hurting some feelings didn't mean shit to you. Even if it was the man that you didn't mean to fall for, who was carrying the brunt of the bargain.
Bucky made it so hard to ignore him, with his soft smiles and his hand on your hip when you'd spar. His warm palm on your shoulder when you were out gazing on the balcony too long, and calling you to come inside for a cup of tea that he knew you would like. When your guard would fall, just for him, and he wouldn't push you for information, sitting in your silence with you. Because Bucky knew what it was like to get lost in your thoughts, and your mind is a war in itself.
Bucky watched you and knew you had your demons; he just hoped that in time you'd tell him about them. Slowly, you stopped calling him Barnes. You didn't know it yet, but you helped him take back his name, calling him James when others would call him Bucky.
Just being around him made you feel more human—more alive.
You hated how he made your heart flutter on missions, and your stomach drop when you'd worry for him. You shoved him into a wall once after a mission, when he wouldn't answer you because he was occupied with disarming someone. One gruelling hour of him not responding over the comms on a mission you took as partners.
He came back to the jet with a few scratches on his face, but nothing major, and you still felt like you couldn't breathe at the thought of him not coming back. His chest heaved as you put a finger in his face, and his gaze seemed to soften in recognition that you were scared. Scared of losing him. It didn't take long for you to push him again and for him to catch your wrists, pulling you flush against him.
That was the first time he kissed you, swallowing your whimpered protest when you’d fisted his shirt and drawn him further into you. Desperately, you couldn’t even pretend like you didn’t want him once you’d touched. The two of you moved in unison toward the jet's couch as he walked you backwards, stripping you from your clothes without breaking the kiss. He lay you down like a careful art, taking his time while you calmed from the bottled-up emotions you refused to express out loud.
He loved you gently and softened the rough ends of his exterior so you could let yourself sit in the feelings that he also struggled to outwardly express. When you finally let him in and stopped pushing him away, he didn't just sleep with you, but he made love to someone for the first time since Hydra took him away. Truthfully, it was the first time he ever loved someone so deeply, and it scared him, but he knew it scared you too, so he let it consume him whole— for both of you. He did it again, and again, and he would've kept doing it if you'd let him.
Bucky took you apart and put you back together as though you were his favourite mystery, caressing you like a Goddess on Earth.
Every touch felt like a blessing and in his mind leaving any part of you untouched was a sin.
Leaving bites over the scars on your skin, buried under layers of clothes that no one else had touched this delicately. You were completely and undeniably his. Neither of you ever told anyone about it, and how he held you after missions went wrong or how you sat with him when his nightmares wouldn’t let him sleep. Bucky never pushed you for anything more. He was afraid of you losing interest, so he tried to build your relationship silently.
When you wouldn't come out of your room for dinner, he'd bring it to you, cooking things he knew were your comfort food. He'd knock silently and linger there just to make sure you really did eat it. He made quiet dinners for just the two of you, leaving specks of food on his shirt or his brow as evidence of his labour.
After going to the bar with the team one night, and you drank too much, and he offered to take you home. You, however, were entirely wasted and couldn’t give proper directions.
Bucky took you to an apartment that no one else knew he had and let you sleep it off there. Except you cried like a wounded, inconsolable child, and he felt the heaviness of your sorrow like it was resting on his chest. He gave you a key to keep going there the next day, and you never gave it back.
Part of you knows you'll always be his, even after you have to break his heart. He would unwrap you over and over again like a gift he was grateful to receive. He held you after it all, and you knew it wouldn't be the last time because of how safe you'd felt in his embrace. And Bucky knew from the moment Steve introduced you that he wouldn't be able to let you go. That you were and are the reason he'd wake up in the morning despite his nightmares and demons. You made it all worthwhile for him.
You fell hard for him, head over heels and disgustingly in love. But Bucky fell so much harder, unravelling for you after years of conditioning and trauma that ran deep. You chipped away at his walls by letting him love you and letting yourself love him back.
It wasn't because of your mission that you did it. You truly did care for him and you wanted to tend to his wounds that cut through his mind like a plague. It all happened so fast that you couldn't stop it. You couldn't help the way you loved him so deeply that you wanted any part of him you could have, even if it was for a little while. Even if the love was built on lies and deceit.
You knew that once he found out, nothing would be the same, and the two of you would never be able to go back. So you settled for now, stealing kisses between missions and meeting him in his bedroom when everyone else fell asleep. He settled for holding your hand under the briefing table and bringing you snacks that he knew you loved, even when you'd push him away.
Despite your reluctance, he wanted you the same way you wanted him. He would take any bits you offered him because, in his mind, he wasn't worthy of anything else — and you helped him break that barrier of self-deprication by loving his scars like your own.
It was Bucky Barnes who had to stop you when you cornered Tony in the lab. It was Bucky who caught you in the grand act of your plan and had to witness everything about your relationship crash and burn in front of him. You didn't want to do it like this, but you had no choice now.
After the annual Gala that Tony threw in honour of his father, Howard Stark, the sack of shit who mindlessly supplied weapons to the most immoral people across the country, and even larger weapons of destruction overseas. It didn't fucking matter that Tony didn't do it himself, but he was aware, and that was more than enough. Tony worked with his father, did demonstrations of his destructive weapons, and had years of experience helping with the supplies before he was abducted.
It took seeing the destruction, feeling the pain that had been felt for decades through his own suffering, for him to understand the gravity of the shit he was part of. The fact that he couldn't come to that conclusion without all of that unnecessary suffering that made your blood boil.
After he praised his father and Stark Industries' history at the Gala, you couldn't take it anymore.
You were getting too emotional.
So you followed him into the lab, using your stealth training to sneak in behind him, just before the doors would have locked. Using the training the team had helped teach you against him, you made your move. Your hand on your holster, you silently pulled it out and pointed it towards the back of his head, mind full of doubt and unsteady conviction that told you this was what you had to do.
His voice startled you as he was still facing the computers, "You've finally come to finish the job, huh?"
You scoff, gripping your gun a little tighter, "You knew that I was going to do this, and still you let me join."
Tony turns to face you, his hand still holding his glass of whiskey he'd been coddling all night. You were watching him while everyone else conversed— while Steve asked if you were alright, and Bucky tried meeting your gaze. This anger was bright and intense, and it was all his fault. Maybe if he weren't alive, it might calm your thoughts—
"Well, it's taken you what? Over a year to muster up the courage to kill me. You really think I don't do intensive background checks, sweetheart? Go on then, take your shot." He brought his glass to his lips and drank, testing you. "But you know this is quite ironic, right?"
Tony was always skilled at this type of thing, riling people up and seeking a reaction.
Shoving the magazine into place fully, your finger danced over the trigger, "Don't tempt me, Stark. I’ve wanted to do this for a long time."
He steps closer to you, "then why the hell didn't you? You could have, hell, you probably should have done it before you got the rest of the team attached to you."
You didn't let your expression fall, remaining as stoic as you could as you spoke, "I'm only here for you."
Despite your differences and wanting him dead, you'd grown fond of Tony.
Tony says your name, the sound slightly slurred from drinking too much all night, which you were banking on. A hint of tenderness behind his voice, as though speaking to an old friend. Having him not entirely lucid would've made this easier, but alas, Tony was always even more talkative than usual when he was drunk.
"I know what Stark Industries did to your family and what they," he pauses to correct himself, "what we took. I know I'm not perfect, but you have to acknowledge that what you've done is evil just as the rest." Though his words felt harsh, he spoke as though he wanted you to know it was okay. That he understood. "Just tell me, is revenge what you truly want?"
You didn't trust your voice, so instead you nodded. He continues with the soft scoff, "Did you ever even really care?"
Your breath hitched as the words sank in. You did care, you cared so deeply that it hurt. Still, you let your hurt evolve and eventually involve the people you'd gotten to love. The people you were supposed to hate. But that didn't matter now; you knew you were too far gone. The only thing that should have been on your mind was killing the man in front of you for the crimes of his company. The crimes of his father and his father's father, even if you knew your judgment was bordering on playing God.
Taking on the role of judge, jury, and executioner, because someone had to, right? If you had to be somebody's villain, then fine, as long as you finally felt like you'd done something. Done anything to ease the pain of the younger version of yourself that lost so much and vowed to do something about it. You shift the weight of the gun in your hand and look back up into Tony's eyes, unrelenting on you.
You're about to answer him when the door slides open, shifting your focus from Tony and taking in the two men storming in. Bucky and Steve emerged in the midst of a conversation as they took in the scene before them and froze. Bucky's eyes immediately fell on you — gun in your hand, cocked and pointed at Tony. It was unmistakable that you had been playing them, but Bucky didn't want to believe it, not even when Steve put a hand to his shoulder and tried to keep him from moving closer to you.
He says your name, his voice careful and soft, "What are you doing?"
You take a shaky breath, trying not to meet his gaze and feigning unamusement, "What does it look like, Barnes?"
The sharpness of your tone made his brows knit into a pained expression. The use of his last name and not calling him James, like you usually would, punched him in the gut. You weren't here to coddle him or anyone else, including yourself. He says your name like he's pleading for you, and you shut your eyes, masking your emotions and swiftly swiping a forming tear away.
"Don't do this," his voice a pleading whisper as he inches closer to you, but you don't let him.
You ignore him and kick Tony in the back of the knee, knocking him over. You turn to face Bucky, just as he's about to touch you.
The gun turns to him, and he inhales sharply, his resolve crumbling, "baby."
"Don't," you try to hide the shakiness in your voice as Steve also inches closer, "don't call me that and just stay right fucking there. I'm not here for either of you, just Tony."
Bucky's face drops further, a bitterness forming in his mouth as he repeats your harsh words back, "you were never here for me," repeating after you like each word was ripping his throat raw as he said it, "you're here for Stark."
Reluctantly, you nod. This was your mission, this was the vengeance you needed since you were a child, and you'd gone and made it a hell of a lot harder. He nods back, the gears in his mind turning, and his breathing uneven. You knew his tells when he was nervous or in pain, or on the verge of an anxiety attack. This was the ladder, and you were fighting the urge to run to him and explain yourself, but there was no time. There was no point now.
You bite back the words; I love you, James. I'm so sorry. But you never say it.
You fire a single round next to where Steve was, making him flinch. Warning him to stop inching closer when he thought you were distracted. Tony looks up to Steve, and they both look at each other like they were asking the other what to do. But Bucky, his gaze never falters from yours. He watches you like he knew this would be the last time, and you swore you could hear his heart breaking. You lower your gaze from his.
"Both of you need to leave," taking cautious steps away from them and pointing the gun back at Tony.
"Like hell we are," Steve says as Buckys voice fails to find him.
Tony looks up at them, "Yeah, guys, listen to the lady. Save yourselves and leave. This is my fight. I made my bed, didn't I, sweetheart?"
"Shut up, Stark, we aren't leaving." Steve stands, and this time you let him. He says your name like he's reprimanding you, "You need to think about what you're doing, think about the team."
You say nothing, and Steve's eyes catch Buckys briefly. The frustration inside you boils over when Steve speaks again, "Think of how you're hurting Bucky."
"This isn't about him or us." The sharpness is heavily evident in your tone.
Bucky's voice seems to find him as your gaze meets accidentally his, his eyes glazed over like he was on the verge of tears, "Isn't it always about us?"
You don't respond, you can't.
His big, beautiful, blue eyes were blown out despite how little you seemed to care in this moment for his feelings, or how little you chose to show. He sees your internal turmoil and inches closer,
"Please, I love you. Don't do this."
You bite your lip to stop it from quivering. He hadn't ever admitted his feelings so raw to you, just shown it in a lack of the words he couldn't find just yet. You ignore the loud pattering of your heart as you press the barrel of the gun to his chest, and he just lets you, leaning into it and wrapping his hand around yours— not believing that you'd really shoot him.
You knew that after this, after killing Tony, Bucky would be far from loving you for what you had done. You weren't sure if you could even blame him for it. If you were in his shoes, you'd assume the same, that you had used him; his time, empathy, and courage to love again. If you were him, you'd hate yourself for making him love like this, and for what? Revenge? Peace of mind?
You made him feel utterly used all over again, even after he had exposed all his scars to you and told you about his past. You listened with open arms and welcomed him into your embrace, kissing his hands, both metal and flesh, and whispering to him that he was worthy. Breaking his walls down just to make him build them up even higher.
This is why you weren't supposed to let yourself get too close and too attached to the life you could've had with him and not the one for your own preservation. Vengeance had consumed you whole since the night your parents had died from a senseless attack carrying weapons etched with an Stark Industries on the barrel. How easily accessible these weapons became for people in your neighbourhood to find and purchase, and for worse individuals to buy in mass. All because the Stark family name had to be the top weapons manufacturer, no matter the cost and no matter the lives lost.
You thought of the bloodshed, of the killings and the destruction that they caused and your blood boiled again. All because Stark Industries didn't do background checks on who they sold their weapons to. Bloomed bright with intentful retribution, you had convinced yourself; this was the only way.
You let him lean in close, one last time. The familiar scent of him filled your lungs as he gazed into your eyes as though he were begging for you to snap out of it. But you were more yourself now than you had ever been, and you swallowed down the lump in your throat, inching a little closer to him.
"Then you're an idiot for loving me." You pulled your head back just enough to slam into his forehead and send him staggering a few feet backward, and he let your hand go. Before you knew it, he was focused on you again, whispering your name like a call to prayer.
Your hand moved too quickly for him to catch you, and you shot at Tony, striking him between the shoulder blades. Before Tony even falls over and grunts in pain, and Bucky grabs you. He knocks the gun from your hand and topples you over to the ground.
"Get off of me!" you thrash but he doesn't relent.
He hovers over you, his legs on either side of your body. He thinks he's successfully disarmed you, leaning over and giving you an emphatic look despite how harsh your words and tone was. Despite how you had just shot Tony right in front of him, proving your lack of loyalty to the team.
Desperately clinging onto the hope that you still love him, or that the love was ever real. You buck your hips up high, trying to get him off of you, but he was far heavier than you. You're thrashing beneath him, and he holds your left arm with his flesh one, the metal one caressing your face—an action you helped him learn to do to prove every part of him was worthy to you.
Steve was holding Tony's wound tight to keep him from bleeding out, but the crimson was spreading fast. The blood is pooling and reaching where you and Bucky were.
Bucky's eyes were glazed over and teary, threatening to fall down his face. The same face that you had become so enamoured with.
"Please, baby, I don't wanna hurt you," he pleads.
But you do the one thing you knew would hurt him most. You reach up with your free hand, grazing over his metal arm like you used to, soft and tender with your gaze still on his, a reminder of your intimacy before ruining the trust between you.
"But I have to hurt you, James," you admit before a mechanical click shifts from beneath your fingertips and his arm dismounts his body, clattering to the floor.
He leans back off of you, his gaze falling to the vibranium arm before up to your face. Shocked and pained. His expression was beyond broken now, and you wanted so badly to take it back just as you did it, but this was how you made him hate you. A tear slips from his face and lands on your cheek as he stares down at you, never blinking, just staring in utter disbelief.
Your heart aches and hate yourself for what you were doing, but you seize the opportunity while he is distracted. Shoving Bucky off of you fully, and he doesn't do anything to stop you, his eyes remaining on where you were just lying beneath him. The warmth of your cheek lingering under his flesh palm as he looks into it.
You don't look back, you don't grab your gun off the ground, and you don't wish to meet anyone's gaze—especially not Buckys.
You ignore whatever Steve was shouting and Bucky and stride your legs forward. Panting hard, you push yourself toward the glass windows, throwing a chair and causing it to shatter. You were prepared to jump when a bullet flies and grazes you in the side, coaxing a pained shriek from you as your legs work mindlessly, pumping and continuing to push you forward. Adrenaline fuels you as you glance briefly over your shoulder, just in time to see Bucky, with your gun in his hand and his expression utterly shattered like you'd never seen.
This couldn't be love, because love shouldn't hurt like this. Love shouldn't bleed like this.
He has to hate you now.
You turn back and leap through the broken glass, Buckys face the last thing on your mind as you descend from the tower. When Bucky ran to look over the edge of the shattered window, looking to where you had landed, you were already gone. The only thing you left behind was the blood of pool Tony was rasping in and a trail of yours, from the wound Bucky had given you.
New York quickly became the place you hated most, so you left the busy streets behind.
The following weeks left you on a manhunt, from the Avengers, law enforcement, and Bucky Barnes.
For the next several months, you avoided all places they frequented. After betraying all your friends, you didn't feel the most enthusiastic to return to any place they might be or risk incarceration. Especially not after attempting to kill Tony and finding out through news channels that he had died in a way that you hated— because it was honourable. He did the one thing you never thought he could, and was a hero in the very end.
This sent you into a spiral that felt endless, and you became a mess of yourself. You started to get sloppy and started seeking old comforts. Natasha's voice would play in your head, nagging you to watch your six and mind the corners of buildings when you crossed the street. She would be the voice of reason in your head when you reached for the phone with no SIM card in your bedroom drawer and contemplated using it to call Bucky.
She would play in your mind when you went to the deli with the sandwiches Bucky loved and bought his order just to imagine how it would feel to be him. How would it feel to be defiled by the woman you loved? To relearn love just to be used to get to someone else?
You would ruin your own appetite often, and you weren't sure if it was cause of your spiralling thoughts or the fact that you were hallucinating the voice of your dead best friend.
One winter night, you wore an old jacket that still smelled faintly like Bucky, missing his touch more than usual. Your hands shoved into your pockets, and the jacket zipped up high, covering your nose. You felt the cold metal of something in your pocket. With peaked interest, you pulled your hand out and stared at the key in your hand, the one to the apartment Bucky had. The one he hardly went to. In your mind, it felt like a sign to go there, to feel the air that you both once breathed together in and memorize the smells. You couldn't help it; your legs carried you there without considering the consequences.
Carefully, you unlocked the door with a swallow creak that echoed in the dark and nearly empty space. Bucky was never one for much decoration, so the apartment only had the necessary furniture and appliances and throw pillows you lent him that never went back home with you. Kicking your shoes off, you walked over to the kitchen, drawn by the hum of the refrigerator. Once you walked close enough, you froze. The fridge was open, the light still on.
Fuck, someone was here.
Your name is said so softly, so gently, spoken as though afraid it might scare you away. Like he wasn't sure if it was you or a dream. You already knew who it was without even seeing his face.
You turn slowly to meet his eyes—evaluating.
"James," you breathe, hands clenched inside your jacket pockets.
The look on his face made you feel all the more worse. His eyes were sunken in like he hadn't slept, red and rimmed. In his hand was a case file with your name on it.
"I thought you were really gone," the file drops to the floor as he reaches for your face, "I thought you were dead."
Not expecting him to touch you, you take his hand off of you, "I shouldn't have come here," you sputtered, moving out of the kitchen.
Bucky followed you out of the room, hot on your tail. You could feel the sharp daggers of his gaze prickling at your back.
He calls out after you, "Hey," you keep walking, ignoring him. he says your name, footsteps heavy after you, "I am talking to you, dammit!"
Still, you pretended not to feel his presence behind you, walking fast through the hallway. But he wouldn't let you get away from this conversation, not again, and he grabs you by your arm, pulling roughly. "Stop ignoring me," he spat out, glaring at you, "quit shutting me out, you left for months,"
"I can't do this right now, Bucky." you hiss
He flinches at that use of his name, grip tightening, "You can't do this right now, huh? You came here to what, then? Torment me further? Kill me like you tried with Stark? You leave me in the dark for seven months, and you're the one who can't do this right now?"
You pretend like his tone wasn't puncturing your heart and pull your arm, but he doesn't relent.
His eyes were piercing with intensity and frustration, "Do you have any idea what it's been like, wondering why you pretended to love me? Wondering why you left me like that when I would've given anything you wanted?" his voice rose quickly.
You try to interrupt him, "You don't understand—"
"You're damn right, I don't understand! Fuck, why did you even come back here if you want to leave so badly? You wanted to disappear, so why come back?" His emotions rose in his tone.
You try again, mumbling his name, but he stops you, yanking you closer, "Shut up and fucking listen! For once in your life, listen to me!" his chest rises and falls, "You could've talked to me and told me what was going on, but instead you just ran!"
"You shot at me!" you counter.
"You took my arm off of me!" he practically screams your name at you, "If I wanted to fucking shoot you, we both know I wouldn’t have missed.”
You gulp at the realization; he presses closer.
“You used me to get to him, and you knew," his voice breaks, "you knew what that was going to do to me, and you did it anyway."
Everything in his face looked sunken in, like he wasn't taking care of himself since you disappeared. Suddenly, your surroundings overwhelmed you like skeletons in the closet. Dozens of empty cans of beer and bottles of whiskey. Even though he couldn't get drunk, it looked like he had desperately tried. Packages next to the front door, labelled in Sam's handwriting, urging him to eat something inside them. Cardboard boxes full of cases, papers etched over the ground from when he had been frantically rummaging through for any kind of clue.
You hadn't gotten to see just how affected he was until now, and it was eating you alive more than you had already been doing to yourself.
"You've ruined me. I'm ruined and you're here just to leave me, again." His thumb stroked your cheek lovingly and tenderly, while his words came out broken.
"The worst part is I would let you use me so long as you came back. Why wouldn't you come back for me?" his words sounding utterly broken and more of a statement than a question.
"I should have, James. I didn't mean for it to happen like that—"
He pushes you against the door to the bedroom, your back hitting it with a thud. Arms on either side as his hips press against yours, pinning you there.
"Don't. Just don't lie to me anymore," he rasps, "you did what you had to, right? You had to use me like a pawn, and I just rolled over for you."
You can't help how your words get lost on you, and you drown in the intensity of his sharp gaze. The tenderness in those blue eyes that you grew to love was gone, but still you desired him more than anything else, and you couldn't help how your eyes flickered over his perfect, plump lips. Even in this moment, you burned for him and only him. His gaze turns into something deeper, something between hurt and lust that you barely recognized. Everything about his body language screamed that he was restraining himself from you.
He catches your gaze, and his hand mindlessly lifts, caressing the side of your face.
"God, if you wanted to hurt me, shooting me in the head would have hurt less." chest heaving against yours.
Tears prickled at your eyes, "I am so sorry, Bucky, I really am."
He shakes his head slowly, "You don't get to apologize, not when you still have me undone for you." His eyes are boring into yours, but his words contrast with his actions: "I fucking hate you, and I want you just as broken by this as I am."
You gulp, "I am broken by this," his hand finds the doorknob and pushes it open, pulling you inside with him.
"No, you wanted to use me," he walks you backwards and shoves you onto the mattress, and you let him. "I'll show you what it's like to be used."
"James—" you try as he flips you over onto your stomach.
"You want me to stop? You tell me now. Otherwise, I don't wanna hear you." He pulls at your hips and keeps you on the edge of the bed as he practically rips your pants off you. Metal knuckles grazed up your spine, pulling the fabric up with it and sending shivers like he knew it would, "I know you and your body remembers me enough."
But you can't tell him to stop. You want him, you'll always want him.
The way he feels makes your core ache for him despite it all. You missed this— you missed all of him like an addict to his touch. Arching as he presses into you from behind, fisting your hair as he ruts himself against you, reminding you of what could have been.
Bucky was more than just a means to an end, and you wanted him to know that, but how could you? That you are capable of using him despite knowing his past? How do you convince him that you loved him when you'd shown him that you didn't want him? That he shouldn't want you?You've already shown your care to him, and he's well aware of how you'd used him, so maybe hating you was the only answer. Love might not be in your cards, but in this moment, your resilience was pouring through the cracks. If he hated you, then he would be okay, and the damaged parts of you couldn't reach him anymore.
He leans over your back and shifts his hand from your hair to your throat; tight enough to threaten.
"You wanted this all along, didn't you?" breaths hot against your ear as his belt clinks open, "I've just been a bit of fun for you? An easy, broken man you could use over and over? A quick fuck?"
Your lip quivers, "You were always more than that."
He releases your throat. Reaching over and down your chest to rip your shirt open easily. The fabric is thin. the buttons pop open and scatter across the room. With one quick, practiced move, he unhooks your bra without even looking at it. You gasp despite yourself and let him pull you up, bare back flush against his.
Your heart crumbles for him, and the damage you'd done that seems to follow you everywhere you go. In his mind, he already had his answer as to why you wouldn't come back, but he still didn't want to believe it. He still wanted you, even if it really were one last time before you left him again.
Warm, soft tears roll down your cheek and onto his fingers, "James, I really am sorry, you didn't deserve this."
His heavy length is pressed against your back as he grips your hair roughly, just enough to see your face. Bucky's gaze softens despite how tense he was, but you could still see the uncertainty in his eyes.
"I told you, I don't want your apologies," tears threaten to spill from his eyes. He runs his fingers up your core, testing the wetness pooling there before he pulls your panties off, "I just want this."
You swallow your tears and the urge to try convincing him again. You nod—needing him just as badly, "Okay."
The feeling of him alone makes you throb for him, aching for him like you have been for months.
Running his thick and angry red tip through your folds once, he collects the slick and watches your face contort in pleasure. He’s watching as you shut your eyes—savouring the feeling like you were deprived and storing the image in the back of his mind. He aligns himself and pushes the tip inside, making you writhe into the pillow.
But he doesn't coo at you like he normally would, he doesn't praise you the way he knows you like, and he doesn't try to make it slow and passionate.
This was pure take and desire that consumed you both.
The stretch of him was as glorious as always, but fuck, you wanted to see him. He doesn't give a warning before thrusting in to the hilt, bottoming out and coaxing a sharp gasp from you. His lips close the distance to your neck, leaving wet, sloppy kisses that quickly become rougher as he sucked purple marks—marking you in a physical manifestation of what you'd done to him.
Leaving something behind for you to be reminded of in the morning.
Gripping your hips tight enough that it would leave bruises, and you didn't care. His hips sank hard, movements meant to reach a peak that could prove something to him or to you somehow. Punishing in his thrusts, rocking the headboard against the wall in every movement.
The soft exterior of the man you loved so badly was gone. He was taking you apart in every way he knew how, because Bucky knew how to make you sing for him and had your body memorized like the back of his hand.
The sounds he made were between a whimper and a groan, as though everything about this was ripping him apart. You knew him so well, studied him like a roadmap you could never forget. You knew his body like it was tattooed inside your eyelids, never escaping the softness.
Being rough wasn't something Bucky liked to do with you, unless you asked for it. So this? This was tearing him to shreds. After months without feeling the sweet plush of your skin, Bucky so desperately wanted to take his time, but he couldn't trust himself with being able to leave you alone afterwards.
If he took any more time, he knew he wouldn't be able to let you go.
You whined his name, wanting to touch him. Reaching back for him, grazing your fingernails over his forearms, and he takes your hands, kissing them like he was sorry. You cry out for him again, but he shoves your face into the pillow, shutting you up and muffling your helpless moans. Putting down his full weight and your hands over your head, whispering breathlessly into your ear.
"You wanted to use me, so take it. Take all of it."
Puncuating his words by snapping his hips even deeper into yours and reaching the spongy spot that made you see stars. You push back into him and meet his thrusts and he moans so beautifully for you—and he hated it. He hated how you had him undone for him and could hurt him so deeply.
Holding both of your hands with his flesh arm so you couldn’t touch him, the metal one comes between you and circles over the sensitive bud, making you jolt. But he won't let you escape the way he made you feel, so he plants a knee on either side of you to cage you under him. He urges you on while keeping his punishing thrusts, snapping even harder, faster.
Overstimulating all at once; the rigorous pace brings you there faster than you began, and you scream his name as you fall apart. He groans like it hurts as your walls flutter around him and the slickness urges him on. He doesn't relent, pushing deeper into you again and again, chasing his high as you writhe beneath him, cooing at him that it was too much to no avail. He grunts in your ear, and you swear you could've came again just at the rasp of his voice.
“James please,” you whimper.
Suddenly, he hooks an arm under your knee and flips you onto your back. When you meet his gaze, you see the tears in his eyes just before he crashes his quivering lips into yours. His tongue swipes over your lip before he tangles the muscle with yours, sweeping every crevice of your mouth in a desperately possessive manner. He swallows your whimpered moans and ruts himself in short, deep movements, reaching into you like he could understand you like this. Like he could finally reach your mind and unravel you in this bed.
In his bed.
The taste of salty tears touches your tongue as he devours your lips. His pace becomes uneven and sloppy as you feel yourself reaching that peak again. He pulls back just to attach his lips to your neck, sucking and biting to leave his mark purposefully. His teeth sink in, and you moan his name loudly as you came again, grabbing at him now that you could. Hissing at your nails against his back, his moans are broken and he twitches and sputters your name quietly, spilling hot inside.
Still thrusting slow and deep like he just couldn’t help himself, he keeps his spend inside, not letting a drop escape as he remains sheathed in between your slick walls. He looks back down, taking in the deep marks he left there, a hint of apology in his eyes. He seems like he wants to say something, but he stops himself, leaning down and kissing you again—softer this time.
He swipes his tongue along your lips to coax you into opening your mouth for him again. He pulls back just enough to spit into your mouth. You swallow it for him, digging your fingers into the nape of his neck and pulling him back down like you couldn't let him go.
This time, Bucky whimpers at the contact you make, biting your bottom lip enough to coax another gasp and then pulling away entirely. He gets off of you, running his hand through his hair and dragging it over his face. He stands up fast and pulls his jeans back on.
"Where are you going?" you ask, but he doesn't look at you.
"This doesn't change anything," he adjusts his belt through the loops, the sound clinking through the quiet air, besides the sound of both of your heavy breathing.
You sit up, the evidence of the sanguine and desolate encounter dripping onto his sheets, "James, please, if you would just let me explain."
He turns quickly, eyes red as he says your name like it physically pains him, "I told you, I fucking despise you. Loathe isn't strong enough to describe how I feel about you."
You stop breathing for a moment, stuck in place.
He continues, watching the pained expression on your face grow, "You're like a fucking plague on my mind, and I can't stand you anymore."
He takes backwards steps to the door, turning away from you, "I don't ever want to see you again, so you better be long gone by the time I come back here."
You can't help the soft scoff that escapes you, gripping the sheet tighter, "and if I don't go?"
He looks at you for a moment, his eyes trailing over your face and studying each feature. After a beat, he looks back into your eyes. The look he gives you is colder than anything you'd ever seen before from him.
"Then I will kill you myself."
He slams the door shut behind him, the sound deafening—making you flinch as you close your eyes.
You were right before; this wasn't love. Love doesn't hurt like this.
Tony Stark became a name that would send a shiver down your spine, but your fists didn't clench like before.
You refused to acknowledge it with the same fierceness you had before, since your oversight had blinded you. Now, you could see how partial you were and how you'd let anger cloud your judgment and nearly kill a man for the crimes of people before he was born. You still had hate in your heart for him— how could you forget it? But at least now, that sharp pain shifted to an ache dulled that you only felt in your bones when it was cold and you thought of Manhattan.
Nearly half a decade after you last saw Bucky, your life is much different now. Half the Avengers are either dead or retired. Somehow, you still felt some responsibility for what you'd done back then, and how you could never explain yourself, but you were convinced that you were worthy of it anymore. Apologizing to anyone would be selfish because you knew it was for yourself.
The apartment you lived in—if you could even call it that—was cluttered with clothes and takeout from weeks prior. You hardly left your place now, even after Tony Stark sacrificed his life for the world and died. You didn't know how to deal with that or how to take back the things you'd done on your vengeful path. So instead, you stayed home and watched bad television. You were on your couch, licking ice cream off your spoon, when you saw the face that could've killed you on sight.
The bewitching face of the man you dreamt of more often than you'd ever admit, the piercing blue eyes of his unmistakable face above his scruffy appearance, and neatly tucked hair. He wore a crisp suit that you'd never seen him in before, besides a borrowed one from Steve at the many Galas you'd attended. He walked across wearing his stoic expression, the hint of sadness only you'd recognize behind his brief smile, before he spoke to an audience about a bill you didn't know anything about.
James Buchanan Barnes was now a Congressman.
You couldn't help the laugh that rippled through you at the thought that your James, you're grumpy and impatient James, was now working a job that required him to not only talk to people often but also attend meetings regularly. The livestream of the video captured him shaking hands with people as he walked down the hall with other politicians, and then stopped. There you saw a short-haired woman, hair cut at her shoulders and a polished smile as Bucky bent down for her to whisper in his ear.
You felt an unfamiliar jealousy bubble in your stomach as you put the pint of ice cream on the table, spoon clattering on the coffee table, muttering to yourself from weeks of having no social interaction. Crossing your arms over your chest just as Bucky leaves the frame, and the woman does too. You throw your remote at the screen in an annoyed groan, hurling it harder than you intended. wincing as you hear a soft crack and realize you've broken your television.
When you got restless, you went on runs—always alone.
That was how Yelena found you, cornering you at an intersection and somehow knowing who you were beneath the layers you wore to conceal your identity. She ran next to you, matching your speed, and you didn't have to turn your head to know it was her.
"Yelena, long time no see, Sestra," turning your head slightly to peer over at her as you pull your headphones off.
Yelena smiles at you, "You remembered."
You don't smile back, but give her something in between, "Of course I do."
Yelena was an old friend, a person you knew through her sister Natasha and kept in touch with just barely. After Natasha died, you spoke to Yelena only once, to check on her and for your own peace of mind. You sought her out and cried with her for your fallen friend. You never got to explain yourself to Natasha, but Yelena still trusted you. You pulled her out of a low she didn't know how to navigate while you were going through one of your own. Yelena was the only person you told about what you had done to Tony. She listened carefully when you explained your true intentions for joining the Avengers, to see if she was truly empathizing with you. If anyone knew what it was like to face-to-face with someone who was the reason for your solace, it was her. Clint was her Tony, and Tony was your Clint. Though at least Yelena got to talk to him about it and found comfort and closure through it, you didn't even get to say goodbye.
She didn't judge you, not even when you brushed off more personal questions, mentioning the rest of the team, and purposefully glossing over Buckys' part in your story. She knew there was more missing, but she didn't push. You gave her general answers, and you told her of your vengeance and reasoning for doing what you did. You told her she wouldn't be hearing from you, and she did not protest. But she told you she would come looking for you one day— apparently, today, nearly ten years afterwards, was that day.
She says your name, guiding you towards an alleyway. You oblige because you knew that Yelena wouldn't ask for anything from you if it wasn't serious. Yelena and you didn't have to see each other often for the two of you to converse like normal all over again, and you appreciated her for it.
"Are you alright?" you ask her, shoving your phone into your pocket.
"Oh, me? Fine, great. Working with idiots, but I dealt with worse before," she points at your pocket, "give me that."
"What? My phone?" but she's already reaching in your pocket, wiggling her fingers and pulling it out, "sure, yeah, go ahead."
She types in the password without you having to tell her, saying your name when you're about to protest again, "Oh, shush, I have seen you naked. And you are too sloppy, too predictable," shaking your phone in your face, "you have not changed your password in 5 years."
You pout slightly. Okay, maybe you have been getting sloppy. She returns to going through your phone and reading over something aloud to herself before staring up at you. Shaking her head, she continues, swiping and swiping.
"You have not texted or called anyone in, what the fuck, 6 months?" She pulls the phone case off and takes one of her earrings out, "What happened to having a life?"
Popping out the SIM card and dropping to the floor before smashing it beneath her boot. You exclaim, "Yelena!"
"What? You didn't have much on it anyway. Although I guess that means breaking it was useless," she tosses your phone into the bin as well. "I need your help, and we cannot be followed."
You look entirely annoyed and wide-eyed at her, "You basically just called me a loser and broke my phone. You are going to be followed, whether you like it or not, Lena."
She smiles then, putting her earring back into her earlobe. "Great, follow me then."
Grumpily, you take one last look at your poor phone, cracked and at the bottom of the grimy garbage bin, before following after her. Taking a heavy footstep after the other as you follow behind her, just before she turns the corner out of the alleyway and onto the streets again. The familiar presence of her allowed you to roll your tensed shoulders back just a bit, still holding up some of the walls you'd built up high and mighty. You stared down at her shoes as she walked and noted how polished her clothes were, her suit brand new and tailored perfectly to fit her like she was ready for a fight right now.
She walks across the street, and you suddenly realize where she was taking you, "Why are we going to my place?"
"You have to change. I cannot take you looking like a teenage boy to meet Valentina," her eyes trailing over your outfit and then back to your face.
You squint at her as you enter the courtyard—her movements too aware of an apartment building you’d never taken her too. She walks with too familiar a practice and holds the door open for you with a knowing smile, but you don't question it. Not yet at least.
Yelena plops on your couch and picks up a sock from the corner, staring at it, then you. "You live like this? Like slob?"
You roll your eyes, walking over to her and taking the sock from her hand, tossing it into the laundry basket that you said you were gonna put away two weeks ago,
"I live alone, so who gives a shit."
She hums at you like she knows something you don't, putting her hand under her chin and watching you, "You used to care how you lived. I don't get how nearly killing Stark made you this depressed."
You say nothing, pulling your hair back from your face and padding back toward the hallway, stripping off your hoodie. You make your way to your room to change, and Yelena stood and followed after you, replacing the couch with your bed. You try changing the subject,
"So, Valentina, huh? You still work for her?" you say as you rummage through your closet, struggling to find something that wasn't a hoodie or a shirt younger than ten years.
"She is the lady who's been giving me jobs, she’s reliable that much and she knows you’re still alive.” twirling her thumbs on the edge of your bed.
You stop moving and turn to face her. "Yelena, I don't do that shit anymore,"
Yelena sits up, "You don't just give that life up, don't kid yourself."
Rubbing the bridge of your nose, "Last time we worked together, neither of us had eyebrows."
She shrugs, "Eh, they came back." When you sigh, exasperated, she continues, "Come on, just this once. Come with me. I just do my job, clock in and clock out. Anyway, you are clearly not busy, so don't tell me you are because I know when you are lying."
You mentally noted the exhaustion on her face and the bags forming under her smudged eyeliner. Yelena always got through her shit through humour, but something told you to go through with her ask and go anyway.
Plus, you were bored out of your mind in your apartment.
You nod, "Yeah, sure, will you just come tell me what to wear then? I'm at a loss here."
Yelena stands and stretches her arms, making her way over to you, "Your closet looks like mine. Lack of fulfillment and desperation."
She pulls out an old mission suit from the back of your closet, hidden behind a pile of boxes, purposefully ignoring the men’s jacket sitting there, several sizes to big for you.
When she turns to hand it to you and sees the look on your face, she rolls her eyes, "I said my closet looks like this too. Jeez, you really don't get out much, can't even take jokes now."
As you approached the bunker with Yelena, she began briefing you on her target. She explained, very poorly, who the Ghost was and how Valentina had sent you both to take her down by any means necessary.
"She's stealing the files that Ghost lady. I need you to find them while I take her down, or you take her down, whatever floats your boat or whatever." Yelena spoke just as you approached the hall.
With quiet footsteps, the two of you crept into the bunker. The room was filled with boxes you assumed had documents and gadgets you hardly understood. Filing in after Yelena, you followed her to a packet of documents on top of a box, frowning at the symbols etched on the paper. Multiple designs for a suit and the letter S in different fonts stared back at you as you turned your head to her in bewilderment. Just as you looked at her, you caught a glimpse of a gun pointed at her by a tall man in a suit in dirty tones of blue and red.
"Lena!" You shouted before grabbing her by her shoulders and rolling just in time for the bullets to fit past you.
Both of you huff as you land behind a box, still over Yelena. Getting off of her, you peer over the box, and the man shoots again, making you duck. Still, you recognize him— John Walker.
While you don't know Walker personally, you know of his history and how he didn't even make it a month as Captain America before killing someone and having his shield revoked. mentally, you noted how his replica shield wasn't made of vibranium, the same indestructible metal of Buckys arm.
He says your name as though he knew you, and you peer at him. You don't miss the frown on his face as he says your name.
"You were in the Avengers. I thought you were dead," clipping his gun into his holster, "Everyone does."
Yelena peeks out, "You know him?"
You shake your head and step out, also leaving yourself exposed for Walker to establish some kind of connection. Yelena stands behind you when you hear a shadow. She yelps as someone new joins the three of you, flipping her over on her ass. Ghost, you recognized her from Yelenas brief description when another person emerges from the shadows, flipping a gun in their hand. When you turn, the Ghost is gone, and Walker is in your face.
"Why the hell are you here? All official records say you're dead." His hand was on his holster, close to drawing it out again.
Stepping backward, you scoff softly, "As you can see, I am very much alive, Walker."
His eyes widen slightly at your use of his name, partly impressed that you even knew him and half-wary of you. The two of you remain staring at each other as Yelena dusts herself off and starts towards you, pointing at the Ghost who was fighting another person out of your line of sight. Walker draws his gun quickly to point at Yelena.
"An ex-Avengers death isn't on my conscience," tilting his head at Yelena, and she looks unfazed, "but I am here for you," he says just as a sudden, deafening gunshot snaps the attention of all three of you.
Instinctively, you also draw your weapon, keeping the pistol pointed at Ghost. The three of you focused on the gunshot behind you and the hard thud hitting the ground.
Then you gasp when you see it.
The Taskmaster, someone you did know before and worked with after leaving the Avengers, is dead. Blood pooled over her mask and began spilling on the floor.
In your line of work, this was a common occurrence, bound to happen. But it has been a while since you’d seen a body of someone you knew, even vaguely. Your eyes shift up to the Ghosts as her mask cyphers off.
"Well, my job is complete," she announces, stepping over the body.
John scoffs, disregarding the body like he were used to the sight, gun still in his hand, "mine isn't. Valentina was clear about needing you gone, Yelena."
Just then, the sound of retching and dry heaving catches everyone's attention. You'll turn in unison, guns drawn and pointed at the new found voice when you see a man in blue scrubs, hair dishevelled and looking utterly afraid.
He keeps his hands up, a dry nervous laughter leaving him before he speaks, "um, is she, are they really dead?"
John ignores his question and walks towards him, boots heavy with practiced military precision in each step, "Just who in the fuck are you, guy?"
"Bob, I'm Bob," he gulps as John waves his gun to urge him to continue explaining himself, "I just woke up in here. One minute I was doing a medical study, the next I'm here.”
You all exchanged glances, uncertain and confused.
Bob stammers as he racks his brain, trying to convince the menacing group in front of him of his innocence, “Please, you gotta believe me."
You look over to the capsule behind him, the mould of a body in a high-tech casing that makes your thoughts race. If he were telling the truth, then he was a definitive experiment for Valentina just as you suspected John Walker to be. His enhanced strength only something you’d seen from your former Avengers—Steve Rogers and Bucky.
You thought back to when Bucky told you about the super soldier serum and how people continued to test in cruel ways to see just how far they could push the human body and create the perfect human.
The perfect experiment and weapon.
Your brows knit together, and you met Yelenas gaze. She's frowning like the gears of her mind have clicked into place and made the same realization as you. Of course, Valentina was playing you, she was always playing both of you.
Valentina was killing people she had working for her previously—this was cleanup and you were doing the fucking dirty work for her.
"Okay," Yelena says finally, her gun going into her waistband and her other hand reaching to yours, lowering the weapon, "it's clear we have all been played here and all worked for Valentina in some capacity."
John grumbles, lowering his gun too, "What are you saying?"
The Ghost rolls her eyes, "Are you a dense, dime-store Captain America? Valentina clearly sent us here to die," gesturing around the room.
John stares at her, evaluating and intense, "I didn't know that Ghosts could speak."
She smiles, a small hum of a laugh that was entirely humourless, "It's Ava, actually."
John scoffs again just as alarms blare and the bunker goes into lockdown. Bob scurries closer, and no one stops him.
Yelena breathes out heavily, "We don't have time for this, you guys," staring at the elevator shaft, then at Ava, "We have to get out of here."
Then they're all moving.
Without really telling anyone what to do, they were working in unison, as though this was what they were meant to be doing. John breaks open the power source, Ava unlocks the door, and Bob has the bright idea to get out of the Bunker by climbing. After listening to them bickering and scraping your knees against the elevator shaft a couple of times, you eventually do get out.
In the car, Yelena shot an apologetic look at you from the front seat.
You gave her a tight, slightly annoyed smile back. You were sitting next to John Walker and the Ghost lady you now identified as Ava, and the loud man driving the car kept nudging Yelena and asking her questions, whispering about her having found her calling. You smirk to yourself a little when you see Yelenas' look of annoyance, not missing the silent acceptance there that she had found something worth fighting for. Ava adjusts something on her suit, while you stare out the window over John's head to watch the landscape. But he catches your eye, staring at you.
You frown, "What?"
"You're Bucky Barnes's ex," he announces, and the pair in the front stop talking.
"What does he say? Winter Soldier has a girlfriend?" Alexei catches your eye in the rear-view mirror, "You are Winter Soldier's girlfriend?"
You stammer, "No, I'm not."
"She is right technically, she's not his girlfriend." John says again, never shifting his gaze from you, "She's the one who backstabbed the Avengers."
You wince, and Alexei gasps. Yelena doesn't even move because she already knew about this, even without you telling her about the part about Bucky. Ava doesn't budge either, unfazed by the declaration of your disloyalty as though she had anticipated it or had known somehow.
Alexei suddenly laughs, "You are badass, like Lena, like Tasha!" he looks to Yelena, then you in the mirror again, "No mercy like the Soviet Union!"
Yelena cuts him off, "Okay, Dad, please just stop. Let's just get out of here and go home."
"Go home?" Alexei says, looking personally offended by her declaration, "No, no, no, this is a beautiful group, a new friendship and family to have and cherish. You cannot go home and forget all about this, Lena."
"There is no point, they took Bob already," she says, looking out the side mirrors.
"This is a glorious team! Just like when Natasha was Avenger!" Alexei gleams. Yelena shakes her head and groans at him.
John snorts from next to you, "Yeah, go Thunderbolts."
Alexei gasps dramatically, "You tell them of your little league team? Oh my, you already bonded." he snaps his head to look at you all, making the car jerk, "You know, one time someone pooped in the middle of the game, right there, on the field. It was so funny, they were so bad." Yelena grabs the steering wheel, steadying them.
Ava suddenly announces that "Someone is following us." Without waiting for anyone to say anything, she puts her mask back on and geo-leaps to the trunk of the car, facing the vehicle chasing you.
Everyone quiets to look. Yelena stares out her window, spotting three bulletproof vehicles roaring behind Alexlei's shitty taxi car. Despite his claiming that it was bulletproof earlier, the shells whizzing past you now and shattering the windows proved otherwise.
A deafening screeching sound is played over the speakers of the truck behind you, and Ava nearly falls out of the car when you and John yank her back in through the broken window. She's disoriented over your lap as the shooting ensues.
In a swift move, Yelena peels out of the car, shooting out one of the tires and sending the vehicle crashing. Amongst the fiery crash, the other two roar closer to Alexei's terribly slow car.
Yelena sits back inside, fiddling with her gun, "That was my only bullet."
John reaches for his gun, the magazine missing, "shit, I'm out too." he glances back through the broken window, a roaring motorcycle appearing from the crash of the two cars, chasing behind the last of the three, "Bucky?"
You feel your body run cold again, blood freezing in your veins. Bucky suddenly stops his motorcycle, grabbing the hitch of the other vehicle and pulling it to a taut and punching into the concrete below him. The other car is then flying away from you. John and Alexlei laugh in relief as Bucky launches something beneath the other car, causing it to explode. The cheering dies down as Bucky turns his focus on Alexeis' car, pointing his weapon at it.
Suddenly, something is launched beneath Alexei's car and John curses. The explosion booms white as the car is airborne. Then you're sliding from the backseat, gasping as the car begins to flip. Ava and John hold onto the grab handles of the car, but you don't grab anything in time.
You groan awake, wanting to rub your head. Cuffs digging into your hands as your eyelids flutter open.
Chatter makes your ears perk up as you recall what had happened, turning your disoriented head around and taking in the faces around you. You glance to your left, looking at John as he notices you lucid again, shooting you a reassuring smile— something you weren't sure about just yet. He mouths, asking if you were alright, and you nod, giving him a tight smile before turning your attention to a loud Yelena and Ava.
"Yes, Bob!" Yelena exclaims as Ava continues for her, "We have been trying to tell you that!"
But you feel eyes on you, piercing and intense. The hairs on your neck stick up. Looking into his eyes, you felt like all of your old emotions were back in full force, like they had never even left. His hands were on his hips, listening to them but not really hearing them as he watched you. Looking through all the other obstacles and through you like he knew what you were thinking. Probably because he knew you better than anyone else, and it felt like no one else was in the room when you looked up into his eyes.
Shamefully, you looked back down, not wanting to meet his gaze. It was too hard, and you didn't know if you could take it. The last time you'd seen him, he said he never wanted to see you again. Said that if he saw you ever again, he would kill you. You betrayed him, broke his heart and made him feel like he was when controlled by Hydra; used and weaponized. After a beat, he speaks, interrupting the rest of the group's bickering,
"We have to move then," Walking over and uncuffing Yelena, then Ava. "Valentina won't expect us to go together, let alone work together."
Ava narrows her eyes , "You're letting us go?"
"No, not exactly. But I'm trusting you guys won't betray me," he says, and you bite back a wince at his words. He moves to uncuff Alexei and Walker.
Finally, he stops behind you as everyone else regroups. The rest of them stand and walk over to the door, John leading them outside as they’re too focused on their own quiet discussion to notice the way you weren't with them yet.
Bucky bends close to your ear, hands undoing your wrists.
He says your name, "So, will you?"
"W—what?" you rasp, rubbing your unbound wrists together and trying not to look into his piercing blue eyes.
Watching you intently, he tilts his head ever so slightly, as though he were studying you,
"Betray me again. Can I trust that you won't do that?"
You couldn't stop staring at the facial hair on his face and how his scruff had grown fuller. You wanted to badly to lean into him again, feel the touch of the one you'd been aching for and finally force him to listen to you, even if you knew it was self-serving to do it now that he'd clearly gotten over you.
You nod your head at him, biting the inside of your cheek. The sound of Yelena calling you guys to hurry up and come out from outside doesn't make him flinch, and he leans in a little closer.
The familiar scent of him—leather, cedarwood, and rich suede—engulfed your senses.
An unexpected tug at the corners of his lips makes your skin bloom bright as he eyes the features of your face, stopping over the curve of your lips. He steps away to give you space to move. You stand and walk over to the door, needing a breath of fresh air from his sudden proximity, when he says something you catch just before you walk outside.
Bucky speaks just loud enough to reach your earshot, the smirk in his voice evident.
"You're so beautiful, even when you lie to me."
A familiar sense of bitterness filled your mouth when you entered the Watchtower.
You probably should've been more specific about when asking Yelena about where she was leading you up to, because she failed to mention that the Watchtower was just the Avengers tower—renamed.
As you got out of the elevator, you couldn't help but notice the same features in the building you once resided in. Your eyes trailed over to the kitchen, where you'd cook with Natasha and Steve. Where you'd walk in at an ungodly hour for a snack, and Bucky would find you. The place Bucky cooked the meal for your first not-date, setting out wine, pasta and salad— before Sam and Steve had crashed it and ate more than either of you. It was once domestic and safe, but you could never fully let yourself simmer in it. Nagging in the back of your head like a virus that had no cure, you would never relax entirely.
Distant discussion grabs your attention as you emerge from the elevator.
"We are taking you in Val," John crosses his arms, staring over at Valentina, who had shifted her attention to you as you walked in with Yelena.
"Hmm, I don't think so, Junior varsity, Captain America." She smiled wickedly as John angrily pulled his gun out of his holster.
A familiar velvety smooth voice called out to John to stop—Buckys.
"Walker," Bucky warned, and John let his gun fall back into his side.
Valentina giggled, swirling her drink in her hand and looked to Ava, "Ah, Ava, it's nice to see you again," she shifted her focus over to Yelena, "Yelena, you look awful."
Before turning back to you and saying your name slowly, "I knew you wouldn't stay dead."
You give her a tight, unamused smile, "Still a cunt then, Valentina?"
She smiles right back, turning to Bucky, "One betrayal wasn't enough, Congressmen? You want her to actually kill someone from your adorable little team this time?" and his jaw tightens uncomfortably. She continues, looking back to Yelena, "And you, are you sure you're still ready for that public-facing role?"
Yelena steps forward, "Hmm, eat shit, Valentina. Where is Bob?"
"You mean Sentry?" She tilts her head, and you turn to Yelena again, the documents you saw at the bunker filling in the blanks, "come on out."
You all turn to see Bob walking down the stairs, clad in bright yellow and gold attire, looking entirely imperfect. His hair is now blonde and slicked back neatly. Yelena breathes out his name, but he avoids her gaze. His smile was uncertain and nervous as he stood next to Valentina.
"Sentry is my protection plan, and my reason to sway the committee. I will be unimpeachable," she smugly glances around for your reactions.
Bucky scoffs, "That is never going to happen."
"Enough talk, nobody messes with the West Chesapeake Valley," Alexei charges forward, towards Bob, "Thunderbolts!"
Without breaking a sweat, Bob punches Alexei once, sending him flying backward into the wall.
Everyone is suddenly on edge as Bob becomes a bigger threat than anyone had expected. Your fists clench as you feel the tension rise above anything you could ever contain, snapping as the unsheathing of weapons filled the air around you.
Bucky points his gun, Ava geo-leaps and reappears behind him before he sends her staggering back again. John launches his shield, and Bob easily sends it back to him like a Frisbee. Yelena begs them to stop, both of you running towards him when Bob sends a current of energy, sending all four of you flying backwards again.
You groan as you hit the hard wall next to Alexei, distant thoughts of CTE rummaged as you daze at the concrete. Alexei is up before you and warily he helps you stand again.
Bucky looks back towards you, sending you an evaluative look that borders on concern, before turning his attention to Bob and firing straight at him. You gasp when Bob stops the bullets midair and pushes them full force back towards Bucky, moving too fast for him to dodge them. Pushing yourself forward, his name name slips from between your lips. Everything swirls, it happens so fast, but John is there faster, blocking the bullets with his shield and staggering backwards. Ava and Alexei get there in time again for Bob to disarm them both effortlessly and throw them to the corner of the room.
Yelena pleads again, jumping onto Bob's back, electricity flowing from her gloves to his neck, "Bob, you don't have to do this, you have a choice."
You feel your face heat; the situation Bob was in was all too familiar to your own, and Buckys ' gaze prickled at your back. You knew it was useless, but you held your gun up at Bob since Yelena clearly didn't believe that he would disarm her like the rest of them. Suddenly, the metal of the gun is burning your skin, and you yelp, dropping it to the ground. You watch as the gun melts into a mush, and John reapproaches him. He throws Yelena over to the elevator and grabs John's shield, bending it in half. John eyes widen in shock as Bob grabs you both by your necks. You’re thrashing, clawing with the remains of metal flicking off your gloves as you try to get him off before he’s flinging you over to where the rest of the team was lying.
Then Bucky shoots at him again before John pulls him forward with just his mind. He holds him in the air for a moment before letting him crash to the ground again. But Bucky was headstrong, and you knew he wouldn't give up so easily. He strips off his jacket and strides back for Bob, punching at him hard with his vibranium arm when Bob catches his hand, gripping tight. Bucky groans, trying to free himself when Bob yanks his arm out from his body, and you gasp sharply. Swaying a little, Bob hits Bucky hard over the head with his arm and knocks him out as he's sent back over to the five of you.
You crawl over to his unconscious form and cradle his head in your lap, frantic.
"James, hey, wake up," you lightly grazed his cheek as you shook him slightly.
The rest of the team is up quickly, Ava grabbing Bucky's arm off the ground and Alexei and John moving towards Bucky. You let them hold him up and drag him out of the room, into the elevator. Bob lets you all leave, the look of regret evident on his face, which made your heart pang for him, because you knew that look. You had basked in that feeling for too long, the emptiness and the loneliness that devoured you whole; you could see it all on his face even as the elevator doors closed.
Staring at the Buckys' arm in Ava's hand, you couldn't help but think about when you had done the same to him. You gulp as you step away from him, hand clutched over your mouth with effort, just as the doors opened and Buckt began to stir awake. You look to Yelena, stepping out of the elevator before anyone else, "I shouldn't be here when he's awake again."
She briefly met your eyes, her own teetering on the edge of disdain for herself and for Valentina for turning Bob into this. But she knew what you meant and gave you a tight nod.
You brush past the rest of them, walking fast as you panted harder, memories flooding back in full force. You dry heaved in your palm, anxiety peaked and caused you to breathe harder. Once you were far enough, you turned into an alleyway and threw up, despite not knowing when you had even eaten last.
Bucky slips out of John's grip and mutters a quiet thanks as his eyes immediately begin scanning around— for you.
He walks over to Ava, taking his arm from her and clicking it back into place, swinging his arm and recalibrating it. He says your name, "Where did she go?"
Ava shrugged, "Not sure, but she seemed kind of out of it before she walked off." Bucky frowns, and she continues, "She said something to Yelena before leaving, maybe ask her?"
"Right, thanks," but Ava stops him from leaving too quickly.
"You two used to date, right?" she asks softly, like she wanted to coax the answer from him. But Bucky didn't need any coaxing.
He nods and smiles fondly, "Yeah, we used to be together. Why do you ask?"
She smiles at his admission, as though she knew something he didn't, "Oh, no reason." Bucky narrows his eyes but drops it, giving her another thanks before starting after Yelena and Alexei.
He jogs into the street, finding civilians running around aimlessly. He ushers some of them quickly, yelling to get inside. He moves further into the crowds to find you and Yelena, helping a family up and inside another building. Multiple crashes shift his focus again. A helicopter strikes a nearby apartment building and sends debris flying towards a young girl. Alexei runs fast, getting to her and shielding her with his body. Alexei crouched over, standing once the debris broke over his broad shoulders. Alexei helps the girl up just as a dark shadow looms over the streets of New York and people begin disappearing. The little girl next to Alexei also disappears. The thought of you also getting engulfed in the darkness suddenly sends him into a panic, and he runs toward you and Yelena, yelling your names.
"We need to get inside, come on," he rasps, urging you both. You nod at him, pulling Yelenas arm along, but she stays standing there, staring up at Bob.
Your eyes shift to Alexei, dangerously close to being in the darkness as well, "Okay, look, you get him, Bucky, I will bring her," he doesn't move, so you try again, "I will be right behind you."
He hesitates and then reluctantly nods because you were right and you were more than capable, he knew that. He starts towards Alexei, from the corner of his eye, Ava hauls John up onto his feet, and sprints towards the nearest building where the darkness hadn't reached quite yet.
In seconds, Bucky is hauling Alexei up, who was still trying to wrap his head around the little girl flickering out as well. They reach the arch of the building, panting and overexerted. Ava and John are already there, panting as they try to catch their breath.
Bucky glances around, turning around searching for you. But you still weren't there yet.
Alexei pipes up from next to him, glancing over to John, then to Bucky, "Where is Yelena?"
Ava points toward the dark shadows looming beneath the Void—Bob. There was Yelena, walking closer and closer to it, and you, inches behind her. Moments later, Yelena disappears, shifting from physical form into a shadow. Milliseconds later, you follow her, drowned out and turned into a shadow of yourself. Alexei screams, moving out of the arch to get to her, but John holds him back, not letting him go. He had just gotten you back, even if it was glimpses of you, but he was breathing the same air as you again, and he refused to lose it again.
Bucky's body moves before his mind does, starting after you when John calls his name, "Bucky, you can't!"
His chest heaves, "Why the hell not?"
"It makes you relive your worst moments. Like a shame room that loops your worst mistakes. It's gonna make you— Bucky wait!"
Bucky knew you must've been eating yourself alive for what happened back then. He knew you already had demons before he even met you, that kept you from being entirely honest with him, and that was enough for him. He doesn't wait for another reason, running into the shadows after you.
Bucky crashes through mirrors and drowns in baths of blood in his shame rooms. He relives the worst things he'd ever done and has to feel the weight of the lives he'd taken as the Winter Soldier. Memories of the training he had done in the Red Room, where he had trained countless Widows and ultimately led them to their demise.
He gets out of it, out of all of it, because he had made his peace and found the closure he needed years ago, because of you.
While it hurt and he hated himself for those things he had done, he shook the you had already helped him through all of this and brought him to the conclusion that it was not his fault. This was forced onto him, and he was weaponized for this.
That's what gets him through his shame rooms.
In a blink, Bucky finds himself in the old Avengers tower in an all too familiar room — your old bedroom. Under the morning light, shining and glittering against your soft, bare skin, there you were, smiling at a past version of him. The two of you were lying under the sheets, naked and tangled together. He was asleep there, which was rare for him until he had met you. He watched as your eyes scanned over his sleeping form, running your fingers softly through his dishevelled hair and grazing his scalp, pulling a soft hum from him. he didn't understand why this was part of your shame room. He didn't understand why this moment could have been so shameful for you if this was all it was, since it felt domestic.
That was until you kissed his cheek lightly, like waking him was a sin. Your expression shifted to a pained one as you scanned over his sleeping face, burning it into your memory. You spoke softly, careful not to startle him awake,
"I love you, James," tears prickling your pretty eyes as you lay your head on his chest, "I am so sorry that I love you because this is gonna hurt so much more. And it's my fault." Wet droplets touch his sleeping form as he stirs and grips you tighter amid his dreams.
He furrows his brows at the scene before him. The thought that you loved him enough to be ashamed of it, confusing him all over again. His stomach backflips when he recounts your words. It dawns on him that you really did care for him and didn't mean to fall in love with him. At least it was real to both of you. He steps closer to the bed to watch you there, resting on his chest, eyes closed and eyelashes wet, when the memory reloops itself.
You weren't in this memory, so that meant you got out of it.
This wasn't your worst.
He leaves the bedroom and that memory behind, starting down the hallway of the tower. The sound of distant yelling pulls him in that direction, and he jogs faster, reaching the lab and pushing the door open. There you were, the past version of you that he had been pained over for so long that it started to numb itself. You were beneath the past version of him, wide-eyed as Steve held Tony's gunshot wound to keep him from bleeding out.
You writhe from under his weight, bucking your hips up to get him off of you. He watched you closer, not missing the desperation in your attempts and the pain in your eyes this time. He watches as a single tear slips down your face, as though in preparation for what you had to do, while the past Bucky adjusted himself over you, gripping one of your hands tight to stop your pounding at his chest.
"Please, baby, I don't wanna hurt you," he pleads.
He watches as regret begins to flood your face and you reach up his arm, grazing up it like practiced movements. because you had done it dozens of times before, showing him that you loved him despite all of the odds and all of the things he had been forced to do. Showing him that you loved him, despite his past. He knows what's going to come next, and he hears your voice crack like it wounded you to say it this time around.
"But I need to hurt you, James," you admit before a mechanical click shifts from beneath your fingertips and his arm dismounts his body, clattering to the floor.
The past version of him backs off from you and stares at the metal, hitting the ground, not taking in the look on your face. The past version of him didn't see the immediate regret plastered on your expression and the way you shut your eyes before moving and getting up.
Then the memory loops.
The pieces he had missed years ago were falling into place, and he was understanding you better now. With a heavier heart, Bucky looks around the room, looking for the next memory you might be stuck in. He stops at a reflective surface beneath a computer when he sees a glimpse of you—the real you.
The room was dark and only illuminated by the dark street lights. But there you were, sitting on the twin-sized bed, hunched over and looking towards another person. A younger girl with the same colour of hair and skin sat by the window, still, looking outside. The girl was maybe ten or eleven years old, and her back was facing him. Bucky couldn't shake the feeling that he knew her. He calls your name, and nothing happens. He tries again, and the lab darkens, mimicking the memory you were stuck in. He turns around to find you closer and himself in the room with you. He hesitates to reach out and touch you when a distant gunshot rips through the air, and he sees you flinch, retracting his hands. Deciding to watch and try to understand what you could never tell him, he sits next to you quietly, your eyes still trained on the younger version of you.
He watches the scene before him just as the memory reloops itself.
A ten-year-old version of you sat by your window, reading from a book: The Giver. The spine was cracked, and you had a finger in your mouth, biting your nail like the story was keeping you on the edge of your seat. Before his brows could furrow, the doorbell rang, and you perked up. You called out your parents' names—no response. Placing your book carefully upside down to keep your page open, you stood up and walked out of your room and past your father's study. He was on the phone, looking angry and completely busy, your mother asleep in her bedroom after a long day at work. You thought you were being helpful.
The young you rubbed at her eyes and walked to the front door, undoing the latch and unlocking it. When you opened the door, a tall man wearing a suit and tie peered down at the young you, grinning wickedly.
"Are your parents home, sweetheart?" the man asked, taking his hands out of his pockets.
"Yeah, who are you?" you asked.
He said your father's full name and his workplace, easing the tension on your face. You thought you could trust him.
"I have a meeting with him, hmm? Would you let me inside to see him?" his eyes were dark with malicious intentions that a child would never understand.
You nodded and let him inside, pointing him toward his study. You were so young, so naive. You thought you were doing them a favour by allowing him inside the house. You thought that this was your father's friend, or his business partner or something. A horrible gut feeling pulled at Bucky as he was forced to watch what he already felt was coming.
"Dad?" you called out, pushing your father's study open, the man inches behind you.
Your father looked up at you, his expression quickly falling at the man standing there, holding a gun just low enough that you couldn't even see, but your father could.
"Be a dear, go get your mother too," the man said.
You turned to ask him why when you saw it, the weapon in his hands. The white gun aimed towards you, bearing the symbol of the enormous building situated in New York.
The unmistakable name etched on the barrel of the gun—Stark Industries.
You stared at it a moment too long, focused on the name and sealing it in your core memories. Encoding the name and wondering where you recognized it from, when the man nudged you.
"Get your mother. Now."
Panic set in, and you turned to your father, a similar look painted over his. He nodded for you to listen and gave you a smile that was meant to soothe you. Even the young version of you understood, something was wrong.
You left the room, walking as quickly as your little legs could take you to the master bedroom and pushing the door open.
She sat up, calling your name and asking if everything was alright. You told her everything, stuttering at parts because it was happening so fast. She calmed you down, sat you in her lap. She asked you to describe the man, and when you did, you saw the colour drain from her face. Now you knew you really had messed up, and you started to cry. She sat you on the bed alone, moving to her closet to the safe you were never allowed to touch and unlocked it.
When she came back to you, she pressed a heavy gun to your hand and whispered your name, hurried in her actions.
"I want you to lock the door after we leave. When you do that, go to your room and stay there. Do not open the door for anyone," you were crying as you listened to her. You protested, trying to put the gun down, but she held it in your hands, "If someone comes upstairs, you use this."
You were shaking with fear and guilt for letting the man into the house, crying for your mother not to leave when she stood up. She kissed and hugged you tightly, and you knew what it meant. She left the room and walked towards your father's study. After a minute, you heard arguing about money, about a debt. The man laughed while you heard your mother cry. Suddenly, the study door opened, and hurried footsteps went through the front door. You ran after them, doing as your mother said and closing the door, locking both bolts.
You sprinted back up to your room, sitting by the window still and knocking the book you had been reading earlier to the ground, letting it shut. Distant pleading bled through the glass of your bedroom window as the man dragged them out back, exactly where your room was facing. He lined them up, facing towards the house, on their knees. The man held the gun to the back of your father's head first, before turning it on your mother's. The gunshot rang through the air and through Bucky's ears, and instinctively, his eyes shut. The man in the suit left them there, bloodied and horrific, just below where you were, and purposefully met your eyes. The bastard knew you were watching, giving you the same wicked smile as before as he waved his gun at you and walked away.
The young you watched the whole scene, hand pressed over your mouth to muffle your cries, as the real you remained slumped next to him, letting the scene replay all over again. Bucky didn't even realize his face was wet with tears until he looked back at you, watching your expression. He says your name softly, touching your shoulder.
A shudder leaves you at the contact, finally looking up into his eyes,
"I killed them, Bucky. Not Tony, not his fucking father. It was me."
He shook his head, turning you to look at him, "No, you didn't kill them. That man did. He pulled the damn trigger." When you shook your head and tears rolled faster, he cupped your cheek, concern etched over his face, "You can't blame yourself for this, sweetheart."
The distant chatter of the younger you leading the man up the stairs, letting him go to your dad's study, it was all too much. You had been in this room for so long, you couldn't recall when you weren't anymore. You gasped for air through your tears, trying to take inflate your lungs fully but you couldn't do it.
The air felt thicker—it felt wrong.
It felt like the air that was filling your lungs was solidifying as it sat there, weighing you down. Bucky saw it; he always caught it. He says your name again, but it dilutes itself between your ears, echoing off the thumping of your heart. The sound is an echo in the cave between your chest cavity.
You rasped through your tears, "Their blood is on me, James. I let him inside," Your pulse pounds through your ears. You're ripping at your chest as your breath comes too short and your words too fast, "It was me all along and I blamed Tony, and now he's dead and I can't take it back—"
Bucky recognizes the signs of a panic attack, having had many himself.
His face shifts and his eyes grow warmer, "Hey, don't do that," pulling your hand off your chest and taking it in his, "You gotta breathe for me."
He takes deep breaths, encouraging you to copy him. You do, but are continually unable to calm yourself down. He kneels on the ground, his hands still holding yours as he situates himself between your knees. For a few minutes, he just stays there, breathing with you. The warmth of his hands grounded you amidst the cold storm that threatened to pull you under again. Wiping the tears as they flowed down your face. You couldn't help but lean into his familiar touch, seeking his reassurance.
He spoke softly, squeezing your hand with his other hand, "You were a child then, sweetheart. You couldn't have known." You couldn't tell where reality began and the past ended, but his voice, his grip, grounded you. You began breathing more evenly. He waited for you to calm down enough to squeeze his hands back before pulling them to his lips and kissing them softly, "It's not your fault, you hear me? You did what you thought you had to."
Your breath still stuttered, but your stomach twists, "Why are you in here, Buck?"
Bucky doesn't look at you for a moment, and he doesn't answer right away. Then he looks up with his gaze of something too raw to name, "you. I came for you."
You feel your throat tighten at his confession; you want to say something, but you're at a loss. The gunshot echoes through the air again, and you squeezed your eyes shut before the memory started to loop once again.
He stands, pulling you up with him and steadying you next to him with a hand around your waist, "We gotta go, okay?"
You nod. He lets you stay silent, giving you time to gather it all and find your peace in the quiet. Without disturbing your sobered tranquillity, he leads the way out.
Back at the Watchtower, you were bundled up in an old blanket you found in the closet. Thickly knit and cozy, it faintly smelled of antiseptics. You knew it must have been one of Bruce's he'd kept in the lab for when he would work too late in the evening and sleep there. Vaguely, you wondered if Bruce came by this tower anymore or if he and Clint even spoke.
The television was on and snapped your attention just as it showed a rerun of an important announcement. Valentina had announced the New Avengers, featuring you, Yelena, Alexei, Ava, John, and Bucky. The crowd oohs and ahhs as the group of you steps forward. You watch as Yelena leans forward to whisper in Valentine's ear, and her face pales.
Bucky walks in, holding a stack of paper in his hands and reading it like he had a personal vendetta. He was focused muttering to himself about his distaste for the people he works with. You sit up straighter, pulling the blanket off you slightly,
"Hey."
His eyes meet yours and he gives a slow, warm smile, "Hey."
You catch his eyes scanning over you, fondly like he remembered something.
Bucky crosses the room, setting his paperwork down on the table. He glances over at the television, "You were there, remember? What are you watching this for?"
Glad that he didn't start with unpacking the heaviness in the room, you shrug, "I just turned it on, and I don't mind watching Valentina realize she's fucked herself over with us."
Bucky snorts, scooching himself closer to you. You're not sure how well you hid your surprise when he lifted the blanket and situated himself underneath with you, the domestication of the action making your heart skip. The warmth of his skin radiated off the shell of his thin shirt, even though he isn't touching you, just hovering close enough. You sigh softly, shifting your back against the couch to create some distance.
"Thank you," and his eyes snap to yours, expression turning more serious.
"Don't thank me," shifting in his seat and tugging the blanket, "I did what I had to."
You frown a little, brows knitting as you turn your head back at the television. He was being serious, or he was just flat out lying to you now, right?
You murmur your words, "You didn't have to come in after me. Especially not after everything I put you through."
From the corner of your eye, you see his lips curl into a smile.
"I think if you did try to kill me, I might thank you at this point," he turns to face you fully, tulting his head so he could see your whole face, "I mean, as long as you don't leave again. Or try to kill someone on the team. Actually, forget that last part, I can excuse it.”
You shake your head in disbelief, "You don't mean that."
Squinting at you, he takes your hands off your lap and leans over, closing the distance between you and dropping his head in your lap. You freeze with your hands lingering just over his head as he situates himself, ocean eyes staring up at you like you'd hung the stars. The feelings, the memories, the love, all of it came flooding back like a dam that had been straining against itself, the current overwhelming.
"You need to stop telling me what I do and don't mean." his hand comes up to tuck your hair behind your ear, "This would've all been solved a lot quicker if you would quit doing that, sweetheart."
His fingers linger a moment longer than necessary over your ear, moving over to cup your cheek. Alleviated from his touch alone—you don't know how to trust it or yourself not to ruin things again. His eyes shone as they looked into yours and through you, as though he alone could grasp your thoughts.
"If you told me you wanted Stark dead, I would've listened to you." Bucky quietly admits, his head still in your lap.
"W—what?" You look down at him, not sure you heard him right.
"I would've followed you anywhere, I would've loved you even after you did all of that." he slowly sits up, "You and Steve were the only ones who saw me beyond the things I’ve done. I would’ve understood why you wanted what you did. Just had to say the word.”
The sincerity in his tone felt like it had seized time, and you swore you could hear a pin drop.
How do you even respond to that?
Here you were thinking he hated you for all of this, and he's telling you he just wanted the truth from you. Mindlessly, your hands ran through his hair, calming your nerves and earning a soft hum from him.
With Bucky, you had been the one who first uncovered the mush of a man he always was behind that hardened armor—but he did the same to you.
Your guard was always down at his touch. He says your name like honey on his tongue, the sound familiar to your starved ears.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks, but you can't tear your eyes from wanting to smooth the lines around his eyes from when he’s deep in thought or touching the stubble he’d grown in your absence.
"I'm thinking of how to apologize," your voice soft, hands even softer as massaged his scalp for what felt the first time in an eternity, "and I don't know where to begin with it, and you're being too nice about it, like I didn't treat you badly."
He laughs, hands dropping in surrender, "Being nice is a problem now?"
"It is when you've fucked up and hurt the people you care about as many times as I have, James," and he laughs again, "what the hell is so funny?"
"I just realized you only call me James when you get worked up about something," you sigh, and he continues, "and you know I am not exactly the most innocent person in the world. I have definitely fucked up plenty more than you, and I will continue to fuck up cause that's just life."
"You make it sound so simple,"
"And you make it harder than it needs to be. Redemption isn't erasing the blood that's been spilt to stop the bleeding; that's just counterintuitive. You're the one who helped me come to terms with that.” He touches your hand, “Let me help you do the same, hmm?"
You ponder it, not sure what to say. With a heavy sigh, you let it soak in the self-doubt and confusion that deluded you. When the weight feels like it has condensed, he sits up next to you.
"When did you get so wise, Mr. Barnes?"
"Oof," clutching his chest dramatically, "I was born in the 40's, pretty girl. I know a thing or two about life and having regrets.”
You laugh a little and he smiles at the victory, "But really, I am sorry for, you know, taking your arm and not telling you what I was really feeling."
He coos, "Yeah, that was a low blow, babe, hitting a man while he's already broken-hearted by taking his metal arm? You're a menace.”
His expression shifts into something more serious as he is more intentional with his words. Running a hand through his hair he sighs,
“Truthfully, you have haunted me for years. When I told you to leave that day, I didn’t mean it. I wanted you to stay, and I have nightmares of the last time we spoke often. Every waking moment we have been apart has felt like I couldn't breathe freely."
"James," you breathe.
"—I thought you might've been the bane of my existence, but after I saw you again, that weight was lifted and I could breathe. I can't sleep without you near me. No, I haven't slept without you. I went to morgues, I called hospitals, I became a fucking Congressman to get access to more government documents, just in case you were mentioned in something, anything—"
The gasp that left you was soft and surprised. You couldn't help how your hands trailed up his arms while he continued pouring his heart out as though he just couldn't stop.
"—When you left for the second time, I knew I’d messed up as soon as I closed that door behind me. I should've let you explain, and I shouldn't have told you to go," but you're moving over him, starting to straddle him as he spirals in his own doubt, "I wanted you to stay so badly but you seemed so hellbent on leaving, I thought saying that might've made you stay, or helped me cope with it—"
"James, I love you too," snapping his attention to you, now sitting fully in his lap and holding his face in your palms. The scruff pricking at your neck as you lean your weight into him and hug him tightly, "you don't have to say it back, but you said it in the lab, and I should've said it back then."
He lets out a shaky breath as his hands wrap around your torso, finally. Holding you like he needed you to survive.
"I love you. God, I have always loved you, and it has been consuming me."
You pull back just to look at him, and he immediately closes the distance, crushing his lips into yours. He breathes you in as you scrape your nails up into the nape of his neck, laughing into his mouth as he moans into yours.
"You have no idea how long I have been dreaming of this happening," pressing quick, wet kisses, hands tangling softly through your hair as though he couldn't let you go. Pecking at you as if he couldn't believe you were real and he needed to touch you just to know it was really happening.
His hands drop to trail down your sides and graze the curves he had memorized so fondly. Trailing to your hips and gripping them tight, he bucks his instinctively hips up into yours, coaxing a moan out of you and letting his tongue slide inside. He sucks on your tongue, and you gasp again, saying his name and pulling away, but he follows, entirely feral.
“Down boy,” giggling as you try to pull away again.
But he won’t let you, chest pressed flush against yours like he couldn’t bare being far.
"I'm not letting you go again," your back arches as you lean backward, laughing as you try to create space. He’s smiling against your lips, "better get used to this sweetheart."
You’re about to say something when a voice from the doorway startles both of you, "I don't think I'm ever going to get used to this, ugh."
You nearly jump out of his lap as you turn to face John, looking at you in disgust. Ava, Yelena, and Bob snickering next to him, Alexei striding in past them, headed straight for the fridge.
Yelena walks past the couch to get to the kitchen, Bob and Ava following behind her and shooting you smiles like they knew this was coming. You mutter quiet apologies as Bucky rolls his eyes, not sorry at all.
They stop at the kitchen island just as Bucky reluctantly lets you hop off of his lap to sit next to him, adjusting your top and dishevelled hair. You reach over to fix Buckys, and he smiles at you almost drunkenly, his lips swollen from ferociously attacking yours.
You don't have to look at Bob to hear the smile in his voice, "I think you guys are perfect for each other."
Yelena snorts, "Yes, both are broody and try to kill people, so perfect."
"That is what all good relationships have, Lena, passion! That means they love each other, eh?" Alexei winks at you.
Heat prickles at your cheeks as you look over to Bucky, who's already staring at you, smiling sheepishly when you catch him. He can't help the need to be closer to you, and he tugs you closer to his chest. You let him, humming in content as he pulls the blanket over both of you once again.
Everyone else is already lost in their own conversations, the sounds of utensils and pans clanking—you're distracted by the sounds that prove Bucky is alive.
Drowning out the sound of everything that isn't the sound of his heart thumping under your ear, the rumble of his voice when he talks.
You're shutting your eyes and smiling when he catches you basking in the feeling of him. He kisses the top of your head as he changes the news channel to something else.
The weight of the world rolled off your shoulders like raindrops and everything that had been done felt fleeting and utterly unimportant. You drift asleep for the first time in a long time and, with photo evidence that Yelena showed you the next day, so does he.
In his strong arms, forgiveness came easy and adoration could’ve consumed you whole.
summary: You make Bucky regret ever suggesting that your arrangement is 'just sex' by flirting with other men. He makes you regret ever flirting with other men by giving you a bit of well-earned discipline.
warnings: 18+ mdni!!, smut with a sprinkling of plot, spanking, fingering, unprotected p in v, dumbification, creampie, condescending!bucky, bigdick!bucky, tummy bulge, general filth and debauchery, kinda dubcon but more like undernegotiated kink, no daddy kink but do not be fooled bc this whole thing reeks of daddy issues (see: title), jealousy, use of petnames (doll, sweetheart, baby etc.), implied age gap, bucky calls reader kid, no use of y/n, jealousy, cursing, mention of alcohol, slightest bit of angst if you squint hard, situationship to relationship pipeline
a/n: so. sat down in front of a blank google doc to write a 800-900 word drabble based on this ask. blacked out. snapped out of it and found myself with 7k words of pure filth and a pit of self-disgust in my stomach that i think will last my whole life. bon appetit.
please reblog / comment if u liked this. otherwise i die </3
Bucky knows this is all his fault.
He’s fully aware he’s the one that started this whole thing. When he first said those words to you - ‘no emotions, no exclusivity, just sex’ - he watched about twenty emotions roll over you in the space of a few seconds. First was offence, as if he had just shot you the nastiest insult you could have imagined. Next was something uncomfortably close to hurt. But eventually, he watched a sort of smugness begin to sprout over you - like you knew you would make him regret it.
And fuck, does he ever.
He’s sitting with Steve and Sam in the corner of one of Tony’s stupid team-building drinks, watching all sorts of SHIELD employees approach you. For some reason, it seems like every fucking field agent, engineer and tech analyst decided that tonight is the night to chance their arm with you.
He is furious at the fact that they think they have a shot, but there’s nothing he can do. He has no claim to stake. You dismiss most of them with a polite smile and a flippant comment, but every so often you lean just slightly too far forward, speak a little bit too softly, and it throws Bucky’s head for a spin. Hand grasping his whiskey tumbler just a bit too tight, he’s biding his time until he can discreetly pull you into his room or a supply closet or hell, even the bathroom, and prove why none of them are worth your time. It wouldn’t be the first time.
In his defence, the whole ‘no strings’ thing had mostly been for your benefit. He’s an old man with the emotional regulation abilities of a teenager. HYDRA had left him so thoroughly fucked up, he hadn’t been sure what parts of him were Bucky and what parts were the Winter Soldier. He hadn’t wanted to drag anyone into the mess of finding out and surgically removing the unwanted pieces.
But as spring bled into summer and eventually streamed steadily into autumn, he began to realise that maybe those unwanted pieces don’t need to be removed - you seem to like them just fine, in any case. You do more to dampen the noise in his head than any court-mandated therapy session, uncharacteristically sincere when he wakes up with terror wracking his mind and body. You remind him of who he is and the fact that he will never again be the Bucky of the past - but who is ever their past selves? And who would want to be? He is the old Bucky and the new Bucky and both are okay and worth living as. And if he fucks you with a little more intensity on those days where he feels more Winter Solider than Bucky Barnes, bends you over and makes you take it hard and fast - well, who is complaining? Not you.
He had regretted asking for this arrangement almost instantly. You are gracious; never mentioning the dates you go on, but he knows and you know, and he can just feel how smug you are about it. He almost wishes he could return the favour; show up to your trysts smelling like perfume and running out early with a vague excuse. But he’s old and disgruntled and, if he’s being honest, the idea of being so close to anyone except you makes his skin crawl, as if you’re the one exception to his whole touch aversion thing. Maybe you are.
He has only seen you out with a date once. He was passing by the window of a cosy, candlelit Italian restaurant on his way to the laundromat and caught sight of you. Your blood-red dress was dipping just low enough to hint at your cleavage. Your lips were the same crimson as your dress and you brought the rim of your glass up to meet them, shooting the asshole in front of you a flirty smirk. Lust and nausea were flooding Bucky’s stomach in equal measure. When your eyes caught sight of him, he watched surprise flicker there momentarily, before you smiled wickedly and turned back to your date, leaning in closer to rub salt in the wound.
He thinks you might be doing the same thing now, doling out your punishment to him in the most unkind way he can fathom. The way you’re tilting your head up towards the agent in front of you, eyes wide and enthralled, as if he had just said the most fascinating thing you had ever heard. He knows you’re faking it.
Sure, the guy was fairly good-looking - if you’re into that All-American, Steve Rogers kind of thing. But he knows you’re not. You like your men with rough edges - you like them like Bucky. He can see as much when he fucks you, whispering to you all dirty and mean, and your eyes roll back into your skull as if you’ve found nirvana. The boy in front of you wouldn’t know how to treat you like that, how to get you there.
And he can hear, even from this distance, that the guy is a bore. He’s rambling on about statistics - expounding entry level concepts to you, as if you’re not two full grades above him. And you’re just sitting there, listening and nodding earnestly like he’s not the exact sort of person you would make fun of when you’re alone with Bucky.
You’re in your tactical gear - not long returned from a mission, but always eager for a chance to socialise and cause mischief. His jaw twitches when you shift in your seat and he gets a better view of your breasts. He sees your hips shift, a sliver of soft skin peeking out between your vest and the waistband of your pants, and he can almost picture that you’re seated above him, with the way the leather of your suit clings to you like a second skin. The asshole talking to you - Brandon? Brian? - is clearly enjoying the view too, judging by the way his breath stutters mid-sentence. Bucky wonders if you’re doing this on purpose just to torture him.
“Get a fuckin’ grip, dude,” Sam mutters, reaching over to remove the tumbler from Bucky’s grasp. “Gonna break the damn thing.”
He wonders how long they had been watching him when he catches sight of Steve, expression caught somewhere between amusement and concern. “You okay, pal?”
Bucky just grunts in what is intended to be an affirmative, forcing his eyes away from you but still listening in to your conversation. Steve and Sam are watching him like they aren’t quite sure what to say, eyes darting between himself and you. They have been in this predicament enough to know that something is happening between the two of you, but had never discussed the specifics. Bucky figures they must just know that he has an interest in you that is bordering on unhealthy.
“Look,” Steve says in that pragmatically optimistic way of his. “I actually think it could be a good thing to… you know, get back out there. Why don’t you just talk to her?”
Bucky almost laughs at the suggestion that it’s shyness that is preventing him from talking to you right now. But the truth is so much worse, so he admits nothing. “Had enough whiskey,” he says instead. “Gonna get a beer.”
Steve and Sam sigh almost in tandem as Bucky hauls himself up and over to the bar. When he gets his beer, he doesn’t bother returning to his seat. Instead, he leans against the bar where he can observe you again without any intervention. It’s almost embarrassing how well you have him wrapped around your finger, but he can’t look away.
“Uh- not trying to freak you out or anything,” Brandon mutters conspiratorially, voice lowering. “But I think Barnes has been staring over here for a while. And he looks- well, he doesn’t look happy.”
You smile then, and it’s real - not the pitiful grins you had been granting him before. “Oh, really?” you ask, eyes flicking over and meeting Bucky’s for just a split-second. It strikes him like lightning, the way you look at him - eyebrows raised with mirth and devilment. He feels that he’s too old for the games you’re playing with him, while also wanting nothing more than to grab you by the hips and haul you out of the room caveman-style to have his wicked way with you.
“Don’t look, you’ll make it obvious,” your little pest urges you quickly and Bucky almost face-palms at his idiocy. He doesn’t really understand how this guy got certified as an agent without an awareness that super soldiers also had super hearing, but whatever. The training program is more Steve’s remit.
“Sorry,” you say with a smile that only Bucky knows is sarcastic. “Don’t think he saw me.”
“Are you guys…” he trails off, head turning around to glance at Bucky who meets his stare head-on. “Are you guys together or something? I wouldn’t really wanna piss him off…”
“Together? Oh god no,” you laugh and Bucky’s jaw twitches.
“Okay…” Brendan continues, taking another quick glance at Bucky, who knows his stare has only grown more stormy. “Well, does he maybe have a thing for you?”
“No way,” you protest, and he hates how much you seem to be enjoying this. “We’re not like that at all, Brennan. Bucky trained me. Pretty much taught me everything I know. He’s more like… a father figure, really.”
Bucky almost drops his beer. Something inside him stops, like all the clogs turning in his body have decided to break down. His brain is lagging as he tries to convince himself that he must have misheard you. Even his blood has paused its journey through his body. He can see Steve looking between the two of you from the corner of his eye, but he ignores his bewildered glances. He’ll do his best to explain this away later.
You can hardly contain your amusement. Bucky can tell that you’re fighting every instinct in your body to not look over at his reaction.
“Oh ok!” Brandon seems happy enough with that explanation, but you have lost interest. You quickly manage to get rid of him with the promise of a date the next day and turn back to Natasha, voice brimming with real interest in a stark contrast to your last conversation.
Bucky isn’t sure what to do with himself. He can see Steve deciding whether or not to approach him, so he gives you a look - one that you are very familiar with - and goes straight to his room, trying his best to ignore the bulge forming in his pants.
It takes you near enough to two hours to get to Bucky’s room. Exhaustion steamrolling through you in the aftermath of your mission and the team event, but not enough for you to turn down the silent offer made to you before he walked out. He is almost foaming at the mouth by the time you reach his door.
“You have some fuckin’ explaining to do,” he demands when he meets you at the door, dragging you in not-so-gently. You smirk up at him as you walk in, purposely casual and slow, as if you have all the time in the world.
“I don’t have to leave early just because you do. My world doesn’t revolve around you, you know.”
Bucky would usually tell you that it should, but he seems to bite it back today. He’s not talking about the fact it took you so long to get here, and you know that. “What the fuck was that, down there?”
“What? You’re the one who wanted no exclusivity, remember? Don’t tell me you’re jealous just because I’ve talked to a few boys.”
He is and you know it. You see the way he grits his teeth when someone else approaches you and a warm sort of satisfaction slithers up your spine every damn time. It’s the only thing that makes it worth letting them take you out on dates. The way he fucks you after, rough and demanding, like he’s proving that he’s better than whoever your date is (he is). Or the way he fucks you before you’re scheduled to run out, desperate and possessive, pushing into you hard and fast in a way that should be too much but isn’t because it’s him. Like he’s trying to convince you to stay.
And you never do. Because he made his stance perfectly clear and the last thing you are going to do is invest where he hasn’t.
Even if the dates you go on make you bored and sick. Even if the one person you had tried to sleep with since starting your arrangement with Bucky gave you a full-body ick, a shiver running through you like your body was rejecting him. (“Did you just cum?” he had asked you, smug and satisfied. You told him you had.)
But that’s not the point. You’re playing with Bucky now, trying to make him say it. To admit he is jealous. That he doesn’t want to see you with anyone else.
“You said I was a fuckin’ father figure, doll.”
Your smile just widens, a laugh bubbling forth. You hadn’t been expecting that. “Oh, that really got you, huh? You have a daddy kink, Barnes?”
Bucky just glares back. He doesn’t. He has told you before that the whole daddy thing has never appealed to him.
But you can see it now - you calling him a father figure, so flippantly and casually, did something to him. You can’t tell whether he wanted to bend you over then and there, prove to you and everyone else at the function that he is most definitely not a father figure to you. Or if he wanted to lean into it, maybe show you who is in charge. The irritation on his face is making you lean towards the latter.
“You’re a damn piece of work.” he grumbles, voice low and dangerous. “I’ve half a mind to take you over my knee and show you the discipline you obviously never got from your actual father figure.”
You freeze for just a beat. That’s new.
“You won’t,” you say, indignantly rolling your eyes even though you’re kind of faking your confidence.
“Wanna bet, kid?”
The air has changed slightly, an odd current running between the two of you. And you’re suddenly not so sure he’s bluffing. You feel slightly out of your depth. Like this whole thing had gotten away from you a bit. Like he was more serious about this than you were expecting.
Still, you press him. Because that’s who you are and what you do.
“Yeah, actually, I think I do, old man.”
There’s a tense silence - long and drawn out - where you start to doubt yourself. Maybe you should have backed down, because the way he’s looking at you now, stormy and dark, is making you nervous in a way you’re not used to with him.
And then his nostrils flare and he’s moving towards you, faster than lightning, faster than you are prepared for. He lifts you with annoying ease before you can even register what’s happening, fingers digging into your waist as evidence of a cracked restraint. You’re kicking your legs, a strained shout escaping as he catches you off your guard.
“Let me go!” you’re thrashing now, all spit-fire and outrage.
No,” he grunts, manhandling you with practiced ease. He settles you down over his lap. “You wanna act like a brat? I’ll show you what it means.”
You’re squirming when his hand comes up to yank the leather of your pants down to your thighs, almost tearing it in the process. You’re left in just a lace white thong, bearing your backside to him fully. You had worn it intentionally to see the tortured expression on his face that you enjoy so much. Now it just feels humiliating, bent over in front of him in his favourite panties - the picture of submission.
“Stop messing around, Bucky. Don’t be a dick.”
There is a second where neither of you speak. His fingers dance gently on the skin of your ass and you can’t see him but you can hear his breath catching over the strained silence that stretches between you.
Before it shatters into a million pieces.
Because Bucky’s flesh hand comes down - abrupt and hard - against the skin of your ass. The stinging sensation travels outwards from the area of impact, sizzling your skin and your nerves, and you realise you are absolutely and utterly in over your head.
“Okay!” you gasp. “Okay, Jesus Christ, Bucky, I’m sorry! I didn’t actually think you’d…” you trail off, face enveloping in a sudden and suffocating heat. “I’m sorry. You can let me go now.”
Another silence where you can feel him hesitating and then: “No.”
“No?” you splutter, words lost in your throat as if the position you’re in isn’t humiliating enough. “What do you mean no? I apologised.”
“I mean no. You asked for this doll, remember?”
He grabs your hair in a way that you suppose isn’t a million miles from gentle and twists your face to meet his. In what is an uncomfortable stretch for you, his eyes implore yours, silently assessing whether this is really okay.
Whatever he finds in your face steels his resolve because in the next second, he is pressing your face down further, ass arched higher and his palm is coming back down against your ass, knocking you forward. He clears his throat, mutters a curse under his breath that lets you know this is getting to him too.
“Asked for it when you flirted with that moron downstairs instead of coming to me.”
Another slap has dark stars flashing behind your eyes, the combination of pain and pleasure sparking through you to create something completely unchartered. Your skin is burning and it should be unpleasant - probably would be with anyone else.
Maybe it’s just the angle, you reason. Maybe it’s reverberating to your clit and that’s what making you rock forward with an embarrassing moan.
“Asked for it when you called me a father figure, like I don’t fuck you silly.” He spits the term ‘father figure’ like it’s something dirty, and the smack he delivers after it makes your mouth fall ajar and your cunt pulsate.
“Asked for it when you wore this fuckin’ thing,” he says, hooking a finger around the thin lace strap of your thong and letting it slingshot back with a dull nip, before you feel the stronger sting of his hand on your ass again. “Asked for it when you bet I wouldn’t do this. You remember that, don’t you, doll?”
“I-I-“ you can’t get the words out because now Bucky is pressing his fingertips lightly down your spine, carding through the soft indents there before tracing down, lower and lower. He follows the line of your thong, over places that make you clench and shudder, until his finger is pressing lightly over your core through the soaked fabric of your underwear.
“You-you-?” he mocks, black and mean, as he applies pressure there and watches you wiggle back to his touch.
When you don’t answer, his hand leaves your pussy and comes down hard with three successive smacks as punishment. You can feel his jean-clad cock pressing into your thighs, feel it jump at the little yell you release. He curses, whispered and dirty.
“I don’t know, Bucky,” you whine. “It hurts.”
“Too much?” he asks condescendingly, rubbing a hand over the curve of your ass where you can feel red-hot heat blossoming.
You shake your head, face warm with embarrassment and sheer desire and he brings his hand down again and you wonder if it’s possible for you to cum like this, with nothing but his hand against your ass in explosions of fire and something just shy of real pain.
You really should not be having this reaction to being taken over Bucky’s knee and spanked - you’re an adult, for fuck sake - but you think maybe you would enjoy anything he chooses to do to you. Your shame is just making you want it more.
He continues until it really starts to hurt in the most delicious way, the flat of his palm hitting against your skin, rotating between featherlight and rough. Every so often, his fingers nudge their way to the tops of your thighs and your clit, playing there for just a matter of seconds before returning to the fat of your ass.
When he stops, you’re delirious and dumb and you wonder if you’ve just discovered something new about yourself, or if Bucky just has a way of gnarling all your desires, turning them darker and moulding them to his own preferences until the only thing you can categorically say you enjoy in bed is him.
Your ass is so raw that when Bucky finally lifts you off his lap and places you on the bed, you feel a pleasurable little burn linger, but most of your concentration is on your neglected core. You can’t stop moving your hips, too desperate for friction, as he carefully removes your shoes and peels your pants the rest of the way down your legs. He makes light work of your top too and in just a matter of moments you are completely bared to him at the bottom of the bed. He stands above you, still fully clothed, his jeans stained with your desperation.
“Did so good for me. Took it so well,” he murmurs, grabbing your jaw and forcing your eyes to his for one brutal moment. You feel imprisoned by his blue eyes before he grants you a soft kiss - an act of mercy before he completely destroys you. “I think you enjoyed it a bit too much though. Not much of a punishment.”
You shake your head but both of you know that you’re lying. Bucky just smiles knowingly, glancing down obviously to where your pussy is dripping onto the bedsheets. Your face floods with humiliation.
When he kisses you this time, it’s a violent thing - tongue pushing against yours with a dominance usually reserved for those nights when you return to him after a date, your chin lightly grazed with beard burn from an unpleasant goodnight kiss. The feel of his lips on yours lets you know what kind of night you’re in for.
He’s leaning over you, thumb navigating its way to your clit like clockwork. You’re so ridiculously wet that it almost glides right off. He chuckles and mumbles something about how needy you are against your lips, but your body is buzzing and your ears aren’t working properly.
He circles your clit, using extra pressure as if it needs it. You’re humming and moaning, feeling like you might already be on the precipice after just a few seconds. When he slides just one finger into your heat, your mouth opens to release the most desperate sound you think you might have ever made right up against his lips. He smiles, nudges it in further.
“I don’t think I need to get you ready for me at all, do I, sweetheart? Pretty pussy is drooling already just from a bit of discipline.”
Something about the term ‘discipline’ - as if he’s an authority figure - makes the whole thing feel so horrifically dirty but you can hear the mortifying squelching between your thighs and you know he’s right. When he adds a second finger, you’re preparing for the humiliating reality that you’re about to cum just from Bucky’s punishment and less than a minute of fingering.
Except you don’t. Because Bucky curls his fingers into that spot that only he can hit, makes light explode behind your eyes, gets you so so close. You grind down on his fingers, body taught with the expectation of something mind-blowing. And then suddenly he’s gone as quickly as he was ever there and you’re pressing your hips down onto air, trying to find purchase where there is none.
“Bucky!” you gasp, voice coming out so embarrassingly breathless that you might be self-conscious if you thought about it too much. The sight of him humming around his fingers, still slick with the evidence of your arousal, is not helping. “I was just about to-”
“I know, I know,” Bucky murmurs, hand brushing through your hair, voice thick with false sympathy. He’s looking down at you as if you’re some child that fell off their bike - his condescension almost pisses you off, but mostly it turns you on. “You were so close, baby. Your voice goes all whiny when you’re almost there, did you know that? Always sound so needy. Makes me wanna fuck you harder.”
“Then why did you do that?” You’re vaguely aware of how petulant you sound but all conscious thought flew out the window the second you felt his palm on your ass.
Bucky doesn’t answer you. Instead, his hands reach down and begin to unbuckle his belt. Slowly. Meticulously. You’re transfixed, watching every movement. When you reach out a hand to help, he smacks it away, light but firm. He unbuckles and tugs his pants and underwear down far enough for his hard cock to spring out. Your thighs press together in a motion he doesn’t miss.
You feel small like this - completely bared and open to him. You are vulnerable and exposed and so helplessly turned on. But if you try to rush Bucky into touching you, he will only take ten times longer. So you lie as still as a rock, watch him undress slowly and fold away his clothing with precision, ignoring the very horny, very naked woman on his bed. But it is wildly clear that he is feeling some of what you are. His jaw is ticking and his nostrils flare at the smell of your arousal.
By the time he leans over you and kisses you again, you are both on fire. He wastes no time, pressing his cock up against your dripping hole and slamming in with one stroke.
It’s humiliating, really. The whole night is turning out to be just one humongous humiliation ritual.
Because after that first stroke, you’re completely gone. Your cunt clenches down in a way that makes him hiss, squeezing and convulsing, losing your mind. You’re not sure what you’re babbling while you try to milk him - possibly something along the lines of Yes, Bucky, please, right there. You just know that Bucky’s grip bruises your hips with a restraint that is fit to snap at any moment and your legs are spasming as you try to bear down on the cock he just fed you. He’s too surprised to even talk you through it the way he normally does. Instead, he just watches you, awe filtering through his bright eyes.
Your first thought when you come down is that Bucky is going to be absolutely insufferable about this. Your second thought is that you’re still ridiculously horny.
“God, baby,” he grits out, a taunt and a prayer all at once - like he can’t quite decide whether he wants to tease you about this or worship at your feet. He chooses the former. “I didn’t know you were this fucking desperate. Coming as soon as you get my cock in you. Like you were trained for it.”
In a way, you were, you think. But then Bucky is pulling out of you and slamming back in. The sensation is overwhelming - he is too big. It’s too much for your sensitive hole. Your cunt is still pulsing with aftershocks, the sensitivity verging on too much. But you’re still squeezing around him, unwilling to give yourself any reprieve. Not when it feels this good.
“Feel how she’s sucking me in, doll? You can’t stop, even after coming. Your tight little cunt was made for this.”
His eyes are trained solely on your wet heat and the way it’s taking him, a sort of adoration painting his face that almost seems out of place in the filthiness of his actions. His hands have a firm grasp on your hips for leverage while he fucks into you, hard and slow. Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head and you feel too braindead to respond. All you can do is watch him.
“Look at you. Can’t even talk. Let me empty that smart little head of yours. There’s only enough space in there to think about my cock.”
When he fucks you like this, you think you might be in love him. Best not to think too much on it. Not that you can think too much on anything, with his dick sliding in and out of you, filling up and stretching every inch of you.
“Feels so good, Bucky,” you whine. “Need you.”
“You need me?” His voice is patronising. It should piss you off, but it has you gushing. “Baby, you have me. I’m all up in your guts, right here.”
He looks to your stomach and you follow his gaze, watching the head of his cock press into the skin there, before disappearing and poking through again with every thrust. “Fuck, look at that,” Bucky groans, watching his own movements. “So perfect at taking me.”
“Yeah,” you whisper, hand absently reaching down to press on your stomach, feeling his movements there. Your breath is stuttering and you think maybe you’re choking on the pleasure he’s giving you. “Wanna be good for you.”
When Bucky feels you press down on the head of his cock through his stomach, his hips stutter and a loud, animalistic groan spills out. “So good for me. Such a good girl, letting me mark up your ass like that. Think you’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you baby? Let me fuck you past your limit?”
You’re lost to the pleasure. You just nod and he gives your clit a quick nudge in appreciation.
“I know you would. Know how bad you wanna make me proud.”
Oh.
Oh.
Your pussy jumps, face flooding with heat and Bucky is looking down at you like he’s figuring you out. The term ‘father figure’ comes rushing back into your consciousness and it takes everything in you not to go running for the hills in a panic at how much you liked those words on his lips.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he grumbles, pulling his cock out of you and manoeuvring you so you are kneeling up on the bed with your hands on the headboard. “Can’t look at your face when I say those things to you, baby. Gonna make me cum too soon.”
He’s sliding into you from behind then, both arms pressed to your hips to navigate you up and down on his cock, while he presses his face to yours. Every now and again, he lands a kiss to your gland that makes your pulse drop. His pace is steady and harsh and your tits bounce with every brutal thrust of his hips, your combined arousal dripping down to his heavy balls.
You’re chanting his name along with other obscenities that you can barely even register. You feel completely shameless, willing to do anything he wants just so he will shower you with more of that praise you have become so addicted to.
“You’re so easy,” Bucky taunts you again. “Bet if I touched your clit right now, you’d cum again.”
“Yeah,” you say, and you can’t help the way you sound as if you’re begging. “Please, Bucky.”
He tuts, and he grins against your cheek. “I don’t know. Do you deserve it? You talked to a lot of men today, sweetheart. Made them think they have a shot.”
There’s a stubborn part of you that, even in this cock-induced daze, wants to snap at him. To remind him that this was all his decision, not yours. Unfortunately, you’re thinking with all organs except your brain right now.
“M’yours,” you pant, fucking back onto him. You can feel the short, course public hairs graze your ass, which is still red raw. The pain only adds to the building feeling. “Don’t want them.”
“Yeah?”
“Fuck- yeah, please, Bucky.”
“That’s right, sweetheart,” he gasps, voice strained. “I’m gonna come inside you. Gonna fill you up so good that nobody could ever try to take you from me again.”
You can’t help the sharp moan that comes spilling from you. You can’t quite explain how much you want that; how much you want him to fuck his cum into you, as if it would somehow make you belong to him. His filthy words along with the grinding of his hips is almost too much for you to handle.
“Please, Bucky. Want it so bad.”
“Please, Bucky,” he mocks you with a cruel lilt that makes you squeeze around him. “That all you can say? You want my cum so bad you can’t even think?”
You just nod, a strange concoction of arousal and humiliation coursing through you.
“That’s okay, baby. Don’t have to talk. I’ll give it to you. You just have to take it like a- fuck- like a good girl.”
Finally, he moves his metal arm down. He presses his middle finger over your clit, featherlight, and it makes your legs shake and your cunt squeeze and you’re so close-
“Gonna flood you, baby. Have so much to give you. Gonna make you drip.”
And then you’re falling off the edge with a call of Bucky’s name, grinding back onto his stupidly big cock, nonsense falling from your lips. You’re almost embarrassed about the keening noises you’re making but the enormity of your orgasm is too extreme for it to matter. He follows you not a second later, and you feel him pulse inside you, shooting up ropes of sticky cum. He holds you tight as he groans, rocking his hips back and forth on yours with aggressive ardour that peters out into slow, languid thrusts as the feeling washes through you both.
Bucky was telling the truth. He’s still grinding shallowly into you while his spend is spilling out of you, dripping down his length, past his balls and onto the sheets. He fucks what he can back into you for a moment while you both come down, shaking and shuddering.
He’s babbling, pressing kisses to your neck. “So good. Took that cock so good for me. You’re all mine, aren’t you, sweet girl? My good girl.”
He pulls out of you gently and you feel his spend flood out of your thoroughly used hole. He allows you to slump back, lifting you back until you’re lying on the bed with his face in your neck. You can’t bring yourself to care about the wet patches you’re lying in. Not yet.
Both of your chests are heaving as you come down. Bucky is pressing intimate little kisses to your neck, a gentle hand stroking your stomach, and your chest tightens. You’re so close to mistaking this for something that it’s not. How he can dole out his affection like this while still maintaining that you two have ‘no strings attached’ is beyond you. As you slowly recuperate, your breathlessness is replaced with a gooey warmth, owing itself entirely to the man pressing gentle kisses and whispering sweet praises to you as if you’re his. And you’re uncomfortable with how much you want to be.
But you don’t let it upset you. Instead, you take your red ass and your dignity and you decide it’s time to get the hell out of dodge.
“Jesus, Barnes,” you chuckle softly, beginning to haul yourself up even though you’re still feeling shaky and limp. “Whatever I did to piss you off so much today, remind me to do it again.”
“You’re leaving?” he asks, sitting up with you immediately.
“Yeah,” you say, searching through the crumpled sheets for your underwear which has blended into the white of the bed. “Got an early morning tomorrow.”
“Why? You just got back from a mission.”
You give him a sideways glance. “Going for breakfast,” you say simply, as if you’re not both aware that it’s a date you have planned.
“You being serious right now, doll? You’re really gonna go on a date knowing I was inside you just a few hours before? With my cum still dripping out of you.”
You ignore the way heat pools in your stomach. Maybe it’s for the best that you and Bucky are not together - being this turned on all the time would be exhausting.
“Well, that’s what showers are for, dumbass,” you say, standing up and shimmying into your underwear.
You’re turning around to find your pants but his voice stops you. “Don’t go.”
You give him a smug little smirk, but truthfully, your heart is racing. “Why not?”
“I don’t want you to,” he spits and his eyebrows are furrowed - an attractive little line forming there. He looks so sulky and petulant, it almost makes you laugh, something affectionate tugging at your heart. But that answer isn’t good enough.
“Don’t worry, I don’t have high hopes for this guy,” you sigh, yanking on your pants. “I will probably be back here again in a day or two.”
“I don’t want you to come back in a day or two,” he grits out, standing up to tug on his underwear. “I don’t want you to go.”
He’s standing over you now in a way that might be intimidating if you didn’t know Bucky any better. His arms are crossed, great swells of muscles tensing and bulging while he looks down at you with stormy eyes. You like him like this - broody and grumpy and disgruntled. But the confusion it’s causing right now is overriding all of that.
“I can’t stay, Bucky. I would have to cancel-”
“Then cancel.”
You’re not sure what to say - shifting from one foot to the other in an uncomfortable staring contest. You’re not usually like this, but you feel a bit nervous, squirming under his gaze. You push it down.
“No.”
Bucky grits his teeth. “Why are you bothering with these fuckin’ dates? You think they can fuck you like me? Make you cum as hard as you just did?”
“Oh shut the fuck up,” you snap, irritation fighting through all nervousness. “It’s not all about sex, asshole.”
He stands up straighter. “And you think any of them would be the perfect man for you, doll? You think they’d be better for you than me?”
That was cruel. Fury is coursing through you, burning hot. “I don’t know, Bucky, maybe they would be. At least they wouldn’t say they just want sex and then throw their toys out of the pram when I talk to anyone else.”
The storm clears from his eyes for just a second but you don’t care to stick around to see what peeks through after. You’re fumbling with your bra, trying to get it on as fast as humanly possible. Why is it so much harder with shaky fingers?
“I don’t just want sex,” he says, so earnest and uncharacteristically timid that it almost makes you want to wrap him in your arms. Almost.
“Yeah, I know, Bucky,” you scoff and watch as surprise flickers over his expression. “I’m not stupid and you’re not subtle. But you made your bed when you asked for this. I’m not gonna stick around and wait for you to stop being too emotionally stunted for a relationship.”
“I’m not- hey, stop.”
You’re leaning down to tie up the laces of your shoes when he grabs your arms to stop you in your tracks. You glare up at him.
“I’m tryna talk to you. Can you just listen to me for a second? Stop trying to run out on me, Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” He puffs out a breath and silence falls over the two of you for a moment. You know you won’t be the one to break it - you just watch Bucky grapple with his words.
“It was never just sex,” he begins softly. “I just didn’t wanna fuck you up while I was figuring things out. But then things were… so good between us.” He looks to you with a hint of insecurity, as if checking to see whether or not you agree. “It made me think maybe I had nothing to be scared of. I regret ever saying it was just sex. And I can’t fuckin’ stand watching you leave.”
He closes his mouth tight, like he’s trying to stop a flow of excuses and appeals from bursting forth. He might even be holding his breath, leg twitching and bouncing nervously. You still won’t say anything, waiting for him to admit what you’ve known all along.
“I want you to be mine, doll. If you’ll have me.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re fighting off a laugh. “I’ll think about it.”
Bucky’s eye twitches comically. “You’ll think about it?”
“Yeah. I’ll compare notes after my date with Brennan, decide which one of you to pick.”
He glares, but his ears are pink. “You think you’re funny.”
“What’s funny?” you say and this time you can’t stop the smile from creeping onto your face. “Gotta assess my options.”
He groans, rubbing a hand over his face but he’s smiling too - a crooked, reluctant one with blissful happiness creeping out of the cracks. His hands move to your hips and you let them.
“Let me give you something else to add to your notes.”
how i felt after writing this:
tags: @dolcesaints @m0th3rcal @marina468
ask: @tough-tittay-4u (i hope this was ok! i changed a couple of things so i would find it easier to write but i hope it was somewhat how you pictured it!)
summary: The Liberty Knights—Brooklyn Western Academy's all-star football team—are on a winning streak. Not that you care. Except that you're forced to be at every. single. game. It doesn't help that your lab partner—Bucky Barnes—is the number one linebacker in the state. And that you have to play the school song after every touchdown he makes. And maybe you can't help but stare at his ass when he's bent over…
a/n: this is part of the bwa series!! much love to you all and thanks for listening to me saying "i'm cooked" over and over and also with your help with bringing this fic to life!! also wanna shout out my bestie, @salty-tang, who has heard me go on and on about this fic and helped flesh out my ramblings. love you bestie!! <33
"Alright, here are your lab partners for the next two weeks."
Your professor unpauses the projector screen, revealing two columns of names. You search for yours, flicking through the blur of pixels until you land on yours.
Yours on the left. On the right: James Barnes
Four weeks. You'd managed to avoid working with Bucky Barnes—'the best linebacker' on the football team —for four weeks. Twenty days of complete bliss. 480 hours of not hearing his whining and complaining about how your friend allegedly cheated on Steve Rogers. It was a whole big deal where Bucky took Steve's side and you took your friend's side. Naturally. They kissed and made up, but you and Bucky; well, you couldn't get past the misunderstanding. So here you are, at each other's throats while Steve and his girlfriend are living happily ever after.
Steve isn't in this class, but John and Sam are. They make a ruckus over the fact that you and Bucky are lab partners, because why not? John's always kissing Steve's ass, trying to secure his spot as the back-up quarterback, and Sam constantly teases Bucky over every single aspect of his life.
"Gentlemen, enough," the professor says, raising his voice to cut through the chaos. "This is a biology lab, not the locker room. I would appreciate it if you treated it as such."
The commotion dies down, but you can still hear John and Sam's hushed voices.
This is exactly why you don't talk to anyone outside of the music department. It's a landmine of passive agressive comments disguised as small talk.
You avoid the jocks at all costs. They're a loud, obnoxious presence wherever they flock to. Their entire personality is Liberty Knights this, Liberty Knights that, never knowing when to shut up about Boston Western Academy's football team. It truly feels like they peaked in high school and make it everyone else's problem.
But having to work one-on-one with Bucky? Impossible. The worst. He hates your guts and never takes anything seriously—a horrible combination, really.
You're trying to take notes on the professor's lecture, but your thoughts are on an endless loop, drowning out his procedures. You start to doodle in your notebook, hoping to take your mind off of Bucky, but you can't help but feel like someone is watching you.
You sneak a peek over at the jocks and Bucky is staring at you. Fuck, why is he staring at you? He never looks at you. Actively avoids it, actually. Does he really hate that he has to work with you that much? Is he trying to find a way to switch partners because he can't stand the thought of being next to you?
This is going to be a long two weeks.
"Okay, Barnes, here are the ground rules," you start when you both meet at the lab table. He cocks an eyebrow. "Rule #1: I'm not doing all of the work in this lab. You have to contribute your share." He opens his mouth but you barrel over him. "Rule #2: I'm going to get an A on this, so you better lock the fuck in. Rule #3: We need to set a strict schedule of when we work on this lab. I don't care if it's during your…" you gesture toward the table Bucky and his friends were sitting at. "whatever you guys do. We need to stay consistent."
"Consistent… Well, what days work best for you, princess?"
You blink at him twice, your brows furrowing in disbelief. "Did you just call me princess?"
The corner of his mouth twitches. "I don't know. Did I?"
A flush spreads across your cheeks, hot and intruding. You know what, we're not gonna deal with that right now.
"Most mornings between 9am and 11am," you say after taking a breath. "Don't even think about nights. I have rehearsal."
He groans, rolling his eyes, the icy blue eclipsed by flesh. "Rehearsal. Right. Well, I can't do mornings."
You cross your arms over your chest, narrowing your eyes at him. "What, cause you're too hungover? Or do you have 'practice' at that time."
"No, I have class in the morning." He pauses. "Then practice."
"Well, when are you not busy?"
He thinks for a moment. "The weekends?"
"The weekends."
"Yep. That's when I'm free."
"Can you give me a time frame or…?"
"How about you give me a time frame and I'll work around it." His tone is condescending. And you don't like that.
"Fine. 10am to 5pm. Either day. Can you work around that?" you ask, the words dripping with sarcasm.
"Anything for you, sweetheart." Gonna punch him in his perfect teeth. "Saturdays at 2pm."
"Perfect." You start to gather your things. "Guess I'll see you—"
"We should exchange phone numbers or something." He clears his throat. "For the lab. For easy communication."
"I check my email daily. Email is fine." He should also be checking his email.
He's silent for a moment. You can practically see the smoke coming out of his ears. "My notifications don't always show up right away on my phone. Wouldn't want to leave you hanging if something comes up."
"Okay… Do you use Instagram?" you ask him this knowing damn well he does, his profile always popping up in your recommended accounts. "We could use that."
He shrugs, pulling out his phone. "That works. What's your username?"
You give it and he friends you. The request notification pops up and you accept it. His profile is public, of course.
Another notification appears.
[jbbarnes] sup
"There," he says, pocketing his phone into his varsity jacket. "Now you can message me whenever." Hopefully it isn't always this dry.
"Mhm, yup." You stuff your belongings into your bag. "Whenever…"
Ever since you friended Bucky on Instagram, the app taunted you. It's not your preferred social media choice—you mainly downloaded it to keep in touch with friends and family—but you use it enough to warrant the amount of storage it takes up on your phone. A post will appear once every three months or so, something to show your mom that you're not dead, but that's about the extent of your profile.
There's nothing exciting about the pictures—you don't bother with the filters, the captions are basic—so why are you now worrying about each post at 1am? Why are you wishing that you'd taken the extra five minutes to choose a filter or two?
You tap the direct messages icon. The top message stares at you.
[jbbarnes] sup — 14h
It's unopened. Which is fine. It's not like there's anything else to it, right? You watched him type it. It took a second, maybe less. Case closed.
Yet your finger hovers over his username. What if he put something else? What if he included some important information that you've missed for fourteen hours?
You should check it. Just one tap… It's harmless; he sent you it for a reason. Just. Open. It.
With a shaking finger, you tap the screen.
sup
One bubble. One word. Nothing more, nothing less.
You throw your head back and groan, the cement wall doing nothing to help the headache that's been simmering for an hour. Why is one message bothering you so much? Let alone one from Bucky Barnes?
It's fine. Just swipe out of the conversation and move on. Time to put Instagram away.
You tap on his username instead. What are you doing?? Put. the phone. down. Nothing productive will come out of this, and you know that.
You stare at his profile.
James "Bucky" Barnes
no pen or paper but i still draw attention
BWA class of '27
sc: jbbarnes
Oh, this is the worst. This man seriously wants to be a physical therapist? You roll your eyes. There's no way. No way he'll make it past undergrad. Not with the way he's constantly partying and at practice and lifting weights and—
A picture catches your eye. It's the third post down where he's laid down on the bench press seat, mid-rep, and holy shit he's ripped. You tap on the post and bring your phone closer, counting each ab muscle adorning his torso. One, two, three… How the fuck does he have an eight pack?
Then your eyes travel down farther, down to his gym shorts, where he's…
All of the moisture in your mouth dries up as you stare at the outline of his dick and travels straight down to your core. No, this isn't… You don't like him…
You shift in bed, the creak of the cheap mattress frame assaulting the stillness of your room. You don't like him. Any other person would have the same reaction. Especially since he's very… large…
Enough of that. It's really getting late and you have class tomorrow.
You click on his most recent post. A team photo with 'the boys.' Steve is in the middle, his signature golden boy smile beaming and Bucky next to him with a smirk, holding up bunny ears behind Steve's head. Sam is arm in arm with Joaquin; John is behind them, trying desperately to push his way in. By some miracle, Pietro is stood still, pointing finger guns at the camera. And to round it all out, Thor, the Norwegian exchange student, is holding up Bob with one arm, his bicep fully flexed and on display. You're unsure as to why Bob is there—isn't he the water boy?
And the caption: someone call the weatherman cuz we making it rain
God, where does he find these?
You click into the comments.
captain_rogers: best team in all of brooklyn
jbbarnes: best team in all of new york
captain_walker2: i think u forgot to tag me barnes
wingmanwilson: my boys 😤
jbbarnes: the boys of bwa
captain_walker2: barnes, can i get a tag?
cucumber_bob453: omg im part of the boys now??
jbbarnes: you've always been part of the boys bob
captain_walker2: tag?
A chuckle escapes your lips. It's entertaining how much John is trying to fit in with them all. It shouldn't be that hard, but there's just… something about him that doesn't mesh with the others.
You scroll down to the next post. Bucky's smiling at the camera—eyes crinkling and a small dimple formed on his right cheek—with his arm around Sharon Carter.
A strange feeling tugs at your heart. Seeing him there with Sharon. You shake your head, erasing the thoughts faster than they arrived.
You scroll through his posts faster now, catching glimpses of more muscles and smiles and football games. He's not… unattractive. The dimple is cute. He's got nice facial structure. Middle of the run nose. And his eyes… Piercing blue. Almost green in some lighting. He's the opposite of unattractive. Not like you'd actually admit any of this to anyone.
You turn off your phone with a groan. You're not attracted to Bucky Barnes. He's annoying. He's a jock, of all things.
But your heart is racing, your pulse pounding in your ears. And there's another body part that's pounding—
Enough! The phone is off. The thoughts need to be turned off. Go. to. sleep!
You sigh and pull the covers up around your shoulders, ignoring (but failing) to think of the boy with piercing blue eyes and shaggy brunet hair.
Bucky's not sure when you started hating him.
No, that's a lie. He knows when you started. He's just unsure as to why you still do.
After Steve and his girlfriend made up, Bucky thought that the two of you would go back to mutually watching each other from the football field. He'd watch you in the stands, laughing at something the person next to you said, and couldn't help the smile that pulled at his lips.
You were infectious. Not in a diseased way, but in the way you laughed. The way you smiled at everyone while walking across campus. Except for when he passed by and you'd avert your eyes quickly, finding a leaf or pebble to stare at on the sidewalk.
But the times your eyes would find his? When you'd brush the hair out of your face after playing the school song and see him on the field? It felt like magic. Like he could survive off of your gaze and nothing else. He would drop everything to go up there and say something that made you smile. He would take any punishment from his coach to drop the ball and pull you over the railing and kiss you.
The only issue: you still hate him.
It's the Saturday after you two were paired up as lab partners.
He opens the door to the seemingly empty biology, immediately hit with the sharp smell of alcohol and sterilizing agents.
You're already at the counter, stacking the petri dishes and gathering the swabs for the lab. He looks at his phone, checking the time. He wanted to get here a couple of minutes early to ensure everything was in place, but you beat him.
"When did you get here?" he asks, watching your diligence over the lab materials.
You jump and whip your head toward him, sending the petri dishes clattering along the counter. "Christ, Barnes, where did you come from?" you shriek, gripping your chest.
He glances at the entrance to the lab. "Last I checked, the only way to get in was through that door."
Your eyes roll. "No shit, Sherlock. You just, fuck, you scared me. Do you have silencing shoes or something?"
A chuckle. "Nah, I'm just agile. It comes with the training."
"Agile. Noted."
He nods and a smile creeps up on him again. Get it together, Barnes, or else she's going to think you're a creeper or something.
He clears his throat and moves closer to the counter, grabbing the dishes and stacking them the way you initially organized them. "So what's on the agenda for today?"
You watch his hands, almost transfixed with the movements, then realized he asked you a question. You blink up at him. "Wh-What? Sorry, what did you say?"
"What's on the agenda for today?"
"Oh, well, we have to check the dishes from Thursday, record those findings, then start the next batch."
"Got it. I can start on the batch from Thursday if you want to start the next batch?"
You nod. "Just don't mess it up."
"Yes, ma'am," he says with a grin, bringing his hand up to his forehead in mock salute.
You roll your eyes again and turn away from him quickly, burying your head in your spiral notebook. He swears he sees the flushing of your cheeks but doesn't want to get any closer. It seems like you're opening up to him and he doesn't want to ruin that. So he'll tread carefully. He can be patient.
The two of you work in silence. Bucky brings his own lab notebook to check on Thursday's batch, while you diligently swab the new bacteria. The silence is comfortable; not tense, not demanding, just there. A soothing rhythm of pencils scratching against paper, the clink of plastic, and each other's breath.
"So, uhm," Bucky starts, finishing up his writings. "Are you excited for next week's game?"
You look up at him and nod, humming in response. "Of course. You?"
He smirks. "Of course. It's my favorite day of the week."
The corner of your mouth tugs upward. "Makes sense."
"Well, that's my entire personality, right? Might as well stay consistent."
He walks closer to you, tossing his notebook down on the counter. "As they say, consistency is key, Barnes."
He pauses for a moment. "Tell me, what's the instrument you play? The brassy one?"
You raise an eyebrow at him. "'The brassy one?' Thanks for the specificity. So helpful."
"Okay, you can't blame me. I don't know the instruments. Just trumpet, brass, flute…"
You laugh. A genuine laugh that makes him want to grab you by the waist and dip you into an earth-shattering kiss right in the middle of this biology lab.
"Ah, yes, the three instrument families: trumpet, brass, and flute."
He smiles, unable to hold back the joy that's been aching in his heart for weeks. Months, even. "Please just tell me. Put me out of my misery already."
You wipe a tear from your eye, small laughs escaping here and there. "Mellophone. I play the mellophone for pep band, but french horn for concert band."
"Mellophone," he says, tasting the way it feels on his tongue. "Hmm. And french horn? A woman of many talents, I see."
That almost-blush from before returns, dusting the tips of your ears pink. "It-It's basically the same. Nothing too fancy about it." Your eyes flick away from him now and you busy your hands with the collected samples.
No, don't look away he wants to say. He wants to see the way your eyes light up when you talk about playing your instrument. He wants to make you laugh again, hypnotizing him with the way it pitches up first and then comes back down. He's an addict and he needs more.
"Earth to Barnes," he hears, a hand waving in front of his face. "Hey, are you in there? Did you get lost?"
His vision focuses back on you, your figure sharpening in front of him, now standing. "Sorry, yeah, I'm here. Did you say something?"
"Yeah. I said do you think we're done here? I've got all the samples we need and I assumed you finished up over there." You raise your eyebrow again, a small smirk playing on your lips. "Did I bore you with my music talk?"
"No, no, not at all," he says, shaking his head vigorously. The exact oppposite, actually. "I was just.. Also thinking about the fact that we're done here." But he really, truly doesn't want to be done here. Would you say no if he asked you to go to the cafe on campus? Probably. The last thing he wants is for all the progress he's made to be for nothing. One step forward, two steps back?
"Great. Yup. All done here…" you say, dragging out your words a little too long. "I'll, uhm, I'll see you on Monday? For class?"
Your tone sounds reluctant, like you maybe don't want to go either?
He should just do it. Just ask. He opens his mouth, about to say it. Saying it… Asking you to go to the campus cafe…
"Yeah, for sure. See you on Monday."
Idiot, idiot, idiot. Barnes, you fucking idiot!
All the muscles in your face relax into… disappointment? Goddamnit, Barnes. Save it. Save this. Don't make her frown.
You just nod solemnly and shuffle out of the lab.
And he just watches you leave like a fucking idiot.
Whoever invented brass instruments clearly forgot to take into account that it might be played outside. And the fact that prime marching band season is, in fact, during September, one of the hottest months of the year.
Whoever that person is, you'd like to have a nice, long conversation with them, because your mellophone keeps slipping out of your hands and almost hitting the turf beneath your feet.
Because of the heat, marching band practice has to take place at 8am on a Sunday. You'd much rather be anywhere else than the football practice field at 8am on a Sunday, but such is the life of a music major.
"Okay, everyone, gush and go!" your director calls from the bleachers on the megaphone.
In an instant, 150 band members are running to their water bottles on the sidelines of the field and chugging as fast as they can. You almost crash into five separate people on the way to your bottle, but you get there eventually and spray the stream into your mouth.
"Did you save any for me?" Natasha asks as she walks up to you, her tone light and teasing. Even with the 80 degree weather, she somehow hasn't broken a sweat.
You take a breath after drinking and say, "I sure hope you brought your own. If not, rookie mistake."
She smirks. "Oh, I did. I just like to keep you on your toes."
"Ha ha," you deadpan, wiping the corners of your mouth. "But seriously, don't scare me like that."
"Like I said, I gotta keep you on your toes. Expect the unexpected and all that jazz."
You take another long swig before your director calls out again. "Times up! Back to set one!"
Natasha salutes to you and you salute back before running to your respective sections; one flute, one mellophone.
The drum major commands the band to attention and blows their whistle, signaling the tempo of the first song. Your instrument is up—lips to mouthpiece—and you take a breath on the fourth whistle.
The band moves for the first eight bars, completing the drill without a hitch. Then the next eight bars are played with no movement—a rest during the hardest part of the song.
You're about to transition into the next set— your eyes straight ahead and body aware of the people around you—until a blur of movement pulls you from your focus.
The first rule of marching band: don't let distractions mess up the set. (At least, according to your band director. Is it true? Who knows.) Focus is key or else the entire set goes to shit.
Any other time, you'd ignore the blur. Students go on runs through this part of campus all the time. However, this blur looks familiar. The body type, the backwards baseball cap, the kinesiology tape wrapped around the left shoulder. You've seen this body in plenty of Instagram pictures.
Focus. You have to focus. One diagonal step at a time.
Your heart rate picks up as he gets closer and you notice that he's shirtless. Eight pack out and visible for everyone to see. Glistening pecs and pumping biceps. This is different than seeing a still picture. This is real. He's right there.
Before your feet can catch up with your brain, you miss a step. You trip over your own feet, one ankle crossing over the other, which sends you hurtling toward the mello player next to you.
The second rule of marching band? Protect the instruments at all cost. Especially since you're liable for any damage done to the instrument while in your possession.
Don't let it smash into the ground, please, please, please.
You lift the mello up as high as you can while crashing toward the turf, hoping and praying that anything but your instrument is damaged. You'll take a broken bone, a scraped knee, even a brusied ego, but your lack of funds cannot take mellophone damage.
The fall rattles your bones, sending shockwaves from your hip and throughout your body. Somewhere on the way down, you squeezed your eyes shut. You didn't want to bear witness to any damage to the precious piece of metal in your grasp.
This is not happening. Nope, not at all. There are not people crashing around you. There are no grunts and gasps traveling throughout the mellophone section and into the trumpet section. How could there be, when your eyes are shut?
You're going to just stay here. This patch of the turf? Your new home. What a comfortable spot. It's lovely, isn't it?
Your band director is calling your name. Or maybe this is a hallucination. Maybe you fell asleep and you're taking a nice nap in the sun, the rays beating down and warming your skin.
You've almost convinced yourself until the weight of your mellophone is no longer being held up by your hand. You pry open an eye, preparing for the worst possible outcome—your band director towering over you—but instead, you're met with the unexpected.
Bucky Barnes is stood in front of you, setting down your instrument gently on the turf. You open your other eye, taking in the full image. His chisled body is absolutely drenched in sweat, chest heaving and cheeks flushed. You can see your frazzled reflection in his sunglasses and cringe. Your hair is plastered to your face and somehow also sticking up on the other side of your head. Your face can best be described as a tomato.
But, by some miracle, Bucky extends his hand out to you. You can't quite see his eyes through the sunglasses, but if you had to guess, he might look concerned.
You stare at his hand. Do you take the help and be mortified forever? Or do you suck it up and stand on your own?
Bucky doesn't give you the chance to decide, and instead takes the hand that you still haven't put down. His skin is warm and calloused—lighting up the nerve endings of your palm—yet he touches you like you're glass. Like one wrong move could cause irreparable damage.
He's helping you up now, his other hand a warm presence on your hip as you stumble. "Hey, it's okay. I've got you," he says, quiet enough for only you to hear. Your heart skips a beat, unsure how to process the gentleness of his tone.
"Th-Thanks," you stutter, your voice almost as unstable as your legs. "I'm good now. You can let me go."
He chuckles a bit and shakes his head. "Absolutely not. You're shaking. Let's get you to the bleachers."
You look down at your hands and, sure enough, your fingers are moving uncontrollably.
"It's fine, I can make it—"
Bucky cuts you off by moving, the hand at your hip gripping ever so slightly. "Just let me do this, sweetheart. Let me help you."
Oh, God. Sweetheart. Sweetheart? This sweetheart is different than the one from the lab earlier. His voice is soothing, sweet, tender, where the first one was nothing but sharp around the edges. Mocking.
You might just melt by the time you get to the bleachers.
"My instrument—"
"Ava will get it. I've got you."
You sigh, finally giving into his touch, leaning into it just a bit more.
You let him walk you across the field and set you down gently on the bleachers, his warm touch replaced with the aggressive bite of the metal.
His reaches toward you for a moment before recoiling back. "You gonna be okay?" he asks, concern laced through each consonant and vowel.
You nod and swallow quickly, finding your voice as his naked torso comes back into view. "Thanks, Barnes."
It's his turn to nod—a quick bob of his head—before he runs off, returning to his previous route.
Before you can say anything, you're swarmed with a hoard of people. Your director, the drum major, section leaders, the whole nine yards. They're asking you questions, but you don't hear them. All you see is Bucky's retreating form, jogging away from the field with long strides.
"School song everyone! School song!"
At the drum majors command, all band members clambor from their seats, fumbling with instruments and flip folders until the school song is found.
The Liberty Knights scored the winning touchdown for Brooklyn Western Academy. The crowd went wild, cheers erupting throughout, the parents of the players hugging and pumping cardboard cutouts of their faces.
To continue the celebration, the pep band plays the school song at top volume. It might not sound like a symphony, but tone quality is not the main focus here. This is about pep and energy, and with a large band, that is more than delivered at the end of the game.
The school song is played with an intensity unmatched to previous games. Excitement is at an all-time high! The boys of BWA will be advancing to the playoffs! Who wouldn't be excited?
"Are you pumped for the next game?" Kate asks you as you both pack up your instruments.
You shrug, shutting your case closed and snapping the latches shut. "It's kinda like every other game, right? We play, we play some more, we watch a game we pretend to know, we play, then the team wins. Then onto the next one." You grab the handle of the case and pick it up. "Don't get me wrong; I love playing pep band. It's a great time. But football? Not as much of a great time."
Kate shoves you playfully and looks at the field. "You're not having a good time staring at Barnes's ass?"
Your face flushes hot. "I don't— I'm not—" She's laughing as you sputter. "Okay, fuck you, Bishop. Not funny."
"It's kinda funny—"
"Not. Funny."
She holds her hands up in surrender, her case swinging back and forth from one. "Okay, okay, fine. Not funny. Apologies." Another giggle escapes. "But maybe you should make your staring less apparent if you don't want people to notice."
You glare at her. "That's it. Friendship over. You can play the 2nd horn parts by yourself now." You walk away from her, starting your descent down the bleacher steps.
"Wait, wait, I'm sorry!" she calls after you, scurrying to follow. "I take it back. I have noticed zero staring. No staring ever. On my life."
You look over your shoulder and grin. "Apology accepted. Friendship back on. 2nd horn partner reinstated."
"Phew! Don't scare me like that. I don't think I'd ever recover."
You let out a short laugh, reaching the bottom of the steps. Natasha is waiting there for you, her purple and gold uniform gleaming under the lights.
"Nat! We missed you!" Kate calls, giving her a hug. "I still would love to know how you never break a sweat in that uniform."
Natasha smiles. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you. I'm sworn to secrecy."
You roll your eyes. "Okay, Miss Mysterious. We get it. You've been blessed with perfect genes. No need to rub it in our faces."
"But where's the fun in that?" She holds her hand out, gesturing to your case. "Here, let me help you."
Your eyebrows furrow. This is out of the ordinary for Natasha. "What? Why?"
"Barnes is waiting for you behind the bleachers. He said something about a lab project?"
Your heart does a flip. It's been almost a week since the marching band practice fiasco. You've interacted with Bucky during biology, but nothing more than working on your samples in a class full of students. Therefore, you haven't had a moment alone since causing a crash in the middle of the practice field.
"Lab project… Right. Okay." You hand her your case. "Take care of her, okay? I'll hunt you down if you don't"
"Oh, I know you will." She lets out a small laugh. "Okay, go. You know how impatient he is."
Did you though? She said that like you've been friends for ages.
"Alright, alright. Going."
You round the corner before you hear, "Text me later!"
This is sounding more and more like a setup.
Underneath the bleachers, Bucky is leaning up against one of the supporting beams, arms crossed and one foot pressed against the beam. His protective gear is off, leaving him in his jersey and those ridiculously tight pants.
When he spots you, he pushes himself up and walks over to you. "Hey," he says, almost breathlessly.
You quirk up a brow. "Hey," you say, your doubt creeping into your tone. "Nat said something about our lab project?"
He rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah, about that…"
"Barnes, this is not the time to tell me that you have some event or practice or whatever that has suddenly come up and you can't finish the lab so I have to do it myself."
His hairline shoots up. "No! No, it's not that. Fuck, it's not that…"
You cross your arms over your chest, frustration oozing out of your skin. "Okay, then what the fuck is it?"
"I… Well, I've been thinking—"
"A feat for you, truly—"
"About— hey, wait, what's that supposed to mean?"
You shake your head. "Just spit it out already."
"Fine, whatever." His hand goes back to his neck, then says your name. "I was thinking… Would you maybe want to, I don't know… Go on a date or something?"
Did you hear that correctly? "A… date?" He nods. "You're asking me out…" He nods again.
After a few long moments, a laugh bursts out of you. "Oh— You're kidding right? This is a joke." You wipe the corners of your eyes. "Barnes, you're funny. You're hilarious. Who put you up to this? Was it Sam? Steve wouldn't be the type to do this… Oh, I know. It's John. Am I right? John bet you to ask me out. Is this what will finally get him into the cool kid club?"
Then, you look at him. He's not… Oh, shit he's not laughing. Your stomach drops. He almost looks hurt. Like you just kicked his puppy and laughed until your stomach ached.
His eyes travel to the ground, searching for something to latch onto. "You know what, just— Fuck, just forget I asked, okay?" He turns and starts to walk away, but you can hear him muttering to himself. "Stupid, stupid, stupid…"
Shit, you gotta fix this and fast. "Hey, hey, I didn't mean to— Barnes, wait!" you call out to him, running after him. You grab his hand and give him a tug so he faces you. "Are you being serious? Is this serious?"
He catches your eyes for a moment then looks down.
"Bucky, I— I thought you hated me."
This brings his gaze back up to yours. "You thought I hated— I thought you hated me!"
"Because I thought you hated me."
He blinks once. Then twice. "I don't. I mean, I did just try to ask you out…"
You're at a loss for words, staring into his eyes and searching for an answer. "But Steve and… You hated me for taking her side." You shrug. "I hated you for taking Steve's, but that's besides the point. You really don't hate me?"
He scoffs, dragging his hand over his face. "Fuck, I'm an idiot. I should've just said something. Stupid, stupid—"
His rambling is cut off with the softness of your lips on his.
You pull away for a moment and murmur against his lips. "Shut up and kiss me, Barnes."
His lips crash against yours—hard and relentless—his tongue running along the seam, begging for entrance. You part them, welcoming the intrusion with open arms.
The kiss is electric. His lips are as soft as you imagined them, softer than any other man you've dated. He's intoxicating and you can't get enough.
In a flash, he's pushing you up against the beam he occupied earlier, pressing up into your body like he needed it to live.
"Bucky, fuck—" you manage to gasp out between kissing, moaning as he moves to your neck. Your hands grip his arms, nails digging into the rigid muscle. "Bucky, what if someone sees—"
"Then let them," he mutters into your skin, the vibrations sending heat down to your core. "I've waited too long for this, sweetheart."
A gasp escapes your parted lips as his hand slides down your stomach and under the waistband of your pants. "What are you—fuck," you hiss as his fingers run over your clothed folds, then pressing gently onto your clit. "Bucky, this is a bad idea."
He sucks at the pulse point on your neck, pulling another moan from your mouth. "But you want this, right?" He looks up at you, eyes glazed over with lust. "Tell me to stop. Say the word and I will."
You don't. You don't want him to stop. That's the last thing you want him to do. But he chose a really poor place for it to happen.
You return his look, panting down at him with swollen lips, and don't say a word.
He grins and presses against your clit again, harder this time. You moan and buck your hips forward, searching for more pressure. "Gonna make you feel good, okay? Gonna take care of you."
He pushes your panties to the side and slips two fingers into your folds, collecting some of your slick and spreading it upward. "Fuck, you're already wet for me?" You nod, delirious from his touch. "Of course you are, baby. You've wanted this all along. Wanted me."
"God, Bucky, yes," you groan, growing impatient. "Please, I want you."
"Alright, sweetheart. Gonna take care of you…" He plunges a finger into your cunt, grinning at the way you clench around him. "Oh, s'that what you want? You want that, baby?" You nod vigorously. He pushes in another finger, making you hiss at the stretch. "You're takin' it so well, doin' such a good job for me…"
"More, Bucky, please…" you beg, rolling your hips until his thumb hits your clit. "Th-There, please. Want that too…"
"Don't you worry, I'll make you feel good. You want it like this?" His fingers start pumping inside of you while his thumb rubs circles over your clit.
The moan that comes out of you is loud. Loud enough that Bucky covers your mouth with his other hand. "Shh, baby, gotta stay quiet. Don't want anyone hearin' us."
He pumps faster, each drag of his fingers pulling a needier moan from your covered mouth. You clench around him, feeling your release getting closer and closer.
"Bucky," you moan against his hand, but it comes out muffled.
"That's it, baby. You gonna come for me?"
"Mhm…"
He increases his speed, soft squelching coming from your cunt. You're gripping onto him like a lifeline, afraid that if you let go, you might lose yourself all together.
You squeeze his arm twice. "Buck."
He looks up, concentration etched on his face, and sees your face contorted in pleasure. "You ready to come for me, baby? Gonna come around my fingers?"
He lifts his hand up enough for you to speak. "Yes, Bucky, fuck, I'm— Shit, fuck, I'm gonna—" The band in your belly is threatening to snap. "Jus' like that— Fuck, yes! I'm gonna—!"
White, hot pleasure floods through your veins as Bucky fingers you through your release. Your thighs are trembling, your walls clenching and fluttering around his fingers.
Bucky says your name, whispering it against your skin. "Yes, sweetheart. You look so pretty when you come…"
After you're done and spent, you rest your head against the metal beam, panting heavily as Bucky removes his fingers. You whimper at the loss, a soft moan escaping your lips.
He wipes your slick on his pants and uses his other hand to move the hair covering your face, kissing your forehead once it's out of the way. "You did such a good job for me… Fuck, please let me do that again."
You let out a breathy laugh. "Maybe on a bed next time?"
He grins. "A bed would be great."
A moment passes filled with breath. Your heavy, gulping ones and his soft, warm ones against your skin.
"Alright, Barnes," you say once your lungs are working normally. "Pull down those skin-tight pants."
"Wh-What?" he sputters, eyes going wide. "What do you mean?"
You gather up your hair behind your head and wrap a hair tie around it. "You want me to return the favor, right?"
He stays frozen for a second longer, then his thumbs start pushing his pants down.
Not two seconds later, Steve rounds the corner of the bleachers. "Buck, where the fuck are you?"
You and Bucky's eyes meet, both pairs widening. He yanks his pants back up and tries to pull his jersey down to cover his growing boner.
When Steve finally spots the two of you, his eyes narrow at Bucky. "Buck. What in the hell are you doing back here?"
"Well, we were.. we were talking about our lab project! Right?" He turns to you and says your name. "Biology lab project."
"Mhm, yup," you say, trying to stifle the laugh bubbling in your chest. "Biology lab."
Steve looks between the two of you, taking in the flush across your cheeks and Bucky's failed attempt at hiding his boner. "I—I'm just not going to ask. But Buck, we need you for the team picture."
You press your lips together, the laugh threatening to escape.
"The picture, right… How could I forget?" Bucky sends you daggers with his eyes. "Let's get to it then, Rogers."
It takes every cell of your being to withhold your laughter until the two of them round the corner. Then, and only then, do you release it.
Summary: John doesn't understand just how much calling you a freak hurts you. However, Bucky understands just how damaging this name really is. Set after the occurrences of the Thunderbolts.
Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky x Ex-Hydra Subject!Reader
Warnings: reader has poison ivy-type powers (ability to have vines grow out of her), John being an ass, hurt-comfort, swearing, and inclusions of other thunderbolts characters.
Words: 4K
A/N: IT FEELS SO GOOD TO BE BACK! Hey team, your eyes don't deceive you. I have been writing this for way too long but I felt inspired after watching Thunderbolts (10/10, great movie) a long time ago but never really had the time to write. So, here is a little something sweet for the kids ;)... don't get used to me posting, this was just a moment of inspiration! thank you for all the support over the years, I've missed you guys!
Masterlist
You remember the cold, the dark, the damp. The rotten smell of burnt flesh and bleach, every so often, the metallic scent of blood.
In that cell, you stayed curled in on yourself, vision blurred from the green vines that slowly grew around you. The growing green from your body helped you keep track of the days; you’d attempt to measure how long they grew every once in a while.
When you signed on to be part of a new study, you didn’t know it was Hydra. Now, lying in the cell, you wondered how you had been so blind. The entire process was sketchy; you never felt safe, yet the money was good enough to keep you on board.
It had started with needles, many. The small holes poked in your arms were now sprouting vines; you had yet to gain control over any growth. While the advertised purpose of the study was to understand the regeneration of cells, the cells that were regenerating were plant cells, not human cells.
The scientists continued to poke holes in you, and the needles became larger. Soon, when they would take your blood for testing, it was a dark green, sap-like. The tests soon became infrequent, and you were no longer their focus as the purpose of creating this thing had begun to blur. Soon enough, you stayed in your cell for so long the vines practically swallowed you whole.
“Hey!” a voice snapped you out of your thoughts as you peered into the all-too-familiar Hydra cell, “you with me or not?”
There had been a few recon missions before, but they were at abandoned warehouses or hydra bases; all without any risk of combat. Some were on your own; they were that easy, and others were with a partner, typically Ava or Yelana.
But now, you were with John. He stood further in front of you with a stern look. You both had already taken down a few Hydra operatives, yet you could hear the boots rushing down; there were more coming. Though this wasn’t the exact Hydra base, although you couldn’t be certain, that cell brought you back to a place you swore you’d never end up in again.
“Yeah,” you whispered, “yeah, I’m with you.”
As the footsteps grew closer to your vines, now adored with thorns, they wrapped around your hands to create a club. Right as the operatives crashed onto the floor, John began shooting. From behind him, you wiped your vines along the ground at the speed of a rope; they coiled around the operatives, the thorns stabbing them deep. With a quick tug, the thousands of thorns ripped their skin. With another, the vines pulled the men back toward you. You watched as they tried to grab anything to stop. You noticed one of the operatives grabbed a gun as he was pulled across the floor, but another vine was quick to flick it out of his hand.
The operatives who hadn’t been shot by John point-blank feared your wrath and began to run, more vines exploded from your body and snatched their ankles as well. It seemed they had a lack of backup, and you had more time, quickly constricting them to death.
“Fuck!” you screamed, the man you had previously left defenceless had a knife, he had slashed the vine closest to him, which finished the final squeeze to kill their partner. He was the only operative left alive. John quickly shot him dead as the rest of your vines contracted. The vine he slashed had shriveled to a tenth of its size and was brown. There wasn’t much time to save the part of you, you knew what needed to be done.
The brittle vine, now looking more like a stick, could fit in both of your hands. It had lost all its thorns. Though it was rare that your vines were cut off in the present day, it was a common part of the many Hydra tests. The only positive from those tests was that you now knew the ins and outs of your powers. Without a second thought, you shoved the vine in your mouth, feeling the brittle plant grind down as you chewed. Thankfully, without the thorns, you swallowed it quickly; the taste never got better, but this was mandatory.
You could only assume Hydra also thought your abilities were unlimited, while technically this was true; the vines were finite over a short period of time. The many instances where your protruding vines were severed, mixed with short periods between tests in the Hydra facility, you figured out you only had so much when you had escaped.
Wanting to rid yourself of this curse, you attempted to grow all the vines out of your system and painfully cut them off. As you lay in an abandoned apartment in Europe with piles of vines surrounding you, you wept at the pain of what you thought was the only way forward. The joy you felt after attempting to grow them again was unmatched; for a moment, you felt normal. But the next day, after exhaustion took over your body the night before, a tiny sprout appeared. You still had that curse inside of you.
Years later, when you had come to accept your gift, you started to experiment with your powers. The act of eating your vines to let them resurrect faster was not your first test; it came in a moment of desperation and starvation. It was now something you did, as normal as putting a band-aid on a cut or grabbing a sweater after a cold draft passes by.
With how quiet it was, you thought John had gone to the jet, the mission was complete, and he was not known for waiting for his teammates. You stood and turned around, heading to the door to see him standing still, his mouth slightly agape.
“What?” Your voice betrayed you, gravely from the yelling during the mission.
John scoffed, “What the fuck do you mean what?” he tried to continue, but was left speechless, “you just-why-” he shook his head and scoffed, “you’re a freak.”
As if that didn’t plunge a dagger into your heart, he turned and headed outside, not even looking back. Leaving you to stand there speechless, bile burning the back of your throat. You couldn’t sit in that for too long; you swallowed it down and moved forward.
Your vision fuzzed as you sat on the jet opposite John. As your mind is filled with violence, the dark, and the cruel. Your fingers mindlessly began to pick at your nails and cuticles. As you tore small pieces of your skin without care, you began to think of the many times you did that action back in captivity. Your memory also reminded you of the many times you were called a freak by the scientists.
Sitting in a chair you’d find at a hospital, adorned with handcuffs and restraints, you’d pick your nails as you waited for them to set up the next experiment. Though the equipment in the Hydra facilities was found in hospitals, the environment itself was the exact opposite, except for the make-shift laboratory.
The room was extremely bright compared to the holding cell and the rest of the building. This intense light came from the fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling. You hadn’t seen a window in ages. The amount of what seemed to be stadium lights was uncalled for; the doctors wore sunglasses due to the intense reflections the sterile room caused. The only colour was what reflected on the what you assumed to be, one-way mirror. Even then, the white lab coats and white hospital gown didn’t give much colour either. Before, in the clothes you turned up to study in, there was something familiar you could look at instead of the large needles driving into your skin.
One testing day was specifically burned into your memory. One of the first, you remember seeing your clothes, though ripped, in the mirror. The testing had been vigorous; the entire day consisted of burning sensations in your veins and headaches, enough to drive you to almost pass out.
“Take five,” the ominous voice said from a speaker, most likely from the observation room on the other side of the mirror. The two doctors left after putting down their instruments and discarding their surgical-looking scrubs.
They never gave you five; you stayed chained to the chair. As you fought for consciousness, the small tick played through the speaker. Anticipating they were going to say something to you, you lulled your head toward the mirror, eyes barely staying open.
“This isn’t working,” one of them said quickly, “I mean, what the fuck do we need a plant-person for? We have the Winter Soldier for fuck sakes…” They were speaking in a hushed tone; it was evident they had hit the button accidentally.
“I don’t know, but we do what we are told, you know this,” a different voice replied, “Who knows why they want a…I don’t even know what to call it…”
“A fucking freak is what you call-”
The microphone clicked off, and you were left with that statement.
That day was so memorable because it was the day you gave in, the day you realized this test would never end, you’d never get that money, you’d never get to see your family again. It was the first time you’d cried while in their control; you had lost all hope that this was going to end well.
As you went to wipe your eyes, you were reminded once more of your inability to escape; your hands were still restrained to the table.
The jostle of touchdown startled you awake. Before you could think, you stood. It had been a while since the mission, and you were confused why you were still sweating, but when you reached up to wipe your cheek, you realized it was a tear.
“You good?” John asked, as if he wasn’t the one who sent you into that spiral.
There was nothing you could say to him, nothing kind. You left the jet and headed inside, looking off the balcony of the landing pad at the Watchtower. John’s footsteps were close behind you, but you didn’t care to acknowledge him anymore; you wanted to be alone.
Ava was the first to see you both. “How did-” she cut herself short. You didn’t look over at her sitting on the couch, but you heard John’s footsteps fade; you knew he was going to talk to her. You walked through the halls to take the stairs to avoid any direct confrontation. If you could finalize the report now, then you’d be in the clear to hide away for as long as you needed.
The stairs were never easy, especially when getting to the mission control center. When you finally made it, you were out of breath, walking quickly to the computer room. You could finally breathe normally when you made it there. The room was empty. There were only six computers, but you took the furthest one from the door, confining yourself to the corner.
You couldn’t even read what you were typing; the tears you had held in slowly fell down your face, and you made no effort to wipe them away. Your mind was everywhere except the mission; it was stuck in the past, all because of one word. Now, you weren’t just upset about being called a freak; you were also upset with how upset you were getting, kicking yourself for how much that word still affected you.
The report was complete, but you weren’t sure if it was accurate. John would have to do his report as well, and you hoped he’d do a decent job. There was no way you were going to proofread anything, you just wanted to hide as soon as possible.
Clicking the final save and upload buttons, you stood from your spot, ready to run to your room. After shutting everything down, you turned on a dime, making your way to the elevator because it was second nature. Your mind was racing; you didn’t think to take the stairs again, ensuring you could hide from everyone. As you watched one elevator make its way up, your stomach dropped, you silently hoped no one was on it, and no one would run into you.
But that did not happen. The doors opened with the familiar “going up,” but you saw Bucky already inside. He didn’t say anything at first, you just stepped in and turned your back to him, reaching out but halting when the button for the floor you lived on was already illuminated.
“I was coming up to check on you,” his voice cut through the silence, “Ava said you went straight upstairs, I wanted to make sure you were okay.” He hadn’t moved, staying planted behind you.
Clenching your jaw tight as he spoke, the flash of your face when you first walked in didn't show signs that you were crying. Yet, from the way he was talking, you knew he knew something was wrong. “Well, I’m okay, so…” Your breath betrayed you, a shaky inhale blew your cover. He said your name softly, and you felt his hand on your shoulder. “I-” more tears gathered in your eyes as you turned to face him.
“Twenty-eighth floor.” The doors had opened.
“Can I walk you to your room?” He said as he turned you again and kept his arm around your shoulder, “Maybe we can talk once we get there?”
“I think I want to be alone for a bit,” you whispered, reaching your door and keeping your back to him.
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Though he was concerned, he still reached forward, grabbing your shaking hand to help you put your key in. The closer he got, the more he felt it, “You’re really shaking, can I please come in for a bit?"
As the door opened, you wrapped your arms around yourself, and vines slowly began to grow around you, forming a make-shift cocoon. “Can we not talk just yet?” These vines were different; they were thornless and silky. Bucky watched as you hugged yourself further; all he could do was nod. He guided you to your bed and helped you lie down.
“You don’t even want to get out of your suit?” he spoke softly with your back turned to him. You felt the bed dip as he sat down. With his back against your bedframe and his legs stretched out, he could peer over to see a sliver of your face; however, the vines continued to cocoon you, and he was losing visibility.
For what felt like an hour, he stayed with you. Maybe he had fallen asleep, maybe he was staring at the wall, maybe he was staring at you. The tight wrapping of the vines had calmed you down a bit; every once in a while, you’d draw a shaky breath, but a deep breath nonetheless.
Bucky knew a thing or two about silent presence. This ability you both shared led to your close relationship; something grey and unlabeled.
When the news travelled to Europe about The New Avengers, you sat in front of the television of your small and half-vacant apartment. This was different from the first Avengers; this was a group of outsiders who managed to use their powers to save what looked like their friend. As you sat on the floor, you leaned forward, feeling a pull toward this group that could be your new family, one made of outsiders.
After being welcomed to the already formed group, you still felt like an outcast. It was naive of you to think you’d be accepted immediately. Ava was the first person you were really drawn to. The two of you would talk about your many issues with your powers and your experience being tested on.
It was Bucky who made the largest impression. You were sitting outside in the sun, something you found crucial in the workings of your powers. There wasn’t any music, journals, or even sketch books; you were just sitting there. You didn’t know what to expect, who was what was to come with the footsteps approaching.
“Hey,” Bucky’s voice came from beside you as he sat on the grass, “do you mind if I sit with you?” You looked over to see a tan sketch book in his hands, accompanied by a few pencils.
“No, I don’t mind,” you spoke softly and looked back toward the sun. It slowly began to fall as the sky changed to a warm orange, the clouds barely containing the soft shine.
Bucky did as he said; he sat with you; nothing else. He didn’t make small talk or begin to hum; he just sketched beside you. When you took a deep breath, he didn’t look over expectantly, didn’t ask what was wrong. He just took a deep breath with you, as if you reminded him to breathe too.
Later, when the sun was almost gone and the sky was a mix of hues, a chill shook your whole body.
“Cold?” he asked, softly shutting his book and wrapping the elastic around the cover to keep it shut.
“Yeah,” you looked over at him for the first time that entire evening, “want to go in?” you asked as you stood. He nodded and stood with you. “What were your drawings?”
As the two of you walked back to the Watchtower, he took the elastic off again, flipping open the page to show an extremely detailed sketch of a suit. “It’s for Yelena; she wants something that has the capacity to hold the maximum weapons.” He laughed at the thought, “and I’ve been trying different hobbies and…” he took a moment, “Steve was a great artist, so…”
“It looks amazing,” you spoke as he reached forward to get the door before you. “Thanks,” you whispered.
“Thank you,” he nodded, “we should do that again, knock on my door when you’re going out, okay?”
After that, you had found comfort in one another, spending time together with very little conversation. He was a calming presence, and you believed he felt the same way about you, too. When you were with him, there wasn’t any pressure to entertain him; you felt comfortable existing beside each other.
Slowly, your vines began to retract, and you rolled over to face him. Peering up, you saw him already looking at you. Once everything was fully retracted, he sent you a soft smile, “Ready to talk?”
With a nod, you sat up, facing him with your legs crossed. You told him about the mission, how your vines were cut off, and the subsequent eating of those vines. This didn’t faze Bucky, as he had witnessed this before, once when you accidentally shut a door on a vine not yet fully retracted.
“...I thought John had left for the jet, but no, he called me a freak.” You whispered, and you could see Bucky’s face change from concern to anger in a matter of moments. “It’s stupid, one little name causing me this much…pain,” you looked over at the wall, his stare pouring further deeper. “But I can’t help it, they used to call me a freak.”
After a moment of silence, you looked over at him again, immediately recognizing his jaw repeatedly clenching. With a deep breath, he nodded, taking his turn to look at the wall across the room. “I’m sorry he did that,” he managed to spit out, “I will go talk to him-”
“James, no-” you tried to reach for his arm, but he was already standing.
He shook his head, “James, yes,” he rolled his shoulders back, “I’ll be back in a moment.”
As the elevator descended, he couldn’t help but shake his head with a sadistic laugh. He wasn’t going to let something that made you that upset go without any consequences. As the doors opened, he didn’t even know what he would say or how he would approach this.
On one hand, he was the leader. Should this be a meeting? Should there be HR? He didn’t even know if it should be him talking to John. But on the other hand, the metal one, he wanted to sucker-punch John with it.
“John.” he barked as he walked into the common room. Everyone was there.
Ava spoke before anyone else, “Where’s y/n? Is she okay?”
“No.” His eyes stared fixed on John, “she’s not okay, she’s currently cocooned in her room, extremely upset.”
John looked around, “What did I do?” he laughed, “The mission went perfectly.”
Bucky walked over to him, towering over him, “Really?”
John wasn’t going down without a fight; he stood as well. The two stood dangerously close, both with clenched fists.
“Alright,” Yelena stood and physically got between them, “I just did a deep clean and would love to keep the couch this colour, opposed to red.” She turned to Bucky, “What happened?”
“John here called y/n a freak,” he spat out, and for a moment, no one said anything.
“That’s it?” Yelena fully turned toward Bucky.
“Yelena,” Ava sounded hurt.
John laughed, “I can’t even remember saying that, it’s not a big-”
Bucky took a step forward, “it is a big deal, you dick.” Yelena took a step back. “Guess what we all are?” he held his arms open to the group sitting on the couch, “we’re all freaks, we’re all science experiments!” he shouted, “we were forced into lives we didn’t want, into responsibility that we never knew of and then were left like fucking trash when we didn’t serve them anymore!”
Ava walked over, “I was called a freak before getting out, I was called so many names- so many things you’d never want anyone saying to your child.”
Bucky nodded, “We were tortured, tested on, held captive, and brainwashed all against our will. Just because you chose to be one of us, to take that serum, does not make you any better than us.”
John put his hands up in surrender, “I don’t think that I’m better than you.”
“You think you’re more-human than us, cleaner than us, more worthy than us.” Bucky clenched his jaw again, “all because you wanted to be one of us and then you turn your back, calling her a name that struck a nerve.” he turned his direction toward Yelena, “so yes, that’s it, but that’s enough to make her upset - and enough to piss me off.”
“John,” Ava stood beside Bucky, “you have no idea how much you hurt her, because you haven’t experienced the dark side of these powers, the road to being a superhuman.” She shook her head, “You want fame, strength, power, yet you don’t want the complications, the stigmatization, the isolation that comes with it.”
“It's the two sides of the same coin,” Bucky agreed, “she’s no different than you, you’re no different than Ava, or Yelena, or Alexie, or even Bob - or me.”
John sat back down, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…” he didn’t even know where to begin.
“That’s because you don’t know what it’s really like, because you chose to be like this, unlike us,” Ava spoke softly, turning to leave the room.
Bucky shook his head and walked away, heading back for the elevator. Back on the twenty-eighth floor, he headed straight to your room, knocking before entering. His heart broke a little more when he saw you had gotten out of your suit and under the sheets, fast asleep.
You stirred when the bed dipped, “Did you talk to him?” you whispered, pulling the comforter back over Bucky, who had lain down; this wasn’t the first time.
“I talked to everyone,” he faced you, staring into your bloodshot eyes. “Ava backed me up, too. She understood what I was getting at.
“Thank you,” you whispered, getting closer and wrapping your limbs around him. He rolled onto his back so your head rested on his chest, and he quickly wrapped you up in his arms.
One hand petted your hair as he saw your eyelids close again, “of course,” punctuating that with a kiss on your forehead. “I wouldn’t have met you without your powers, I’m glad you’re special like me.” he felt you nuzzle closer, “you’re special, beautiful, and funny,” his fingers ran through your hair, “and you’re caring and strong and-” he cut himself off, looking down.
Your vines began to wrap around him, and a soft smile graced your face as you slept. With a small laugh, he shook his head, letting the vines pull him closer to you than he’d ever been before. This was the kind of shared silence he could get used to. He closed his eyes as well and joined you in a restful sleep.
I loved this one! The bond between reader and Bucky but also between reader and Ava are so special and sweet. The way you described the experiments was very well written, you can see how dehumanizing they were. I also liked how you wrote the powers! 🥰
you're not the most innocent girl on campus, and everyone knows it - and when you overhear bucky's friends talking shit, you can't help but wonder if you deserve to be with him.
warning: frat!bucky x f!reader, mature themes, slut shaming, insecure!reader, angst, physical violence, protective!bucky, hurt/comfort, fluff.
a/n: this isn't the super long tower fic i've promised you or even the fwb!bucky i mentioned but instead a secret third thing.
this is dedicated to shawn mendes. i don't care much for you or your music, shawn, but my friend dragged me to your concert and. you brought niall fucking horan out and i genuinely couldn't stop crying so. thanks for that experience and this is named after and slightly inspired by your song bad reputation
The beat is so loud you feel it in your chest, banging and throbbing and making your whole body shake. You've been drinking, but not too much - you still want to be able to go home with Bucky later on.
Just as you think about him, you see him, standing on the other side of the room. Steve's saying something to him but he doesn't seem to be listening, just staring as you dance with your friends. This is new for you. He isn't just looking at you with lust. It's deeper than that.
"He's so in love with you!" Jane yells over the music as she grins at you. "Can you guys get married, already?"
You snort at her suggestion, not allowing your subconscious to take her seriously for even a second. You're not exactly the type to be in a real relationship, but after a few weeks of sleeping together, you and Bucky realized you wanted more. He's not your boyfriend, by any means, but you're seeing each other, and for the first time in your life, you can imagine falling in love.
"I literally don't recognize you," Belle adds with disbelief. "Like, who are you? Since when are you a lover girl, hello?"
"Chill out, you guys," You say with an eye-roll. "You've both dated plenty of people; you don't see me overreacting about it."
"Yeah, 'cause you never date, like, ever!" Belle replies. "I was beginning to think you were incapable of feelings."
"Ouch!" You yell, just as Bucky and Steve make their way over to you. While Steve shmoozes Belle and Jane, you grin up at Bucky who wraps his arm around your shoulder.
"Having fun?" He asks, bringing his lips to your ear.
"Tons," You reply. "You?"
"Always fun watching you," He says with a smirk. "Let me know when you're ready to go."
"Not yet," You say, pulling his shirt. "I've still got some dance left in me."
"No rush, baby," He mumbles, moving his hand down to your waist which he rubs. "I'm gonna go outside for a smoke."
"Might join you in a bit," You tell him.
With that, Bucky leans down and kisses you, holding your body against his.
If it wasn't so enjoyable kissing him, you'd pull away as soon as Belle and Jane started screaming, but instead you stick your tongue down his throat while they cheer you on.
He pulls away with a smug grin while you just roll your eyes. "Love the enthusiasm, guys," He says to Belle and Jane before giving your ass a squeeze and making his way to the kitchen with Steve.
Before the girls can gush, you give them a glare. "I don't wanna hear it," You say sternly.
It looks like it physically pains them not to scream about how cute you and Bucky are together, but they manage to hold it in. The three of you continue dancing and drinking, until it gets to that point of the night where you'd appreciate nothing more than your warm bed.
You tell the girls you're planning to find Bucky and leave before you wander through the house, assuming he's come back inside by now. It isn't as big as the frat house Bucky lives in, but it's still just as confusing to navigate when you're half drunk and the only source of light are strings of tiny LED bulbs on the ceilings.
When you spot Jared, one of Bucky's frat brothers, head into a side room, you make your way over, thinking Bucky is likely in there with his friends. Just as you're about to walk in, though, you hear your name being said, and you can't help but eavesdrop.
"Y/N, though? Seriously?" One of them says, and it sounds like Devon. Though their voices are slightly muffled, you can still tell who's talking.
"I don't know, man, he seems to really like her," Jack chimes in.
They're talking about you and Bucky.
"That's fucking crazy," Jared says while laughing heartily. "I mean, this is Y/N we're talking about here."
"Since when does Bucky go for girls like that, though?" Hunter asks incredulously. "Like, out of fucking nowhere, too."
"I thought he just fucked her that first time to see what all the hype was about," Mason says with a snort.
"Yeah, then the idiot fell in love," Devon replies.
"How the fuck do you catch feelings for someone who's fucked all your friends?"
You feel sick to your stomach.
The boys burst into laughter, and you could swear you even hear some high-fives.
"Nah, Bucky's fucked it," Jack says between laughs. "He's giving a whore the girlfriend treatment. He's lost his damn mind. The bitch is ran-through."
"Man, I'm sure I've still got videos from when I fucked her."
With that, you spin on your heel and speed away, your heart pounding so hard you think it might burst out of your chest. And you're not sure you'd mind if it did.
In desperate need of a drink, you make your way to the kitchen. When you get there, though, all you can do is stand at the island, numb. There are a few people taking up space, including Steve who's standing by the back door, talking to a girl.
"Woah, are you high?" Brock asks you with a smug look on his face. "You look fucked."
"Go away," You can just about find the energy to whisper.
"Aw, don't be like that," He whines, snaking his arm around your waist. "C'mon, you used to be fun, before Barnes locked you down. Wanna go find somewhere quiet?"
"No, thank you," You grumble through gritted teeth before pulling out of his grip and storming out the back door, past Steve who looks concerned when he sees the look on your face, and then confused when he sees Brock hot on your trail.
The fresh air feels soothing on your face as you step out into the yard, finding a quiet spot by the fence that's untouched by anyone's vape smoke.
"Y/N, come on," Brock calls out as he strides over, holding out his arms. "You can't seriously be avoiding me because of Barnes."
"It's not because of him; it's because I don't want anything to do with you," You reply curtly.
He sighs, resting a hand on the fence and lowering his voice. "I'm sorry, okay? Can you blame me for wanting you?" He asks, softening his voice. "You were the best fuck I ever had. Just gimme one more."
Meanwhile, Steve's also ventured out into the garden, and he makes his way to Bucky who hasn't yet seen you. Steve nudges his side before nodding towards you. "Hey," He begins. "What's going on over there?"
Bucky frowns, looking around the garden before his eyes land on you. And, more importantly, on Brock, who's getting a little close for comfort. You look obviously agitated, so Bucky hands Steve his beer before walking over.
"No means no, Brock," You spit. "I'm not in the fucking mood for your bullshit tonight."
"Since when were you such a fucking tease?" He asks with a frown, all the softness gone from his voice. "The good girl act doesn't suit you, babe, especially not in that tiny skirt. How about I take you to my car and you suck my cock, for old time's sake?" With that, he grabs your arm and pulls you closer, and before you get the chance to kick him in the balls, Bucky appears, and he's instantly grabbing Brock and punching him square in the jaw. In shock, you stand back as Bucky throws Brock to the ground and pummels him mercilessly.
Steve runs over and grabs Bucky's shoulders, pulling him off of Brock. "Alright, alright, I think that's enough," Steve says sternly, while Brock lays whimpering on the ground with a bloody face and what looks to be a broken nose.
"Fuck," You whisper, running your hands through your hair.
Though Bucky still doesn't look satisfied, one look at you makes his eyes soften, and he quickly makes his way to you. "C'mon, let's go," He says, taking your hand and walking you over to his car which is parked across the street.
Once you're both in the car, you sit in a short silence. The words his friends said race through your mind on repeat. Embarrassment and shame is all you can feel.
"Are you okay?" Bucky finally asks, breaking the silence.
You nod. "Thank you for doing that," You utter.
"Are you kidding? I've been waiting years for an excuse to beat that asshole up," He tells you, turning to you with a small grin.
Unable to find it in you to return his smile, you look down. "You shouldn't have had to do that. I'm sorry," You mumble, pulling on the hem of your skirt.
"The fuck do you have to be sorry for?" He asks with a frown.
You shake your head, still unable to make eye contact with him. Your voice is low, unenergised, defeated. "I... I'm not exactly a blank canvas, Buck. I'm not some innocent, pure, untouched thing. The past doesn't just cancel out now that I'm with you, it... it'll always be a part of me," You say, fiddling with the leather on the gear stick.
"Hey, now," Bucky begins, placing his hand on top of yours. "I already know full well you're the only person whose body count could rival mine."
You snort, looking up at him.
"I'm not pure or innocent either, so why would I ever expect or demand you to be?" He asks you, his brows furrowing. "I like you a lot, Y/N. I couldn't give a fuck about your past."
You wince, feeling your eyes start to sting. "I- I've slept with your friends," You remind him.
"And? I'm pretty sure I fooled around with Belle in freshman year," He retorts with a shrug.
"It's not the same," You claim, shaking your head.
"Why isn't it?" He challenges you, squeezing your hand.
The tears gathering in your eyes finally spill over.
Bucky cups your face, concern in his eyes as he strokes your cheeks with his thumbs. "What's wrong, baby? Where's this coming from, hmm? We both know we've been around in the past."
With a sniffle, you look away from his eyes. "I... I overheard your friends talking," You tell him, feeling your stomach flip.
"Saying what?" Bucky asks lowly, his face falling.
"Uh, I was looking for you just now," You begin. "I heard them talking about me, and I got curious so I listened. They were... saying I'm not your usual type, questioning why you're with me when you know what I'm like, and..." You trail off, not sure if you can repeat the rest.
"And?" Bucky presses, one of his hands moving to the back of your neck which he gently holds.
Deciding it's best to keep the gory details to yourself, you shake your head. "Nothing," You mumble, hoping he'll drop it but knowing better than to expect he will.
"Tell me," Bucky insists lowly.
"I don't wanna say it," You whisper. "Don't want you to hear it."
"Whatever it is, I promise you it will have no impact on my feelings for you," He tells you firmly. "Tell me exactly what they said."
So, you do. Wincing and cringing, you tell him the exact words they used, unable to look at his face to see his reaction.
You stare out the windscreen, at the dark sky, letting Bucky process what you've told him in silence. You feel awful. What if he agrees with them? What if he realizes they're right and he doesn't want anything to do with you?
His right hand is still around the back of your neck, the other is clenched into a fist on his thigh. After a gut-wrenching minute, he finally speaks.
"Was Steve in that room?" He asks, his voice gravelly.
"No," You answer quickly. "Steve- I saw him straight after in the kitchen."
Bucky nods. Then he opens the door and leaves the car.
You race to jump out the car and rush around it, following him back towards the house. "Bucky, stop!" You call out desperately. The last thing you want is for him to get into another fight.
He continues walking, ignoring you.
"Come back, Bucky!" You yell, getting the attention of a few people in the backyard. "If you respect me at all, you will stop, right now."
That finally gets him to stand still. He turns to you while you catch up to him, pure rage on his face.
"Please don't say anything to them," You beseech him, feeling nauseous again.
His eyes are dark. "I don't plan on saying much," He utters.
"Bucky, please, you've been in enough fights for one night," You say, feeling your eyes sting for the second time tonight. "Please."
He says nothing, hands still in fists at his side.
You take in a shaky breath, your voice no louder than a whimper. "I just... I just wanna go home. I don't wanna be here anymore," You manage to get out before the tears begin to stream.
Bucky lets out a sigh, his features softening as he takes a few steps closer to you and wipes your wet cheeks. "Okay. Okay, baby, let's go home," He says gently, and you know it's taking all his will-power not to storm into the house.
In relief, you nod. "Thank you," You whisper, taking his hand in yours.
He swallows, before glancing back. "Let me just go get my phone from Steve," He says casually, but you're not buying it.
You give him a flat look.
"Seriously, he has my phone," Bucky insists, and you know he isn't lying about that. "Look, he's only in the kitchen. I'll be in and out in fifteen seconds."
Taking in a deep breath, you release his hand. "If you see any of them, please don't say or do anything," You say sternly.
"Okay," He replies, taking your hand back and kissing it.
"Promise?" You question with a raised brow.
He lets out a soft laugh. "I promise. Now, get back in the car, and I'll be back before you can even put your seatbelt on," Bucky claims, giving your hand one last kiss before turning to the house.
Six minutes pass before he re-enters the car.
He sits down and starts the car without a word. His knuckles are even more bruised than before.
You turn to face him with an expectant look. He doesn't look at you. You release a sigh, and place your hand on top of his on the gear stick. "Take me home, Bucky," You mumble.
Leaning across to you, he gently kisses your lips, before doing exactly that.
bucky masterlist
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I Think I’ve Seen This Film Before | Bucky Barnes x Reader
I am back to writing after moving cities, starting a new job, going through a death in the family, and breaking up with my ex! Please enjoy the angst.
Word count: 20.4k
Warnings: anxiety, talk of cheating, vomit
The persistent buzzing was wearing on your last nerve.
“Buck!” you called, “your phone is ringing- again!”
Bucky’s phone sat on the opposite side of the kitchen island, vibrating into oblivion, just as it had been for the past few minutes. Part of you wanted to answer the damn thing and put a stop to whatever telemarketer spam was plaguing your boyfriend’s phone. And if it weren’t for the cookie dough covering your hands, maybe you would’ve.
And so, you called to him again.
“I think it’s probably pretty important!” You let out a sigh, “Cause they won’t stop fucking calling.”
Bucky chuckled from down the hall. Damn his enhanced senses. Not even words mumbled under your breath could escape his hearing.
“Just let it go to voicemail,” he hollered, content to ignore his ringing phone.
Bucky never had much affection for his phone. He felt it was more of a bother than an advancement. That it didn’t fit comfortably into his life. He never wanted to be this accessible. This available to other people. Until he met you.
Overnight, his opinion changed. Texting, he decided, was his favorite thing about the modern world. No longer did he have to wait for a response to the love letters he drafted. No longer did he have to hang around the mailbox hoping for an envelope stained with your lipstick. He could simply fire off an adoring text, and your replies were almost instantaneous.
But it was uncommon for his phone to blow up like this when the two of you were together. When you were apart, it buzzed every few minutes with your responses to his loving messages. But when the two of you were both home, nestled in the apartment you shared, Bucky abandoned his phone. In his eyes, everything and everyone else could wait.
He often ditched the thing upon returning home, leaving it on the counter or the coffee table. He didn’t squirrel it away into his pocket or keep it on his bedside table. No, he disconnected from it completely. Happily. He only ever wanted to be present with you. To be completely free from distraction when you were around.
But whoever was calling didn’t get the memo. They called once, twice, five times in a row.
You’d called out to Bucky every time, letting him know that a very persistent individual was eager to get ahold of him. But he didn’t seem to care. He was too busy folding and putting away your laundry in the bedroom. Too content in this perfect picture of domestic bliss.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said as he finally swept through the kitchen, empty laundry basket in hand. “I’ll worry about it tomorrow.”
“It seems like something,” you told him. “What if it’s Sam or Joaquin? What if something’s wrong?”
Bucky thought it over for a moment. His distaste for his phone was strong, but his concern for his friends was infinitely more powerful. And while he didn’t want to be the kind of boyfriend who spent all of his time occupied by his screen, he opted to give the missed calls a glance. Just in case.
A familiar number- a number he hadn’t seen in ages- was splashed across his notifications. It wasn’t saved in his contacts anymore, but he’d recognize it anywhere. Before he had a chance to wonder why it was plaguing him, his phone began vibrating once again. That same number, one he saw as an ancient relic of a past life, illuminated his screen for a sixth time.
He stared at his buzzing phone. He didn’t want to answer. Had no interest in speaking to this person. But just as he tried to place his phone back on the counter, something gnawed at him. Nagged at him. Told him there had to be a good reason for these calls.
He eyed you for a short moment and answered the call.
“Um… hello?”
There was no way this was Sam or Torres, that much you knew. But who else would call Bucky six times in a row? Who else would bother him on a Saturday? Whose call would he answer while at home with you? Nat was more of a texter, and Yelena had broken her phone in an “incident” only a few days prior. You found yourself at a loss for answers.
“Yeah, I know,” Bucky said into the phone, almost irritated. “Did you need something, or-”
He listened for a long time, throwing in the occasional “yeah” or “okay”. Whoever was on the other end, he didn’t seem thrilled to be speaking to them. But he was hearing them out. Giving them a chance. He even reached for a piece of scratch paper and a pen and jotted down a few notes here and there. You and your cookie dough sat in suspense.
“Um, alright. I’m going to…” His eyes found yours, “Let me think it over and I’ll get back to you.”
And just like that, the mysterious call was over.
Bucky slipped his phone into his pocket. It wasn’t like him.
“Well?” you stared at him, expectant. “Who was that?”
Bucky let out a sigh. His head fell an inch or two. He smoothed the crease between his brows with the pad of his thumb. He stayed this way for a long, quiet moment. Until finally, he, asked:
“Do you remember me telling you about Tara?”
Tara. Tara.
“Yeah.”
How could you forget?
He’d told you about his ex-girlfriend Tara a few times. She’d been a fellow special agent with SWORD; that’s how they met. The way Bucky described it, their breakup was amicable and quiet, no dramatics. He said it was for the better. That they simply grew apart.
Sam told a different story.
After nearly three years together, Tara left. She got a job offer on the other side of the world. She didn’t know how long she’d be gone, didn’t know if she’d ever come back. And while Bucky wanted to stay in Brooklyn, wanted to stay in the only real home he’d ever known, he promised her he’d follow. That he’d go with her, if that’s what she wanted.
But she didn’t ask him to tag along.
Instead, she ended things. She boarded a jet and began an entirely new life, a life that didn’t include Bucky.
And it destroyed him.
He wanted, more than anything, for her to be happy. Wanted her to pursue the opportunity. But her departure ate through him like acid. It hollowed him out, turning him into a shell of himself. He had loved her so much. So deeply. So endlessly. They talked about the future they’d share. About getting married. He’d considered their relationship a sure thing. A guarantee.
And then she was gone.
Sam helped him pick up the pieces. But it took time. A long time. Sam said he barely recognized his friend at times; he was more of a husk than a person.
An intense feeling of unease settled into your stomach. Why had Tara called? Was she finally back in town? Did she want a second chance with Bucky? Would he leave you for her? Were you just his placeholder until she returned?
“Well, she’s back in the city,” Bucky told you.
Your heart dropped. A pang of anxiety struck you like lightning, but you refused to show it.
“Oh yeah?” you asked casually. Maybe too casually.
“Yeah. And she wants my help.”
It took you off guard.
“With what?”
Bucky sat down on one of the barstools that lived under the kitchen island. He scratched at his stubble. “Her new organization thinks they found another underground sect of Hydra.”
“Oh.” You stomach twisted. “Shit.”
Bucky nodded. “They want me to come work with them for a while. Help them handle it. Cause I’m,” he let out a small, cynical laugh, “Cause I’m the expert, or whatever.”
A small part of you, the selfish part, was relieved. Tara had called about a work matter, nothing more. There was nothing romantic to it. But a much larger part of you fell stricken with worry.
Anytime something Hydra related came up in Bucky’s work, it knocked him off kilter. His nightmares returned. His anxiety worsened. It pushed him to the precipice, forcing him to cling to his newfound peace by his fingernails. It killed you to see him that way. Killed you to know that he was hurting.
But he refused to back down when it came to Hydra. Refused to shy away from the harsh reality that Hydra was still lurking. Still skulking in the shadows. And no matter how it affected him, he was dedicated to toppling every last Hydra holdout. For the good of the world. For himself.
“So, what do you think?” He stared at you expectantly.
You stared right back.
“Um, what do I think?”
You weren’t quite sure what he was asking. Or why. This decision was entirely up to him. It was his mental health on the line. His trauma being unearthed all over again. But you offered him your opinion regardless.
“Well, I think it’s… it’s going to be hard on you,” you said. “Every time you deal with Hydra, it has consequences. But I know you want to take them down- rightfully so.” You shrugged, “So you should do whatever feels right to you. If it gets to be too much, you can always take a step back. And I’ll be here for you the whole time. So-”
Bucky’s smile put a stop to your words.
You couldn’t help but laugh a little, “What?”
“I meant, what do you think about me working with Tara?” He asked. “Don’t get me wrong, your answer was great- perfect, actually. And I definitely needed to hear that,” he smiled at you again, totally smitten. “But I need to know if you’re comfortable with this. And be honest with me, okay? Because if this makes you feel weird, I won’t do it.”
“Oh, um…” you shrugged.
The truth was complicated. And though you would rather Bucky not work with the previous love of his life, what option did you have? How could you possibly ask him not to take this job? He felt a responsibility to eliminate Hydra, to tear them apart the way they did him. And you weren’t going to get in his way.
In the grand scheme of things, Bucky working with his ex didn’t matter. If partnering up with Tara meant cutting off yet another head of the snake, it was more than justified.
You swallowed to your immature, childish, petty feelings about the situation, and put on a smile.
“I mean, it’s a work thing. It’s not like she called you up and asked you to marry her,” you forced a laugh. “We’re all mature adults here. If you want to do it, then you should. I know how much it means to you that Hydra is wiped off the map. And I’m not going to stop you just because the two of you used to be-”
The words ‘in love’ got stuck in your throat.
“Used to be together,” you said. “Plus, I trust you. I’m not worried about you straying.”
You were, in fact, very worried about him straying. About him spending time with Tara. About him remembering just how much he loved her. About dormant feelings suddenly awakening. In a previous life, she was ‘the one’ for him. The love of his life. And you feared that she’d returned to reclaim her title.
But before the dread could set in, he rose from his seat and made the way around the counter. He wrapped his arms around your waist and settled his chin in the crook of your neck.
You feared he’d notice your thundering pulse. Your unsteady breathing.
“You definitely don’t have to worry about me straying,” he said, his breath fanning your skin. “Thank you for always being so understanding. I love you.”
You leaned back against him, eliminating what tiny space remained between your bodies. And for a split second, you felt at ease.
But the voice in the back of your head, the one that you’d wrongfully silenced in the past, told you this was a mistake. That this was the beginning of the end. It told you that you’d seen this film before and that the ending would by agonizing. It screamed at you, warning you that you were, once again, repeating a well-known pattern.
But you muzzled it, just like you had before.
Because, while the situation did have a haunting air of familiarity to it, Bucky was different. He was loving. He was trustworthy.
Wasn’t he?
Yes. Of course.
You chastised yourself for even wondering. For doubting. It wasn’t fair to saddle Bucky with the weight of your failed relationships. To be suspicious of him when he gave you no reason.
You wriggled until he loosened his grip, allowing you to turn around.
“And I love you,” you let your lips melt against his. “So, when do you start?”
It wasn’t so bad at first.
His days started early, much earlier than yours. He slipped out the door and into the dark morning before you woke each day, leaving you in an empty bed. Waking without him next to you, with his side of the bed empty and cold, stung.
Gone were the early morning chats over coffee. Gone were the shared showers before work. But you didn’t allow yourself too much time to mourn these lost moments with Bucky. They would return one day, you knew they would. Once his work with Tara’s organization was over, things would return to normal. You just had to be patient.
And while your shared morning routine was a temporarily put on hold, your usual evening schedule was alive and well.
The two of you cooked and ate dinner together every night, just as you always did. You shared a glass or two of wine. Did the dishes. And when the kitchen was clean, you’d curl up against Bucky’s side for a little tv time.
There was one notable difference, however. One noticeable change to your evenings, to your home as a whole.
Bucky’s phone never left his side. He always had it with him, either tucked into his pocket or cradled safely in his hand. It sat on his nightstand at bedtime, only inches away. It buzzed with emails, texts. And he refused to let them go unanswered, even for a few minutes.
Surely, he wasn’t doing it because he wanted to. Right? It was all business, all professional. It had to be. He was the expert, the authority on Hydra. He had to be reachable, that was all.
But his newfound habit didn’t pair well with his borderline constant comments about Tara.
“Tara said the funniest thing today.”
“Tara had a great idea.”
“Do you like this coffee? Tara introduced me to it.”
Tara.
Her name pinballed around inside your head, buzzing like a swarm of angry bees. It was loud, almost deafening. A deep, animal instinct screamed at you, warning you: something wasn’t right. He talked about her far too often and far too highly for this to be an innocent professional relationship. Surely, there was something amiss. Something going on between them behind closed doors.
There had, at one time, been so much love there. Was it really possible that that love died out?
The suspicions piled higher and higher as the days passed. Every time Bucky reached for his phone, a knot twisted in your stomach. Surely, Tara was sending him flirtatious texts. She had to be. You found yourself dying to dig through his phone. To investigate each and every message she sent. But you restrained yourself, never daring to break the trust you and Bucky had so carefully built.
After a short while, you found yourself hating Tara. Cursing her. Raging against her inside your own head. The stories you came up with, the horrible pictures you painted- they twisted her into a villain. An evil siren sent to sink her claws into the love of your life and steal him away.
It almost frightened you how easy it was for you to hate her. To hate someone you didn’t know.
And she hadn’t even done anything wrong.
But you couldn’t help it; you were jealous. Jealous of all the time she spent with Bucky. Jealous of how often he spoke with her. Jealous that, even when he was at home, she was still on his mind.
And you hated the feeling. Hated the immature thoughts that stirred inside your head. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t overcome the weight of the green-eyed monster on your back.
Two weeks into Bucky’s new gig, you stood at the kitchen counter, waiting for him. He was late. On a normal night, he returned home between six and six-thirty, but the clock neared seven and there was no sign of him. He didn’t answer your calls, didn’t respond to your texts. It wasn’t like him.
You started on dinner without him, though you couldn’t remember the last time you cooked a meal alone. The two of you always worked together, evenly sharing the labor of making dinner. It was part of your routine, one of your shared patterns. And ever since your morning routine was snatched out from under you, you grew to cherish the time spent making dinner with Bucky.
Suddenly, you felt startlingly alone.
You woke up alone. Got ready for work alone. Returned home to an empty apartment. And with Bucky otherwise occupied, you made dinner alone, too.
As eight o’clock rolled around, you once again fiddled with the tin foil covering the meal you’d so carefully prepared. After doing your best to keep it warm on the stove, a distinctive burning smell forced you to pull it from the burner. You supposed lukewarm and covered in foil was better than charred into oblivion.
As you tore another piece of foil from the roll and wrapped it tightly around the dish, your phone buzzed, and Bucky’s picture lit up your screen. All at once, you found your tight muscles relaxing.
A deep, calming sigh left your chest. Some silent, subconscious part of you had feared that something happened to him. That Hydra silenced him once and for all. That he couldn’t answer your calls because he was lying dead somewhere. It was a reality too horrible to even acknowledge. And so, you’d pushed it to the darkest corner of your mind and opted focused on dinner. But that didn’t stop your hands from shaking.
The tremors calmed a bit as you answered his call.
“Buck?”
“Hey, sweetheart,” he sounded out of breath. Hurried. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer- I’m so sorry I’m late. I got pulled into a last-minute meeting and it ran long.”
“That’s okay, it happens,” you told him. “Dinner’s ready. Will you be home soon?”
“Twenty minutes, I promise,” he told you. “Did you eat already?”
The question almost offended you. “Of course not, baby. I’ve been waiting for you.”
He let out a disappointed sigh, “Doll, you didn’t have to-”
“I wanted to. I’d much rather eat with you, even if it means waiting a while.”
He was quiet for a moment; you could almost see the sad smile spreading across his face. “You’re too good to me- you’re the best. I’ll be home soon, okay?”
And he was.
The two of you ate your room temperature dinner together and discussed your respective workdays. Bucky, of course, namedropped Tara more times than you could count. And by all accounts, she was incredible. It made you wonder when Bucky would realize that you couldn’t compare. That you couldn’t compete with her. On paper, she was his perfect match. She was his other half. Tara was whip smart and worldly. Hilarious. Gutsy. And absolutely deadly.
How could you compete against someone like that?
Sleep evaded you each night as you as you compared yourself to his lost love, to the one that got away. Over and over again, you listed your attributes against Tara’s, examining how you might stack up to her. You played out every possible scenario in your head. Not one of them ended with Bucky choosing you. And you couldn’t blame him.
His weekends were soon consumed by work. No longer did he spend his Saturdays and Sundays with you, browsing the farmers market and enjoying brunch. No longer did the two of you have movie marathons or bake fresh cookies. Instead, he spent his weekends at headquarters or locked in your home office. The two of you didn’t go on dates or spend time with friends. No, Bucky spent all of his time with Tara.
A month later, Bucky studied you over another late dinner.
“Are you feeling alright?” he asked.
He put down his fork and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead, your cheeks, searching for a fever.
“Um, yeah. I think so…” you eyed the hand pressed against your cheek. “Why?”
“Are you sure? You seem tired, baby.” He looked at you closely, examining the most minute details of your face. His gaze dropped to your plate, and he frowned at your virtually untouched meal. “Are you not hungry? Maybe you’re getting sick.”
A small sigh pushed through your lips.
It wasn’t at all what you needed to hear. Ever since Bucky started working with Tara, you feared he’d fall back under the spell of her otherworldly beauty, of her wit and charm, and leave you in the dust. The thought kept you up, driving you slowly insane each night. And knowing that you looked tried, that Bucky thought you looked sickly, drove another pang of anxiety into your chest.
“I just haven’t been sleeping well lately,” you told him. “It’s been- work has been really crazy.”
It was such an easy lie. You reached for it two days prior when Bucky asked why you’d bitten all the skin off your bottom lip. And it came in handy three days before that, when he asked why your nails were bitten down to the quick, why your cuticles were raw and bloodied.
“Oh, that’s right. Of course. I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He removed his hand from your cheek and placed it instead on your forearm. “Do you know when things will go back to normal?”
You simply shook your head.
And that was the last night you ate dinner together.
The following night, you found yourself back in the kitchen, cooking dinner alone once again. You’d never realized just how much you hated cooking until you had to do it by yourself. With Bucky around, you looked forward to making dinner every night. Looked forward to dancing in the kitchen and watching him chop vegetables with his expert knife skills. But without him, it became your most dreaded chore.
You glanced longingly at the clock and found a renewed sense of hope. It was nearly eight, which meant Bucky would be barreling through the front door and wrapping you in his arms in no time. You poured two glasses of wine and placed them on the table, allowing yourself a smile. He would be home soon.
At least, that’s what you thought.
Around nine-forty, your phone buzzed. Bucky’s name appeared in block letters across your screen. And before you could even say hello, he was speaking.
“Baby, hey. I don’t- I’m so sorry. I’m leaving right now, okay? I promise. I’m on my way.”
It took everything in you to keep your disappointment from seeping into your words. This wasn’t his fault- you knew it wasn’t. And it wasn’t fair of you to be upset with him. To make him feel worse. But you missed him. Desperately.
Never before had any of Bucky’s meetings lasted this long or run this late. You knew in your gut there was something going on. Something secretive and sinister. Something that would rip you to shreds.
The manufactured casual tone you adopted didn’t sound convincing to you, but you hoped he’d buy it. “It’s- don’t worry about it, Buck. Okay? It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not, doll. I didn’t- I was gonna be home normal time. But I couldn’t step away from this briefing.” His words came out in a flurry, “I’m so sorry, I should have at least called. This is- it’s not okay. I feel awful.”
“Don’t feel awful, baby. It happens.” You wondered if this ‘briefing’ included everyone from the team. Or if Bucky and Tara had been the only ones in attendance. “Um, dinner is in the fridge, okay? I made-”
“Please tell me you ate without me,” he nearly begged.
“Oh, um. Yeah. Yes. I did- I ate already.”
With crossed fingers, you hoped Bucky would believe your lie.
With Bucky MIA, you hadn’t even considered eating. Nothing sounded remotely appetizing. In fact, your stomach had tied itself into a thousand intricate, painful knots. The nausea crept in soon after, and the idea of eating dinner flew entirely out the window.
But it was easier to lie, to tell him you’d eaten. It would save him a little guilt. And if you could convince him that you’d already had your share, he wouldn’t ask about your lack of appetite.
But you adopted your best happy-go-lucky tone and pretended that you weren’t losing your mind.
“Sorry, Buck, I wasn’t planning on eating without you, but it got pretty late and-”
“No, no. I’m glad you ate. I’m sure you were starving,” he said. “I’ll be home soon, okay? I can’t wait to see you.”
He rushed through the front door twenty minutes later, apologies falling from his lips one after another. He scooped you into his arms and dotted kisses all over your face between “I’m sorrys”. And you assured him that all was well. But you had to wonder if his affections were genuine. If his apologies applied only to his late arrival, or if he’d committed some other transgression he’d yet to confess.
But you sat at the table with him anyway as he reheated the dinner you’d made by yourself. You listened to him tell you all about Tara’s brilliant work in the briefing. And you wondered how much longer you’d get to keep him.
Dinner became non-existent for you, as did most other meals. You did your best to stomach small, infrequent snacks here and there. But the anxiety of Bucky’s possible infidelity made it almost impossible to keep food down.
You still cooked, though. Regardless of the intense nausea, the biting stomach pains, you still managed to put together decent meals for him. You’d tuck the food neatly into Tupperware and stack it in the fridge, knowing damn well he’d never be home in time to eat it warm.
It was as if, after his first excessively late arrival, a seal had been broken. Never again did he return home at a reasonable time. He came through the door ever-later as the days dragged on. Nine-fifty. Ten-thirteen. Ten-thirty-five. Eleven. You did your best to stay awake, at least. To be there to greet him when he got home. But as his homecomings grew later and later, you found yourself dozing off before he’d even texted to let you know he was on his way home.
Some nights, he didn’t come home at all. You’d wake in the morning to find his side of the bed untouched. His boots missing from the front hall. On those mornings, it became obvious just how disconnected you were. On those mornings, you realized that the two of you were just ships passing in the nights. On those mornings, you wretched in the shower before work.
Every obvious warning sign was there. Every red flag. Every neon fucking sign pointed to the fact that Bucky was having an affair. And it threatened to eat you alive.
You’d never been so miserable. So heartbroken. Pain radiated through your chest and pulsed through your veins. Every cell in your body throbbed with agony. You wanted someone to put you out of your misery. To wipe you from the face of the earth and save you from Bucky’s confession and eventual departure. But no such mercy came.
Part of you wished you’d spoken up. Wished that you’d told Bucky not to take the job.
If you’d just voiced your concerns, maybe he never would’ve strayed. Maybe things would still be normal. And god, did you miss normalcy. You missed the patterns. The routines. The “boring” domestic life you once shared with Bucky. You missed talking to him. Spending time with him. Being close with him. The distance between you seemed to grow every single day. And you feared you’d never bridge that gap.
But you didn’t have to.
Bucky returned home one Sunday night in unusually high spirits. He found you in the bathroom, getting ready for bed, and lifted you into his strong arms.
“Baby…” He buried his face in your neck and smiled against your skin. “I’m so excited for next weekend.”
You were so lost in his touch that the words didn’t register for a quite a while. It had been so long since he was this affectionate, this close. Tears threatened to pool in the corner of your eyes as you relished in the sensation of his arms knitted around your back. His breath on your skin. And for a moment, you allowed yourself to consider the possibility that things might be okay.
Suddenly, you realized what he’d said.
“Next weekend?” You pulled away just a hair, allowing yourself a glimpse at his face. “What’s next weekend?”
“’What’s next weekend?’” He let an exaggerated, over-dramatic gasp fill his lungs, “I can’t believe you forgot! We’re going to the cabin, sweetheart! Next weekend, remember? It’s the weekend of the nineteenth! Keep up, doll.” He shot you a wink.
The cabin?
Sure, the two of you had planned to escape upstate to your aunt’s cozy little cabin. But that was agreed upon months ago. Long before this job. Long before Tara. You’d assumed that with Bucky’s long hours and lack of weekends, that that plan was defunct. But apparently, you were wrong.
“Wait, we’re still going?” you asked, incredulous.
“Of course,” Bucky said. “I told them I can’t work next weekend, no ifs, ands, or buts.” He snaked his hands from your spine to your sides and allowed them to slowly inch up your body. When they finally cupped your face, he pressed his lips to yours in a long, deep kiss full of longing. “I’m long overdue for some interrupted him with my best girl.”
Your heart fluttered.
“I know I’ve been really busy. And tired. And distracted. And- I’ve been a fucking absentee boyfriend,” he sighed. The self-hatred in his voice was almost palpable. “I didn’t think this job would be so… intense. I’ve barely been home. And I know this whole thing has gotta be tough on you.”
Tears sprang forth once again. You did your best to blink them away, but they persisted, and a few rolled down your cheeks against your will.
You sighed, “I just miss you.” The words had a fractured quality about them.
“Oh, sweetheart…” The heartbreak in his voice forced more tears to your surface. He pulled you into his body, wrapping you in the tightest hug he could safely manage. “I miss you too. So much. I promise nexxt weekend is going to be just for us. And when I’m done with this job, we’ll go away together for a long time, okay? No phones,” he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “No distractions,” he left a second kiss to your nose. “Just you and me,” he leaned down and dropped a third and final kiss against your lips.
It was a simple promise, nothing extravagant. But it was exactly what you’d been dying to hear. You’d been so convinced that Bucky would end things any day now, so sure that your time with him would soon be over. But hearing him make promises for your shared future helped ease the agony you’d been shouldering. And just like that, the storm clouds in your soul parted, revealing your first taste of sunshine in weeks.
Bucky was still yours. And he still wanted you to be his.
In the days leading up to your weekend away, you found yourself floating through life. Everything seemed easier, brighter, warmer. The constant nausea let up and the anxiety quieted. You ate a real meal for the first time in an indeterminable number of weeks. Sure, Bucky was still glued to his phone at home and staying late at the office. But you could see a light at the end of the tunnel.
After the absolute misery you’d experienced, hope felt so foreign. So other. But you welcomed it with open arms.
All you had to do was survive until Friday. Bucky talked his team into granting him an early departure from the office, allowing the two of you to escape the city by noon. You’d drive upstate with the windows down, blaring some top 40’s hits from decades past. And together, you’d settle in for some much-needed reconnection.
On Thursday night, Bucky returned home around ten. And regardless of his long day, he was more exultant than ever. He practically vibrated with excitement as he shoveled his dinner into his mouth and rushed to the bedroom to finish packing. It was the most energetic you’d seen him in quite some time.
“Okay, I double and triple checked my bag,” he told you. “I’m ready.”
“I’ve been packed since Tuesday,” you bragged. “And I got us…” you rifled through your duffle and unearthed a knotted grocery bag. “S’mores supplies.”
Bucky was floored. “You fucking think of everything!”
When the two of you settled in for bed that night, it almost felt like the good old days. Like the days before your doubts and suspicions and private agony. Before Bucky’s obsession with his phone. Before his late nights and his stories about Tara.
You slept like a rock that night, taking comfort in the fact the next day, you’d have Bucky all to yourself for an entire weekend.
He woke early the next morning, as he always did, and did his best not to disturb you. But you were too excited to sleep any longer. As he slowly and carefully rose from the bed, your eyes flew open.
“Happy cabin day,” you whispered into the dark.
Bucky’s startled gasp sent you into a fit of laughter.
“You scared the hell out of- were you just laying there in the dark waiting for me to wake up?”
“Yeah, kinda.”
“Well… happy cabin day, you creep,” he laughed, still catching his breath. “Leaving at noon sharp?”
“Noon sharp,” you said back.
He dressed for his half day of work and allowed you to accompany him to the front door.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he left a kiss against your forehead, “And we’re out the door right at twelve.”
“Right at twelve,” you nodded. “See you soon, Buck.”
But you didn’t.
Eleven rolled around without any sign of Bucky. Eleven-thirty and eleven-forty passed. And as the clock closed in on twelve, you wondered why you’d gotten your hopes up. Why you allowed yourself to get invested in this trip. Why you believed that things would actually work out.
But still, you held out hope. You sat perched on the arm of the couch. Waiting. Your duffel and Bucky’s sat at your feet. Waiting.
Your texts went unanswered. Your calls went straight to voicemail.
‘Maybe he’s just running a bit late,’ you thought. ‘Maybe he’ll be home by twelve-thirty. Or one.’
But he wasn’t.
Nor was he home by two. Or three.
The familiar nausea crept back in. The anxiety returned.
At four, you tossed your packed duffel into your closet and stripped out of your roadtrip clothes. You donned a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt and sank into the couch under the weight of your disappointment. All the hope, all the optimism you’d felt in this last week evaporated. And in their place settled a pointed shame.
You couldn’t believe you’d been so stupid, so naïve. You should’ve known better. Should’ve managed your expectations. This was your own fault, really. If you’d been smart enough to read between the lines, you wouldn’t be so heartbroken.
Around five, your stomach gave a hollow, gurgling growl. You’d been too excited to eat that morning as you rushed around completing last minute tasks before leaving for your weekend away. And after the realization that Bucky had gone back on his word, you were too sullen to even think about food, made nauseous by your anxiety.
But the nausea subsided for a moment, leaving an unbridled hunger in its wake. For a long moment, you considered putting together a simple dinner. There were groceries in the fridge, and you certainly had plenty of time to cook and eat, seeing as Bucky sabotaged your plans. But you didn’t have it in you.
Every night that you cooked dinner alone required a herculean effort. You had to push yourself, had to give yourself a rallying speech. And every night, it worked. Every night, you somehow found it in you to drag yourself to the kitchen and assemble a decent meal- albeit, a meal you wouldn’t eat. But with your hopes for a romantic weekend away dashed, the pep-talk didn’t work. Encouragement didn’t work. Nothing on the planet could force you to make even the simplest dinner. The kitchen seemed too far; you couldn’t fathom walking all the way to the cupboard for a snack.
But your bedroom? That was close by. That was doable.
With a pitiful groan, you heaved yourself up off the couch and lugged your body into the next room. You fetched your duffle out of the closet and fished your hand around inside until you unearthed the bag of s’mores supplies. With your bounty tucked under your arm, you made the journey back into the living room and settled onto the couch once again.
A few marshmallows and a graham cracker or two would have to suffice; it was all you could manage.
At six, your phone rang. Without even looking at the screen, you knew it was Bucky. Knew he’d be guilty and repentant and upset. Knew he’d promise to make it up to you. Knew he had a perfectly good reason for blowing off your trip.
The petty part of you wondered if he’d simply had trouble tearing himself from Tara’s side.
On the final ring, you answered his call.
And you were right, he was guilty. And repentant. And upset.
“Baby, I’m- you have no idea how sorry I am. I wanted to call sooner, we were just- I was so busy. We’re working on a new lead and-” he huffed, “It’s not an excuse, I know it’s not an excuse. I made you a promise and I’m so sorry I let you down again.”
A few tears welled in your eyes, your nose burned.
“It’s fine,” you said. “Happens.”
“I’m on my way home right now, I’ll be there as quickly as I can and as soon as I get there, we’ll leave for the cabin. We can-”
“We’re gonna hit too much traffic,” you told him, your voice flat. “That was one of the reasons we decided to leave at noon. We didn’t want to get stuck, remember?”
“Right. Well…” He went quiet for a moment as he searched for the right thing to say- for anything to say. “T wanted me to extend her apologies.”
‘T’? He was giving her nicknames now?
“She didn’t mean to keep me so long,” he said.
Your pitiful dinner churned in your stomach, fighting desperately to crawl back up your esophagus.
Tara. Kept him. It seemed to you that Bucky was somehow reading your mind and acting on your greatest fears.
“Hey, have you eaten yet?” He asked, filling the silence, “I can pick up something for dinner, anything you want.”
The marshmallows and graham crackers looked at you with pity.
“That’s okay, I already- I’m not hungry,” you sighed. You didn’t mean to sound so dejected, but you didn’t have the energy to hide it. “I’ll just see you when you get home.”
You hung up and let your phone slide in between the couch cushions. Never before had you felt so much like an island.
Bucky tore through the door twenty minutes later, his face shiny with sweat. You knew he’d desperately rushed home, hoping it would somehow fix the situation or at least mitigate some of your disappointment. It didn’t.
“Sweetheart…” he flew to the couch and sat by your side, “I am so, so sorry. I- I didn’t mean to be late.”
He eyed you for a moment, waiting for you to speak. But you didn’t. You remained still, leaning back against the couch cushions. There were no tears, no rageful words. You were quiet. Resigned.
He averted his gaze, too guilty to even look at you.
“I didn’t want to stay,” he swore. “But T needed me. She practically begged me.”
T needed him. Not the team. Tara.
It should’ve upset you, but it didn’t. You were past the point of being upset.
“Six hours late is…” You shook your head. “How does that even happen?”
Bucky ran a hand down the side of his face, “I don’t know. I’m the authority on this stuff and Tara said it was really important, so I- it doesn’t matter. I told her I needed to leave at noon, and I didn’t. I fucked up, not her.”
You nodded. You didn’t want to fight with him. And even if you did, you were too tired.
“I hope you know I’m not actively trying to make you miserable. I don’t want to be gone all the time.” He ran a hand through his hair, “I hate this. I hate that we never get to do anything together, and I hate that I can never spend any real time with you, and I hate that you look so…” He fell silent for a long moment as he drank you in.
His close observance made you want to shrink away. You knew he was taking inventory of your hollow, heartbroken stare. Your tired eyes. These days, you barely recognized yourself in the mirror. The face looking back at you wasn’t yours- it couldn’t be. It was too empty. Too deflated. More like a fragile husk than a person.
“I… I don’t remember the last time I saw you really smile,” the realization swept over him as he spoke. “Or… heard you laugh,” a deep crease formed between his brows. “I miss it. I miss you.”
You nodded, feeling suddenly guilty. The cynical, sour part of your brain had gotten to you, convincing you that Bucky was relishing in your destruction. That he was taking joy in draining you, gutting you.
But as you watched the tears gather slowly in his eyes, you realized just how wrong you’d been.
“I didn’t think it would be like this,” he swore. “I knew I’d be busy, but I…” He shook his head, “I didn’t know I’d be leaving you alone all the time. And breaking promises. And it’s-” With the back of his left hand, he all too aggressively swiped a rogue tear from his cheek; you were certain the sharp bite of the metal stung as it dug into his skin. “Hurting you like this is- it’s my biggest regret. And that includes everything I did for Hydra. I promised you we’d always be on the same team, and I’m…”
He pulled his phone out of his pocket; your chest tightened. Was he really pausing to check a text from Tara? Now?
“I’m calling the Tara,” he said, “I’m quitting.”
You unearthed yourself from the couch cushions, yanked upright by Bucky’s words. “What?”
“I can’t do it anymore. If I keep working on this, I’m gonna lose you,” he said, his voice wavering, desperate. “And I can’t risk that.”
Suddenly, a distinct and pointed feeling of guilt engulfed you. Here Bucky was, prepared to abandon his efforts to topple Hydra- for you. He was willing to allow that hideous, evil organization to rise again- for you. He was ready to default on the promise he made to himself- for you.
How could you have doubted him? How could you have been so suspicious? He’d done nothing wrong, aside from coming home late. But that wasn’t an indictment of his character or an accurate depiction of who he was as a partner. He was kind. He was trustworthy. He was loving.
His fingers flew over his screen, dialing Tara’s number; you didn’t love that he had it memorized. But before he could finish, you rested a hand atop his, stopping him.
He stared at you, “What are you-”
“I can’t let you quit.”
“But-”
“If you don’t see this through, you’ll regret it. It’ll eat away at you for the rest of your life.”
He tried to protest, to prove you wrong, but you silenced him.
“I know you, Buck. I know how you feel about Hydra. And even though I’m… yeah, I’m miserable right now, but it’s fine. It’s short-term. I’ll survive.” You outstretched your free hand and settled it on his forearm. “You need to do this for you. If you quit, you’ll hate yourself. And if, heaven forbid, Hydra makes some big resurgence, you’ll always blame yourself. You’ll always wonder if you could’ve stopped it, here and now.”
He considered your words for a long, quiet moment; you watched a war rage beneath his surface. You knew you were right. Knew that you’d read his mind. Knew that if he sat idly by and allowed Hydra to claw its way back to power, it would kill him. People would get hurt; people would die. And it would be his fault, at least partially. But he couldn’t help the desperate longing in his gaze, the fraught ache as he stared at you.
You could practically see him being torn in two by the nearly impossible choice.
“You’re…” he gave a small shake of his head, “You’re right. But this whole situation is- it’s eating you alive. You just said that you’re miserable. I can’t-” He looked down at his phone once again, “I can’t let you to be miserable. I can’t do that to you.”
You shrugged, hoping to assuage some of his guilt. “So, it’s not ideal.” The laughed you tacked onto the end didn’t convince him; it didn’t even convince you.
A long silence filled the room. A deep frown settled Bucky’s into Bucky’s mouth as he hemmed and hawed over his options. You knew he’d choose to stay on. Hoped he’d quit. Feared he’d tell you he was leaving you for Tara.
Finally, he spoke.
“I can’t… I can’t walk away from the job,” he sighed, “It goes against everything in me.”
You gave him a polite nod; his decision wasn’t a surprise.
“But that doesn’t mean that I’m okay with- with the way that things have been going for us,” he said. “I’ve been so preoccupied that I haven’t really been- what does my therapist call it?” He thought it over for a moment. “I haven’t been ‘emotionally present’. I haven’t been physically present much, either.”
You shrugged, “You’ve been under a lot of stress. I understand-”
“Yeah, but you’ve been in this by yourself,” he huffed, angry at himself. “And it’s not fair. I turned this into something one-sided.”
Alarm bells blared in your head at the word “one-sided”. What the hell did he mean by that? Was this him telling you that your feelings were no longer requited? Was he apologizing for hurting you, only so he could tell you he was leaving you?
“I’m gonna tell Tara I have to scale back my hours, or something.”
The alarms quieted a few decibels.
“If there’s anything I can do to make this whole thing easier on you, all you have to do is tell me. I’ll do it. Whatever it is.” He bit down on the inside of his cheek, “Cause I can’t keep doing this to you. I can’t keep apologizing and hoping that it’ll fix all the late nights and broken promises.” He shrugged, “But even though I know it won’t fix anything… I’m sorry. I mean it.”
Another long stretch of quiet occurred as you looked him over. His shoulders were hunched in defeat, devastation. His jaw was tense, his brow furrowed. He held one of your hands in his warm palm, and rested his metallic hand on top, as though cradling something delicate. Something precious. He looked genuinely miserable. Genuinely despondent. And your heart ached for him.
He was a good person. He took this job to protect the world, to protect you. Who were you to crucify him for coming home late a few times? Who were you to be suspicious of his intentions when all he wanted was to mend things with you? It wasn’t fair to accuse him of infidelity. To assume that he was stepping out on you behind your back. Your insecurity, you decided, was not his fault nor his problem.
And so, you vowed to stop jumping to conclusions. To stop assuming the worst of him. To stop writing fiction about what was going on between Bucky and ‘T’.
However, you did want to ask him one question.
“I really appreciate the apology- the apologies,” you corrected yourself. “And I know you’re not doing anything malicious. You’re just trying to do your best.”
He nodded.
“You’re not in an easy position here. I want a lot from you; your job wants a lot from you. You’re being stretched really thin right now. And I know you’re stressed out about how this is affecting me.”
Bucky nodded again, more emphatically this time.
“There is- there’s one thing you could do that might make things easier on me,” you told him.
Bucky scooted a bit closer, “anything.”
“And I need you to be one hundred percent honest with me.”
“Cross my heart.”
You hesitated, second-guessing your question. But if you were to stay sane for the remainder of this job, you needed a straight answer. There wasn’t a mature, adult way to ask. Each way you phrased it sounded pettier and more childish than the last.
And so, you simply dropped the question in his lap.
“Is there anything going on between you and Tara? Romantically or-” you winced, “Sexually?”
He stared at you, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly agape.
Was he simply surprised to hear such a preposterous question? Or was he shocked that you figured out about his torrid affair?
“What?” he finally said. “Between Tara and- no!” He shook his head, an incredulous look on his face. “I would never do that.”
The weight that had been sitting on your chest ever since Tara’s first phone call suddenly felt lighter. It didn’t vanish completely, but it lessened. You’d been aching to hear those words come out of his mouth. And now that they finally had.
“I’m not that kind of guy, sweetheart. I don’t do that sort of thing,” he swore. “Did you think that I was-”
You forced a laugh and shrugged. “No, no. Of course not. I didn’t actually think you’d-” the word got stuck in your throat. You had to force it out, “-cheat on me,” you lied. “But with the long hours and the late nights and all the texts and phone calls you guys share…”
“It is not like that, I promise,” he said, denying the accusation with his entire being. “Tara is great, and yeah, we spend a lot of time together. But I love you. You are the only person for me.”
He went on. And on. And on. For a solid two minutes, at least. He vowed that he wasn’t sleeping with Tara, swearing on every holy book in existence that he didn’t have feelings for her. He promised that he was in love with you, that he wanted you, that you were the love of his life. Only you.
And it should’ve made you feel better. But as Bucky continued his unrelenting, gushing promises about his love for you, he unknowingly planted more seeds of doubt. He strong denouncements and fierce denial of any romantic or sexual wrongdoing brought one phrase to mind:
“Thou dost protest too much.”
You knew then, without a doubt, that you were losing your mind.
But you couldn’t stop the vicious cycle; the ghosts of relationships past refused to allow it. And so, over the course of the next few minutes, you found yourself endlessly oscillating between ‘he’s laying it on thick to hide the fact that he’s cheating and ‘he loves me so much, it’s so awful of me to think he’s hiding something.’
You thanked the universe that mind reading was not amongst Bucky’s enhanced abilities. If he’d been able to hear all of your thoughts, if he knew how quickly your pendulum swung from one end of the spectrum to the next, he’d think you were crazy.
“All this to say,” he paused, and locked eyes with you in a moment of deep, genuine connection. “I love you. And only you. I don’t want anyone else.”
And though a sliver of suspicion remained, you accepted his words at face value.
“I love you too, Buck.”
He pulled you in for slow, long kiss. The two of you melted together, desperately affixing your bodies together in an attempt to make up for lost time.
“What do you think?” Bucky said when the two of you finally parted, “You still want to go up to the cabin tomorrow?”
You had no reason not to. You gave Bucky the affirmative and a wide smile stretched across his face. The previous night’s excitement returned and together, you made a plan for the following morning.
But when the following morning came, you woke to an empty bed. Again.
When your alarm went off at seven, you bolted upright. Today was the day that things between you and Bucky were finally going to get back on track. But when you turned to his side of the bed, he was nowhere to be found. His pillow was cold.
“Buck?” you called, your voice bouncing off the walls of the deserted apartment. “Are you here?”
No answer.
“Of fucking course.”
With a deeply disappointed sigh, you flopped back down and decided to sleep until noon. How could he do this to you- again? How could he ditch you? How could he promise to be more present, only to turn around and disappear? A tornado of anger swirled inside your chest, interrupted only by tidal waves of hurt. Of grief.
But just as the first tear slid its way down your cheek, the front door opened.
Cautious, quiet footsteps crept through the living room, down the short hallway, and into the bedroom. Bucky’s head slowly peeked around the corner. And once he realized you were awake, he rushed to your bedside with his hands concealed behind his back.
“Good morning, sweet- hey, are you okay?” Concern eclipsed his smile as he eyed the rogue tears clinging to your lashes. “Are you crying?”
You wiped your eyes with your t-shirt and gave a shake of your head, “No, I’m- I just had a really strange dream. It was a sad one.”
Bucky frowned, “I’m sorry, baby. Do you think that a bacon, egg, cheese, and hashbrown breakfast sandwich on an onion bagel would help?”
Your eyes widened, “You went to The Hot Bagel?”
Bucky nodded. From behind his back, he revealed the brown paper bag printed with your favorite bagel shop’s logo.
“Oh my god, this is- how long was the line?” In one swift motion you stole the bag from Bucky’s grasp and tore into it, revealing a miracle wrapped in tinfoil.
“It wasn’t long at all. There were only two people in front of me,” Bucky said, his smile proud.
“Buck…” you narrowed your eyes at him.
His face dropped. He feared that he’d ordered incorrectly. That he’d taken the wrong bag from the counter. “What?”
“If there were only two people in front of you, what time did you get there?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he gave a small shrug.
“But it’s one of the busiest shops in the city and-”
“And I know it’s your favorite. So, I went.” He said it so matter of factly, as though it were a no brainer. “I would’ve been back a little earlier, but the onion bagels weren’t quite ready when I got there. I almost got you an everything instead, but…”
Your expression grew incredulous. He let out a belly laugh.
“But I knew you’d give me that exact look. So, I waited a little longer.”
Together, the two of you inhaled what you deemed the best breakfast sandwich in New York. And once you’d tucked the s’mores supplies back into your bag and gotten ready for the drive, Bucky led you by the hand down to the car.
The drive was exactly what you’d imagined. Windows down. Clear skies. Invigorating music. Bucky danced with you to today’s hits. Eighties ballads. Forties crooners. He provided backup vocals and took the occasional solo. This was how it was supposed to be. This was what your relationship had always been: warm, safe, comfortable.
There was no room here for doubt or suspicion or distrust.
As the cabin rolled into view, you made a conscious decision to remove any inkling of wariness from your mind. Bucky was yours. And you were his. And that was that.
Like a perfect gentleman, he unloaded the car and carried the bags up the porch steps. The cabin sat tucked in amongst a swath of trees that shielded it from the main road. Its interior was decorated with thought, with care, with love. It welcomed you in and instantly, you felt right at home. Rounding out the space was a small yard, complete with a hammock and fire pit.
It seemed that the weekend might be saved after all, until you glanced into Bucky’s bag.
As he was unpacking his toiletries and getting his clothes sorted, the shiny silver corner of his laptop caught your eye. It was tucked under a pair of sweatpants, but you knew in your bones that it was his computer. Upon further inspection, you discovered a hotspot hiding amongst his clothes, as well.
So much for the ‘uninterrupted weekend’ he’d sold you.
But instead of assuming the worst, instead of spiraling, you reasoned with yourself. He’d packed his bag prior to your heart to heart. Prior to your admission of being miserable. Prior to his promise to scale back his hours. It was perfectly logical to think that he’d simply forgotten to remove his computer and his hotspot from his bag. That he had no intention of using them this weekend. That he only packed them in case of an emergency.
And maybe- just maybe- he didn’t intend to work during your getaway.
But work he did, anyway.
Bucky found you lounging in the hammock, protected from the sun by the shadow of a large, old tree.
“Where have you been?” you asked, looking up from your book. “You said you were right behind me.”
He had said it would only take a few minutes for him to “send one last email” before he could “completely unplug.” But that was forty-five minutes ago.
“I know, I’m sorry. One email turned into a phone call, and that turned into a zoom,” he said, exasperated. “But I’m here now. Does that hammock have room enough for two?”
Some childish and petty part of you wanted to call him on his shit. It wanted to throw the words “uninterrupted weekend” back at him and watch as he ate them.
But he looked so tired. Everything about him screamed ‘rundown’. This was the longest you’d ever seen his stubble. His hair was longer, too- longer than he liked it. There was a defeated air about the slope of his shoulders. And every breath seemed more like a sigh. He didn’t get to go out for long runs in the park anymore; this was probably the most time he’d spent in the sun in weeks.
The loving, devoted, compassionate part of you won out against your immature instinct, and you allowed him to share your hammock. He climbed in with a warm smile stretched across his face and tucked his body into your side. It was the perfect way to spend an afternoon- save for his near-constant texting. But you figured that a preoccupied Bucky was better than no Bucky at all.
He never even cracked the book he brought along for the trip. He, instead, allowed it to rest at his side while he responded to Tara’s messages. Every once and a while, you caught a glimpse of his screen, and everything appeared to be on the up and up. There were no emojis. No flirtations. No double entendres. Just business.
And though you wished he’d knock it off and be present with you, you let it to slide. He was just trying to make everyone happy. Trying to stretch himself thinner than thin. And he was clearly miserable, himself; you thought it best not to add insult to injury.
And the weekend was still lovely regardless. It was the most time you’d spent together since he started with Tara’s organization, and you swore you could feel yourself coming back to life. The two of you ate and danced and made s’mores and fell asleep under the stars. And even though it was a truncated version of the trip you’d hoped for, you wouldn’t have traded it for anything.
Things were looking up.
Another respite from Bucky’s hellish schedule came a few weeks after your cabin jaunt. Just as the sense of renewal granted by the getaway started to wear off, Bucky came home from work one Friday night with a nearly cartoonish grin on his face.
He bounded through the front door and threw himself at you, sweeping you into his arms. It was unexpected, almost strange; he never came home with his energy intact like this. But you welcomed it; you missed seeing him this way.
“I have good news,” he said. “Do you wanna guess what it is?”
“Hmm…” you thought it over for a moment, “Are you-”
He didn’t allow you to properly formulate a guess; he was far too excited.
“I’ll give you a hint: guess who has the whole weekend off?” he asked, spinning you around as though on a dance floor.
Your jaw dropped. “Really?”
“Really.”
It was like music to your ears. Like your birthday and New Year’s Eve and Valentine’s Day rolled into one. You could’ve sworn that confetti fell from the ceiling. That fireworks exploded outside your window. It wasn’t just good news. It was great news. The best news you’d ever received.
“We’ve hit a wall with this lead we’re working on,” he told you. “There’s some information we need in order to move forward, but not even our access team has been able to get to it. It’s not in any of the systems they’ve looked through.”
You gave him a strange look, “What’s an access team?”
He rolled his eyes and laughed a little, “They’re hackers. But they told me to stop calling them ‘hackers’ cause apparently that sounds ‘cheesy’.”
You shrugged, “‘Hackers’ kinda does make it sound like you’re in a bad spy movie.”
“They hack! It’s the name that makes the most sense!” he laughed. “Anyway, they think it’s probably being stored on a drive somewhere off-network, that way no one can hac- I mean, access it. And our entire strategy hinges on that information. So, there’s not much we can do right now.”
It struck you that maybe you were supposed to be sensitive to this plight. To the frustrations of his job. Maybe deep down, he was disappointed that Hydra’s fall would have to be delayed. But he didn’t seem all that bummed about it. If anything, he seemed unburdened.
“They called things off for the weekend so everyone can recharge,” he told you. “I think they’re hoping that a free weekend will help people come back with fresh eyes and clear minds.”
“Yeah, it’s almost like allowing your employees to rest helps them be better problem solvers,” you quipped.
“Who could’ve seen that coming?” he laughed. The sound hit you deep in your chest; you realized just how much you missed that laugh. It vibrated against his lips as he pressed them to yours.
The possibilities of how the two of you might spend this rare, free weekend- farmer’s markets, museums, drinking and dancing- evaporated from your mind as he kissed you. And suddenly, they were replaced by hungrier, more salacious options.
But for the time being, you quieted them. This was Bucky’s weekend, his free time.
He never had the time to do what he wanted to do anymore. Ever since he started this job, his time no longer belonged to him. This job owned every day, every minute; he was lucky enough to get a few hours on loan so he could sleep.
“Well, whatever you wanna do this weekend, I’m in,” you told him when you finally parted. “You get to pick since you never have free time anymore.”
He fell silent for a long moment, thinking.
“Anything you want!” you promised him. “We can go on a bike ride or roam around in that fancy bookstore in SoHo or-”
“If it’s alright, I’d rather not.”
“You’d rather not what, Buck?”
He sighed, “Would you mind if we didn’t do… anything? I don’t want you to be bored all weekend, but I just…”
He let out a long sigh and looked around the room. As his gaze swept through the space, you watched him take in the subtle changes here and there: a new throw pillow on the couch, a different set of coasters on the coffee table, a new lamp to replace the one he’d accidentally broken.
This was the apartment you’d hunted for together. The apartment he’d called his “safest place”. His “favorite place”. And yet, he’d barely spent any time within its walls in recent days. He was more like a guest here. A stranger. A foreign transplant.
His eyes filled with the same desperate longing you’d seen before the cabin trip. “I just want to be home, you know? But if you want to go and-”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you told him. “If you want to stay home all weekend, we’ll stay home.”
He eyed you warily, “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” you promised. “I’ll never say no to weekend at home with you.”
A satisfied smile spread across his face.
You weren’t quite sure if he was excited to spend the weekend at home with you, or if he was simply thrilled to lounge on the couch for a few days. Either way, you were happy to have him all to yourself. Happy to keep him out of the clutches of others for a few days.
“Maybe we could get some snacks and have a movie marathon? There are a ton of classics I’ve never seen,” he said. “Jaws, Jurassic Park, Alien. What do you think?”
You quirked a brow at him, “I think it’s criminal that you’ve never seen Jurassic Park.”
“I know,” he groaned. “That’s why I’m trying to rectify it! What do you think?”
You, of course, agreed to his proposal. The two of you made a list of movies and a list of snacks, and you couldn’t resist the excitement building in your chest. This weekend was going to be the mulligan. The do-over. After your cabin weekend was cut short, after it was tarnished by Bucky’s constant correspondence with Tara, the two of you needed a second chance at an uninterrupted weekend. And the opportunity had finally arrived.
The next day, Bucky settled in next to you on the couch. He draped a blanket over your lap, pulled you securely into his side, and pressed play on Jaws. Jurassic Park followed shortly after, and he raved about it as the two of you made and ate lunch. A slew of movies spanning multiple genres left Bucky in awe. It was a strange experience, watching Alien after West Side Story, but you didn’t care. Bucky was home, and that’s all that mattered.
And much to your surprise, he hadn’t mentioned Tara once. Hadn’t texted her. Hadn’t paused the movie to read one of her emails. And for the first time in a long time, things inside your apartment felt less crowded.
But a nagging thought needled at you. What if he was simply being more covert about corresponding with Tara now? What if he had gotten better at covering things up?
No. You wouldn’t allow yourself to think that way anymore.
With a deep breath, you nestled yourself deeper into Bucky’s embrace and vowed to simply enjoy the weekend. You didn’t know when- or if- you’d get another one like this any time soon. And you damn sure weren’t going to waste it by concocting wild speculations.
Once the sun finally set behind the skyscrapers, Bucky pressed play on your last movie of the night: When Harry Met Sally. But just as Harry and Sally bumped into each other in a bookstore, there was a knock at your front door.
Bucky looked at you. You looked at him.
“Were you expecting someone?” he asked.
You shook your head.
“Hmm,” Bucky rose from the couch, “Maybe it’s a neighbor.”
He strode toward the front door and pressed his face against its surface, peering through the peephole. You could’ve sworn you heard a quiet gasp fill his lungs.
“Who is it, Buck?”
He didn’t answer. He removed the chain on the door with a slow intensity. Inched the deadbolt open at a glacial pace. His movements were painstaking, deliberate. Almost sluggish. Whoever it was, Bucky didn’t seem too pleased to see them.
When he finally turned the knob, he pulled the door open only a few inches. A sliver, really. He leaned his head out into the hall and spoke quietly with the mystery visitor.
It was odd, his behavior. He had no reason to be secretive or cagey when speaking to a neighbor. He had no reason to hide his conversation from you. To shield you from this surprise guest.
As quietly as you could, you rose from the couch a crept closer to the door, hoping to catch a word or two.
“Yeah, and I thought I told you never to come to my apartment,” Bucky said, his words hurried.
Something about it made your stomach turn. Why would he feel the need to give someone such a specific stipulation, unless he had something to hide?
And then a woman’s voice filled the air.
Not any woman’s voice.
Tara’s.
“I know, but I need you, Buck.”
A flash of heat scorched your insides. And before you knew what was happening, you’d wrenched the door all the way open.
Tara stood before you in a floor length maroon gown dripping with intricate beading. She towered over you, her perfect body elongated by elegant heels. Her auburn hair was twisted and tucked into a fabulous updo. Diamonds dangled from her ears and encircled her slender neck. And deep red lipstick accentuated her perfect pout.
You thought it possible that she’d stepped out of a magazine or off of a runway.
And suddenly, you wondered what the fuck Bucky was doing with you. What he saw in you. How he could be with you when she existed.
A violent pain tore through your abdomen, nearly stealing your breath. It seemed that something sharp and jagged was ripping through your insides, shredding your guts into confetti. But you forced yourself to remain composed. To appear unbothered.
Bucky shifted his gaze to you and then back to Tara. He looked nervous, as though you’d caught him red-handed.
“Sweetheart, this is Tara,” he gestured to the devastatingly beautiful supermodel standing in the hall. “Tara, this is-”
“It’s nice to meet you,” she said in a rush, her attention barely drifting from Bucky’s face. “But we really don’t have time for pleasantries right now, Buck. This is an emergency.”
“I don’t think I can tonight,” Bucky told her. “I have plans, we’re watching-”
“I know how to get the drive, I know where it is.” Tara shrugged, “Okay, I’m pretty sure I know where it is.”
Bucky didn’t answer, he simply quirked a brow at her, allowing her to continue.
“There’s a huge gala tonight at Thomas Weller’s house,” she said.
Bucky perked up.
“Weller’s house…” he said, thinking it over. “He lives in the-”
“The prohibition era mansion with the hidden room that acted as a speakeasy. Yeah,” Tara nodded, her eyes a bit wild. She seemed truly exhilarated by the circumstances. “He’s the only one Hydra would trust to keep the drive secure, and tonight’s the only chance for us to find it,” she said. “He has to be hiding it in that secret room- I feel it.”
“But we can’t be sure…”
“Barnes, I’m sure.”
Bucky thought on it for a long, quiet moment. “Are you willing to stake Magdalini’s on it?”
Tara’s face lit up as her head fell back in a laugh. A loose auburn curl bounced at the nape of her neck. Her perfectly polished nails brushed against her chest as she caught her breath. You were certain she was the princess from every fairytale you’d read as a child.
“Yes!” she finally said when she composed herself. “I am willing to bet you a doz- TWO dozen cookies from Magdalini’s.”
Bucky took this very seriously. A knowing look eclipsed his face, and he granted Tara an understanding nod. You, on the other hand, were left in the cold. You weren’t sure what had just happened between them, but they knew something you didn’t. They shared something you were not a part of. Whether these cookies were an inside joke or some kind of metric, you weren’t sure. But they were important.
You waited for an explanation, for one of them to afford you an invite to the joke. But no such offer came.
“Do you still have your tux from the SWORD anniversary party? The one where we knocked over the ice sculpture?” Tara asked.
A small smile flickered across Bucky’s face. He cut his glance toward you, dropped his smile, and nodded at Tara.
“Then get dressed,” she told him. “The party starts in twenty minutes and it’s basically across town.”
“Okay, yeah, just-” Bucky began to make a sweeping gesture of invitation but cut it short when his eyes met yours. “Um, I’ll be out in a minute,” he told her, before shutting the door and leaving her in the hall.
With the door shut, the two of you shared a long, loaded look.
“I’m sorry…” he finally said. “I know we were gonna watch movies and-”
“It’s fine, Bu-” you stopped yourself, not wanting to use the same nickname as Tara. “Babe.”
He sighed, “I keep disappointing you.”
You shrugged, “It is what it is. This is part of your job.”
You meant it. You knew he wasn’t doing this on purpose. Knew he wasn’t trying to hurt you. It wasn’t fair to blame him. It wasn’t even fair to blame Tara, though you wanted to. She, too, was just doing her job. Just trying to stop Hydra. And who were you to stop those efforts?
But you couldn’t help the frustration that ground your teeth together. The disappointment. The irritation. It all pooled together into a sinister, inky cocktail that coated your insides. It seemed that, at every turn, Bucky chose Tara. You knew it was childish to feel that way. Knew it was petty and stupid and immature. But you couldn’t stop it.
And Tara’s piercing beauty didn’t help. Her perfect cheekbones and flawless skin made you want to double over. Made you question if you were even the same species.
Bucky dressed in his tuxedo quietly, eyeing you every now and again. You sat on the edge of the bed, waiting to assist with his tie, if need be. Another heavy, endless silence wedged itself between the two of you. The kind of silence that precedes disaster.
“So, what’s the deal with Magda… Madgolee-”
“Magdalini’s?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s this bakery out in New Hampshire,” he told you. “Tara and I were in Concord doing recon for this job, and we kind of randomly stumbled upon the place.”
You waited for something more, but nothing came.
“But what do cookies have to do with you going to this party?” you asked.
“Well, when Tara and I were togeth- when we worked together,” he overcorrected. “If one of us had a feeling about something but no proof, we’d bet the other a dozen cookies from Magdalini’s.” He gave a quiet laugh, “Since it’s all the way in New Hampshire and always sells out before noon, it’s a pain in the ass to get those damn cookies. You have to trek out to Concord early in the morning and wait in a long line and it’s- it’s a whole thing.” He shrugged, “So her telling me that she’d bet two dozen of those cookies on this party tonight means she’s sure. Cause if she’s not, she’s gotta drag her ass all the way out there.”
Bucky smiled as he buttoned his shirt, clearly awash in the memories of that bakery. And the woman he shared it with. And suddenly, you hated those damn cookies.
You hated the inside jokes and shared memories Bucky had with Tara. Hated that he was leaving you. Again. To be with her. Again. Hated that you were so goddamn jealous.
“Just um… let me know if you need help with your tie,” you muttered before fleeing the scene.
You found solace in the quiet, empty living room, and leaned against the back of the couch. Over and over again, you forced yourself to take deep, calming breaths. This wasn’t Bucky’s fault, you told yourself. He had a job to do; and as unfortunate as it was, this was part of it. When the dust cleared, things would go back to normal. Tara would disappear once again and your relationship with Bucky would be returned to its former glory. That was the silver lining, the light at the end of the tunnel. Your heartrate slowed, your frustration evaporated, and you discovered a newfound hope.
Until there was another soft knock at the door.
Just as you turned to face the sound, the door opened just a sliver.
“Hi,” Tara leaned her head in, an apologetic smile on her beautiful face. “Do you mind if I wait inside? Your neighbors are staring,” she chuckled.
Of course, your neighbors were staring; a runway model was loitering in their hallway.
And though you didn’t want her in the space you shared with Bucky, what choice did you have?
You gestured for her to enter, “Sure.”
She stood just inside the door, her elegant ensemble completely out of place in your home. She tucked her designer clutch under her arm and gave your apartment a once over.
“It’s so cozy in here,” she said without a drop of condescension. “I love that painting. Where did you get it?” She gestured to the framed canvas hanging on the opposite wall.
“Oh that’s- I painted it,” you told her, suddenly sheepish.
Not only was she smart and beautiful and skilled- she was nice, too?
“You um, you look really nice,” you told her. “I like your dress.”
It was painfully awkward. You were certain Tara could feel the envy radiating from your every pore. But you had to make an effort. Had to make nice. She was Bucky’s coworker; and regardless of the punishing schedule she’d set for him, she hadn’t technically done anything wrong. That you knew of.
But the way she lit up when Bucky walked out in his tux made you wonder.
Maybe it was unfair, you thought, to condemn her for her reaction- anyone with sight would react the exact same way. Bucky was always attractive but seeing him all dressed up made your knees weak. The custom-fitted tux hugged him in all the right places and accentuated his physique. It took every ounce of your strength not to pounce on him right then and there.
“Is this okay?” he asked, looking down at his ensemble. “I had a little trouble with the tie.”
“I can help with-” “Oh, here, let me-”
Both you and Tara took a step in his direction, arms outstretched, prepared to assist him. Simultaneously, you snapped your head in the other’s direction and locked eyes. Tara flashed you a smile that you categorized as ‘almost apologetic’ and with a sweeping gesture, conceded.
The tension in the room settled atop the three of you, forcing everyone’s eyes down.
After a deep breath and a shake of your head, you took your rightful place in front of Bucky. With nimble fingers, you adjusted the fabric of his tie until it was perfect. He shot you a look, silently apologizing for the incident.
You wanted to brush the whole thing off. To pretend that it didn’t bother you. But it did.
Sure, Tara was nice. But why would she feel entitled to get so up close and personal with Bucky this way? And why would she feel comfortable doing so in front of you? In your home? She was his ex, his coworker. It made no sense for her to be the one to fix his tie, especially when you were right there. Of course, it was just a bow tie; Tara hadn’t volunteered to French kiss him or anything of the sort. But the way she jumped at the chance to enter his personal bubble rubbed you the wrong way.
Maybe, you feared, Bucky allowed her to get close to him at work. Maybe the two of them spent time cozied up in her office when they were supposed to be attending meetings. Maybe she’d gotten so used to being intimate with him that this kind of task had become second nature to her. And maybe she’d been so overwhelmed by the sight of her lover in his tuxedo that she’d forgotten she had an audience.
Maybe he wasn’t staying at work all night, laboring over this job until the early morning hours. Maybe he was sleeping at her apartment, in her bed.
The possibility trapped your lungs in a vice, cutting off your air supply. Bile rose in the back of your throat; it took everything in you to force it down. By some miracle, you remained composed, and adjusted Bucky’s tie.
“There,” you said , “All done.”
Just as Bucky tried to express his gratitude, he stumbled to the side. Tara had yanked him by the hand and began hauling him toward the door. Bucky stumbled behind her for a few paces before locking eyes with you. He slipped his hand from her grasp and doubled back to place a kiss on your cheek.
“I’m really sorry about this,” he said. “I-”
“I won’t have him home too late!” Tara called from the door with a laugh. “Thanks for sharing him with me!”
Before you had the chance to blink, Bucky and Tara disappeared out the door and down the hall.
‘Sharing’ him? Another vicious bout of pain ripped through you. And without an audience, you were free so succumb. You doubled over, allowing the agony to take hold of you. The sharp, searing pain sliced its way from your gut to your throat, flaying you wide open. Only when it quieted to an angry throb were you able to stand upright and hobble to the couch.
After an hour or so, you forced yourself to stop thinking about them. About Bucky and Tara together. About the things that might be transpiring on the other side of town. It wasn’t healthy, wasn’t productive. The pain in your abdomen had finally dulled and you knew that if you continued to ruminate, it would return with a vengeance.
And so, you wiped your tears and dragged your body off the couch. You took a long shower, did your skincare, and slipped into your most comfortable pajamas. All you had to do was delude yourself into believing that Bucky was out with Sam or working with Yelena. It was the perfect fix, albeit temporary.
After your shower you climbed into bed and dove into your favorite silly sitcom. The canned laughter and over the top storylines helped distract you, helped lift your shattered spirits. With one tap of your remote you skipped half a season- expertly avoiding a storyline about the main character cheating on his girlfriend- and resumed your rewatch in a happier spot.
Still, you picked and bit at what was left of your nails. Eyed the clock every few minutes. Checked your phone more than you would’ve liked. You couldn’t help it.
Just before eleven o’clock, you heard the front door open.
“Buck?” you called, hoping it was only him.
“Yeah…” he said. He sounded different. “It’s me.”
His keys clinked against the wall as he hung them on the hook by the door, and you knew he’d be in the bedroom soon. Knew he’d have his tail between his legs. Knew you were in for a long night of discussions and apologies. You turned off the tv and waited, expecting his slumped shoulders to lean against the doorframe any second.
But he never appeared.
Something- instinct, intuition- nudged you out of bed.
Something was wrong.
You cautiously made your way out of the bedroom and into the living room as the pit in your stomach doubled- tripled- in size.
You found Bucky still standing by the front door, motionless. His eyes were downcast; his hands were shoved into his pockets. The bowtie you’d so meticulously fixed for him was draped loosely around his neck. The first few buttons of his shirt were open.
“Hey…” you called.
He barely looked up, and only for a split second. “Hi.”
The distance between you seemed much vaster than it was. He seemed to be miles away, adrift somewhere far and unfamiliar. No one moved, no one spoke. The tension in the air grew heavier by the second, nearly crushing you.
And after a while, you couldn’t take the strained silence.
“Um, how’d it go?” you asked. “Is everything okay?”
Finally, Bucky dragged his gaze from the floor. The misery in his eyes sent a pang of anxiety ripping through your chest.
“Something h-” he gave a small shake of his head, cleared his throat. “Something happened. Between me and Tara.”
His words knocked you off balance. Your nails dug into the couch as you fought to remain upright. The unforgiving pain in your abdomen exploded once again. And a tidal wave of nausea swallowed you whole.
“It was part of our cover, it wasn’t- there wasn’t anything romantic about it,” he swore. The words tumbled out of his mouth in a panicked rush. “We weren’t supposed to be in Weller’s office- a security guard was coming and if they knew we’d taken the drive, Weller would’ve had us killed. So, Tara k-” he choked on the word. “She kissed me. She made it look like we were a couple who’d gotten, I don’t know, carried away or something. Like we were just looking for a private room to…” He didn’t finish his sentence.
Suddenly, his eyes grew wide.
“But we didn’t- we didn’t do that!” he said, almost frantic. “It was just the kissing, nothing else. I swear.”
Finaly, he unrooted his feet and made his way toward you; he stopped just a foot from where you stood.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m so- I didn’t know that was gonna happen,” he said. “I had no idea. She just did it without telling me. I didn’t want to- I didn’t want her to do that.”
His words settled into your body, creating fractures and fissures as they went.
A storm of sympathy rained down on you as you stared at him. He was in utter agony, that was no secret. His hands shook, his face was flushed, his eyes brimmed with tears. He hadn’t wanted that kiss. Hadn’t known about it or expected it. And he was suffering. The love of your life was suffering.
But the ghost of relationships past returned, screaming at you over and over. Gloating.
“I told you so!”
“I told you so!”
“I told you so!”
This was exactly what you’d feared. What you’d dreaded. And regardless of the circumstances, your old wounds were ripped open once again. The flashbacks hit you like a truck; the familiar words tore you to pieces. There was no surviving this; no making it out alive. It seemed that you would bleed out, that you’d be lifeless and cold in a matter of moments.
But the first tear dripped down Bucky’s face, and brought you back to reality.
It took all your might, all your strength, but you forced your impending collapse and demise to wait. Everything would have to wait.
“I’m s- I’m sorry that happened to you,” you said.
His brow furrowed, “What?”
You breathed through the throbbing, unrelenting ache in your chest, and repeated yourself.
“I’m sorry that happened to you, Buck,” you said, matter-of-factly. “She shouldn’t have ki- she shouldn’t have done that. You didn’t want it. Didn’t consent to it. It’s not okay.”
He stared at you, wide eyed. Another tear spilled onto his cheek, but he didn’t seem to notice; he was far too shocked.
“Sweetheart, I don’t care about that- I’m fine,” he shrugged. “I’m worried about you. About hurting you.” He dug his teeth into the inside of his cheek, “About what this might- what it might do to us.”
The words came out quieter, weaker than you’d hoped. “Wasn’t your fault.”
“Baby-”
“I’m sorry, can you-” you cleared your throat, “Can you just give me one second?” You gave him a strained smile and turned slowly back to the bedroom. Bucky faltered awkwardly in the living room as you fled.
You turned too sharply around the corner into your bedroom, knocking the point of your shoulder into the wall. But you barely noticed; it didn’t hurt. It should’ve; you’d run into this corner enough times to know that it should kill. But it didn’t. You barely even noticed it. Some tiny portion of your brain registered the hit and catalogued it for the future, for when you’d discover the bruise and wonder about its origin.
On unsteady feet, you flew into the en suite bathroom and shut the door behind you. You didn’t mean to slam it, but the panic creeping into your bones stole your sense of decorum. It turned you into a jittery, unstable version of yourself. The sound of the door banging into its frame made you jump.
With the lock twisted into place, you leaned against the nearest wall and promptly fell apart.
The was the breakdown of the century, the monster you’d been fighting off with sword and shield. But fighting was useless. It came at you like a natural disaster. Unstoppable. Uncontrollable. Life-threatening. It was your own personal category 5 hurricane. Your uncontained wildfire. Your San Andreas fault.
The tears soaked your shirt in mere moments. Your breathing was ragged, labored. A burning sensation clawed at your throat, your chest, as your lungs begged for oxygen. The weakness in your knees forced you to slide down the wall, searching for the stability of the floor.
But even as you fell to pieces, you forced yourself to stay quiet. To do your damnedest to keep Bucky from hearing. Because no matter what happened at that party, he was still the great love of your life. And you didn’t want to upset him.
But it was too late.
“Baby…” Bucky called from the bedroom, his voice jagged with worry. “Baby, I’m so sorry. Please, can we talk?”
The handle of the bathroom door jiggled as he tried it, but found it locked. He sighed.
His metal knuckles knocked gently against the wood, “Sweetheart, please… open the door.”
You didn’t answer.
“Baby, I’m-” he choked on the panic. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing- there’s nothing going on with me and T-” he didn’t say her name. “I swear to god, I swear on my life. I swear on Steve’s. It’s not like that.”
The logical part of your brain knew he was telling the truth. Nothing about James Buchanan Barnes said ‘cheater’. He was a loyal, decent person who would rather die than hurt you. Never over the course of your relationship had you ever caught him so much as looking at another woman.
But the tortured, traumatized part of your brain was too busy falling down a rabbit hole of flashbacks to listen to reason. All at once, it grew to be too much.
Once again, bile crawled its way up the back of your throat. And though you tried to resist, you didn’t have any fight left in you. Your mouth flooded with saliva, and you threw yourself to the floor in front of the toilet. Pain rocketed through your knees as your crashed against the cold tile.
And finally, after months of staving off the nausea, you let it win. You allowed yourself to be sick. To be weak.
All of the fear and worry and pain exited your body in an almost violent fashion. It had been building up for so long, slowly taking over every cell. And now, it had forced you to the ground. Forced you to your knees. Forced you to lean over the toilet and retch, over and over again.
“Sweetheart?” Bucky called, distressed. There was a heightened sense of alarm in his voice. A pleading desperation. “Are you okay? Can I get you anything?”
Answering wasn’t an option, as you were otherwise occupied.
“I’m gonna get you some water, okay? But I’ll be right back.”
‘See?’ you thought, ‘He does care.’
The thought only brought on another wave of sickness.
The force with which your body lurched forward would most likely leave you sore the next day, but you didn’t care. You didn’t care about anything other than bringing air into your lungs.
Bucky’s voice entered your consciousness every minute or so as he checked on you; he sounded like he might be sick himself. But you weren’t able to ask.
Finally, it was over. The contents of your stomach were long gone, and you’d expelled only bile for the past few minutes. But after a spell of dry heaving, the forceful retching came to an end. You allowed yourself to slump against the nearest wall with relief. A sharp burn ripped through your throat and nose. Your hands shook. Tears clung to your cheeks and lashes. But it was over.
Your head fell into your hands, and you forced yourself to take a few deep, even breaths, though they did little to calm you. Images of Bucky and Tara still pummeled you from every angle. You wondered if you’d find her red lipstick smudged up and down his neck.
In all honesty, you didn’t mean to say it out loud. You didn’t mean for Bucky to hear you. But you’d lost control of yourself long ago, and the words slipped out before you had the chance to stop them.
“I can’t do this again.”
The fire scorching down your throat banished the haunting visions of Bucky and his lost love and dragged you back to reality.
No part of you wanted to face him after the dramatic show you’d put on. After he’d kissed another woman. After everything that could’ve gone wrong did. The anticipation conjured a dark, swirling pit to open in your stomach. Would he end things tonight, after witnessing your instability? Or would he wait till the morning? Would he immediately fly into Tara’s arms? Or would he wait a few days out of respect?
The nausea returned, but you didn’t have anything left to expel. You dragged a few greedy breaths into your lungs and forced yourself to face the facts: the longer you waited- the longer you hid- the worse it would be. And so, you pulled yourself up off the floor and rinsed your mouth in the bathroom sink.
Bucky hovered closely to the bathroom door. He was so close, in fact, that he left you almost no room to exit.
“Are you doing alright, sweetheart?” His eyes were red; his cheeks were stained with tear tracks. “I brought you a glass of water if you’re interested.”
He reached for you tentatively, his hand shaking ever so slightly.
There was a time when you never would’ve avoided his touch. Never would’ve imagined pulling away from his hand. But you did. Maybe you didn’t mean to, maybe it was a reflex. But you did it. You yanked your body out of his path and tucked your arms into your chest, as though protecting yourself from some great danger.
More than anything, you wanted to flee the room, the apartment- maybe the state. But you knew there was no point in running. Instead, you took a few long strides across the room, putting some distance between you and Bucky. It felt safer here. More comfortable.
The look on Bucky’s face nearly made you sick again.
“Sorry,” you said, flames scorching down your throat. “I-”
“No, hey- it’s okay, I get it.” He forced the saddest smile you’d ever seen. “Um, I’ll just- I’ll put this on your nightstand.” He set the glass of water down behind him and turned back to you with anguish carved into his face.
“Baby…” he sighed. “I’m so-”
“You don’t have to apologize again,” you told him . “It’s-”
A wave of dizziness crested over you, sending the world around you into chaos. Black, shiny spots shimmered on the edges of your vision. Desperately, you grabbed onto the corner of the nearby armchair in an attempt to steady yourself. Your nails dug into the upholstery as you breathed through your tremulous grip on the world.
Bucky took a small, cautious step in your direction. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m-” You listed to the side once again. “I’m gonna pass out.”
Bucky’s eyes widened, “What?”
And then you were falling. Falling forward. Black clouds obscured your vision, your ears started ringing. A gust of air fanned your face as you quickly folded toward the floor. A pair of strong arms locked around you suddenly. One encircled your waist; the other, your chest. And then you were out.
Everything was still black and cloudy; the sounds came back first.
The words were fuzzy at first, lacking any real, definable structure. But you could tell it was Bucky saying them. Could tell by his tone, his gentle voice, that he was reassuring you. The garbled, shapeless words grew slowly clearer until you finally made them out.
“I got you,” he said. “You’re okay, baby. I got you.”
A cool sensation glided across your cheek; it sent goosebumps crawling over your skin. It felt so familiar. Why did it feel so familiar? The cold, metal drifted across your skin again, and you recognized Bucky’s vibranium hand.
“You’re alright, I’m here,” he told you. “I’m right here.”
Finally, you rediscovered the ability to open your eyes. It was harder than you remembered, more taxing. But you did it. And Bucky’s face was the first thing you saw- his beautiful, anxious face. He sat next to you on the bed, leaning over you with unparalleled worry.
“Hey,” his brow creased with concern. “How are you feeling?”
It took a moment for you to formulate the words, but eventually, you managed an “I’m fine.”
And technically speaking, you were. You weren’t dizzy or nauseous anymore. You hadn’t been injured when you blacked out- Bucky didn’t allow that to happen. So, physically speaking, ‘fine’ was accurate.
But the embarrassment burned your face; you were certain that your skin must be scorching to the touch. It was all just so dramatic. So over the top. The sobbing, the vomiting, the fainting… It was like something out of a soap opera.
“Are you sure?” he asked. His voice was still thin, still brittle with concern.
You gave a cautious nod, “Yeah. I swear.”
He relaxed the tiniest amount. But if you knew anything about him, you knew he’d remain hypervigilant for the rest of the night, just in case. Hell, he’d probably remain hypervigilant for at least a week, ready to save you if need be.
“Thanks for catching me, Buck.”
“Yeah- of course,” a small smile crept across his face. “Always, baby.”
He ghosted his thumb over your cheek again, “Is this- has this ever happened before?” he asked, “Or is it something new?”
He worried more than anyone you’d ever known. And always about you. You kicked yourself for thinking he would ever stray. For thinking that he didn’t care.
“It hasn’t happened in a long time, but I used to pass out a lot when I was younger. Whenever I was really-” You cut your sentence off at the knees.
He eyed you, “Whenever you were really what?”
There was no sense in saying it. Bucky already felt guilty enough, adding to his shame wasn’t going to help.
“When you were what?” he asked again, more insistent this time. Anxiety practically dripped from his words.
You sighed. “Whenever I was really upset. Or extremely stressed.”
Bucky matched your sigh with one of his own. His was heavier, weighed down by his responsibility for your episode. He gently stroked your face once more, but pulled away before his thumb could sweep the entire length of your cheek bone. He tucked his hands safety at his sides.
“Sorry,” he said. It was almost imperceptible.
“No, I’m-” you began to try and sit upright.
“Okay, hey, let’s just take it slow, alright? I don’t think you should get up yet.”
But you were determined to sit up. If you continued to lie there, Bucky would continue to dote on you. To wring his hands. And it would only increase the evening’s embarrassing dramatics.
Much to Bucky’s dismay, you didn’t listen to his cautionary words. You pushed yourself up to a seated position without difficulty and rested your back against the headboard.
In a flash, Bucky was on his feet. He stood right against the bed, his hands anxiously hovering over you, poised to save you at a moment’s notice. If you began listing toward the edge of the bed, he’d catch you. Again.
But no such incident occurred. You were perfectly steady, perfectly safe. You accepted the glass of water he offered you for the second time and drained it in a matter of seconds.
“Do you want some more?” he asked, already heading for the kitchen, “I’ll go get-”
“No, no, I’m okay,” you said. “I want you to stay here- I wanna talk to you.”
Bucky halted in the doorway, frozen. Dread bloomed in his eyes. He lost his grip on the glass in his hand and barely reacted quickly enough to stop it from shattering.
“Oh. Okay. Yeah…” he said; his words has a wounded quality about them.
He took a few slow steps toward the bed but stayed at a cautious distance. His shoulders tensed, his jaw tightened. He sucked in a sharp breath and coiled his metal hand into a tight fist. He seemed to be waiting for something, expecting something.
But after waiting only a few short moments, he spoke again.
“You don’t- you don’t actually have to say it, if that’s okay. I don’t think I could handle hearing the words,” a broken smile flashed across his face for a split second. “But I understand. I won’t beg you reconsider- I get it. And I’m sorry, for what it’s worth- if it’s worth anything.”
“What?”
He placed the empty glass on your nightstand and headed for the closet.
“I’m just gonna grab a few things. Some clothes and stuff. And then I’ll-” he sighed, “And then I’ll get out of your hair.”
You shook your head, “What are you talking about, Buck? I just said I wanted us to talk-”
“I know, sweetheart.” Something in his words sounded like begging. Like pleading for mercy. “And I know I need to let you say your piece, but I don’t know if I can h-handle it. At least not right now. And I know that’s selfish of me. And I’m sorry. But I’m-”
He was practically falling apart at the seams. Parts of him seemed to be peeling away, stripping him down to his most raw, vulnerable self. His hands shook. His voice wavered. His breathing came in shallow, erratic bursts. His body was determined to self-destruct before you could deliver the final, deadly blow.
You jumped out of bed on unsteady feet, your arms outstretched toward him. If you could reach his side and anchor him to the earth quickly enough, maybe you could stave off the panic attack that loomed on his horizon.
He, of course, protested. He tried to say something, something cautioning you against getting up in such a hurry. Against running across the room. But his voice barely carried any weight.
“Hey, it’s okay. We’re okay.” Your hands cradled his face, “Breathe, baby. I don’t want you to leave. I want you here.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. His hands found your waist. And he dragged deep, even breaths into his lungs. He was so focused, so concentrated on staying above water that you weren’t sure he heard your whispered reassurances. But you voiced them anyway. Just in case he could hear you. In case your words helped him somehow.
It was a long time before he came back to you. But you waited patiently for him. As you always did.
When he finally opened his eyes, he looked you over slowly, drinking you in as though seeing you for the first time. The panic had dissipated from his expression, leaving tentative relief in its wake. It seemed that he was just grateful you were still there. Grateful that you hadn’t cut your losses and left him in the dust.
Finally, he spoke. It was a genuine question. No levity. No humor.
“You still love me?”
It crushed you.
“Of course- of course, I do, Buck.” Your hands slipped from his cheeks, down his chest, and wound around his back. He pulled you tighter, crushing you against his body.
“Even after-”
“Yes,” you said against his chest.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. About tonight- about all of it.” He smoothed his hand up and down your back in an endless loop. “I know this hasn’t been easy on you. I know I hurt you. And it’s just so- I’m done working with her. I promise.”
This conversation felt a bit too familiar. Hadn’t this happened before? Hadn’t he already offered to quit? And hadn’t you stopped him? It seemed that you were trapped in a timeloop of sorts, forced to endlessly relive this version of reality. You were about to, once again, stop him from quitting, but he spoke before you had the chance.
“I know what you’re gonna say, but I can’t do this anymore. I can feel-” he cleared his throat, forcing the emotion down. “I can feel you slipping away. And I can’t keep putting what we have at risk-”
“Buck,” you sighed, “I trust you. Tonight wasn’t your fault. And if you need to keep working with-”
“No.”
And that was it on the subject. He wasn’t open to any arguments or rebuttals.
“I’m not losing you over this,” he insisted. “I know you want to be supportive, but nothing is worth losing you.”
It was quiet- inaudible, really. But you mustered up a “thank you” that only someone with enhanced senses could’ve heard.
The relief brought tears to your eyes. Never before had anyone actually chosen you like this. Never before had anyone dropped everything for you because they wanted to. It was a new feeling for you, and you wondered how you’d survived this long without it.
But the relief only lasted so long.
“What about Hydra? If they’re getting stronger, if they’re coming back, shouldn’t you-”
Bucky shook his head, “The team can take care of it without me. I’ve given them everything I can; they know everything I know. And they have the drive now.” He shrugged, “They don’t need me anymore.”
The two of you remained locked in a tight embrace. A comfortable silence settled around your bodies. And for the first time in months, the suspicious voice in your head was quiet. There were no doubts, no fears. Only comfort. Finally, comfort.
“I’m sorry I reacted like that.” You unearthed your face from Bucky’s chest and did your best to look up at him. “The crying and the vomiting and the passing out, it’s…” you rolled your eyes and let out a huff, “it was a lot.”
He tightened his grip around you.
“No, don’t be sorry. I’ve been- I’ve kind of been torturing you for months. I put you in such a… I put you in a terrible position- the worst position. And I wasn’t even there for you. I kept hurting you and leaving you and- and then tonight with the…” he shook his head. “I can’t imagine what that felt like for you.”
“But I-” You struggled against his inhuman strength until he begrudgingly loosened his grip and allowed you enough room to really look at him- though he refused to let go completely. “I made this all about me,” you said, disgusted. “She-” you had to force yourself to say the words; they tasted like vinegar. “She kissed you against your will. I know what that’s like, it’s not fun. And I made it about me- it was selfish.”
“Sweetheart-”
“What happened tonight wasn’t your fault.” Your words were steadfast. Unflinching. “I should’ve been there for you. I should’ve been supportive. I should’ve-”
He took your face in his hands, “It’s all okay, sweetheart. I’m okay.”
“I’m sorry.” The words came out so defeated, so bathed in shame. “And I’m sorry I ever thought- I’m sorry I ever even considered that you might cheat. I know you’re not the type- of course, you’re not the type.”
“It’s okay. The late nights and the phone calls and all the-”
“It’s not just that,” you sighed, “I mean, that stuff was definitely part of it. But this whole thing just felt so…”
For a split second, you allowed your eyes to close. The memories of betrayal and infidelity clawed at you, hissing and snarling as they tore open a pit in your stomach. You gave a slight shake of your head and opened your eyes, willing the past to dissipate.
“It felt so familiar- too familiar. Like I’ve been here before.”
Bucky’s eyes widened a bit as he put the pieces together. He didn’t know much about your past relationships, just as you intended. He knew only that your exes hadn’t treated you all that well. You never went into great detail about how or why things ended, and Bucky didn’t pry. But a knowing look bloomed across his face as he allowed your words to settle over him.
“You’ve been cheated on,” he said.
You nodded, “Three times.”
A sharp gasp filled Bucky’s lungs; disgust twisted his features into a horrified mask. “Three times?”
Again, you nodded.
“In a row. We were- I was really serious about each of them. We lived together. Talked about building a future together. And then… yeah.”
Bucky was too shocked to move, to blink.
And suddenly, his disturbed stare was too much. His hands were too big and warm against your skin. His grasp was too tight. You freed yourself from his embrace and put some distance between his body and yours. The air around him was just so heavy, so hot. A similar heat scorched your cheeks as the embarrassment of your admission caught up to you; you dragged deep breaths of cool, crisp air into your lungs.
Bucky stayed right where you left him; you weren’t sure if it was out of respect or utter shock.
“Is that…” He paused, probably wondering if he should even ask. You nodded, assuring him that it was okay. “That’s why I heard you say, ‘I can’t do this again’?”
A fresh wave of heat struck your cheeks, and you gave a reluctant nod.
“Yeah.” You rolled your eyes, “I didn’t mean to be so dramatic about it.”
“You weren’t-”
“My instincts have just been screaming at me for months, you know? And I’ve been trying really hard not to listen to them and then tonight happened and- and it was like a chorus of thousands of people screaming ‘I told you so!’” You gave a shake of your head, “It was like all the old wounds were ripped open and I was bleeding out again and it was no one’s fault but mine for not learning from my past mistakes.”
Bucky nodded.
“But it’s- I mean, obviously, this situation is different, cause you didn’t actually do anything wrong. It was just, I don’t know, muscle memory.”
“Makes sense. You’ve been through a lot. Three times is…” He stared at you with heartbreak in his eyes. “Being cheated on isn’t your fault, sweetheart. You said ‘past mistakes’ like you’re to blame, but you’re not. You know that, right?”
Your shrug was cold, detached.
Bucky took a step toward you, “Baby, it’s-”
“I didn’t even tell you the best part,” you said. A cynical smile spread across your face, “Those guys all cheated on me with an ex.”
Bucky’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“Yeah,” you leaned against the nearest wall, crossing your arms over your chest. Suddenly, you felt too exposed. “I know how it sounds, but it’s true. It was- it’s why I was losing my mind the whole time you and Tara were working together. I’m not this possessive, jealous person. I just- I thought the pattern was starting again.”
Bucky made a beeline toward you. He cautiously extended a hand in your direction and rested it against your cheek with a feather-light touch. There was something in his eyes, something sad and compassionate and concerned. The most genuine, heartfelt pity.
“Baby, I’m so sorry.” He wrapped his arms gently around you, “I’m so sorry. No one should have to go through that. And I never would’ve taken this job- I never would’ve worked with her. I had no idea.”
“It’s not your fault. I didn’t want you to know.”
Bucky released you from his arms and took a step back, meeting your eyeline. “Why not?”
For a few seconds, you allowed your head to dip. Your eyes closed. Your jaw tensed. Speaking to Bucky openly and honestly wasn’t hard. He was the last person to judge or mock; he always listened with and open mind and open heart. But some things were hard to admit, even to him. He deserved the truth, though. Didn’t he? He deserved to know why you felt this way. Why you’d grown nervous at the first mention of Tara all those months ago.
“Because it’s embarrassing. Because I feel like…” you raised your head but deftly avoided eye contact. “I feel like I have this weird, very specific curse, or something. Like there’s something about me that pushes people back into the arms of their ex. Like something about being with me is so…” disgust colored your voice, “so awful that- that it kind of gives people a wakeup call, or something. And it helps them realize that the person they left behind is way, way better than anything I could ever offer them.”
He gave you the saddest smile you’d ever seen, “Sweetheart, that’s not true-”
“Maybe if it had only happened once. Or even twice. But what’s that thing they say, ‘once is random, twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern’?” The half-hearted shrug you threw his way was almost too pathetic. “When this kind of things happens to you three times- in a row- it makes you wonder if you’re the problem.”
A heavy silence filled the room. Bucky was still, his eyes trained on you. You fidgeted under his gaze, picking at the last remnants of one of your nails. The voice inside your head wailed. It wondered why Bucky wasn’t refuting your argument. Why he was completely silent. It feared that he agreed with you. That he’d taken your words to heart and finally seen the light, finally realized that there really was something wrong with you. That Tara was the better choice. That he was to be number four.
The urge to slap yourself across the face surged through you. There you were, doubting him once again. Projecting your problems onto him. Suspecting him of things he had never done- would never do. It took all of your strength, but you wrangled those skeptical, distrusting thoughts and shoved them into a dark corner of your mind.
“But um, I know that this is my issue, not yours,” you said. “It’s something I need to work on. Cause it’s not fair of me to- I shouldn’t have put all of my shit on you. I know you’d never-”
“I would never,” Bucky insisted. He closed the space between you and cradled your face gently in his big hands. “I would never do that to you. You’re the only person I will ever want.”
You gave a slight nod. There was something shameful in your words. “I know- I know that. But the logical part of my brain was, I don’t know, hijacked. Or something. All I could think about was…” you sighed, “All I could think about was when you how going to tell me. I wondered if you’d sit me down and say it to my face- or if you’d tell me at all. I thought maybe I’d come home from work one day and all your stuff would be gone.”
His hands left your face. But before you could mourn their absence, his arms were wrapped securely, protectively around your waist. It seemed as though he was trying to save you from the pain of your past, to shield you from the ghosts. It was the same protection you offered him when the nightmares came calling, when the weight of his Hydra days grew too heavy to carry alone.
He let out a contented sigh as your arms wound around his neck and pulled you closer until you were certain that your body and his would meld into one. His heart beat against your chest, his breath ghosted across your skin. And for a long moment, you forgot the fear and agony that had plagued you these last few months. For a long moment, it was perfect.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised, “Ever.”
“I know,” your arms tightened around his neck. “I’m sorry for being so suspicious. And so upset. It’s not that I don’t trust you, I-”
Just then, he pulled away, just enough that his eyes could meet yours.
“I know you trust me. But you had plenty reason to be upset. And suspicious.” He brushed a kiss against your forehead, “You’ve been through a lot. It’s not your fault- your instincts were trying to protect you.”
“But-”
“No. No ‘buts’. Okay?” He was steadfast, almost stern. “You thought you recognized a pattern from your past, and you were scared. But you were just doing your best with the information you had. And that’s enough. You reacted in a way that makes sense, given the context. You don’t have to apologize or browbeat yourself for it. Okay?”
He eyed you for a long while until you gave him an unenthusiastic ‘okay’.
“And you aren’t cursed, by the way,” he asserted. “There is nothing wrong with you. There is nothing about you that is going to send me running back to Tara or any of my other exes. You are…” His intense expression softened, melting into the purest form of adoration. “Everything to me. I could never want anyone more than I want you. Everything that I’ve been through- I would do it again. All of it. Because it led me to you-”
A quiet laugh left your chest.
“I’m dead serious,” he said, his expression grave. “I’d go back and do all of it again- I wouldn’t change a single thing. If it brought me to you, I’d do it in heartbeat.”
There was no more humor in your expression, no more laughter bubbling on your surface, because he meant it. He really would repeat every heinous, awful thing that had ever happened to him- just to get back to you. Without a word, your tucked yourself against Bucky’s chest once again, and allowed his arms to crush you into his body.
He was the good, trustworthy, loving man you always knew him to be. He was gracious. Understanding. Compassionate. Better than you ever dreamed. Better than you thought you deserved. He wasn’t a rerun of your past. No, he was a fresh, blank page. A clean slate. A brand-new story. For the first time, you didn’t have to worry about soul-crushing plot twists. You didn’t have to fear that the story might end prematurely, or that the next page might bring heartbreak.
Your story and his were inextricably wound together, and that’s how they’d remain.
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