summary: Bucky Barnes is one mission away from strangling his team, so naturally they do the reasonable thing: spend $800 on a matchmaking service as a prank. The plan? Humiliate him. The outcome? Not what they expected.
word count: 5.3 k
warnings: fluff, humor, idiots to lovers, mild language, mentions of violence (mission related), awkward dates, soft!bucky, teasing, light sexual innuendo, workplace boundaries (kind of... ignored), happy ending. (also, bucky sounds kinda pretentious because I just know that man is super smart, you'll get this when you get to this part) english is not my first language so I'm sorry if you see any mistypo/grammar error.
a/n: idk how I even came with this idea, lol, but I had something very clear: I wanted to post it in April Fools. also, who is this? Me not writing angst????? somebody call the police. I hope you enjoy it!
read on AO3
The warehouse was supposed to be empty. It wasn't.
"Fall back!" Bucky shouted into the comm, but Walker was already walking forward, his taco-shitty-shield raised like he had something to prove… which he always did.
The explosion took out the east wall. Bucky felt the shockwave before he heard it, tackling Yelena out of the debris field. When the dust cleared, Bob was pinned under a beam, and Walker was on his back, groaning.
"I said fall back," Bucky snarled, hauling Walker up by his tactical vest.
"I had it under control—"
"You had nothing under control. Bob almost died because you couldn't follow orders."
"Hey," Ava said, helping Bob to his feet. "Everyone's fine. Let's just—"
"Fine? We walked into a trap because someone" Bucky jabbed a finger at Walker. "—couldn't wait for recon."
"The intel said—"
"Well the intel was wrong. That's why we recon first." Bucky's voice was cold enough to frost the air. "Next time, maybe think before you rush in like an idiot."
Walker's jaw tightened. "You know what, Barnes—"
"What I know is that I'm tired of babysitting grown adults who should know better."
Yelena stepped between them. "Okay, everyone back to base. We debrief when we're not standing in a building that might collapse at any minute."
The ride back was silent except for the engine. Bucky stared out the window, jaw clenched, vibranium arm whirring slightly—the tell that he was still worked up.
"You could've gone easier on him." Yelena said quietly.
"He could've gotten Bob killed."
"But he didn't."
Bucky didn't answer.
Back at base, Bucky didn't even wait for the debrief, he dropped his gear and headed straight to the gym.
"Guess we're doing this later," Walker muttered yanking off his tactic vest.
"He's not wrong though," Bob said softly. "I was pinned pretty badly."
"He's also not right," Ava countered. "Shit happens on missions, we all know that."
"He's just…" Yelena searched for the word. "Tightly wound."
"Tightly wound?" Walker scoffed. "The guy's a nightmare. Every mission it's something: too slow, too fast, too loud, didn't follow protocol—"
"He keeps us alive," Bob pointed out.
"He also makes us miserable." Walker grabbed a water bottle. "When's the last time anyone saw him smile?"
They all thought about it. From down the hall, they heard it, the rhythmic aggressive thudding of someone punching a heavy bag like it owed them money.
"He needs to get laid," Ava said suddenly and everyone turned to look at her. "What? I'm serious. The man is wound tighter than a clock. When's the last time he went on a date? Relaxed? Did anything that wasn't working or brooding?"
"Barnes? Dating?" Walker snorted. "Who'd want to date that?"
"Someone with a thing for emotionally constipated super soldiers?" Yelena suggested.
Ava grinned. "I'm just saying, maybe if someone got him out of his head for five minutes, he'd stop biting ours off."
The thudding continued on the background, harder now.
Yelena's eyes lit up with that particular gleam that meant she was having an idea. Usually a bad one.
"What?" Walker asked warily.
"We should hire him a matchmaker."
"A what?" Bob asked.
"Matchmaker. Professional dating service." Yelena was already pulling out her phone. "We set him up, they find him dates, maybe he meets someone and stops being so…"
"Grumpy?" Ava supplied.
"I was going to say 'insufferable', but yeah, sure."
Walker's grin was slow and dangerous. "That's actually hilarious."
"It's mean." Bob protested weakly.
"It's a gift." Yelena said. "We're actually helping him."
"By tricking him into dating?"
"By forcing him to have a life outside of this." Yelena was already scrolling through websites. "Look at this one, 'Professional matchmaking services. Personalized consultations. Find your perfect match'. This is perfect!"
Ava leaned over her shoulder. "How much?"
"Two hundred each for the premium package."
"I'm in," Walker said immediately.
"Ava?"
"Oh, absolutely. This is the best idea you've ever had."
They all looked at Bob.
"I don't know…" he said.
"Bob," Yelena put a hand on his shoulder. "Do you want Bucky to smile? Ever?
"…Yes?"
"Then we're doing this for his own good."
The thudding from the gym was relentless, angry.
"Fine," Bob sighed. "But if he kills us, I'm haunting you."
"Deal." Yelena started filling out the form. "This is going to be amazing."
In the gym, Bucky drove his fist into the bag again and again. The mission played on loop in his head: the explosion, Bob pinned, Walker reckless charge.
He overhears Ava saying something that sounded like "he needs to get laid." Her words echo in his head. He hits the bag harder. Maybe she wasn't wrong, maybe everyone was alright and he was too tightly wound. Too quick to snap, too…
Another punch, the bag swung violently.
It didn't matter. This was who he was: focused, careful. Always three steps ahead because that's what kept people alive. If that made him miserable to be around, then so be it.
His phone buzzed. He nearly ignored it, but something made him check.
Dear Mr. Barnes,
Congratulations! You've been enrolled in our exclusive matchmaking service…
Bucky stared at the email and then slowly turned toward the door. He could hear them in the common room, not the words, but the tone—conspiratorial, excited. They were waiting for him to explode. He looked back at his phone, read the email again.
A matchmaker. They'd hired him a matchmaker.
He should be angry. Should march in there and tell them exactly where they could shove their prank. Instead, he pocketed his phone and headed for the showers.
Fine. They wanted him to date? He'd date.
And when it inevitably failed and proved his point—that some people were just meant to be alone—maybe they'd finally leave him the hell alone.
Your office was smaller than Bucky expected… warmer too. Books lined on wall, plants sat on the windowsill, and the desk was cluttered with papers, a half-empty coffee mug and what looked like a collection of vintage postcards.
You looked up when he entered, and your smile was immediate and genuine. "Bucky Barnes? Come in, come in. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water? I have tea but I'll warn you, it's the cheap stuff."
"I'm good."
"Suit yourself." You gestured to the chair across from you—not the stiff formal kind, but an actually comfortable armchair. "So, I'm guessing you know why you're here?"
"My teammates think I need to get laid."
You blinked and then laughed—not a polite chuckle, but an actual laugh. "Well, that's certainly the most direct answer I've gotten. Usually people say something like 'my friends think I work too much' or 'I'm ready to find someone special'."
"Would you prefer me to lie?"
"Absolutely not. Honesty is refreshing." You leaned back in your chair. "For the record, I spoke with Yelena when she set this up. She said you were 'grumpy and needed an attitude adjustment', but I'm going to go out on a limb and guess there's more to it than that."
"Not really."
"So you're just naturally grumpy?"
"Yeah."
You studied him for a moment, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that you were seeing more than he wanted to show. "Okay, different question—are you here because you want to be here or because you want to prove them wrong?"
Bucky paused for a minute and actually think about it. "What if it's both?"
"Then I think we can definitely work with that." You pulled out a notepad, but your posture was relaxed, open. "Fair warning, I'm going to ask you some questions, and some of them might feel silly, but they help, that okay?"
He wasn't sure what he'd expected, maybe someone who'd tiptoe around him, or worse, someone who'd treat this like therapy. You did neither of that. You were just… warm, easy. "Sure."
"Great, let's start simple— what do you do when you actually have downtime? And before you say 'I don't have downtime', everyone has downtime. Including heroes."
"I read. Go to the park sometimes, there's a gym I like."
You were writing. "What kind of books?"
"History, mostly. Some fiction."
"Fiction like…?"
"Le Carré. Vonnegut. I just finished rereading The Hobbit."
Your eyes lit up. "You're a re-reader? Me too, there's something nice about going back to a book you love, right? Like visiting an old friend."
"…yeah." He hadn't expected that answer. "Exactly like that."
"See? We're finding common ground already." You made a note. "Okay, favorite food that isn't whatever protein shake I'm guessing you have for breakfast."
"Plums."
Your pen paused. "That's a fruit, not a meal, but I appreciate the specificity. Favorite meal?"
"My ma' used to make this pot roast…" He trailed off, surprised he'd mentioned it.
But you just smiled, soft and genuine. "Comfort food, the kind that tastes like home. I get it. My mom made this chicken soup that I swear could cure anything—bad days, broken hearts, existential crisis."
"Does she still make it?"
"She does, I visit every couple months and she always has a pot waiting." You tapped your pen against the notepad. "Okay, rapid fire—morning person or night owl?"
"Morning. I like when the city's quiet."
"Oh, see, I'm the opposite. I'm a night person. Everything feels more possible at night, you know? Like the world's asleep and you can just… be," you made a note. "Deal-breakers in a partner?"
He thought about it. "People who are too loud, or rude to waitstaff. Bad hygiene… hm, anyone who claims to be brutally honest in order to be rude."
"Good answer… now tell me about the green flags?"
"What?"
"What would you want in someone? And 'I don't know' isn't an answer."
Bucky sat back. No one had asked him that before. "Someone who doesn't… make a big deal out of things. Sense of humor, I guess."
"You guess?"
"I'd like someone who can make me laugh."
You made a note. "This is workable."
"That easy?"
"I didn't say easy, I said workable." You set down your pen and looked at him directly. "Here's the thing, Bucky. I think there's someone out there for everyone. And I don't mean that in a cheesy, fortune cookie kind of way. I just mean… people are surprising. And connection is surprising. You just have to be open to it."
"You actually believe that?"
"I do. Occupational hazard, maybe, but I've seen it work too many times not to believe it." You stood up, stretching. "Ready to actually try, or are you just here to prove your friends wrong?"
"Both."
"Fair enough. Honesty will get you far in this process." You walked him to the door. "I'll set up some options and email you. And Bucky? For what it's worth, I don't think you're that grumpy."
"You just met me."
"True, but your face lit up when your mentioned your ma's pot roast. That's not a grumpy person thing." You shrugged. "Just an observation."
He left not quite sure what to make of you.
Date one: Michelle.
Michelle was a lawyer. She was smart, attractive, professional. Exactly the kind of person who should be perfect on paper.
"So," she said, stirring her latte, "what's it like working with the New Avengers?"
"It's work."
"Must be interesting, though. All that action."
"Sometimes."
She smiled, but it looked a little strained. "You're not much of a talker, are you?"
"Not really."
"Do you prefer urban operations or undercover missions?"
Bucky blinked. "I… what?"
"I did some research. I thought it… might help us connect."
It didn't.
When he showed up at your office two days later, you were watering your plants. You looked up with a knowing expression. "That bad?"
"She was nice."
"But?" You set down the watering can.
"Felt like a job interview. She asked if I prefer 'urban operations or undercover missions.'"
You winced. "Okay, that's… yeah. She mentioned she did some research. I thought she meant like, looking up your favorite restaurant, not studying your… tactical preferences."
"She was trying."
"I know, but trying too hard is still trying wrong." You gestured to the chair. "Coffee? I just made a fresh pot."
"Sure."
You disappeared into a small kitchenette and came back with two mugs. "Okay, real talk—was it just the research thing, or there was just no spark?"
"Both."
"Well, yeah… chemistry's the hard part," you admitted, settling into the chair. "I can match interests and values all day, but at the end of the day… that thing were you just click with someone? That's lightning in a bottle."
"You think it exists?"
"I know it does, I've seen it." You took a sip of coffee. "When was the last time you felt it? That click?"
He really thought about it. "Honestly? Right now. Talking to you is easy."
You stilled, mug halfway to your lips. Then you smiled, a little softer. "Well, that's my job… to be easy to talk to."
"Is it just a job?"
"No," you admitted. "I actually like people. I like hearing their stories, figuring out what makes them tick. It's…" You searched for the word. "It's hopeful work, you know? In a world that can be pretty cynical."
"You're an optimist."
"Guilty. Is that going to be a problem?"
"No." He surprised himself the moment the world left his mouth. "It's kind of nice, actually."
Date two: Jade.
Drinks with an artist named Jade. She was fun, energetic, laughed easily. She also talked… a lot.
"—and that's when I realized that abstract expressionism is really about the negative space, you know? Like what you don't paint is just as important as what you do paint, and I think that applies to life too, don't you? Like the things we don't say—"
Bucky nodded at appropriate intervals, wondering if you were free tomorrow.
"You seemed distracted," Jade say as they left.
"Yeah," he admitted. "Sorry."
She smiled. "It's okay. I don't think we're a match anyway."
Let me guess. Too much talking?
Is that bad?
Not bad. Just not right for you.
Bucky showed up at your office an hour later with two coffees. He told himself it was because he was in the neighborhood.
"You didn't have to bring me coffee," you said, but you took it anyway.
"You brought me some last time."
"That's different, you looked tragic."
"And I don't now?"
You studied him over the rim of your cup. "No. Now you just look like someone who's figuring things out." You gestured to the other chair. "You have time? Or do you have to save the world."
"I have time."
"Good." You curled up in your chair, coffee in both hands. "So tell me something."
"About what?"
"Anything. Something you don't usually tell people." When he hesitated, you added, "I'll go first… I'm scared of birds."
"Birds?"
"Specifically pigeons… They're unpredictable and they have those creepy little feet." You shuddered. "Everyone thinks it's hilarious, but I'm serious. One flew at my face when I was seven and I've never recovered."
Bucky felt himself smile. "That's actually pretty funny."
"See? This is why I don't tell people!" But you were grinning. "Your turn."
"I'm terrible at technology… I mean, I do understand how to fly jets but I'm terribly bad at remembering to check my email."
"You're a ninety-year-old man, Bucky… a man out of time, that tracks."
"I'm a hundred and nine, actually."
"Even more reason. Okay, next question—what's something that makes you happy? And don't say 'nothing' because I won't believe you."
He was thoughtful for a minute. "Those historical plaques around the city… the ones that tell what used to be there. I like seeing how things have changed."
Your expression softened. "That's really lovely, actually. You're a sentimentalist."
"Don't spread that around."
"Your secret is safe with me." You took another sip of coffee. "Okay, harder question: what are you afraid of?"
"Being stuck," he said after a moment. "Just… existing without living. I disappeared for five years during the blip and ever since that's been my fear."
"I didn't know that." You were quiet for a moment. "But yeah, I get that."
"And you? What are you afraid of?"
"You mean… beside pigeons?" You smile. but it was more thoughtful now. "That I'll wake up one day and realize I've spent so much time helping other people find happiness that I forgot to look for my own."
"That's deep."
"You asked."
"Do you…" he trailed off. "Do you think you forget to look for your own?"
"Sometimes," you admitted. "But then I meet someone like you and remember why I do this. You remind me that connection is worth it."
"We barely know each other."
"Maybe, but I like getting to know you." You meet his eyes. "Is it weird? Given the professional situation."
"If it is, I don't care."
Date three: Rachel.
She was a software engineer… and she was quiet. Probably too quiet.
"So…" Bucky said after a long silence. "You work in tech?"
"Yeah."
"Do you like it?"
"It's fine."
Another long silence.
"Do you… want to be here?" he finally asked.
Rachel looked relieved. "Honestly? I think my sister set up my profile without telling me the full details. And you're so handsome that it's a bit intimidating."
Bucky's ears turned pink and nodded. "That's fair."
They split an appetizer and called it a night.
"Okay," you said when he came in the next day—unscheduled, you noted but didn't mention. You'd started to expect these visits. Looked forward to them, actually. "So we've ruled out: too professional, too talkative and too quiet. This is actually helpful data."
"Is it?"
"Yes! We're narrowing down what works." You made a pause. "Do you want some tea? I finally upgraded and got some fancy stuff."
"Sure." While you made tea on the kitchenette, Bucky looked at the postcards on your desk. "Where are these from?"
"Oh, those?" You came back with two mugs. "I collect them, they're from everywhere. Every time I travel I send myself a postcard. Sounds silly, but I like having the physical reminder."
"What's your favorite?"
You picked up one with a faded image of a lighthouse. "This one, it was on Maine. I traveled alone after my last breakup… it was a rough one, so I just breathed for a week, read books on the beach, ate lobster rolls and didn't talk to anyone unless I wanted to." You handled it to him. "Sometimes you need to be alone to remember who you are."
"Yeah." He looked at the postcard. "I get that."
There was a comfortable silence, but you blinked away. "Okay, back to business. You need someone comfortable, someone who doesn't need you to perform or be anything than yourself."
"Well, good luck finding that."
"Hey, I'm an optimist, remember? I don't give up that easy."
Date Four: Amanda.
Amanda was a bookstore owner. By this time, Bucky lost track of what he was supposed to do. Amanda was great—funny, sharp, had an opinion on everything from classic literature to the best pizza in Brooklyn.
"I like you," she said at the end of the night. "But I don't think you like me the same way."
Oh no. Did he say something wrong?
"Uh— what makes you say that?"
"Well… you kept checking into your phone, and I noticed the one time you only smiled today was when you looked at it, maybe you received a text from someone?"
Bucky looked down at his phone. He received a text from you in the middle of the date.
How is it going? She seems promising!
Also, I just saw a pigeon steal someone's sandwich and I thought of our conversation, they scary.
"It's not like that."
Amanda gave him a look like she knew better. "If you say so. But Bucky? Life's too short. If you already know you like someone, you should tell her… or him. It's the twenty first century, we don't judge anymore."
"Maybe fifth time will be the charm," you said as soon as he crossed your door. "I have another candidate that will be perfect for you, she's—"
"I think I'm done trying."
"What— why? You can't give up this easily, there are…"
"Before you say anything else, I would like to ask you… do you ever go out?"
"You mean dating?" You laughed, but it was a little self-deprecating. "Occupational hazard. I'm too busy setting everyone up that I don't have time for my own life. Besides, I'm picky."
"About what?"
"I don't know. I need someone who gets me, I guess. Someone who I can just be myself around without feeling like I'm working." You shrugged. "Someone who doesn't think it's weird that I'm scared of pigeons and I can tall about my interests like my postcard collection and all of that."
The words hung in the air between you.
"Someone like that exists," Bucky said quietly.
"Maybe," you set down the files. "Why do you ask?"
Bucky braced himself, this was harder than any mission briefing. "Because I keep coming here—"
"Well, yeah, that's kind of how this works."
"No, I mean—" He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. "I show up even when I don't have an appointments. I texted you three times this week about nothing important, and last Tuesday I walked twenty blocks out of my way just to grab coffee near your office."
You were very still. "Bucky…"
"And during that date with Amanda? I was checking my phone because you sent me a text about a pigeon stealing somebody's sandwich and I smiled because of that, not because of the date." He met your eyes. "She told me I should probably tell 'her' how I feel."
"Tell who—" You stopped for a second and your eyes widened slightly. "Oh."
"Yeah." You seemed wordless for a minute, so he continued. "Look, you don't have to— I know this is your job, and I'm probably breaking some sort of professional code or something but—"
"You're not breaking anything," your voice was softer now. "It's just that I didn't think…"
"That someone like me—"
"No!" You stood up, moving around your desk. "That someone I was helping setting up would—I'm supposed to be a professional. I'm not supposed to look forward to our meetings, or text you random stuff that make me think of you, or…" You trailed off.
"Or?"
"Or hope that this dates were failing for a reason."
The relief he felt was immediate. "So I'm not completely crazy."
"Oh, you're definitely crazy." But you were smiling. "Coming to a matchmaker to find a date, and then asking out the matchmaker? That makes you complete insane."
"To be fair, I came in here because my teammates thought it would be funny to make me go through all of this… so it's that a no?"
"You're lucky I find your insanity charming, but I would have to refund your friends."
"Why?"
"Professional ethics, I can't charge for matchmaking services If I'm the match."
Bucky felt himself smiling. "Pretty sure finding me someone would count as a success. So… dinner? This Friday."
"Wouldn't miss it for anything."
You met him at an Italian restaurant in Brooklyn. Nothing fancy, just good food and dim lighting and tables far enough that conversation felt private.
"Hi," you said, suddenly nervous.
"Hi." He was nervous too, you realized. It was oddly comforting.
"So," you said as you sat down when he pulled the chair for you. "Do we have a rule about not talking about your failed dates?"
"Let's not talk about work at all."
"Deal, so… what do we talk about?"
"Tell me something nobody knows about you."
You thought about it for a while while the waiter poured water. "Well… I wanted to be a teacher, specifically a kindergarten teacher."
"Why didn't you?"
"I did, for two years. I loved the kids, loved the work but suddenly I realized I was spending all my time trying to help the parents more than the kids. One day one of my kid's father came for a parent-teacher night and spent the whole night talking about his divorce and how he didn't know how to date anymore…"
"He probably was trying to hit on you."
You laughed at that. "Well, I don't know about that, but I gave him advice for twenty minutes, then set him up with one of my friends."
"And then you became a matchmaker?"
"Yup."
The food came—pasta for you, chicken for him. You talked about books and movies and the best pizza in Brooklyn; you had strong opinions, he was amused by them. You talked to him about the pigeon accident when you were a child, and he talked to you about his short time trying to figure out how online dating worked.
Somewhere between dinner and dessert, his hand found yours across the table.
"This is nice," he said.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, I don't feel like I have to be anyone other than myself."
"Bucky, that's the whole point of dating someone." You squeezed his hand. "You should never have to be anyone else."
"Even when I'm grumpy?"
"Even then, although I have to say, you've been less grumpy than advertised."
"That's because I'm here with you."
"Smooth, Barnes."
Later, walking you back to your apartment, he said. "So, what's your verdict on this?"
"On what?"
"The date. Do we forget it happened or…"
"Are you kidding?" You stopped walking and turned to face him. "Bucky, this was the best date I've had in years."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." You stepped closer. "So, here's the thing. Professionally, I should probably refer you to another matchmaker because I'm completely biased now."
"And unprofessionally?"
"Unprofessionally, I'm hoping you'll want to do this again."
"Tomorrow?"
You laughed. "Wow, eager much?"
"I've wasted enough time," he said simply. "I don't want to waste more."
"Tomorrow works." You reached up and kissed his cheek.
Two weeks into dating, you showed up at the New Avengers tower with a bag of plums and a soft smile you only reserved for Bucky.
"You can't just bring me fruit every time you visit," Bucky said, but he was smiling as he let you into the quarters.
"Watch me." You set the bag on the kitchen counter. "Besides, you texted me that you had a rough morning briefing, and since I still don't have your mom's pot roast recipe… plums should make it for now. They make everything better."
"That's not scientifically proven."
"It is now, I'm declaring it." You hopped up to sit on the counter. "So, rough briefing?"
"Walker wanted to charge into a situation without waiting for backup… again."
"And you told him that was a terrible idea?"
"I may have used a strong language."
"But did you yell?"
He took a pause. "No, actually. I just told him why it wouldn't work and suggested an alternative."
You reached out and tugged him closer by his shirt. "Look at you, personal growth."
"Don't make it a thing."
"Too late, it's a thing." You wrapped your arms around his neck. "I'm proud of you."
"For not yelling at Walker?"
"For being you, not the grumpy armor you wear around everyone else."
He settled between your knees, hands on your waist. "I'm still grumpy."
"You're smiling right now."
"That's your fault."
"I'll take the credit." You kissed him softly. "So, what's the plan? Movie? Food? I'm thinking we could order from that Thai place you liked—"
"I have a better idea." He kissed you again, deeper this time, and you made a happy sound against his mouth.
"Oh, I like this plan."
You were laughing—actually giggling, as he kissed along your jaw. "Bucky Barnes, are you trying to seduce me in your kitchen?"
"Is it working?"
"Absolutely." You were leaning in to kiss him again when you heard it.
"—telling you, he's been different. Less— HOLY SHIT."
You and Bucky froze. Then slowly, very slowly turned toward the door… where the entire team stood in the door. Walker's jaw could've been on the floor, Ava looked delighted, Bob seemed mortified at interrupting. Yelena was smiling like Christmas had come early.
"Hi," you said weakly, still perched on the counter with Bucky between your knees.
"Barnes is… smiling," Walker said, like he was announcing a natural disaster. "He's actually smiling, his face is doing the thing!"
"And giggling!" Ava added. "She was giggling and he looked—"
"Happy," Bob finished quietly. "He looked happy."
Bucky's entire demeanor shifted, not back to grumpy, but protective. He didn't move away from you, but his posture straightened. "This is— this is my girlfriend. And you're gonna be respectful about it."
"It's nice to meet you," you said. Then because you could feel Bucky's tension you added. "All of you. Sorry you had to find out like… this." You gestured vaguely at your position on the counter."
"Are you kidding?" Ava said. "This is the best thing that's happened all week. Barnes was practically glowing."
"I don't glow," Bucky groaned.
"You were!" Walker insisted. "You were all smiley and you were giggling."
"No."
"You did!" Yelena looked thrilled. "I heard it! Barnes giggled!"
"I'm going to kick all of you out," Bucky said, but there was no real heat in it.
"You can't kick us out," Walker said. "This is the common area."
You slid off the counter, squeezing Bucky's hand. "It's okay. They were going to meet me eventually, right?"
He looked down at you, and you watched his expression soften again. "Yeah, I just wanted it to be on our terms."
"Well, now it's on chaotic terms, but that seems to be how things work around here." You turned to the team with a smile. "Hi, I'm the matchmaker… the one you all hired to prank Bucky."
"Best prank we ever pulled." Yelena said. "Although, we expected him to get mad, and storm out so we could all laugh."
"Sorry to disappoint you," Bucky murmured.
Bob cleared his throat softly. "I think it's really nice, you both seem very happy."
"We are," you said warmly. "Thank you."
"Okay, so now that we've all crashed your date," Ava said, "are we leaving, or…?"
"Yes," Bucky said immediately.
"But—"
"Yes, you're leaving. Now."
"But I have so many questions!" Yelena protested.
"Ask them later."
"When?"
"When I decide to answer them." Bucky was already steering you back toward the kitchen, away from the door. "Which might be never."
You were trying to not laugh as the team reluctantly filed back toward the door. Bob was the last to leave, pausing in the doorway.
"Bucky… Is good to see you happy. Really good."
Then he was gone, pulling the door closed behind him. You and Bucky stood in the kitchen for a moment, listening to the team's voices fade down the hallway.
"Well," you said finally. "That happened."
"Yeah," he pulled you closer. "Sorry they're—"
"They're wonderful," you interrupted. "Chaotic and nosy and a little overwhelming, but wonderful. They love you."
"They're a pain in my ass."
"That too." You wrapped your arms around him. "But you love them back, I can tell."
He was quiet for a moment. "Yeah, I do. But don't tell them that."
"Your secret's safe with me." You kissed his jaw. "So, where were we."
"I think I was trying to seduce you in my kitchen."
"Right, was it working?"
"You tell me." He lifted you back onto the counter, settling between your knees again.
"Definitely," you said, then laughed as he kissed you back.
He stopped to look at you and smiled while brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. "How did I get this lucky?"
"Well, your team paid eight hundred dollars to prank you into meeting me, so technically you have them to thank."
"I'm never thanking them for this."
"No?"
"No, because then they will never let me hear the end of it."
taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @wintersoldier-gal @globetrotter28 +comment here if you want to be added to my general taglist.
Two names just landed on your hit list: your father, who dragged you back to the tiny town you swore you'd never see again, and Bucky Barnes, the infuriating farmhand whose smart mouth and sexy smiles threaten to ruin your career and your heart.
▸ PAIRING: Farmhand!Bucky Barnes x Pop Star!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, public sex, no condom (don't try this at home), fingering, penetration, creampie, bucky is bossy in bed, brat diva!reader, sex tape leak mentions, hurt/comfort?, bucky calls her princess in a loving and lowk nasty way
▸ WORD COUNT: 23.8K
▸ A/N: i wanted to write a hannah montana: the movie au so i wrote a hannah montana: the movie au. partially inspired by the movie but with my own liberties!! im almost sorry for the length, idk why i cant shut up. thank you again to @iamthatonefangirl and @barnesonly for organizing this collab, excited to share my second contribution!!! check out my first one here <3
↤ main masterlist | bwat summer masterlist
Just when you think your father can’t find any new ways to torment you, he stoops to an all-time low. He’s done plenty of insane things throughout your life and your career, risks that you still question to this day whether they were worth taking, but this one takes the fucking cake.
“Turn this plane around right now,” you snap, arms crossed with a scowl stitched into your brows. Your pink heels tap impatiently before him, a new purchase as a reward for finishing one song for the new album.
He doesn’t even look up at you, simply turning another page of his copy of an entertainment magazine. He’s treating you like an insolent brat throwing a tantrum and, suddenly, you’re fifteen again, begging your dad to pack your entire life to move to the city of angels for the sake of your dream. It took months of convincing before he relented — and look where you are today.
However, he knows what he’s doing, thumbing another page and leaning back into the private plane’s cushy leather seat, raising the magazine a fraction higher to match your line of sight. The front page is one you cannot miss, considering it features you and your latest… incident.
Your lips twist. It’s not fair; this one wasn’t even your fault.
The last few headlines before that are a different story: a high-definition photograph of your underwear when you accidentally flashed some sleazy pap who snuck into a very private party while you were blackout drunk, a tell-all from a PA who had gotten a pissed-off tirade after he fucked up your coffee order — after he spilled the first one all over, not one, but two of your photoshoot outfits, and your ongoing feud with international supermodel Natasha Romanoff who had won a part in a Spielberg blockbuster despite zero acting experience and only because she’s good pals with the main sponsor, Tony Stark.
You’re not entirely, solely to blame for these clickbait stories. Your life and actions have been under a microscope twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You’d be lucky if you could take a piss without someone hiding inside your toilet. Paparazzi are constantly camped outside of your apartment building, so much so that management has had to bump maintenance fees for more extensive security measures. Some days, you think you should just move to the peace and quiet of a Hollywood gated community.
But that’s never been you — there’s a reason why you moved away from your hometown, why you wanted to chase bigger and brighter dreams. What’s the point if you end up isolating yourself again from the rest of the world?
Unfortunately, this life under scrutiny — combined with the fact that the deadline for your next album is coming up quick — is not one for the weak of heart. You think you’ve trained yourself enough to survive the criticism of strangers, but your patience and limited kindness have worn particularly thin as of late. Your record label, your stylist, and your manager are all hounding you for updates, wondering if they could start preparing for your single. Your little (big) flare-ups are no excuse, but you were hoping that your dad, of all people, as your parent and your manager, would understand.
Now he’s committed the biggest betrayal of all.
You should be on your way to New York. A monthlong schedule filled with fall Fashion Week preparations, meetings with casting directors for movies with guaranteed Oscar nominations, and lots and lots of aperol spritzes to distract you from your thoughts. Anything but write another mindless album of pop hits that the general masses enjoy.
Instead of fun-in-the-sun in the big apple, you hear the pilot announce after you’re in the air that you’re on the way to bumfuck Tennessee.
The stewardess looks anxiously between the two of you, lips quivering and hands flying like she can do anything to ease your rising temper.
“I paid for this private charter,” you growl, “I can turn it back around if I want to.”
“Booking’s under my name, darling.”
“Paid for with money that I earned. I have people I have to meet, things I have to do. You can’t just drag me away for a trip down memory lane. These are insane opportunities that won’t come twice. What kind of manager are you?”
“The kind that is your dad first,” he gives you a pointed look.
“Is this because of what happened? You know that one isn’t my fault!”
He doesn’t say anything.
“You know it isn’t.”
“Regardless of what happened, this break should do you some good. A little bit of grass, a lot more fresh air—”
You deadpan, “It smells like literal horse shit everyday.”
“Let’s not get into the technicality of things. The point is you could use a break.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I’m your manager, so I get to decide it for your career. You keep going down this path and who knows where you end up? Trust me, honey, rock bottom is a long, hard fall.”
“You would know,” you mutter under your breath.
The moment those words leave your lips, remorse floods your system. Your eyes flick up to meet his. It’s not hurt, it’s not disappointment. It’s sympathy. You’ve just insulted your own father and he’s pitying you.
Perhaps rock bottom isn’t a long way down after all.
“I’m sorry,” you quickly sigh, “I didn’t mean that.”
“I know you didn’t.” He gets to his feet, pulls you close to press a reassuring kiss on your forehead. “But this is how I know you need this. Trust me on this one, the weeks will fly by.”
You jerk back. “Weeks?!”
Your childhood bedroom feels like a breeding ground for anxiety.
With your bags with New York-esque clothes tucked away into a corner, you stand there with the door closed as your eyes travel around the space. Posters of pop icons that you’ve now befriended and adopted as mentors, aging floral wallpaper that’s peeling in some corners from the years of humidity, a vanity that looks like it belongs in an antique shop from the seventeenth century.
Music filters muffled through the gap underneath your door, a sound that you haven’t heard in quite some time but still echoes like a distant memory. It’s one of your grandma’s favorites, and she’s no doubt leading the charge with the rest of the family and friends who live nearby. They tried to keep your welcome party small, trusted confidantes who wouldn’t breathe a word to the press.
The only thing that’s drowning out the noise downstairs is your publicist and best friend, Yelena, who has somehow worked through every expletive in the Russian dictionary until she came up with more creative and colorful ones of her own.
“You better tell your dad to drive your ass back to New York right now. I don’t care if you have to use a beat-up pick-up truck from the barn next door but we have people waiting for you. We need to get some damage control done before it all goes to shit.”
You sigh. Yelena gives a little uh-oh. “That’s not going to happen. You know my dad; when he’s got his mind made up like this, nothing’s going to change it. He thinks I need a break.”
She says something else in her mother tongue, one that you’ve learned over time translates to something along the lines of I’ll break something else of theirs. “Do you need me to book you a new flight right now? We can literally land in the cornfields in like two hours and bring you to New York. I promise you I’ll make it happen.”
Do you want to be disowned and be shown your father’s look of utter disappointment that will stick in your people-pleasing brain for the rest of your life? No.
Sighing, you glance out the window again. Endless stretches of open fields, green on green on green. You haven’t seen this much green since you face planted during rehearsal for a summer show in Central Park.
“No, I’ll be fine. If I behave and play along, then maybe he’ll let me come back earlier. Two weeks is a long—”
“Two weeks?! Do you know how long it took me to get on Nolan’s calendar? That man is booked and busy, more so than the mayor of New York.”
Wincing, you bite down on another upset noise. “I know. I’m trying to get out of here earlier, but we’ll see how it goes.”
“I can come visit you, you know. Try and talk to him.”
It’s tempting. Yelena has a way of convincing people to do her bidding, even if it means doing a bit of arm-twisting. Literally. You’ll spare your dad from that today. She’s loyal to a fault and the last thing you want is a broken arm on his body.
“No, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
Silence settles on the other end. A brief pause before you can practically hear Yelena’s voice melt, the rough curl of her tongue unfurling into concern. “Will you?”
You can’t say for certain. You haven’t been back here since you packed up your entire life and moved. This place feels familiar, but it’s no longer your home. Nothing here feels like you anymore; it’s like being in the mind of a stranger. A stranger who knows exactly what bone to pick with you.
You hate to admit it but being back here feels as if you’re back in square one. The place where it all started. You can still hear the ghost of your songs, scribbled messy into a songbook that you haven’t touched in years, because that isn’t what the world wants. Your fingertips tingle with the memory of learning how to play the guitar for the first time, testing out your dad’s old songs on his very first guitar that he gifted you for your tenth birthday.
Then you started making some of your own, the kind of music you’ve always loved and ones that touched the heart. Call it bias but your family always thought you had the talent to make it out there. It’s the whole reason you had the confidence to make the move.
But the world has a way of chewing you up and spitting you out. You learned how to toughen your shell, block out all the negative so that you can keep pushing through. Because when you’re at the bottom, the only way to go is up.
Now that you’re at the top, you don’t want to find out if you’ve reached the ceiling.
This is a part of your life you don’t like to dwell on, anxiety attached to the fear of failure painted onto the decor every time you look at these four walls.
“I will be,” you murmur.
“Maybe your dad is right. This is a good chance for you to get away from all the drama. The cameras. Unplug for a little bit.”
“Alert the media, I think Yelena Belova might have lost her darn marbles.”
“Darn marbles? The countryside has changed you, little one.”
A giggle slips past your lips. “Alright, diva.”
“Let me get your schedule sorted and I’ll check back in with you. In the meantime, try to have fun?”
Fun and this bumfuck town are complete opposites. You know from firsthand experience.
“You’re cute when you’re being funny,” you drawl.
“Love you.”
“Love you more.”
Then you’re left in the silence once more.
There are very few things in life that can faze you nowadays. Being raised in a tough, soul-sucking industry will do that to you. Your days have been one thing after another, a schedule packed to the brim that insomnia has become a welcome friend.
You’ve gotten used to drowning and choking on the sea that you can’t taste the difference between clean air and saltwater anymore. You adapt. You learned what it means to come up for air when you need to and swallow that intense, briny ocean when your head is being dunked into it.
Still, things have always happened within your control.
This situation right here is out of your control.
It’s fazing you.
You’re not talking about your dad being progressive and caring more about his baby girl’s mental health, placing it above her career that’s paid off the mortgage on this Tennessee home plus a few others scattered throughout the world.
No, you’re talking about these damn chickens.
You really should’ve just kept your mouth shut and stayed in your room for the next two weeks. If you could convince your dad that you’re sane enough to survive that, he’ll surely let you go free. But you got impatient, you figured that if you could make friends with nature once more, he would release you into the wilderness again.
Here you are now having a staredown with five chickens who have been eyeing you like feed. They know an easy target when they see one and a pop star who hasn’t touched a pail in decades, nor has seen a real-life chicken outside of television segments recently, is definitely one.
They’ve squawked. They’ve pecked. They’ve chased you around this coop, turning you into a headless chicken.
There’s about to be more than one headless chicken if these little shits don’t let you get their eggs.
You now learn that there are only three things that can stand up to you — your dad, Yelena, and these damn chickens. They let out another battle cry before rampaging towards you again, yanking a yelp from your lips as the bucket clangs in your hands.
Fifteen minutes later and you’re flat on your ass for the second time that morning, straw entwined into your hair and probably chicken shit stuck to your sequined denim shorts. Still no eggs. It isn’t the most ideal farming outfit, but you packed for a city, not for a tiny town.
It’s only when you’re this close to giving up that you hear the deep rumble from the door.
“Need some help?”
A snarky “you think?” sits on the tip of your tongue as you whirl around from your spot in the ground. That response dies fast when your eyes land on the six-foot man before you.
Your mouth dries when you first notice the cowboy hat. God, you’ve always been a sucker for a good cowboy. It’s the country girl in you that never left. Regardless of how many polished and shiny men you’ve met in Hollywood, nothing beats a rugged cowboy with dirty hands and broad shoulders and–
He tips his hat back slightly to get a better look at you. Blue eyes. Bluer than the late morning sun outside. Bluer than the sapphires you have in your safebox back in your penthouse. His pink lips are curled into an amused smile as he appraises the state of you on the floor.
Fuck, he’s hot.
He looks like your biggest mistake waiting to happen. He looks like he belongs on the front page of Vogue rather than on a farm. He’s got a coil of rope hanging from his shoulders and the filthy image that invades your mind should put you in the asylum.
High risk, high reward, your brain and the heat between your legs whisper traitorously.
But then you remember the “incident” and you remember how many times you’ve had people approach you for their fifteen seconds of fame, and an irritated glare descends on your face. He doesn’t look affected by the quick change of emotions; in fact, he looks even more delighted that he’s put that look on your face.
“If you could murder some chickens for me, that would be great.”
“We try not to eat our friends here, we usually get ours from old man Jenkins down the road.”
God, even his stupid voice is hot. This is not going to go well for your undomesticated libido. Clearly, you haven’t learned your lesson with sex and men.
“Alright, then a few eggs should do the trick. Enough for breakfast for three.”
“Four.”
You cock an eyebrow.
“I’m joinin’ for breakfast so it’ll be breakfast for four. Why don’t you go on back up to the house? I can handle things here.”
I’d like you to try and handle me. Preferably naked in five different positions in bed.
What you need is a vibrator, the mental image of this man, and ten minutes alone in your room. That should do the trick.
(You’re lying to yourself because you know that wouldn’t be enough but it may be sufficient to sate some of your curiosity and this hungry little thing between your legs.)
“And who are you again?”
The corners of his lips tip up higher. “Don’t remember me?”
“I’ve met a lot of people. I don’t remember everyone.”
“I’d think you would remember the boy you tortured more than the chickens are doing to you now.”
Your brows pinch in a confused frown. “Who?”
“You pick on all boys, princess? Or am I special?”
Fuck. Warmth creeps up your cheeks at the insulting pet name, and his stupid flirty tone, and you find yourself glaring at him again. “Only the ones that clearly deserve it.”
“I can’t say I’m not disappointed that I’m not the only one then.”
If there’s anything worse than a man, it’s a man who knows exactly what to say to have you twirling your hair in your fingers like a schoolgirl.
“Well, he-who-must-not-be-named, I don’t really want to hear an I-told-you-so from my dad so how about you get me a few eggs and we can go our separate ways?”
The man smiles. It’s not a smile you trust. “Anyone ever teach you to say please and thank you or did the city take all your southern manners?”
“Please,” you grit out, caving far too quickly — but you prefer not to have your dad come out to check on you and realize you really have lost your roots.
His eyes twinkle with the kind of mischief that makes your stomach flip. He looks like he’s about to say something else, lips parting in preparation but then he shakes his head with a low chuckle before he easily navigates towards the nesting boxes. The chickens flock around him eagerly, none of them attacking him the same way they’ve been coming at you.
With ease, he nabs a few fresh eggs. He places them into a basket, one that he then hands over to you.
“Thanks,” you mutter.
Your fingers brush over his as you take the basket from his hand, a spark crackling between your fingertips that zings straight through your core. It’s unexpected and you jump back slightly at the feeling. His eyes flick up to meet yours — there’s something unnerving about them. Too blue, too earnest. Too knowing. Like he knows something you don’t.
You ignore that feeling, kicking it to the curb before it can take root inside your vulnerable mind.
He makes a gesture towards the door. “Shall we?”
The man doesn’t try to make any more conversation as the two of you venture back towards your house — no, your grandma’s house. In fact, he seems deep in thought; mouth pressed into a firm line and brows slightly furrowed. He’s even taken off his hat, holding it to his chest as his fingers rake through his thick brunette hair.
Seriously, frustratingly hot.
You force your eyes away from him for the remainder of the walk. When you come through the kitchen doors, your dad and grandma are right where you left them. They look mildly surprised to see you, probably in one piece. “Farm-fresh eggs ready for breakfast! How would you like ‘em? Scrambled? Sunny side up?”
The two look at each other then at the man hovering close behind you.
“Oh, I see you’ve met Bucky!”
Only Buc-ee you know is down Route 40. Who the hell is Bucky?
“Ma’am. Sir. Morning.”
“What a lovely day of reunions,” she chirps.
Reunions? You don’t get a chance to ask when your father holds up the perfectly-intact eggs. “You didn’t have any trouble with the chickens, darlin’? They can be nasty. Been a while since you’ve done it.”
You can hear Bucky’s cocky grin. You ignore it and opt for a bright smile at your family. “Of course not. Who do you think you’re talking to?”
As they turn away to begin cooking, you feel a tickle in your ear.
“They teach you to lie in those acting classes, princess?” Bucky’s voice is close — too close. He’s ducked his head behind you, lips grazing the shell of your ear with his whisper.
You swiftly leap away from him with a glare. “Yeah, same place they teach me to stay the fuck away from condescending, attractive men.”
His lips twitch. “Attractive, huh?”
“Don’t act surprised. You know what you are. I know what you are and I know what not to trust.”
“You don’t know me, princess.”
Your expression goes ice cold, a hiss slipping between your teeth. “I’m not a princess.”
“Five-time Grammy winner, America’s pop princess,” he recites and you nearly get whiplash.
That was your introduction for a recent awards show you attended as a presenter. The fact that he knows it— you didn’t trust him before, you trust him even less now.
“Stalker much?”
“Your grandma was watching it, I was helping her fix the kitchen faucet.”
You didn’t even know your grandma kept up with your activities, last you heard she was struggling to even work the new television upgrade you got her. It was a gift of part love and part apology for not making it home for Christmas. She always sends quick texts whenever you release a new song or win an award. The last few months have been turbulent. You haven’t had the time to respond to her texts, let alone check in over a phone call, when you’re prioritizing work opportunity emails.
Even when you do get the chance, video calls mask most of the fine lines on her face. Only now do you see how much she’s aged.
A piece of your heart breaks with guilt. You’ve been so focused on your own life and your own work that you haven’t had the chance to pause and look back at everyone else who’s supported you. Your grandma has been your biggest cheerleader from day one, arguing against your dad to support your dreams.
After all, she’s constantly calling you her favorite granddaughter (her only one, mind you).
Bucky must sense your mood because he then tries to remedy the situation, “She’s doing fine. She misses you a lot, takes every chance she gets to talk about everything you’re doing. God forbid anyone try to badmouth you in this town; with her influence, that person is shunned within seconds.”
A laugh bubbles up your throat at the thought. She’s always been a firecracker, it’s where you inherited your temper and energy from.
“It’s been a busy few months,” is all your manage to say. Your throat tightens and you blink away the tears. The last thing you want to do is cry in front of this man who looks like he feeds on girls’ tears.
“I didn’t say anything.”
Your lips pinch as you turn to him with an annoyed look. “You didn’t have to.”
“This is gonna be a fun two weeks, princess.” He throws you one last smile over his shoulder before he joins your family.
The next few days don’t get any better. Your grandma’s been so busy with an issue in town that you’re been mostly left to your own devices.
By that, you mean you’ve been left at the beck and call of one Bucky Barnes.
Bucky Barnes who you learn is the farmhand who’s been tasked to keep all of the animals alive, including your horse that you haven’t seen in some time. She’s one of the only good things left in this place, one of the things you regret leaving behind. Winter is a little antsy when you first approach her.
“She doesn’t do well with strangers.”
Your lovely homecoming is quashed when you hear that familiar voice interject. “I know that. She’s mine.”
“I know,” Bucky echoes with a small smile. “Wanna ride her?”
For a second, you’re embarrassed that you feel a spark of fear. It’s been a while since you’ve been on a horse, trading for a different kind of horsepower that’s much safer and faster. You would hate for Bucky — your new arch nemesis — to see you fail.
“Maybe later.”
He looks at you like he knows, that ghost of a smile dancing on his lips.
You learned that the two of you were raised together, despite having no recollection of it. Apparently you had gone through all of grade school together but you’ve met enough people that you can’t seem to remember the children you spent time with — no matter how many times they try to slide into your DM’s with “Oh my god, we went to school together! Can I get some tickets?”
Somehow, you doubt Bucky is the type to slide into anyone’s messages. He probably doesn’t even have social media; the man acts like a dinosaur sometimes when you mention your popularity on certain apps as reason why you shouldn’t be getting your hands dirty and he simply blinks and congratulates you. Then he hands you a shovel to help him with the horses.
That history seems to matter as much to you as it does to him. He still calls you princess with that patronizing tone; sometimes you think there’s a soft tinge to his voice but that thought evaporates the moment he rolls his eyes when you can’t seem to do anything to help around the house.
He also seems to have a problem with the way you dress.
“Really? You’re going to town in that?”
You look down at your silk lace top complemented by the cutest denim skirt tailored to your shape, a pair of low black heels on your feet. “What’s wrong with this?”
Bucky’s gaze traces the length of you. When blue sweeps over you, warmth sinks into your bones again. He looks at you like you’re a piece of meat — and you apparently seem to like it.
“I packed for New York, this is as casual as it gets.”
He stares are you for a brief second again before he shrugs off his flannel, draping it over your shoulders. You’re too stunned to move. He takes this moment to wrangle your arms through the sleeves.
“I’m not wearing this,” you deadpan, raising your arms to find that the sleeves droop lower than your fingertips.
“It looks nice.”
It certainly does, but it smells like him and that scent — masculine, earthy, and a touch of cocky — seems to rouse that inappropriate beast inside of you from its slumber. The one that growls possessively whenever someone comes too close to Bucky or one that salivates over the sight of his exposed arms whenever he’s lifting bales of hay.
Instead of acknowledging his compliment, you roll your eyes. “Whatever.”
“I think this would help with your whole effort of going incognito in town.”
“I have some glasses and a hat to go undercover. It usually works. I’m this generation’s Clark Kent. But, hey, if I get recognized, I want to make sure I look good.”
Bucky blinks at you. “You always look good.”
And you’re not sure what to say to that.
But when you do get spotted by two teenage girls later that day and they fawn over how good you look, you can’t help but shoot him a smug smile.
The two of you disagree on most things; you can probably count on one hand how many things you do agree on, including the fact that you disagree on a lot of things. That and how your grandma is the most awesome person in this city, but that’s not news.
She worries about the two of you being at each other’s throats, biting remarks flung across the room until she has to tell the two of you to shut up and sit down for dinner — which is a whole other question because why is he always here?
While Bucky pokes fun at you all the time for your incompetence, you also take your shots at him. Harmless ones.
One time you found him asleep on the couch downstairs after you finish doing your nails, so you decided to do his. He ends up with neon pink on his toes and blood red on his fingers. You snicker to yourself thinking you’ve just done something to get on his nerves.
Except, it doesn’t. Instead, he walks around proudly. Nails gleaming in the sun whenever he’s doing work and he doesn’t break a sweat. He even gets compliments on them.
It sours your mood — partly because your ruse didn’t work, but mainly because that confidence is stupidly hot. You don’t need another reason to find him attractive when you’ve already got a list longer than the Nile.
When your grandma tells you to be nicer to him, you’re extra prickly because— “Why do I have to be nicer to him when he’s the one being annoying with me? Aren’t I supposed to be resting? Manual labor is not part of that agenda.”
“You did all this when you were younger, sweetheart. It’s like riding a bike.”
“Riding a bike didn’t have me breaking my fresh manicure,” you say pointedly. “And I didn’t have anyone bossing me around. Being told what to do by someone my age versus by my dad are two completely different things.”
Your grandma only laughs, stroking your cheek like she finds this little tantrum endearing. You lean into her touch, her fingers softened by the years. “He’s just a kid pulling on his crush’s pigtails.”
His crush. You would find it cute (you do find it cute) if you weren’t so miffed after you chipped your index finger trying to lift a bag of feed for the horses. When you told Bucky, he only quirked his eyebrow at you before returning to his own duties.
So no, he doesn’t have a crush on you. In fact, you’re convinced that he hates you. In his mind, you’re probably this diva who lost her roots and whines about every single thing in her life — which isn’t incorrect per se, but he has no right to dislike you for that. He doesn’t even know you. He doesn’t know the shit you’ve been through to make it in the industry, how many times you’ve had to grit out a smile at shitty producers, even shittier paparazzi, and everyone in between.
If he really does have a crush on you, he sure as hell has a crap way of showing it.
“Well, we’re not kids anymore,” you huff, “and I don’t like bullies.”
Your grandma gives you a look as she leafs through her farm ledger. The numbers look alright from where you’re sitting, nothing in the red, which is a good sign. Part of the reason why you’re so adamant about being and staying successful is for her; you never want her to want for anything.
“You do know you were the one who had him crying growing up. Poor boy put up a lot with you forcing bugs onto him and teasing him for falling off a horse lord knows how many times.”
Oh. Your cheeks warm at the thought. Maybe you do have some vague memory of a gangly kid who wouldn’t stop weeping no matter how many times you tried to coo him to quiet down, lest you risk the wrath of your father. Again.
“Maybe he shouldn’t have been such a crybaby then,” you shrug instead with a huff.
Your grandma’s grin stretches a little wider. “I think you even made him play house once. We thought it was adorable. You had him stay at home with the baby while you went off to work. Singing your silly heart out to the rest of us before coming back to him.”
Oh god. You’ll never live this down. So maybe Bucky does have some right to abusing his power for the sake of tormenting you. From what your grandma’s shared, it sounds like you’ve put him through the wringer.
Then again, Bucky has grown — and he’s grown a lot. His shoulders have filled out, hair darker than his horse’s mane, thighs thicker than a tree trunk—
You put the brakes on those thoughts. You really need to get yourself a fix. Or get yourself fixed at this rate.
What you need is one really good dick. A good fuck to wipe all of these thoughts from your mind. The only problem with being so famous is the need to keep your private life private. You don’t need any more scandals on the front page and you certainly don’t know Bucky well enough to trust him — no matter how good his dick looks in the imprint of his jeans.
“He’s a good one, you know,” your grandma smiles softly. “Been with the family for years. Always around to help whenever needed.”
You hate to point out the obvious but— “That’s his job, grandma.”
“He’s also one of your biggest supporters,” she says with a look. “Has all of your albums in his house. Sits right here next to me in front of the TV whenever you’re on it.”
Your jaw practically drops to the ground. “That’s ridiculous,” you sputter, “there’s no way.”
“Yes, you should ask to see his place sometime. He’s quite proud of the collection, even said that he’s going to ask you to sign them one day.”
You have a feeling he’s burned down his collection after meeting you again and realizing what a raging bitch you are. Plus, the thought of asking to come over to Bucky’s place feels a touch too desperate for your personality, even if there is nothing you want more. Imagine yourself getting bent over backwards on his kitchen island with your album covers staring right back at you.
“All I’m saying is, give him a chance. He’s not a bad fella.”
You try. You really do, but Bucky somehow always finds a way to push your buttons. Like today, he decides to reward your hard work with lunch in town at Sal’s Diner. It’s the best diner here — arguably the only diner here.
“No, I’ve been coming here since I was a baby. Pretty sure my dad fed me the French toast here to help me teeth,” you argue, cutting a fat slice of your dish.
You caved into ordering this meal that would give your nutritionist a stroke. Deep fried, juicy toast dripping with maple syrup and topped off with a dollop of house whipped cream and slices of fresh strawberries and blueberries. You’ll allow yourself this cheat meal if it means proving Bucky wrong.
That and you’ve been on a strict diet of certain vegetables and proteins for your Fashion Week fittings, so this is a welcome change. Think of it as a form of protest against your father bringing you here unwillingly.
“You’re out of your mind,” Bucky chuckles. “Everyone knows that Sal’s crown jewel is his waffles.”
Said waffles sit before him. A stack of perfectly crispy, doughy goodness. The perfect burn on the outside complemented by the soft chew on the insides. Topped off with the same maple syrup and cream and fruits, the only difference rests in the vessel for the brunch dessert.
You can’t tell what you want to eat more — your toast, his waffles, or him.
He looks even more delectable today with his hair disheveled from the sun and sweat. His beard has grown out a little more to frame those pink, kissable lips that Hollywood wishes they could naturally have.
“Alright, try yours then try mine. We’ll decide here and now.”
You’ve never once backed down from a challenge so you eat yours first. Delicious, the flavor is nostalgic and the toast is tender and sweet. You recall all the times your dad brought you here, you with snot in your nose after a kid picked on you. You vaguely remember another boy next to you, blue-eyed and a dark ring around his eye, fists with red scrapes clenched next to his stack of waffles.
Based on your grandmother’s stories, said boy must be Bucky. He doesn’t seem like a troublemaker but you wouldn’t be surprised if he was the type to pick fights with other people. That’s what he’s been doing with you all this time.
“Now mine,” he says and swaps your plates, smirking a little too wide as he watches you grudgingly slice into his waffle. You lift it into your mouth, your teeth sink in, and— fuck.
It’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect. The texture, the flavor, the balance. The combination of the crunch and the soft give of the waffle against your teeth. The square gaps filled with the perfect amount of cream and syrup, serving as a ship to carry the sweetness onto your tongue. The french toast soaks it in a little too much and the texture is all around too soft now that you’ve had a taste of this.
The waffles are Sal’s masterpiece.
Your eyes flick up to Bucky, he catches your gaze immediately. His lips tug up a little higher.
You quickly school your expression.
You’d never admit this. You’d never admit that Bucky’s right. Over your dead body.
“It’s fine,” you shrug nonchalantly.
“Bullshit,” he laughs, leaning back against the booth chair with arms crossed. His biceps flex and your teeth tingle with the urge to sink into them. “You like it better.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you respond, reaching over to switch your plates around again. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to finish my lunch now.”
When you take another bite of your dish, it no longer tastes the same. The magic has faded and now you can’t stop comparing how mushy it is compared to Bucky’s mindblowingly scrumptious pick. You bite back a cringe when your teeth clack together, overestimating how much effort it would take to break through the food.
“You don’t have to pretend with me, princess,” he grins, “I can see right through you. If you ask nicely, I’ll take your toast and you can have my waffles.”
“I’m fine,” you grit out again.
“You sure? Do you really want to die on this hill?”
“This is the best dish here and you can take your opinion and shove it up your—” the waitress gives you a look from behind the counter and you quickly shut your mouth.
Bucky tilts forward this time with a glint in his eye, arms propped up on the table. You don’t like where this is going. “I think I know what the problem is.” You cock an eyebrow. “Maybe you just don’t know what good food is anymore. All those fancy, tiny, overpriced tasting menus have altered your tastebuds.”
A scoff falls from your lips. “They have not! Those are incredibly refined and curated dishes that the chefs dedicate their entire lives to. It’s definitely different from a diner that serves greasy food that only you can enjoy.”
His lips twist, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, well then maybe you’ve just forgotten your roots, princess. All those years in the city and suddenly you think you’re too good for everyone else here, including your family.”
The words knock the breath right out of your lungs. It grips your heart and rips it from your chest. As if your own guilt isn’t enough, having Bucky of all people dogpile on what a terrible granddaughter you’ve been isn’t exactly ideal. Between losing quality time with your grandma and the sound you’ve nurtured here that brought you your success, one feeling crawls over your skin.
Fear.
Fear that you no longer know who you are anymore, a cog in the machine so desperate to keep turning. Fear that you’ve become what you hate: fake, pretentious, disgustingly greedy for wealth that you don’t even need. Fear that, if you lose all you have now, when you’ve already lost everything you had, what would be left for you?
Because that’s the thing they don’t tell you about making it to the top — to get there, you have to make plenty of sacrifices. One you convince yourself are worth taking, until you’re looking down at what you’ve left behind and you realize that nothing will ever be enough to make up for it.
Perhaps your dad is right. The fall to rock bottom is a long and arduous journey, a path where you’re forced to reckon with everything you’ve lost and everything you have to lose.
A warm hand covers yours on the table, dragging you out of your reverie. Bucky’s no longer looking at you with disdain or arrogance. Worry is now carved into the furrow of his brows as he squeezes your hand. “Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
You jerk your hand away from him, lips pressed into a thin line as you swallow the lump in your throat. You know how to stop yourself from crying, you know how to not show your weakness. You’ve done it countless times before to survive; you can do it again with him.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats.
“It’s whatever,” you mutter.
“No, it’s not whatever. I crossed a line.”
You don’t appreciate the look on his face. It’s an expression akin to pity. You’ve gotten enough of those looks your entire life, you don’t need it from him. It makes you sick to your stomach. You’re a strong, successful woman who’s achieved everything you’ve ever wanted; there is no reason to pity you.
In lieu of responding, you grab a few bills from your purse and toss it onto the table. “I’m full. I’m going to head out first.”
Ignoring Bucky’s shit, wait, hold on, you’re slipping out of the booth and stomping out into the streets. The breeze outside is helpful against the heat flaming your cheeks as you bite back tears.
Deep down, you know that it isn’t Bucky you’re upset with; nothing he said was untrue. In fact, you hate that it hits a little too close to home.
You start walking — somewhere, anywhere — just away from there. You need space, you need room to breathe and digest what this means for you. It’s one thing to think about how much you’ve lost, circling the issue without calling it out directly, it’s another for someone to point it out so blatantly to you.
“Wait,” Bucky’s voice reaches you before you feel the hand around yours. “Don’t go.”
“Let me go, Bucky.”
“How are you going to head home?”
“I’ll hitchhike if I have to,” you snap.
Bucky looks conflicted again, baby blues darker than usual. “Don’t do that, that’s not safe,” he murmurs, “please. You can be mad at me, I deserve it, but let me take you back. I’ll drive you home.”
“I don’t need your help.”
He licks his lips. “I know you don’t need it. You’re perfectly fine on your own. I get it. But I want to help, so please just take the offer.”
You yank your wrist away from him. “I’m good. Seriously. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“I don’t need to do anything. I can’t do anything but worry when it comes to you,” he practically spits out, “I wish I could stop worrying, but I can’t. Not when you look like you’ve lost everything good in your life. Not when you don’t smile the way you used to.”
That stops you, your movements halting.
“It’s not just your grandma who’s concerned about you. Do you think I don’t notice how distant you sound in interviews? Or all that shit in the papers?”
“Go fuck off your high horse, Barnes.”
“I’m not on my goddamn high horse,” he defends, “I’m just saying it all sounds like a cry for help, okay.”
“Oh, so you think you know me now?”
“I know you. I’ve always known you. I was there defending you from those stupid kids growing up. I was there for you to pick on whenever you wanted to destress. I was there to support you and your dreams because I believed in you.”
Your breath hitches in your throat. There’s a lump lodged there that has your lungs constricting. The next words that come out of your mouth are a feeble attempt to hold your ground. “I’m not a kid anymore. I’m not the person you knew.”
“Jesus, you think I don’t know that?” He whispers, “I know you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. I’m saying that you don’t have to do it all alone. You have so many people who love you — your grandmother, your dad, m—” He stops himself, seeming to bite his tongue. “All I’m saying is that you’re not alone. You don’t have to be.”
“I—” you find yourself at a loss for words for the first time in a very long time.
Before you can find the right response, you hear your name followed by a blinding flash in your eyes. It takes you a second to register that there is a camera in your face and the grating noise in your ears is this man bombarding you with questions.
“Is this your new man? Have you moved on already? Tell us who you are, man!” More flashes. More questions.
Your blood runs cold.
You should’ve known that trouble would follow you here. You’re quick to turn around, ready to remove yourself from the situation and avoid giving him the content he wants.
The man lets out a low whistle, smirking. “Oh come on, sweetheart, give me a smile. Your fans miss you back home. Everyone thinks you got kidnapped.”
Don’t give in. Don’t respond to this fucking moron.
“Aw, you’re always so sweet in front of the press. Now that it’s just me, you won’t even give me one smile? What kind of celebrity are you? You want everyone to think you’re a fucking bitch?”
Gritting your teeth, you continue brushing past people, Bucky close on your tail, and the guy still hot on your heels. He’s still lobbing words at you, ridiculous comments like just one smile, baby and don’t be a stuckup bitch.
You don’t respond. You’ve been taught better. If you give them the time of day, they’ll keep coming back for more. Ignore them long enough and they’ll label you a cunt and move on with their lives.
However, it’s only when he brings Bucky into it that you stop dead in your tracks. “This your new man? I can give him that publicity he wants right now. How’s she in bed? Did you make a video too? Come on, give me a quote and I’ll even put your face on the paper.”
“Will you piss the fuck off?” You snap.
His lips curl into a smirk far too proud for a man of his occupation. “Pop princess has claws. You wanna curse for the camera too? Bet your kiddie fans will love that.”
“I am here on vacation. Leave us alone.”
“It comes with the territory, honey. Now that I have you, why don’t you tell me about this stud, huh? What’s your name, man? You give me a tell-all on how good she looks in bed and I’ll pay you. Triple if you’ve got a video like the last one.”
Bucky steps forward, clearly ready to be your knight in shining armor, but you move faster to put a hand on his chest. As much as you dislike Bucky, you don’t want him to be subjected to the bullshit that these tabloids publish. He doesn’t need his face splashed on the front page just because he’s doing a good thing and taking you out to lunch.
Shaking your head, you signal him to back down. He doesn’t seem to like that idea, frowning until you pin him with a glare that has him pursing his lips.
“Just ignore him. He’s not worth it.”
“Whatever she’s offering you, I’ll give you more! Name your price.”
His jaw clenches, blue eyes sparking with the kind of rage you’ve never seen with him. “Leave it alone, Buck.”
His eyes melt, if only a fraction.
You don’t try to decipher that look. Instead, you turn around and point your finger at this man. “You leave me alone or I’ll sick the cops on your ass.”
“Public space, sweetheart. I can do whatever I want.”
“And when I get you barred from every press event I attend? I’m about to file a restraining order if you keep harassing me like this — with plenty of witnesses at that. Think about what you’re doing before you keep running your mouth like that.”
With that, you shove Bucky forward and back into his truck. The two of you peel off before the man can chase you back down again.
It is only in the quiet of the vehicle that you finally hear the thundering in your chest. Your heart hammering in your veins like it’s about to jump out of your chest. With a hand over your heart, you try to take in what shaky breaths you manage. You pull your phone out of your pocket to text your dad, but your fingers are trembling too much for you to type properly.
Cursing under your breath, you type, backspace, type, backspace, until you’re frustrated and flinging the device onto the dashboard with a loud clatter.
“Shit, sorry,” you wince.
“Hey, you’re good. You’re safe,” Bucky whispers next to you, his voice calm as it slips between the crevices of your palpitating heart.
His hand reaches out to close around yours on your thigh. He squeezes, thumb brushing over the back of it in circular motions. You’re momentarily distracted by the act, eyes following the repetitive movement until your heartbeat matches its rhythm. The ringing in your ears quiets, fading into a light buzz before it eventually ceases to let you focus on the rumble of the truck over dirt roads instead.
Bucky pulls to a stop outside the house. Your house. Your grandma’s house.
His hand is still on yours.
You pull it away quickly. Habit. You’re always alert, never sure if there are any more cameras waiting to catch you slipping.
“You’re fine. He didn’t follow us. I did a few reroutes to make sure,” he murmurs.
“Thank you,” you exhale slowly. “I’m sorry. Shit, this whole thing is so stupid.”
Bucky tilts his head. “Why are you sorry?”
You open your mouth, only to realize that you don’t have an easy answer. “Um, well, he wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.”
“His own actions are his responsibility. You do not need to apologize on his behalf.”
He’s not wrong. It’s annoying. All this guilt that you shouldn’t even be feeling.
“I guess,” you mutter.
“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, an eyebrow raised. “I hope you know that none of this is your fault — him showing up, the crap in the papers, all the bullshit around you.”
With a grunt, you press your lips together. “I know that. It’s just… unfortunate circumstances.”
“That’s one way to put it,” he smiles, “though, I should also apologize again. I am sorry. I crossed a line, it won’t happen again.”
You can’t even find it in you to come up with a snappy retort. Instead, you shift your gaze away. He seems to understand, letting out a low chuckle. Your lips thin. “I’m not a fan of the word princess.”
That seems to surprise him, a twinkle in his widened eyes. “That so? You used to make me call you that all the time.”
“What were you then? The prince?” You drawl sarcastically.
“Actually, you designated me court jester.”
A laugh bubbles up your throat — probably the first sincere one since you got here, maybe in years. The thought of you acting all high and mighty, making Bucky perform for your entertainment is comical, especially when you consider how massive he is now.
“Find it funny, do you?”
“A little bit.”
“I should send you the bill for my decades of mental anguish.”
Your lips curl into a smile of part amusement, part foul delight. “You could sell all of those childhood stories for a pretty penny.”
“I think your grandma has a few pictures of you in the bathtub.” A gasp falls from your lips. “I was helping her clean the attic. She’s got quite the collection.”
Your cheeks warm. “Haven’t you heard? If you wanted to see me naked, all you have to do is go online.”
You’re not entirely sure why you prompted the idea of you being naked to Bucky, it hardly seems appropriate but Bucky then appraises you with those eyes. Blue drowned out by his blown pupils. You see the indent on his cheek where he’s pushing his tongue against the walls, likely biting back an equally inappropriate comment to respond to yours.
“I’d prefer to experience the real thing for myself.”
All of a sudden, your throat feels like sandpaper and Bucky’s looking you up and down in a way that has your entire body tingling with need.
This can’t be happening. Not right now. Not when you’re supposed to have a clean slate.
Not with Bucky of all people.
However, your grandma’s in your ears, whispering, He’s not a bad fella, is he? He’s not. He’s a good one — perhaps the only one left — but he’s still a man at the end of the day and can you really bring yourself to trust another?
“Too much too soon?” He asks gently.
“No,” you choke out. “Not at all.”
Bucky’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and you’re momentarily distracted by the way his bottom lip glistens. His voice drops a pitch— “Don’t tempt me, princess.”
Your heart stutters between your ribs. Heat snakes between your thighs and you’re forced to bite your tongue before you can let out a sound that would embarrass the both of you.
“I’ll check in on you later, yeah?” Bucky tips his hat with a charming smile before wandering towards the barn.
Leaving you and the timber of his voice echoing in your ears.
Something shifts between the two of you after that. It’s nothing monumental but you no longer dread the hours you have to spend with him out with Bucky. Laughter comes a little easier when you’re not viewing him as the enemy. He still teases you but you match that energy right back, with significantly less animosity.
The first time you jump back on Winter, you nearly fall flat on your face. You half-expect Bucky to make another jab about how you’ve lost your skills. However, you’re pleasantly surprised when all he says is “easy there” before he’s encouraging you back on the saddle.
The two of you start taking rides into the mountains. With the wind in your ear and the scent of wild grass, you can’t help but feel like you’re finally home.
However, even when the two of you are sharing picnic lunches that he packs at the top of your hike and he’s tugged off his t-shirt after he gets drenched under a waterfall, Bucky doesn’t do anything more or less.
He keeps a comfortable distance — close enough that you find yourself leaning in, far enough that he finds the excuse to pull away.
As someone who’s always, always gotten whoever you wanted whenever you wanted, you almost want to grab him by the collar and kiss him senseless just to make it a done deal. But as someone with a little bit of pride left, you want him to make the first move.
Unfortunately for you, none of your usual tricks have worked. You’ve spritzed on a little bit more perfume. You’ve worn your lowest cut tops without your tits spilling out. You’ve even given him enough sultry looks that you’re starting to get a twitch in your eye.
Your final tactic, which has never failed you, requires a third participant. A third participant that you didn’t have until today.
You and Bucky are helping your grandma at the farmer’s market. Bucky as the pack mule, hoisting crates of jam onto the vegetable stall that she runs with all of her prized produce. You’re cutting up samples of watermelon and, of course, your presence draws a big enough crowd that your grandma sells out quickly.
“If business can be this good with you around, maybe you should move home,” she beams.
“Good to know that I’m only useful for marketing,” you drawl with a teasing lilt.
“Oh, honey, what can I say? You’re not much help around the farm.”
You feign a gasp and turn to Bucky who’s chuckling to himself on the sidelines. “You’re not gonna defend my honor? After all I did for you this week?”
“Was that before or after you broke the new stepladder we got?” Bucky prompts.
With a roll of your eyes, you wave the two of them off and continue to slice up the fruits. “Two traitors, that’s what the two of you are.”
Before either could respond, a man comes up to your booth. He’s tall. He’s blonde. He’s rather handsome, if you liked the all-American sort of thing. He’s got blue eyes like Bucky but not even half as bright or kind. “That looks like a good one, sweetheart. How about cutting me up a slice?”
The sweetheart is like ice rolling down your spine. You force out a trained smile. “‘Course. I can even give you a bigger one if you promise to buy a whole watermelon from us.”
He strokes his chin thoughtfully. “You drive a hard bargain but you have yourself a deal.”
You flash your prettiest grin at him; you know exactly what men like him need. A little stroke of his ego and you’ve got a hook, line, and sinker. As you’re pushing the knife into the fruit, you feel a sudden warmth next to you.
Bucky. His shoulders are squared, eyes partially narrowed. “John.”
“Bucky,” the man — John — smiles easily in response to Bucky’s tight lip curl. “It’s been a while, man. How’s the farm?”
“Good.”
Curt. Terse. Very unlike Bucky who you’ve grown to understand is very talkative. “Good to hear,” John responds, voice light, “I see you’ve got yourself a pretty new helper. A famous one at that. Bet you’re the reason the stall’s doing extra well today, sweetheart.”
You open your mouth to respond but Bucky beats you to it. “She’s great. Why don’t you run along now? I’m sure there are other people you can pester today.”
“Pester? Now, am I being a bother to you, sweetheart?”
Yes, but you’re not going to give Bucky that satisfaction. Something about this man irks Bucky. Not a lot of things can get under his skin, which only piques your interest further. So you slap on a saccharine-sweet smile. “No, definitely not. He’s a customer, Bucky. Play nice. He’s buying a whole watermelon and two squashes today.”
“Am I?” A flicker of surprise crosses his eyes, fading into a humored sparkle.
“You are, sir.”
“Well, if the lady says so, then it must be true.”
You let out a giggle, one that you know will grate on Bucky’s nerves. The two of you continue to make light conversation as you offer John a sample and John seems to take his time nibbling on the slice while he looks you up and down. You don’t like his look, but you do like the color on Bucky’s face right now. The perfect shade of green that you’ve been waiting for.
Because of that, you can’t help yourself. You up the ante a little bit — giggling a little more, flicking your hair over your shoulder, batting your eyelashes at him. Throughout your entire conversation, you can practically hear Bucky’s blood rushing in his veins. Jealousy is a good look on him.
Still, he doesn’t say a thing — at least, not until John finally, finally walks away. You didn’t know how much longer you could’ve pretended to find him entertaining; stale jokes were never your foreplay of choice.
“He’s bad news, you know,” Bucky utters next to you.
You’re busy cutting up the last of the samples as you reply with a light, “Sometimes I like bad news.”
He frowns. “You can’t be serious. Him of all people?”
“If not him, then who?” You deadpan, turning to look at him.
Bucky’s mouth opens then promptly slams shut. He once again appears to want to say something but he’s holding back, biting his tongue. Coward.
“Hey, kids, I’m just going to check on Mr. Oliver over there. He’s been getting harassed by that developer I told you about, James. Start cleaning up, we should be good to head back soon.” Your grandma ducks out of the stall and disappears.
You raise an eyebrow at Bucky. “James?”
“My first name,” Bucky shrugs.
“James,” you repeat — then it clicks, “James the Jester! I remember now. Oh, you were such a crybaby.”
At that, a deep scarlet blush sprawls across his face, up to the tips of his ears. “I was not. You were just evil. Instead of princess, I used to call you the wicked witch of the west.”
You bark out a laugh. “Yeah, I bet you did. Grandma told me you’d let me do whatever I wanted.”
“You were a spoiled princess after all.”
Ignoring that comment, you choose to ask, “What’s going on with Mr. Oliver?”
“Developers have been coming around these parts to try and turn it into something more modern. They’ve been offering hefty amounts to buy out property owners in the area. Talks about luxury apartments and a shopping mall.”
“Who in the world would pay for luxury apartments around here?” You crinkle your nose.
Bucky shrugs, his hat tipping forward. “Who knows? Guess they found a market for it.”
“That kind of sucks.”
“Yeah, the town’s been trying to fundraise to help support a lot of these small businesses to make sure they can stay afloat. Otherwise, they’ll get priced out and before you know it, everyone’s going to be gone.”
While the idea of a shopping mall does appeal to you, you hate the thought of losing this place. Neighbors who know each other by name. People who come from near and far, spanning generations and building relationships for years to come. All the lush greenery, soft sunlight filtering through the leaves, the crisp fresh air. The idea of all of that replaced by a concrete jungle is a nightmare.
“How much have y’all raised so far?”
Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “Not a lot. It’s tough to get funds out here when folks barely make anything for themselves. We need some outside help but it’s not easy, not many care about a small place like this.”
But you do. You care. This is your home. No matter how many times you’ve avoided coming back, or how much you try to deny the past, this is where you came from. If you lose this place, who would you be?
“Why don’t we throw a fundraiser? I could do something. I don’t need to be the main attraction but I could help bring people out. We could sell tickets, do a little open mic night.”
“You’d do that?” His eyebrows practically jump to his hairline.
You give him a look. “You think that lowly of me?”
“No, not that I don’t think you’d do it,” Bucky quickly clarifies, “It’s just— it’s obviously a lot to ask when you’re trying to stay incognito here.”
“I just have to convince my dad.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Dad!” You say at the same time your grandma scolds her eldest son with his full government name.
“I didn’t come here so you could be the center of attention,” he brushes off, “again.”
“This is different.”
“This is going to attract unwanted press.”
“This is the kind of press we want.”
The two of you are locked in a stare-down with your grandma and Bucky standing on the sidelines, waiting for one of you to be the first to break.
“In all fairness, she is doing it for a good cause,” your grandma chimes in the hopes of alleviating your father’s wrath.
“Sounds to me like she’s trying to get back in the spotlight. What if the press says this is all pretense to clean up her act? What if it brings unneeded scrutiny to our small town?”
You let a heavy exhale escape. Your eyes fly to the ceiling only for the briefest of seconds before you redirect your gaze to your dad. “Honestly, they can say what they want. At this point, they’ll pick on anything I do. It doesn’t matter if I have good intentions — or even if I don’t do anything at all, they’re going to find something to be upset about. They’ll twist everything I do to fit their narrative because that’s what they do. It shouldn’t stop me from living my life — or supporting things that I care about.”
Three pairs of eyes land on you. You try not to squirm but the weight of their attention is enough to make you shift. You look at Bucky first — his eyes are soft, understanding almost. He saw firsthand what it’s like to be in the spotlight, chased after in the middle of the most menial activities. Friendship twisted into a scandal.
These people are vultures and, while there’s nothing you can ultimately do to stop them, you have control in the way you respond and behave. In this case, perhaps the only correct response is to stop caring.
Your life is yours and you need to stop listening to these assholes who think that they know you, who think that they can shape your reputation to the image of you they have in their heads.
Your father looks thoughtful, almost surprised by your words. He’s silent, mulling over it for a moment before he looks at you. He’s searching your eyes — for any doubt or uncertainty — but he finds none of it. Because you haven’t been this sure of anything in a long time.
“Alright, fine. We’ll make it a community event. We won’t use your name because we don’t need a frenzy; this may be a small town but you’re not a small name, darling. I don’t need to hire security for a fundraiser. However, we can sell tickets to a live stream that will ultimately go to supporting this town. Hopefully that helps alleviate the traffic.”
You’re throwing your arms around him before he even finishes his sentence. “Thank you! Thank you!”
He chuckles, “You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you. I’m expecting you to do a lot of the planning.”
“Wait, what?” You balk, jerking back.
“You proposed this so you need to see it through.”
A pout forms on your lips. “But—”
“I’ll help,” Bucky cuts in, mouth stretched into a proud grin. “You’re doing enough already. Just get yourself ready. I can help organize the live feed.”
“You can set up a livestream?” You ask, doubt creeping into your voice.
He smirks, “Such little faith. I know my way around technology. Trust me on this, princess.”
You’re not one to argue with him so you can only nod. “Okay then, let’s do this.”
Things come together relatively quickly in the next couple of days. You spend most of your time figuring out how to make your extremely pop songs acoustic with minimal support from a local band. True to his word, Bucky does eventually set up the live stream and even does a little test to make sure it works.
“Smile.”
You force out a grin before it’s quickly wiped away from your face. “Are we good?”
“You’ve got something on your face. I think it’s the whipped cream from the waffles earlier.”
Your hand immediately flies to the corner of your mouth. Clearly it doesn’t work because then Bucky’s coming up to you. His hand reaches up, thumb brushing gently over the corner of your lips, swiping along the bottom. As if possessed, he sticks his thumb in his mouth and sucks it clean.
His eyes don’t leave you once.
Your heart slams against your ribs, core squeezing. You don’t get a chance to question him before he’s clearing his throat and pulling away with a quiet “got it.”
With all the marketing up, the event comes together fast. In a blink of an eye, you’re in this large backyard space with fairy lights strung across trees, tables for the buffet that your grandma has cooked up, and a makeshift stage where the band has set up. It’s beautiful and cozy. Perfect.
Instead of wearing one of your usual concert getups, the bedazzled bodysuits with matching rhinestoned boots, you opt for something more casual. A find from a thrift store and Bucky’s flannel layered over you; the latter isn’t by choice, he took one look at how much skin you were revealing and insisted you would be too chilly.
With your guitar propped up on your well-worn sneaker, you take a deep breath.
“Ready?” Your dad asks, bumping his shoulder against yours.
“Yeah. Of course. I do this all the time.”
The corner of his lips quirk up. “It’s alright to be nervous, you know.”
You worry your bottom lip, turning to look at him. “I’ve done this a billion times before. Why am I so worried?”
“Because it matters this time, because you care, and that’s a good thing,” he soothes, placing a hand on your shoulder. “I’ll be right there with you.”
“What if nobody else wants to perform? I’m only singing at the end. What if nobody participates?”
“Darling, you know your grandmother. She’d get up there and start the macarena if she has to get the party going.” A giggle rises from your chest. “You’ve got good people here and everyone’s here for a good cause.”
“If it’s dead silent, maybe I can get Bucky to get up there,” you snort softly, “he apparently had been my court jester in the past.”
Your dad lets out a tiny grunt. It’s one that most people won’t blink twice at, but you know him better than that.
“What’s with that sound?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. That’s the sound you make when the spare ribs don’t fall off the bone. So what gives?”
“I don’t like that boy.”
You shoot him a look. “You don’t like any boy.”
“That’s also true.”
“Grandma says he’s one of the good ones.”
It’s your dad’s turn to give you a look. “He’s a boy. There are no good ones.”
Your lips curl into a smirk. “I haven’t seen you go all protective in a while.”
“Well, none of them were serious before. This one — this one looks like the type who can break your heart.”
Both your glances wander over to Bucky who’s helping your grandma set up the food table. It’s still early enough that nobody’s filtered in but you expect a good showing. Tickets are basically close to selling out, the space will hopefully be at capacity. You’ve raised a good amount of money already and that doesn’t even include the massive success of the live stream sales.
But Bucky — heaven-sent Bucky. He really is a good one. In your world, that usually means that he is too good to be true. Someone always wants something. Whether it’s fame or fortune — or both, you’re merely a gateway to it. You’ve lost most of your trust in humanity since you started succeeding; your industry mentors tell you that’s how you know you’ve made it.
However, you’re not in your world right now. Not fully at least. So maybe you’re allowed to hold onto that tiny piece of hope that things may just work out with him.
“I know,” you murmur. “Let’s hope he doesn’t.”
Your dad wraps an arm around you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’m going to check on your grandma. Break a leg out there. You did good, kid. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad,” you smile softly up at him. “For trusting me this and… for bringing me back here.”
“Anytime, darling.”
Just as your dad said, the party comes into full swing in the next thiry minutes. There’s no shortage of people wanting to perform — anything from singing to dancing and even standup comedy (though this last one is a little bit questionable when you hear the awkward filtering of laughter through the crowd).
People hop onto the makeshift dance floor for the next performer. An upbeat number that has everyone twirling and shimmying all over. You glance at Bucky only to find that he’s already looking right back at you.
Ask me to dance, you idiot. You raise an eyebrow and Bucky only coughs and shifts his eyes away.
You roll your eyes. If he doesn’t do something soon, you may end up taking matters into your own hands.
“Now, what’s a pretty lady like you doing all alone here?” The familiar voice interrupts your irritation. John. He’s got that boyish smile on his face again. “Would you care to join me for a dance?”
You look to Bucky again, finding him already looking at the both of you with stone-cold eyes. Well, if he’s not going to do anything about this, then you might as well find another form of entertainment.
Sliding your hand over John’s outstretched one, you nod. “I’d be delighted.”
John’s a decent dancer. He spins you around, matches your rhythm, and still manages to make conversation throughout. He asks you about life in California, if you have anything exciting coming up soon. You give him noncommital answers about how you’re working on your next album.
“I sure hope you’d save me a backstage pass for your next tour.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” you force out a smile.
On top of that, he’s too handsy for your taste. His grip starts safe on your hips before they drift a little too low like he’s trying to reach for your ass. You have to carefully navigate away from him every time he does that.
“Anything going on between you and Barnes?” John asks.
You look at Bucky again. His gaze has been burning a hole through your skull and probably John’s. As much as the two of you try to ignore it, it’s near impossible to not feel the weight of his impressively intense stare.
“No, nothing,” you answer honestly.
“He looks like he wants to cut off my head,” he chuckles.
“That’s just his normal face,” you brush off brusquely.
“If you say so.”
However, when this song ends, you feel another pair of hands on your waist that quickly manhandles you to land with an oof against a firm chest. You look up to find Bucky who’s now holding your hand and your waist for a spin around the floor. When you glance back at John, he looks none too pleased and stomps off in another direction.
“You don’t like to share your toys, do you?” You smirk.
“I don’t share, period,” he mutters.
“Then you should’ve claimed your prize from the start.”
Bucky’s brows meet in the middle. “You’re not… a prize,” he begins, “you’re more than that. I didn’t— I didn’t know how to even begin to approach you.”
“You had no problem berating the shit out of me when I fucked up the horse and chicken feed.”
His shoulders shake with laughter. “That’s different. That’s my area of expertise.”
“And this isn’t?”
His lips thin. “I’m not… experienced with all this.” He clears his throat, “Romance. Women.”
“You’re kidding,” you blurt out before you can stop it. He shakes his head. “You look like this and you’re telling me you don’t have experience with people?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean you’re hot, Barnes.” Bucky jolts back in surprise. “Come on, that is not news to you. I’ve seen at least five girls come up to you in the time John and I danced.”
His fingers tighten on your waist. “They wanted me to introduce them to you.”
“That’s an excuse to approach you. They probably wanted a dance.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Bucky huffs, “How would you know?”
“Because that’s what I would do. You’re a catch, Bucky.”
“High compliment coming from you.”
You swat his chest playfully. “Playing humility when you are anything but isn’t a good look, Mr. Barnes.”
“I’ve only got eyes for one. Always have,” Bucky mumbles, hand squeezing yours.
“Yeah? How long has that been? Since we were kids?” You tease lightly, fully expecting him to scoff and call you ludicrious.
However, the sheepish look that settles on his face has you gaping.
Before you can question it further, your dad is announcing your performance next. Bucky nudges you towards the front with a small smile. “Go get ‘em, princess.”
It’s a bit of a blur of you getting up there and preparing yourself for your first performance in a while. It’s one thing to be on a stage with hundreds of thousands silhouettes watching you, it’s another to be able to see every single face in the crowd waiting for you with bated breath.
Your fingers circle the neck of your guitar, fingertips pressed firm against the strings. The steel bites into your skin but your focus is really only on the people before you.
“Hi, everyone. I just wanted to say a very big thank you again for coming out tonight. I hope everyone’s havin’ a good time!” The crowd explodes in cheers and applause. “We’re all here because we love this town and I’m happy that I have the opportunity to contribute to saving it. There’s no other place like home. A big shoutout to all the viewers watching from the comfort of their houses as well, we couldn’t have done it without you. Without further ado, I hope you all enjoy this last segment of the evening.”
The rapid beating inside your chest is a drum against your ribs. Your eyes trawl over the crowd, over strangers’ faces and familiar ones. Your dad who shoots you a proud grin, your grandma who’s waving her fist in encouragement, and Bucky — Bucky who smiles soft and nods at you.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of motions. Once you finish your set, you’re greeted by a round of congratulations when you step off stage. Your hand hasn’t cramped from signing autographs in a bit but you relish in the attention. Whenever you look up, you catch Bucky watching from the sidelines.
I’ve only got eyes for one. Always have.
The echo of his words have your ears burning.
By the time you finally make it back to him, the crowd has thinned, with only a smattering of close friends and family still chattering over food.
“Sometimes I forget how good you are live,” Bucky says, a tinge of awe in his voice.
“Please, when was the last time you heard me live?”
His teeth catches his bottom lip for a second before he clears his throat. “Your Nashville show last year.”
You can hear your jaw land on the floor. “You went?” He shrugs. “Why didn’t you tell me? I invited grandma but she couldn’t make it out.”
“You didn’t know me, princess,” Bucky chuckles.
Well, he’s not entirely strong. But still. “Grandma could’ve told me. You shouldn’t have to pay.”
“Why not? I’m supporting a good cause, aren’t I?”
You exhale a laugh. “So I’m a charity case now?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny—” Your punch on his arm gets you a laugh, it probably felt like a tingle. “I didn’t want to be one of those people who pulled that card. We haven’t spoken in years and I would’ve gone anyway even without the free ticket.”
Bucky needs to stop giving your heart reasons to shift towards him. You haven’t been in love in a very long time, and you’re not sure you’re ready for it yet — especially not with a man as good as him, one you cannot bring into your world.
“Plus, I was talking Madeline. Her mom’s our foreman.”
“Playing chaperone, cute,” you murmur. “Next time, just shoot me a text. You have my number. My dad or someone else can arrange something.”
“Noted, appreciated.”
You wring your fingers behind your back, hiding evidence of your nerves. “So, I sound good? I’m not sure how the music would play out without the usual production, acoustic felt more fitting here—”
“It was great, seriously. I was reading the comments from the stream and everybody loved it. A lot of them seemed to have been fans for a while and they were happy to see you perform like this again.”
It reminds you of the smaller gigs you used to play — coffee shops and dive bars before you were promoted to opening for bigger artists and then going into your own sold-out world tour. Part of what you were missing in your work is that connection with the fans, doing more intimate engagement for your more loyal listeners.
“Yeah, I think it would be fun to do something like this once in a while,” you smile.
“Well, if you need a tech guy, you know where to find me.”
You roll your eyes but your lips twitch into an amused smile. “Come on, let’s go help my grandma clean up.”
“Hey,” Bucky catches your hand just as you turn, drawing your attention back to him. You cock an eyebrow in question. He scratches his cheek, looking almost… nervous? “Are you doing anything tomorrow? I thought we could go for a ride. A picnic maybe.”
“We’ve done that before,” you say slowly, puzzled, “but I’m down.”
“Okay, yeah, sounds good.”
That’s when it hits you. “Bucky Barnes, are you trying to ask me out on a date?” The laugh that slips past your lips has Bucky tinting red as he swallows and pulls away from you. You realize then that he may think you’re poking fun at him. “Wait, no, don’t do that. I wasn’t— I wasn’t teasing you, promise. I think it’s cute.”
Bucky’s mouth twists a little. If you didn’t know him so well, you wouldn’t have known that he was sulking. It’s such a tiny reaction that you could miss it if you blinked.
“Bucky, come on. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Yeah, I know.” Does he? “I know I’m probably not as… I don’t know, cool as all the guys you’ve dated before but—”
You take his hand in yours and squeeze. “No, that’s not it at all. I’ve just— I’ve been waiting for a bit for you to make your move. Even now, you’re still beating around the bush. Just ask me out, Buck.”
He chuckles, ears still red. “Alright, will you go on a date with me?”
“Yes, yes, I will,” you grin, “now, was that so hard?”
“Might be harder than getting back on a horse after a decade.”
You gasp, “That’s uncalled for.” He beams sweetly right back at you, turning your hands so that he’s holding yours now. It’s your turn to warm to the tips of your toes. “Okay, let’s go help grandma, casanova.”
The ride shouldn’t be any different. You’ve done this route a million times before. You’ve done this ride and this picnic thing with Bucky before. You shouldn’t feel like your heart is about to burst out of your chest any second now. Maybe it’s time to summon your on-call doctor to make sure it’s not a seizure.
“You’re fine, you’re just nervous,” Yelena says from your laptop. “I think you should go for the lace top, it makes your tits look great.”
You pick up the flimsy piece of fabric. “I’m not nervous. I don’t get nervous for dates. I definitely do not get nervous for a man.”
As you tug the shirt over your head, Yelena laughs, “Nobody knows that I’m getting a strip tease from a five-time Grammy winner.”
Tossing a withering look over your shoulder, you shrug on the top. “I’m serious, Yelena. This isn’t cool. I’m not being cool.”
“No, you’re being a girl with a crush.”
“I’m this nation’s favorite pop performer. I don’t get crushes.”
“Sweetheart, you’ve been there a little over a week and I’ve never seen you smile this much.” That explains why your cheeks are aching. “Face it, you’re head over heels for this man.”
You rub your face furiously. “God, this is so uncool. What if he’s making me uncool?”
“Then you guys can be uncool together.”
“That’s not an option,” you grumble, “what do you think?” You do a few turns in front of the floor-length mirror.
“Perfect. They grow up so fast,” Yelena mocks a tear.
“You’re a terrible friend.”
“I’m the bestest friend. Seriously though, you deserve to have a bit of fun. I think he’s good for you.”
“You’ve never met him.”
She gives you a look, one that is both chiding and soft. “But I know you and you haven’t been like this in a long time.”
Instead of acknowleding her words and potentially the gravity of your feelings, you instead choose to tease her. “Since when are you such a lovergirl?”
“Since I realized it makes you less of an asshole.”
“Rude.”
“You love me.”
“I do,” you grin.
“Have fun, kiddo.”
You’ve heard Bucky hustling and bustling outside since this morning. You, on the other hand, take your sweet time getting ready. Makeup light and pristine, nothing that would smudge even if you dunked your head underwater. Not a hair out of place. You’ve tested a few perfumes and there’s one that Bucky always leans towards so you spray a little on your neck and your wrists.
By the time you come downstairs ten minutes before the time he promised, you find him in the kitchen cooking with your grandma. Your dad is giving him dirty looks from the dining table.
“Morning, sunshine,” your grandma smiles, “don’t you look lovely today?”
“You’re saying I don’t look lovely everyday?”
“You have your days,” she jests with a pat on your cheek.
Bucky slides up next to you next, an appropriate amount of distance in front of your family. “Morning,” he murmurs, “you look beautiful.”
“I know,” you try to play it off but your heart feels just about ready to combust. “You ready?”
“Packed and ready to roll.”
You roll your eyes but can’t bite down on your smile in time. “You’re so lame.”
He only chuckles.
“I don’t need to give you the talk, do I?” Your dad chimes in next, glare darting between the two of you, before landing solidly on Bucky. “No funny business. I expect you to be on your best behavior. Curfew is at—”
“Oh my god, Dad!” You snap with your own scowl at him. “We’re not kids. We’ll be back whenever we’re back.”
“Still living under my roof, darling.”
“Technically my roof,” your grandma chirps and gives her son a scalding look. She turns to the two of you with a gentle smile. “Take your time. Have fun. Be safe.”
“But—”
Your dad’s full government name rolls off her tongue again and he immediately clamps his mouth shut. You’re pushing Bucky out of there before he can interrupt again.
“I’m so sorry,” you grouse, “he’s so overprotective sometimes.”
“He means well. I can see why he would be,” Bucky says as he leads you towards your horses.
“He’s overbearing is what he is,” you mutter as you hop on your horse. He makes sure that you’re settled safely before he climbs on his own horse.
The both of you set out on your usual route, your horses galloping deep into the woods as far as they can go. You take it all in — the fresh hair, the abundance of nature, the untouched beauty. It’s hard to imagine that you’ve been privileged enough to experience this life for the past week, let alone remember how this had been your life growing up. It’s even harder to imagine losing all of this. The nature in your gated apartment complex doesn’t feel natural. It feels necessary.
Out here, it just… exists.
Sometimes, you miss that — simply existing. If anything, this trip has become a reminder for you to come home more often and visit your grandma — and now, Bucky.
“You seem deep in thought.” Speak of the devil, he’s unpacking the lunch he’s tucked into his backpack. A selection of sandwiches in ziploc bags, fruits perfectly sliced and peeled, and pastries to top it all off. The food is simple but delicious and you can tell a lot of care has been placed into the prep — crusts off the bread, lightly toasted, fruits fresh and ripe, and pastries sweet.
Your stylist is going to tear you a new one when she realizes you no longer fit into your usual sizing. However, right here, right now, you can’t bring yourself to care.
“Thinking about how nice it is out here,” you sigh, gaze wandering to the world around you.
The two of you are perched on a rock at the base of a waterfall after a casual stride on your horses and a quick hike down to the stream. The symphony of water pouring down from the cliff mixed in with the sounds of birds singing in the distance and the rush of a coursing river — all of this brings you some semblance of peace. It reminds you of the quiet, the isolation. Things you could never have in the big, urban city you now call home.
Bucky laughs. “It’s always going to be here, you know. You just need to come back more often.”
“My schedule is crazy enough as is,” you stomp down on the urge to whinge like a child, “I’d love to pre-book my vacations but when opportunities come up, I have to prioritize that. I have to stay relevant. Things change so much in this day and age. In a blink of an eye and I could be rendered a has-been.”
“Have faith in your most loyal fans, you have plenty of those.”
Your eyes track the movement of the clouds above as they trail across the bright blue sky. “Maybe,” you sigh, “I’m just tired.”
Bucky tucks in close next to you, bumping your shoulder with his as he plucks a grape from the vine for you. You take it gratefully and pop it into your mouth, the sweetness bursting on your tongue.
“Maybe, what you need is to cool off.” You frown at him. He nods his head towards the waterfall. “There’s an old rope some kids put up a while back.” He points in the direction of the trees. “The water’s deep enough to break the fall.”
Aghast, you make your dismay very, very clear. “You want me to jump in there? Wearing this?”
“Unless you prefer to strip down, which I think only one of us would mind.”
Your fist lands a punch on his bicep. “Perv,” you mutter.
“Live a little,” he encourages as he jumps to his feet. He begins the short trek up the stairs, towards a small landing where a thick chord of rope hangs from a tree. His fingers curl around it tight, then he’s launching himself off and crashing straight into the water.
Your heart jerks in your chest as you peer over the rock into the water, waiting for him to surface. Bucky comes up for air with a huge splash, grinning as he slicks his hair back with his hand.
“The water’s fantastic.”
“You’re insane,” you deadpan. “I’m absolutely not doing that.”
“Man, here I thought you were finally free of the stick up your ass—” you gasp, he laughs, “—but I guess I was wrong.”
“I do not have a stick up my ass. Sue me for not wanting to get soaking wet in a Prada top.”
Bucky leans back, hands reaching up to wipe the water from his face again. It’s then you notice his t-shirt clinging onto his arms — like second skin that does nothing to mask the thick muscles that could probably lift you with a finger. “You can always buy more Prada. You can’t buy another day like today.”
“Think I’ll take my chances.”
“Alright, princess. I didn’t know you forgot how to have fun. You used to be the one who took me out here, would be the first one to jump in too before you dragged me in with you.”
That ticks you off. Your jaw clenches and you finally rise to your feet. Screw him for thinking you’d ruin your perfectly nice outfit for this. Your fingers catch the hem of your shirt before you’re tugging it over your head, then you shimmy out of your shorts.
“Wait, you’re really—”
“What? Never seen a girl in her underwear before?” You smirk, climbing up to where he stood only moments ago. Bucky looks even redder in contrast against the pool of blue.
You look at the rope and take a deep breath. You’ve done this before. You can do this. It’s just a swing and a jump. After that, you black out and by the time you come to, you’re already soaked from head to toe, coming up for air with a gasp as the water laps cool against your skin. You still hear the echo of your scream before you crashed into the pool.
“Shit, it’s freezing. You didn’t warn me.”
Bucky chuckles as he swims closer towards you. “Doesn’t it feel nice?”
“Feels like I’m about to catch a cold.”
The two of you splash around for a little while, Bucky even coming out only to jump back in and drench you in another wave. Your screech echoes in the quiet of the forest, muffled only by the waterfall behind you.
He looks at you when he comes up, grinning as he approaches you. His hand reaches up to drag the wet strands of your hair away from your face, fingertips brushing your cheek. His touch is cool but your entire body feels like it’s been set on fire.
You’re well aware of how little you’re wearing, even more so when the thin fabric sticks to your wet skin. Your nipples are stiff in the chill, pushing against the material, and you can feel your panties squeezing between your cheeks.
Your arms wrap around yourself, partly because of the cold, but mostly because Bucky’s watching you a little too closely. His eyes travel down your neck where strands of your hair are clinging to your skin, to your collarbones, down to the valley of your breasts that peek up from above the water.
You see his throat move as he swallows. Blue finds you. The color a shade or two darker as he assesses you, drinks the sight of you in. Instead of addressing it, he begins to move towards the surface where he manages to stand, water kissing his calves. You follow after him slowly.
He turns around then, looking at you when you come close enough. There’s a depth to his gaze that you can’t read, but you’re almost too scared to ask.
“What?” You try to play off.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. Gentle. Honest.
“You’re just saying that because I’m practically naked,” you taunt, fully aware of how much you’re showing now that you’re out of the water.
“I’m saying that because you look incredibly tempting right now and I think I’ll have a hard time keeping my hands off you. For both our sakes, I recommend that you put on some clothes right now.”
Your breath catches, snagging in your lungs. The words that depart your lips are one born from days of frustration and longing. An honest, desperate question. “What makes you think you have to?”
Bucky inhales sharp, deep. “Do you know what you’re saying right now, princess?”
“I am,” you respond calmly, though your voice wavers.
He takes a step closer and suddenly you’re backing up against a large boulder, the cold surface kissing the swell of your ass.
His hand stretches out. His touch ghosts over your skin, hand trailing lightly over your hip where the hem of your panties rests, traveling up to your waist, right beneath the wiring of your bra, fingertips brushing over your exposed torso. Your breath hitches in your throat, chest rising as your lungs expand. Bucky’s blue eyes, warm where they’re focused on how his large palm moves over your stomach, flicks up to meet yours.
“This okay?” He whispers.
You only manage a nod.
“You’re gorgeous, princess.”
The pet name crawls up your spine and grips your lungs. You’re too busy looking at how Bucky’s lips look, the way they part, and his eyes, pupils blowing up to swallow the blue, to notice how his hand is slowly creeping up your bare stomach. His hand leaves a trail of fire where it crawls up to your chest, burning through your skin when he cups you gently.
He lets out a garbled sound. “Fuck, you’re so soft.”
“Generally how tits are, Barnes,” you try to tease.
A flush sprawls across his neck. “You’re such a brat. I should really shut you up.”
“Why don’t you try?”
Bucky doesn’t hesitate before he seals his lips over yours, drinking in the surprised little gasp you let out. He gulps down your whimper as you arch your back into his touch. His touch grows bolder, stronger, as he squeezes your breast over the fabric. His hand wanders to the space between the rock and your back, fingers deft as they quickly work to unbutton your bra.
“I don’t like how you did that so quickly,” you mumble against his lips. “Have you been practicing with other girls?”
“Just good with my fingers,” he chuckles.
“Good answer,” you grin.
He slides the material off your body, leaving you open for the taking. A low growl rises up his throat as he gropes your breasts harder, fingers finding your nipples, and relishes in the small moans you make. He takes his time with it, kneading your tits to the shape of his hand, kissing you warm and slow — all the while heat accumulates between your legs and you’re reduced into a quivering puddle in his hands.
But he doesn’t let you slip; he presses you back against the stone, his touch cool and warm, a chemical reaction against your skin. He distracts you from the chill, moving his mouth languidly against yours. God, kissing him feels like the first touch of summer after a long winter. He tastes like the icing on the cake he brought, sweetness that melts on your tongue. His hand — a working man’s hands — are rough where his palms are calloused, creating delicious friction with the way it rubs up against your delicate skin.
“Bucky, come on,” you whine.
“Patience,” he only says as his lips trail to the corner of your lips to imprint kisses that leave you wanting more. Much, much more.
“Move it along, Barnes, or I’m gonna have to find someone to do the job for you.”
Bucky pulls back abruptly, your stomach sinks. His eyes are dark as they look at you, lips set into a firm, irritated line. “You’ve really got such a mouth on you,” he snarls, “been wantin’ to put you in your place, princess. You keep running your mouth, just waiting for someone to tell you to behave.”
Oh. Oh, you shouldn’t like that this much. But you do. And Bucky knows you do.
His lips curl into a smirk. “Is that it? You need someone to teach you some manners again?” Bucky’s nose brushes over the pulse in your neck, feeling it stutter beneath him. “I can do that for you — all you have to do is listen.”
An expletive slips past your lips and Bucky brushes his lips over yours again, teeth nipping on your bottom lip.
“Language, princess.”
A whimper climbs out your throat. “I want you.”
“I know you do,” he says, voice gliding over your skin like silk, “but you need to be patient. Can you be a good girl for me? Can you listen to me?”
You nod, your entire vocabulary flaking into ashes as he smooths his palm back down your body. You don’t register when he slides it over your hip, you barely register his hand cupping the warmth of your pussy, your ass raising to give him access. It’s only when his index finger traces the line on your panties where the fabric sinks into you does your gasp wake you from your stupor.
“I can tell you’re so wet already,” he whispers, disbelief clinging to his syllables, “is this all for me?” Your breathing stammers an uneven staccato in your chest. “Tell me it’s for me.”
“‘S for you,” you choke out.
“Good girl,” he breathes out, “shit, you’re so wet. I can feel you through this lace.”
Your hands instinctively fly to cover yourself up as much as you can, cheeks flaming and it’s not from the heat.
“Gettin’ shy on me?”
“What if someone sees?” You hiss, but the sound melts into a whimper when Bucky starts to trail his finger up and down your slit over the mesh that barely hides you.
“Nobody comes out this way. Just you and me, princess.”
Your protest dies when Bucky tugs your panties to the side, sliding his finger along your slick folds, brushing over your clit until your voice splits into a long groan. He peppers your face with kisses, enough to sear a mark onto your skin that you’ll feel for weeks. All the while, his fingers tease you open slowly, coaxing moans from your lips as he dips his fingers in only to leave you in the cold. He repeats the movement over and over until you’re squirming, your fingers catching his wrist to keep him going.
“Come on, Buck.”
“What is it?” He feigns confusion.
“Touch me.”
“I am touching you.”
Through gritted teeth, you manage to say, “Properly. Touch me like a man, you fucking coward.”
“I need to teach this mouth of yours some manners. Need you to ask me one more time.” Your lips stubbornly sew shut. “Come on, you can do it,” he coos.
It’s patronizing. It’s demeaning. You shouldn’t let him speak to you this way. You are a five-time Grammy winner, the nation’s favorite pop star, you don’t need a man to—
“I’ll finger you open properly if you ask me nicely. I’ll make sure you’re good and ready for my cock. I promise.”
Fuck. Your mouth moves before your brain can catch up. “Please.” The plea escapes you. “Please finger me, Bucky.”
“That’s a good girl,” he beams, “that’s my girl.”
Your insides positively melt. My girl. It shouldn’t be so easy to get to you. You’ve had your fair share of men who know what sweet nothings to whisper in your ear, so you shouldn’t be fazed by such a simple phrase.
But it’s different — because this is Bucky and the thing about Bucky is that he always means it.
When he calls you his girl, that means you’re his, and that’s that.
Your thighs fall apart as his finger finally pushes in, thick and intrusive to spark the fire in your core. He curls it inside of you, brushing up against your walls and you’re curling into him. He kisses you again, taking in the gasp that bubbles up your throat.
“My pretty girl,” he murmurs sweetly, “look at you. So easy for me when you’ve got something in this pussy of yours.”
The fuck you stops cold on your tongue when Bucky adds another finger in, stretching you out with a delicious burn that has you spilling needy little noises into his mouth.
“Such a good girl when you’re filled up. Who knew I could stop you from acting like such a brat just by stretching this gorgeous cunt open? I should’ve done this that first day. Should’ve made you spread your legs for me if you wanted my help.”
His name forms on your tongue, like his fingers are forcing you to say it out loud. To beg him.
“I can’t wait to have you wrapped around my cock. Bet you’d feel so tight, fit around me like a glove. I know you’ve had others before me, but I promise you none of them can make you feel as good as me. None of them will worship you the same way I will.”
“God, Bucky, please.”
“I know, I know,” he utters tenderly, “I’m here, princess. I’ll take good care of you. Tell me what you want.” His fingers spread inside of you, urging you to open up real good for him. “I need you to use your words for me.”
“You know what I want,” you whine, fingers clawing at his chest.
“I know, but we talked about this. I need you to be good for me and ask me nicely.”
Your eyes burn with embarrassment, chest blazing with the warmth of a thousand suns. “Bucky, please. I need you.”
He cocks an eyebrow as he fingers you open again, pumping his fingers in and out of you as he teases you with a third. His thumb finds your clit, finds the surprised, wanton-filled sound from your chest. He rubs you slowly, gentle as he once again asks you to pose your request.
“I want your cock. Please. Please,” you whine, “I want you to fuck me open.”
Bucky lets out a guttural moan as he covers your lips with his again, kissing you senseless, stealing every single breath from your lungs until you’re gasping for air as he finger-fucks you open. You’re soaking him, you can feel yourself leaking all over. You’d be more ashamed if you weren’t so caught up in the delirium of pleasure.
“Attagirl,” Bucky chuckles, kissing the top of your head. He moves fast — fingers ripping off your panties so you’re exposed to him. You don’t get the chance to complain about losing a very nice pair of underwear, not when he takes a second here, admiring the way your pussy glistens in the sunlight. You’re suddenly shy, hands moving to shield yourself again, but he moves faster, gripping them and pinning them down above your head. “Don’t hide from me. You look sweet like this. So vulnerable.”
He uses one hand to pin both of yours above your head, all the while he’s nudging your legs to open up further with his knee. Bucky looks bigger from your vantage point, height towering over you, blocking the sun until your line of sight is completely consumed by him. You hear hiz zipper being undone, but your focus is entirely on him.
“I’ve got a condom,” Bucky exhales, tugging at the seams of your consciousness and rational thought. “In the bag.”
“You brought a condom? Were you expecting this to happen?”
“Expect, no. Hope? Always,” he offers a wry smile.
“Fuck a lot of girls in the woods, Barnes?”
Bucky stifles a laugh. “No, just the one,” he smiles, “just you.” For a second, the two of you simply stand with each other, stewing in the tension that hangs heavy in the air between you. “I should go get it first,” he says, making his move to pull away.
You aren’t sure what possesses you but then you find yourself grabbing him by the soaked collar of his shirt. He halts, eyes wide. “I’m clean,” you mumble, “I don’t want to wait.”
“Princess,” Bucky says slowly.
“Please, Buck.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“I’m clean, I promise you, I got tested after—”
“That’s not my concern,” he interrupts cautiously, “I’m asking if you’re sure about this. With me.”
You give a small nod. “I trust you.”
“Shit,” he hisses, “can’t say things like that and expect me not to fuck you stupid, princess.”
“Again, what makes you think you can’t?”
Bucky lets out a low roar that fuels the heat coiling tight inside your belly. Your eyes finally drift down to his cock in his hand and, like you’ve been unknowingly trained, you begin to salivate. Your mouth waters at the sight of the thick length, tip red and leaking. It twitches with need, moving towards you like it’s drawn.
He’s big. Bigger than anyone you’ve had before.
“I—” you start only for the words to choke out. Bucky raises a questioning brow.
“Did you change your mind? We can stop right now. Say the word.”
“No, that’s not it— I’m just—” you look at it for a heartbeat then two. “You’re really big,” you blurt out. “I don’t know if I can fit you.”
His lips twitch up into a smile, a mix of cocky confidence and amusement. “I’ll ease into you, princess. Promise it won’t hurt,” he says then pauses, “it might hurt a bit but you let me know if it gets too much, yeah?”
Your own giggle fizzles out when Bucky props up one of your legs, closing in on you with your folded thigh against his chest, and notches the head in your entrance. It’s a bit of a stretch, you can feel a slight sting, but your greedy pussy has other ideas. It opens up to him with the second nudge in, caving under the pressure much too quickly. You hate to admit how good he feels.
For a man who claims to have limited experience, Bucky seems to know exactly what to do. A vein on his forehead pulses as he slowly inches himself inside you, sweat beading his skin. His neck strains as he slowly sinks himself inside you, fucking up to bury himself deep inside your aching pussy.
A desperate whimper climbs out your throat. His name on your lips.
Bucky throws his head back, breathing in harshly through his nose. “You keep saying my name like that and I’m going to cum right now,” he rasps.
And because you can’t help yourslef, you do. You say his name again in a needy little cry that has him lifting you up with a growl, your legs wrapping around his torso as he shoves himself all the way inside you.
You’ve never felt so full before, inner thighs burning with his cock inflating inside you. His length stretches you open as he presses you back against the rock, leaning you back so he can properly fuck into you with deep, intentional thrusts.
“Look at this pretty pussy spread open for me,” Bucky groans, “you’re fuckin’ perfect. I’m gonna feed her my cock, gonna make sure she’s full.” His fingers bury in the flesh of your thighs as he drives himself deep inside you.
His other hand wanders to your neck, squeezing around the outside just enough to have your mind dizzy. His eyes search yours, vision glazed over as the pleasure slips through every crevice of your brain. Once he confirms that you’re okay, he tightens his grip enough to limit the airflow into your lungs, your breath hitching in your chest as he does so.
Bucky’s name leaves your lips in a hoarse whisper and he groans when he feels your core tighten around him. “My perfect girl, squeezing my cock like you’re tryin’ to milk me. You feel like you haven’t been touched in so long, princess. Was this all you needed to stop acting like a brat? If only people knew that the only way to get you to behave was to put a cock inside this pretty little cunt.”
He reaches down between your legs and circles your clit until your moans pierce through the waterfall raining down behind you. You say his name over and over again, like a prayer. Like a plea. Your entire body shakes every time he thrusts deep inside you. Your heart stutters in your chest when you hear an unknown sound, your eyes flying to see if anyone’s witnessing the debauchery occurring out in the open.
“Shit, princess, look at you,” he hisses when he looks down where the two of you are joined, “you’re creamin’ all over my cock. Soakin’ my cock so easy.”
“Bucky, please,” you manage to rasp, chest tight as the burning between your legs intensifies.
You can feel it. It’s been a while, but it also has never been like this. A mind-numbing concoction of breathtaking pain and pleasure. Bucky’s cock opens you up, your folds swallowing him in like you’re desperate for more, like you need to fit as much of him in as possible.
The tip brushes up against the deepest parts of you and yet somehow it’s not nearly enough. Bucky mutters about how tight your pussy feels, how there’s no way anyone has been in here before.
“Not with how your cunt is choking me, princess,” he groans, fingers sinking deeper into your hip now. “She’s so sweet for me, practically sucking me in. I can’t wait to cum inside you.”
That has your panic flaring again, only for a second because then your stomach twists with the desire for exactly that — to be filled to the brim with him.
“I’ve never—” you gasp, “I’ve never let anyone cum inside me.”
Bucky chuckles softly, leaning forward to kiss you again. It’s hypnotic how easily he has you putty in his hands. “Won’t you let me be the first?”
Your heart beats a little faster. You’ve never been good at saying no to him. Especially not when you want him as much as he does you.
“Yes,” you whimper, “please, cum inside me.”
Another deep groan resonates from his belly. “You’re going to be the death of me, princess. Spoilin’ me rotten like this, you’re gonna get me used to cummin’ inside this gorgeous cunt. I’m gonna have to be inside you everyday, never be able to sate myself unless my cock’s buried in this pussy.”
“Fuck, Bucky, I can’t—” oxygen is punched out of your lungs with every thrust, “I can’t hold it— I’m going to cum.”
“Cum for me, princess. Cum around my cock, need to feel you pulse around me,” Bucky groans.
Like the obedient girl that you are, you do. The orgasm wracks through your entire being, zapping through every nerve in your body. Your back lifts off the stone as you gasp, straight into Bucky’s touch. He buries his face into your neck as his body shudders, spilling liquid heat into you.
The stickiness clings to your skin but the waterfall is cooling on your skin as you come down from your high. Bucky slumps on top of you, wet t-shirt between the two of you. You giggle breathlessly against his skin and feel him shake with laughter against you too, all the while his cock is still buried deep inside you. Twitching.
“You’re a bad influence,” you mutter, smiling.
“You’re one to talk, practically jumped me first chance you got,” Bucky chuckles and you hit him with a solid smack to his arm. “Let’s get out of here before you catch a cold.”
He pulls out of you slowly and you can feel his cum trickling down your leg. It stirs warmth inside of you again and, before you could think about quashing how good it feels, you watch as he moves towards the rocks to push himself up and out.
It certainly doesn’t help your still overeager libido to see how his back muscles move, traps flexing, as he lifts himself out before he turns to extend a hand to you. You take it and he looks away as you climb out of the water. He hands you his dry button-up, once again without looking back at you.
“Figured this would be warmer,” he clarifies.
“Thanks,” you mumble and slip your goosebump-riddled arms through the sleeves. The fabric is quick to absorb the water and your fingers make quick work to scrunch up and squeeze out water from your hair. Your hard work, down the drain.
Well, down to the bottom of the pool at least.
“Are you okay? Was I too—”
“Stop,” you wave a hand to halt him, “I’m fine. I’m not made of glass.”
He murmurs an okay but still looks at you with that look in his face. For a moment, you think it’s some form of sympathy, but you quickly realize that it’s awe. He’s looking at you with the kind of adoration that has your heart doing somersaults in your chest.
As fast as that feeling came, the one that follows is from your years of experience: fear. Trust is a fickle mistress in this industry. The last time you slept with someone, you ended up on the front pages of every entertainment site on the planet. Who’s to say this isn’t the same? It’s a quick money grab. Who doesn’t want another scandal with one of the most famous celebrities on the planet? Though, the payout is probably less now that you’ve already had one of these—
“Hey, what’re you thinking about?” Bucky’s hand is warm as it takes yours. His hair is still dripping, droplets landing on the blanket and your thigh as he leans closer. You open your mouth to deny his question, but he’s already shaking his head. “I can tell something’s goin’ on, princess. Tell me so I can fix it.”
You can’t help the laugh that escapes. It’s a sweet thought. “It’s a personal thing, don’t worry,” you insist, but he’s not letting you go. His hand squeezing. Your teeth catch your bottom lip before you relent. “Trust. It’s not an easy thing when you’re in the spotlight. I’m tired of constantly second guessing people’s intentions, why they do what they do with me. I’m scared of being the subject of another public issue — mostly because it creates a massive headache for my team, including my dad. I just— I hate that I’m putting those around me in an uncomfortable position of having to defend my actions, even if I’m fully aware some of them are completely defensible, but the general public always has to have a witch on the stands right? It’s just the way the world works. Regardless of whether you’re a real villain or not, you’re put at the stake and subjected to the constant judgment.”
Bucky stiffens, lips tightening. He holds your hands closer to him. “You are not responsible for these shitty people and their behavior. None of this is your fault. You’re living your life, you’re defending yourself. You should never apologize for any of that,” he adds sternly. His hand trembles and his jaw stiffens. The fury rolls off him in waves and your heart liquifies at the sight. “Need you to know that you got a lot of people here — and out there — who love you and will protect you. We don’t give a shit what they say because we know you, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you whisper.
“So as long as you have us around, we won’t let anything happen to you. It’s not because we have to, but because we want to.” Your throat closes and the salt in your tears prick your eyes. Bucky throws an arm around you, pulling you close to kiss the top of your head. “We got you, princess.”
You would think that your unmeasurable need and curiosity would be satisfied from that one time with Bucky Barnes. You’ve never been more wrong. If anything, your desire for him has only grown — you can’t help how distracted you are by his hands, remembering how they feel on your hips, or his eyes that are icy when he’s irritated but thaw when they turn to you, or his cock—
“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, drawing you out of your own thoughts.
It is then you realize that you’ve been staring at his lap for far too long to be subtle. His question isn’t innocent. It’s a prompt. An invitation. Safe to say, when you find yourself with your back pressed against the barn walls and Bucky bullying his cock into you as he muffles his moans into your neck, fingers sinking into your ass firm enough to bruise, you accepted that invitation.
Then you stare at his fingers a little too long when the two of you are at the bar for a night out with a few of his friends (who knew that this man even had friends?) and he takes you out the back door and presses his fingers inside you until you’re gasping for air, legs clenching together as he curls them in and whispers how you’re so fuckin’ wet out here in the open where anyone can walk out and see America’s favorite princess getting finger-fucked in an alleyway.
And then again in your childhood bedroom with your creaky bed when your grandma and dad were out. And one more time by the waterfall, this time with your tits pressed against the rocks. And finally in his truck when the two of you don’t quite make it to the drive-in theater he promised.
For once, you’re not thinking too far into the future. Bucky keeps you grounded in the moment. Between the times he spends kissing you, you manage to also get some writing done. Affection bleeding into your melody and lyrics as you pluck the strings to your guitar. Once, Bucky hears you playing a new one in the morning and tells you that that one’s going to be his new favorite song. He tells you that it sounds honest, more… you.
He doesn’t know that it’s inspired by him.
In your last few days, you refuse to worry too much about what this all means once you leave. For all you know, this is an easy, temporary thing for Bucky. You’re a blip, a shooting star that’ll fizzle out the moment you leave.
The thought hurts more than you expect.
However, you at least wake up feeling rejuvenated. Maybe the world hasn’t completely destroyed every piece of you, maybe you can still find her somewhere inside of you. Your phone blares with a shrill noise and you are roused in irritation for the first time in a while.
“What?”
“Lovely way to greet your friend slash fierce protector,” Yelena snaps. You grumble about how early it is and how on earth are you awake right now. She hesitates briefly, which has you peeking an eye open from where your face is mushed against your pillow. “Have you checked your notifications?”
That’s never a good sign.
You push yourself up and lean against your headboard, thumb immediately scrolling through the barrage of messages and news alerts on your screen. Your blood runs cold. The last time this happened—
“I’m sure it’s different,” Yelena chimes in first but your eyes are scanning through every word.
Your name. Bucky’s. Evidence. Sources close to the pair. Another sex scandal. Pictures and pictures and more pictures. Every single news outlet has published grainy pictures of the two of you, photos that look like they’ve been taken from behind bushes and trees. An absolute obliteration of your privacy.
Shame settles firmly in your gut. This is exactly why your dad brought you here — and yet here you are again. Fuck.
“I need to—” your breath catches in your throat. What do you need to do? What can you even do? The damage is done. It’s more red on your ledger and you’re running out of ways to wipe your slate clean.
“Listen,” she interrupts softly, “I don’t want to add more to your plate but I talked to one of the reporters. They were apologetic but they had to report it. It seems like it came from someone who knows what you’ve been up to very well.”
“It’s a small town. Everyone knows what I’ve been doing,” you hiss, “better yet, who I’ve been doing. I just didn’t think anyone would sell me out after the shit I did.”
“You don’t think there’s a chance it could be— no, it couldn’t possibly.” She’s quiet, waiting for you to deny it, but the thickness in your throat doesn’t allow you to. “Right?”
“I don’t know,” you whisper. “I’ve known him two weeks, Yelena. Maybe more if you count the memories I can barely remember but—”
What if this was his plan all along? All those years of tormenting him. All the shitty things you’ve said to him. You acting up—
Been wantin’ to put you in your place, princess.
You shake your head. There’s absolutely no way. He said it in the moment, a comment meant to stir heat between your legs.
But the voice inside your head, the one that insists that you doubt, is louder. It questions everything. Every interaction you’ve had with Bucky. Every touch, every kiss. It burns uncertainty into your skin until you see the creeping skepticism on the back of your hands. Because, at the end of the day, you don’t really know Bucky Barnes. Regardless of how much time you’ve spent with him the last couple of weeks, you’ve learned the hard way that anyone could put on an act, even — no, especially — ones as charming as him.
“You should talk to him first. I doubt he’s the one who spilled.”
You also doubt that you can say for certain that he isn’t. Swallowing thickly, you try to ignore how your heart feels like it’s been ripped out of your chest, beating bloody in the palm of his hand. His smile, one you always picture to be soft and sincere, twists into something ugly, something sinister.
You spend the morning scrolling through the articles. Countless pictures of the two of you, all of them similar so you at least know they were captured by one invasive individual. However, the articles are where the meat sits — criticisms of your promiscuity, accusations of being a terrible role model, and even comments on Bucky’s worth as your partner.
It doesn’t sit right with you. Why would Bucky bad mouth himself to the press if he wants to get his fame? To throw the scent of him. Even so, it paints him in a negative light. Any press is good press. Why would he even need the press? Maybe, just like you, he’s trying to make it out of here.
Both the angel and devil on your shoulder are working overtime, stitching doubt and questions into what you thought was a healthy relationship with Bucky. Now the dark clouds are sewn into every memory you’ve had with him.
Coming down for breakfast, you’re sufficiently pissed off. All that hurt has simmered into a rage that you’re ready to channel towards the one person you think deserves it. Luckily for you, he’s standing in the kitchen. Cooking breakfast.
He smiles wide when he sees you, “Hey, I’m making some french— what’s wrong?” The joy wipes off his face to make room for confusion.
“You’re fucking kidding me right,” you snap, arms crossed over your chest. You don’t bother cleaning yourself up, hair in a tangled mess and pajamas rumpled from your deep sleep. You don’t bother paying attention to the way Bucky’s eyes had softened when he saw you in this state.
“Gonna have to give me more than that, princess. I’m not followin’.”
You turn your phone to face him with the article with the headline: America’s Favorite Pop Princess Caught Rolling in the Hay with Local Farmhand. It’s a disgusting piece but all the details are there — censored pictures, firsthand accounts from the source, and the scandalization of it all.
“Maybe I should’ve made you sign an NDA like everyone else. I’m an idiot.”
It takes him a second before he’s whipping his gaze up to you, disbelief scratched into his irises. “What? You think I did this? That I would tell the press about us? That I would do this to you?”
“I don’t know what to think! It doesn’t matter what I think or what I do. This is the shit that I have to deal with and—” and I would never want to put you through this. You swallow that bitter realization. No matter what you do, even if it wasn’t him, it would be someone else. God knows what else the press will do to him. “And it doesn’t matter,” you say, defeated. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t do this.”
Bucky says your name and the sound knicks your heart.
“I should’ve known better,” you mutter, “this shit just isn’t worth dealing with. I should be focused on my next album, focused on writing those songs and getting them to chart. What’s the point of putting myself out there when all I do is end up in the news?”
“Because it’s worth it,” he insists, hands catching your arms. “Please. You gotta believe me, princess. I didn’t do this. I would never do this to you.”
You offer him a wry smile. “That’s what the last guy said too.” Tugging yourself away from him, you rub the places where his touch has burned. “I can’t do this, Buck. I’m leaving in a couple of days anyway and I can’t risk anymore of my career. Every time this shit happens, I cause trouble for the rest of my team, my family.”
“That’s not on you—”
“I know that!” You snap, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I’m well aware that these are circumstances outside my control. I’m aware that I cannot control people whose entire livelihood depends on me losing mine. It doesn’t change the facts. Even if we keep whatever this thing is going, you and I are going to be dragged through the mud and neither of us will recover.”
Bucky’s jaw clenches, tongue digging into his cheek. “So, what? You’re just going to give up every shot you have at happiness? Life beyond whatever the fuck they’re putting you through? You’re going to let them win?”
“No, I’m playing their game. I don’t have to like it but what choice do I have?”
“Stand up for yourself. Don’t let this shit derail you from what you can do. You have the world at your fingertips, millions who love you — including the very people in this house.”
It’s easier said than done. It’s too tempting to fall into this myth of falling in love, of being allowed to fall in love. Your life isn’t one that permits it. You’ve seen the making and breaking of one too many relationships to believe that it’s possible for someone in your life. The rare few that succeed are lucky — lucky to have found someone in the right time, the right place.
“Appreciate the vote of confidence, but this won’t work, Bucky.”
He looks like he’s about to interrupt again and, for a second, you wish that he does. However, he keeps his lips sealed — and that’s the end of it.
On your last evening, the dinner table is quiet. It’s just you, your dad, and your grandma. A small family affair. When your grandma asks if you’ve invited Bucky, you tell that that you’d rather keep it to a small, intimate dinner. She gives you a suspicious look but doesn’t press further.
As you’re doing the dishes after, your grandma makes sure that your dad is out of earshot when she finally questions you. That is when you tell her everything — the scandal, the media, the pictures. She doesn’t shame you for engaging in extramarital affairs, god knows that’s the least of your problems.
“He wouldn’t do that,” she whispers as you tuck herself into her side.
“I know,” you murmur, “I know you believe in him. I want to believe in him. It’s just hard to draw lines between those you can trust and those you can’t, and I’d rather… not trust anyone at all if those are the two choices I have.”
She flicks your forehead gently. “That’s not the way to live, honey. As hard as it may be, taking those risks are a part of life and — yes, you’ve gotten hurt, but you always bounce back. Always. The people that love you know who you are, they know who’s in the wrong, and it is not you.”
“Thanks, grandma,” you smile, “but it wouldn’t have worked anyway. We live different lives now. He probably wants nothing to do with a girl like me. This life isn’t for everyone — your every move scrutinized and published for everyone to see. It’s a lot to ask of someone.”
Her laugh tinkles through the air. “You’d be surprised.”
Then you’re heading home. The plane rumbles as you climb the stairs up. You take one last look at the land before you, at your grandma who stands at the base of the plane waving. You take a deep breath and then you take your seat.
Los Angeles is the same as you left it. The only difference now is that the paparazzi has been made aware of your arrival at this airport, your flight manifest leaked somehow. You arrive to blinding flashes and questions about your latest tryst, one too many of them asking where this guy is. You grit your teeth and let your dad push through the crowd into the car.
Life is the same. Busier than ever. Now that you’re working on your album full time, it’s hard to find time for anything else — which is ideal because, if you were left alone with your thoughts, you tend to wander to that small town and a certain not-so-small man. The last guy who you had been with already milked his fame and you worry that the media is now hounding Bucky for more details. Guilt carves itself into your bones. These are the days you’re tempted to reach for your phone, to call him and ask him how he’s doing, but you stomp down on that urge.
It’s better this way.
The paparazzi hasn’t let up. They’re at your door, they’re outside the studio, they’re camping out the restaurant that you’re at with Yelena. She gives them the stinkeye and a proper middle finger as the two of you enter.
“So, that’s it then?” She asks when you give her the full rundown of what’s transpired. “You have hot sex with a cowboy and then you go home? You’re really living the Hollywood life.” You give her a look as you take a sip of your third glass of wine. It’s that kind of night. “Your dad seems to like him, which is surprising because he doesn’t like anyone.”
That has you stopping. “What? How do you know that?”
“He told me,” she shrugs, “we were catching up on your schedule for the next couple of months and he mentioned that, despite him wishing you would stay single for the rest of your life, if he had to choose one man for you, that one isn’t a bad choice. I saw the pictures, I’m sure he’s more than enough.” Her wiggling eyebrows has you flinging a fry her way.
“I didn’t know he said that,” you mumble. “Bucky is a good guy. He just… deserves better. He doesn’t want this life.” You gesture to the flashing lights and the men still lingering around the entrance, waiting for your exit. “And I am tired of figuring out who to trust. I don’t want to play this game of roulette and being made a fool. Again.”
“Better a fool that got played once than be wise enough to never fall in love.”
You bark out a laugh. “Just made that up?” She states that it’s a Yelena original. “It’s a nice thought in theory. I don’t know. He hasn’t reached out again since our last conversation. Maybe he’s realized that I’m also not worth all this. It’s a fair assessment, I wouldn’t wish this life on anyone.”
“One day, you’ll realize that you’re worth it all, sweetheart. If anyone knew what it meant to have you love them, they would do anything for you.”
The one thing you did take away from your time in Tennessee is that you do need to stop taking everything they do on the chin. You stand up for yourself when the paparazzi become too demanding and entitled, snapping at them to be more polite at red carpets and telling them off whenever they’re absolutely crossing the line on invading your privacy. While you received backlash for the incident, you also received an outpouring of love. Fans who defend your stance, industry peers who echo your sentiment. It’s one weight off your chest.
But you go home at the end of the evening to your penthouse and the place is much too quiet. Sometimes you can hear Bucky whispering reassurances in your ear and that hallucination is the only thing that keeps you tethered to this life.
When you hear him say your name, a little too clearly this time, you think you may be losing it.
When you see him standing in the middle of your living room, you think your imagination has gone too far.
The second emotion that lands is panic. You’re immediately reaching for your phone. Your grandma can say that he’s a good guy all she wants but when you find this man standing in the middle of your apartment looking every bit as delicious as ever, you should be calling security.
It’s even worse when he takes the phone from your hand before you can ring up your ex-military doorman downstairs. He catches the flash of fear in your eyes and immediately backs up, even seeming a little hurt by that minute reaction.
“Not here to hurt you, princess. Promise. Your dad let me in.”
“My dad? Since when do you talk to my dad?”
“I figured you wouldn’t take my calls so I reached out to him,” Bucky clears his throat. “Hope that’s okay.”
“Sure, that’s what most people do anyway. It doesn’t matter what I want, they always figure out a workaround,” you snip a little too bitterly. A flicker of regret crosses his eyes and that claws at your chest. You take a deep breath. “Sorry, that wasn’t fair. It’s fine. He’s met you,” you relent, “what’re you doing here?”
“To set the record straight.” He tells you about how he spent the last few days asking around, investigating on who would be sharing such intimate details about your life with the press. “Everyone there loves you, especially after what you did with the fundraiser. I knew it had to be someone who had an issue with you. That led me to John.”
John… isn’t he the—
“Yeah, that guy,” Bucky drawls out in annoyance. “Apparently he felt jilted that you flirted with him when he caught us one night. He reached out to a tabloid and realized he could get paid, so he started telling every single one of them.”
“Fucker,” you spit out venomously.
“Tell me about it.”
“You could’ve told me all this over the phone.”
He cocks an eyebrow, “Would you really have picked up?”
“An email would’ve sufficed too.”
“I wanted to make sure you couldn’t avoid me.”
Blue washes over you and you can’t help but give into the pull of the water. “I’m sorry for thinking it was you,” you murmur, “I knew — I knew that deep down it wasn’t.”
“You couldn’t have known for certain,” he shakes his head, “you’ve been burned before and you had the right to doubt me. I get that.” His teeth catches his bottom lip, his attempt to hide his sheepish smile. “Plus, if I’m being honest, I’m out here because I missed you.”
Your jaw practically drops to the floor. You manage to rasp, “What?”
He chances a step towards you, cautious. When you don’t move, he takes another. He reaches for your hand, thumb brushing over the back of it. “Didn’t realize how much I missed you until I saw you walk through those doors. How much I wanted you.”
“Wanted?” You squeak, pain bleeding into your voice.
“Want,” he emphasizes, “Present. Always.”
“You think I’m a bitch,” you choke out.
“No, I think you’ve put up walls around your heart and this picture-perfect image of yours because you know what you have to do to protect your dream,” he smiles softly, “I think you’re smart, funny, incredible. You know exactly how to push my buttons and I don’t want to imagine you doing that with anyone else.”
Your heart soars, climbing to cloud nine and — for a moment, it levitates. For a moment, you have hope. But the realization of where you are, who you are quickly sinks in. “Bucky… this could never work.”
“Why not?”
“First of all, we live in different places.”
“Planes exist.”
“For how long? I’m never— I’m never gonna leave this place and you have your house there and the animals and the town.”
The corners of his lips quirk up. “There are farms everywhere. But you do also realize I can do a lot of things. I’m a certified mechanic and a city like this could always use another one.” His name leaves your lips, but he cuts you off. “I’m laying it all out on the table. I’m ready to make this work because I want you. I want you. The question is do you?”
A whimper crawls out your throat. “It’s going to be a pain to deal with me. Everyone follows me everywhere.”
“I’m one of them. Next question.”
“Paparazzi will be hounding you.”
“I know ten different ways to say fuck off.” You’re scrambling to find more excuses, but all of them die on the tip of your tongue. You don’t want him to leave. You don’t want to scare him away. This is it. “What do you say, princess? Want to take a chance with me?”
He holds out his palm out, fingers stretched out. You look at his hand, one that you’re used to having wrapped around yours. You look at him, those honest blue eyes that never seem to stray far away from you. “Yes,” you whisper.
“Good girl,” he grins as he brushes his lips against yours. “Now, let me take my time showing you what you’ve been missing out on.”
“Better make it worth my time, Barnes,” you laugh breathlessly.
Robby has never been a fan of birthdays. This year, loneliness drives him to download Tinder on an impulse, only to come across the last person he expected to find there: his favorite resident.
warning/tags: minors DNI, p0rn with little plot, masturbating, sexting, pet names (sweetheart and good girl) robby loves talking you through it, unprotected piv, pussy eating, multiple orgasms, body hair, fingering, creampie, handjob, kinda softdom!robby, age gap (I imagined reader being in her 20s or 30s but could be in her 40s too, tried to keep it broad)
For those of you who read it the first or second time I uploaded it: during the days the fic was down, I expanded some scenes, added a bit more dialogue, and made it a little kinkier along the way. You might want to read it again for some extra content
He knew this was stupid, plainly a terrible idea. On any other day, the thought wouldn’t have even crossed his mind, but today wasn’t any ordinary day. Today was his birthday. Fifty-five years old, and he had never felt more lost in his own life. Nothing had turned out the way he’d once imagined it would. If someone had told him, back when he was a resident, that he would still be coming home to an empty apartment at this age, no wife curled up on the couch waiting for him with a tired but loving smile, no chorus of small feet thundering toward the door, shoving drawings into his hands and saying “Look what I made for you today, daddy!” he would have laughed in their face and called it a cruel joke.
Yet here he was. No relationship had ever survived the weight of the hours and the way his mind stayed trapped in the ED long after he left it. He couldn’t be present anymore, not the way a partner deserved. The job had hollowed him out in ways he hadn’t noticed until it was too late.
It had been almost a year since he ended things with Noelle, not long after he returned from his sabbatical. He’d told himself it was the right thing to do. Maybe it really was better this way. At this point in his life, trying again felt pointless, almost selfish. He was saving whatever good women were still out there from the inevitable complications of loving Michael Robinavitch.
But today the emptiness hit differently. The apartment felt quieter than usual, and his thoughts were louder, circling like a vulture. He knew it was the birthday doing this to him. Birthdays had a way of dragging the sorrows out into the light, every missed milestone, every abandoned version of the life he thought he’d have. Jack had tried to pull him out of it, offering a beer after shift, but Robby had politely declined. He wasn’t in the mood for forced cheer, for anyone raising a glass to another year of the same.
He’d made it clear to the whole department that he didn’t want any birthday cake, no cards, no presents, nothing. Still, the well-meaning murmurs had followed him all day: “Happy birthday, Dr. Robby,” each one met with a progressively wearier smile until the words blurred together. By the end of the shift, he was only managing quiet nods of acknowledgment, the kind that said thank you and please stop at the same time.
So here he was, in an apartment that was too big for himself, lying on a couch that felt even bigger, downloading Tinder on his phone. He rubbed a hand over his face, he’d tried Tinder once, maybe two years ago. Downloaded it, swiped for a week, then deleted it when the superficial nonsense started bothering him too much.
He started with the basics. Photos. Robby opened his gallery and scrolled slowly through the meager collection. Most of the images were work-related, grainy screenshots of charts, or blurry shots of trees and roads he’d taken during his bike rides. After a long hesitation, he picked a silly selfie he’d sent Jack a few weeks earlier. He was holding up the book the two of them had been texting about, half-smiling at the camera like he felt ridiculous even taking it. It wasn’t terrible, he supposed. He looked… friendly. Approachable, maybe.
Next, he chose one from the department barbecue he’d actually forced himself to attend last summer. He was wearing the sleeves rolled up on a button-down shirt, and holding a beer in his hand. He didn’t hate it, it showed a version of himself that still showed up for people, even when he didn’t feel like it. The last one was from the hospital fundraiser gala two years ago. He looked elegant in that photo in a black suit, but he had to crop Jack out of the frame, his face was still half-visible over his shoulder. Three photos, not exactly a compelling portfolio, but they were honest, he wasn’t pretending to be anyone other than himself.
He moved on to preferences. Gender: Women. Age range… His thumb froze. At first, he set it to 50–60. Women at the same stage he was, maybe divorced, maybe widowed, or just tired of feeling alone. But then something flickered in his chest, part curiosity and part desperation, and before he could talk himself out of it, he dragged the lower end down. Twenty to sixty. The wider net felt reckless, almost embarrassing. But what if the love of his life existed somewhere in that range? What if he missed her by something as stupid as a single year on a slider?
As if the love of your life was sitting on Tinder on a Sunday night, he thought. Don’t be fucking stupid, Robby.
He stared at the screen for a long moment, and with a quiet sigh that sounded too much like surrender, he tapped confirm. Now it was time for the bio. Robby stared at the blank field for a long minute. What the hell was he supposed to say? He wasn’t looking for anything specific. Company? Distraction? Someone who wouldn’t mind a man who came home at crazy hours, sometimes covered in blood and whocarried more baggage than he could carry?
He typed slowly what felt the most honest: “ER doctor in Pittsburgh. Love long bike rides to clear my head and 70s rock. Not entirely sure what I’m looking for here, but if you can handle sarcasm and odd hours, we might get along.”
He read it back. It sounded stiff, after all, he wasn’t used to this. But it was him, and so he hit save before he could overthink it more. The app prompted him to start swiping. Robby leaned back against the couch as the profiles began loading, smiling faces, pictures of holiday destinations, and bios full of lists of requirements. He swiped left on most without much thought.
Left. Left. Left. Some of the women seemed nice, but nothing pulled him in. He kept going until the endless scroll of faces started blurring together. No one stuck, just the same hollow feeling that had driven him to download the damn thing in the first place.
But then your profile appeared. Robby’s entire body froze. The photo loaded first: you, one of his own residents. You were standing in scrubs outside the Pitt with the same smirk you got after a particularly chaotic shift. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered as the heat crawled up his neck. Awkward didn’t even begin to cover what he was feeling right now.
At work you were talented and dedicated, but still green enough that he rode you hard during shifts. And here you were on Tinder, of all places. The thought that you, or anyone else from the department, might stumble across his profile made his stomach twist with embarrassment. He could already imagine the gossip: Dr. Robby on Tinder. How pathetic.
He should swipe left immediately, delete his profile, and pretend this never happened. Instead, curiosity won. Robby tapped on your profile, telling himself it was just… professional concern. Making sure you weren’t doing anything stupid. He cared about his residents. Yeah, that was it.
Your bio loaded beneath the main photo: “If you like girls who will force you to watch her Letterboxd top four and then talk your ear off for hours about the hidden meaning behind her favorite songs, then I’m your girl. Emergency med resident with zero free time. Not looking for anything serious, just fun, meeting people, seeing where it goes.”
Robby let out a chuckle despite himself, the sound was unexpected in the quiet of the moment. He had only ever seen you in the chaos of the ED, running on adrenaline and too little sleep. But this version of you felt… different. He found himself thinking about how little he actually knew you. How little he’d allowed himself to know.
He didn’t know where you were from, or what your family was like, whether you had siblings who called too often or parents you tried to make proud. He didn’t know what you did outside of the hospital besides the occasional beer in the park, or what made you laugh until your sides hurt. All those small and ordinary pieces of a life that existed outside the emergency department.
It felt strangely intimate, seeing you like this. Like stumbling across a part of you he wasn’t supposed to have access to. A version of you that wasn’t filtered through the hierarchy of resident and attending. Up until now, you had been “his resident”, contained within the professional boundaries he’d carefully maintained.
He started swiping through your photos. The second picture was you laughing in what looked like a group hike, with your hair windblown and your eyes bright. You looked undeniably pretty. Objectively, he’d always known you were attractive. The kind of natural attractiveness that turned heads in the hospital corridors even when you were exhausted and covered in sweat. But once again, he’d never thought about it. You were a resident, he’d gone down that path before, and it’d ended badly. That made you off-limits, end of story.
The third photo was of you in a cozy sweater, curled up with a book and a mug of coffee. It was cute, almost sweet. The kind of image that made the loneliness in his chest ache. He kept swiping until the last photo hit him like a defibrillator. You were on a beach somewhere sunny and sandy, wearing a bikini. Your skin was glowing under the sun, and you were smiling at the camera in a confident pose, the kind of effortless beauty that could stop any man cold. Holy fuck, your body barely contained by the fabric of the bikini, the photo capturing the gentle swell and the way the light played across your body.
Robby’s mouth went dry, the heat flooded his face and then lower down his body. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t let himself imagine you like this, outside the hospital, undeniably a woman and not just one of his residents. His pulse kicked up, the nervousness made his hands shake and his grip slippery. He fumbled the phone, trying to swipe left fast. Swipe left, damn it, he thought.
But he accidentally jerked his thumb the wrong way, to the right, and the screen lit up with that unmistakable animation.
It’s a Match!
On the other side of Pittsburgh, you had been lying in bed, still trying to unwind after another brutal twelve-hour shift. Sleep felt miles away, so you’d given in to the guilty habit of late-night Tinder scrolling. Sure, swiping at 1 a.m. probably looked desperate to anyone else, but who cared? It wasn’t like you had much of a life outside the hospital anyway.
You swiped left with efficiency. Guy whose entire bio was just a link to his podcast. Left. Gym mirror selfies and nothing else. Left. Self-proclaimed “entrepreneur in the crypto market” with a Lamborghini in the background that probably wasn’t even his. Left.
How was it this difficult to find someone even remotely decent? You weren’t expecting to meet the love of your life in this digital dumpster, but was it really too much to ask for a man with basic social skills and a profile that didn’t scream immediate red flags? Someone whose opening line wasn’t just “u dtf?”
Guy who still clearly lived with his mom. Another left. “No feminists” in the bio, followed by a rant about “high value woman.” Left.
Then your thumb froze mid-swipe. Michael Robinavitch. Your heart slammed against your ribs. There he was, Dr. Robby, looking straight into the camera in one of the photos, that familiar half-smile you’d seen a thousand times in the ED, only now it was on a dating app.
You sat up straighter in bed, suddenly wide awake. What the hell was Dr. Robby doing on Tinder? You’d scrolled through this app for weeks and never seen him before. He must have created the profile recently. The man you’d been quietly (and not-so-quietly) thirsting over since your very first day of residency was right here. One match away.
How could you not like Robby? He was everything you’d ever wanted in a man, strong, steady, impossibly smart, and so damn capable it made your legs weak every single time he gave you a calm and yet authoritative instruction in the middle of a trauma.
You’d lost count of how many times he’d gently reprimanded you for being distracted while charting. He always assumed you were just tired from the long hours. He had no idea that you kept getting lost in vivid daydreams about him: running your fingers through the silver-flecked hair and that coarse, greyish beard, feeling those big hands wrap around your waist, pulling you close.
You loved the way his eyes crinkled warmly behind his glasses when he smiled, the way his voice dropped into that gravelly register when he needed to command attention in the ED… it did things to you. Dangerous, addictive things. Sometimes getting in trouble with him felt more exciting than it had any right to.
His Tinder bio was unexpectedly adorable. He looked a little lost, like he wasn’t entirely sure he belonged on the app but was willing to put himself out there anyway. That bike is not the only thing I’d like to ride, you thought, as a little smile tugged at your lips.
His pictures made you melt and sigh at the same time. That warm, contagious smil, the glasses that struck the perfect balance between hot and endearingly sweet. The silver threading through his beard that made you press your thighs together at the mere thought of feeling it against your skin, between your legs, specifically.
You swiped slowly through the rest of his photos. Those wide shoulders, that tall and solid frame, that soft belly under the button-down shirt… you wanted him in a way you had never wanted anyone before.
It was almost pathetic the way your heart did a little skip every time he complimented your work on a tough case. The way your thighs squeezed together almost involuntarily whenever he stepped in close during a complicated procedure, guiding you step by step, his voice low and patient near your ear. “Yeah, grab the blade like that… make a two-inch incision, softly, very gently.” “Hold the tube with your left hand, tight, don’t move it.”
It made your mind wander to dangerous places. Was he like that in bed too? The kind of man who talked you through it, calm and devastatingly attentive? In your fantasies, he absolutely was. Late at night, alone in this very bed with nothing but your hand and your imagination, you could almost hear his voice murmuring against your skin: “Keep your legs open for me, nice and wide… just like that.” “Look at you… already making such a mess. I’m gonna start with one finger, okay? Think you can be good and take it for me?”
Should you swipe right? It felt like the only logical choice. If he swiped left, which seemed like the most likely outcome, he would never even know you’d swiped on him. But if he did swipe right… then maybe, just maybe, you could end up in Robby’s bed.
Your hopes stayed low. Never in a million years did you actually expect Robby to be attracted to you the way you were to him. You would’ve noticed something by now, maybe in lingering stares, subtle flirting, or any shift in the way he treated you. But he didn’t. He treated you exactly like the rest of the residents: a young doctor he needed to teach, who could sometimes be frustratingly distracted.
Still, you couldn’t contain the tiny, thrilled scream that escaped your lips when the screen lit up:
It’s a Match!
Robby had matched with you. He wanted you too.
“Shit!” Robby dropped the phone onto the couch like it had burned him. It bounced once and landed face-up, the match confirmation still glowing on the screen. He and you had just matched on Tinder. All thanks to that goddamn bikini photo and his clumsy, nervous fingers.
He stared at it, feeling his heart hammering harder than it had during the worst trauma cases. This was mortifying. You’d seen his profile, you’d swiped right, and now you were going to see that he’d swiped right as well. Part of him, the tired and lonely part that had downloaded the app and widened the age range, wondered what you’d think.
A dozen what-ifs tumbled through his mind. What if you saw his profile and laughed? That disbelieving laugh when something genuinely surprised you. What if you messaged him first? Maybe it had been a mistake on your end too. Maybe your phone had slipped, or you’d been swiping too fast after a long shift, half-asleep and a little buzzed. Or maybe… maybe you’d swiped right on purpose, just to tease him. He could already picture the text popping up on his phone: “Oh my god, Dr. Robby. What are you doing on Tinder? lol.”
Robby ran both hands through his hair, exhaling sharply. He picked the phone back up, looking straight at the Send message button. He shouldn’t. The responsible thing would be to delete the app, pretend this night never happened, and go back to being your attending, not your Tinder match.
Instead, he opened your profile again. Robby tried to move past it, he really did, but his eyes lingered on that last photo far longer than they should have. You in a bikini, your skin glowing under warm sunlight. He couldn’t believe that was what you looked like underneath the baggy scrubs you wore every day in the ED.
It felt wrong. Like he wasn’t allowed to see you like this, like he was intruding on something deeply private, crossing a line that should never even be approached between an attending and his resident. Guilt twisted in his stomach, but it wasn’t enough to make him look away.
His body reacted anyway, a sudden heat stirring unwanted, a throb of arousal he hadn’t felt this sharply in longer than he cared to admit. He shifted uncomfortably on the couch, hating himself for it even as the reaction deepened. What the hell is wrong with you, Robby? he told himself, but the self-reproach did nothing to dull the pull. What could he do? You were a woman. A beautiful one, and for the first time, he was seeing you not just as his resident, but as someone undeniably, breathtakingly desirable.
Before he could delete his account and go to bed as he should, your message popped up.
You: hii :)
Robby’s breath hitched in his throat. For a split second, he swore his heart actually stopped. Then it slammed back into rhythm, pounding so hard he could feel it in his ears, in his temples, in the tightness of his chest. The little smiley face stared back at him from the screen, innocent and cheerful, as if it hadn’t just flipped his entire night upside down.
You had matched with him. At eleven at night. On his lonely fucking birthday. What the hell was he supposed to say to you at 11 pm. after accidentally matching with her on Tinder? “Hey, funny seeing you” here felt pathetic. “This is wildly inappropriate” felt like a lie because the rush of heat still lingering in his veins said otherwise.
He set the phone down on the coffee table for a moment, dragging a hand over his face for the millionth time. Part of him wanted to delete the match immediately, pretend it never happened, and go to bed like the responsible, professional attending he was supposed to be. But another part, the part that had been sitting alone on his fifty-fifth birthday, couldn’t bring itself to swipe left on this one unexpected connection. So he picked the phone back up and stared at the blinking cursor in the message box.
Another message came through a minute later.
You: robby? it’s me from work... guess you saw my profile too haha
Robby let out a long breath, he couldn’t avoid it now that you’d initiated a conversation with him. It was better to be direct, explain the mistake to you, and shut this down before it got any more awkward.
Robby: hey
yeah, I saw it
listen, this is embarrassing as hell, i was messing around with the app, dropped my phone and it must have swiped right by accident
sorry about that, didn’t mean to make things weird
He hit send and immediately regretted how cold it sounded, but it was the truth. The phone stayed quiet for a moment that stretched too long. He had his eyes fixed on the screen, waiting for your reply so he could shut down this awkward conversation and delete this stupid app before he accidentally matched with anyone else from work.
You: oh. so it was a mistake? damn, i thought you had swiped right on purpose. bummer.
Robby’s eyes widened. You were being direct, not beating around the bush or deflecting by saying it had been a mistake on your end as well. He could practically hear your voice saying it with a teasing edge.
Robby: Sorry about the confusion
i know it might be awkward finding me on here. probably the last person you expected, i don’t usually do this.
You: honestly it was surprising. didn’t peg you as the tinder type at all.
but hey, we all have our moments i guess
Robby: i’m not the type
this is my second time ever downloading it and i already regret it, should probably delete the whole thing before i make an even bigger fool of myself.
You: yeah i get it. i thought the match was mutual so i figured i’d say hi. sorry for texting if it was just an accident. didn’t mean to make it weirder
Robby read your message twice. Thought the match was mutual. The words echoed in his brain. You had swiped right on purpose, not as a joke, not out of morbid curiosity about your boss’s sad dating life. You had chosen him willingly. The realization of what that meant sent a confusing rush through him. You liked him, that had to be it. The thought of you… having a crush on him made a warm feeling run through his body, one he immediately tried to shove down.
Robby: What do you mean you thought it was mutual?
You: idk... i saw the notification and figured you wanted to match with me since it happened. that’s why i said hi right away. didn’t want to leave it hanging if we were both curious
He stared at the screen, his heart beating a little harder. You were so honest and blunt about your feelings, he found himself almost intimidated by it. Some rational part of his brain was trying to tell him this had to be a big joke, there was no way in hell you could like him. You were… you. What would you see in a man like him?
Robby: you wanted us to match? seriously?
You: lol yeah i did swipe right, didn’t i? your profile was actually really nice. the book pic is cute and the 70s rock mention made me smile. plus... i don’t know, you’re interesting. figured why not. no pressure though
Robby: i thought maybe you did it out of curiosity
or just to see if I’d swiped on you didn’t expect you to actually want that
You: well i did. but if it was an accident on your end then no big deal. we can pretend this never happened and go back to normal tomorrow. i won’t mention it at work or anything. promise
Robby let his head fall back against the couch, closing his eyes for a long moment as he exhaled heavily. He knew exactly what the responsible Chief of Emergency Medicine should do right now: unmatch immediately, delete his profile, and pretend the entire night had been nothing more than a lonely fever dream.
But tonight… tonight he didn’t want to be responsible. He didn’t want to be Dr. Robinavitch, the attending who had sacrificed nearly every personal connection, every version of a fuller life, on the altar of the ED. For once, he wanted to be Michael. Just Michael. The man who had matched with you on Tinder. The man who was currently staring at his phone with his heart hammering like he was twenty years younger.
Before he could piece together a polite but firm way to end the conversation and retreat back into the safety of professional distance, another message appeared.
You: i think your profile’s part of the reason i swiped right. the book pic’s really nice
He smiled faintly at that, a rare genuine twitch at the corner of his mouth. Robby leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees.
Robby: your profile’s pretty good too, better than most of the ones i’ve seen tonight
You: aww thanks. your’s so much better than the usual bullshit on here which is not that hard to be
but still finding you here is a nice change :)
Robby: you on this app a lot? seems like you’ve got the profile down
You: not really. i’ve been on a couple dates from here but it’s honestly exhausting. hard to find someone decent in this city. most guys are either looking for hookups with zero conversation or they’re boring as hell. you know how it is
Robby: fair enough.
your age range must be set pretty high if it pulled me up
fifty five isn’t exactly the usual crowd for you or is it?
You: haha yeah well
i like older men
Those four stupid words hit him square in the chest like a defibrillator. “I like older men.” Robby reread them slowly, feeling a dangerous warmth bloom low in his belly and spread outward through his chest. He was an older man, and apparently, that fit exactly into your preferences. Was that flirtation? Were you subtly implying that he was the kind of older man you liked? Or was it just a casual, throwaway comment, something you’d say to any guy on the app who happened to have a few gray hairs?
No. He was spiraling too deep, overthinking it the way he always did. Your words didn’t carry some hidden, special meaning meant just for him. They couldn’t. And yet… No matter how hard he tried to talk himself down, he couldn’t ignore the flicker of validation that lit up inside him. He felt desired, really desired. Not just by anyone, but by you: someone younger, and so strikingly pretty it almost hurt to look at your photos for too long. Someone who, in his mind, was clearly way out of his league.
Robby: It’s okay to have preferences
everyone does.
You: yeah exactly. i just find older guys more attractive than the ones my age. they’re usually more mature, know what they want, have actual life experience. it’s... hotter, i guess. plus the conversations are better
He swallowed hard, feeling his throat suddenly dry. He could practically see your face as you typed those words, maybe biting your lower lip in that teasing way you sometimes did right after nailing a difficult procedure.
Then the bikini photo from earlier flashed unbidden through his mind, and the heat in his body flared hotter. He pictured you exactly as you’d looked in that shot: sun-warmed skin, curves barely contained by the fabric. The thoughts he had no right to entertain came rushing in anyway, pulling him deeper. Thoughts of having you all to himself, of finally being able to run his hands slowly over every inch of that bare skin, tracing the line of your waist, sliding up your ribs, cupping the soft weight of your breasts. Of putting his mouth on you and every sensitive spot until you were trembling beneath him.
Robby: makes sense
i usually go for women closer to my stage of life
we have more in common that way
You: do age gaps bother you?
Robby: in what way?
You: like as a concept. are they a problem for you?
Robby: i’m okay with consenting adults doing what they want
as long as everyone’s on the same page it’s not my business.
You: have you ever been in an age gap relationship or anything like that?
Robby: i once dated a woman a bit younger than me
but usually around my age
He paused before sending the next part, he shouldn’t keep engaging in this deeply unprofessional conversation, but curiosity was getting the better of him. And you were simply so easy to talk to that he couldn’t stop himself from letting his walls down a little.
He typed before he could second-guess himself.
Robby: how much older are we talking anyway?
the men you usually like i mean.
Your reply came fast, like you’d been waiting with the phone in hand.
You: usually over fifty up until their sixties or so. around that range. but it’s just a preference, nothing crazy. i feel like older men usually treat you better. they’re more gentlemanly, know how to actually listen, and they tend to understand what a woman wants... in every way, if you know what i mean ;)
Robby read the message twice. Three times. Four. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck me. You weren’t just being polite or making casual conversation. That winky face, the implication hanging there about “every way”. You were deliberately flirting with him, there was no other way to see it. He shifted on the couch, suddenly very aware of his own body and the fact that it had been a long damn time since anyone had spoken to him like that.
He took a slow breath and replied, trying to keep some semblance of control.
Robby: do you date men closer to your own age too?
or is it mostly the older crowd?
You: i have tried guys closer to my age. some of them are sweet but a lot are still figuring their shit out. you should try dating a woman younger than you sometime though. maybe it’s exactly what you need.
Robby didn’t know what to say. The words hung there, full of possibilities around them. He was still wrestling with a response when another message from you popped up.
You: anyway sorry again for the confusion earlier. i’ll leave you alone so you can keep scrolling through profiles. i’ll go back to robbing the graves haha (joke, get it? because i like older guys... sorry that was sooo bad)
Robby chuckled despite the whirlwind in his head. The joke was cheesy, so perfectly you that it cut through some of the tension. But it also gave him an out, you were offering to back off and let this weird moment fade into nothing before tomorrow’s shift made everything awkward as hell. Part of him wanted to take the exit ramp, wish you a good night, unmatch, delete the app, and pretend none of this happened. But another part, the one that had been sitting alone on his birthday didn’t want the conversation to end.
He tapped over to your photos again, almost against his will. There it was the last one. You on the beach in that bikini, with the perfect swell of your tits catching the sunlight. Holy fuck. He wanted you, the realization hit him all of a sudden, making him switch back to the chat and move his thumbs almost on autopilot.
Robby: Nothing to apologize for
honestly you’ve kept me better company tonight than I expected
You: see? younger women can be good company too :) you shouldn’t close the door so fast. you could meet someone nice if you give it a chance
Robby: you shouldn’t close the door on guys your own age either
there are decent ones out there, you’ll find someone who can keep up with you
You: out of all the guys i’ve matched with here... you’re easily the best one. no contest
Robby: Really? that can’t be right
you’re selling yourself short.
You: no i mean it. you’re exactly the kind of man i’d usually go for. tall, older, smart... and hot
The word hot hit him harder than it had any right to. His face flushed deeper, his clothes felt constricting, his pants uncomfortably tight. Robby’s cock was already half-hard, thickening and pulsing insistently against the zipper of his jeans with every new message.
All because you’d called him hot. Just a little cheeky, playful comment, and it was enough to unravel him. The touch starvation wasn’t helping. It had been so damn long since anyone had looked at him with real interest, longer still since he’d felt this fluttering feeling low in his stomach. This rush of ego, this sharp need to be close to someone, to be wanted, to touch and be touched.
Robby: thanks i guess
you’ll meet someone worth your time, you’re a good girl
The message was sent before he could fully reconsider the wording. The second it went through, Robby winced. It sounded weirdly sexually charged, maybe it was because he was feeling sexually charged, painfully so. A Freudian slip at its finest.
You: good girl? 😏
Robby: shit i didn’t mean it to sound weird
just a figure of speech i suppose.
You: should i call you daddy then? ;)
Robby nearly dropped the phone again. The winky face, the bold suggestion, the way it played so perfectly into the tension that had been building sent a bolt of pure want through him. He could imagine your voice saying it, teasingly so, with that mischievous glint in your eyes. His mind supplied far too many vivid images: you in nothing but your skin looking up at him, you saying it in person with a flirty smile. He was fully hard. Actually hard, just from a fucking text conversation.
The professional alarm bells were clanging loudly in the back of his head. This was his resident, the age gap, the power dynamic, the fact that you’d have to face each other at the Pitt in a few short hours... it was all wrong. But god, it felt good. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel quite so alone.
He glanced down at the obvious bulge in his sweatpants, his cock straining against the fabric like a flagpole. He couldn’t believe it. One flirty text from his resident and he was rock hard. Don’t get hard for your fucking resident, he thought. She’s one of your own. Off-limits. This is insane. He adjusted himself uncomfortably, trying to will it down through stubbornness, but the ache only sharpened.
You: too much? sorry i was just messing around lol
Robby exhaled and typed back, trying to sound more composed than he felt.
Robby: Don’t worry about it
i know it was a joke, no harm done
You: it was... unless you don’t want it to be a joke
He let out a surprised laugh, his cock twitched again at the follow-up, you were relentless, and something told him you were noewhere near done.
Robby: you’re funny, i’ll give you that.
You: that’s what i’ve been told. glad you’re having fun with me tonight
Robby: Well, I guess I should let you get some sleep
early shift tomorrow and all
You: i don’t mind staying up. i swiped right on you, remember? yk for a minute i really thought you were gonna flirt with me or maybe even ask me to come over to your place or something
The words hung there. You had been excited, you had hoped he would flirt. The image flashed through his mind, you showing up at his door in the middle of the night, stepping inside and… He shifted again, pressing his hand down against his insistent erection through his sweatpants, trying to get some relief even as guilt gnawed at him. This was crossing so many lines he’d promised himself he wouldn’t cross after Heather. But the loneliness that had driven him to download the app in the first place was quieter now, replaced by an electric tension.
Robby: that would be very inappropriate
i’m your boss and there are lines we can’t cross
You: but you’re not dr. robby my attending in here. you’re michael robinavitch, 55, the guy who loves 70s rock and long bike rides. and i’m not your resident in this chat. i’m just a girl who likes movies and older men... and who is really, really into you right now
You were separating the roles so cleanly, drawing a line between the hospital and this private space. It was tempting, dangerously tempting.
Robby: you know it doesn’t work like that
we can’t just turn it off when the shift starts tomorrow
You: nah i’m pretty sure i can
Robby: No.
You: If we really can’t meet then we can do it over text, you know.
He stared at the screen trying to guess if you really meant what you were saying.
Robby: what do you mean?
You: sexting, duh
He let out a short breath, Jesus fuck you were actually gonna kill him tonight.
Robby: that’s basically the same thing.
You: no it’s not. technically we’re not doing anything if it’s just messages. no one has to know.
Robby rubbed a hand over his jaw, his mind was screaming at him to shut this down, but his fingers were already moving. He couldn’t believe he was actually considering to do this.
This was a terrible idea. What difference did it really make whether it was real sex, his hands on you, feeling your heat around him, or just describing it in detail over text messages? A line was still a line. One he had promised himself he wouldn’t cross again. He didn’t want this to end with you giving up your residency, transferring to another hospital, another city, once things inevitably fell apart.
But fuck, his cock was achingly hard, straining against the front of his pants like a caged animal that desperately needed to be freed. The thought of you right now, maybe lying in your bed in, pressing your thighs together, that sweet slick already soaking through your panties because of him… it made it impossible to think straight. He couldn’t leave you like that, so wet, so needy, aching for him.
Robby: what do you want me to say?
You: i don’t know… just say something hot. you’re goot at being hot
He hesitated, he wasn’t sure of what to say. He was scared of seeming naive and old school to you, but he wasn’t used to this whole… sexting thing. The most spicy exchange over texts had been insinuating pictures before asking someone to come over. Okay think Robby, if you can save someone’s life under extreme preassure then you can sext with a woman, just say something typical, he thought
Robby: who’s been a naughty girl?
The second he hit send he regretted it. He winced, already typing another message to backtrack when your reply came through.
You: lmao that was the best you’ve got?
Robby groaned out loud, dropping his head back against the couch.
Robby: forget it. i’m going to bed
You: nooo wait. let’s try again :(
He should’ve put the phone down. He really should’ve. Instead he waited to see if you had anything else to say.
You: you’re so good at giving orders and guiding me at work. maybe you could do that now too? tell me what to do
You were right, in theory. He was good at instructing, guiding, teaching. It came naturally to him to step into that mentoring role, he had always been the one others looked to for direction.
Robby: i feel stupid doing this.
You: pleeeease. i’ve always thought you were the kind of guy who talks people through it in bed. it’s the same here, just write it instead of saying it. tell me how you want me to touch myself
Your words hit him hard. He reread the message twice. He had never consciously thought about it before, but yes… that did sound exactly like him. Fragments of memory surfaced unbidden: the commanding tone he’d used with past partners, the way he’d instructed them. “Open your legs for me.” “Turn around.” “Look at me.” He remembered the way their breathing would change, the way they’d tremble under the weight of his voice and his hands.
Robby: you really want me to talk you through it, sweetheart?
You: yessss that was so much better. keep going
If anyone had asked you how it happened, you honestly wouldn’t have been able to explain it. You weren’t even sure yourself. One moment you were typing a slightly embarrassed apology to Robby for matching with him and the next, the conversation had taken a turn and you were the one demanding he sext you so you could get off. It was bold, stupidly reckless, and yet it felt inevitable.
Robby: good girl that’s exactly what I wanted to hear, i want you to get those pretty legs spread nice and wide for me, can you do that?
You whimpered softly and obeyed him instantly, letting your knees fall farther apart on the mattress. The cool air hit your exposed pussy making you shiver.
You: yes. they’re open
Robby: Perfect
i’d be on my knees between them right now if I could
run your fingers up the inside of your thighs for me slowly, feel how soft they are
As you trailed your free hand up one thigh, you imagined his callused palms and the scratch of his greying beard following the same path.
You: doing it… feels so good thinking about your hands instead.
Robby: that’s my girl
now slide two fingers through your pussy and ell me how wet you are for me
You did exactly as he says, gasping as two fingers glided easily through your slick heat. You were soaked, embarrassingly so, the wet sounds filling the quiet bedroom as you stroked yourself.
You: So wet… i’m dripping. all because of you.
Robby: fuck i knew you would be
i want you to circle your clit for me now
Do it slowly and imagine it’s my tongue instead, licking you just the way you need
i’d take my time, taste every inch of you
Your mons got louder, tipping your head back against the pillows as your fingers obeyed, traxing circles around your clit that sent sparks up your spine. In your mind, it was Robby’s mouth devouring you while his strong hands pinned your thighs down.
Robby: how does that feel, sweetheart? tell me
You: so good, i’m so sensitive. keep talking please
Robby: Good
now slide one finger inside that tight pussy, nice and deep
curl it up just like I would, searching for that spot that makes your legs shake
i’d be watching your face the whole time, telling you how beautiful you look spread open for me, how good you are for listening
When you pushed a finger inside yourself, you curled it upward as instructed to hit that sensitive spot while your other hand kept working your clit in circles.
Robby: add another finger and stretch yourself open
i’d be so much thicker than your fingers, but we’ll start like this
imagine me pumping them in and out while i rub your clit
Adding a second finger, you continued fucking yourself to the rhythm of his words on the screen. It was not enough, it was nowhere near enough to calm the hunger and desperation that was threatening to consume your whole being. You knew nothing would be enough, only feeling him inside of you.
You: wish it was you inside me. can’t get off like this. i need you robby please
Robby: you were the one who told me to do this
You: i know i did. but it’s not enough
send me your address
He was tempted, so tempted that for one second his fingers almost started typing on an impulse. But the reality crashed back in immediately. The risks, the morning after, the way he’d have to look at you during rounds, knowing what you’d done. He was rock hard and aching for you, but the responsible part of him still refused to crumble completely.
Robby: what for?
you’re not seriously thinking about coming over right now, are you?
You: robby i’m literally only like 2 miles away from you. are you dtf? not as dr. robinavitch and his resident, but as two adults who casually matched on tinder tonight. there’s no title or hospital here. it’s just us.
Two miles. You were so close. He stared at your message, feeling his heart slamming against his ribs. His cock gave another insistent throb, the head already leaking a little against his underwear. The thought of you actually coming over, right now, in the middle of the night, made his mouth go dry.
Robby: Send me your address and I’ll order you a ride.
You sent your address a moment later. It really was only two miles away. He confirmed the ride, watching the estimated arrival time tick down. Fifteen minutes… only fifteen minutes until you’d be at his door.
You: this is exactly what i meant earlier about older guys. so much more gentlemanly. taking care of the details instead of just telling me to get there
You had no time to get ready, and honestly, you didn’t care. Makeup? Hair? None of that mattered when you were this desperate, this aching for him. You climbed out of bed still wearing the thin tank top and soft sleep shorts you’d worn to bed, and threw an oversized jacket over everything, one that swallowed most of your body and made you look far more put-together than you actually felt.
Your hands were shaking as you grabbed your keys and phone. The rideshare arrived sooner than you expected. The drive across the city felt both endless and far too short, but eventually the car pulled up outside his building.
You stood on the sidewalk for a second, staring up at the apartment complex, suddenly hit with the full weight of what you were doing, showing up at your attending’s door in the middle of the night, soaked and trembling with need, because a stupid Tinder match had spiraled completely out of control.
But you didn’t hesitate for long, you took a deep breath, pulled the jacket tighter around yourself, walked toward his door and knocked on it.
Robby opened it right away. He didn’t say a word, the second you were in reach, you had one of his strong hands cupping the back of your neck as he pulled you into a kiss. It was electric to say the least. His mouth claimed yours with a hunger that stole your breath. His beard was scraping deliciously against your skin as he moved his lips with experienced urgency. You melt into it instantly, fisting your hands in his shirt, tasting the pure, overwhelming taste of him. Finally. Here he was, kissing you like he’d been starving for it just as much as you had.
He kicked the door shut behind him without breaking the kiss, wrapping his other arm around your waist and pulling you flush against his taller frame. You felt the warmth of his hands roaming everywhere, gripping your hips, sliding up your sides, squeezing the curve of your ass through the fabric of your shorts. In your mouth, he groaned, making a vibrating sound that went through you as he explored every inch he could reach, like he was memorizing the feel of you.
Your breasts were the next to get his attention, he was cupping them with his big hands through your tank top, brushing his thumb over your already hard nipple, while he tangles his other hand in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.
You pulled back just enough to gasp against his lips, “It took you long enough.”
Robby chuckled, the sound coming out breathless. “Took you long enough. You have any idea what it’s like waiting twenty minutes for you with a hard-on?” He pressed you closer, letting you feel the thick and insistent bulge against your stomach.
As if they had a mind of their own, his hands couldn’t stop moving, squeezing, caressing, claiming, running down your back, over your thighs, everywhere he’d fantasized about touching. Before you could respond, he bent slightly and lifted you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively.
The strength in his arms, the way his broad chest felt against you, sent a fresh rush of heat between your legs. He carried you through the house with purposeful strides. The door to your room swung open and he layed you gently on the bed, climbing on top of you immediately until his full weight pressing you deliciously into the mattress.
The kissing resumed instantly, slower now but no less intense. Robby’s mouth was moving from your lips to your neck, sucking lightly and scratching you with his beard in the most perfect way. Now his hands got bolder, continuing their exploration but this time sliding under your tank top, pressing his palms against your bare skin. He lifted the fabric higher, exposing your breasts to the cool air of the room.
“Fuck,” Robby groaned, and maybe it was your mind playing tricks on you, but you could see his soft brown eyes turning darker as he stared down at you. “Look at you. These tits… so perfect. So fucking pretty.” His voice was rough with want, the same commanding tone. He cupped them reverently, as if they were something precious, circling your nipples until they pebbled tighter under his touch. “They’re made for my hands. For my mouth.”
He leaned down and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking it gently at first, then harder, swirling his tongue around the sensitive peak. The wet touch of his tongue made you arch into him with a moan, threading your fingers through his hair as he kept lavishing attention on your breasts.
From one side to the other, Robby switched sides, licking and sucking the other while his hand massaged the first, rolling the nipple between his fingers. The dual sensation, the tingly heat of his mouth and the firm squeeze of his callused hand, had you writhing beneath him, making you so wet you were soaking through your shorts.
The humming of his mouth against your skin sends sparks straight to your core. “So responsive,” he murmured, switching back to the first breast and sucking it harder than before. “These tits are going to ruin me. I could spend hours right here.” Sliding his free hand down your side, Robby gripped your hip possessively, continuing with the worshipping of your chest, licking broad stripes, sucking marks into the soft flesh, massaging and kneading until he had you panting and grinding up against the hard line of his cock through his pants.
The age difference between you only heightened everything, his experience was showing in every skilled touch, in every perfect flick of his tongue. He was being patient but hungry, like he’d been holding back for far too long. You could feel how hard he was, he was making you feel it, pressing insistently against your thigh. The knowledge that you did this to him made you even wetter.
Robby lifts his head briefly to lock his eyes on yours. His lips were swollen and his beard slightly damp with his saliva. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, but his hands never stopped, squeezing and caressing, teasing your sensitive nipples with his thumbs as he waited for your answer.
You shook your head, pulling him back down. You’d rather die than stop right now. “Don’t stop. Please.”
His mouth trailed a hot path down your sternum, over your stomach, scraping you teasinglywith his beard against your skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. His hands followed strong, sliding down your sides and gripping your hips as he settled between your spread thighs. The weight of him, the sheer size and presence of this man, made your core clench with anticipation.
“These shorts have been teasing me since you walked in,” he murmured with the same steady tone he used in the pitt, but now turned intimate and commanding. Robby hooked his fingers into the waistband and slowly peeled them down your legs, taking his time as he revealed more of you. “Lift your hips for me, sweetheart. Good girl.”
You obeyed instantly, lifting your hips so he could slide the fabric off completely, leaving you in just your thin panties and the tank top. Robby smoothed his hands up your thighs, spreading them wider with gentle but firm pressure. “Keep your legs open like that,” he instructed you. “Nice and wide for me. Don’t close them unless I tell you to.”
You were already moaning softly, and he wasn’t even touching your core yet. Robby dropped his eyes to the damp spot on your panties, making the fabric cling to your pussy lips, and he let out a groan of desire and hunger. He cupped you over the fabric with one hand, pressing his palm firmly against your heated pussy while his thumb found your clit through the material and began rubbing slow circles.
“Oh god,” you moaned, twitching up your hips into his touch, seeking more of the contact. The friction was simply perfect, it was teasing, and it kept building higher and higher. Robby’s callused thumb was applying just the right pressure on your swollen nub.
He watched your face intently through his hooded and lustful eyes as he worked you higher. “Feel good?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady even as his own breathing grew heavier. “You’re so wet already. Soaking through these panties for me. That’s it… rock against my hand, sweetheart. Show me how much you need this.”
Your moans only grew louder and more unrestrained, as he kept rubbing your clit with precision. The fabric added a delicious layer of friction, and every circle sent sparks shooting up your body. He got you gripping the sheets, your thighs already trembling as you fought the urge to close them around his hand.
Robby leaned down to kiss the inside of one thigh, scratching your skin deliciously. “You want my mouth? Want me to taste this pretty pussy? You gonna wrap these gorgeous legs around my neck while I do it?”
“Yes,” you gasped, nodding frantically. “Please, Robby. I need it.”
He hooked his fingers into your panties and tugged them down slowly, revealing your glistening, bare pussy to his hungry gaze. “Fuck… look at you. So wet and perfect.” He kissed along your inner thighs, taking his time, brushing his lips and beard against the sensitive skin as he worked his way closer. “Wrap them around me, sweetheart. Lock your ankles behind my head if you need to. I want to feel you holding me right where I belong.”
You did exactly as he said, wrapping your legs around his broad shoulders and pressing your heels into his upper back. The position left you completely open to him, vulnerable and exposed. Robby groaned, the sound vibrating against your core as he finally leaned in.
The first lick of his tongue was broad and slow, dragging from your entrance up to your puffy clit. The sensation was overwhelming, and it made you cry out loudly, threading your fingers into his greying hair as he began to devour you with the same intensity he brought to every procedure at work. He licked and sucked with precision, alternating between long and flat strokes to tight and quick circles around your clit.
His beard was scratching your inner thighs and outer lips in the most delicious way, adding a kind of texture that made your toes curl. “Robby… Oh fuck, that feels so good,” you moaned, rolling your hips against his mouth.
He hummed in response, pulling back with his lips glistening with your arousal just so he could speak to you. “Tell me how it feels, sweetheart. I want to hear it.”
“So good… your tongue—oh god, your mouth, Robby. It’s driving me crazy. Don’t stop, please.”
“You’re being so good for me,” he praised, diving back in to suck your clit into his mouth, flicking it rapidly while applying suction with his lips.
Before you could register it, he teased your entrance with two thick fingers, slowly sliding them inside you, letting your own greedy hole swallow them. Once he curled them upward to find that perfect spot, the sensation had you moaning loudly and arching off the bed.
Robby pumped his fingers steadily, matching the rhythm of his tongue with his digits. A few moments later, he stopped again briefly, looking up at you with lust-filled eyes and shiny lips. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this. Spread open for me, taking my fingers so well. This pussy is perfect, made for me. Keep moaning for me. Let me hear how much you love my mouth on you.”
You obeyed, your moans spilling freely as he returned to his task with renewed hunger. The pleasure built fast and faster, making your thighs tremble around his head and your feet dig into his back as you held him exactly where you needed him. Robby gripped your hip with his free hand, holding you steadily while he worked you closer and closer to the edge with expert skill. Every command, every praise, every flick of his tongue pushed you higher.
Robby didn’t relent, he kept his mouth latched onto your clit, sucking with rhythmic pressure, devouring you like a man starved. “Robby—oh fuck, yes!” The pleasure was overwhelming, every single nerve ending in your body was alight as he worked you higher.
“Keep those legs open for me, sweetheart,” he growled against your clit. “Don’t you dare close them. I want to feel you squeezing around my fingers while I eat this pretty pussy.” He added a third finger slowly, stretching you wider, the burn blending perfectly with the pleasure. “That’s it… take three for me. Feel how full you are? You’re doing so well. Such a good girl taking everything I give you.”
The wet sounds of his fingers plunging into your dripping pussy and his mouth sucking hungrily on your clit filled the air. You were soaking his beard, his chin, his wrist, but he didn’t care. Robby slid a hand under you, grabbing a firm handful of your ass and lifting your hips slightly off the bed. The new angle let him bury his face even deeper, working your clit with more precision while he fingerfucked you harder. “Just like that,” he praised you between licks. “Grind on my tongue, baby. Use my mouth. Show me how bad you need to come.”
You obeyed helplessly once again, rolling your hips and bucking them against him as the coil in your belly tightened unbearably. The pleasure built in powerful waves until your thighs started to shake violently around his head. Robby kept talking you through it, pushing you closer to the edge.
“You’re getting so close, aren’t you? I can feel this tight pussy clenching around my fingers. Come on, let go. Cum all over my tongue. I want to taste it. I want to feel you fall apart for me.”
The orgasm crashed over you with blinding intensity, making your back bow off the bed, a loud and broken cry tearing from your throat as your pussy spasmed hard around his digits. Your thighs were squeezing his head tightly, your heels digging into his back as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through you. Robby didn’t stop though, he kept sucking your clit through the peak, curling and thrusting his fingers to draw out every last shudder.
You came harder than you ever had. So hard that your vision went white for a moment as the pleasure bordered on overwhelming. Your moans turned into whimpers as the orgasm slowly ebbed, leaving you limp and gasping on the bed.
Robby finally eased back, gently lowering your hips and kissing softly along your inner thighs. He looked up at you with dark and satisfied eyes. “That’s my girl,” he murmured. “So beautiful when you cum for me.”
You lay there panting, your thighs were still twitching, completely wrecked and already aching for more of him. Robby climbed back up your body, kissing you deeply so you could taste yourself on his tongue. He was so close that his hard cock was pressing insistently against your thigh through his pants.
“That was… amazing,” you whisper with your voice hoarse from moaning. “So much better than I ever imagined.”
Robby chuckled softly, the sound warm and genuine against your neck as he pressed a kiss there. “Yeah? Better than your hand?” His eyes were sparkling with lust.
You laughed breathlessly, nodding. “So much better. Your mouth… God, Robby. I’ve never felt anything like that.”
He hummed in satisfaction, grinding his still-clothed erection slowly against your bare, sensitive pussy. The thick ridge of his cock was being pressed perfectly against your clit, giving him some much needed relief while teasing you both. “I loved doing that for you,” he murmured. “You were so good for me, sweetheart. So responsive, so wet. The way you moaned my name and squeezed my head with those pretty thighs… fuck, you have no idea what you do to me.”
Robby rolled his hips deliberately, the friction making you whimper and arch up into him. You could feel how achingly hard he was and how much he’d been holding back. You slid up your hands down his chest, feeling the soft flesh beneath his shirt.
“I want you,” you breathed, looking up at him with need. “Please, Robby.”
He stilled for a moment, as if to pulling himself together. “Tell me what you want. Be specific.”
You bit your lip, feeling the warmth invade your cheeks. “Your cock. I want you to fuck me. I need you inside me.”
Robby let out a groan, sitting back on his knees between your spread thighs. He reached for the waistband of his sweatpants, drawing out the anticipation. You sit up slightly, eager to help, moving your fingers to tug his pants down along with his underwear.
“I’ve been dying to see you,” you confessed as you pulled his pants down his hips. He caught your wrists before you could push his boxers down.
Robby looked almost nervous, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Wait… I, uh—” He cleared his throat, flicking his eyes away for a second. “I haven’t trimmed down there in a while. This whole night was… unexpected. I would’ve cleaned up if I’d known we were gonna end up here.”
He said it like it was something to be embarrassed about. Like it might actually make you want him less. It made you soft, you cupped his jaw, turning his face back to yours.
“Robby. Do you honestly think I give a damn about that? It’s just hair.”
He let out a self-conscious breath, still looking a little defensive. “I know. I know it’s just hair. It’s just… it’s probably a fucking jungle down there right now. You don’t have to— I mean, you don’t have to do anything if it’s too much.”
The way he was trying to give you an out was almost painfully endearing. You shook your head. “Just let me see you,” you whispered.
You slid his boxers down his thighs and freed his cock, it sprang out, thick and hard, the head flushed in a dark red with arousal. It was beautiful, so long, girthy, with a slight upward curve, prominent veins running along the shaft. Exactly like he’d warned, there was a thick, dark mat of coarse hair at the base, dense and untrimmed. He looked completely natural, it was so him, deeply masculine and unpolished.
A fresh rush of wetness slipped down your inner thighs. Your fingers twitched with the need to touch him there.
You looked up at him through your lashes “I love it,” you slowly carded your fingers through the thick hair at the base of his member. “You look so fucking hot like this. I like every single inch of you.”
Robby’s whole body shivered under your touch. “God…” he rasped as he stared down at you. “You’re gonna kill me tonight.”
Almost with instinct, you wrapped your hand around it, stroking the shaft slowly from base to tip, feeling the heat and weight of his member.
Robby hissed in pleasure, twitching his hips forward into your grip as he watched your hand move up and down his cock. “Fuck, your hand feels good,” he groaned, letting you stroke him for a while, savoring the sight of your smaller hand working his thick length, making a bead of precum leak from the tip.
After a few moments, he gently stopped you, wrapping his fingers around your wrist. “Lay back down for me, sweetheart. Keep those legs open nice and wide. Just like before.”
You obeyed, lying back against the pillows and spreading your thighs for him. Robby reached over toward the nightstand, stretching one arm past you as he pulled open the top drawer. He rummaged through it for a few seconds, before his hand closed around what he was looking for.
A moment later he sat back, a condom held between his fingers. He held it up, searching for your eyes with his. “I’ve got this if you want me to wear it.”
You shook your head, reaching up to touch his arm. “No. I want you bare. I’m on the pill.”
You both knew it might not have been the smartest option, doing it raw, with nothing between you. But there was a deep, unspoken trust between the two of you, forged through long shifts, that made you feel safe. And in that moment, that trust felt solid enough to lean on.
The hunger that had taken over both of you made anything else almost unbearable. The need to feel each other completely bare, skin on skin, heat on heat, with nothing separating you, was overwhelming.
“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.” He tossed the condom aside, leaning down to kiss you deeply again. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” you whispered against his lips. “I want to feel all of you.”
He groaned, positioning himself between your legs and nudging the thick head of his cock against your slick entrance. The anticipation felt electric, this was the culmination of over a year of longing, of hours of texts, and now all that was left was this desperate connection. Robby gripped your thighs, spreading you wider as he looked down at you with hunger.
The night is only beginning, and the way he’s looking at you promises he’s going to take his time ruining you in the best possible way.
As his cockhead was being rubbed up and down your folds, teasing your clit with every pass, coating itself with your juices, the sensation felt maddening, promising everything you’d fantasized about for so long. You whimpered, twitching your hips up instinctively to chase more contact.
“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” Robby commanded you softly, the same authoritative tone that had guided you through countless procedures was now guiding you through this. He cupped your chin gently, tilting your face so your gazes locked. “Keep looking at me the whole time. I want to see you while I fuck you.”
You nodded shakily, unable to look away even if you wanted to. Robby continued rubbing the head of his cock against your entrance, coating himself in your wetness, drawing out the anticipation until you were squirming beneath him.
“That’s it,” he whispered against your mouth. “So wet for me already. This pussy is going to take me so well. Breathe for me, relax and let me in.” He pressed forward slowly, breaching your entrance with only the tip. The stretch was immediate and intense, opening you up inch by inch as he sank deeper. Your mouth fell open in a silent moan, but you forced your eyes open, locking them on his as he watched every flicker of pleasure cross your face.
“Easy, baby,” he cooed, stroking your thigh soothingly while the other braced beside your head. “You’re doing so good. Feel how you’re stretching around me? So tight and warm… fuck, you feel incredible.”
You moaned loudly as he continued sliding in, the deliberate thrust filling you completely until he was buried to the hilt, until his hips were flushed against yours. The fullness was overwhelming, his thick cock stretching your walls like nobody had stretched you before, pressing against every sensitive spot inside you.
Robby stayed still for a moment buried deep, resting his forehead against yours as he looked straight into your eyes. “There you go. All the way in. You took every inch.” He started to thrust with deep rolls of his hips that drag his cock along your walls with exquisite friction. “Wrap your legs around me. Hold me close while I fuck you.”
You did as he said, locking your legs around his waist and digging your heels into his lower back. The new angle let him sink even deeper, and you cried out in pleasure, digging your nails into his shoulders. Robby kept talking you through it, just like he knew you liked.
“That’s my girl. Feel that? I’m hitting that spot inside you, huh?” He angled his hips slightly, grinding deep on every stroke. Robby slid one hand up to cup and squeeze your breast, rolling your nipple as he thrusted harder.
Robby moved his hand from your breast to cup your chin. His grip was gentle enough not to hurt, yet firm enough that you felt every one of his fingers pressing against the bones of your jaw. “Look at me. Don’t look away. I want to see how good my cock feels inside this tight pussy.” He tilted your face up and held it there, leaving you no choice but to meet his eyes.
And God… what a glorious sight he was. This handsome man, with his face flushed, his brow glistening with sweat, devouring you with his gaze as he kept driving his cock into you.
His face was only inches from yours, and he kept fucking you in long strokes while he held your chin like that, as if he were starving for every single expression that crossed your face. He loved watching the way pleasure wrecked you. The way your lips parted around helpless moans, the way you bit down on your lower lip only for it to slip free again with a broken sound. The way your eyes went glassy and pleading, silently begging him for more even as your body trembled around his cock. He drank it all in like a man who had been thirsty for years.
With his free hand, he gripped your waist, holding you in place so he could drive into you with more power. Every slide of his cock stretched you perfectly, dragging the fat tip along your g-spot like that was what it was made for.
“Robby—oh god, yes!” You moaned loudly, raising your hips to meet his thrust and tightening your legs around him. Your tits were bouncing with every powerful stroke, and he leaned down to suck one nipple into his mouth again, flicking his tongue as he continued fucking you.
“You feel so good,” he groaned against your skin, switching to the other breast. “So tight and wet around me. This pussy was made for my cock, wasn’t it? Taking me so deep.” His hand on your waist slid down to grip your ass, lifting your hips slightly to change the angle as he thrusted harder. “Lift your legs higher for me, sweetheart,” he said against your neck,kissing and nipping the sensitive skin there. Ronny held the back of your thigh, helping guide your leg up. “That’s it… over my shoulder. Let me get deeper.”
You whimpered as he assisted you, hooking your leg over his shoulder. He did the same with the other, folding you nearly in half beneath him. The new angle allowed him to sink impossibly deeper, until he was pressing the head firmly against that perfect spot inside you with every thrust, grinding against your g-spot relentlessly.
“Fuck—Robby, it’s so deep like this,” you moaned, fluttering your eyes shut for just a moment as the intense sensation washed over you.
“Ah-ah-ah,” he chided gently but firmly, cupping your jaw with his hand to tilt your face back to his. “Eyes on me, sweetheart. Keep them open. I want to watch you while I fuck you like this. Don’t look away.”
You forced your eyes open, locking onto his hungry gaze as he continued hammering into you. The eye contact made everything more intimate and overwhelming. The feeling of his hand leavinf your jaw and sliding down between your bodies made you shiver. Robby found your swollen clit and began rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts.
The combined stimulation was devastating. The pleasure was burning higher in your core, so close to finally exploding. Your body was arching and squirming beneath his frame as you scratched down his back and trembled over his shoulders. Every thrust, every rub of his fingers on your clit, every moan and grunt that escaped his mouth pushed you closer to the edge.
“That’s it,” Robby groaned, never removing his sight from yours. “Look at you taking my cock so deep. You’re getting close again, aren’t you? I can feel it. Cum for me, baby. Let me feel you cum all over my cock. Keep your eyes on me when you do.”
You bowed your back off the bed as your climax took over your body. A loud cry tore from your throat as your pussy clenched rhythmically around his length. Your thighs shook violently over his shoulders and you dug your nails harder into his back when the waves of pleasure crashed through you. Robby sekpt thrusting through it, drawing out your orgasm with deep strokes and continued pressure on your clit.
“You look so beautiful when you cum for me… that’s it, sweetheart. Give it all to me. You’re being so good.”
By the time he finally slowed and gently pulled out of you, you were still trembling and gasping. Robby layed back on the bed beside you, with his cock hard and glistening with your release. “Come here, baby,” he said. “Get on top. I want to watch you ride me.”
He helped you shift positions, gripping your hips firmly to guide you as you straddled him. “Easy, sweetheart. Take your time… that’s it. Feel me right there? Let me watch you take every inch.”
You positioned the head at your slick entrance and began to sink down, inch by inch. The stretch was intense all over again, his girth opening you up as you lowered yourself onto him. Robby kept his hands still on your hips to steady you, stroking your skin soothingly while watching every expression on your face.
“Fuck, look at that,” he groaned. “You’re doing so well. Keep going… take a little more. Feel how full you are?”
Louder moans left your mouth as you sank lower, the fullness was overwhelming in the best way. Bracing your hands on his broad chest for balance, you finally took him to the hilt, resting your ass against his thighs. Robby squeezed your hips encouragingly. “Ride me. Roll your hips like that… yes, just like that.”
Whn you started moving, rolling, and grinding your hips in a steady rhythm, the pleasure built quickly. His cock was dragging along your walls as you found a rhythm that made your tits bounce and your clit grind against his pelvis.
Robby kept moving his eyes are everywhere, watching where your pussy stretched around his shaft, sliding up to your bouncing breasts, then locking onto your face. He reaches up with both hands, cupping your tits and rolling your nipples as you ride him.
“You’re so fucking beautiful. You’re doing so well, sweetheart. Keep going… faster if you want. Take what you need from me.”
Without a word, you grabbed the hem of his shirt and tugged it upward. He sat up just enough to help you pull it off, and the second the fabric cleared his head, your hands were on him.
God, you loved his body. Your moved your palm slowly over his chest, feeling the coarse hair and the thud of his heart beneath your fingertips. You dragged your hands lower, mapping the soft, rounded curve of his belly with desire. It turned you on more than any gym-honed torso ever could. As you pressed your palms into the softness, your fingers dag in gently. Then you smoothed your hands over it again and again, savoring the way it yielded under your touch.
You were mumbling praises and moans between gasps, completely lost in the sensation. “Robby… you feel so good… so deep… fuck, I love your cock inside me…”
At one point, Robby planted his feet firmly on the bed, bent his knees, and started thrusting up to meet you. The change felt devastating, he was now fucking you from below with powerful strokes that made you cry out loudly as he droveinto you.
The slap of skin on skin grew louder when the slamming into you intensified. “Fuck—Robby!” you moaned, letting your head fall back as the pleasure overwhelmed you.
“Eyes on me if you can, sweetheart,” he growled, moving his fingers down to rub your clit again. “I’m getting close. You feel too good. You’re gonna make me cum.”
You were a moaning and squirming mess on top of him, riding and grinding as he thrusted up harder. His fingers on your clit and his cock hitting deep pushed you toward another peak, but it was his impending orgasm that had you focused on him.
“I’m gonna cum,” he groaned, snapping his hips up faster. “Fuck—can I cum inside you? Please, I want to fill you up.”
“Yes,” you gasped, riding him desperately. “Cum inside me, Robby. I want it. Fill me up. Please—”
With a deep groan, Robby thrusted up hard one last time and came, pulsing nside you, flooding your pussy with thick and warm ropes of cum. He held you down on him, gripping your hips tightly as he emptied himself completely. The feeling of him cumming inside you, fully claiming you, triggered your own smaller orgasm, making your walls clench rhythmically around his pulsing cock.
You both stayed locked together, panting. Robby stroked your back and thighs as you came down from the high befor pulling you down against his chest, kissing your forehead, keeping his cock still buried deep inside you as his release slowly leaked out around him, so much that you could feel the hot nd sticky evidence of his climax.
There were no more walls, just the two of you, finally giving in to everything you’ve both wanted and repressed for so long. You stayed draped on top of Robby for a long stretch of time, both of you catching your breath as the intensity slowly ebbed. Eventually, you lifted your head and looked at him. “That was… amazing. I wouldn’t even have dreamed that it’d be that good.”
He hummed in agreement, continuing his soothing path along your back. “It was. Better than I let myself imagine. You felt perfect.”
The praise made a warm feeling bloom in your chest. After a few more quiet moments, Robby gently helped you sit up, easing you off his cock with a shared sigh. You both winced slightly at the loss of connection and the feeling of emptiness, but he pulled you down beside him on the bed, wrapping his arms around you again as you cuddled into his side.
“So… you don’t regret it, do you?”
He met your eyes as a small smile began tugging at his lips beneath the beard. “Right now? I can’t regret having amazing sex with you. My mind is still somewhere up in the clouds.” He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “I don’t know what will happen tomorrow when reality hits, but tonight… no regrets.”
You nestled closer, throwing one leg over his. The cuddling felt easy, natural, like you’d been doing this for years. For tonight, the outside world, the hospital, the guilt, the what ifs didn’t exist. There was only the two of you, and Robby might be right about reality hitting tomorrow, but right now, in the darkness of his room, everything felt right.
A/N: Two attempts at posting this fic, and two times Tumblr’s stupid AI mistakenly flagged it😭 I’ve spent days trying to figure out what was causing the problem and doing everything I could to finally get this fic posted for all of you. So if you’re reading this, it means it worked. Hopefully.
If you end up enjoying the fic, I’d really appreciate it if you could help me share it with a reblog (only if you enjoyed the fic) cause I’ve put a lot of work on it
Well, I hope you enjoyed this little something I worked on when inspiration finally struck me. I don’t know if I read it somewhere or if we all collectively decided it, but Robby absolutely feels like the type of guy who talks you through it. You’re telling me the man who spends all day teaching med students and residents how to do procedures wouldn’t also be guiding his girl in bed? It’s literally in his nature!!! This TikTok also got me inspired because, yes, he absolutely looks at you through it too.
I also think Robby’s canon texting style is weirdly inconsistent. In that scene in season one where he’s texting Jake, sometimes he starts messages with capital letters and sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he ends sentences with a period, sometimes he doesn’t. In my head, he has perfect grammar but deliberately tries to sound Gen Z and chill when he’s texting someone younger than him lol. Anyway, I tried to replicate that here too.
Thank you all so much for your patience. I really appreciate it, and I hope I can stick around for good this time🩷
summary: you were kidnapped to use as bait for someone you had only ever met once months ago. between a batshit insane sadist, and the return of the man you thought you'd never see again, you felt utterly helpless.
pairing: court gentry x fem!reader
word count: 7.2k
tags: graphic depictions of violence and injuries, torture, mentions/threats of sexual violence, death, kidnapping, hurt/comfort, angst, non sexual nudity
A/N: I did decide to use Lloyd because why not lol
wasn't planning for this to be 7k words but alrighty
based on this this and this request <3333
You had no idea why you were here; that was perhaps the worst part.
Nope, actually, on second thought, the worst part was definitely how you didn’t know where you were, didn’t know who had taken you, and didn’t know what they were planning to do with you.
There were zip ties keeping your wrists tightly secured to the arms of an uncomfortable metal chair. A burlap sack over your head was both blocking you from being able to see and flooding your nose with the smell of blood and vomit—you didn’t wanna know why the fabric had taken on that specific odor.
You were also half-naked, only still wearing your underwear. Goosebumps were trailing all across your body at the thought that someone had undressed you while you were unconscious. The only thing keeping you from spiraling even more was that there wasn’t any pain between your legs. Some part of you believed deeply that if something had happened to you, you’d know it. Whether because of some natural conclusion, or lingering pain, you didn’t know. But you clung to that like a lifesaver, barely keeping your head above water.
If you were in a better state of mind, you might have laughed at the whole situation. Starting with the van that had pulled up next to you, and the men exiting it wearing ski masks, knocking you out before you could do anything, along with the position you now found yourself in; this was a cliché kidnapping if you’ve ever seen one.
A burlap sack over your head? Who were you—Scarecrow?
That and more spun around in your head like a tornado of hysteria. Perhaps you could laugh at it tomorrow, or next month, or maybe once you hit the bottom of the ocean after they cut every limb from your body and let you bleed out slowly.
Yeah, that wasn’t helping. You wished you could go back to imagining yourself as Batman villains, but the longer you sat there with the back of the chair digging into your spine, the louder the silence echoed in your head.
Your breathing, which had been shallow for some time now, sped up, filling your mouth even more with the taste of all the previous victims of the sack. It felt like hours since you regained consciousness, tied to a chair. Since then, no one had answered your terrified screams or stopped you from rubbing your wrists bloody.
You were aware enough to know that that was the point. Leaving you alone, clueless and trembling was supposed to make you even more afraid of what was to come. You knew that, but that didn’t stop it from working.
You were terrified. Every muscle in your body was tense, if you hadn’t already hurt your wrist by trying to wriggle out of the zip ties, the way you were trembling would have been enough to leave wounds, and your heart pounded so fast, you could feel it in your toes.
“Knock knock!” You couldn’t help but scream when a low male voice suddenly came from right next to your ear. You hadn’t heard anyone come close, but now that he had presented himself it was like the entire left side of your body was simultaneously leaning toward and away from him. Everyone of your nerves was on alert, waiting for what his sudden arrival meant.
“Uh, you’re a jumpy bunny,” the voice said, sounding delighted at that. Something touched your wrist, making you flinch away. Which in turn only made the zip ties dig in further, hurting you more. “Ouchy, why’d you do that?”
Even if you had been planning on answering, you weren’t sure you could. Your throat was dry, and every possible word seemed to get stuck somewhere between tongue and lips.
“Hey!” The man flicked his finger against your head. “I don’t like being ignored!” The playful tone had vanished from his voice, leaving behind the kind of seriousness that better fit the circumstances.
“I—I’m sorry,” you stammered. Telling him that you had tried to escape didn’t seem like the smartest thing, but then again, he must know that you would at least try to. “I wanted to see how tight they are.”
“Ah, a science girl, I see. So, what is your assessment?” his previous good-humored tone had returned, with a speed that left you dizzy.
You swallowed, trying to make your voice come out less shaky. “Tight.”
He hummed self-satisfied. “That it is.”
After that, he fell silent. Were you supposed to answer him and continue the conversation? Did you have to keep his spirits high to make sure that he wouldn’t kill you out of sheer boredom? You didn’t want to keep interacting with him, you wanted to roll up in some corner and weep for the next foreseeable future.
Silence prevailed so long that you almost began to think that he had left, when suddenly, the sack was ripped off your head. You squinted against the unexpected sunlight shining through a window, making your eyes burn.
When your eyes adjusted, it took you another second to realize what you were seeing. You had expected to be in some sort of rundown warehouse—cliché kidnapping and all that—but instead you were sitting in what was perhaps the nicest room you had ever seen.
It was the size of your apartment, with a high ceiling, large windows, and a balcony. It was furnished and decorated in the way that suggested either rich people that actually had taste and didn’t spend all their money on minimalism, or that you were about to see a dragon fly past a window, because the last place you had seen look this way had been on Game of Thrones.
Gold trimmings along the edges of the walls, candelabras standing in corners, and a large four-poster bed with thick red curtains.
“You like it?” Your gaze snapped toward the man, who was still standing next to you, grinning as if he had just flashed you his wallet. He was white, tall, and wore the kind of mustache you could probably only confidently wear if you spent your time kidnapping people for fun. He raised an eyebrow after you stared at him for too long, and you remembered his annoyance at being ignored.
“It’s…” Your voice wavered. “It’s nice.”
“You think so?” He looked at you, and maybe it was the head wound from being knocked out, but he sounded genuinely interested in your answer. “I think it’s kind of kitschy.”
“I guess,” you said hesitantly. “But… in a nice way? Like, you’d see in a castle or something.”
“Funny you’d say that.” He leaned closer. “Three guesses where we are.”
“A castle?”
He clapped his hands together, making you jump. “Ten points to smarty pants over here.”
You gritted your teeth, trying not to give him a reaction. You were still trembling, but at least you had run out of tears hours ago. “Why am I here?” you asked, trying to sound braver than you felt.
“Why are you here?” the man repeated. He tilted his head to the side, bringing his hand to his chin as if in deep contemplation. “Hm, see, that’s a bit tricky. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but it doesn’t really have anything to do with you. It’s more about who you know. Or, well, who knows you.”
You shook your head slightly. “I don’t understand.”
The man sighed and then grabbed the chair next to him. You noticed an indent in the cushion, and it dawned on you that the reason you hadn’t heard him come in wasn’t because he had been that silent—he had been there the whole time. Your fingers started digging into the arms of your chair in a desperate hope to find some stability.
He settled down, and then got back up, pulling the chair forward until he sat so close that his knees bracketed yours.
“A little birdy told me that we have a mutual acquaintance.” He stared at you intensely as if waiting for some kind of reaction. When you didn’t give him what he wanted, he continued, “Guy, early forties, about yay high, kind of looks like a Ken doll came to life and decided to spend his life wearing clothes that make you want to kill yourself.”
He looked at you expectantly, but you just stared back. Something was poking at the back of your mind at the description, but you were not in the right state of mind to start dwelling in your memories.
The man sighed. “Goes by the number six, and acts like that makes up for his lack of personality.”
Oh, fuck!
“There it is.” He grinned and then started drumming on his legs excitedly. “You mind sharing how you know him?”
“I—I don’t know him,” you said. Your heart was beating even faster, which you hadn’t thought was possible, but the sudden reminder of the man you had met a couple of months ago felt like a punch to the gut.
“No, see, sugar, I saw how you reacted when I mentioned his name. Your eyes got all wide, and you looked like the cute little bunny that you are.” His face suddenly fell into a terrifyingly neutral expression. “Don’t lie to me. You really don’t wanna do that, believe me.”
Your breath hitched, and you dug your fingers even harder into the metal. “It’s not a lie, I don’t know him. We met months ago, just once. I helped him, and afterwards he left. I never heard or saw him again.”
“You might not have, but our boy has definitely been keeping an eye on you. You know, it’s funny if you think about it; by trying to keep you safe, he led me directly to your doorstep.” He shrugged and then crossed his legs like the smug asshole that he was.
Later you might have the space of mind to go over what it meant that Six had been keeping tabs on you—and why that didn’t disturb you as much as it probably should have—but right now all you could do was focus on the mercurial man before you.
“Okay,” you said in a thin voice. “What does that mean for me?”
He laughed loudly and abruptly at that, even going so far as to slap his knee. If you were braver, you might have glared at him, but you could only watch as he wiped a tear from his eye. “What does that mean for me?” he said, the question in a mock version of your voice. “Cute. You’re really cute. I like it when people can just say what they think, and don’t hide behind fake empathy for other people.”
You frowned, momentarily not understanding what he was talking about. Then it dawned on you. “You want him to come here so that you can hurt him.”
“No, I want him to come here so that we can share a cup of tea and talk about the weather—of course I’m going to hurt him! God, what happened to the smart girl I met a couple of hours ago?”
He had started yelling again, which made you sink deeper into yourself. To be fair, you hadn’t thought (or cared) at all about what he wanted to do with Six, after all, he wasn’t here, you were.
“M’sorry,” you mumbled.
“Yeah, yeah. Spare me the puppy-dog eyes,” he grumbled, waving you off. “Ugh, you’re starting to bore me. I thought you’d be more fun. Whatever, life is filled with disappointments. Here’s what’s going to happen now.” His eyes darkened, and he got up, walking around the chair until he was right behind you. He leaned forward, whispering in your ear, “We’ll wait here for him. I left enough clues for our little boy scout to find his way here to you.”
“Why would he come?” You asked, unable to stop yourself. You didn’t really know him, you had spent maybe three hours together, and you were clearly in the hands of some kind of professional lunatic. Who would ever willfully get himself into that situation?
He scoffed, “Because he’s a little bitch boy with a bleeding heart for the weak and vulnerable.” He tapped your cheek harshly. “That’s you, my dear. Anyway, we’ll wait until he arrives like a knight in shining armor. When he gets here, I’ll have that nice overdue conversation with him, and afterwards, beat his face until it is mush on the floor.” You could see his wide smile out of the corner of your eye.
“Okay,” you said in a shaky voice. A desperate sob was bubbling up in your chest, but you tried your best to choke it down. Up until now, it wasn’t that bad. Sure, he just detailed the planned murder of a man, but you were just the bait. You could live with that.
“And in the meantime…” Your heart sank. You could feel his hot breath hitting the side of your face, making you shudder. “I’m sure we’ll find some way to occupy ourselves.” He gingerly placed his pointer finger on your shoulder, just grazing your bra strap, and then slowly stroked it down your arm.
“Please don’t,” you whimpered. It was like the realization that you had actually been sitting there half-naked in front of this mad man hit you so quickly it left you winded. A shaky sob finally broke out of you. “Please.”
“No, no, shh,” he shushed you almost tenderly. “It’s not like that—I’m not a monster. C’mon, don’t cry. You have nothing to cry about, not yet.” He went back around you, pushed his chair away, and then squatted before you, hands settling on your knees. “Look, I’m not gonna lie to you, I will hurt you a little.” You whimpered at that, and he shushed you again. “No, listen. Yes, I will hurt you, but I won’t sexually assault you or anything. Who do you think I am? A freshman frat bro trying to date-rape the first girl that looks his way? Ew, no, I have self-respect.”
You almost laughed at the genuine offense on his face. This was so fucking ridiculous. His hands burned where they touched your skin, and you almost started gagging when he pushed himself up, pressing down more on your legs for a second.
“One thing you probably didn’t know about me is that I’m a bit of an artist.” He walked somewhere in the room you couldn’t see, and you didn’t dare try to shift in your seat. Maybe—maybe if you sat really still and didn’t make a sound, he would forget you were there and leave. You’d happily spend the next three days on this chair and then die of thirst if it meant not having to talk to that man even a second longer.
“Hey!” he suddenly appeared next to you again and smacked your head. “Do I have to repeat myself? I don’t like being ignored!” If you thought his carefully curated neutrality was scary, it was nothing against seeing him actually upset. His shoulders were rising and falling quickly, and he was clenching his jaw, looking like he’d bite through his own teeth any second.
“Sorry! I’m sorry! You—you’re an artist. What—what does that mean?”
“It generally means someone who does art, cupcake,” he said, his voice having lightened up considerably since your apology. There was, however, still the way his fist clenched next to him, that kept you from relaxing even a little.
“That’s… okay.” You took a deep breath. “What kind of art do you make?”
You heard him chuckle lowly at that, and then, before you could ponder over what that meant, his hand shot toward your hand.
The pain didn’t set in immediately. For a couple of seconds, you just stared at the scalpel that was now jammed into the back of your hand. You watched as a dark red liquid gushed out between the glinting metal of the blade and your skin—it was blood, you knew that. You were bleeding. Out of your hand. Because the man who had kidnapped you just stabbed you with a scalpel.
The pain slammed into you like the blast wave of a bomb, almost knocking you backward. Burning hot, and nothing like you’ve ever felt before. You screamed, pain overtaking any instinct to hide what you were feeling.
“I specialize in my own version of body art,” he hummed, and then with one quick movement, pulled the scalpel back out. You choked on your own spit as you flinched at the new wave of pain crashing through you. “Oh, I’m Lloyd, by the way. Don’t think I introduced myself yet.”
────────
There was not a part of your body that didn’t hurt. Your left hand—which was where it had all begun—was throbbing not just from the stab wound, but from the missing pinkie, which had landed somewhere on the ground, probably kicked away by Lloyd at some point.
There were scorch marks where he had experimented with a couple of different ways to burn you. The matches didn’t seem to satisfy him, the lighter seemed better, the torch lighter almost made you pass out from pain, and the sparklers had just been bizarre.
At some point, Lloyd decided that he wanted to leave behind a more personal note, like a signature—his words—and he started carving little doodles onto your thighs, arms, and stomach. On your chest he carved a big heart, with the number 6 inside it, and then laughed about it for like ten minutes.
He had briefly considered waterboarding you, but then decided against it because the logistics just seemed a bit too difficult. You were supposed to stay on that chair in that room until Six arrived. After that… you didn’t know what would happen.
It didn’t matter anyway. You didn’t believe that Six would actually show up. You had lost all sense of time, but considering the sun was about to set, and you had been kidnapped on your way to work in the morning, you could guess pretty accurately. Still, while it might not have actually been a very long time, it sure as hell felt like it.
You were tied to a chair and trapped in a body that was in so much pain, every time Lloyd now put a blade to your skin, you wished he’d just slip up, cut too deep, and end what seemed endless at this point. You had even considered trying to tempt him into killing you, get him angry enough to just jam a knife into your throat, and then spend the last seconds of your life laughing in his face because you won.
Ultimately, you decided against it. Lloyd was clearly a sadist, getting off on all the pain and suffering he caused you. You feared that if you were to provoke him, he’d just get more creative with his methods of torture.
All you could do was endure.
Stare out of the window, and fantasize about breaking away from the chair and running forward, through the glass doors leading to the balcony, and then just jumping off in the hopes that the lake you could see stretch out before you, reached up to under the balcony.
You had spent the last hour just gazing out of the window, your vision going in and out of focus. Every now and then your nose would twitch from the acidic smell of vomit, which had settled around you after you had thrown up not once but twice from the sheer amount of pain.
Your brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton. Whether it was because of the blood loss, or adrenaline taking over and then abandoning your body over and over again, you didn’t know, but you were okay with it. You liked being so sluggish, it made it more difficult to hear the bullshit Lloyd was spouting from where he was standing a couple of meters away.
He was yelling at someone over the phone, face going red in a way that you knew should scare you but just didn’t anymore. It was like you had gotten used to him in the strange way you could get used to the sadistic murderer that had spent the last hours gleefully torturing you. You already knew what to expect of him, that was at least something.
“—able to do this. I hired fucking professionals, did I not?” He had walked closer to you. His eyes flickered toward you, and then he backhanded you. “Hey! Don’t fucking die yet. Get it together.”
Your head fell forward, but even still, you nodded slightly, mumbling what might have been an ‘okay’, or might just have been noises; either way, it satisfied him enough to move away from you.
He was still yelling, so you almost missed the weird scraping sound coming from the balcony. You lifted your head as much as you could, but even that hurt enough to make dots appear in your vision. You blinked a couple of times, trying to get rid of them, and when you focused again, you were sure you had died.
There on the balcony stood the man you had last seen months ago—the man everyone here presumably had been waiting for for the last couple of hours.
Six was half-hiding behind a pillar, his gaze wandering between you and Lloyd, who was standing with his back to the balcony. With one hand Six was holding a gun, and he lifted the other to his mouth, putting a finger to his lips, in a motion telling you not to say anything.
Then he motioned to the balcony door, raising his eyebrows in question. You were like 90% sure that he was asking you whether the door was unlocked—the 10% were leftover fears that you had died and this was a very weird afterlife.
But instead of answering him, you just kept staring at him.
He was wet, you realized. Soaking wet, in fact. A dazed giggle escaped you at the thought of him swimming in the lake.
The second you made a sound, Six hid completely from your view, and you almost cried out for him not to leave. Luckily, Lloyd interrupted that by coming back to your side. “What the fuck is up with you now, huh? What’s so fucking funny, bunny?” He pressed the barrel of his gun into your cheek, and for some reason, that just made you giggle more. You weren’t sure whether he had rhymed on purpose, but he definitely didn’t look happy about it.
“You think this is a fucking joke?” He had become really aggravated now, there was no hint left of his previous playfulness. But still, for some reason, your mind couldn’t even try to be afraid of him. You were either already dead or were about to be rescued.
And you did just lose a shit ton of blood.
Lloyd pistol-whipped you, which succeeded in finally shutting you up. The wound you had previously acquired by biting your lip to stifle your screams reopened, and you could taste the slight trail of blood making its way down your lips.
“Jesus, there we go. Open your mouth again and—” he never got to finish his threat. A loud sound rang out, the glass in front of you shattered, and Lloyd stumbled back. “Fuck!”
Blood was running down his right shoulder, and he quickly changed the gun from his right hand to his left, holding it up. Six stepped out from behind the pillar slowly, gun directed straight at Lloyd.
He walked forward a bit and pushed the glass door open with his foot. It evidently hadn’t been locked, not even closed properly, which made you wonder why Six had asked you.
“Lower your gun.” Six’s voice was just as you remembered it. Low and rough, as if he’d just woken up from a nap that went on for an hour too long.
“Oh, yeah, sure. Let me just…” something pressed into the back of your head, and only now you realized that Lloyd was pointing his gun at you, not Six.
“Lloyd,” Six growled.
“Hey,” Lloyd replied in a singsong voice. “Funny to see you here. How’s it going, how’s life?”
“Let her go.” His words were said slow and in a tone that made you almost impressed with Lloyd’s ability not to immediately run and hide. Six sounded deadly serious.
Lloyd hissed through his teeth. “No, I don’t think I will.”
“What do you want?”
“What do I want?” Lloyd let out a strained laugh. He held his right shoulder slightly tense, and it was clear that no matter how much he tried to hide it, he was in a lot of pain. “A lot of things. I want a house on Lake Como. I want one of my former classmates to stop posting shirtless pictures on Facebook… right now I really want like a Twix or something. Y’know, something for the blood sugar.” He shrugged with one shoulder and then widened his eyes as if just remembered something. “Oh, and obviously, I want to kick your ass before making you eat a bullet, pal.”
Six had stayed stoic throughout Lloyd’s babbling, eyes not straying from where they were trained on the gun pointing at your head. “You want to beat me up? Didn’t work so well last time, hmm?”
Lloyd pressed the barrel of the gun harder against your head and sneered. “That’s not quite how I remember it. Anyway, you should probably watch your words a bit more, or my pretty little guest here will lick the dust off the floor.”
Your head was spinning, vision blurry, and you weren’t sure whether you could hear them correctly anymore. The pain that had been clamoring through your body slowly ebbed away, leaving you feeling like you were floating. You wanted to tell them to wrap it up.
Someone should probably kill the other one now, because if the way you were starting to feel cool sweat gather on your skin was any indication, it wouldn’t matter much to you soon, anyway.
Your head fell forward, and automatically Lloyd grabbed your hair, trying to keep you facing forward. He used his left hand, which momentarily removed the gun from pointing at your head. You saw the way Six immediately shifted his stance, and a second later, another gunshot rang through the room.
Lloyd dropped your head, followed by the sound of his body dropping to the floor.
Six instantly rushed toward you, kneeling down before you and taking your face gently into his hands. “Hey, hey. You’re okay, you’re fine. I’ll get you out of here now.” You blinked at him, and when that didn’t seem to satisfy him, you tried to smile. If his concerned expression was anything to go by, you didn’t succeed in that so well.
He took out a pocketknife and started to work at the zip ties around your wrists. He was muttering apologizes, probably afraid that he was hurting you, which he shouldn’t. He wasn’t hurting you; nothing was. You didn’t even really have a body anymore. You were floating, and even though his voice got louder and more insistent, you closed your eyes, letting darkness consume you.
────────
You awoke slowly at first. The bed you lay on was comfortable, and the soft pillow was nice under your throbbing head.
Why was your head hurting so badly? And why didn’t this feel like your bed?
…
All the memories returned at once, making you shoot up and then push yourself out of the bed. You landed hard, yelling out at the impact against your many wounds.
“Whoa, hey, don’t do that.” You looked up and scrambled back against the edge of the bed. Six stopped in his steps, raising his hands placatingly. “It’s just me. You’re safe, I promise.”
Your heart calmed a bit once it recognized who was standing before you. You nodded sharply, regretting it instantly at the pain shooting up your neck. Everything hurt. You couldn’t even tell where it hurt the most; it was like your entire body was just one large open wound. You whimpered as you readjusted yourself.
“Let me help you back into bed. You really shouldn’t move too much right now.” He waited for you to nod again before coming closer. He put his arms under your legs and behind your back, lifting you up in one smooth movement and then putting you back down on the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Hurts,” was all you managed to say. Your throat was dry, and you started coughing a bit.
“Here.” He handed you a glass of water that had previously been standing on the nightstand next to the bed. “Slowly.”
You drank a couple of sips, enjoying the way some of the water escaped between the glass and your lips, running down your chin in cool veins.
You handed him the glass back.
“Better?” he asked, putting the glass down.
You hummed, not feeling like talking more. Everything was hitting you again. Your fingers started to shake, and you twisted them into the fabric next to you.
You looked down at yourself and only then realized that you were wearing clothes again. A black shirt and some sweatpants that bunched up at your waist. “Did you…”
“I figured you’d feel more comfortable with some clothes on,” he said. “I also took care of your wounds as best I could. If you want to, I’ll get you to a hospital, but right now it would probably be safer to lie low a bit.”
“It’s fine.” The last thing you wanted now was more people probing at you. From what you had seen of Six’s own wounds—and the number of them—he was well versed in keeping a body from falling apart.
“Okay, just say if you change your mind. Do you need anything else?”
You just shook your head, tears were starting to gather in your eyes, and you tried in vain to blink them away.
Six hesitated a bit, standing at the end of your bed like a child waiting to be picked up by his parents. “Can I, um…” he tilted his head toward the bed. You nodded, and he sat down where he sighed, running his hands over his legs. “Look, I know you’ve been through a lot. This… it never should have happened, and I cannot even begin to tell you how sorry I am.”
You rubbed an escaped tear from your cheek, sniffing. “He said it was because of you.” You didn’t mean to blame him for what happened, but there was a bitter edge evident in your tone.
“I know, I’m sorry.”
“He also said you kept tabs on me.”
Six sighed, “I did. I wanted to make sure you were okay after…”
“After,” you said, tasting it out in your mouth. “After what?”
Six looked at you with a complicated look. “After you helped me.”
You had helped him all those months ago. Back then he had just been a stranger in an alley, bleeding out slowly. You had been walking home and noticed him trying and failing to get back up. You had offered to call an ambulance, which he declined fervently. Ultimately, after seeing the wound, you had led him to your home, but not without making it clear that you owned a stun gun and were ready to give him another stab wound if he stepped out of place. He had only smiled quietly at that.
At your place, you had taken care of him the best way you could, using your never before used first aid kit. He told you what to do, and together it only took about thirty minutes to get him back from death’s doorstep.
He stayed for another couple of hours, regaining some of the color in his face. Both of you had been fueled by adrenaline—he from almost dying, and you from the presence of that tall, handsome man whose body you were almost burdened with—and one thing led to another. You had sat next to him on the couch, and the next thing you knew, you were sitting in his lap, making out with him.
He had left afterward, and you hadn’t expected to ever hear from him again.
Now you were here, with him in front of you, and even though you would give anything to reverse time and not have gone through the last 24 hours, you were glad to see Six again.
“Well, at least you found me,” you sniffed again, and then took a deep, shaky breath. “Thank you for that.”
“Don’t thank me for that. Should have been there much earlier.”
You shrugged, wincing at the uncomfortable sensation running down your shoulder at that.
“Seriously, is there anything you need? Anything I can do for you?”
“I kind of wanna take a shower.” The tacky feeling of dried blood on your skin made you nauseous, and you were sure you smelled like a delightful mixture of sweat, vomit, and blood.
“Sure, just gotta be careful not to get the bandages wet. I have some plastic wrap which you can use, and if you do get them wet, I’ll just redress them, it’s fine,” he said.
He got up and then helped you to the bathroom, supporting most of your weight. When you were sitting on the edge of the bathtub, he exited the room, and when he returned, he handed you a carton of plastic wrap. He left you then, closing the door behind him, but not before telling you to just yell out if you needed anything.
Now you were left in the empty room, clutching the plastic wrap to your chest. The bathroom was devoid of personality, nothing in it communicated anything about the person it belonged to. You couldn’t tell whether that was because this was a safe house, or if that just summed up who Six was as a person.
Slowly, you started stripping yourself of the borrowed clothes. You winced as you lifted your arms over your head to take off the shirt, straining the wounds along your chest and stomach. You took off the pants next, which was considerably easier.
That left you in only your underwear… again.
The memory of being tied up and so vulnerable slithered its way from your brain down into your stomach, and before you had time to adjust, you started gagging. Instantly, you jolted toward the toilet, and not a second too soon. You threw up, racking coughs shaking your entire body.
A knock came from the door along with the concerned sound of Six’s voice, “You okay?”
“Fine,” you croaked back, wiping the back of your mouth with your left hand. That’s when you finally remembered that Lloyd had not just taken your dignity and feeling of safety, but your pinkie finger as well.
A sob broke out of you, and when you automatically went to cover your mouth with your hand, you only started crying more. It felt different, weird. You stared at your left hand and could swear that you felt the cut-off finger as if it were still part of you. It was throbbing, burning, melting, screaming. You whimpered as you stretched your arm as far away from you as you could.
“Can I come in?” Six asked, but you couldn’t answer him, just stare at your hand as if looking at it long enough would force it to regrow the missing appendage. “I’m coming in now.”
The door opened slowly, and he stepped into the room. He didn’t come closer to you, though, staying in the doorframe. Your face was twisted anxiously, and you looked up at him with tear-filled eyes and wet cheeks.
“I can feel my finger. Why—” you choked up. “Why can I still feel it? I need it back.”
Six slowly lowered himself to the floor, leaning against the door. “That’s normal. It’s okay, you’re okay.” He seemed a little awkward trying to comfort you, as if not quite sure what to say.
“It’s not okay. I am not okay,” you wailed. “How am I ever supposed to go on with my life now?”
Six looked uncertain, opening his mouth and then closing it again. After a couple of seconds filled with your weeping and his silence, he moved toward you, stopping right in front of you. Hesitantly, he reached out for you, and when his hands came in contact with your shoulders, you threw yourself forward into his arms. He pulled you closer, mindful of where you were injured.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured into your hair, stroking a hand up and down your back. “I won’t let anything else happen to you, I swear.”
You sniffled, burying your face in his chest. He just kept hugging you, and even though you were only in your underwear and still covered in blood and wounds, you couldn’t remember the last time you'd felt so safe.
“He took my finger,” you said, and immediately felt silly, like you were a child complaining about other kids on the playground.
But Six just nodded his head, his mouth ghosting over your hair. “I know, I know. I killed him, he’s gone. He’ll never hurt you again.”
You cried even more at that, pressing your face harder into his chest.
“Easy, don’t hurt yourself,” he said, and gently pulled your head away from him. He cradled your face between his hands, his thumbs wiping away the tears that kept on falling from your eyes. “I promise I’ll do whatever I can to help you, okay? I got you; I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again.”
His lips were in a thin line, but his eyes seemed to want to drill his words into you.
You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes, letting your skin absorb the heat radiating from him.
“You’re shaking,” he said lowly. “Are you cold?”
“A little,” you mumbled, only now realizing that you were trembling slightly. He reached behind him for the clothes you had been wearing, but you shook your head. “I still need to shower.”
“I don’t know if that’s truly the best idea right now. If you wrap all your wounds, then there is not much of your body left to clean.”
“Please, I need to just… get clean. Please,” you said, not even trying to hide how desperate you sounded.
Six pursed his lips before nodding slowly. “You could maybe just kind of use some wet towels and do it like that.”
“Like a sponge bath,” you asked.
“Like a sponge bath,” he repeated, smiling faintly.
“Can you…” you trailed off, looking away.
“Can I, what?” he prompted you, taking your chin and coaxing it back toward him.
You closed your eyes before continuing quietly, “Would you help me?”
“You want me to—” he raised his eyebrows, but when he noticed your embarrassed expression, he quickly corrected himself. “No, sure. I can do that. I’ll help you in whatever way you need.”
He eased you up, placing you back on the edge of the bathtub. He averted his eyes from your body as he gestured back to the clothes on the floor. “Are you good like that, or do you want to put them back on?”
“It would probably be a bit difficult to clean myself while wearing clothes,” you replied.
“Maybe,” he said in a playful tone. It was so different from the one Lloyd had used. Where his had always sounded like he was making fun of you, Six’s held a trace of comfort, inviting you toward him. “But if you wanted it, we could make it work.”
“No, it’s alright.” You smiled cynically. “At this point, I’m kind of used to being in my underwear in front of people.”
Six’s smile dropped, and he turned towards a cabinet, grabbing some towels. “I’m sorry he did that to you.”
“He didn’t, like… do anything,” you said, shrugging halfheartedly.
“I figured.” He went to the sink, where he wet a towel. “That’s one of his tactics to mess with someone.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if you’re just in your underwear, it leaves you even more vulnerable than you already are just by being captured. If you somehow got loose, you’d be less likely to leave without at least some clothes on you.”
“Then why not take off all my clothes?”
“Because of the insinuation of it all. Like at any point, if you didn’t do exactly what he says, he could strip you off that last barrier of safety that you got. And obviously, with women there is also the underlying threat of what it meant for someone to have taken off your clothes, what it would mean if someone continued,” he explained and then walked back to you, kneeling down. “It’s cruel and fucked up, and I’m sorry he did that to you.”
“What the fuck,” you mumbled. “Maybe it’s better that he’s…” you can’t bring yourself to say it.
“It definitely is,” Six said, and then pointed toward your arm. “Gimme.”
You extend your arm and he brought the wet towel to your skin, softly rubbing at the blood on it. “Tell me if I’m hurting you,” he said, concentrating on what he was doing.
But he wasn’t hurting you, it was like the opposite of it, actually. With every stroke of the towel, with every touch of his skin on yours, you felt a buzz run down your spine. It went on like that for a while. Him making his way around your body, cleaning away all the visible stains and while doing the same to the ones you couldn’t see with your eyes, only feel deep down.
You exchanged words here and there, soft quiet ones without any actual meaning. About the weather, about a book you read recently, whether 3-in-1 shampoo was a crime against humanity—you said yes, he disagreed.
It was simple and nice, and even though you were sitting, you could feel yourself drift off slowly. When your head dipped forward for the third time in less than five minutes, Six stopped what he was doing, smiling at you.
“Let’s get you to bed, alright?”
“Okay,” you whispered, already half asleep.
“C’mon.”
The two of you made it back to the bedroom, where he pulled back the blanket, waiting for you to settle in. You did, but before he could place the blanket over you, you stopped him.
“Would you…” you swallowed. “You need sleep too, right? When was the last time you slept?”
He hesitated, looking conflicted, but then he started smiling. “Scooch over.”
You did, and he joined you in bed. He turned off the lights, and before you could think better of it, you laid your head on his chest. He promptly put his arm around you, caressing your waist.
“I’ve got you,” he muttered, and then pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead. “You’re safe.”
With his words on your mind, and his strong arm around you, you closed your eyes.
part three to 'MAKE PEACE WITH IT' + 'WISH YOU THE BEST'
you guys are taking it slow, colt struggles with taking this slow, but powers through until you guys have a beach day
✶.🏷 7.7k — cw: pt. 3/2. no use of y/n. 18+ CONTENT. fluff. soft smut. plot with porn. they have their beach day episode. colt in a backwards hat. colt manhandles reader. fun day at the beach. kissing. making out. dry humping. handjob + fingering. colt calls reader 'pretty girl' and 'good girl'. car sex. protected p in v. sweet ending. title pulled from 'stupid song' by olivia rodrigo. kinda edited; all mistakes are my own
a/n: surprise there's a secret third fic for the best duology!! this started off as an exclusive but i thought i shouldn't deprive the people of colt seavers nation of this fic LOL. and i unintentionally made this fluffier and softer than i expected LOL but shoutout danny and bibi being my unofficial beta readers on this fic LOVE YOU GUYS <33
colt seavers masterlist
COLT WAS DYING TO KISS YOU AGAIN.
Okay, 'dying' as a description for how much he wanted to kiss you might be an exaggeration, but he was joking (he wasn't). When he kissed you for the first time in a year that day in your trailer—and Colt swears that he's not trying to be dramatic about it—but it felt like he could finally breathe for the first time since he fucked up and pushed you away.
After you guys shared one of the most heartfelt kisses he'd ever had, the two of you were called back to set and had to do your jobs (Colt loved being a stuntman, but sometimes it could get in the way of important stuff, like your and his relationship). But as soon as the day wrapped, the two of you rode back to the hotel with each other and talked in your hotel room to discuss the next step in your relationship, which was friendship.
You had wanted to take this slow since you were (rightfully) wary about entering a relationship with him immediately, but you guys made up (but not totally, some things needed to be talked about). Colt knew that he had shattered the trust you had in him, and he was totally okay with taking it one day at a time, as slowly as you wanted, if it meant he could have you in his life and you be in his in any capacity.
Though taking it slow was a real test of Colt's impulses and his nature of falling over himself when it came to the people that he was head over heels with, which he was usually good at (that's a lie), but being in this close of proximity to you for over a year—and now that he knew that you didn't totally hate his guts—might be killing him even more than disappearing after his accident.
Once Metalstorm had wrapped, he found himself giddy at the discovery that you guys had the same flight home and were even seated next to each other on the 15-hour flight (but Colt had a suspicion that Jody might have had a hand in that). The two of you spent the time catching up on the past year or sleeping, since you guys had been wiped out by the past few days.
Colt couldn't resist the grin that split across his lips when he felt your head fall onto his shoulder, and he immediately readjusted so your head lay more comfortably on him. He had to cover his mouth when you snuggled further into his shoulder, a soft smile on your face. He ended up falling asleep not long after you. Colt's head fell on top of yours, a satisfied smile playing on his own lips.
But that moment had gone and passed. You didn't acknowledge that you had practically cuddled Colt the entire flight, and when the plane landed and you had gotten your bags, you parted ways with him, giving a small hug before leaving the crowded and bustling LAX. Colt looked after you longingly and was already thinking about the next time he'd see you, which was about a couple of days later, when you guys came back, and he texted you to see if you had any plans.
After a few text exchanges about plans, you guys ended up having a plain old movie night, as the two of you had before, well, you know, before Colt had kissed you. You were surprised by how natural it felt; it was like no time had passed as you guys watched the movie, laughing and making passing comments throughout. Soon enough, you guys started hanging out frequently, and with no work lined up, your schedules opened up. You had been hanging out with Colt most of the time, but you made sure that you hung out with people outside of him.
But Colt always cherished the time you guys spent together, and you never turned down a hug from him at the end of each night after you guys finished hanging out (which he saw as a huge win). But, he could only go so long without kissing you (Colt had gone to bed each night since you reconciled about kissing you), so he had plans to rectify that, which brought him to your apartment at 9 AM waiting for you with some breakfast and his truck packed with a cooler filled with food, towels, an umbrella, some chairs, and his surfboard.
Colt texted you the night before, saying he wanted to have a beach day. Despite it being late April, it was warm enough to go down to the beach, have a nice day, and avoid swarms of people, since it had yet to hit the summer months. You agreed since you had missed California's beaches, and you weren't going to pass up a beach day if Colt had planned it all.
Colt walked himself up to your apartment and knocked on your door with the bag of breakfast burritos in his hand.
"It's open!" Colt heard your muffled voice through the door.
He opened the door with a shake of his head and entered your apartment. You weren't in the living room, but Colt heard you shuffling in your bathroom, so he placed the bag of food on your coffee table before heading down the hall.
"I told you not to leave your…" Colt started to say as he approached the open bathroom, but his words trailed off when he caught sight of you in your bikini-clad chest and jean shorts. The strings of your black bottoms peeked out as you applied sunscreen to your face. "…door unlocked." He finished saying as his eyes raked over your form, swallowing thickly.
Colt had to clasp his hands behind his back, resisting the urge to reach out to you and pull you into him and kiss you silly.
You scoffed at him, never looking at him as you rubbed the sunscreen into your face. "You know I don't. But I saw that you were here and figured you come up. So I unlocked it." You shrugged.
"Doesn't matter. It's a matter of principle." Colt's tongue poked the inside of his mouth as he just managed to rip his gaze away from you.
You rolled your eyes at him, grabbed your sunscreen, and opened it again. "Do you know the principle of applying sunscreen? Because it doesn't seem like you do." You squirted some of the product onto your fingertips, closed the bottle, and warmed it by rubbing your fingertips together.
"Don't and try and change—" Colt was cut off by your hands starting to rub the sunscreen into his face. "—the subject." He grumbled the rest of the sentence as his eyes fell shut at the sensation of your hands on his face, letting you apply the sunscreen.
"Too late. I already did." Colt could imagine the grin on your face as his eyes were closed.
Colt scoffed. "I was going to do this at the beach."
You clicked your tongue at him. "You're still in sunlight even if it's not direct, Colt. I gotta take care of your skin, lord knows you don't. Your hands were gentle, and you finished rubbing the product into his skin.
Your voice carried a scolding tone that Colt was used to. Colt had heard this lecture from you multiple times after you had seen his skincare routine one night, after he offered you to spend the night since it was too late for you to drive back to your apartment after the movie night you guys had (he offered you his bed while he took the couch, even though his back would hurt the next morning).
Colt's eyes snapped open at your remark, "Hey! I do." He said indignantly.
You snickered at his reaction before lightly tapping his cheeks with your palms and pinching his cheek. "Yeah, after I nagged you about it."
Colt huffed and grabbed your wrist as your hand retracted and pretended to bite at your fingertips. You were quick to rip your hand out of his wrist and shook your head at him. He smiled at the furrow in your brow as you rolled your eyes at him.
"Come on, I've got a breakfast burrito with your name on it." Colt said.
Your eyes lit up at the mention of food. "Great, I'm starving! I just gotta grab a shirt and my bag and then we can go." You went to leave the bathroom, but Colt didn't move out of the way and stayed in the doorway.
"You don't need a shirt," Colt said as his eyes were trained on your chest (What? Your boobs were right there, what was he supposed to do? Not look at them?).
"My eyes are up here." You said with dry amusement in your voice as you placed a hand on his chest to push him out of your way.
The push to his chest snapped him out of his dazed state. He moved out of your way and trailed behind you as you nabbed the shirt hanging off the back of your couch and slipped it on before grabbing your stuffed tote bag and slung it on your shoulder. Your sunglasses were already perched on your head, and you grabbed your phone and keys, slipping on your flip flops at the entrance of your door.
Colt grabbed the bag of food from the coffee table, grabbed your keys, and replaced them with your food. You smiled at him, and the two of you left your apartment, the keys jingling in Colt's hands as he locked your door. Colt couldn't help but throw an arm over your shoulder and pull you into his side as the two of you walked down the hallway of your apartment complex.
The breakfast burritos that Colt had gotten for the two of you were eaten quickly as Colt drove down the PCH with the windows down. The playlist you had made filled the comfortable silence that settled between the two of you. While Colt was driving, you couldn't help but admire him through your sunglasses as he drove.
He was wearing a fitted white tank top and some plain navy blue swim trunks. Your eyes lingered on the sculpted muscles of his arms and how his pecs subtly bulged from the tight fit of the tank top. The blonde strands of Colt's hair were tucked underneath the baseball cap he was wearing backward, with a small tuft of it sticking out of the small hole where the closure of the hat was—but what made your heart flutter was the sight of your last name embroidered on it.
Then your eyes drifted down his side profile—they traced the slope of his nose and the curve of his lips, pulled up into a knowing smirk.
"See something you like?" Colt asked with amusement coating his tone as he glanced at you over his own sunglasses.
You blinked, then dragged the sunglasses down the bridge of your nose to meet Colt's mirthful expression. "Maybe." You said coyly, a smile growing on your face.
No matter how much Colt wanted to admire you as you sat next to him in his truck, he had to keep his eyes on the road, but a wide grin grew on his face as he shook his head at you.
Soon enough, the two of you made the hour-and-a-half drive in record time, and since it was technically the off-season for beaches in California, the parking lot was virtually empty save for the few cars that were scattered across the lot. It also helped that the beach Colt took the two of you to was one only locals knew about, so it was pretty secluded.
You guys hopped out of the truck and started to unpack it, and you stared at the surfboard for a second. "You're gonna surf today?" You asked.
"Probably not, it looks like the waves are pretty calm today." Colt shook his head as he grabbed the cooler out of the truck.
"Then, why did you bring it?" You pulled out the chairs and the umbrella.
"For aesthetic purposes, you know, to fit the vibe of a beach day." Colt quipped as he closed the truck bed.
You chuckled. "You're ridiculous."
Colt smiled proudly. "I'm taking that as a compliment."
"You're a weirdo." You shook your head at him before going to grab the cooler, but Colt batted your hands away from it. "Colt!"
Colt tsked at you. "I got it. Just grab your chair and my towels, I can get the rest."
You huffed but did what he said. You slung one of the chairs (which was in one of those bags with a strap to carry it) over your free shoulder, then grabbed the towel on his shoulder and draped it over your arm.
Colt slung the umbrella and the other chair over his shoulders before grabbing the cooler. He jutted his chin towards the ocean that was just a couple of feet away from where you parked. "Lead the way."
It didn't take very long to find a spot, and the two of you set it up pretty quickly. There were maybe ten or so people on this beach (including you and Colt), so the beach was very peaceful, and the waves gently lapping at the shore added to the serene ambiance.
Once the two of you finished organizing everything, you had taken off your shirt and jean shorts, which made Colt let out a low whistle, to which you whacked his abdomen with the back of your hand, though the small smile pulling at your lips betrayed your amusement.
Colt raised his hands in silent surrender, but had a grin on his face. He took off the hat alongside his tank top, and you had to physically turn around and busy yourself with digging through your bag, otherwise you knew you would start drooling at the sight of him shirtless. But you still caught a glimpse of the spattering of chest hair and dark blonde hair on his stomach, leading down and underneath his swim trunks.
Colt clocked your reaction and chuckled to himself. He was glad that he could have as much of an effect on you as you did on him.
You grabbed the sunscreen from your bag and composed yourself for a second before facing Colt. "Turn around." You gestured to the bottle of sunscreen you brought.
"Yes, ma'am." Colt teased before doing as you said, and you were faced with his toned back.
Your eyes lingered on the scar on his lower back before you uncapped the sunscreen, poured a generous amount onto your hand, capped it, and tossed it onto your chair. You smiled at the Colt's small flinch at the cold sunscreen once you started to apply the sunscreen to his back, making sure it was all rubbed into his skin. Your eyes traced the planes of muscle that shifted with each small movement that he made.
"All done." You said as you tapped his back.
"Thanks." You had expected Colt to move on, but he just stared at you.
You raised an eyebrow at him. "What?"
He gestured to the sunscreen on the chair. "Aren't you going to do the rest of me?" Colt asked cheekily.
You picked up the sunscreen bottle and sent him a sarcastic smile. "No." You responded before shoving it into his chest. "You broke your back, not your arms."
Colt huffed dramatically. "You love to hit where it hurts the most." Colt winked, letting you know that he knew you were joking, and started applying sunscreen to the rest of his body.
"Oh, don't pretend you don't love it." You said, rolling your eyes. "Make sure to do your face again." You reminded him before sitting down on your chair and grabbed your book, waiting for him to finish with the sunscreen.
Once he was done, Colt tapped your head lightly with it, making you look up at him, and he gestured for you to stand up. You saved the place in your book, stood up, gathered your hair over one of your shoulders, and had your back facing Colt. You heard the sunscreen cap open, then close once more.
Then you felt Colt's warm hands spread the sunscreen over your back, and you held back the shiver that threatened to zip down your spine. You could feel how big his hands were as they were rubbing the sunscreen into your skin and under the straps of your bikini in a soothing motion.
You couldn't help but imagine them moving down to your hips and gripping them to pull you back into Colt's chest. But his hands were gone as soon as he was finished, and you sent him a smile over your shoulder before taking the bottle from him and applying sunscreen to the rest of your body.
You tossed the sunscreen back in your bag, and you looked at the water for a second before you turned to Colt with a sly smile.
Colt noticed your smile, and it was his turn to raise an eyebrow at you. "What's up with the smile?"
"Nothing," you said as innocently as you could, taking a step closer to Colt and looking up at him. "How do we feel about a small wager?"
"What kind?" Colt's interest was piqued, and he was fully mesmerized by the mischievous glint in your eyes.
"We race to the water, winner gets to pick the movie for our next movie night." You proposed as you stuck out your hand.
Colt clasped your smaller hand in his. "You're on." A smug grin slid on his face. Your smile mirrored his as you shook his hand, you knew that Colt wouldn't pass up a bet no matter how small it was.
You leaned forward and planted a lingering kiss on his cheek before pulling back to see a shocked look spread across his face.
"See you at the shoreline!" You winked at him before pushing him hard, making him stumble back, then you dashed out from under the umbrella. Your giggles filled the air and mixed with the water crashing on the shore.
Colt regained his balance. The shove you gave him snapped him out of his stupor, and he immediately sprinted after you. His laughs followed yours as he swiftly caught up to you (curse him and his longer strides). Colt was quick to sweep you up into his arms; your giggling turned into a small squeal as he kept moving until his feet hit the water.
Colt jostled you in his arms. "That wasn't fair! You cheated."
"You have longer legs than me!" You exclaimed through laughter. "I was just leveling the playing field." You were clutching onto Colt's shoulders as he held you by your waist.
You guys didn't necessarily register how close your faces were until you'd calmed down from your laughing fit. You guys stared at each other with gentle smiles on your faces. Colt had started to put you down gently, but as soon as one of your feet hit the water, the cold zipped up your spine, and you clutched Colt tighter, pulling your foot back up.
Colt couldn't help the laugh that rumbled through his chest, making you throw a glare at him.
"Don't laugh at me. It's cold!" You pouted at him.
"S'not that cold." Colt shook his head at you before a roguish smirk appeared on his lips, and you knew exactly what that smile meant.
"Colt." Your voice was laced with warning, but he ignored it as he moved further into the water. You started to protest and try to wiggle out of his arms, but his grip was iron-clad around your waist.
"Please, please, please don't do this! I'll let you pick the movie, I'm sorry that I cheated!" You started to plead with him as the water began to hit his thighs.
Colt shook his head. "It's a little late for apologies sweetheart, you should have thought about this before you decided to play dirty."
You could feel his grip loosening on you, so you clutched onto him tighter. "Colt, please." You sent him your best puppy-dog look, pout and all (but you could never do it as well as he could).
Colt's eyes softened for a split second before the smile was plastered back on his face, and he threw you into the ocean. Cold, salty water enveloped you as you landed in it with a splash. It was a shock to your heated body, and you felt goosebumps rise on your skin as you stood in the water, wiping the water clinging to your face and eyelashes, glaring at Colt as he laughed.
"You're an ass." You spat out as you moved a strand of your hair from your face.
"There's always consequences for your actions." Colt said while shrugging, a shit-eating grin on his face as his eyes trailed down your now wet figure.
"Mhm, really?" You asked with derision in your tone as you smiled mockingly at him.
"Yep." Colt popped the 'p' a bit obnoxiously.
Instead of responding to him, you splashed him with water, and Colt flinched from the sudden feeling of the cold water hitting his heated skin. Colt looked down at his now-wet chest and back at you.
"Just remember, you started this." Colt lunged at you before you dodged him with a yelp-turned-laugh.
The two of you swam around, splashing each other, and roughhousing in the water like you guys were kids again. You had spent about an hour in the water before getting tired and hungry. So the two of you went back to your little setup on the nearly-vacant beach, dried off, and ate some lunch that Colt had meal-prepped the night before. You guys were chatting between bites and sips of the drinks Colt also brought from the cooler.
Once you guys were done eating, you opted to tan for a little while, resting your head on an extra towel that Colt had rolled up for you, and read while Colt ran back to his truck to grab his surfboard. The waves had gotten bigger as the day went on, and so he was going to try to surf for a little while. He tried to coax you into joining him, but you wouldn't go in without a wetsuit (which neither of you had). You also didn't know how to surf well, so you waved off Colt and dived into your book.
Colt surfed for maybe thirty minutes before he came back, and you were now lying on your back, sunglasses perched on your nose bridge as you flipped through your book. Colt was quick to dry off and lay next to you, but rested his head on your lap, the two of you in an 'L' shape near your things. You didn't protest Colt lying with you, and your free hand found his damp hair and raked through the strands, gently detangling them with your fingers.
You heard Colt let out a soothing sigh. "Can you read to me?" He asked in a relaxed voice.
"Sure." You replied before jumping into the page you were on, and you continued to comb your fingers through his hair. Your voice was just as soothing as the ocean's crashing waves, and soon they blended for Colt as he was lulled into sleep.
You had stopped reading altogether when you noticed that Colt was sleeping soundly. You placed your book beside you after bookmarking it, and you let your mind wander as you watched the water, your hand still playing with Colt's hair. After a couple of minutes, you sat up to admire Colt's features.
He looked younger while he was sleeping, but he also looked younger when he had a bright smile on his face. Your hand left his hair, and your fingertips traced his brow bone lightly, then the ridge of his nose, before skimming the edge of his parted lips, the soft hair of his upper lip tickling your fingertips.
"I'm starting to think that you have a staring problem." Colt murmured with his eyes still closed.
You just smiled at him, saying nothing in response. You placed your hand on his cheek, making his eyes crack open. The late afternoon sun painted your features in an orange hue that made you look like Colt's own personal angel, looking down on him, with the light making a halo around your head. You leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Colt's forehead, making his heart simultaneously melt and explode at the affection.
Colt swallowed hard before speaking. "What was that for?"
You shrugged. "I just wanted to."
Colt nodded. "Cool. Cool." God, you had no idea how much Colt wanted to fist-pump the air right now, but he contained himself. "You know if you ever wanted to do it again, it's totally fine by me."
You laughed a little, having to stifle it before responding, "Good to know." You sent him a small smile before looking back at the water, your hand returning to his hair and combing through the now dry strands.
"Wanna go back in the water ?" Colt asked after a beat of silence.
"Not fully," You shook your head. "It's going to be really cold if we swim in it, now."
"That's fine. We can walk for a little." Colt suggested, and you nodded.
Both of you got up and dusted some sand off yourselves before you guys walked side by side to the shoreline. Colt felt brave and grabbed your hand. You said nothing, laced your fingers with his, and you guys walked in silence, holding hands as you walked along the edge of the water.
At some point, you guys stopped walking and just stared at the vast expanse of the Pacific. You had ended up in front of Colt, resting against his chest as his arm was slung across your chest. The two admired the sun slowly setting; the sunset made the ocean look like it was made of diamonds and precious gems as the fading light danced across the water's surface.
Before the sun was fully set, you guys headed back to where your stuff was and packed up. Once the truck was all packed up, you guys rinsed and dried off. You changed out of your swimsuit into some lounge pants and Colt's hoodie, while Colt just put his Miami Vice jacket over his tank top and wore some sweatpants before the two of you went and ate at the nearest burger joint before going to grab some ice cream to share.
Then Colt drove you guys to a lookout spot overlooking the sea from a cliff. You guys ate the half-melted ice cream through delirious laughter and sputtered words, but the two of you were having the time of your lives with one another.
The ice cream was quickly finished, and you were calming down from your laughter. At some point, Colt had taken off his jacket, and you were sitting the wrong way in his truck, your back was braced against the glove box, and your bare feet rested on the bench seat.
The moon was high in the sky, illuminating the sea, and it filtered into the truck, casting both of you in a soft, dim white glow.
"This was really fun. I had a great time." You admitted with a soft grin.
"Yeah?" Colt mirrored your grin as his arm rested on the wheel, his thumb tapping on the edge of it.
"Yeah." You confirmed as you looked at him.
Colt looked at you with such fondness in his eyes that it almost made you feel shy under his gaze, a silence settling in the truck cabin.
You broke eye contact with him, looking out the window into the darkened night, and fiddled with the cuffs of the hoodie.
"Hey," Colt murmured, pulling your attention back to him. "C'mere." Colt reached out and tugged on your sleeve.
You did as he said so easily; the low timber of his voice was like your personal siren song. You sat up and slid towards him as your knees pressed into the leather of the seat. Colt's hand was hesitant as he lifted and placed it gently on your cheek.
Colt leaned closer to you, and just before your noses touched, he stopped. "Can—" He swallowed thickly, nerves rattled his core. "—can I kiss you?"
A small but giddy smile pulled at your lips. "Yeah."
Colt let a small but relieved breath before pressing his lips against yours. Your eyes fluttered shut as you leaned into the kiss. It was just a simple press of your lips together, but Colt felt like he had died and gone to heaven. Finally, after months of waiting, Colt was finally kissing you.
Colt had pulled back and rested his forehead against yours. "God, I've been wanting to do that for a while." He admitted breathlessly.
You chuckled at him. "Then why didn't you do it earlier?"
"Didn't want to mess up with you again. You wanted to take it slow so I wanted to honor that." Colt's thumb was caressing your cheek as he pulled back slightly to look into your eyes.
Your heart swelled at Colt's words. "I love you." You couldn't hold back the words as they burst from you.
Colt felt like his heart was going to break his ribcage with how fast it was pounding as he stared at you dumbly. You had broken his brain. "R-really?"
"Yes. I think I have been since we traded hats." You said, letting out a wet laugh; tears of glee lined your eyes. "But today just solidified it."
Colt let out a relieved laugh before he pulled your face to his again and pressed multiple pecks to your lips, mumbling 'I love you' in between each kiss, making you laugh at how infectious Colt's joy was. You guys weren't even kissing anymore, just smiling into each other's mouths and basking in the happy bubble the two of you were in.
You managed to calm down enough to capture his lips once more for a longer kiss, pouring all of your emotions into it. Colt returned your kiss with the same fervor. Colt couldn't help himself and pulled you into his lap with ease, and you were straddling him. The steering wheel was digging into your lower back, but you didn't care as Colt's tongue swiped and the seam of your lips and licked into your mouth.
Colt could feel how warm your skin was from the sun, even though it had gone down hours ago. But he savored the feeling of your bare waist and hips underneath his calloused palms as they roamed underneath the hoodie you had borrowed (stolen) from Colt as the two of you kissed. If nothing else happened tonight and he just got to kiss you, then he could die a happy man.
Colt loved how your lips moved against him and the little sigh that escaped your nose when he nibbled on your bottom lip. His tongue danced with yours, and he couldn't help but smile at the taste of the sweet vanilla on your tongue as he sucked on it lightly. He was re-familiarizing himself with your taste, your sounds, and how your body reacted to him.
Your hands wove themselves into the messy blonde strands at the back of his head as one of his hands moved from under the hoodie to cradle your jaw, and deepened the kiss even further. Your hips had a mind of their own as they ground against the rapidly growing bulge underneath Colt's sweats.
A groan escaped Colt at the feeling of friction against his groin, and the rumble of his voice sent a zap of arousal down your spine, making your hips roll against his once more. It was like the two of you had a feedback loop of desire feeding into your bodies as the kisses increased with heat and passion.
Your body was getting hot from the layers you were wearing, and you pulled away from Colt for a second, ripped off the hoodie, sent it to the floor of the truck, and attached your lips back to Colt's. Colt barely managed to capture a glimpse of your bare chest, a low whine escaping him that was muffled by your lips. His hands couldn't help but glide up the length of your back before they diverged; one of them stayed on your upper back, while the other one traveled down to your ass and squeezed it.
You had tugged at his hair, and that dull pain snapped Colt out of his lust-induced haze. "W-wait." Colt just barely managed to pull away from you, a moment of clarity hitting him.
You tried to chase his lips but stopped when you heard the breathy nature of his tone. "Yeah? What's wrong?" You asked as you sat back a little, but you backed up further than you meant to, and you managed to elbow the horn of the truck, making it blare out in the quiet night, making the two of you jump in surprise.
Once your heartbeat reset to a normal pace, your eyes met Colt's, and the two of you shared a small laugh, and the two of you shuffled across the bench seat to where you were sitting, giving you ample space to lean back if you needed.
Colt kept his eyes trained on your face (no matter how much they wanted to slide down and trace the shape of your breasts). "Are you sure about this?"
"Yes. Are you?" You threw back at him as you gently scraped your nails through his scalp.
Colt's eyes fluttered at the sensation (god, that was like his kryptonite). "Yeah. But my truck wasn't what I had in mind."
"Oh?" An amused smile pulled at your lips. "And what exactly did you have in mind?"
"Well, for starters, I would have asked you out on a date—" Colt couldn't help himself and leaned in and pressed a kiss to your collarbone, "—wined and dined you before inviting you back to my apartment for a night cap—" His lips trailed up your neck, pressing an even softer kiss to the skin before it reached your jaw, "—where I'd ask you if I could kiss you and then I'd rock your world." Colt's lips finally reached your lips, where he kissed you so gently that you could barely call it a kiss.
You couldn't help but laugh against his lips. "Colt, honey, I'm literally topless in front of you and you're worried about doing it right?" You pulled away from him slightly.
"I'm worried about giving you the best and doing it right." Colt corrected as he looked deep into your eyes.
Your eyes softened when you saw the glint of fear in his eyes. "Hey," You said gently as one of your hands found his cheek, "I don't need the best. I just need you."
Colt looked back and forth between your eyes that were filled with sincerity as he swallowed thickly.
"Besides," You continued with a growing smile on your slightly swollen lips. "When have we ever done this right?" You gestured to the two of you before leaning closer to him, your lips brushing against his. "We can have that nightcap at your apartment as a round two." You whispered sultrily before kissing him again.
Well, when you put it that way, Colt couldn't help but silently agree with you as he pressed his lips harder against yours. It was like the dam had broken and Colt's hands had skated up your rib cage and cupped your breasts in his hands, and he started to pinch and tweak your nipples as they hardened underneath his touch.
You let out a breathy moan against him, and Colt's lips made their way down your jaw, your neck, and chest before they were wrapped around one of your breasts, and he started to suck and nip at the area. You leaned back and threw your head back, letting a small whine escape you.
Your hips started to grind against his slowly, and you could feel how your underwear was sticking to you with how wet you were getting. The friction felt great against your sensitive clit that was begging for attention.
One of your hands found itself trailing down Colt's chest before they slipped underneath the waistband of his sweatpants, your knuckles brushed past the patch of hair on his stomach, and you couldn't help the soft laugh that escaped you when you found no barrier between you and his hardness.
"No underwear?" You asked before you grasped him, making him choke on a groan as he pulled away from your boob.
"I should ask you the same thing. You had no shirt underneath my hoodie." Colt muttered as he nipped at the soft flesh of your breast before he moved on to the neglected breast and sucked a mark on top of it.
Your lip twitched. "Touche." You responded before Colt had groaned again as your hand slowly squeezed his cock before your thumb teased his tip, collecting the pre-cum that had leaked out, you dragged your hand up and down to spread it.
To even the playing field, one of Colt's hands slipped past the barriers you were wearing, and he smirked when he felt how slippery your slit was as he dragged his fingers through it. You let out a soft moan as he rubbed at your clit.
The two of you teased each other with how slow the other was going. You leaned forward to kiss him again and he responded in kind, his tongue diving into your mouth as one of his thick fingers slipped further down and prodded at your entrance before it dipped inside of you smoothly, there wasn't a hint of resistance because of how wet you were for Colt. Your hand faltered on his cock as his finger started to move inside of you, sending waves of heat through your body.
Another finger slipped in beside his first one, and Colt let out a breathy 'fuck' at the feeling of your tight walls stretching to accommodate his fingers. "You're so tight f'me. Gonna have to stretch you out, sweetheart."
You moaned at his words. "Please. Wanna feel you." You continued to move your hand on his cock, before giving up and rolling your hips onto Colt's hand, riding his fingers.
Colt didn't mind you stopping—he was too focused on trying to make you come on his fingers. He shifted his fingers slightly, and suddenly, he was hitting the spongy spot inside of you that made you see stars. His other hand had moved from your chest to rest on your throat, not squeezing, just resting as you panted against Colt's mouth.
You were close, you knew it, and Colt knew it and responded in kind, moving his thumb to rub at your clit as he aimed your g-spot with every thrust of his fingers. "You gonna come?" Colt's voice was thick and rough with desire as his eyes were trained on your lust-addled expression.
"Yes! S-so close." You choked out as pleasure threatened to rack your body.
"Be a good girl f'me and come," Colt commanded, and you couldn't help but listen, and you fell apart on his fingers as your vision went white. You slumped over Colt's body, as your hips mindlessly continued to ride his fingers as you came down from your orgasm.
Once you caught your breath, Colt's fingers slowly retracted from your slit, covered in your slick, he looked you dead in the eye and sucked your arousal off his fingers. Your breathing had turned heavy as he pulled them out of his mouth and kissed you, letting the taste of you mix with the taste of him.
You groaned into his mouth, and you remembered where your hands were and grasped his cock once more and started to move your hand up and down on it, using various amounts of pressure once you got to his sensitive head.
"Fuck." Colt grunted before he grabbed your wrist, stopping you. "Things are going to end a lot sooner than I want." He responded to your look of confusion, sounding out of breath.
Colt pulled your hand out of his sweatpants. He took off his tank top before dragging his pants down to his thighs, his cock springing up and hitting his bare stomach.
You swallowed at the sight of his hard cock, you had nearly forgotten how big he was (but you couldn't, you remember exactly how it carved you out anytime you and Colt fucked), and your mouth started to salivate.
Colt tugged at your own pants, and you helped him get rid of them completely, leaving the two of you naked and bathed in the light of the moon that leaked into the truck. Colt kissed you again as he reached behind you, opened the glove box, and searched for something blindly.
You couldn't help but laugh as he let out a frustrated groan against your lips. You pulled away, and he pressed a quick kiss to your shoulder before hooking his chin over it to be able to see what he was looking for. You heard him say a little 'ah!' before leaning back into the seat, and you saw a condom wrapper in his hand.
You raised an eyebrow at him. "You keep condoms in your truck?"
"I put them there this morning."
The eyebrow you raised climbed higher on your forehead; you were sending him a bit of a judgmental look.
"Wishful thinking?" Colt said sheepishly.
You broke and laughed, shaking your head. "You're so lucky that you're cute."
Colt sent you a smile before he ripped it open with his teeth (which shouldn't have been as attractive as it actually was, but you blame it on Colt's natural charm), and you had taken the condom from him and rolled it down his cock. You shifted on his lap to hover over his cock.
You didn't know who leaned in first, but Colt's mouth was on yours once more, and the two of you moaned in each other's mouths as you slowly sank on Colt's cock. You took it slow since it had been a while since you've been with anyone, and even longer since you've been with Colt. Usually, it took a bit more prep time when it came to Colt filling you up, but you were impatient, and you craved to have Colt fill you up to the brim.
You had to take a second for yourself when your pelvis hit his own. God, it felt overwhelming with how he stretched you out, and it was like he was in your throat with how full your cunt felt.
Colt's eyes were squeezed shut, and you could see the tendons in Colt's neck strain with effort. Colt was holding back from immediately shifting his hips and moving inside you, trying to give you time to adjust, but your fluttering walls were really tempting him to throw caution to the wind and start moving.
But soon enough, your hips started to move, and he let out a stuttering breath once you did. Colt's hands found refuge on your hips, just resting as he let you move at your own pace. Heavy breathing and moans filled the truck cabin, and fog began to coat the windows as the heat built between the two of you.
"You feel so good wrapped around me, sweetheart." Colt groaned. "Missed you so much. God, you're so pretty, my pretty girl." He praised.
You moaned at the praise, and your hips started to move faster. Colt couldn't tear his eyes off of you as you moved up and down his cock. He could feel the heat of arousal pool in his lower abdomen, but tried to stave it off, wanting you to come on his cock first.
Colt's grip on your hips tightened, and he started to thrust up to meet your hips, and the sound was obscene as the slap of your ass against his thighs started to mix in with your moans and whines. Colt felt your walls start to clench repeatedly around him.
"I can feel you clenching around me. You close?" Colt groaned out as his grip on your hips almost turned bruising.
"H-harder, please!" You babbled out as your hips continued to rock up and down on Colt.
Colt obliged and angled his hips in a way that the thick tip of his cock hit your g-spot with each thrust before he sent a hand in between your legs and started to work at your oversensitive clit. You practically sobbed out as the pleasure started overwhelming your senses and you fell apart on his cock, your cunt spasming around his cock.
Colt couldn't help but finally let go of the coil that was wound tight around his abdomen, and his cock twitched inside of you as he filled the condom with his spend. His thrusts slowed down as the two of you came down from your highs. Your head had fallen into the crook of his sweaty neck as you came, and as you finally had caught your breath, you inhaled his musky scent.
Colt was softening inside of you, but neither of you cared—you both liked being this close with one another. Colt coaxed you from the crook of his neck and pulled you into a kiss that was so sweet that it could have given you a cavity.
"I love you." Colt mumbled against your lips.
"I love you too." You murmured back.
The two of you knew that you should clean up, but all Colt did was crack open the window a bit before wrapping his arms around you, hugging you close to him, and the two of you listened to the crashing waves of the ocean and let the feeling of contentedness wash over you and Colt.
Your hearts were full of each other, and everything finally felt right once more.
summary — jack has seen you leave a trail of broken hearts and bad dates, and he’s determined to prove to you that you’re looking for love in all the wrong places.
warnings — 12.6k words. age gap (jack’s around 50; reader’s a 4th year resident, so 20s), attending/resident power dynamic; mentor/mentee relationship, idiots in love maybe?? yearning!jack, jealous!jack, jack ‘i’ll pay for it’ abbot strikes Again!!!! hurt + comfort (one instance of jack being an ass, but he smooths it over during the same shift - they can’t stay mad at each other), mild angst, patient death, jack’s leg - reader helps him adjust the prosthetic and takes care of him during a long shift, canon-typical medical scenes and probably lots of inaccuracies (i’m an english major reddit is my best friend) ; on-page patient death, reader performing compressions, reader DATES DATES and may be unprofessional (affectionately she just wants to find love and her entire life revolves around the hospital who can blame her), reader’s written to have hair she brushes and can pin up, she also gets on her toes to kiss him but that can be ignored i just liked the image jack basically bribes her into a date, no smut but they’re So very much thinking about it, rushed-ish ending i think?
notes — wrote this in a slump it took so Unbelievably long and i’m not even sure i like it but i wanted to post something before i give up on writing anything ever again!!!!
It was midnight and a peds nurse was lingering by the ambulance doors, and Jack knew that he wasn’t meant to be there. Lewis was his name, maybe, but Jack couldn’t even be sure of that — and knew he had no reason to be sure of it, because the guy wasn’t meant to be there. Running the ER in the middle of the night, with all of the day’s patients handed off, and the night’s still finding their way through triage, was difficult in itself, and he didn’t have the energy to also babysit Ryan-or-Lewis-or-whoever hovering there like a little boy waiting to be picked up from school.
“Is he meant to be here?” Jack asked, closing the space toward the desk where Lena was pointing something, jutting his thumb in the direction of the guy.
Lena flattened a printout on the desk with two fingers, hardly sparing him a glance.
“Him. Peds. Why is he there?” he tried again.
“Couldn’t tell you,” she said, but the corner of her mouth had flicked up, proving that she was simply choosing not to tell him.
“He’s off his unit,” he said. He knew he sounded just slightly silly stating the obvious.
“Seems so.”
“Send him back, then,” Jack drawled, incredulous, hands finding his hips. “There’s enough shit going on here.”
“You send him back,” she retorted, amused just slightly. “If you’re so concerned.”
Jack looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head as his hands went to rest on his hips. When he looked back down, he found you walking toward the nurse and it suddenly made complete sense.
He let out a sigh. “This has to be a joke.”
His eyes, as they did more often than was appropriate, caught on you, hair coming down loose from where you’d pinned it, the scrubs lopsided at one hip, riding lower than where they’d started at the beginning of the night. You turned to say something to the guy quickly, and the movement caught the slip, your scrub top moving up half an inch, and Jack’s eyes went there before his brain could tell him that was wrong, some groove in him that noticed you before it noticed anything useful. He had a second of pure, unhelpful distraction before his brain reminded him that he was an attending and had things to do.
“I actually think it’s funny,” Lena said, shrugging.
Of course it had something to do with you. He should’ve figured it out the second he saw the guy standing there with his hands in the pouch of his scrubs, rocking heel to toe like the floor was just too exciting to be standing on. Nobody loitered around the ambulance bay at midnight for good reason. People came through those doors bleeding or they didn’t come through them at all, and this guy had shown up with nothing wrong with him, except maybe a case for some lovesickness.
“I’m gonna make this stop,” Jack said, already pushing himself away from the nurse’s station.
Lena’s eyes widened slightly. “Don’t say anything that gets you sat down with HR.”
“She can goddamn try me,” he said, and went. Also because Jack was fairly sure you would never report him to HR.
He crossed the floor and caught the tail-end of your conversation as he closed in.
“ — just tell me when you’re free, that’s all I’m asking,” the guy was saying.
You were already half-turned, already gone as you waved a hand loosely beside you. “I don’t know, I just don’t think we should try again.”
Jack blew out a breath, standing a few feet short of you, your back facing him. Why was he not surprised? He’d been keeping tally without meaning to, and he knew that was embarrassing. There was the radiology fellow who’d started hand-delivering films that very well could’ve gone through the system; the travel nurse who’d washed through in six weeks and left the floor faintly weird in his wake; the anaesthesia resident who now took the long way around the department if he saw you at the end of it, as though he were a dog who’d learned the fence was electric. And now this one, apparently, Peds with his whole hopeful heart hanging out in Jack’s department.
“You’re so sweet for coming down here,” you practically crooned at him, shifting on your heels, eyes flicking down to the form in your hand. “But I really do have a whole long night ahead of me, and I know my answer’s not gonna change, so I won’t make you wait around for it, okay?”
Jack fought the urge to roll his eyes when you said the words with the upward lilt of a woman sending a toddler back to his mother. He wanted to laugh a little when he saw that the guy had taken it standing up like it was a gift.
The hell of it was that Jack understood the man. He understood every last one of them because he stood next to you fifty hours a week, had been doing so for three years, and whatever the department thought of him after his consistent therapy, he was not carved out of stone.
Jack was afraid that if he hadn’t been your attending these last four years and a little younger, wearing his heart on his sleeve, he’d have been eating out of the palm of your hand.
You gave the guy a there-there pat, and it was only then did his eyes land on Jack, who he probably knew was your fucking attending. You turned then, and immediately said, “Oh, Dr. Abbot, I’ve got the guy in six’s labs back, the potassium —”
“Mhm.” Jack’s hands came up and landed on your shoulders before you’d finished the sentence, squaring you off the spot where you stood and turning you bodily back toward the floor like you were a gurney.
“It is four-point-nine, but the EKG’s good, so I was gonna recheck in —”
“Let’s recheck it now,” he said. He kept you moving, his palms broad through the cotton of your scrubs, steering you a few feet till your own feet caught onto the idea.
You grumbled something under your breath, and once he’d stopped you right in front of six, you turned to face him with your brows raised.
“Say something?” he asked, tipping his chin down.
“You seem like you’re mad at me,” you said.
“Huh. I do?” He let go of your shoulders — noticing, distantly, the exact second his hands came off and suddenly felt too empty — and reached past you to pluck six’s chart off the tray, more to have something to do with them than needing it. “You’re right. You should recheck in ten minutes.”
“You’re mad at me,” you said again, crossing your arms over your chest.
He blew out a breath, and suddenly felt just a little silly at getting worked up over a nurse by the doors when there was a large, glowing board behind him full of names that needed his complete, undivided attention.
You were a senior resident, after all, four years deep, one of his sharpest — you’d treated the guy in six, hadn’t you, you’d flagged it and called for the EKG and made the right call on the recheck before he’d even asked, all while dismantling some man’s hopes. Somehow, your mess and competence ran on the same current. You never let the first touch the second. He’d have loved, some nights, to have an excuse to be mad — a missed lab, a blown line, anything he could write up and point at — and you kept declining to hand him one. All of this meant he was left with this vague swampy irritation, and Jack wasn’t the sort of mentor who liked to hound upon that.
“No, sweetheart, I just love it when you get random men hanging around the department,” he settled on saying, feeling his shoulders visibly loosen a fraction.
You winced, eyes darting over to the emptiness in front of the doors now. “Sorry.”
“You’d say it won’t happen again, but we both know better.” He shrugged. Then, he reached out his hand — he wasn’t sure why, except that it just happened naturally — and patted you once on the shoulder, then on the second turned you to face the curtains leading to your patient. “Doctor up.”
And you did, the loose, embarrassed shape of you being replaced in the space of a single breath, being replaced by something Jack had watched grow into you over the years and still hadn’t quite gotten used to.
Trauma called it in nine minutes later, an MVC, unrestrained driver, GCS dropping in the field. Jack was working on a laceration in four when he heard the crackled warning, and by the time he’d looked up out the curtains, you were already moving, gowned and at the head of the bay calling out assignments like you’d been doing this for a decade.
“I need two units O-neg before he rolls in,” you said, voice pitched high enough to carry without yelling, cutting clean through the perpetual noise of the department. “Somebody get me a second eighteen-gauge ready, and I want an ultrasound in here.”
Donnie and Mateo were already moving, and so were the people around you, falling into your orbit like the room had easily reorganized itself around your voice the second it went up. Jack stood by the curtain, gloves from the lac still on, and found he couldn’t make himself move just yet.
The doors banged open. EMS wheeled the stretcher through fast, calling out vitals over each other, and you were already on the patient’s side before the gurney had fully stopped moving, hands moving on his neck, chest, eyes scanning his pupils in a matter of ten seconds. He began walking over, catching your voice as you called out your reads as someone hung the blood and someone else prepped the ultrasound wand. “Page neuro now.”
“On it,” Mateo said, already moving.
You had both hands on the patient, running the primary survey quickly, confirming, checking, discarding possibilities out in short, clipped sentences Jack recognized as the sound of your brain running six steps ahead of your mouth. Sweat had started on your hairline. You called out for OR to be on standby, eyes flickering around the room and landing on Jack. “OR, please,” you said, aimed at him, brows going up.
“On it,” Jack said, because there was no way he was going to let you be wrong about needing something and didn’t make sure you got it.
The next six minutes went by fast and loud, in bursts and then suddenly quiet, the room narrowing down on functionality. You stood at the center of it; you called it and ran it. You got the man upstairs stable enough that Walsh didn’t sound worried for one second, and that was a compliment from her.
Jack watched the whole thing from four feet back, arms crossed, and chipping in when your brain had snagged. He was feeling a heat in his chest helplessly and entirely unprofessional, it was always present when he was able to see, in real-time, how far you’d come from your first day of residency when your hands were a second too slow on the central line and how your voice would pitch up at the end of every read, asking for permission every time instead of stating it like a fact, eyes finding him across the room each time, checking.
There was none of that left in you now, he realized, had done so a long time ago. He thought, watching you now, that this was the closest thing he’d let himself do to falling in years, standing uselessly riveted as he watched a woman he’d taught outgrow the need for him in real time, and finding that instead of the loss he’d expected to feel when the day finally came, all he felt was warm and terrifying and too much like pride.
When the room had started clearing out, he watched your mouth drop open as you let out a heavy breath, eyes going over to him. The second he watched you realize he was still there, your face shifted, the relief turning into something sharper.
“Why didn’t you jump in?” You crossed the floor toward him in four hard strides, gloves already peeled off and balled tight in one fist, snapping the second one free with a motion that looked terrifyingly like it wanted to be aimed at him. “His pressure tanked for thirty seconds and you just watched.”
“You had it.”
“You didn’t know that,” you said, voice going up an octave, adrenaline still thrumming through you, hands coming up the gesture at the blood-streaked floor. “I could’ve missed something. You’re the attending, Jack, you’re supposed to catch if I missed something —”
“I would’ve,” he interrupted, stepping in close enough that you had to tilt your head back to keep glaring at him properly. “The second you needed me, I would’ve stepped in. I wasn’t gonna take it from you before you did.”
“You can’t gamble like that with a patient —” Your chest was rising and falling fast, gloves now crushed in your fist, and he could see the fear catching up now that everything around you had gone quiet enough to let it, something that looked more like fear of yourself than for the patient. “What if I’d frozen —?”
“I knew you wouldn’t.” He reached his hand out, thumb catching a smear of the blood at your jaw you’d accidentally smeared on yourself, wiping it off carefully with the pad of his thumb, and felt you go still under it. “You don’t trust my judgement?”
“You know I do. You just could’ve said something.”
“I could’ve. He dropped his hand from your jaw only to catch your wrist instead. “Didn’t wanna interrupt you being brilliant. Kinda liked watching it happen.”
Your mouth opened, surely to let out some unnecessary retort, and died there when he pressed one slow stroke of his thumb against your wrist, raising a brow.
“Relax,” he said, voice going rough as he leaned in a little, forcing you to meet his eyes properly. “Just take the win. That’s an order.”
“Now you wanna give orders,” you mumbled.
He barked out a short laugh, letting go of your wrist. “Only when you’re being stubborn for no reason.”
It was sometime during the second year of your residency when he’d started catching your drift. It had started with a random Friday shift. He’d seen you at the station, elbows on the counter, telling Lena something conspiratorially. Jack was meant to be reading a chart but couldn’t help how his ears had perked up. Anything to get through the shift, he supposed.
“ — no, but he was perfect on paper,” you were saying, “kept his house clean and everything. He told me he kept his plant alive for six years —”
“So, what happened?” Lena said flatly, like she already knew what you were going to say but wanted to hear anyway.
“He wanted to take me bowling on the second date,” you said through a sigh. “I know how it sounds, but you’ve gotta hear me out —”
“I’m genuinely not going anywhere.”
“ — for the first date, bowling’s fun. But he took me to a nice dinner the first time, he set a standard, and then the second date he goes bowling, which means the effort’s already —” You created a little downward slope with your hand. “And if it’s already sliding on date two, where’s it at on date two hundred? I can already see my marriage with him and it’s bad.”
It seemed you had a criteria, Jack learned then. It was proven even more when he’d heard you talk about your other failed dates, seen them, and learned — without ever wanting to — what they were, to an extent.
He knew you couldn’t stand a man who ordered for you without asking. He knew you’d written off a fellow for the way he talked about his mother, and another one — an accountant, a rare specimen who had no clue what an EKG was — over a text message you’d read aloud to Ellis in a voice of complete horror, though Jack had never caught what it actually said, only your face while you read it. He knew you gave people precisely three dates, that this was a rule you held if the first and second date went well, three apparently being the magic number at which a person could no longer hide the demon they were going to turn out to be (your words).
He knew, too, that you only allowed one kiss after the first date, if even that. It was never up for negotiation, no matter how beautifully the night had gone, for you never wanted to end up “emotionally overdrawn on an account you hadn’t even opened yet.”
He knew you a man lost real points if, over the three dates, if it involved drinks, he ordered the same one. He knew a man gained them, silently and instantly, for being able to sit in a lull without narrating his way out of it, and that you considered this the single rarest trait in modern dating.
He knew you were looking for something you had no name for and would recognize on sight, which struck him as a hell of a way to run a search.
He’d have told you, if you asked, that he tuned most of the station chatter out as a matter of survival, for while he enjoyed the occasional gossip, he couldn’t very well absorb everyone’s business. And that was true about everyone’s business but yours, apparently, because yours came in clear.
Your business he retained against his own better judgement, and he realized — once, during a slow shift — that he could’ve drawn you a better map of your taste than you seemed to carry yourself. He could’ve told you, if you asked, exactly the kind of man who’d finally clear your bar, and exactly why he had yet to show up.
It was almost nice, some nights, watching you try anyway. The ER was a place where everyone was kept tethered to the world by a thread, and everyone who worked in it long enough to develop some version of the same calluses. Jack had grown his years ago, and he wore them invisible, occasionally aching, and had come to terms with it being permanent.
Love, for Jack, had stopped being a real noun before you’d shown up, somewhere between things he used to want and things he’d decided weren’t for him anymore.
You still believed in it. You’d watched this place take everything soft out of grown men twice your seniority and somehow walked through the same fire hopeful, still convinced, against every scrap of evidence, that somewhere there was a person worth all that hoping.
For that reason, he had decided to not interrupt your endeavors, not until now, when he noticed you during hand-off before your night shift with him started, in front of Robby, of all people.
While Jack loved Robby like a brother, he had a documented, department-wide, actuarially reliable seven-week expiration date on every woman he charmed out of this building. He’d heard intra-departmental gossip about him. There was, Jack was fairly sure, a running joke about it that predated your residency by years.
He knew you definitely were not finding love in his best friend. But Jack felt the buzzing in his mind go quiet and mean watching how you with him.
You laughed at something and Jack lost, for one humiliating second, the thread of what he’d walked over to say. It happened sometimes, more than he’d admit to anyone. Ordinary noises out of you hit him somewhere in his chest before the better part of him flagged it as a problem, and he had to physically clear his throat before finding his footing again.
“ — Italian’s always good after pulling a double,” Robby was saying. “But I do love some microwave ramen, too, when I’m missing my med student days.”
“Oh, so your standards have been raised being chief?” you said, and Jack could hear the smile and wariness in it.
“For sure —”
Jack let out a huff, something resembling a laugh, as his feet planted him between the two of you. He was close enough that his shoulder nudged yours and you had to step back to keep your balance. He felt your weight land for a second against him with a satisfaction he had no, absolutely no business feeling for something so small. So childish.
He turned to Robby, spreading his hands wide, mock outrage. “My resident.”
Robby looked mildly amused, unbothered, so Jack added, before he could respond, “Go home before I report you to HR.”
“You’d do that to me?”
“In a heartbeat. Have some shame.” Jack kept his shoulder where it was still angled half in front of you, an old, unexamined instinct keeping the line drawn even though Robby had already backed off.
He tipped his head toward the doors, toward the gold light coming up in them, the day shift draining out around you both. “There’s a whole rich life waitin’ for you out there.”
Robby just smiled and pushed off the counter, giving you a small wave before he left.
Jack turned to you then, brows furrowed. “Seriously?”
You let out a short laugh. “Work hard, play hard?”
“Soundin’ a lot like a frat brother right now. Never have those words been said in an ER,” Jack said.
“I wasn’t actually going to do it,” you said, rushing the words out with something more honest in them. “For the record. I know what — he’s got a reputation.” You picked at the counter. “I was just talking to him. He’s funny.”
Jack had to recalibrate for a second. “You were talkin’ sweet to him.”
“I talk sweet to everyone.” You lifted a shoulder, completely unbothered. “You should try it sometime.”
He rolled his eyes at that. He reached over for your cup of coffee sitting between you — closer to his elbow than yours — and drank a sip, eyes going up to the ceiling at the sheer volume of syrup you’d decided you needed in your bloodstream today. “The hell?” he muttered, turning the cup slightly as if that would help. “Are you trying to embalm yourself?”
“Give it back.”
“In a minute.” He took a second sip, slower this time, and watched you over the rim of the cup. Then, he set it back a few degrees off how you’d had it, just to see your jaw tick.
You pulled the cup back in, thumbed it around until the lid faced you again, and drank from it without breaking your explanation. “I’m offended you think I’ll get wine and dined by the chief attending.” You tilted your head. “Give me some credit here. I won’t be his seven weeks.”
“Huh.” He rubbed the back of his neck, which was warm. “Well, good. Don’t think he’ll clear your bar anyway.”
“See, you get it,” you said, pointing a finger at him. “At least someone around here does.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, tipping his head slightly forward that even he hadn’t realized that he had shifted the distance just slightly. “Better than most.”
Your eyes widened slightly at that, and Jack took that as his cue to step back, clear his throat, as he jerked his chin toward the board.
“Alright, time to work. Stop the play,” he said, trying to get his voice the right level. “Go look at chest pain on three.”
“So bossy,” you said, but you were already turning around to go to three.
Well, that’s what he was, wasn’t he? For some reason, he had to remind himself that.
It was what he had to remind himself as his hands hovered your trembling ones as you tried to pump air into Mrs. Foley’s lungs, knowing she was already gone — had been for a while now, if he was honest — longer than it took you to admit. He knew it, he’d grown the grim ability to recognize when a body stopped being a patient and being someone you were performing compressions on for the family’s sake, for your own need to have done everything.
He’d let it run anyway, because you hadn’t accepted it yet, and he’d wanted to give you that extra minute to arrive at it on your own.
Mateo had come up to Jack’s side, snapping his gloves off, the sound of it overshadowed by your own heaving.
“She has to call it,” he murmured. “You want me to —”
“No.” Jack’s eyes, he felt, could not move away from your distress. “I’ve got her.”
Mateo looked at him for a moment longer than the moment warranted, and then he stepped back and let Jack be. You were still going, your compressions had gone harder, faster, less like genuine medicine and more like you were pleading with Mrs. Foley herself now. Sweat had gone to the hair at your temple. Your jaw was set in a clench Jack recognized all too well, and for a moment, Jack wished that he didn’t have to be so acutely tuned into watching what the job did to others, the same way it did to him.
He stepped in behind your shoulder, close, and brought his hand down over yours where they were locked on the old woman’s chest.
“Look at the clock,” he said quietly into your ear.
“One more round —”
“You’ve done plenty.” He pressed, gently, until your hands stilled under his, and felt your entire body resist it. “You know she was gone before we could’ve even done anything —”
“She’s been my patient for years —”
Jack knew then that while you may have been an excellent doctor, his senior resident that had bloomed under his mentorship but still could’ve gone without him and done just the same, it wasn’t a good feeling to wonder if the job would dim you the way it had him.
“I know.” He kept his hands over yours with enough pressure so as to not let you drive them down again. “That’s why it’s yours to call. But you’ve gotta call it, Doctor.”
Your breath hitched as you turned your neck to face him, and there was a pool brimming on your lashline that you kept at bay, nodding. Your hands under his stopped straining upward, and he felt the exact second you accepted it, for it moved through your shoulders and down your spine and left you a little smaller standing there, the fight trickling into the moment after, which Jack always thought was worse.
“Time of death,” you said, forcing your voice back into the procedural tone, “oh-three-forty-one.” You peeled your gloves off finger-by-finger.
His hand found the small of your back after taking the minute, leading you to the little family consult room with the boxed tissues and fake ficus with a couch that had absorbed more bad news since longer than you or he had worked there. He shut the door with the flat of his hand and let the floor’s noise cut to a hum through the drywall.
You stood in the middle of the room with your arms crossed, holding yourself, and stayed silent.
Jack propped himself against the table, arms folded, as he breathed out a small sigh through his nose. He knew you weren’t a talker after the bad ones. Some residents came out of a loss with their mouths running, narrating it into something survivable, and some went quiet and small and had to be waited out, and you were the second kind. So he waited.
You broke it eventually, like he always knew you would have. “I’ve got a butterscotch she gave me seven months ago in my locker still,” you murmured, craning your neck so you were looking at the ceiling. You wiped under your eyes with the heel of your hand roughly.
“Think I’ve got one, too,” he murmured, wincing as he tried to shift his weight.
It had been building up for the past few hours, a hot ring of wrong down below the knee where the socket had gone slick and furnace-warm because it was past hour fourteen, when he’d sweated the fit and never changed the liner because there’d been no window that wasn’t already accounted for. He shifted his weight off it, trying again, and reached down to thumb the release, breaking the seal.
He let out a short, punched out sigh as he pulled himself down onto the chair behind him, one hand balancing himself on the table. “Sorry,” he gruffed out, jaw clenching.
Your eyes flickered down to the prosthetic limb he was balancing against the pole of the table and you were already moving before he could finish apologizing. You never asked if he needed a hand. You’d learned sometime during your second year that asking him gave him a chance to say no, and you’d quit handing him that chance sometime during your second year, so now you just came. You went down on one knee at the pole of the table.
“Don’t say sorry,” you mumbled, eyes not meeting him.
His jaw stayed tight and he didn’t fight it, fight you. That was a formality and you both knew it, a thing he did with his shoulders and not his hands, but he watched the top of your head and thought — like he always did, each time, and never said out loud — there was no one else on god’s green earth he’d let do this in the way you did. Not the prosthetist, who did it clinically. Not the VA, who did it tired. You did it each time like it was nothing and everything at once, as though this something not worth remarking on.
He very badly wanted to thank you, despite how small he always felt when you did this. He wanted to tell you that you were, without question, better at this than anyone who was paid to do it.
Your fingers found the socket and went for the liner because you knew the fit went bad and the sweat before it went bad anywhere a person could see, knew he’d have to run it slick and furnace-hot than spend the fourteen minutes off the floor. You rolled it back with the flat of your thumb, easing the trapped heat out of it, and he felt the pressure of the ring of raw below his knee and had to clench his jaw to not let the relief show on his face. You spared him anyway by keeping your eyes down where they’d been.
“You’ll strip your skin doing this,” you said conversationally, the roughness still present in your voice from the code. “You know that. You keep running it past twelve and one of these nights it’s cellulitis and I’m admitting you.”
“If only I could be so lucky.”
He ducked his head slightly, a part of him wanting to catch the reaction, and he saw how one corner of your lip was barely turned up.
You thumbed a line of red where the socket’s edge had bitten in, checking it, and your touch went careful around there. “This is new. The edge is catching higher than it was.”
“Went to a new liner last month,” he said, voice low. “Not broke in yet.”
“Then you break it on your days off. Not on a fourteen hour.” You finally looked up at him, shaking your head with this flat, fond expression he’d come to realize was your favorite way to look at him. “You’d write me up for less.”
“I’d write you up for a lot less,” he agreed, thinking back on the time you’d fought him tooth-and-nail over staying through a migraine, refusing, point-blank, to hand off a soft rule-out chest pain at eleven when the migraine had started very visibly began creeping up on you.
He’d caught you before you’d said a word about it because you’d begun squinting at the numbers and pressed the heel of your hand against one eye for a moment too long between patients, thinking nobody was watching. He was, he realized, always watching you in some way.
“Go home,” he’d said quietly, catching you by the elbow outside the curtain. “That’s not a request.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve got a migraine.”
“I’ve got a job.” Your jaw had clenched, stubbornly, and Jack had thought that even if he’d put all his strength into it, he wouldn’t have been able to unclench it for you. “I’m not handing off a chest pain because my head hurts. This guy has waited long enough for a bed. I’m not the priority here.”
He’d wanted to tell you that you were, actually, that you were exactly the priority, and watching you white-knuckle forms with your pupils blown different sizes from pain scared him more than any board full of critical pains ever had. But he’d just pulled down the light two notches, told the nurses to shadow eleven’s discharge, and put a bottle of water and two Tylenol on your desk without a word. And thank god, you’d taken the Tylenol and finished the shift standing up because sitting made the room tilt worse, and only taken on non-critical cases. You’d refused until the end that you should’ve gone home three hours earlier.
Now, you huffed something that was nearly a laugh, your first real once since the code, and went back to setting. And Jack sat there with his arms crossed in the dark with your hands on the worst-guarded part of him and the door shut against the whole floor, and thought about how he believed nobody deserved you. People were vile and sucked and cut in line and let doors swing shut behind them, and you handed out three dates to men who wrote sonnets in your voicemail and couldn’t clear a bar you’d never once lowered for anyone. He’d thought, more nights than he liked to admit, that these people had no idea what they were auditioning for.
His eyes snagged on you because there was nothing else in this small room worth looking at. There was still salt dried in your lashline from the code. You were a wreck and you were fixing his leg anyway, still half-shaking from a woman you couldn’t save, and it hadn’t occurred to you to stop and put yourself back together first. It never did. Jack had seen the care run out of you before you ever decided to spend it.
“I’m sorry about Mrs. Foley,” he said.
You shook your head, face still angled down, thumb pausing mid-motion. “I’ll be okay,” you murmured, lifting up one shoulder. “I just hate that she couldn’t get here sooner.”
“You did nothing wrong,” he said plainly. “Family said she’s been feeling off for two days now.”
“I know.” Your voice cracked, betraying the flatness you were trying to present. “Doesn’t make it easier.”
You lifted your head for a moment, then, looking at him with a sad smile he knew you were painting on to get him to stop talking.
He nodded stiffly, tipping his chin down. “Alright. Finish my leg and we’ll run this floor together.”
Up in radiology a few nights later, Jack had gone himself to sort out a reading that had been sitting long and he’d cornered a tech and got what he needed and was already halfway out the door, jacket sleeves still rolled from the last set of compressions, when he saw the guy standing off by the light boxes.
Younger. A resident, he supposed, in scrubs a size too crisp for someone who’d actually been on the shift long enough to earn wrinkles in them. He’d been watching Jack the whole time — Jack could feel it, the itch of being observed — shifting his weight heel to toe against the linoleum floor.
“Somethin’ on my face?” Jack said flatly because he really did have to get back to the floor.
“You’re — sorry, you’re Dr. Abbot, right?”
“Last I checked.”
The guy’s hand came out of his jacket’s pocket, and there was a piece of folded paper in it. Jack looked at it like it was a spider, hoping — no, praying — it had something to do with work.
“Could you give this to her?” the guy asked, and Jack’s hope died, as he stepped closer. “The senior resident on your shift. She’ll — she’ll know who it’s from.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jack murmured, brows pulling in together. “You ever heard of texting, kid?”
“I did,” he said, and Jack could practically feel the heat radiating off of him. “She stopped answering, so I figured, maybe on paper, she’d actually —”
“Take the hint,” Jack grumbled, snatching the paper out of his hand. Then, as he turned to the door, he said, “You know I work in the ER?” When the guy only nodded quickly, he added, “You know she works in the ER?”
“I — yeah. Obviously.”
“Then you know she doesn’t need this.” He held up the paper between him and the guy. “She’s got enough on her plate without some guy too chicken to call her handing me a note like I’m her mailman.”
The guy opened his mouth, nose scrunching at Jack’s words, but nothing came out.
“Yeah.” Jack was already walking, note tucked in his pocket, done with the conversation. “Try calling next time. Or don’t.”
The guy looked at least a little sheepish, a little ashamed, and Jack thought good, he should feel ashamed. He wasn’t sure what the protocol in dating was now — he’d been just a little rusty and out of the stretch for a stretch of years he preferred not to count in single digits — but he was fairly certain that whatever the rules had curdled up to, this could not possibly be inside them.
He rode the elevator down with the note in his pockets, and he could feel the small stiff square of another man’s hope pressing over the outside of his thigh.
He found you at your desk, hands running restlessly through your hair as you spoke into the microphone, charting. The words were coming out of you bluntly, mechanic and after saying the same variation a thousand times over. There was a pen behind your ear you’d forgotten about and the residue of a lab value gone blue across the back of your hand where you’d scrawled it hours ago and never washed off.
He stood there for a second before you noticed him, and thought — not for the first time and with the same low irritation he always felt about it — that he had no earthly business being the man this got routed to.
Jack leaned down so his head hovered beside yours, scanning your work on the screen, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours, head tilted to read your screen at an angle that had nothing to do with actually needing to see it.
“The man wants an espresso martini?” he asked, furrowing his brows as he read over your notes, right by your ear.
You jumped just slightly and swivelled on your stool to face him, then back at the screen. “Shit — Jack. Announce yourself.” You scanned the words on your notes, shaking your head and already backspacing. “No, that was me talking to myself. Stupid mic picked it up.”
“Long as it’s just the one,” he drawled, staying there in your space a little longer, watching the side of your face instead of the screen now. “Those things sneak up on you.”
“Speaking from experience?” You turned on your stool to face him fully, chin tilting up to meet his eyes, something playful and a little challenging in it.
“I’ve got a couple decades on you. Everything’s snuck up on me.”
You held his gaze a little longer, then looked away first, tongue coming out over your lips for a second. He took a small satisfaction in not being the one who blinked first.
He blew out a breath through his nose, remembering, with reluctance now, what he’d actually come here to do. “Speaking of sneaking up.” He pulled out the note from his pocket. “I got something to deliver to you —”
You furrowed your brows when he handed it to you. “Secret admirer?” you asked jokingly.
He barked out a short laugh. “Nothin’ secret about it. You ignoring some radiology fellow?”
You grimaced, opening the note and scanning over the words quickly. He could’ve left, but stayed instead and watched you read it. The frown only pulled deeper, and he saw your eye twitch once as you scanned the words.
Against his better judgement, he murmured, “That bad?”
“Uh — no, it’s okay.” You shrugged stiffly.
“Huh,” he breathed out, studying you outright now. “Wonder what you’re doin’ to these guys to get them so wound up.”
You chuckled, mostly to yourself. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
His chest tightened at that. It was unfair how you could make anything to him sound like something he’d been waiting to hear. He swallowed. “Suppose I would.”
“That an offer, Dr. Abbot?”
“Might be,” he said, shrugging one shoulder.
You laughed — surprised, the tension in your shoulders breaking slightly — and shook your head, folding the note back up. “You’re ridiculous. Well, thank you for getting it to me. I’m sorry he bothered you with this —” You swivelled, placing the note on your desk before picking up your phone. “That’s really weird.”
“That’s one word for it,” Jack said, and left it there, because you’d already turned and had your phone in one hand and the microphone in the other. The small furrow was back between your brows, and he’d learned there was a point past which pushing you got him a brighter, smaller version of whatever you were covering.
He drifted toward the far end of the station where Mateo was crouched at the crash cart running his palm along the drawers, checking seals, restocking and checking the fact of it on slower nights like this.
“She okay?” Mateo asked, snapping the drawer, seemingly having caught the interaction.
“Oh, you know.” Jack leaned a shoulder into the wall, arms crossing. “The belle of our ball. Can’t clock in without collecting a proposal.”
Mateo huffed. “She loves love.”
“That she does.” Jack watched you across the station, the phone lit against your ear now. “Don’t know why she keeps doing that to herself, though.”
“She’s an optimist.” Mateo clicked a seal into place, then moved down the cart. “Thinks someone’s gonna turn out different.”
Jack hummed, then, because the question had been sitting low and unlovely for a couple hours, he asked, “You two give it a run ever?”
Mateo turned his neck to look up at Jack. “Me and —” He jutted his thumb behind him to vaguely gesture at you. “Her?”
“Mhm.” Jack kept his eyes on you. “You’re close.”
“Nah.” Mateo went back to the cart, shaking his head as he chuckled softly. “I don’t think I’d pass a single one of her tests. Besides, I got my eye on someone.”
“Apparently I don’t make the list either, I guess,” Jack murmured.
Mateo laughed through his nose, eyeing Jack with something new now. “You want to?”
Jack caught it, reaching his palm and smacking it against Mateo’s curls with no force. “No. Now, do your job.”
“I am —” He laughed through the words, eyes scanning over Jack’s stiffened posture now. “It’s good you don’t, then. Couldn’t handle her anyway.”
“Sure, I could,” Jack said immediately.
Mateo’s head turned again, lips curving upwards at Jack’s words, and he felt momentarily blindsided by his own mouth, entirely too honest for something that had started as a joke.
“Sure, you could,” Mateo teased, drawing out the words.
“Shut it.” Jack grabbed a box of gloves off the cart and set it down two shelves lower than it needed to go, purely to do something with his hands that didn’t involve reaching for Mateo’s collar. “Wasn’t a real question.”
Couldn’t handle you? As if he didn’t know, without having to think about it, that you took the stairs two at a time instead of the elevator when you were annoyed and needed somewhere to put your extra energy, or that you’d started drinking your coffee black on nights a patient reminded you of someone, syrup and cream abandoned, like sweetness felt wrong to have that shift. As if he hadn’t noticed, months ago, that you hummed the same four off-key notes from a jingle neither you nor Jack could place when a chart was boring you to death, or that you double-checked every single IV line now, ever since one bad mistake in your first year. He could very well handle you, he simply hadn’t been given the chance to do so.
Most of the time, Jack was fine with watching your love life play out in 3D. More often than not, he knew they’d never work out. You were just too good for anyone who came sniffing, and there was a grim comfort in that, in knowing the fellows and the nurses would wash through and out and leave you exactly where he found you, three feet down the counter from him, close enough to keep.
Tonight the comfort wasn’t coming. Mateo’s accidental interrogation had rubbed Jack wrongly, somewhere he had yet to fully locate yet, and was sitting in his chest like a splinter he kept forgetting was there until he turned the corner over the night, saw you, and noticed it was there. He should’ve let it stay as nothing, but his brain had apparently decided three hours later was the correct time to relitigate the whole exchange, turning it over at odd intervals between patients like a tongue worrying a chipped tooth.
It was the bad sort of slow in the ER, the sort that let his brain fill up with things he’d have no time for on a real night. Ellis had wandered over to your desk with two energy drinks and placed her arms loosely beside your computer.
Jack was distantly aware he had misplaced labs to hand back to you because they’d gotten lost in the system, and he told himself that was the whole reason his body had started moving in your direction.
“I got a rundown from Marge,” Ellis said, dropping into an empty stool beside you. “Apparently he wrote it out of the OR.”
“You’re joking,” you muttered. “I don’t understand it.”
Jack stood there with the labs in his hand, close enough to hear it.
“I’m still wondering if I should respond,” you were saying, half into your hands. “Is this romantic? This one’s never happened before.”
Ellis laughed slightly with you, and the two of you had built one of those small pockets that slow nights sometimes allowed, thirty seconds of being people instead of clinicians.
Jack set the labs down at the edge of your keyboard harder than he meant to, the papers slapping flat against the desk, and both of you looked up at him like he’d grown two heads. Fuck — had he? It sure felt like he was operating off of whatever chemical cocktail his brain had whipped up for nights like this, some ugly little compound of jealousy and exhaustion. He was fairly sure if you pulled his labs right now they’d look like a man in the middle of a bad reaction to something not yet figured out in the scientific world.
“Labs on eight got lost.” His palm stayed on the sheet for a few seconds too long, some instinct telling him to keep his hand on something solid before the rest of him did something stupid. “You’ll want to recheck the trop.”
His eyes cut, against every ounce of better judgement he had left, to the note still folded in your hand, the same one he’d carried down like it was radioactive, the same note that had clearly done something for you that four years of Jack standing next to you clearly hadn’t. An unreasonable, low feeling creeped up behind his ribs at the sight of it, hot and out of proportion to a piece of folded-fucking-paper.
Ellis’s smile went uncertain as he felt her gaze snag on him.
You blinked up at him, and whatever had been sitting easy in your face a second ago curdled itself away, the corners of your mouth retreating. He knew this same retreat, had watched you recalibrate your muscles, swiftly, built to be unreadable against anyone who hadn’t spent four years learning your face.
His stomach dropped and heat climbed up the back of his neck, jaw tightening on its own. He hated that his body had learned to answer you the way it answered a motor alarm. He hated more that some raw, cornered part in him — still smarting about Mateo’s offhand comment and sore from that folded note — felt it wasn’t soothed.
You blinked up at him, and the laugh faded off your face, and you said, easily, warm, “Yeah — course. I’ll get right on that.”
He shrugged up one shoulder, lips pressing into a thin line. He turned, already walking away. “Whenever there’s a gap on your social calendar, I guess.”
He heard the small silence that opened behind him, and he could practically imagine you and Ellis looking at each other. Then, he heard you push back from the desk, the stool wheels catching, and your footsteps coming after him like he’d known they would, because you were the last person to let something like that go.
“Hey.” You fell into step beside him, voice pitched low, still giving him more benefit than the doubt had earned in the last ten seconds. “What was that about?”
“Nothing.” He tilted his neck up slightly to do a quick scan of the board, some stubborn muscle in his neck refusing to let him meet your eyes. “Got a department to run.”
“And you’ve been running it great. You just became weird right now.” He could feel you working it over beside him, shifting on your feet as you toed the line between resident and the hard-won territory neither of you had ever named. “Jack.”
“You want to laugh about your shitty dates, that’s your business,” he said instead of letting it go, sounding too far from the man who’d had his hands hovering over yours an hour ago, watching you put in a chest tube, telling you that you’d done well. “Do it a little quieter. This is an ER, not a lunch table.”
His words stopped you for half a step. Jack kept walking, an ugly, cowardly momentum carrying him three more steps before you caught back up.
He heard you recalibrate your voice in real time when you said, “I was charting on a slow shift,” carefully. “You’ve made worse jokes when it’s even more busy. What’s this about?”
“It’s about you treating this place like it’s your dating pool and not your place of work.” The words came out much uglier than he meant, and he didn’t have it in him to call them back. “It’s not professional. It reflects on the department. Reflects on me. Somebody’s gotta say it, and apparently that’s me, since you clearly enjoy it too much to stop.”
You stopped walking altogether this time. He turned to face your stillness whole, then, and found your eyes narrowed at him, looking like you’d been hit from a direction you hadn’t been completely guarding against.
He let out a breath, fingers going up to his forehead to wipe at sweat that wasn’t there. “I’m just saying what —”
“I’m sorry,” you said, voice going level and courteous, as you nodded quickly. “You’re right. You’re my attending, it reflects on you. I’ll keep my personal life out of work.”
“That’s not —” he tried, but you were already turning away, shoulders squared and chin level, professional armor snapping into place just like he’d told you to. It should have made him feel better to watch you take it so cleanly, to not make a big deal out of it. All it made him feel was like something had been surgically removed from him.
“Stop —” he tried again, to your back now, and the sentence died somewhere between his teeth and the air. That was okay. There was no end to the sentence that didn’t sound worse than the beginning anyway.
He blew out a sharp breath through his nose, standing in the middle of the floor with his hand still half-raised toward you, fingers curling back into his palm when he realized you weren’t there to reach. Jack felt, distantly, uselessly, like the only thing standing still in the entire building.
“Great going,” he heard Lena say, trailing past him, a tray tucked against her hip, not even breaking stride. “You got rid of the one entertainment we’ve got around here.”
His shoulders stiffened, and he caught up with her in three steps, jaw working around words that wanted to spill out defensively and came out simply tired. “It’s not entertainment if she keeps getting hurt,” he grumbled. “She’s not a show. Stop treating her like one.”
“Didn’t look like she was the one getting hurt tonight,” she said, rounding a corner and leaving him standing there.
Jack let out a low groan, running a palm down the lower half of his face, and dropped his hand only when he’d scrubbed enough friction into his jaw to feel it sting a little, which was at least a sensation he’d chosen, at least tonight. He stood there a second longer, staring at nothing in particular. His hands found his hips on reflex.
“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, and dragged both hands back through his hair, gripping once at the roots before letting go.
He rolled his neck, felt it pop unsatisfyingly, and pushed off the wall he hadn’t even realized he was leaning against. His leg fucking ached, the burn starting behind his knee. He ignored it like he always did and started walking anyway, jaw still held tight, hands shoved deep into his pockets like he could physically hold himself together with the seams of his own black scrubs.
It was by the lockers after hand-off that Jack saw you next. Both of you had conveniently managed to work over-time; he because there was nothing to get home to, and you — he’d heard through the grapevine — because one of your patient’s little sister was coming in toward close, and you simply wanted to talk with her instead of handing the situation off to one of the day residents.
Usually, nobody had asked you to stay when you did. Most times, there was no version of staying that showed up in your favor; he and Shen were gone, so there was no attending grading you on it; no hours that counted. It was just for a kid who was going to get bad news from a face she’d seen before, so you cost yourself hours of sleep you most definitely needed to be the soft spot for a stranger’s little sister, and hadn’t mentioned it to a soul, and he knew you would’ve been embarrassed if he brought it up.
He found you using the little mirror inside your locker to apply some kind of pink-tubed gloss with one hand while the other ran its fingers through your hair. Jack pursed his lips, eyeing you from the doorway, because he was pretty sure you’d done something different to it in the last ten minutes.
“Look nice,” he tried, biting the bullet and walking toward his own locker. “Goin’ somewhere?”
You caught his eyes in the mirror instead of turning around. “Just breakfast,” you said, and there was none of the earlier lilt in it, the warmth that you’d always aimed at him gone functional. You capped the gloss with more force than it needed and dropped it into your bag.
Jack stood there a second too long with his hand over his own locker without opening it. He’d expected — and he knew he was more optimistic than usual for doing so — your easy back-and-forth, his slip-up from earlier forgotten. He wasn’t sure what to do with the quiet or you not looking at him properly, hairbrush working through your hair in short strokes.
He’d saved around thirty lives tonight, and that was what he was good at. He was not good, and had never claimed to be good, at the aftermath of hurting a person he’d have put his own body between a stretcher and wall for, without meaning to, over something that had never been about the radiology fellow at all.
He opted out of opening his locker and chose instead to lean his bicep against the locker, eyeing you in front of him. “Mad at me?” he murmured.
You let out a short breath, shaking your head, and he tracked all your micro-expressions through the mirror. “On the clock?”
“Well, we’ve both been off it for a while now,” he said, watching the shape of your mouth in the mirror, waiting for it to give something away. It didn’t. “But no. Asking as your —” He stopped himself, because ‘friend’ seemed not to be the honest word though it was the first one that popped up. “Off the clock. Whatever I am to you right now.”
You set the hairbrush down on the little shelf with more care than the moment needed. “It’s okay, Jack,” you said, shaking your head.
“Don’t think it is. Try again.”
You watched him for a second in the mirror, then you turned.
“It’s just embarrassing,” you said, and the words came out smaller than anything he’d heard out of you in years. You crossed your arms over your chest. “I respect you and I hate that you’d think for one second I don’t take this place seriously.” Your voice cracked on the last word, just barely, and you pressed your lips together. “So, yeah. It’s embarrassing to have my attending confirming I’m exactly what people think I am.”
He was shaking his head before you could even finish the sentence. “Nobody thinks —”
“You do,” you said, voice rising slightly. “So, off the clock, I’m embarrassed, and tonight, I’m going to be your resident. Because I agree with you. It’s been unprofessional of me to keep dating within the hospital —” You threw your arms up halfway by your side, and you let out a short laugh that came out dry and wrong. “And I hate that you’ve probably been thinking it for four years.”
“I haven’t,” he said too fast. God, he’d come here to make tonight better for you, not to make you re-evaluate all your years working with him. “Sure, I thought it was none of my business how you spend your good nights off. Didn’t stop me from thinking they didn’t deserve ‘em.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re just saying that now ‘cause you feel bad.”
“Wish it were that simple,” he said, and chose to leave it unelaborated because it wasn’t that simple and he had no intention of explaining exactly why. “Half the time, you know it’s not gonna work out. You’re breaking my heart by making me watch you break yours.”
You blinked, and he watched the fight loosen out of you by inches. “It’s just a free breakfast, Jack. Nothing to get your heart broken over.”
Jack let out a huff through his nose, mouth opening to say what, he didn’t know. “Is that all? ‘Cause I can get you free breakfast for the rest of your life.”
You laughed, disbelieving, through your nose, some of the night’s weight finally cracking off of you. “You’ve got a weird way of apologizing.”
“Just to my favorite resident.” He pointed his index finger at you, lazy, and pushed himself off the lockers. His shoulder blades left a faint dust-print on the metal where he’d been leaning. He thumbed in the combination without looking at the dial — muscle memory, years of the same locker — and the door swung open with a rusted squeak. He pulled out his bag. “So?”
“So what?”
“You ditch the fellow.” He slung the bag up over his shoulder, close enough now that he caught the tail-end of the perfume you’d lightly spritzed over yourself. “I buy.”
You looked at him for a second too long, lips pushing to one side, as though you were gauging whether this was a bit or not, another line he’d tossed and wanted to let die on its own. He stood there, jaw set and features relaxing to show you he did mean it, more than he wanted to admit, if he was being honest with himself.
“You’re serious.”
“Do I look like I’m not?” He nodded once at your locker, your bag sitting on the shelf. “Grab your stuff. We’re going.”
“Fine,” you said finally, reaching over and zipping your backpack all the way before throwing it over one shoulder. “Can you drive? I’ve been taking the subway.”
“Why?” he asked drily. “You’ve got a car.”
Jack realized, as he watched you slide in across from him and folding both hands around the coffee before it was all the way poured, that he’d never once been on a date where the woman had no idea it was one.
It wasn’t lost on him what that made him, a man old enough to know better, letting a thing be one thing on his side of the table and another thing entirely on yours, saying nothing to square the difference. But he’d meant what he’d said, and he was going to feed you.
You ordered a short stack, eggs, hash brown, decaf on loop. She wrote it down, definitely having heard worse from better.
“Thanks for the treat, Jack,” you said when Dina left, bringing the rim of your cup to your lips. “Don’t think I could’ve done another breakfast to let him down gently.”
“We have to make some changes to your lifestyle,” Jack replied, voice rough, as he eyed you.
“Oh, yeah?” you murmured. “We?”
“Well, I did have to deliver a note to you today. In all my life working here, that’s never happened.”
You laughed around the rim of your cup. “In my defense, I don’t think anyone’s wrote me a note out of an OR either. That’s a first for both of us.”
“Glad we share the experience.”
Dina came by with a pot and topped you off without being asked, and placed the food in front of you. Jack watched you reach for the salt before your fork had even touched the eggs, shaking it twice over the plate.
“You’re gonna give yourself a stroke by forty.”
“You’re gonna give me a stroke right now if you comment on my food.” But you set the shaker down after the third shake, which he noticed and had to bite back a smile.
Dina dropped his plate in front of him — bacon, eggs, no pancakes — and you were reaching for it with a piece of your fork before she’d even finished setting his fork down. He gave you a faux-frown, picking up his fork and, without looking, spreading a piece of your hashbrown off the opposite plate in trade. He wasn’t sure when the two of you had started stealing bites and sips off of each other’s stuff, only that it’d started somewhere and calcified into something neither of you mentioned.
“Rude,” you said, mouth already full.
“Learned it from you,” he muttered, nudging his plate an inch closer to your side of the table, which you took full advantage of.
Dina’s radio crackled through something twangy and close-to-familiar behind the counter, competing with the clatter of a skillet somewhere in the back, the whole place smelling like batter and grease soaked into decades of countertop, syrup that had dried a hundred small amber rings nobody had ever fully scrubbed off.
“I’ve never been here before.” You absentmindedly cut the hashbrown in half as your eyes raked over the place. “This a regular spot for you?”
“Since before you joined,” he said easily, but his brows furrowed as he realized he’d been coming here alone for years. He was in the same booth when he could get it, ordered the same order, and it struck to him only now, watching you eat your hashbrowns, how much smaller and less lonely a booth felt with you taking up the other half of it. “Used to be the only quiet I got on some weeks.”
You hummed. “And now?”
“Guess the quiet’s pretty negotiable.” He shrugged. “I can go without it.”
You smiled down at your plate, something easy working at the corner of your mouth. A thread of syrup had gathered at the seam of your lips — you hadn’t noticed, too busy considering his answer — and before he’d cleared the impulse with the rest of himself, his thumb was already moving, catching it at the corner quickly, no different than when he swiped under your lashline for salt after a bad night.
You stayed still, having gotten used to his hands somewhere during your residency.
“You’re a mess,” he said, wiping his thumb off on the paper napkin folded under his elbow.
“You’ve got coffee on your scrub top,” you said, eyes flicking down to his chest. His brows furrowed and he looked down, and you were right. “Pot, kettle.”
He’d been about to say something else, he could’ve sworn it, but had lost every word of it watching you smile so unguarded, free enough to let him look at you. He had to reach for his coffee just to have something to do with his hands.
When the check came, folded in its little plastic tray, you both reached for it at once. Your hand landed flat over his knuckles. Neither of you moved it for a second, for his hand stayed exactly where it was, broad and unmoving under yours, and something unspoken passed through the two inches of fornica between your faces as he raised a brow at you. He slid the tray out from under you slowly.
“Said I’m buying,” he said, shaking his head slightly.
The drive back had been quieter than the one there had been. It was nearing ten in the morning, and he knew both of you had stayed up longer than intended, especially for two people who had to clock back in in a shorter amount of time than he deemed plausible to reset completely.
He’d cracked the window down an inch, and the air coming through carried the smell of wet pavement and the sound of a garbage truck grinding its gears three streets over. Your neighborhood, he was learning, woke up slow; there was a paperboy on a bike, a guy in scrubs different from yours locking up his own car after a shift that wasn’t at the PTMC, and Jack drove through it with two fingers loose over the wheel. Neither of you had bothered with the radio.
You’d gone somewhere billowy around your third cup of decaf, all the sharp edges of the night replaced with something looser and sleepier, and you gave him directions in a voice gone thick from exhaustion as you were likely starting to feel it behind your eyes.
He pulled his car along the curb and let it idle, one shoe braced against the floorboard, watching the numbers of your building.
“Gonna sleep?” he asked.
“Gonna try.” You were already working the bag strap over your shoulder, hair falling loose out of the knot you’d put it up in at some point at the diner, strands of it catching the early light. “I’ve got no idea how you do this then take SWAT calls.”
“You’d be able to do it, too, if I put you on the field.”
You mumbled something, letting your head drop against the window for a second, before picking itself back up. “Stop threatening me, Jack.”
He watched you fight your eyelids, his mouth pulling up at the corners at the sight. “C’mon. Get inside before I gotta carry you up.”
You snorted, half-hearted. “You can’t. You’d throw your hip out.”
“Try me.” He was already rounding the hood before you’d gathered your bearings, boots loud on the quiet street, and you let out another laugh and let him get there first, too tired to argue about who gets to open what.
He walked you up the cracked path, palm settling at the small of your back, and you leaned back into it, half your weight given over without you noticing it.
At the door, you fumbled with your keys out from under a granola wrapper and a capless pen, missed the lock twice, and gave up trying on the third. You turned to face him instead with your back against the frame and your bag slowly sliding off one shoulder.
“Thank you,” you said, words coming out loose and filtered by the exhaustion even as you tried to meet his eyes head-on. “For the — everything. The explanation. And the breakfast.”
Jack felt his lips curve up, fingers flexing at his sides. “Anytime.”
“And for driving me there — thank you. And for the drive back.”
“Uh-huh. You gonna go inside?” he said, voice going quieter as he looked down at the ground, at how the toes of your shoes were almost touching. “Or keep thanking me until you fall asleep standing up?”
You cocked your head to the side, your lips moving upwards into a fuller smile. His own mouth curved as he shifted on his feet slightly, closing the barely-there inch between his shoes and yours.
“Jack?”
He hummed, and you went up slightly onto your toes before he’d finished deciding what to do with you. Or maybe he’d moved in first, or maybe there was no real order to it at all. His mouth found yours somewhere in that uncertainty, slowly despite it, because he’d already worked out every version of this moment and this one had simply appeared in front of him.
His hand came up to cradle the side of your jaw, thumb settling into the soft hollow just beneath your ears. Your skin was warm despite the cold snap in the air, much softer than he’d let himself imagine, and he felt the exact second your breath caught against his mouth, a small stutter that made his fingers curve around your jaw, index resting against your cheekbone.
He kept it slow, it was the only thing he had any real control over right now, the pace of it instead of the fact of it. He used what little he had left, dragging his mouth against yours, like he could somehow make up for four years of nothing by refusing to rush the first thirty seconds of something. His other hand found your waist, and his palm felt how your back curved into him, the hitch of your ribs on an inhale, and he pressed you back the last inch against the doorframe more to ground himself.
Your fist found the front of his canvas jacket, dragging him in the last stubborn space he’d been too careful to close himself, and a sound came out of his chest that embarrassed him a little. He felt you smile against his mouth, and his entire body felt warm at having been caught enjoying this entirely as much as he was.
He tilted his head so his forehead pressed against yours and pulled his mouth away. His lips jutted out slightly, feeling suddenly empty and unwilling to put the full distance back between the two of you.
Your eyes were still shut, and you were breathing unevenly. “Thank you,” you murmured.
He huffed a short laugh, and in it, realized how breathless he, too, was.
You tipped your chin back up, already chasing him.
Jack felt the want knot up inside him, greedy and unreasonably leaning back in to meet you halfway before the rest of him had caught up and made him stop. He made a small sound in his throat and pinched his eyes shut, letting you get right up to the edge of it, breath already tangling with his, wanting so badly to just let it happen, before his finger came up between you, pressed light against your bottom lip to stop you a hair short. It was more for his own sake than the words he remembered you telling someone years ago ringing in his head.
“Ah-ah.” His voice came out rough with want, entirely at odds with his actions. “Your rule. Only one kiss after the first date. I’m trying —” he exhaled hard, almost dramatically, “— trying real hard here to make it to the second.”
“Huh?” Your eyes peeled open. “This was a date?”
“Best one you’ve had I’m guessing, with the way you’re breaking your rules.” His finger stayed right where it was, and he watched your eyes struggle to focus, still glassy from the kiss. He could feel the warm huff of breath breaking unsteady against his fingertip, could feel your mouth soft and parted underneath it, waiting on him.
You pressed a peck against his finger instead, your mouth barely dragging against his skin as a shy smile formed behind it that he felt more than saw. “Maybe.”
“Well, good.” He smiled, despite himself, and pushed himself off your forehead, opting instead to press his lips there. “Get some sleep,” he murmured against your hairline, lips lingering a little longer there. “Might be able to get a full seven hours.”
“Will you?”
“Doubt it.” He pulled back enough to look at you properly, thumb tracing a line along your cheekbone — his touch feather-light, tracking the exact curve of it, memorizing the route — before he made himself drop his hand entirely, fingers curling loosely at his sides because suddenly he had no idea what to do with them without you under them. “Kinda got a lot on my mind now.”
“Yeah?” You bit back a smile, still not quite steady on your feet. “Anything you wanna share with the class?”
“Not a chance.” He bent a fraction and hooked two fingers under the strap of your bag where it’d slid down to your elbow, dragging it slowly back up to your shoulders, knuckles grazing your arms the whole way. “You’ll find out. Eventually.”
He forced himself to step off the mat — one step back, then the second, putting real distance between you now — forcing ease into his expression that he definitely wasn’t feeling. He stopped a few feet away from you anyway, unable to fully commit to walking away, watching you stunned and still in your doorway, mouth a little kiss-soft. He felt so completely helpless and pleased at the sight. “Text me when you’re up and I’ll get to planning date two.”
You raised a hand into a wave, fingers curling in the air.
“Bye, Jack,” you said, and his name came out of your mouth softer than you probably meant it to, smooth and cushy the way it never sounded on shift.
He lifted his chin up at you once and made himself turn, finally, finding the path back to his car. He made it to the curb before he looked back again, and you were still standing there, one hand braced on the door, watching him go with an expression he was sure he was going to think of the entire drive home.
summary: jack meets you in the carnage of pittfest.
pairing: jack abbot / resident!f!reader
content: co-workers to (eventual but not in this) lovers trope. takes place during pittfest ep. implied age gap as r is a resident. meanie robby for the plot. characterisations: r has vitiligo & some self doubt — that’s it. descriptions of gunshot wounds, blood and death. inaccurate medical terms bc i scanned a couple of documents about REBOAs hehe. (wc: 4.9k)
Jack Abbot had meticulous precision. Whether that be in regard to his reputable action as a decorated veteran who performed several Cricothyrotomies in perilous conditions with only his fingertips to guide him to saving a life in the dark. Or, how he could predict the ceiling ledge of the PTMC building, underneath his left foot without such as a glance at the hair raising drop to concrete beneath him.
(Sometimes he imagined his problems would be solved midway to the bottom.)
Either way, he was a well-esteemed asset to the Emergency Department—informally known as the Pitt—with his keen eye and solid intuition.
These characteristics, that thrived in professional conditions, and were at the centre of Jack Abbot's DNA, also spilled over the rim into a more personal manner when it came to the first day that the attending Night Shift physician had managed to pinpoint you amongst the sea of white gowns; sterile gloves and forlorn expressions that fitted to the dreadful circumstances.
You. A resident finding your footing on your first day at the PTMC, stood next to Dr. Samira Mohan like part of her shadow. There was a sort of deer-caught-in-the-headlights aspect of your body language that had caught Jack Abbot's attention from the minute Dr. Robby rounded the team like cattle for slaughter.
Mass-casualty at Pittfest. Number of casualties unknown, potential of multiple DOA's that were to be pushed into Pedes with a black and white wristband slapped on their arm. The jarring words reached you in a state of shock, eyes widened as you listened to the instructions on a scenario that hadn't crossed your mind to experience on your first residential day at the Pitt.
Jack's eyes flitted toward you between the back and forth of him and Robby articulating and condensing the next couple of gruelling hours in one speech. Beneath the white clinical lighting reflecting off of the pristine—for the meantime—sheet vinyl floor, Abbot noticed the skin beneath your eye; not enough to diagnose, but enough to take note, compartmentalise and focus on the task at hand.
Save lives. (Repress the instincts to stare at you longer to relinquish the curiosity buzzing in his brain.)
What was he going to do with you?
Then the son of a bitch Robinavitch handed you your fate when he called Dr. Samira Mohan and you to assist in the Red Zone.
You faltered, hands wrung with a steep incline mountain of self-doubt amongst big leagues of the ED. Samira gave you a side-glance of reassurance, and you attempted reciprocate the niceties with one of the loveliest doctors you've come across; but it was lacklustre and obsolete despite your attempt to feign togetherness.
As the two men wrapped up their deliverance on the guide to get through the consequences of a mass-shooting, the team dispersed into their respective zones and you found yourself assisting Dr. Jack Abbot into his gown.
He gave you a simple nod, back turned to allow you the opportunity to tie similar knots in the strings to the knots cramping your stomach with foreboding anxiety.
“First day?” Jack questioned in a monotonous tone, his own hands coming to fix the fabric around his body. He turned to you and you affirmed with a nod. “Good old trial by fire.”
You nodded again, “I need the hands on experience.” You paused in sudden regret, “Not that—This isn't what I needed to happen to get that.”
“Heard.” Jack chuckled as far as the dire situation allowed him.
As you stood close by, talking closely with Mohan about the Red Zone, Jack pulled his own sterile gloves to his wrists, lips pulled into a thin line as he watched you momentarily. The patch of skin next to your eye was in his direct line of sight, and he was able to conclude that you were sporting a loss of pigmentation in your skin.
He hadn't met anyone in his lifetime—so far—that had vitiligo. But, September 5th seemed to be pulling all of the stops to make it a memorable one.
In simpler terms: Jack thought you were a sight for traumatised eyes and the vitiligo had doubled that burning feeling in his chest. He was just overcomplicating things. Drawing attention to a singular—but quietly beautiful—part of you so he didn't linger on the entirety of your narcotic being.
Unique. Undoubtably irritating that you were able to drag his attention south from such a grave scenario about to coat the floor in bloodshed. You were pretty. In the red tape kind of way, that Gloria Underwood would be sure to wrap around Jack Abbot's neck for ogling at a resident in training.
(It wouldn't be the first time he hadn't abided by her rules. Apparently not the last either.)
At the other side of this newfound spectrum of piqued of intrigue, stood you, gloves maybe a smidge too big for your fingers, head on a swivel as gurneys and wheelchairs sped past you toward the sliding doors of the Ambulance Bay. Subtlety came as a natural trait to you, easy to disguise the fleeting glances toward one of your Senior Attending physicians that you had a brief forty-second encounter between a gown and low tones.
Dr. Abbot was handsome from the minimal tracking of his facial attributes you managed to digest in the flurry of chaos. Weathered type of features, deepened frown lines presumably down to the tragedies he had witnessed firsthand that weighed heavy on his back. To be shallow, beneath the gown and black scrubs, he looked sturdy with noticeable sized biceps; in which you had pinched the soft flesh of your palm to ground yourself to your surroundings.
You allowed yourself the opportunity to catch a glimpse of him again—as your attention would be soon diverted—and found the salt and pepper haired male already staring in your direction. In an attempt to feign casualness, you whipped your head back to face in front of you, neck aching from the sheer force in which you turned to pay attention to Samira.
The sterile gloves on Mohan's hands snapped to her wrist with a soft thwack. “Everything will be okay. Just follow our lead, and ask questions. Dr. Robby clearly has a lot of trust in you to put you in the Red Zone, right?”
“Right.” You nodded with vigour.
Samira warmed her facial features up, “We'll get through this.”
Without need of a response, the ambulance wails that pierced through the sliding doors answered for you. Heart spiked, your fingers curled at the sight of the victims being efficiently wheeled in on gurneys and placed in their respective zones to receive treatment that would differentiate the decision between life or death for them.
And within fifteen minutes, you spent half your time silently chastising Dr. Samira for her serene outlook on life, because with two DOA's that you had assisted wheeling into Pedes, and a close third in Trauma One; part of you questioned if you were going to make it through this nightmare.
And, even if you did, there was a small percentage of you that never wanted to walk into the PTMC building again.
That thought stayed at the forefront of your mind, nestled amongst the knowledge needed in order to treat the patient that laid coated in congealed blood on the gurney. With Dr. Robinavitch to across from you and Dr. Abbot to your left, there was little work required from you aside from doing as you were told by your Attendings, and not getting in the way of their highly esteemed work.
Hands raised upward to your chest, your eyes flitted to Nurse Jesse who had been performing compressions upon the patient's arrival, and then to Dr. Robinavitch who had been barking orders with a stale expression on his face.
The copper smell that followed the aroma of someone on the precipice of death had your head feel like it had been submerged under cold water. Light suddenly obnoxiously bright, you missed Dr. Robby's instruction appointed toward you.
Any second longer and Robby may have felt like grabbing you by the scruff of your neck to throw you back into reality. You two hadn't hit it off as you had initially held out hope for. Two personalities clashed. From what you had seen during the hours of work spent in his company, he seemed to have flaws that highlighted in his outward favouritism toward your male counterparts.
Plus, there was a bad taste left in your mouth the first time he called Dr. Samira Mohan: ‘Slow-Mo.’
Jack Abbot had seen the thin film of daze across your features when you re-entered Trauma One after wheeling the second DOA into Pedes. Then, when you missed Robby's concise instruction to take over from Nurse Jesse, well, it didn't take rocket science to conclude that you were having an outer-body experience.
So, he shoulder-checked you. It was clean. Brief. Less on the aggressive side and more on the, ‘Hey. We need you in here.’ side.
It was enough to bring you back into the room with a sharp turn of your head to look at him. Wide-eyed, chest stuttered from your erratic breathing. Jack gave you as much as a sympathetic smile as he could without it being borderline affectionate, before he gave a nod with his eyes speaking for him.
“You.” Dr. Robby repeated for a second time. “Take over compressions from Nurse Jesse. Now.”
You flew into action. “I'm sorry.”
“Don't be sorry unless you missed the boat on saving the patient.” Dr. Robby mumbled cruelly as you resumed compressions on the patient. Browns eyes flickered to where Jack stood behind you, the male’s brows pinched in judgement at Robby's lack of professionalism. He chose to ignore it. “Pause compressions—” Both he and Abbot searched for a pulse. They both shook their heads, “—Asystole. Alright. I think we are done here. Pedes.”
The gurney was wheeled out of the room before your hands fully left the man's chest.
That familiar nausea returned to your stomach. Foreboding in its presence as you stared at the door in which the deceased patient had been taken out of. Your hands coated in his blood, you blinked more times than usual, head tilted backward to search for some extra oxygen to fill your lungs; and to let you just breathe.
“Hey. Eyes on me.” Jack Abbot spoke to you, and you only. And then, he was removing your gloves for you. “Go take a breather in the Ambulance Bay. Five minutes tops. I'll come get you.”
You faltered, “I can't—I'm fine.”
“No—” Jack started, tossing your gloves into the biohazard bin, “—You're not.” He held the door open for you with a hint of a smirk, “I'll hold the fort down whilst you're gone. I promise.”
You then found the air you were so desperately searching for out in the Ambulance Bay. Albeit, the last place to find solace with bodies thrown onto gurneys, the siren wails replaced with human ones, Dr. Shen and Dr. Ellis—that you had a brief introduction to—were elbow deep in the influx of vehicles queued down the road with victims of the PittFest shooting.
Dr. Ellis had taken one look at your face and prevented an order to assist with the casualties rather than the game you were playing of finding your own pulse point.
In and out. In and out.
(You were almost reduced to counting five things you could see.)
“Five minutes, trooper.” Jack called from the sliding doors, orange high-vis making him even more visible than he already was to you. He limped to meet you halfway.
A somewhat sarcastic laugh escaped your tight chest. “Get out of jail free card?”
Jack frowned with a shrug. “Nope.” His eyes drifted toward your knuckles and back up to your face. He swallowed down the warmth he felt. “Just a patient with a nasty gunshot wound to the leg. Your name written all over it.”
You grimaced. As if it wasn't part and parcel of the career path you had picked.
And whilst you fought the sour taste in your mouth, the faint copper scent still latched onto the hair follicles in your nostrils, Abbot had rounded you to tie the fresh gown you wore, after you stripped yourself of the old one; to rid the stained memory of your first patient coding.
As he tied, he mumbled, “You're here for a reason—” You turned once he gently patted your bicep, “—No amount of compressions could have saved him. Don't carry that weight on your shoulders...” His words of encouragement tailed off into a badly timed joke, “Until you're at home. Alone. With your thoughts.”
“Thanks.” You dragged a hand down your face.
Jack watched you, more so the hand that travelled down your face with scattered patches of lighter skin on your knuckles. Red tape. Red tape and Gloria Underwood. “My therapist says I have a way with words.” He said sardonically.
Can you send them my way after this? Is the first retort that crossed your mind, something that would escape your lips with a sad excuse for a laugh. Then it dawned on you, that you had little knowledge of Dr. Jack Abbot aside from the snippets of his movement throughout the Red Zone, and therefore, decided against potentially opening a can of worms with another Senior Attending; as your odds with Dr. Robby weren’t looking too hot for the time being.
You condensed all your thoughts into the simple action of wringing your hands nervously. The soles of your shoes slippery against the unattended pool of blood, Abbot found himself cradling your elbow as you waded through the catastrophic scenes of one man’s unresolved and internalised problems.
Jack flitted his eyes from you to the gurneys lined up in the Red Zone—your head a million miles away from where it needed to be. Probably stuck in the sand, on an empty beach with zero dead patients.
“What’s your favourite meal of the day?”
Now that was a poorly timed icebreaker, if you had ever heard one. It had the element of surprise that snatched you back up into the jaws of the PTMC, but you were left gawking at the Senior Attending for his ability to think about his stomach with the abundance of blood and brain matter scattered across the floor.
Jack was nonchalant when he looked to you for your answer, and you suddenly became envious his lack of fear.
“Why are you asking me that?” You asked with disbelief laced through the question.
Jack shrugged, “In baseball, they would refer to that as out of left field.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, to relieve pressure, “It’s meant to bring the element of surprise. Get you out of your head with something unrelated to the current circumstances.” Jack looked you up and down, “Did it work?”
“I guess it did.”
“Cool. Mohan is working on your patient with Perlah, but I need her for this officer with a bullet entry wound to the face.” Jack nudged you with a hand to your back, toward where Mohan was attending the unconscious female patient assigned to you, with a fine-tooth comb style of care. “You’ve got this.”
Feet stuttered, you approached Mohan and Perlah with your fingers curled into the palms of your hands. It was Perlah that redirected her attention first, coated in a layer of a mix of patients blood, the small smile that spread across her face failed to reach her eyes.
Being amongst the result of a mass-shooting allowed you to quickly develop a sixth sense, and you could practically smell the fear radiating off of Perlah; her trust that the patient would pull through dwindling by the minute.
Samira raised her head, slick with sweat, strands of hair curled around her face.
“You OK?” She asked in that sweet, caring nature that didn’t come from experience. It was deeply embedded in her DNA.
When you nodded, she launched into the finer details of the patient’s circumstances, the foreboding black and white band taunting you from the corner of your eye as she spoke. Gunshot wound to one of the several main arteries in the leg. Severe amount of blood loss. Do what you can to save her.
“I’ll be back to help when I can.” Is the words that Dr. Mohan left you with. Something you highly doubted considering the magnitude of victims being wheeled from every angle into the Red Zone.
Despite the internalised panic—because that’s what a good, aspiring doctor could do. Internalise—you turned to Perlah, and slowly realised that you were the one to call the shots over the woman’s life.
You’ve got this.
“OK, Perlah—” You nodded, and breathed. Not in unison, but enough to get the cogs turning, “—Mohan mentioned junctional bleeding from the femoral vessels. Non-responsive…”
“Refractory shock. Shit, alright—Uh…” You craned your neck to see Abbot, Mohan and Robby huddled over the police officer. You spoke to Perlah as you peered over at them, “This lady needs a REBOA. I need an Attending, but they’re all fucking busy right now.”
“We’re going to lose her if we don’t do something.”
That was something that you were becoming acutely aware of, and despite all Attendings wrapped up in the other lives that had been laid on a thready line from the shooting, you knew that a REBOA without conferring with one of them would be met with some grave consequences.
However, with three deceased patients linked to you, there was a surge of reluctance to let another fall under that category. You had studied the art of a REBOA multiple times, reciting extensive experts of it with your eyes closed; this was the part where you just…acted the words out on a human with beating heart.
With a simple ‘fuck it’ and a proud reaction from Perlah, you dove head first into your first ever REBOA, without assistance over your shoulder. Any self-about—that you had an abundance of—was compartmentalised and would be addressed at a later time in the schedule as you worked against the blood loss of a woman that would go nameless for the foreseeable. Perlah had been with you the entire time with words of encouragement, never shedding any light on any premonitions that she had about it all going wrong.
Because, well, she didn’t think that way at all.
So, when you initiated the inflation of the balloon at the tip of the catheter, and all signs pointed toward a successful procedure; the nurse couldn’t refrain from yanking you into a side-by-side hug that was weighted by an immense sense of pride.
The red wristband was staying on.
You dropped your head back with relief settling into your exhausted bones. The fleeting moment wafted away in an instant once Dr. Robby loosened himself up from assisting the police officer in order to do the rounds of each zone.
“What is going on here?” Dr. Robinavitch's hoarse voice caught you off guard, body jolted as he stood behind you with his hands dawning a fresh pair of sterile gloves. His eyes flitted between you and the patient unconscious on the gurney, “I asked you a question.”
His sharpness caused disconcert as you fought back the intimidation felt. You swallowed hard, “I—” You hesitated under Robby's harsh glare, “—REBOA. But, there was no Senior Attending available at the time. The patient—”
“Did anyone green light this?” Robby cut through your explanation with an additional question.
Suddenly, you felt awfully small. Shoulders rounded, a nervous tendency flush against your back as you pressed your thumb to each finger over, and over. There wasn't many straws to grasp at. You had performed a REBOA on the basis of initiative despite your inner protest. With the atmosphere heightened, the room packed to the brim in what felt like a pressure cooker, and little time to take the road of 'wait and see'; you did what you saw fit to save a patient's life.
A mother, a daughter, a sister or lone wolf. Whoever she was, the woman that had begun to grey with the loss of blood from the gunshot wound had you surge with urgency to ask for forgiveness, rather than loiter around for permission.
(You refused to let another tally to your death toll strike you down four times on the same day.)
When you hadn't answered—much as Dr. Robby had assumed—he began a malicious tangent of discipline amongst the bloodshed. His face reddened, he spoke through gritted teeth and you found yourself standing face to face with an aggressive wolf rather than the Chief Attending to the ED at the PTMC.
You fought back the urge to make a point amidst his lecture. If it had been, as far as you knew, Dr. Langdon, or Dr. Whitaker, you feared his reaction would be much greater on the side of a docile, yet concerned, cat.
Dr. Robby continued his attack, “Perhaps a more suitable job for you will be taking pictures of the victims in Pedes." He crossed his arms, head tilted to try encourage a bite of the bait, “Hm? Then I won't have to continuously look over my shoulder—”
"Robby." Another familiar voice cut through. Jack sauntered up, face in disbelief. "I gave the go ahead for the REBOA. Benefits outweighed the risks. She's clearly capable of performing one."
Robby looked to you and then to Jack again.
Jack eyed him up, “Relax, brother.” He persisted with his pinned gaze following Robby away from you and toward another patient, before he redirected it back to you. Jack leaned in, "You and Dr. Santos share the same fucking brain cell apparently. Don't do that again."
You simply nodded with no further elaborations on your impulsive decision that saved a woman's life.
From that point onward, you decided to take a backseat on making executive decisions without an Attending present. The decision led with frustrations as you bounced on the balls of your feet with impatience laced in your expression as you awaited for Mohan or Abbot—you gave Robby a wide birth—to assist you with a new patient that had just been wheeled in from the Ambulance Bay, with a red wristband slapped on their arm.
No more treatment to be done alone. Despite the fact that you believed yourself to be entirely capable, you swallowed the hard pill that was your pride and left it to the hands of the doctors with years of experience against your shiny residency.
The influx of victims began to dwindle down in the Red Zone, which you had been eternally grateful for on the basis that, the light at the end of the tunnel was much nearer than anticipated; and you wouldn't have to witness another human being in an unforgettable state near death pain.
Once the dust settled, your adrenaline spike settled with it.
The mirror in the women’s bathroom offered up an image of someone unrecognisable within your reflection. Eyes dragged downward with exhaustion from a tumultuous first shift at the PTMC, skin layered with a film of grime that was a morbid cocktail of sweat, blood and other fluids. You stared back at her with slow blinks as the realisation hit you like you had been tied to the tracks, awaiting the imminent strike of the train fast approaching.
The heels of your palms that you had relentless scrubbed—at least—three layers off of, pressed into the sockets of your eyes before the tears of grief began to hopelessly shed. A sob wracked your frame when you inhaled, stomach churning at the images that flickered behind your closed lids; replaying each paled, unconscious face that you were unable to save from the sticky hands of death.
Even with the uncelebrated success of the REBOA patient, you were left with the mental weight of a drag path in the form of empathy for the families that wouldn’t be able to celebrate the same instances for their loved ones beneath a white sheet.
You were sure you would wallow in the gravity of the situation for years to come.
Cool water splashed from the tap and onto your face, the door swung open and Mohan, in all her frazzled beauty, pinned it open with her body weight; a question readily available on the tip of her tongue.
“Some of the guys are sharing beers.” She spoke as you turned to face her, droplets beaded on your skin. She mustered up the energy for a weak smile, “Come on. We can share one.”
Mohan took you beneath her wing, her arm rested against the length of your shoulders as she tugged you into her side with some silent comfort, despite her own inner turmoil. She guided you out into the open air, the stars in the sky concealed by the light pollution of the hospital, and you both took the deepest inhales of fresh air; to truly appreciate the scent of nature without the undertones of death.
Donnie chucked you a beer, and you tapped the underside, the side and top of the can prior to opening it—you always had to do it, because something told you it wouldn’t burst into a fizzy spray if you did. It stung your throat on the way down which reduced Donnie Donahue and Jack Abbot into breathy laughs as they aided their own beverages.
The group engaged in surface level chitchat, before slowly picking themselves off to retreat to a comfortable bed and nightmares of the shit for the foreseeable.
It eventually left you and Jack as the last two standing.
After some deliberation of where to sit—across from him? On the floor?—you settled for the more friendly approach of taking up the space next to him on the bench he had resided on.
Jack sort of gave you warm, lopsided smile when you spared a glance.
“How was that for you?”
You brought the can to your lips, “Like an inescapable nightmare.” You took a sip, “You?”
“It was meant to be my day off.” Jack muttered toward the floor. He let himself sigh, “Dog days are yet to come.”
You weren’t so sure how to respond to that. So, you gave a polite acknowledgment in the form of a slow nod before your eyes became unfocused, dragging you by your ankles into the tail-end of the happenings at PittFest.
(To Jack, that just wouldn’t do.)
Jack stared at your side-profile, his thumb swept across the rim of his beer. He blinked slowly, like a docile cat before the words escaped past his teeth.
"Can I ask about that?" You averted your thousand yard stare to Jack, confusion blanketed your expression. He smiled faintly and circled his own eye as a hint.
The pads of your finger pressed to the lightened patch around your eye, "My vitiligo?"
"Yeah."
Was there much to tell? Jack knew basic etiquette, not zeroing in on a feature of someone's appearance. It was textbook decency. But, if he brought faux innocence to the table whilst steering the conversation to the patch of skin around your eye, it would give him an excuse to openly stare without brandishing the title of a creep.
"Oh, well—" You kissed your teeth, "COVID-19. Stress-induced. My immune system attacked my melanocytes."
Jack hummed at the thought. His own can brought to his lips as he spoke, "It's pretty gnarly."
"Gnarly?" You felt yourself laugh. A foreign concept in your body after a fifteen hour shift from the seventh layer of hell.
"Beautiful." Jack corrected with the courage from the singe of beer that warmed his stomach. The corner of his lips quirked at the sight of you blinking in surprise. He added, "Is that forward enough?"
You weren't confident in a verbal answer, your mind blanketed by exhaustion and a light dusting of mild confusion. So, you swallowed your words, the tip of your tongue bitten between your teeth whilst your heart betrayed your calm exterior; your hand coming close to hide the loud thrum against your ribcage.
Jack watched as you rubbed at your chest, his eyes settled on the scattered contrast of vitiligo on your knuckles as you subtly kneaded at your heart. Envisioning a future where he'd press his lips in a featherlight kiss that dusted across the very stepping stones of your knuckles.
He redirected the conversation, "Do you like pancakes?"
There he went. Bringing it back to food.
"For breakfast?"
"I meant in for anytime of the day." Jack pulled his lips into a frown, "But, I can do that.
You tried to decipher his flirtatious choice of wording without diving headfirst into a pool of overthinking a common interaction.
You settled for a bog standard response.
"I'm not opposed to eating pancakes, Dr. Abbot." You said his professional name so gently, Jack almost lost it to the wind. He looked up from his can to your face, his face softening in the angelic view. You were quick to add, "Do you like pancakes?"
Jack shrugged, "I do." And then he let out a deep sigh and reached for his prosthetic to refit. He grunted as he adjusted it, pant leg pulled down to conceal it, "I like them at any time of the day. Especially—" He stood from the bench, "—After a shitshow of a shift."
"Doesn't sound too bad."
"Yeah. So let's go."
You blinked, "Huh?"
"There's a diner that does 24-hour pancakes just a couple of blocks. The real heroes of Pittsburgh." Jack joked whilst you remained seated, unsure of what his intention was. He gestured for you to get up, "Come on. Let's go get you some fucking pancakes."
You have a huge crush on the night shift attending of your new workplace, Dr. Jack Abbot; he's nice, he's kind, he's always giving you his undevided attention.
Too bad he is married to the day shift attending, Dr. Robby Robinavitch.
click here to join the TAGLIST. / click here for my MAIN MASTERLIST.
warnings: night shift ward clerk!reader, age gap (reader is mid to late 20s, jack is late 40s/early 50s), reader is afab and goes by she/her, fluff, miscommunications, death of a spouse, mentions of food, no use of y/n, alcohol consumption, requited unrequited, no physical description of reader, unreliable narrator, shen is a diva and a gossip, jack is a flirt but only when he doesn't mean it, work place crushes, everyone is queer because i said so.
rating: 18+. (there's nothing explicit in this but i dont want kiddos on my blog sorry!)
word count: 4.6k.
fox says: hi friends, thank you for reading! no smut on this one, sorry! this is me dipping my toes into writing jack and while i had a lot of fun, i'm sorry if he feels a little ooc to anyone. i'm still trying to grasp his characterization, it's not like the pitt gives us a whole lot to go on with lol as always pls let me know how we feel!
also available on archiveofourown.
Being the ward clerk of the night shift at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center isn’t as bad as you thought it would be when you first took up the job. The hours between six pm and two am are a flurry of movement, people coming out of work with headaches and heart problems and even an alarming amount of gunshot wounds from traffic spouts that get out of hand too fast. But the hours between two-thirty am and five am are the golden hours— The waiting room always ends up empty apart from Earl, a homeless man that comes in to sleep in the chairs whenever it gets too cold outside and Louie, who is a frequent flier from alcohol poisoning and a lot kinder than all the other drunks that stumble into the ER; most people don’t get out of their homes to go to the ER in the middle of the night unless it’s really important and most of the cases you get are properly urgent: Kidney and heart pains, overdoses, drunk driving accidents, the sort of thing that is quick to triage and the doctors are even quicker to treat. Things are so calm during the week that you take up cross stitching to keep you busy, and it almost makes up for the rush of angry patients you get in the early mornings.
The slow hours also bring you Dr. Jack Abbot.
Your relationship with Dr. Abbot starts with him ribbing you for the amount of energy drinks you down in order to stay awake, and then it develops into him bringing you coffee and gently taking the big Monster cans away from you— Coffee turns into pastries, that turn into him sitting on top of the desk and talking for as long as he’s free; sometimes it’s a couple of minutes, something a whole hour if you’re both lucky. You’re not allowed to leave the front desk for longer than fifteen minutes but Jack teaches you stretches and easy yoga poses you can do whenever the waiting room is empty enough to make sure your blood flow is circulating through your legs enough and he’s kind and attentive, complimenting your hair or your make up in a shy, casual tone.
He compliments your lipstick once, a shade of brown that contrasts nicely with your complexion but is still subdued enough that Gloria doesn’t tell you to wipe it off— It’s an expensive one, a Chanel lipstick that you were gifted for your birthday years ago and that you save only for the days you want to feel extra pretty.
Jack stares at your lips long enough for you to feel self conscious about it, debating on whether you should ask him if there’s something on your teeth before he mumbles a ‘color’s nice on you’ and then wipes the smudge on the corner of your mouth that transferred from the coffee cup he brought you. Your front desk companion, María, waggles her eyebrows behind him and you need to duck your face back to your computer to hide the stupid smile you sport for the rest of the night.
It doesn’t take you long to fall for him, and it takes you even less time to notice the thick, dark wedding ring on his finger.
So, you presume that Dr. Abbot is just nice. You’re twenty-something years his junior, just starting on a very demanding job and he’s just being kind, a mentor and a caretaker by nature. María keeps side-eyeing him and joking in private about how he’s never been that nice to her but you simply shrug it off— You’ve met plenty of sleazy men, and you don’t think Abbot is one; he’s never crossed any lines, never been disrespectful and he simply doesn’t seem like the sort of man that would cheat on his spouse.
“Louie Cloverfield.” Jack calls out even though Louie is the only patient in the waiting room, sending you a wink when you giggle behind the glass separation that, quite frankly, sometimes is the only thing that keeps the patients from hitting you. You can feel the weight of María’s gaze as Louie and Jack retreat back into the pitt and you try to ignore her.
“Y’know,” she starts when it becomes clear that you’re not going to speak on it first. “In all my years working here, I don’t think I’ve ever seen an attending coming out this frequently to call out for the patients.”
“Dr. Abbot is just trying to raise patient satisfaction for our shift.” You say, eyes glued to the black cat you’re cross stitching. “That’s all.”
“Oh, he’s raising something, alright.”
You laugh and roll your eyes, but your stomach still flutters.
It’s Dr. Shen that brings up the barbecue. He’s very casual when he asks if you’ll be there and you politely decline— You’ve been invited for outings with the night crew before, but you don’t ever go out with them. You know they’re only inviting you out of politeness, because you’re not actually one of them: You’re not a health care worker, you’re not deep in the trenches with them on a nightly basis. You’re just a clerk, the first contact a patient has with the hospital staff and all you’re there to do is take people’s names and file their personal information. Sure, sometimes you can bump someone up the line if they need it, and the job is stressful as all fuck, but you’re not the one saving lives.
Dr. Abbot seems to disagree.
“It would be nice if you went.” He says, leaning back against your desk. He has a small splatter of blood mingling with the freckles on his neck and you need to sit on top of your hands to keep yourself from cleaning him. “I’d have someone to talk to.”
The question about his wife dies just before it slips through your teeth— Maybe she wasn’t invited, you think. You’ve never been to a hangout from work and, maybe, people outside of the hospital simply weren’t welcomed; or maybe she was busy, your brain conjuring up images of a beautiful, capable and well-respected neurosurgeon that was simply too occupied with saving lives to attend a barbecue with her husband’s work friends.
“I’ll be there.” You promise, lips quivering into a smile when Jack beams at you. “Only because I heard that Shen makes the best potato salad this side of Pittsburgh.”
“It is if you’ve had a glossectomy.” Jack snorts and you try to memorize the word so you can Google it later. He gives you a single finger gun before stepping back into the pitt. “Let me know if you need someone to drive you.”
You Uber to Dr. Shen’s house because, despite Jack’s offer, you don’t feel comfortable taking him up on it. He’s a married man, and he’s your coworker— Not directly your boss, but definitely an authority figure in your workplace, a respected man that has been working there since you were in high school. The gossip fodder just isn’t worth it, no matter how much you’d like to climb inside his slick black sedan that is probably more expensive than everything you own combined into a single bill. You think it probably smells like him, the mint of his aftershave and the muskiness of his cologne and you know you’d be heartbroken if it didn’t— Maybe it smells like his wife, something fruity and distinctively feminine, remnants of her presence everywhere: A forgotten lipstick in the ashtray, earrings in the cupholder, an airfreshener picked by her.
Still, you wear the expensive lipstick, and you hope Jack will notice it.
The party is already in full swing by the time you arrive; you’re about twenty minutes late because you’d rather die than be the first one to arrive but you should’ve expected that a group of doctors would be the punctual type. You come through the sidegate as per Shen’s instructions, balancing a case of Ginger Ale in one hand and a casserole worth of tiramiù in the other.
And of course, because it’s just your luck, Jack is the first one to spot you. His head snaps up from the beach hair he’s sitting on the moment the hinges of the gate creak and you’re not certain if it’s a hypervigilance remnant from his army days or if he’s been waiting for someone to show up— You almost hope that he’s been anxious to see you and then the image of the thick, dark wedding band come to mind and you’re ready to swerve him entirely when he grabs the casserole from your hands.
“Hey.” He breathes out, offering you that tight lipped smile of his. “Let me help you.”
Jack does the job of a host that Shen should be doing, asking you if you found the house easily and saying he’s happy to see you as you follow him into the kitchen. Shen is there, deep in conversation with Lena, leaning over the counter with a beer in hand; he throws his arms around you, grinning when he pulls you into a hug and all of your concerns about a pity invite are thrown out of the window.
“Aren’t you supposed to be manning the grill?” Jack asks him, eyebrows scrunched as he puts your dessert in the fridge; it’s clear that he’s familiar with Shen’s house and you wonder how often they have these sorts of gatherings— And how many times you’ll need to attend, sitting there and watching Jack parade his wife around.
“Ellis took over.” Shen shrugs, finally letting go of you. “Apparently she trusts me with doing a cric on a seven year old but not with cooking medium rare steaks.”
You giggle and Jack’s frown turns to you then; he’s by your side in a second, taking your hand in his and almost dragging you from the kitchen with the excuse of getting drinks— You barely pay attention, though, because his hand is warm against yours, dry and softer than you expected it to be; it’s not the first time Jack has touched you. He does it constantly, in fact, a hand to your shoulder or a little poke to your bicep when you look away while he talks and even a pat or two to the head or to the back of your neck whenever your hair is out of the way but this feels different. It’s not a fleeting, small touch that you can excuse as the action of a platonic friend that is a little too touchy; it lingers even when the two of you near the cooler by the pool, and he squeezes your hand for a second before he lets go as if he’s trying to memorize the feeling of your hand in his.
You look around, trying to discreetly figure out which one of the attendees is his wife, if she came at all. Ellis is by the grill, talking with her girlfriend; you’ve met the woman once before, when she came in one night because Ellis had forgotten to bring her dinner. And then Dr. Walsh and Mateo are in the corner, talking with Jesse, one of the day shift nurses you don’t know very well, and another man— This one you don’t recognize, but his arm is wrapped around Jesse’s middle and it’s not like he would be Jack’s wife anyway.
It also dawns on you then that, maybe, Jack’s spouse is a husband instead of a wife and you feel a little silly that the thought hadn’t crossed your mind before. Your eyes scan the backyard for any faces you don’t know but apart from a couple of day shifters here and there, there is no one you’re completely unfamiliar with.
“You came alone today?” You ask, taking the bottle Jack hands you, the question slipping out of your mouth before your brain can register how odd it is. Jack’s head cocks to the side a little, visibly confused, but he nods anyway.
“Robby was supposed to come too but—” He waves a hand. “You know how he is.”
Oh. Oh.
“Sorry he bailed on you.”
The intensity in Jack’s eyes is enough to have butterflies erupting inside your stomach. “ ‘S alright. I got you to keep me company, right?”
“Of course.” You smile even though you kind of feel like dying.
The barbecue is a never-ending feast. The potluck style meal is spread across the table outside and the kitchen counter once the dinner table runs out of space and Ellis is just a little manic as she handles the grill, barking orders like it’s the ER whenever she needs another steak or sausage or the platter is too full for the food she just finished grilling. Shen brings out a large stereo at some point, the sun going down and the moon coming up and more and more beer runs when it becomes clear no one really wants to go home. You escape to the living room at some point, needing a break from the noise and the conversation: Everyone does their best to include you but it’s clear you’re not really a part of the team yet— Maybe you’ll never be, because the medical terms and the shoptalk flies right over your head no matter how much you try to keep up; they bring up old cases and old inside jokes, laughing and chatting and no matter how much effort Jack puts into pulling you into the conversation it always feels a little bit like charity.
You take a swig of your Ginger Ale, head tilting back so you can go back to staring at the ceiling. You’re not certain at which point you switched from beer to soda, but you’re fairly certain it had been Jack’s decision rather than yours— He’s been playing waiter for you all day when it became clear you were too self conscious to keep helping yourself to the food and drinks, never making a big case out of it, just making sure your plate was full and your drinks were replenished. The sort of quiet caring you’ve come to expect from him, the same way he always looks out for you at work.
“Taking a break?” Jack’s voice comes from the doorway between the living room and the kitchen and you almost jump out of your skin.
“They get loud when they’re drunk.” You say in return, wanting to bury yourself in the soft cushions of Shen’s ratty couch.
“You get used to it, they’re all harmless.” Jack drops down on the couch next to you with a grunt, adjusting his prosthetic so that it stretches out in front of him; his head tilts back, just like yours. “Except for Lena. She starts to bite after the third tequila shot.”
You bark out a laugh. “I did notice Jesse is watering down her drinks.”
Jack smiles big enough to show his slightly crooked teeth and you’re surprised with how much it softens his face; he doesn’t smile a lot, you’ve noticed, mainly a tight lipped little grin or a twist at the corner of his mouth and the sight of an actual smile on his face makes him boyish despite the wrinkles near his eyes, even more visible with the way his face twists. It takes your breath away for a moment— You’ve always found him attractive, yes, but he’s never been particularly handsome, not in the classic way at least. Charming and kind and competent, yes, but this is the first time that you’re struck by how downright pretty he is.
The two of you fall into a comfortable silence; you don’t have much of a view of the outside from where you’re sitting but the music blasting in the backyard trickles in softly and muted through the glass doors.
“Is that…” You frown, straining your ears to the song. “Is that Madonna? Who’s in charge of the playlist?”
“Cyndi Lauper.” Jack replies almost immediately. “Did I answer that way too fast?”
“Are you the one that put Cyndi Lauper on?” You’re just teasing but Jack’s face turns five shades redder, the tip of his ears burning so bright you think they might explode. “Oh my God, you did! You’re so fucking old, Jack!”
“Hey, now!” He elbows you, still bright red. “She’s a classic.”
“She’s old.” You snicker. “Did you go out dancing to her songs at the clubs in your youth?”
“I did not.” Jack answers, his lips pulling into a smile that is almost self-depricating, his tone just bratty enough to send you into a fit of giggles. “You should see Robby, though. He has a whole dance routine to Time After Time. Used to perform it in our room whenever he was too stressed about an exam back in college.”
Laughter bursts out of you. “He’s going to kill you for telling me that.”
“Only if you babble about it.”
“Oh, I will.” You say, biting down your bottom lip trying to bring some sort of solemnity to your words. “I don’t even need to tell a lot of people. As soon as Shen hears—”
“No.” Jack turns around, pointing his indicator at you. “Shen cannot know about it.”
“Can’t know about what?” Shen asks from the threshold, his face a little flushed from the alcohol and a giant grin on his lips. “You two finally hooked up? I need to know because I’ll burn the couch if you did.”
“What?” You ask, your voice so high the word is hardly understandable. Your eyes bounce from Shen to Jack then back to Shen. “No! Of course not! Jesus Christ, Shen.”
Jack’s eyebrows hike up all the way to his hairline. “I didn’t know I was such a swamp monster. Kinda hard not to take offense to that tone, sweetheart.”
“No— It’s not—” You shake your head, jumping up from the couch. “I would never do that to Dr. Robby.”
“Robby?” Shen asks, his mouth falling open but you barely notice it, your eyes on Jack’s face, hoping he’ll agree with you that he, too, would never cheat on his husband but instead he simply stares at you as if he’d never seen you before.
Jack opens his mouth and then closes tight, his lips pressing so hard against each other you can barely see them. “Yeah, of course.”
You avoid Jack for the rest of the night, or maybe he’s the one avoiding you because you don’t really see him around either— You’re pretty sure he’s gone home but, by the time you’re standing by the curb waiting for your Uber, he’s suddenly next to you, hands shoved in his pockets.
“Let me take you home.” He says and, when you open your mouth to say it’s not necessary, Jack offers you a small, sad smile as if he knows exactly what you’re about to say. “Robby would kill me if I let you go home on your own when I can drive you just fine.”
“Okay.” You say, eventually, because you’re a glutton for punishment and can’t stand the idea of not spending time alone with Jack even when you know it’s only going to lead to your own heartbreak. “Thank you, Jack.”
His car is, just as you expect, a reflection of him. Slick and masculine, clean and tidy and smelling of his cologne. You slide into the seat after Jack opens the door for you, tucking yourself in and breathing deeply when he shuts the door and crosses through to the driver’s seat.
This is a terrible idea. Your own private little hell in the shape of comfortable leather seats and expensive design. It’s an automatic car, the sort you push a button to start, and you think it makes a lot more sense for his leg to drive a car that he doesn’t need to keep switching gears— It also makes you think about how he’d never need to take his hand off of your thigh to switch a gear with a car like this.
You need to keep reminding yourself that he’s not yours, however, and that he is not going to grab your thigh or slip his hand between your legs— You stare at the thick wedding ring on his finger, his hand grasping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles are white.
“How did you and Dr. Robby meet?” You ask because, although you know hearing Jack talk about his husband is going to hurt, it’s better than the self-destructive thoughts going through your brain. “I didn’t know you guys went to med school together.”
Jack’s shoulders hike up and he seems even more tense than he’d been before, though you can’t quite figure out why; it’s a simple, innocent question that you don’t think is crossing any boundaries.
“That’s how we met, actually.” He answers after a moment of hesitation. “We were roommates in college, though he was a couple of years above me. We sort of lost contact after that, he went into emergency medicine and I went to the military, but… Well, he was the one to recommend me for the position when he heard I was back.”
“That’s sweet of him. I’m glad you guys managed to find your way back to each other.”
“Yeah, real sweet of him.”
You don’t really understand why Jack sounds so bitter when talking about his own husband.
Dr. Robby corners you just outside of the employees only exit about a week after the barbecue. It’s 8:45 am and you are dead on your feet, though you’re starting to get used to staying later and later— Or perhaps earlier and earlier, depending on the point of view. You hold your bag close, your eyes burning and your lower back hurting as he steps in front of you, his hulking frame obscuring the view of the bus stop you’re trying to reach. You can tell he’s trying to be nonchalant, hands shoved in his hoodie’ front pocket, but his face is pinched with discomfort.
“Can we talk for a sec?” He asks, shuffling on his feet; his eyes bounce from your face to behind you, checking in on his ER from afar in the same way you’ve seen Jack do several times.
“Yeah, sure.” You cross your arms over your chest; even though Robby is clearly not trying to be a threat, he’s still big and imposing enough to keep you on your toes— And he’s not your boss, not really, but you know he has enough of a sway with Gloria that your life would become hell at work if he wanted to.
“Why’d you tell Shen we’re dating?”
“I never told Shen we’re dating.” Your face burns with embarrassment and you can only hope that it doesn’t show. “I’m sorry, Dr. Robby, I think you’re talking to the wrong person.”
“Jack was there. He confirmed everything. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re a lovely young lady I just… Uh, well, I’m sorry if I ever gave you the impression that something could happen.”
You stare at him for a long moment, long enough that you can see him growing even more uncomfortable, before your brain catches up to what is happening.
“I never said we’re dating.” You repeat. “Shen implied Jack and I were a thing and I just told him I’d never be someone’s side chick. And I know Jack wouldn’t cheat on you anyway, he really doesn’t seem the type.”
Dr. Robby bursts into laughter and you’re so startled that you recoil.
“Jack and I?” He asks, the corner of his eyes wrinkling as he laughs. “We’re not together, kid.”
“Oh.” You would be offended at his laughter if you didn’t feel so relieved. “I thought you two were married. He uhm, he wears the ring.”
Dr. Robby cocks his head to the side, staring down at you as if he could see your entire soul. “His wife died a couple of years ago. I’m not sure he’ll ever take it off, honestly.”
You hear more than you see the swoosh of your bus stopping— It’s ingrained in your brain by now, so much so that you don’t even think before you swerve Robby’s frame and bolts.
“Hey kid!” Dr. Robby yells, but the bus’ doors are about to close and you don’t look back. “Jack likes his eggs scrambled!”
You make it just in time to shove yourself through the closing doors, and you smile all the way home.
This time, you go to Jack first. The ER is busier than ever that night and even the two am lull doesn’t happen— A gunshot wound and a wreck between three cars full of teenagers kept all of the doctors quite busy, and the reception kept piling up so many patients you don’t have time to take your break until close to four am. You find him in the break room, his prosthetic leg propped up on a chair, the rest of his body slumped over the dining table, a half eaten tray of microwavable lasagna forgotten next to his head. He doesn’t look up until you’re sliding the can of strawberry flavored Monster towards him.
“That thing is going to give you a heart attack.” Jack says, his hazel eyes watching you carefully when you plop down on the seat next him.
“Good thing it’s for you, then.”
Jack wipes the can clear with a napkin before he cracks it open, taking a long sip from the energy drink before sliding it back to you.
“Rough shift, huh?”
“Fucking teenagers.” He sighs, rolling his shoulders. “Were you reckless like that?”
“No, I was a very good girl.” You take a drink from the can before handing it back.
“Yeah, I bet you were.” The look Jack gives you sends a fire down your spine despite how tired he looks. You shift in your seat, clearing your throat.
“Robby talked to me.”
“I thought you were dating him.” Jack says, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the formica table top.
“And I thought you were married to him.”
He snorts. “I’d rather shoot myself.”
“Me too.” You snicker, feeling more relaxed than you have all week. Jack licks his lips, his eyes skirting all over your face— From your neck to your chin, holding a couple of seconds on your mouth before he finally looks you in the eyes.
“You really thought I’d flirt with you if I was married?”
“You never flirted with me, Jack, and…” You motion to his wedding ring. “How could I not think you’re married?”
Jack blinks. “What do you mean, I never flirted with you? Sweetheart, what do you think I’ve been doing all of this time?”
“Being nice?” You mean it as a statement, but it comes out more as a question than anything else.
“Honey, I’m nice but I’m not that nice.” Jack scratched the back of his neck, his freckles darkening when he blushes. “Maybe I gotta up my game. Haven’t really flirted with anyone other than Myrna in years.”
“I think you’re the only reason she lets the cops bring her back.” You chuckle, looking down at your hands; you’ve been so anxious about this you’ve started picking at your cuticles again and now you feel a little silly for being so up in arms about it. “But yeah, you gotta get a little more aggressive if bringing me pastries and giving me rides is your way of flirting.”
“Maybe I could start by taking you out for breakfast later today?”
You bite down on your lip, hesitating only for a second to gather the courage before you say:
“We could eat at my place, if you’d like. I make really good scrambled eggs.”
The smile Jack gives you could send you into cardiac arrest far easier than the energy drink.
Imagine bonding w/ Lars (Lars Lindstrom x GN! Neighbor! Reader)
Lars and the Real Girl Masterpost
This imagine took me out back and shot me. But it's okay. We ball. I'm gonna write a part two for this where reader helps Lars with physical touch...so stay tuned for that.
⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊ ༄ ❆ ༄ ₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆
Moving, so far, had been nothing but pain and misery for you. Furniture trucks going missing, flooding from snowmelt postponing your plans…it's all been a lot, with things seeming to go wrong at every turn. For the sake of your own mental health, you had pushed through the basics (setting up heating, electricity, water, etc.) and postponed anything else to a later date. In your time of need, the community had been a place of solace. Everyone was so lovely, always welcoming and wishing you the best. Some even offered to help unpack. It was heartwarming.
Present day, it's been about a month since you "moved" into your house. Everything is finally starting to feel situated, your space molding to what you really wanted it to be. With the big weight of hauling furniture off your chest, you decide to go to the library, wishing to scope it out now that you have free time.
You're checking out the books, fingers brushing against the spines, as you hear it: the subtle sounds of conversation. Curiosity gets the better of you and you go to the end of the aisle, peeking out. There's a circle of older women in comfortable looking chairs, knitting needles gently clicking as they talk together. The only outlier is the man amongst their midst, quiet as he looks down with a concentrated pinch to his brows, working on his own project. It's…undeniably sweet. It's only a matter of time before someone catches you, waving you over for a quick chat. While talking, you can't help the way your eyes drift toward the man, curiosity flowing. He looks kind. Quiet, but kind.
After, it seems that every time you go to the library, at least one person from the knitting group is there, always ready to chat with you. Eventually, the brunette comes up in the conversation. Lars—that's what you're told his name is. He's a "lovely young man", according to the ladies. You tend to agree, even if you haven't met him.
That statement holds true for about two weeks. Other than subtle glances, you two never interact. That is, until you're outside, enjoying the sounds of the migrating birds. The subtle crunch of snow under boots seems to be getting closer and closer to you. You immediately perk up, looking to your right. Low and behold, there he is. Lars.
His head is down, hands bundled into his jacket pockets. He doesn't seem to be paying much attention, mumbling something under his breath. You debate on offering a greeting before you eventually wave your hand loosely in the air as you say hello. He startles, blinking heavily before lifting his head up and seeing you. His cheeks glow pink from where they peek out under the bulk of his scarf. Inviting him in is easy.
From then on, it becomes a habit. Lars will take a walk, and you will intercept him, sometimes even waiting on your porch with a hot mug and a smile. He'll curl up on the couch, never one to take too much space, and entertain your attempts at conversation, slowly coming out of his shell over time. It's worth it, you think. He's a sweet guy.
He repays your kindness with words of affection and gifts. One time in particular, he even mutters out a compliment, speaking on how nice you are. He hands a heap of fabric to you before you can even think of thanking him. It's a sweater, custom made for you. You wear it as often as you can, ignoring the blush on Lars' face so that he can have peace of mind. He may be quiet, but he's a loverboy at heart. And that's enough for you.
Feel free to use this idea for fics/art! Just credit me ;p
Jack said "i'll pay for it" and i blacked out. here's this. (the gif is def brett richards but ignore that!)
Summary: A short trip to the ER one night spirals into an unlikely accidental sugar daddy relationship with a certain night shift attending that you never expected.
Warnings: SMUT mdni 18+ only!!, medical innaccuracies (never been to the ER for a mild allergic reaction so just <3 look past any mistakes), slight miscommunication trope, jack is WHIPPED from day 1, sugar daddy jack yes god, lots of complicated feelings abt money, reader is trying her damnest to still be independent, so much fluff, robby has his whimsy back in this, jack is trying his hardest to be Normal abt you (he is failing), oral f!recieving, fingering, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (and the crowd...cheers? wear a condom!)
WC: 16.5k (I SAID I BLACKED OUT)
The last place you expect to end up on your birthday is PTMC’s ER and yet, that’s exactly where you sit.
For the record, you think you’re fine. Your friend thinks otherwise, hence the fact that you’re now at the ER and not still at the restaurant. At least she drove you here instead of calling an ambulance -- you do not have the money for that -- but she didn’t stay with you. Which you kind of understand. ER’s aren’t the best place to be, and it’s late and she has to work super early and you told her to leave.
You just also hadn’t entirely expected her to go without any pushback, but what can you do?
Still, it just seems par for the course. The course being your entire life. There’s never any fight, no one ever really wants to stay. It’s-- Well, you’d say it was weird if it wasn’t your normal, everyday life.
But it’s fine. Again, you’re the one who told her she didn’t need to stay and that you would be fine because you are fine. So, you’re having a little allergic reaction. So what? It’s not like your throat is closing up or anything. It’s just been like, sort of, itchy. And maybe you have hives. Maybe.
The ER isn’t empty by any means, but there are empty chairs and in your ER experience, that’s a rare and good sign. You hope it means this won’t take long at all, and that you aren’t exactly high priority.
Until you’re called back before a lot of people who definitely checked in after you.
You go through the motions of triage, explaining what’s wrong, insisting that you’re fine, but apparently the hives look bad and apparently the little cough you have might be a bad sign, because before you know it, you’re in a room of your own.
You huff, which turns into some coughing, and you grimace. Your throat does not feel great.
You don’t have to wait long at all before the curtain pulls back so abruptly that you flinch, and then lock eyes with an absolute silver fox of a doctor. Suddenly your breathing issues have nothing to do with the alleged allergic reaction that you might be having.
“I’m Dr. Abbot, it’s nice to meet you, though I’m really sorry it’s under these circumstances.” The corners of his lips quirk in a small smile when he turns to look at you. “What brings you in tonight?”
“Um…” you swallow uncomfortably. “Possible allergic reaction?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Possible?”
“I don’t have any allergies,” you say. “Not that I know of, anyway. But I was eating dinner and then my throat started to feel really scratchy and water wasn’t helping it, and then like, apparently there’s hives on my neck--”
“Okay,” Dr. Abbot listens intently, straightening up. “Are you having any trouble breathing now?”
You shake your head. “No, my throat is still scratchy, but I can breathe fine, I just keep coughing a little because it feels like something is stuck.”
He nods. “Okay. Let me know if that changes, as soon as it changes. I don’t care if you think it is, let me know. Okay?”
You nod this time. “Okay. Got it.”
“Now,” he smiles softly, walking to your bedside. “What was for dinner? And do you mind if I take a look at that rash you keep scratching at on your arm?”
You freeze, literally caught in the act, nails still digging into your forearm before you slowly move your hand away. “Sorry.”
He shakes his head, sitting down on the stool beside your bed. “Don’t apologize. Can I?” You nod and his fingertips touch your skin. “What was dinner?”
You explain what you had and at what restaurant, and Dr. Abbot listens. He lists some possible allergens, but that it’s impossible to really know. It could even be a case of cross-contamination, but since you don’t know of any allergies in general, it’s hard to say what it could be exactly.
All the while he’s examining your skin, leaning so close you can feel his breath. His fingertips ghost over the hives, applying pressure here and there, which apparently tells him something, but what exactly, you have no idea.
“You ever taken Benadryl before?” he asks, leaning back to look up at you.
You nod. “Yeah, just when I’m like deathly sick.”
He laughs. “Good. I’m going to get one of my nurses to bring some in because you do have some pretty good hives on your neck, now making their way onto your arm here. The bad news is it absolutely looks like an allergic reaction of some kind, but the good news is it seems to be an extremely mild one. I am going to need to keep you for a couple hours to monitor you, make sure the Benadryl works and that your breathing doesn’t change. Is that okay?”
You nod. It’s not like you have anywhere else to be. “That’s fine, yeah.”
“Okay,” he smiles, squeezing your hand once, and it’s only then that you realize you had begun to start scratching again.
It’s also when you realize he’s wearing a goddamn wedding ring.
You wedge both of your hands under your thighs, looking away as you let out another small, “Sorry.”
Even in your peripherals you can see he gives you a strange look before he shakes his head. All he says is “I’ll be right back” and then he disappears.
You lean your head back against the pillows and sigh, loudly. Which turns into a cough, but it’s small, and doesn’t hurt anymore.
And then it’s like Dr. Abbot appears out of fucking nowhere, curtain flinging back, his eyes wide as he peers in. “Are you okay? Trouble breathing?”
“No, sorry,” you lift your head, putting on what you hope is a reassuring smile. “I’m fine. I was just…”
He watches you steadily for a moment. “Okay. Let me know if that changes.”
You nod again. “Roger that.” Why did you just say that?
He smirks as he leaves again, and this time you toss your head back into the pillows a little more aggressively.
You cannot look so flustered every time he speaks. He’s married, for Christ’s sake, and he is not flirting with you. He is your doctor.
You expect the next time the curtain opens for it to be a nurse with your Benadryl, but it’s Dr. Abbot yet again. He has a cup of water in one hand and the little packet of Benadryl in the other.
“Are you okay taking pills?” he asks, handing you the water, and you ignore the way your fingers brush.
“Yeah,” you murmur, watching him as he sits down on the stool again. He definitely doesn’t need to be the one giving you the medicine, let alone sitting down at your bedside to do it, but you don’t call him out on it.
You take the two pills from him and swallow them with some water, feeling his gaze on you but keeping your eyes focused on the door. When you finish, you sneak a glance over at him, and he’s watching you. Still.
“Good.” He says it so softly that you almost don’t hear it. “I’ll come back in a bit to see how you’re doing, but if anything changes, you can press this button right here and it’ll send a signal to the nurses’ hub. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”
You nod, but he doesn’t budge, so you add, “Yeah, okay. Thank you.”
He pulls the curtain behind him as he leaves, and part of you wishes he had turned the lights off, too. It’s late as hell and you were already tired to begin with from working as many extra shifts as you can get your hands on. The allergic reaction certainly isn’t helping your tiredness.
It feels like barely any time passes before Dr. Abbot comes in to check on you again. It does seem odd, just how often he’s checking in, but maybe it’s a slow night. There were empty chairs, after all.
You sit silently as he checks your hives from his place on the stool. He hums a little as his fingertips ghost over your skin. You answer his questions about how you’re feeling. Better, less itchy, your throat doesn’t hurt anymore. You blink slowly and Dr. Abbot notices, smiling at you, but this one is strangely soft.
“Feeling sleepy?”
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Sorry, forgot Benadryl hits me kinda hard.”
“That’s okay, it’s normal,” he assures you. “Did you drive here?”
“No, my friend dropped me off.”
His eyebrows furrow. “She didn’t stay?”
“She has to work super early shifts,” you wave him off. “It’s fine, I’ll just Uber home or…or something.” Which is still not ideal because it’s money you don’t want to spend, and maybe you could get your friend to come back and pick you up, but you don’t want to wake her up if she’s asleep already.
He eyes you warily. “Why don’t you sleep this off for a bit, and then we’ll talk about getting you home. Okay?”
You’re too tired to argue, honestly. You clearly haven’t taken Benadryl in ages because it’s hitting you like a freight train right now.
You don’t argue, but you do say, “Are you sure?” and Dr. Abbot just nods, patting your arm.
“You stay put, I’ll come check in on you, but I want those hives to go down some more before you leave,” he says, which, you have no idea how this works, so this is probably typical protocol, who knows.
“Okay,” you shrug. “As long as you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” he smiles. “You’ll be okay here. Get some sleep.”
You don’t need to be told twice.
+++
You’re still sleeping soundly by the time six a.m. rolls around, which leads to a lot of questions, all directed at one Dr. Jack Abbot.
“So…” Robby leans onto the desk next to where Jack is charting. He showed up a bit early today for who knows what reason, but clearly one objective is getting on Jack’s nerves as soon as possible. “Want to tell me what’s up with the patient in 12?”
“Allergic reaction, not sure what caused it,” Jack rattles off the usual descriptions necessary at handover, except he won’t be handing you over to anyone. “Her friend dropped her off.”
“So you’re waiting for her friend to come get her…?” Robby asks, eyebrows furrowed and head shaking.
“No,” Jack says. I’m taking her home, he wants to say, and nearly does, but he can’t say that because he hasn’t even asked you if you want that. You said you’d Uber, but you didn’t exactly look like that idea appealed to you for some reason.
“Jack,” Robby sighs. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” Jack bites out, logging back on to triple check something that he definitely doesn’t need to triple check. He knows he has a bad habit of getting attached to certain cases, but those cases are usually veterans and their families. Not…not pretty young women who come in alone and insist they’re fine when they’re clearly on the cusp of anaphylactic shock (how you didn’t end up in shock, Jack still doesn’t know, but he’s glad you didn’t get worse).
“She’s a patient,” Robby says flatly. “She’s your patient.”
“I’m not doing anything,” Jack repeats, eyes scanning over your file some more when his eyes lock on the date. Your birthday.
Your birthday was yesterday now, when you got here. You didn’t mention anything about that.
Strange.
He logs off and turns to Robby. “I’ve got her cleared for discharge and I’m going to go let her know now. Happy, boss?”
Robby holds his hands up in mock surrender.
Jack turns and heads toward your room, well aware that he shouldn’t have let you stay this long. You’re taking up a bed that they probably need, but in his defense, this is the first time in a long time that there aren’t any beds lining the walls when dayshift comes in. He counts it as a win. And justification that you’re fine to take up one bed. They still have the pedes room empty, anyway.
He knocks on the door before opening it, sliding the curtain back gently, remembering the way you flinched earlier.
“Hey,” he says, smiling without thinking. You’re awake and sitting up, which is a good sign. But you’re glaring at him. “How are you doing?”
“Why am I still here?” you ask, arms crossed over your chest. “You were supposed to let me sleep off the Benadryl, not sleep through the night.”
He chuckles, grabbing the stool and wheeling it over so he can sit at the end of your bed, putting some distance between you this time. “Because you clearly needed the rest. I came and checked on you every hour; you were out cold.”
You grumble something and then huff. “Well, I need to go, I have to work in like…four hours. So. Can I go?”
He doesn’t like the idea of you working after a night in the ER, but he also knows he can’t exactly tell you not to. Medically, you’re fine. “Yeah, you’re free to go, that’s what I was coming to tell you, actually.”
“Great.”
He fucked this up. He doesn’t know how, and he’s not sure why he’s even thinking that there’s something to fuck up. You’re his patient. But still, it feels like he’s ruined everything. Whatever everything is.
“Uh, here’s your paperwork,” he says awkwardly, handing over the sheets. “Just a review of what you were treated for and with what, and who saw you.” He pauses. “If you need a note for work--”
“I’m fine,” you say, taking the papers. “Thanks.”
“Okay,” he nods. “Well, if you--” How does he fix this? Why does he feel like there’s something to fix? “If you feel any worse again, come back, or…”
You raise your eyebrows at him.
“Or if you just want a check up,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound as ridiculous as he feels. “You can stop by any night.”
He hears your breath hitch and he graciously ignores it.
“Thank you, Dr. Abbot,” you murmur.
He nods again. “No problem. I’ll uh…let you get out of here.” So I can do the same. And go crawl in a hole.
He leaves without another word, trusting that you can get yourself to the exit without him.
He finishes handover with Robby, welcomes the rest of the dayshift as they come waltzing in, and then he gets the hell out of there.
He almost goes to the roof, but thinks better of it. He grabs his stuff from his locker, shaking his head at himself the whole time. He leaves the ED through chairs like always, grimacing when he sees it’s filling back up already. Dayshift will have their hands full, no doubt.
He’s just walking up the sidewalk to the parking deck where his truck is when he spots you. Still here. Sitting on a bench in the park across the street.
Jack doesn’t think. He just looks, crosses the street, and walks right up to you.
You’re looking down at your phone and muttering under your breath. He doesn’t want to startle you, but that’s probably inevitable. Still, he tries not to, and clears his throat to (hopefully) announce his presence loud enough.
It works. You lift your head and your wide eyes stare back at him. “Oh. Hi.”
“Hi,” he echoes. “Everything okay?”
You open your mouth and he can already see the I’m fine forming around your lips. He expects it. He expects you to tell him to get lost, that he’s being a creep. But you don’t.
You shut your mouth, roll your lips into your mouth, and sigh. “No, my uh…My friend works on the other side of the city, and I know her schedule so I know she’s already halfway to work, so I can’t ask her for a ride, so I was just going to Uber to my place, but my fucking-- The app keeps declining my card. It’s never done that before, so I’m trying to figure out what the fuck it’s doing, but it keeps saying it’s not accepted and--”
“I’ll pay for it.”
You blink, his words forcing the rest of yours to die in your throat. “What?”
“I can pay for it,” he says again. Then adds, “If that’s okay with you.”
Your mind is clearly still stuttering, gears grinding to a halt, trying to catch up. “Why?”
Jack can’t help it, he laughs. “Because you’re my patient and I’d really recommend you get home soon and rest before your shift at work,” he says. He still doesn’t want you to go to work. He wants you to show your boss the discharge paperwork and take the day off.
But, he realizes, maybe you can’t afford to do that.
“Here,” he says, reaching in his pocket for his wallet. He produces one of his old credit cards, one that he hardly ever puts anything on aside from gas for his truck. He holds it out to you. “Use this one. See if it’ll accept it.”
You blink again. After far too long of a pause, your hand reaches up and you take the card. “Thank you.”
“It’s not a problem,” he says, shifting on his feet as he watches you put the information in. Some weird part of him hopes you save the card. Some weirder part of him wants you to take the card entirely.
But, of course, you don’t do that. You put the information in, wait for it to process, and then you hand the card straight back to him.
The app accepts it. Your phone dings as a driver is found.
You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” you look up at him with a soft smile. “Thank you so much, seriously. And I’ll delete the card after--”
“Don’t worry about it,” he shakes his head. “Consider it a belated birthday gift.”
You hang your head at that with a small laugh. “Thanks.”
He smiles again. “Get home safe, okay?”
He figures it might be a step too far and too weird to wait here with you until your ride shows, so he makes his exit.
But if he waits in his truck in the parking deck until he sees you get in your Uber, well, that’s his business and his business only.
+++
How much variation can one have in their ramen? It’s about all you can afford at the moment, so you’re trying to think of some things to add in to make it less pathetic and…repetitive to eat every single day.
You’ve gotten some frozen edamame, and some cheap frozen gyozas, because why the fuck not. A poached egg would be nice, but eggs aren’t exactly in the budget at the moment, so instead you stare wistfully at them as you pass by.
And that’s your Big Mistake of the day, because instead of watching where the fuck you’re going, you’re looking at the eggs like they’re your long lost husband. Which means you collide right into the person your delusional friend thinks is your long lost husband.
“Oh my god, I am so sorry,” you blurt, your hands reaching out to steady Dr. Abbot just as he’s doing the exact same for you. It’s a hilarious gesture on your part because he isn’t the one who needs help staying on his feet. You’re the one about to fall over.
“Dr. Abbot,” you gasp, stepping away from him, your basket swinging on your arm. “What are you doing here?”
The question makes him pause and his lips quirk. “Um…buying groceries? Is that allowed?”
Fucking duh. “Yes! Sorry, I just meant-- Never mind.” You glance at his basket and see he’s put two steaks in and some butter, but nothing else. “Wow, steak dinner,” you joke. “Celebrating something?”
You expect him to say yes, my wedding anniversary or something of the sort. Because he’s still wearing a ring-- because, of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be? It’s only been two weeks since you were in the ER. And it’s not like you know anything about his personal life, wife included.
He laughs, looking down at his basket like he forgot what he’s buying. “No, not really, just craving steak. I sometimes have one after I work a double. As a reward, you know.”
“Right,” you nod, like you understand what he means. Like when you pull a double at your job, you do the exact same thing. Like you can afford to do that. “Well, enjoy.”
“I will, thank you,” he says. Then, he commits the highest form of treachery. He glances at your basket. “Ramen?” he starts, then you see his brain register the other items. “Fancy ramen?”
“Gotta make it healthy somehow,” you joke.
He nods slowly, eyes cutting to the side at the eggs. You wonder if he noticed the way you were staring at them. “I sometimes do a fried egg with mine,” he comments. “Adds to it.”
“Yup,” you say. “It does.” But have you seen the fucking price of eggs right now? “Anyway, I should-- I need to get going, but um, enjoy your steak and days off, I’m guessing.”
He accepts your abrupt end of the conversation with a humble nod. “Will do. I’m glad to see you’re doing well.”
“You too,” you say over your shoulder, making a beeline down a random aisle just to get away.
You end up down the cereal aisle which isn’t such a bad idea. You have some milk left at home, but even if it’s gone bad, you can eat the dry cereal.
You stare at all of the boxes like they’ve personally offended you, wondering when these prices went up too. Maybe they haven’t. Maybe you’re just dealing with a lot of extra expenses right now, and it’s fried your brain. Probably.
You grab the cheapest, off-brand bag you can see. It’s ridiculous and massive and definitely meant for parents of four kids, but it’s cheap and it’ll last you. So.
You wander aimlessly around the rest of the store, debating over some other snacks and food that you don’t really need, but you do want. In the end, the not-needing wins, so you head for the checkouts.
The self-checkout is crammed for some stupid reason, so you pick a mostly empty line and hop in. You hate not using the self-checkout, but it’ll have to do.
“I swear I’m not following you,” a voice says from behind you.
You glance back and see that it’s Dr. Abbot and you laugh a little, awkwardly. “Sure,” you tease. “I totally believe you.”
He cracks a small smile then, setting his things on the conveyor belt behind yours. The steaks, butter, and now eggs, milk, and bread have joined. Along with a four-pack of beer.
“Healthy,” you raise your eyebrows. “Don’t know what I expected from a doctor who works nights, though.”
“Funny,” he says. “How are you doing, by the way? I didn’t get a chance to ask.”
“I’m okay,” you reply, stepping forward as the person in front of you pays. “Thanks for asking.”
“You never came back to see me,” he says, his eyes just a little sad and his voice a little too soft.
“I didn’t get any worse,” you shrug, ignoring the way his statement made your chest grow tighter and butterflies kick around in your stomach. “And a check-up isn’t really in the budget, Dr. Abbot.”
“Please,” he says, exhaling. “Call me Jack.”
You give him a strange look before greeting the cashier as she scans your things through.
You did the math on your phone as you put things in your basket, but the fucking taxes get you every time. And now you’re not sure if you overshot or not.
You try your debit card and, as you dread, it declines.
“Fuck,” you mutter to yourself. “One second, sorry.”
“No problem,” the cashier says, and to her credit, she doesn’t sound like she feels any sort of way about it. She probably deals with this a lot.
“Here, I’ll try a different card,” you smile, hating every second of your fucking life. You didn’t want to put this on your credit card, but fine. If you must.
Except that fucking declines too. Fuck. Did you freeze it so you’d stop using it while you paid some of it off and forget to unfreeze it for emergencies like, say, a surprise ER trip and work cutting your hours?
Probably.
“Um…” You can feel the back of your neck starting to sweat from the embarrassment of it all. “I’ll just have to-- I’ll come back, or--”
“I’ve got it,” Jack says, stepping forward and handing cash over to the cashier before you can stop him. He does at least glance at you and ask, after he’s handed the money over, “If that’s okay?”
It’s not, not really. Because you already owe him for the Uber, and you don’t want to owe him for this too, but you really need the fucking food. So, you swallow your pride and say, “Yeah, thanks,” instead.
You shove your things into a bag as Jak takes his change from the cashier. He pockets it, thank god, because you think you might’ve exploded if he tried offering it to you.
She scans his stuff and he pays with a card, and you really don’t know why you’re still standing here, but you are. You’re just…frozen. He’s been so nice. But. Your eyes catch on the wedding ring.
He puts everything into two bags and thanks the cashier before smiling over at you. “Ready?”
You just nod numbly, walking with him toward the exit. “Thank you,” you say as the two of you are outside. “You really didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs. “It’s not a problem,” he says, pausing with you on the sidewalk. “It’s the least I could do.”
You’re not sure what he means by that, and you don’t ask.
“Let me walk you to your car,” he blurts. “It’s dark.”
The parking lot is extremely well-lit, but you let him have this one. There’s no real harm in it. “Sure. I’m over this way.”
You realize that it isn’t as well-lit where you’ve parked, so you’re glad you let him walk you.
You unlock your door with your key and lean over the console to set your groceries in the passenger seat. You straighten up to see Jack still standing there, looking a bit awkward himself.
“Well,” you murmur. “I guess I’ll see you around?”
“Hopefully not in the ER,” he says, dropping his head with a chuckle. “As much as I’m glad I was able to help you, I really don’t want you to be a patient again.”
“You and me both,” you mutter, remembering the bill you have to chip away at. “Goodnight, Dr. Abbot.” He gives you a stern look and you roll your eyes. “Jack. Goodnight, Jack.”
“Goodnight,” he smiles, then turns and walks through the cars.
You sigh so heavily that you feel it in your bones, sliding into the driver’s seat, pulling your door closed with you. You tip your head back against the headrest with a stupid, giddy smile that feels ridiculous and floaty.
And then, you turn your keys in the ignition.
Now, ideally, the car will start after a second. Normally, the engine fucking starts. Except this time, all you hear are clicks. The clicks of doom.
“Fuck,” you say out loud because you, unfortunately, know exactly what the clicking means.
The fucking battery is dead. Because of course it is. Because of course you needed one more goddamn thing to happen that will cost money that you don’t have.
You lean forward and rest your forehead on the steering wheel, hitting it just a little too hard, but you’re too tired, stressed, and frankly fed up to even care.
How the hell are you supposed to get home now? You can’t call a towing service because how the hell are you supposed to pay for that? And despite the fact that you know what’s wrong with your car, you have no idea where the nearest car parts store is. Sure, you can Google that, but right now it feels like lifting your head is too much effort.
You try turning the key one more time, just to see if it was a fluke. Clickclickclickclick. Fine.
Then, there’s knocking on your window, and it makes you jolt so hard you nearly slam your head into the top of your car.
You turn your head, heart racing, but it’s just Dr. Abbot. Jack.
You open the door just as Jack is saying, “I heard the battery. I have jumper cables if you want…?”
“Please,” you exhale, not even caring that you sound desperate and that this will be yet another thing you’re indebted to him for.
“Give me a second, I’ll pull my truck around.”
“Thanks.”
He gives you another one of his ‘no need to thank me’ smiles and walks through the cars again. Soon you hear a truck starting, and you realize he parked just a few cars over from you on the other aisle.
You step aside so he can pull into the empty space beside your car. You try (and fail) to not look at him and think about how handsome he looks while he drives.
To keep your eyes under control, you bend down and flick the switch to pop the hood on your car, walking around the front to lift it up.
Jack walks over with the cables, hooking them up despite you reaching for them. “I’ve got it,” he says, not unkindly. “You jumped a car before?”
“Yeah,” you chuckle. “My old car was a piece of shit. Even with a brand new battery, it would decide it wanted to be jumped sometimes.”
He whistles as he turns and finishes hooking up the cables. “Damn.”
“Yeah, at least this is the first time this one has needed it,” you reply. “But I haven’t put a new battery in it since I got it like…two years ago, so.”
“Might be time then,” Jack says. “Alright, we’re good. Want to try starting it now?”
“Roger that,” you say, and you’ve got to stop saying that around him. It must be your go-to when you’re flustered, which is just ridiculous. You need a better phrase.
You slip into your driver’s seat and try the key again. It stutters once, but then it starts, and your body sags with relief.
You leave the car running and step out to thank Jack again. He’s looking at your engine with furrowed brows, though, and that’s not what you want.
“No…” You groan. “What’s that face for?”
“One sec,” he says, then heads over to his truck, leaving you there at the hood. You hear rustling and turn to look, but his door and your door are blocking your view.
Next thing you know, he’s leaning into your driver’s seat, saying something about checking some light on the dash.
You have no fucking idea. You don’t remember seeing a light pop up when your car started, but then again, you were just elated that your car allowed itself to be jump-started at all.
Then he’s done, as quickly as can be, shutting his truck door and joining you at the hood.
“You need an oil change,” he says.
“I know,” you roll your eyes. “About a hundred miles ago. I’ll get it done soon.”
You can tell by his face that he definitely doesn’t believe you, but it’s not his problem. You reach over and disconnect the black cable, raising your eyebrows at him so he’ll go disconnect it from his truck. He goes without arguing, and then waits for you to disconnect the red before he disconnects his. He takes the cables from you with what you think looks like an apologetic smile.
“Thank you for the jump,” you say. You don’t want him to feel apologetic, you just…
“It’s no problem, seriously,” he says. He starts looping the cables and loosely knotting them. “Do you need any help with the battery, or…?”
You just give him a wry smile. “I’m a big girl, Dr. Abbot. I can get a new battery for my car.”
“Right, sorry,” he nods, taking a step back. “Goodnight.”
“Night, Jack,” you say, meaning it this time.
He waits until you get in your car and drive away before he even gets in his driver’s seat. You see the little smile on his lips in your rearview mirror.
When you get home, you find a second bag of groceries tucked beside yours on the floor of your passenger seat.
You huff as you take both inside your apartment, setting them on the kitchen counter. You glare at the bag that has eggs, bread, and milk in it as if it disgusts you. Maybe what disgusts you about it is the fact that you aren’t upset about it, not really. You need the food. You just hate that he did so much for you tonight. And that other night in the ER.
You take everything out and shove the eggs and milk in the fridge, tossing the bread into the cabinet. And that’s when you see it, floating down from where it was likely stuck to the bread because of the static electricity.
A receipt. Or the torn-off end of one with some scribbled writing on the back.
Call if you need anything. Or if you just feel like calling. -Jack
You almost snort at the message, but it is sweet. You imagine Jack furiously writing it in his truck before sneaking the groceries over, hands shaking as he writes his name and number.
You put a new contact in your phone -- Jack Abbot (ER Dr) -- but you don’t text him. You’ll save that for another day. Maybe.
+++
By some grace of some higher power, your car starts the next morning -- after a little bit of stuttering. Plus, you were able to figure out the nonsense with your credit card, so you make the drive to get a new battery.
The guy at the autoparts shop takes pity on you (or maybe he’s flirting, but you aren’t interested) and he changes the battery out for you, free of charge. You know how to change it on your own, but since he offered, you let him. Sometimes you just don’t feel like dealing with shit.
You at least have half a tank of gas still, so there’s that. It should last you for a while, as long as you’re careful about getting to and from work. You can walk, it just takes thirty minutes, but it isn’t a bad walk by any means when the weather is nice.
The key phrasing here being when the weather is nice. And you swear, you fucking swear, the weather was supposed to be nice today. There was nothing in the forecast about rain.
But there fucking should’ve been, because here you stand, looking out the front windows of your job -- a small coffee shop that can only give you part-time hours right now -- as it fucking pours.
You can’t even stay in here because the shop is closed now and the security alarm needs to be set. You need to leave before your boss texts you and asks why you haven’t already left.
But you have a long ass walk ahead of you in this shitty weather and you’d rather die. Honestly.
At least it isn’t thundering. Although, maybe being struck by lightning would be nicer.
“Fuck. Me” is the most eloquent thing you can think of as you exit the shop and lock up, waiting to hear the alarm beep three times over the sound of the rain. You hate when it stops beeping like it should because that means nothing is wrong which means you have to leave.
You didn’t even wear a jacket with a fucking hood this morning.
After a few more minutes of (foolishly) hoping the rain is going to slow down, you say fuck it and head out, soaked through your clothes within a minute.
You’re going to have to put your fucking phone in rice when you get home, rice that you aren’t even sure if you have, because if you did, you’d eat it.
You make it to a nearby awning of another shop when a thought occurs to you. A very stupid, ridiculous thought.
You grumble as you dig your phone out of your pocket, surprised that it’s even somewhat dry. You find Jack’s contact and open a new text thread.
Hey, you start, and then you realize you should introduce yourself so you give the whole spiel and then, anyway are you at work rn?
His reply comes within seconds. Not yet. Why?
The raindrops on your screen keep causing you to type the wrong thing and then before you know it you’re fucking calling Jack Abbot.
“Fuck!” He picks up far too quickly. “Hi.”
If he heard your expletive, he doesn’t mention it. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” you say automatically, and then you grimace. “Well, no, not really--”
“Where are you?”
You rattle off the street name. “I was at work, but we’re closed now, and I didn’t drive today because I’m trying to save gas and I thought the weather would be nice, and now it’s fucking pouring and I’ve walked like, five steps and I’m soaked, and I just--” You take a deep breath, hating the way your voice cracks. “I could really use a ride.”
“I’m on the way,” he says, and you realize that it already sounds like he’s driving. “Are you somewhere dry right now?”
“Yeah, I’m under the florist’s awning,” you sniffle. “Sorry about like, being a nuisance in your life lately, geez.” You add a laugh, hoping he’ll join you, but he doesn’t.
He doesn’t say anything, and in that moment you regret calling. You almost think he’s hung up, but you can still hear his truck. His turn signal. His breathing.
So, you stay on the phone, for who the fuck knows why, stewing in your embarrassment, and already planning on how to tell him this will be the last time. And that you’ll even let him block you if that’ll make it…better. Or something.
You finally hang up when you see his truck rounding the corner.
He does a three-point turn so the passenger door is at the curb, and you should not find that as hot as you do.
Next thing you know, he’s leaning over the bench and opening the door for you from inside, waving you in. You jump in, probably slamming the door but you’re too soaked to care.
“Fuck me, I didn’t even think about getting your truck all wet--”
“It’s fine,” Jack says quickly, and a little too short. “Some rain won’t hurt her. Are you cold?”
You don’t know why, but you feel scolded. You sink into the seat and buckle yourself in, shaking your head. “No, I’m fine.” It’s a lie. “Thank you.”
He turns the heat on anyway, then turns all the vents toward you.
“Thanks,” you murmur.
He just nods. The truck doesn’t move.
“Oh!” you blurt. “My address. Do you have a GPS--”
“You’re not a nuisance.”
You blink. “What?”
“On the phone,” he says, turning to look at you. “You apologized for being a nuisance, but you’re not one. You don’t need to apologize for calling me when you need something. That’s why I gave you my number.”
“Why?”
His eyebrows furrow. “Why what?”
“Why did you-- Why do you want to help me so much?”
He smiles softly at that. “Because it doesn’t sound like you have a lot of people in your life who help you.”
You’re not sure how to respond to that. Because the problem is that he’s right. You don’t. Not close by, anyway. And you can’t really ask for help because the whole point of you moving out here was to be independent. It won’t look great if you start asking for money if the whole point of moving was to have some space and find your footing on your own.
You stay quiet just a beat too long. Because then Jack adds, “Or maybe I just like you, or something.”
Your eyes snap to his and he’s smiling still, but a bit playful now.
“Or something,” you repeat, a smile tugging at your lips. “Should’ve known you throwing money around was you trying to flirt.”
“You saying it wasn’t working?”
You open your mouth to protest, but you can’t. You turn your gaze away and wave your hand at him. “Just drive.”
He chuckles, “Yes ma’am.” He puts the truck in gear and starts moving. “I do need your address, though.”
You tell him your apartment complex, again asking, “Do you want me to put it in Maps?”
He scoffs. “Maps. I know my way around.”
You don’t know why, but you find that hot. Really hot.
But your traitorous eyes glance back at his left hand, and the wedding band is still there. It makes something heavy settle in your stomach, and you unconsciously shift closer to the door.
You’re not sure if the air shifts in the cab of his truck, but it sure feels like it.
The ride is silent except for the rain as Jack takes all the correct turns, knowing exactly where to go without you pointing or anything. When he pulls into the complex, you direct him over to your building, and he pulls up as close as he can to the doors.
“Thanks for the ride,” you tell him with a probably too obviously forced smile. “See you.”
Jack opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, but you can’t hear him over the rain, and then you slam his truck door closed. On accident. It’s just raining really hard and you don’t want to get his truck wet any more than you already have. That’s all.
It’s definitely not because you’re mad at him for not mentioning the ring and not because you’re mad at yourself for not bringing it up and for forgetting it was even there.
You stomp up the stairs and into your apartment, glancing out the window once you’re inside, and feeling another wave of anger at yourself when you realize you’re disappointed that his truck is already gone.
What the hell are you doing?
+++
Jack doesn’t hear from you for a week. He tries not to feel anything about it.
But he’s feeling everything about it. Obviously.
“Rough night?” Robby asks, backpack still slung over his shoulder, mistaking Jack’s faraway stare for something else. The confusion is clear on the dayshift doctor’s face. The board is tidy, chairs is mostly empty, only a couple beds line the walls out here.
And Jack looks haunted. He knows he does. “Nope,” he says, forcing a tight smile and pushing off the nurse’s hub. “You’re welcome for cleaning up your mess from yesterday.”
Robby barks out a laugh at that. “You’re welcome for giving you something to do.”
Jack scoffs. Rolls his eyes. Looks away and thinks about you again.
Robby, who is way too nosy for his own good, catches the shift. “Seriously, are you good?” He pauses. “Is this about her?”
Jack whips his head around so fast he swears he cracks his neck. “Who?”
Robby’s smile is soft. Knowing. “The patient you let sleep in and then ordered an Uber for.”
Jack hasn’t even told Robby about the grocery store, the car battery, or the rainy day car ride. All Robby knows is that day and the Uber, and Jack is obvious from just that alone. He can’t imagine how it’d all sound if Robby knew everything. Jack probably looks like a creep. Objectively.
“It’s nothing,” Jack says, and he doesn’t know what the hell he even means by that.
“Did something else happen?” Robby presses. Too nosy for his own damn good.
“No,” Jack says automatically, which he knows is a mistake.
Robby’s eyebrows lift skyward. “Have you seen her again? Jack, buddy, you’re holding out on me!”
“Nothing has happened!” Jack snaps, not unkindly. And saying it out loud reminds him: nothing has happened. So why does he feel like something is broken again? Like he needs to apologize and fix it? What is there to fix?
“Well you’re acting like a lot has happened,” Robby teases him just a little more. “Or like there’s trouble in paradise.”
It’s barely been a month and a half since your ER trip. There is no paradise for there to be any trouble in.
Still, Jack rubs his forehead. “There’s not. She’s just--” Quiet? But are you quiet? Or is this normal? Jack has no idea. He has no idea why he can’t bring himself to just…call you. Or text.
Dana chooses the perfect time to arrive, catching the way Jack’s anguished voice said she. The dayshift charge nurse comes over with a shit-eating grin. “Girl troubles? You’re better off asking a brick wall if you’re trying to get advice out of this one,” she jabs her thumb in Robby’s direction.
Robby leans over with a smile, getting eye-level with Dana. “And a very good morning to you too.”
“Morning, chipper,” Jack smiles at Dana. “No girl troubles.”
“Liar,” Robby coughs.
“Come on, Dr. Abbot!” Dana cackles. “Tell me your woes, let me see if I can help.”
Jack glances warily at the too-eager Robby, and then back at Dana who seems genuine in wanting to help. He takes a deep breath. “I gave her a ride home a week ago and she hasn’t spoken to me since.”
Dana raises her eyebrows, eyes a little wide. “Ride home from where?”
At the same time, Robby says, “I thought you ordered her an Uber?”
Dana’s eyes go really wide then. “An Uber from where?”
Jack clarifies. “No, the Uber was over a month ago, when she was in the ER. The car ride was a week ago-- remember the day it fucking rained like it was a hurricane? She was working and had walked that day.”
“So she…” Robby shakes his head, trying to puzzle this one out. “She asked you for a ride? How?”
“I gave her my number.”
Robby’s face breaks into a smile. Dana practically screeches, “When!”
“When I…” Jack sighs, lowering his voice. “When I ran into her in the store and then her car battery died so I had to jump her car and then I gave her my number in case she…needed anything else.”
“Oh my god,” Robby whistles. “Jack, you are--”
“Don’t say it,” Jack nearly growls. He never blushes, but right now, he can feel the heat crawling up his neck.
Dana graciously doesn’t mention the blush or how far gone Jack is already. “Okay, so, she has your number from that time, she texts you and asks for a ride home in the rain, you give her a ride, and…?”
“And?” Jack echoes. “What?”
“You tell me, Abbot, you were there!” Dana laughs. “What happened next? Did you go up with her--”
“No!” Jack hurries to clarify that too. “Jeez, Dana, what do you take me for? I dropped her off and then came into work.”
“You didn’t say anything to her.”
“No, we spoke.”
“So what the hell did you say!” Dana laughs louder. “Jesus Christ above, it’s like pulling teeth with you. Don’t laugh, Robinavitch, you’re just as bad.”
Robby’s jaw drops at that, clearly wondering why he’s getting any heat right now.
Jack chuckles and recalls the conversation. Everything he said to you. Everything you said back. It dawns on him slowly. “She was confused about why I was helping her, called herself a nuisance, so I told her to not think about it that way. I’m helping because I want to, and because I…” He sucks in a breath, looks away. “Because I like her, or something.”
Dana’s grin only widens at his admission. She gazes up at him like a proud mother. He can tell even though he won’t look at her. “What did she say?”
Jack smiles. “That she should’ve known I was flirting.”
“And?”
“And…I don’t know.” Jack crosses his arms, shaking his head. “I drove to her place, and she was watching me, but she just…got quiet at one point.”
Dana hums for a moment. Glances down at his hands. She narrows her eyes when she looks back up at him. “Jack.”
He finally looks her in the eyes again. “Yeah.”
“Were you wearing your ring?”
“Yeah,” he replies. “I always wear it.” Dana knows this. He doesn’t understand what this has to do with anyth-- “Shit.”
“Yeah, shit,” Dana laughs, shaking her head at him. “You’re welcome for the revelation. Next time disclose the wife before flirting with another woman. Poor girl has probably been sitting at home kicking herself for this all week.”
“Shit,” Jack says again, as if it has more meaning this second time around. In a way, it does, because he doesn’t want you to be beating yourself up over this. Over him being an idiot and not disclosing that he’s a widow who still wears his ring.
Robby claps him on his shoulder. “See you in a few minutes for handover, brother. Then you can call your girl.”
Jack opens his mouth to argue that you’re not his anything, but Robby is already following Dana off to the lockers.
+++
It’s a little after noon. You’re cleaning your apartment for the third time this week when Jack calls. You’re too far in the zone to screen his call, realizing far too late that it’s his voice on the other end.
“Hey,” he sounds a little shocked that you even picked up at all. “Can we talk?”
You nearly hang up. That’s far too serious of a question coming from a man who is married and who you’ve had only a handful of interactions with.
But, because you’re stupid, you say, “Yeah, I’ve got a few minutes. What’s up?”
“I do have a wife,” he says.
You’re so caught off guard that you reply, “Good for you?”
“Or…had, I guess.”
Great. So he’s divorced. You’re not sure if that makes it better or worse, and it’s hard to tell from his tone. “Okay?” You rub your temple. “Look, Jack, if this is about last--”
“I’m a widow,” he says, and that stops you cold, your eyes widening. He lets out a weak laugh. “Sorry for saying that in the most roundabout way possible.”
“Oh,” you elegantly reply. Then, inelegantly, you add, “Fuck, I mean, sorry. I’m so sorry, Jack, for your loss.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s been years. But that’s why I have a ring.”
“Of course,” you breathe, leaning back against your kitchen counter. “That’s okay. Obviously it’s okay. I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions.”
“No, it’s not your fault, and that was a logical conclusion to jump to,” he says honestly. “I just should’ve told you before I said I liked you and was flirting with you.”
“Yeah,” you chuckle. “Might’ve saved me a freak out.”
You can practically hear his frown. “I’m sorry.”
“Enough of that,” you murmur, waving your hands in your empty apartment. “Thank you for telling me.”
“If it’s not-- If you’re not…I don’t know what I’m trying to say,” he breaks off with a soft laugh. “Can I take you to dinner?”
“Absolutely,” you reply. “I’d love that.”
Jack asks if you can do dinner that evening. Thankfully, you’re free, but honestly, you would’ve found a way.
He’s leaning against his truck when you come down from your apartment. He’s in dark jeans today, and a white t-shirt that almost looks a little too tight. You try not to ogle his arms too much, but it’s his fault for crossing them. Does he have any idea how good that makes his biceps look?
“Hey stranger,” you say, which is the worst attempt at flirting you’ve ever heard, but it’s what your brain spits out, so you commit to it. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“I didn’t want to wait until you nearly bowled me over by the eggs again,” he teases.
You gasp. “Rude!”
He smiles, walking around to the passenger door to open it for you. He nods into the truck. “Hop in. We have a little drive.”
“Ooh, how mysterious.”
He chuckles as he shuts the door. You watch him as he rounds the truck and he catches your gaze through the windshield. You don’t hide your smile. You watch him even as he gets in the driver’s seat.
“Do I get to know where we’re going for dinner?” you ask, buckling in. “Or is it a surprise?”
“Depends,” he says, turning the key. “Do you like surprises?”
You smile. “I’ll allow this one.”
“Thank you,” he says. As he pulls onto the road, he asks, “How was your day?”
You tell him about the deep-cleaning. “I clean when I’m stressed, so I was in the middle of that when you called actually. I wasn’t planning to pick up.”
If he’s hurt by that, he hides it. Mostly. “Oh.”
“Well, I thought I was on the cusp of an affair,” you joke. “But it’s fine, the stress wasn’t entirely you. Work is cutting hours again, my friend might be moving states, and I’m just--” You cut yourself off with a laugh. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he says genuinely, turning his head to glance at you. “I asked because I want to know this stuff.”
You chew the inside of your cheek, a similar gnawing feeling in your stomach that isn’t hunger. “How was your day?”
“Good,” he nods. “Little stressful, but the ED always is. Dayshift left a fucking mess for us to clean up.”
You roll your eyes, saying, “Assholes,” automatically, like you know. Like you get it.
Jack just smiles harder. “Yeah, exactly. They’re assholes.”
When he turns to enter the highway, you give him a strange look. “How far are we going?”
“Just a couple towns over,” he explains. “Just faster this way.”
You hum.
“I’m starting to think you don’t like surprises.”
“I said I’d allow this one.”
“Ah,” he laughs. “So you don’t.”
“Not at all,” you admit, sinking into your seat. “But I’m trying to be cool.”
“You are cool,” he says honestly. “You don’t need to try.”
“Okay,” you breathe. And then, helplessly, you cave and ask, “Where are we going?”
He laughs, not at you, and not unkindly. “I’m taking you to this little family run restaurant I love. They make great pizza. The owner is a friend of mine.”
You relax a little, knowing the exact plan, and something warm settles in your chest at the information. A friend of his. A place he loves. And he’s taking you.
His arm has been resting on the console between the two of you this entire time, and it’s only now that you brave the distance and place your hand over his. He looks over at you with the sweetest smile, turning his hand over to press your palms together. You lace your fingers through his. He squeezes your hand, and it’s like all the nerves melt out of your body.
+++
Dinner with Jack becomes a regular thing. Once, sometimes twice a week. He always takes you somewhere new. He always pays. And you always let him.
It’s nice to not have to worry. You hate to admit it, but it is. You don’t have to worry about gas money, or money for the dinners, because when you offered to pay for both one time, he looked at you like you’d just slapped him.
“I’ve got it,” he always says. “Don’t worry about it.”
You try not to.
But he pays for so much. You forgot to delete his card off your Uber app and ordered a ride one day, the charge automatically approved, and then you saw the card number. You freaked out and texted him, apologetically saying you’d pay him back.
Don’t worry about it, he wrote back. Sorry I can’t give you a ride right now.
You rolled your eyes. I know you are not apologizing for being at work.
He took a minute to reply, but when he did, it said, Wouldn’t dream of it. Home safe?
You mentioned still paying off your ER bill, and miraculously, you got a letter from the hospital the next week saying your bill had been paid. You knew without a doubt that it was Jack’s doing, but you also didn’t have any definitive proof, so you didn’t press him about it.
But it lingered in your mind. Another thing you feel like you owe him for.
You mentioned work cutting hours again, leaving you with a poor excuse for part-time and rapidly dwindling savings, and Jack asked if you needed anything. You told him no, you were fine, you were just venting, but clearly it stuck with him.
Because the next time you have dinner, he says, casually, “I made you an authorized user on my credit card.”
You nearly spit out your wine, and then nearly kick him for that because this is a nice place. You’re in a dress and heels, for Christ’s sake. You can’t spit-take wine across the table.
“Why did you do that?” you hiss.
“I didn’t mean to make you snort wine--”
“No, the card!” You lean over the table. “Why am I an authorized user?”
He looks at you incredulously. “So if you need something, you can buy it.”
“You’re insane,” you laugh. “You know that, right?”
He’s smiling a little, but he’s still not following. “I just don’t want you to have to ask.”
“I’m still going to ask,” you say. “If I use the card.”
“You don’t have to,” he concedes, but you can tell he doesn’t like it. “But I want you to. Genuinely.”
You shake your head at him. “God.” Your emotions are thrashing inside your brain and heart like tidal waves. Frustration, annoyance, attraction. Because he’s practically handing you his credit card. You’re ridiculous. You’re setting feminism back by four decades.
“Okay,” he says warily, eyeing you across the table. “We can talk about it later?”
He sounds so unsure of himself, but you nod. “Oh, yeah. We’ll talk about it later.”
Dinner is fine, if a little awkward at times, both your fault and his. The drive back to your place is a little better because you practically wrap yourself around his arm while he drives with the other.
He parks at your apartment and you make no move to get out of the truck. Neither does he.
He clears his throat. “Look, I’m-- I’m sorry if that was too much, earlier. With the credit card. I just don’t want you going without when I have more than enough and I can just share it with you. I hate that your hours are getting cut, and I know rent and food and life isn’t cheap, so I just-- I want you to be taken care of. That’s all.”
You listen to each word, drinking it in, watching his jaw work as he speaks. He’s looking ahead, for once not staring at you with the intensity of a thousand suns. It’s how you know he’s being honest. And vulnerable.
“Jack,” you whisper. “Look at me.”
He finally does, and you see sincerity in them, but you also see fear.
“I’m not mad,” you begin, cupping his face. “I just think it’s a little funny that you’re giving me your credit card before you’ve even kissed me.”
He lets out a laugh that sounds relieved almost. “Well, believe it or not, my plan was to kiss you tonight.”
“Yeah?” you tease. “Sorry I ruined it.”
He shakes his head. “You didn’t ruin it,” he says seriously. He leans a little closer. “But the card hasn’t arrived yet.”
“Oh?”
“Mhm,” he nods, eyes flicking down to your lips just as his tongue darts out to wet his own. “So I’m still kissing you before I give it to you.”
“Oh, you are?”
“I am,” he chuckles, one hand sliding up to gently cup the back of your head. “If you shut up and let me.”
“Well, maybe you should--”
He reads your mind. He shuts you up with the kiss, pulling your face to his just as he moves closer, like he’s desperate to close the distance. Weeks of dinners together, of phone calls on the way home from his shift while you’re on your way to yours, of kisses on your cheek and hands. Finally.
“Took you long enough,” you murmur when he pulls away. “I was wondering if you were ever going to do that.”
“I was too slow, huh?” he smiles, thumb grazing your cheek.
“I like slow,” you admit quietly. “It’s been really nice.”
“Good,” he whispers, eyes scanning every inch of your face, memorizing. “I really like you, you know?”
“I kinda figured,” you smirk, earning another kiss. When you break away this time, you say, “I really like you, too.”
+++
When Jack’s credit card -- with your name on it -- arrives in the mail the next week, he brings it to you after his shift.
You pull him up to your apartment, calling him crazy the entire way, because he should be asleep right now, not bringing you a damn card.
“The card could’ve waited,” you mutter, taking the envelope from him and putting it on the counter. “You’re probably exhausted.”
“I’m fine,” he smiles through your fussing. “What are you doing awake anyway? Do you work today?”
You grimace. “Ha, no. About that…”
His curses under his breath. “No.”
“Yeah,” you shrug. “Last hired, first fired,” you chuckle despite how fucked it all feels. “I’ve just been trying to wake myself up earlier so I can apply to jobs and shit. But I’m so fucking stressed that it makes it hard to sleep at night, so I’m up super late, and yeah. It’s a vicious cycle.”
“Sounds like it,” he murmurs. “You look exhausted.”
“Thanks.”
“No, I mean,” he pauses, seeing your teasing smile and kisses it. “Do you want to take a nap?”
“I have shit I should do,” you sigh. “You can, if you want. I won’t be loud or anything.”
“No,” he shakes his head at you, rubbing your arms. “You’re napping with me. Doctor’s orders.”
“Fine,” you grumble, but you’ve really put up no protest at all, which is how he knows you’re exhausted.
He follows you over to your bedroom. It’s not the first time he’s been in your apartment, but it is the first time he’ll be in your bed.
You’re still in your pajamas, so you crawl under the covers immediately.
Jack hovers in the doorway for a moment before saying, awkwardly, “Do you have anything I can sleep in?”
You furrow your eyebrows. “What do you need?”
“I don’t know, like, do you want me to be wearing clothes, or--”
You laugh so loud it bounces off the walls. “Sorry, oh my God,” you sit up. “Do you want some sweatpants or something?” Then, because he swears you can read his mind, you say, “You can just sleep in your boxers, you know. It’ll be fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes,” you nod. “As long as you’re fine with me taking my shorts off.” You hardly ever sleep with any pants on anyway, usually opting for just a t-shirt and your underwear.
“It’s your bed,” he says. “Also, um…”
You look up at him with raised eyebrows while you tug your shorts down. You drop them onto the floor and lay back down.
“I need to tell you something.”
You sit back up. “Okay.”
It sounds serious because, well, it kind of is. And Jack kind of can’t believe he hasn’t told you this yet, but he never had reason to. He’s always wearing pants around you. He never wears shorts. And it never came up in conversation. So.
“I lost my leg, when I was a combat medic.”
Your expression changes only slightly, from worry to understanding. You knew he was in the military, just not the amputation part. “Okay.”
“Not my entire leg, just below the knee. I have a prosthetic.”
You nod. “Okay.”
“Just so it doesn’t…freak you out or anything.”
You smile softly. “I’m not freaked out.”
“Okay.”
“Do you need anything?”
His eyebrows furrow. “What?”
You just shrug, like this is all normal, standing up so you’re meeting his eyes. “Do you want to take the prosthetic off to sleep? That’d probably be more comfortable. And do you need any painkillers or anything?”
He deflates. “Please, actually. If you have any.”
You kiss his cheek. “Of course. I’ll be right back.”
You disappear back to the kitchen and he stands there in your bedroom, stunned. He’s still standing there when you return, a glass of water in one hand and a bottle of Ibuprofen in the other.
“You okay?”
He kisses you. He doesn’t know what else to do.
You melt into it, nearly dropping the water and medicine in the process. “What was that for?”
“You’re really great,” he blurts, which isn’t what he wants to say. What he wants to say is I love you, but it’s too soon. Probably.
“Thank you,” you smile. You turn and place the water and pill bottle on your nightstand. “Do you need help or…?”
“No, no, I’m good, I just,” he pauses, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you back in. The words nearly slip out again, but he keeps them in. “Thank you.”
+++
The first time you use his credit card, it’s to buy groceries. You worry about it the entire time, and half expect it to decline when you hold it up to the reader, but it doesn’t. It goes through faster than any of your other cards ever have.
Thank you for the credit card, you text him right after. Got my groceries for a couple weeks.
Thank you for using it, he writes back. Buy yourself something fun please.
You use it to buy yourself a (probably) overpriced coffee and sweet treat a few days later. You send him a picture.
Fun items purchased.
He replies a couple hours later when he’s woken up from his post-shift nap. Good. Do it again.
You roll your eyes at the message, but send a red heart anyway.
A few weeks later, you find a different job at another random cafe, this one inside a big chain bookstore. Still not full time hours, and not at all what you really want to be doing with your life, but it’s something. It means you can pay rent with your paycheck, but then that means you have to put everything else on Jack’s card. Because your paycheck will only cover rent, and just barely.
Jack hears about it. Sorry for using your card for a billion things this week. You had to fill your car up with gas, get the oil changed finally because it started making a weird noise and you freaked out, and some of your food molded faster than expected so you had to go back to the grocery store. All in two days.
He sends ? back. Then adds, It’s your card.
Jack.
I’m serious, he says. Don’t apologize for using it. That’s why I gave it to you.
Yeah but now I owe you. A lot.
He calls you.
“Aren’t you at work?” you say in lieu of a greeting.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he says quickly. You can hear movement in the background, lots of voices and some beeping. “You understand that, right? I’m not going to ask for any of this money back. I’m not keeping a tab.”
“You’re sure?” You hate how pathetic your voice sounds.
“I’m sure,” he says softly. “Baby, how long have you-- You haven’t been thinking that this whole time, have you?”
Your reply is weak. And quiet. You’re too anxious about this to even realize it’s the first time he’s called you baby. “Maybe. Kind of.”
“No,” he exhales. “I’m sorry. I should’ve-- You don’t owe me a penny, okay? No more of that. The card is yours to use, don’t worry about the limit. And don’t you dare try to pay me back.”
“Okay,” you murmur. Don’t worry about the limit. What the fuck is the limit?
“I said don’t worry about it,” Jack replies, and you can practically hear him smiling. “Get some sleep, okay? Why don’t we get breakfast tomorrow, you and me.”
“Okay,” you nod. “Okay. Want me to meet you at the hospital?”
“You can,” he says. “If you’re up for everyone wanting to meet you.”
You chuckle at that, hanging your head. Everyone’s been asking about meeting you, apparently. At least those that didn’t see you that night you first met Jack. “Sure, why not,” you say. “But tell them we won’t be staying long. You need to eat and take a nap.”
“Yes ma’am.”
You kind of love when he says that. “See you in the morning.”
“Sweet dreams, baby.”
+++
Jack doesn’t mention to any of his coworkers that you’re meeting him here after his shift ends. He thought about it, but then another trauma came in, and he didn’t have the time.
He almost forgets that you’re coming, but the second he hears your name leave Lena’s mouth, he remembers. And lights up inside.
“Your girl is in chairs,” she says, her tone veering toward sing-song. “Big plans?”
“Oh yeah,” Jack chuckles as he heads for the doors. “Breakfast.”
He opens the doors and spots you instantly, standing against a wall despite over half the chairs in the room being empty. His gaze softens when he sees you, not exactly looking well-rested, but beautiful. Always beautiful.
“Hey,” he says when he reaches you.
You put your phone away and smile tiredly at him. “Hey,” you murmur. “How’s it going?”
“Better now,” he admits, bringing you in for a kiss. “You can come back and hang out with Lena -- our charge nurse. I’ll be just a little longer with handover.”
“Oh! Sorry I’m early, I can chill here so I won’t be in the way--”
Jack grabs your hand and laces your fingers together. “You’re not in the way. Come on.”
You concede and let him pull you back. He introduces you to Lena who is lovely and says there’s a chair with your name on it.
“Robby just came in, should be out here in a sec,” Lena adds to Jack. “And Dana is probably not far behind.”
You’ve heard about Robby, the dayshift attending and chief of the ED. And also one of Jack’s best friends, despite (it seems) neither of them admitting it in those words.
“Thank you,” Jack says. “And sorry in advance for all the questions they’re going to ask,” he says to you.
“No problem,” you grin. “I’ll just ask for all the embarrassing stories about you.”
“Of course you will,” he sighs. “Right, I need to do some last-minute things, but I’ll be right back, and then hopefully we can get out of here on time, okay?”
“Okay,” you nod, content as can be, which is a good sign, but Jack also knows he’s going to return to you being told stories he does not want anyone to know about -- let alone you.
He drops a kiss to your cheek before he leaves. He covers everything as quickly as he can, and then rushes back, just to find you giggling with Robby and Dana like you’re all old friends. It makes something twist in his chest.
“There he is,” Dana grins like a Cheshire cat when she spots Jack returning. “Why didn’t you tell us she was coming in?”
Jack slides into place beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Didn’t know I needed to tell you about my breakfast plans.”
Dana and Robby just share a look.
“Well, it was very nice to finally meet you,” Robby says to you. “I’m going to go put my shit down so you two can get out of here.”
“Awh,” you pout playfully. “But Dana was just telling me about how helpless you both are with romance.”
Robby cackles and shakes his head as he leaves. Dana rounds the counter to start putting her things away and getting ready for the day ahead.
“Lena had to run, but she caught me up to speed,” Dana says. “Don’t forget to sign everyone off before you go.”
Jack nods. “Let me do that right now.”
You watch as he works, and as Dana sets up her station for the day. Robby comes back a few seconds later, drumming his hands on the hub as he gazes up at a screen above your head.
“So, what’s for breakfast?” he asks, cracking a smile when he looks back down at you. “Any place special?”
“Dunno, Jack’s buying,” you tease, nudging your boyfriend’s arm.
Jack’s just happy to hear you making a little joke about it after the anxious texts he got last night. “I made the plans, of course I’m buying.”
“You always pay.”
Robby and Dana share another one of those looks.
“Like an old married couple,” Dana mutters fondly.
“Yup,” Robby nods, still with that shit-eating grin on his face.
“Okay,” Jack straightens up. “Let’s get our shit done so I can leave.”
Handover doesn’t take long. What takes up most of the time is the gentle teasing that Robby and Dana interject here and there. Eventually, it’s all sorted and Jack heads off to the lockers to grab his things, leaving you (reluctantly) with Dana and Robby.
He comes back to find you in tears. Doubled over. Laughing your ass off.
“Did you break her?” Jack asks Robby, but he’s fighting an absurd smile because Robby is also wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. Dana looks as smug as can be. “What the hell happened? I was gone for barely a minute!”
You stand up, swaying from the giggles that are still slipping out. “Oh my god. That was good, Dana. Should I tell him?”
“Tell me what?”
Dana just shrugs and gestures with her hand. Tell him if you want.
You round the hub and thread your fingers through Jack’s free hand, wrapping yourself around his arm. You lean close and kiss his cheek. “She said you’re basically my sugar daddy.”
Jack feels a blush heating up his neck almost immediately. “Alright, that’s it, we’re leaving.”
“Have fun, sugar!” Dana calls out, her and Robby’s shoulders shaking with laughter as you and Jack exit through the ambulance bay.
“I can’t take you anywhere,” Jack mutters (lovingly) once the two of you are outside. You took an Uber here (his orders) so the two of you could just take his truck to breakfast and then home.
“They loved me,” you protest, still wrapped tight around his arm, and it’s the best damn feeling he’s ever had. “Dana told me I should come the next time you guys go out.”
Oh God. Jack has avoided those nights for a long time. But maybe with you there, it’d be more bearable.
“Okay,” he says. “Next time there is one, I’ll let you know.”
“You better,” you smile. “Or Dana will have your head.”
+++
The guilt about spending Jack’s money doesn’t go away. It probably never will. But he never once makes you feel bad for it, always insists that you don’t need to worry about the limit (because he knows you won’t come close to it anyway, not with the way you spend and how he can pay off half of it each month), and he all but requires you to make fun purchases with it at least once a week.
It starts with just coffee. Or other fun drinks and food. Until he tells you those are just necessities to fuel your body. He means actual fun things.
So, you amuse him. You get a new pair of shoes because your others have had a hole in them for a while. But you make the mistake of telling him about said hole because then he just labels that as a necessity, too.
You try again with a new blanket. The heating in your apartment has been a little fucked the entire time you’ve lived there, but you think it might actually be going out this time. You, again, make the mistake of telling Jack that. The blanket becomes a necessity, and he comes over to look at your thermostat to see if he can fix it. (He can’t. You file another maintenance report.)
Third time’s the charm, or so you hope, so you start to think outside the box. Something fun. Something just for you. Something different.
It’s almost midnight when you think of something. You and Jack have been texting here and there while he’s at work, but it’s mostly devolved into him asking you why you’re not asleep yet. You tell him you’re busy trying to buy something fun. He leaves you alone.
Until he sees the charge go through on the card.
I’m going to pretend I don’t know what this is, he texts you, with a screenshot of the notification that clearly shows him that you spent nearly two-hundred dollars on lingerie.
Probably in your best interest to forget you saw that, you write back.
Saw what?
You giggle to yourself in your room. Goodnight!
You’re torturing me, he says. And then, Sweet dreams baby.
You didn’t pay for express shipping, but the lingerie arrives at your apartment just two days later. Perfect timing for Jack’s two days off in a row.
The plan was already for him to come to yours after his shift and pick you up so the two of you can spend his little mid-week weekend at his place. You finish packing your bag, lingerie included, just in time for him to buzz your apartment.
You let him up and then pull on your shoes, so you’re ready to go as soon as he knocks. He takes your bag for you and holds your other hand as he walks you down to his truck, none the wiser to what you have packed.
The day is slow and cozy and restful. You shower with him when you get in. The two of you then take a small nap, and you wake up just a little before he does so you can start on lunch. He hears you in the kitchen and comes out with his crutches, only just recently beginning to use them around you.
The two of you lounge on his couch the entire day, tangled up together, dozing off here and there with the TV in the background. You order in for dinner.
And after eating, you head into the bathroom to change into your favorite piece of lingerie that you ordered. Jack’s favorite color -- and coincidentally the one you thought looked best -- with lace in all the right places.
You come back out to the living room to find Jack has cleaned up already. It’s not even 9pm yet, and you’re both ready to go to bed.
But not to sleep. At least, that’s not on your mind.
You find him in the kitchen, setting the coffee pot for the morning.
“Hey soldier,” you murmur, sliding your arms around his waist. “Ready to lay down?”
He sighs, body relaxing against you. “Yeah. Ready to hold you.”
You press a quick kiss to his neck and his breath hitches for only a second.
You help him turn all the lights off as he goes to check that he locked the front door. You meet him in the bathroom to brush your teeth next to one another, all of it very sweet and domestic.
By the time you lay down beside him, you’re fine with just this, with just being held by him in the quiet.
Jack settles and pulls you into him by an arm around your waist, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck with a happy little sigh.
His hand slides under your shirt to rest on your stomach, and you bite your lip, suppressing a smile as his fingers find the lace. He freezes.
“What,” he says, voice low, “are you wearing.”
You try to hide your giggle as much as you can, but it slips out a little as you say, “Nothing, let’s go to sleep, you’re really tired.”
His hand slides higher, cupping your lace-covered breast. “I’m wide awake now, baby.” His breath tickles your ear as he kisses behind it. “Now,” he pinches your nipple. “What are you wearing?”
“Nothing,” you reply, still feigning innocence despite the grin on your lips. Thank god you’re not facing him. “Come on, you’re tired.”
Next thing you know, you’re flat on your back with Jack hovering over you. Even in the dim light you can see the hunger in his eyes.
“I’m not tired anymore,” he repeats. “And now I have a problem.” He drops his hips, pressing his half-hard erection to your core, and you gasp.
“Seems like a one-man issue,” you smirk, shrugging innocently. “Don’t know why you’d need me.”
He nearly growls as he leans down to capture your lips. When your hands move to tug on his hair, he promptly pins them above your head.
“Keep them there,” he says against your lips. You nod, still kissing him. He pulls back just a little to say, “Good girl.”
Your chest rises and falls rapidly as Jack kisses down your cheeks, your neck, your chest. He reaches your stomach and pushes the t-shirt-- his t-shirt up until he sees the lace. He hisses through his teeth, looking at you with fire in his eyes.
“Should’ve known you were up to something,” he says absentmindedly, his fingers moving to the waistband of his shorts that you’re wearing. “You never wear shorts to bed.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t notice how weird I was acting,” you laugh softly. “I’m terrible at keeping secrets.”
He drags the shorts down your body, tossing them to the floor. He presses his lips to your thighs, in awe of how you look.
“Can I move my hands?” you smirk. “Kinda want to take the shirt off.”
He just looks up at you with a smile, crawling up the bed to tug the shirt over your head, too. He tosses it somewhere, leaning back to take you in. His gaze makes you squirm.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. His hands roam your body, feeling every inch. “I almost don’t want you to take it off.”
You bite your lip. “I thought you’d say that.”
His eyebrow raise with the realization. One hand travels down to find out what you mean. His eyes close as a moan breaks through his lips, and a gasp falls from yours. The pads of his fingers circle your clit gently before dipping between your folds, just barely teasing inside you.
“Jack,” you gasp, back arching just from the minimal touch.
He removes his fingers instantly, pressing his entire weight on top of you as he claims your mouth. “I’m taking my time with you,” he whispers. His hands pin yours above your head again. “Stay still, yeah?”
“No promises,” you smile, but when he gives you a look, you nod. “Yeah. Yes. I’ll try.”
“That’s my girl.”
Staying still is harder than he thinks it is. It’s near impossible to not arch into his touch, especially with his teasing. You try to sink into the bed instead of up toward him, but it takes all of your effort.
And it’s killing you that he doesn’t want to take the damn lingerie off. You kind of assumed he wouldn’t want to, but feeling his lips and tongue through the lace is torture. You don’t want the barrier, but he’s determined to keep it on.
“Wait,” you gasp when his lips ghost over your nipples. His head raises immediately. “Can you--” You pause, swallowing. “Can you take your shirt off? I want to see you.”
He smiles softly, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “Of course.” He tosses his shirt away, but leaves his boxers on. “Better?”
You want the boxers gone too, but you decide not to push your luck. You just nod. “Yeah. Better.”
He resumes his path from earlier, lips hovering over your nipples. He sinks his teeth ever-so-slightly into your breast, just enough to feel you tense underneath him. He soothes it with a kiss.
He does the same to your thighs and hips, so close to where you need him, but never close enough. He’s only just about to hover over your clit when your hips act on their own, thrusting toward his mouth, your clit just barely catching on his nose.
His hands immediately grip your hips to push them back down, tsk’ing with his tongue. “What did I say?”
“I know, I know, stay still,” you whine, still trying to move your hips, trying to find any friction. But your hands have stayed where he asked. “You’re torturing me.”
He soothes his thumbs over your hips, chuckling. “I haven’t done anything.”
“Exactly!” you cry, lifting your head to look at him. “Please fuck me.”
His smile turns into a grin. “So polite.”
“Jack.”
“I want to do something else first,” he says. “But you’ll get your wish, trust me.”
You toss your head back on the pillows dramatically. You feel him moving, but you’re too busy with said dramatics to care.
Until you feel him licking from your entrance to your clit.
“Oh my god,” you moan, your hips trying to thrust upward again, but he’s ready for you, and he holds you in place.
He alternates between teasing your clit and teasing your entrance, never doing much to either to make you reach your climax. It’s only when he settles on just your clit, flicking his tongue in the way he knows you like, that you start to get close at a rapid pace.
“Jack,” you try to warn him in your tone, but he knows.
You half expect him to stop. To not let you have it. That’s why it comes as such a surprise when he goes faster, throwing you over the edge, and he doesn’t stop.
You know you look wild, hips thrashing on the bed as he fights against you and holds you down, continuing to lick and suck you through the orgasm. His tongue dips inside your entrance and you swear you feel a second wave of your climax hit, the sensation making you see stars.
You’re not sure how long it is before he lets up, you just know you’re floating by the time he crawls up your body. His erection presses against your stomach as he kisses you, coaxing you back to earth.
He pulls back just to watch you, the blissful look on your face, and how hard it is for you to open your eyes. He cups your jaw, thumb brushing the skin under your eyes until you finally look at him.
“There she is,” he murmurs. “Doing okay?”
You nod. “More than okay.” And then, because you can’t help yourself, “Are you going to fuck me now?”
He just laughs, capturing your lips again. “Yes, baby, I’ll fuck you now.”
“Thank god,” you breathe. “I’ve been waiting all day.”
He gives you another one of his stern looks, and sometimes you wonder if he knows the looks do nothing to deter your sass. Maybe that’s why he gives you them.
“I’m still taking my time,” he reminds you, lips quirking when he sees the bratty look fall from your face.
You open your mouth for some other retort, but he pins your hands again, earning a gasp instead.
“Stay still,” he says again. “Let me do all the work.”
You want to protest about him doing it too slow, but you keep your mouth shut just this once.
He’s still wearing his damn boxers.
You should’ve known he wouldn’t fuck you immediately. He’s always had this thing. He has to use his fingers first, get you ready for him. Never mind the fact that you’re used to him now, and that you have a vibrator that you use when he’s working. You don’t need him to use his fingers first. But does he listen? No.
Instead, he takes his sweet time. He works one finger into you slowly, then moves to two. He spreads and curls them, huffing out a little laugh when you arch against him. He makes sure to give your clit the friction it needs before adding a third finger. When he does finally add the third, your hands fly from their designated space, clutching his arms on pure instinct.
“It’s okay,” he coos, using his free hand to guide both your wrists back to where they should be. “You’re okay.”
You shake your head against the pillows. “M’close.”
“Then cum,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I can feel you.”
Your eyes open, fixing him with a glare. “I want to feel you.”
“You will,” he promises with a chuckle, kissing you again. “As soon as you cum again for me.”
He curls his fingers at just the right moment, pressing hard on your g-spot before easing up, and doing it again. And again. Over and over, all while grinding his palm into your clit, and he can feel it happening, your walls fluttering, building up and up.
“Come on, doll,” he whispers against your cheek. “You’re right there. Show me how pretty you are.”
You whine against his mouth, your body still fighting it for some reason, but then he starts to kiss your neck. He feels you tense another notch.
“Come on,” he murmurs, hand still working at that same, steady pace. “Need you to cum so I can feel you, please baby. Please, for me.”
That works like a charm, your whole body shuddering with the force of your second orgasm, held together only by Jack’s weight on top of you. He’s kinder this time, riding the waves out only just before he’s slowing to a stop, not wanting to overwhelm you before he can even be inside you. He waits for one last quiver before he gently eases his fingers out of you, covering your face in more kisses.
You’re gasping for air, looking even more relaxed, and pulling him down with both your hands to capture him in a kiss.
His hips unconsciously thrust against you, his clothed erection losing its patience. “Okay, okay,” he mutters. “I need to-- Let me grab a condom--”
“Or,” you pause, lifting your hips again, pressing your clit to his cock. “We could go without.”
He looks at you for a long moment before he mutters, “Fuck,” and kisses you again, immediately coaxing your mouth open with his tongue. “You’re going to kill me,” he keeps muttering. “Are you sure?”
You nod. “I’m sure. I’m very sure.” You’re on birth control and he knows this, but you’ve both wanted to be better safe than sorry.
Right now, you just want to feel him. All of him.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“Jack,” you laugh. “Get inside me. Now.”
“Yes ma’am,” he grins, all goofy and lovesick, just the way you like. He kicks his boxers off and just presses the length of him against your folds, both of you groaning at the warmth.
He doesn’t enter you right away. Instead, he does something more obscene, just running the head of his cock through your folds, using the remnants of your orgasms to coat him. It’s the hottest thing you’ve ever felt, and you’re ready to pin him down when he does the same to you.
“We’re not rushing this one,” he says, ever so stern, but you can see the cracks starting to form. He keeps your wrists pinned beside your head. “Because if you rush me, I won’t last.”
You try not to smile at that.
Slowly, so slowly, he pushes inside. His head is barely past your folds when he stops, eyes shut, taking a deep breath. Your hips try to rock and his eyes pop open, fixing you with another look.
He pushes just a bit further and you gasp at the stretch -- maybe you aren’t as used to him as you think you are -- head tossing back against the pillows again.
“Breathe, baby,” he soothes, releasing your wrist to hold onto your hips. “Let me in.”
You try to relax, wondering how the hell you’re wound this tight when you’ve already cum twice. You know it makes no sense, but he feels bigger like this somehow. Just him. No condom between you.
“Jack, please,” you whine. “I need you.”
“I’m right here, baby,” he murmurs. “Right here.”
He pushes the rest of the way inside, hips flush with yours, and holds you there, just feeling you. It’s involuntary, the way you clench around him, and you hear his breath catch when you do.
“Be careful,” he chokes out. “You’re trying to milk me.”
“Maybe,” you reply, breathy and light. “I can’t help it. You feel so-- so big.”
“I told you--”
“Just shut up and fuck me.”
He leans over you, pressing you deeper into the mattress. He shifts inside you, rubbing right against your g-spot, and you gasp from the feeling, from the weight of him like this. “What are you forgetting?” He nips at your jaw.
“Please,” you add quickly. “Please-- Fuck!”
He grins against your neck as he starts thrusting steadily. Not hard, but not soft either. He’s only pulling out halfway before pressing back inside, making sure to feel every inch of your walls.
And then he starts talking.
“Can’t believe you bought this,” he whispers, lips ghosting over your ear. “You know how hot it is that you bought this for yourself? With my money?”
“Jack,” you gasp. “I didn’t--”
“I love when you spend my money,” he admits. “I want you to spend all of it-- it’s yours. I’m yours. All yours.”
Your hands move, but he doesn’t stop you. You wrap your arms around him, lifting your hips to change the angle as you wrap your legs around him, too. He groans at the change, thrusting harder.
“God, I love you.” He can’t believe he’s letting it happen now, letting this be the moment that he tells you, but it’s out there now. “I love you so much.”
“Fuck, Jack,” you pull his lips to yours. “I love you too. I’ve been trying so hard not to say it too soon.”
He kisses you gently, slowing his hips to savor the taste of you. “Me too,” he whispers. “But I love you too much to keep it to myself anymore.”
“Me too,” you smile, kissing him again.
He’s lost in the feel of you, starting the same rhythm again, steady and thorough, the way he knows is your favorite. Because he knows everything you need. He’s spent the majority of this last year just memorizing you. All of you.
He knows when your moans reach a certain pitch that you’re close, he knows what it means when your nails start to dig into his shoulders, and he knows what you need to get you over that ledge.
And once he gets you there, he follows right behind, hips stuttering, vision blurring from how good you feel, how good it feels to cum inside you, not into a condom. Your breath hitches in a way he’s never heard before when you feel him empty inside you, and then you groan, locking your heels together, pulling him even deeper.
He’s dizzy with it, his head falling into your neck as his hips lazily thrust as much as he can with how tightly you’re holding him. There’s barely any room to move, but he does, just a little, just riding it out with you.
He stays there, on top of you, hearts racing as one. Your fingers card through his hair gently, scratching his scalp just a little, just to soothe him.
And then you start laughing. He’s confused at first, wondering what the rumbling is, but then he hears your giggles, and he lifts his head, smile fighting its way to his lips.
“What?”
“Nothing,” you say, but you’re still laughing. “I just can’t believe you told me you loved me for the first time while you were inside me.”
His head drops to the pillow beside you with a groan. His reply is muffled. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, don’t be!” you laugh harder, trying to pull him back up. “Jack, I’m not mad. It’s really sweet. I’d been holding back from saying it for a few weeks.”
“Me too,” he says. “But I meant to say it not during sex.”
“Oh well,” you shrug, not a care in the world. “You still can.”
“Oh, I will,” he promises. “I will say it all the time just to make up for this.”
“There’s nothing to make up for,” you assure him. “But I won’t mind hearing it all the time.”
“Good,” he smiles, pressing a kiss to your lips. “And I meant what else I said, too. I really love it when you spend my money.”
“Does that seriously get you going?” you giggle. “I didn’t realize it was like that.”
“Of course it does,” he groans, feeling erection struggling to go down while he’s still inside you and talking about this. “I love it so much. And I love that you got this.”
“I look hot in it, huh?” you smirk. “It being your favorite color was just a bonus.”
“Thank you,” he says, hands roaming again, tracing the lace details again, as if he hadn’t spent the last hour doing that. “I think we might need another shower.”
“Mm, probably a good idea,” you nod. “Can I ride you?”
He groans again, head falling back into your neck. “If you even let me make it to the bathroom, then yeah. Sure, baby. You can ride me.”
“Then let’s go!” you laugh, trying to shove him off of you. “You’re going to have to help me get out of this. I’m not even sure how I got into it.”
He lifts his head, licking his lips as his eyes scan your body. “I’ve got it. Don’t worry.”
Gambit
noun. an act or remark that is calculated to gain an advantage, especially at the outset of a situation.
Summary: Ten years after you first met Aaron Hotchner, you're placed on his team at the BAU. Ten years apart isn't nearly long enough to cool the hatred that began when you first met. In fact, it seems to have only gotten worse -- and the feeling is mutual.
General themes/warnings: enemies to lovers (these two HATE each other y'all), typical level of violence and cases for the show, depictions of panic attacks, eventual smut, chapter specific warnings will be given as well of course!
summary : two universes collide when spencer has to watch the team meet his workplace crush, called in from another branch for her decryption skills - and he doesn't really like sharing.
word count : 2.3k
pairings : spencer reid x FBI!reader (workplace romance)
notes : there is such thing as the intelligence branch !! spencer is very jealous and it shows, modern romance would say they're at that point in the talking stage where they still won't aknowledge eachother irl
working for the FBI had its perks.
mostly social, you had to admit. certain jobs, tough you weren't exactly sure why, carried prestige. the prestige you felt when over drinks on first dates or small talk with old friends, someone asked what you did for work.
you could've been a linguistic analyst anywhere else, the years of studies and countless research papers you'd worked on would've earned you nothing but eye rolls and judgemental stares.
curiously, with the acronym of FBI came instant gratification. federal bureau of investigation, the magic words that earned compliments and sometimes mocking gasps.
how does it feel to work for the government ?
you're part of the Intelligence Branch ? of course, you're so smart.
the best perk however, apart from the thrilling feeling pulsing through your veins that came with having a purpose, worked three floors above you at the behavioural analysis unit.
with his tall figure and soft cozy looks, spencer reid didn't look like he belonged in this world either. united by the feeling of standing out in the crowd, or rather feeling invisible between individuals with a stern appearance and a sterile heart, you two connected.
a workplace crush, that's all he was.
a really awfully good looking guy who had once blushed at your words when you rode the elevator with him and filled the silence by complimenting his thesis.
of course you knew who he was.
if he were to step a foot on in your department, you were pretty sure applause would echo off the walls. this guy had done more fore crime solving using linguistics than your entire team ever had, and his endless knowledge sort of terrified you.
and maybe since then, he'd started to use the east wing elevator abnormally often. and maybe you'd exchanged numbers. for the sole purpose of keeping eachother in the loop during important cases, of course.
and maybe you were tired today because you'd spent all night exchanging texts, and your brain was beginning to turn into mush from the hours of sleep it'd been denied in the previous weeks.
all because of the boy who stood on the other side of the room from you right now, with his arms crossed and brows knit together while he listened to something the unit chief was saying.
"the unsub we're looking for seems to be leaving hidden messages on the crime scenes," agent hotchner explains, not bothered in the least by the number of people hanging onto his every word.
then, he adds.
"the letters have been collected, and as of now they're our primary focus. we believe an in-depth analysis might help us with the profile."
all around the bullpen, the air was charged.
agents taking notes while the team just stood there, shoulders high and gazes unwavering, like a silent affirmation of their superiority.
you wouldn't have appreciated it, the condescendance lingering in the air, aiming to make you and your colleagues feel somewhat impressed.
not if it wasn't for spencer.
the boyish brunette who was leaning against a desk - his desk you presumed, based on the precise alignement of the books displayed - whose eyes on you could be felt from miles away.
prentiss spoke up next, arms crossed in authority.
"with this guy, danger is imminent. he's escalating, and that's why we called the IB. we need more experts on the case."
something the woman said didn't quite register in your mind, your attention focused on keeping your gaze away from spencer.
a blonde one you recognized as penelope led you to the conference room, and you simply followed like a stray puppy yearning to get his owner back.
no one needed to know.
not as the team gathered around the round table, specifically asking you to join the meeting in hopes of receiving your expertise. in the room of qualified profilers trained to spot miscalculated glances and fleeting touches, with eyes like lasers piercing through the illusion of lies, you had to pull yourself together.
spencer made it a difficult task.
“i was thinking i could quickly go through all the letters the unsub wrote to try to find a pattern. i'd just need access to the archive room to find old files, i've worked through a similar case before.”
quick words, evidently suggested like he’d invented the alphabet himself. you almost smiled when you remembered something he said two days ago, in that exact same nonchalant tone.
“studies prove key elements such as sharp angles, uneven pressure or stilted writing can reveal traits linked to psychopathy." he adds, apparently finding the watch around his wrist more interesting than you, sitting across from him.
hotch asserted himself once more.
"actually, the bureau wanted the input of a real language analyst for this task," he said, sharp jaw nodding in your direction. the focus in the room shifted on you as he said your name.
the smile you gave felt forced, pressured by the half a dozen pair of eyes on you. only one made your heart beat faster for all the wrong reasons, and they belonged to the one who knew you as more than a name on a badge, a piece of chess in the game.
"morgan, you'll help her with the profiling. everyone else, i need you on the field"
morgan ?
the man in question gave you a welcoming grin, and though you were hoping for someone else, you nodded in return. for some reason you swore you heard spencer swallow, adam's apple sticking out, and you felt your a slight pinch of something that almost tasted like disappointment.
you weren't a profiler.
you couldn't have known - and he was grateful for that - that the reason he kept his gaze down and hands to himself came from an irrational part of his brain he didn't know existed.
the one that was jealous.
so he gathered his files and abruptly got up, leaving you with morgan as the rest of the team headed back to work, without even looking back.
turns out the dark skinned man had more to himself than flirtarious smiles. you two worked side by side all morning and he helped you delve into the files.
and before you knew it, you'd managed to keep spencer in the back of your mind for hours.
at lunchtime, while snacking on a granola bar, you caught yourself rambling about the meaning of commas in the unsub's letters. your excitement was contagious.
"gee," derek laughed, cutting you off with a chuckle to remind you he couldn’t keep up.
"you're like a female version of reid or something."
you stopped chewing. looked up, alerted. attempted to wipe away some unwanted crumbs and dreamy grin that had appeared on your lips a little too naturally.
"i'll take that as a compliment."
"trust me, pretty girl" he said, giving you a reassuring wink that might've led you to think he knew more than he let on, "that's a compliment."
the door opened.
he stared. spencer.
files in his hands and mouth opened like he was about to say something but lost all ability to form proper words when he heard the exchange. you felt your hands tighten around the empty plastic wrapper.
morgan’s head turned towards you, then reid.
the tension was painfully obvious, he’d heard the last two sentences and that was already more than enough. a little too interested in the newbie to realise his friend was just being welcoming.
“i was just coming here to say we found a new body with another note displayed on the crime scene,” spencer spoke after what felt like ages. he still didn’t look at you.
“-but i guess you’ll do a great work without it, since you make such a great team.”
morgan whistled, attempting to ease the tension with yet another uneeded comment.
“woah, someone’s jealous.”
with a friendly pat on spencer’s very much tense arm, he left, leaving you and your male copycat in a very awkward situation.
suddenly, the conference room felt smaller.
the space, tight. tighter than the shirt sticking to your skin you suddenly felt trapped in. droplets of sweat clung to the back of your neck and you kept your chin down, eyes piercing through the documents laid out on the table.
he didn’t move, not until he cleared his throat and closed the door behind him. “i didn’t know your intention was to befriend the whole BAU," he snarked.
"i didn't know you had such a problem with me being in your life."
your sharpness made him flinch. daring words, toying with the feeling in his heart he was too much of a coward to properly name. nobody he'd ever met had acted this way towards him. with brutal honesty, confronting him with raw emotions he'd be tempted to conceal.
spencer's eyes were locked onto yours when you spoke. he looked vulnerable in this light, but the anger bubbling beneath his ribs didn't stop him from saying.
"i- that's not what i meant" he stuttered, looking both confused and indignated.
you'd pushed your chair out of the way to get up, almost reaching his height now. there was no escape from this conversation - and you'd very much rehearsed it in your mind anyway. now was time for the real deal.
"i think you did,"
of course, in your head, it wouldn't happen here, out of all places. feelings didn't match well with your work, and now in the conference room was far from the appropriate time.
"i think you're jealous" you affirmed with confidence, crosing your arms to prove your point, "jealous of the fact that i was assigned the task, and that derek had to supervise and not you."
gee, even hearing you call him by his first name made him boil.
"m’not jealous. i have three PhDs”
you laughed. indeed, even with academic degrees up his sleeves, he could still be very oblivious.
“not of the case, idiot.”
he knew what you meant.
and paused. swallowed again.
you bit your lip in waiting, almost facepalming yourself at the honesty of your words - you got that way when you were nervous. and you were really nervous now.
“i don’t think i’ve ever been jealous before.” he said, to himself more than you.
never had he encountered someone to be jealous of. he had the brains, the world seemed to like him. see something even he couldn’t sometimes. he was never jealous of the living because he spent most of his time in a world of his own.
and then he met you.
“there’s a first time for everything” you said with a reassuring smile, much softer now. time for trust, trusting someone and allowing them to see behind the illusion. for love, and letting someone in.
barely blinking, your mesmerising eyes are deeply focused on his now.
“i don’t think i liked it, though.”
“being jealous ?”
he nods, admitting. “you’re smart. and so good at what you do, i swear you made the room light up when you walked in.”
the distance between your bodies fades as he takes another step towards you. he nervously talks with his hands.
“and you could be a profiler !” he lets out, “i’ve never met anyone from another department who has enough talent to hypothetically join a higher rank and willingly refuses to even think about it.”
your lips part, a silent gasp.
“and it just hurts to see you here- here with everyone being so…”
the curious angle of your head makes him smile when you question. “so what ?”
“so perfect !”
it almost pains him to admit it. that the beauty you exude makes him ache, tugging at his sensitive heartstrings more often than he’d like to admit. when the elevator door close, or late at night while staring at his phone in hopes of engraving the pixels or your texts in his brain, he admires the closest to perfection the universe has ever created.
you.
"spencer," you let out in an amused giggle. "i'm not interested in your friends. or your job, for that matter."
he puffs some air into his cheeks, bashful. "i know. my brain just... likes to stop working when you're around, or something."
right, or something. with a playful nudge of the arm, you add.
"i am interested in you, though"
his eyes widen, pupils dilating. the little amount of oxygen left in the room is enough to make him slightly choke, which he covers by his hand. germ thing, sure.
"in me ?"
"yeah." someone has to say it, and you will if it means putting an end to the wrenching state of not knowing what you are. "-if you are, that is. unless i completely misunderstood the situation and you're actually jealous of my linguistics diploma-"
he calls your name, almost offended "i speak four languages !"
"i speak five. not that we're counting"
no bother mentionning you're also learning two. he's overwhelmingly close to you, and the smell of his cologne makes you melt little by little.
he utters quietly. "see ? perfect."
there's not exactly much he could do to make this conversation better. like, better than any debate you had over the phone, and yet he adds.
"i really am interested. and i'd like to see you sometimes... outside of work"
"and the elevator"
he laughs. a genuine sound you could get drunk on, and with a rush of adrenaline, reaches forwards to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.
"just us. on a date. no work and no elevators involved, i promise"
jealousy looked good on him, earlier when he came in with clenched fists and a dark gaze. but nothing, no other expression could match the one he was wearing on his face. pools of hazel softened around the edges, spencer looked truly enamored.
and that ? that looked even better.
tag list, feel free to comment if you wanna be added/taken off !! @deerfawnn @xervoxs @kaz-03 @cynbx @sleepysleepnomore @emerkinsella89 @sweetheartspence @g4rvez-r3id @peanutalergy @keirareidss @eternlmoonshine @xbluereid @spencilweidblog @corollaim @mostofmeghan @siriuslyval03 @midn1ght-ra1n @rose-of-the-grave @copper-rose-strings @irisinlovee @thecrimsonfog @glossiercheek @littleredwolfnerd @babywinter @1-800-peakyblinders @reidslovegia @sreidahgirl @jjellecubed @sreidahgirl @cherrygarcia-07
Sunday dinner was simply pleasant. Karin had prepared a delicious salmon, and the smell of apple pie drifted through the house. Outside, the sun occasionally broke through the thick clouds, and although the day was chilly, it was beautiful nonetheless.
Lars glanced up and shifted slightly in his chair when Gus walked into the dining room and set a bottle of beer in front of him.
"So," Gus began as he sat down across from his brother, "everything okay?"
Lars nodded and offered a small, nervous smile. "Yeah. Everything's okay."
Gus nodded back, took a sip of his beer, and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "And how are things between you two?"
Lars' blue eyes widened. He lifted his head, suddenly alarmed. "What do you mean?"
Gus shrugged. "You know. You and her." He paused. "Are you seeing each other? I mean... are you dating or something?"
The color drained from Lars' face before a blush quickly took its place. He turned the beer bottle between his long fingers, staring at it as if it might somehow save him from answering. He could feel Gus watching him, waiting. From the kitchen came the soft clatter of dishes as Karin cleaned up.
Finally, Lars cleared his throat. "Why are you asking?"
"You remember Mark?"
"The guy who owns the hardware store in town?"
Gus nodded. "Yeah."
Lars frowned slightly. "I remember. What about him?"
Gus scratched the back of his neck. "He asked me if she's seeing anyone. Says she's pretty and nice. He'd like to take her out."
Lars' fingers tightened around the bottle. "Oh."
"I told him I'd ask you because..." Gus hesitated. "You've been spending a lot of time together lately, so maybe..."
It was true.
Ever since the dance, you and Lars had been seeing each other fairly regularly. You'd gone to the movies, met for coffee a few times, even had dinner together. But your favorite thing was simply being together.
Sometimes you'd take long walks. Sometimes you'd sit together in one of your living rooms, playing Scrabble, talking, or watching a movie.
And kissing.
Just thinking about it made something warm spread through Lars' chest. He loved kissing you. Every single time, he asked first, and every single time you smiled in that way that made his heart feel impossibly light.
Everything was different with you. Lars didn't feel as uncomfortable as he usually did around people. Your presence felt safe. Comfortable. Even when he held your hand, and he loved doing that, he didn't feel that unpleasant tension crawling beneath his skin. Quite the opposite. It felt good. Your touch didn't hurt.
"So?" Gus' voice pulled him back to reality.
Lars quickly lifted the bottle and took a sip of beer, a little too fast. He shrugged. "I don't know. You'd have to ask her."
"I thought maybe…"
The chair scraped loudly against the floor as Lars pushed himself to his feet. "I should go. I have something I need to do."
Gus blinked. "Karin made pie…"
"I'm sure it's delicious. I'm sorry, but I have to..."
And before anyone could say another word, before Karin could even come out carrying the apple pie, Lars was already gone.
You met again a few days later.
The moment you opened your apartment door and saw Lars standing there, you knew something was bothering him. Still, you patiently waited for him to tell you in his own time.
Now the two of you sat in a booth at a small café. A chocolate muffin sat in front of each of you, the proceeds from every sale were being donated to the local library, and you'd both agreed it was a cause worth supporting. Beside them were steaming cups of coffee.
A few other customers lingered throughout the café, while soft music drifted from the speakers overhead.
"Are you going to tell me what's going on in that head of yours?" you asked, taking a sip of coffee before setting your mug back on the wooden table.
Lars shifted uncomfortably. His gaze wandered around the café before finally settling on you. "It's nothing."
"I don't think so." You smiled gently. "You get that look."
"That look?" His brow furrowed slightly.
"Yeah. The one you get when something's bothering you. Or when you're thinking very hard about something."
You gave him space and didn't push, something Lars was always grateful for. He folded his hands together on the table and sighed.
"If someone..." he began quietly. You tilted your head, patiently listening. "If someone wanted to ask you out. I mean... on a date."
"Oh."
"Would you say yes?"
You studied him for a moment, carefully considering his words. Then you bit your lip. "Lars, I'm sorry, maybe I've misunderstood something, but…"
He interrupted quickly. "I mean Mark." You blinked. "Mark thinks you're pretty and nice, which is obviously true. And he wants to take you out."
The words tumbled out so quickly that for a second you were too surprised to respond. You noticed how tense his shoulders were. How much effort it had taken for him to say it. Then, slowly, you smiled.
"You know," you said softly, "I thought we were already dating. You and me."
Lars straightened immediately. "We are?"
You nodded. "We go to movies together. We take walks. We spend time together." You leaned forward slightly and lowered your voice. "And we kiss."
A blush spread across Lars' cheeks. But he smiled. "I guess that's what people who are dating do."
"Apparently."
For a moment neither of you spoke. Then, slowly and a little uncertainly, Lars reached across the table and took your hand. The smile never left his face.
"So..." You tilted your head, watching him carefully, teasing him just a little. "Do you want me to go out with Mark?"
"No." The answer came much faster than he intended. He squeezed your hand gently. "You're... you're my girlfriend, right?"
He needed to be sure. Needed to know that you'd chosen him. Needed to hear you say it.
You nodded. "Yes, Lars. I'm your girlfriend."
His eyes lit up instantly. He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss against your knuckles.
His girlfriend.
The thought alone filled him with so much happiness that for a moment, he couldn't stop smiling.
The package Karin had ordered from a craft supply catalog was rather bulky, and when Lars picked it up from the post office, he had to carry it with both hands. His car was parked nearby, and he was already making his way toward it when he caught sight of you out of the corner of his eye. You were standing outside the hardware store, your coat buttoned against the cool afternoon breeze, smiling politely at someone.
Mark.
Lars felt as though something heavy had dropped into the pit of his stomach. He recognized him immediately. Mark was leaning casually against the storefront, talking to you as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Because it was. Whatever he'd said made you laugh softly.
Lars stopped walking, tightening his grip on the package. People talked to each other all the time. That was perfectly normal, and you weren't doing anything inappropriate. But still… He remembered what Gus had told him, that Mark had been asking about you because you were… Ugh. Lars felt even worse. He quickly looked away, letting out the breath he'd been holding without even realizing it.
But the moment Mark smiled at you, Lars didn't really make a conscious decision. His feet were already carrying him in your direction. His shoulders were slightly tense, the package tucked awkwardly against his chest. The instant your eyes met, however, his expression softened with relief. A smile spread across your face as he reached the two of you.
"Oh, that looks heavy," you said, glancing at the package.
"It isn't," Lars replied. He looked between you and Mark. "Were you talking?"
"I noticed she was coming back from the drug store," Mark answered. "I figured I'd say hello. She recommended a book to me a while back, and I wanted to thank her. It was really good."
"Right." Lars nodded, offering a small smile.
Mark turned back to you, completely oblivious to how close Lars had stepped. Only a few inches separated your shoulders now. Meanwhile, Mark started mentioning a new movie playing at the theater in the next town over, a huge hit with a cast full of famous actors.
"So," Mark continued, "I was wondering if maybe you'd..."
Before he could finish, Lars carefully shifted the box into one arm. His free hand hovered uncertainly for a moment, but you immediately understood what he meant. Without a word, you slipped your fingers into his. The effect on Lars was immediate. His shoulders relaxed, and his fingers gently curled around yours. He glanced down for just a second, almost as if he couldn't quite believe you'd done it so naturally, without a moment's hesitation.
Mark's sentence died halfway through as his eyes dropped to your joined hands. "Oh."
A brief silence settled between the three of you. Then understanding crossed his face.
"I didn't realize."
You smiled apologetically. "We've actually been seeing each other for a little while."
Lars couldn't help himself. He smiled. A real smile. It was small, but unmistakably proud, and the way he looked at you left no room for doubt. Even if Mark had still been wondering, he certainly wasn't anymore.
Mark chuckled.
"Well..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "That explains why Gus was being so weird."
Lars blinked. "He told you?"
"He told me he was going to ask around." Mark laughed. "Guess I got my answer."
"I'm sorry," you said kindly.
"No, don't be." He smiled sincerely. "I'm happy for both of you. Really." He nodded once toward Lars. "You picked a good guy."
Lars looked genuinely surprised. "Thank you."
Mark excused himself and headed back inside the hardware store. The bell above the door jingled softly behind him. For several seconds, neither of you moved. Lars was still holding your hand, the smile never leaving his face. It wasn't until you spoke that he seemed to return to reality.
"Were you jealous?"
His ears turned pink almost instantly. He cleared his throat. "Maybe."
You laughed quietly. "And you walked over here to rescue me?"
"I don't think you needed rescuing. But..." His gaze drifted to your still-intertwined fingers. "I wanted him to know. Just... in case."
Your smile softened. "Know what?"
His thumb gently brushed across the back of your hand. "That you're my girlfriend."
The words came out almost painfully quiet. You stepped a little closer.
"I am."
Another pause. Then Lars admitted, almost sheepishly, "I also liked holding your hand."
"I noticed." You laughed again. "I'll remember that."
The relief on his face was impossible to miss. Then you leaned in and kissed his cheek, right there on the sidewalk. Lars froze for a full two seconds before breaking into such a bright, genuine smile that it was impossible not to smile back.
"I don't think," you said, "Mark has any doubts now."
Lars glanced toward the hardware store window, where Mark happened to look outside just before disappearing down another aisle, returning to whatever he'd been doing.
"Probably not."
He looked back at you, adjusted Karin's package on his shoulder, and glanced toward the car. The two of you started walking that way at an easy pace. Only after Lars placed the package on the back seat and walked around to open the passenger door for you did you notice the excited sparkle in his blue eyes.
"Maybe..." he began uncertainly. Encouraged by your warm expression, he found a little more confidence. "Maybe you'd like to go to the movies with me and see that film. The one Mark mentioned."
"Yeah," you said with a smile. "I'd love to."
Lars leaned toward you slightly, as though he were about to share a secret. "It'll be a date."
You raised an eyebrow. "Oh. Does that mean there'll be kissing?"
You were almost certain you caught the blush spreading across his cheeks. Watching Lars open up around you a little more each day was simply wonderful.
"I hope so," he admitted after a moment. "I love kissing my girlfriend."
SUMMARY: Jack Abbot is not an overly-neighborly person. He has secret nicknames in his head for most of the people on his floor and actively avoids any and all types of neighbor politics. However, he can’t deny his growing fondness for the single mom and toddler in apartment seventeen. (Nor his burning hatred for your baby daddy).
WARNINGS: this series includes a very chaotic reader with an even more chaotic toddler, mentions of abandonment, Jack's inability to consider anything good and worthwhile for himself, eventual smut, friends to lovers, mentions of previous abusive relationships, mentions of mental health struggles, miscommunication, age gap (reader is around 27 and Jack is in his 40's), medical inaccuracies and more.
A/N: I am very very excited to share this series and bring it to life. It started as a very random idea that quickly transpired into a huge story in my head within a matter of minutes. It does touch on some potentially triggering topics but warnings will be given in each chapter!
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
STATUS: Ongoing
Alternatively, you can read on Wattpad or Ao3!
─── ⋆ CHAPTERS ⋆
PART ONE 𖤓♡ — Jack Abbot values his routine and structure. Work, SWAT, gym... and for the past six weeks, spending his Sunday mornings admiring the enigmatic single mom who's apartment balcony sits across from his. [3k]
PART TWO 𖤓♡ — A scuffle in the hall causes Jack to accidentally take Phoebe’s wallet to work instead of his. He gains himself a new nickname amongst the Pitt and finally learns a thing or two about you and your daughter. [7.3k]
PART THREE 𖤓 — A trip to the ED, a retirement meal, and a phone call with Robby. One leaves you up close and personal with your neighbor, one has Phoebe spilling secrets like it's an Olympic sport, and another has Jack realizing he's got a fucking crush on the single mom in apartment seventeen. [7.1k]
PART FOUR 𖤓♡ — Phoebe's birthday party consists of four sets of eyes ogling Jack from the second he enters your apartment, screaming children, your mom noticing something rather interesting, and a night on the balcony that changes the trajectory of everything. [8.7k]
⤷ PART 4.5 𖤓 — You don't hear from Jack for three days after the kiss. But despite being swamped at the hospital, after he reaches out via text, he doesn't stop. [SMAU]
PART FIVE 𖤓★ — When Jack offers his company in the form of a date to celebrate your book release, he gets to understand the inner workings of your mind a bit more. Unfortunately, it does leave him with an ache he has to tend to using nothing but his own imagination. [7.8k]
PART SIX 𖤓★ — Three months of dating with no label and no real sense of security has you spiralling a bit when Tom demands to meet Jack. And you quickly start to realize that despite your attempts of keeping Phoebe and Jack apart, some bonds form whether you intend for them to or not. [8.2k]
PART SEVEN 𖤓★ — When the double date from Hell roles around, you're left with a new friend while Jack is struggling to come to terms with the type of person Phoebe is stuck with as a father. But despite that, it doesn't stop you and Jack from ending your evening with a bang. [12.2k]
PART EIGHT 𖤓★ — Pizzas, karaoke, movies and a sleepover. All at Phoebe’s request, of course, for Jack to spend Saturday night with them. And when Sunday morning rolls around, she’s got some things that she needs to get off her chest. [7.1k]
PART NINE 𖤓♡ — When Phoebe's field day goes nowhere near as planned, Bella is left to pick up the pieces of your broken heart while Karis goes into labor and Jack and your father have a heart to heart. [10.1k]
PART TEN (FINALE) 𖤓★ — TBA
─── ⋆ BONUS CONTENT ⋆
TBA
─── ⋆ MISC ⋆
#APT.17 (a tag for anything related to this series)
SUNDAY FUNK DAY SPOTIFY PLAYLIST
Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!
also posted on ao3 | my masterlist
Grace has, apparently, elected not to wear pants today. You decide this warrants a little pop quiz.
~2.8k words; smut; thigh biting (and sucking, etc etc); hand job; vaguely subby Grace; gender neutral reader (no pronouns, no use of y/n, no descriptions other than...having hair, i guess?)
a/n: ok ok i know i said it would be a minute before i posted anything again but i was inspired. i also had kind of a shitty time applying for my visa (it's a long thing) so finishing this was kind of like a treat for myself. i wrote a good chunk while on a plane and the guy next to me would not stop looking my screen, so--i hope he enjoyed this lol
“Everything looking good up here, doc?”
Grace doesn’t look away from the cockpit’s screens at your greeting. You lean against the frame of the hatchway and cross your arms, taking in the back of his head, the way his arms reach forward and rest upon the console. “Yep. It’s all still the same as when I checked last week. Well, except for, you know, that we’re one week closer to Erid. Out of,” he pauses to do some quick mental math, “one hundred and ninety-six weeks, give or take a few days.”
You simply hum. He clicks through a few more menus before sighing. It’s been nearly a year—so one hundred and forty-four weeks remain, or something like that—and while the Hail Mary wasn’t necessarily short on entertainment, there was only so much to occupy the time with. He is probably bored out of his mind.
The pilot’s chair swivels, then, so Grace can face you, and you start to ask, “Well, wanna watch a—”
And then the question is cut short, because he is now completely turned toward you, and he is not wearing any pants, only a pair of boxers.
“Grace.”
“What’s up?”
“Where are your pants.”
He looks down as if he had only just noticed he wasn’t wearing any. “Oh, right. None of them are clean.”
You blink, extremely slowly, and try to stop yourself from glancing down at his bare thighs. “There is not a single pair of clean pants that you can wear? None at all?”
Your attempted restraint is not going unnoticed. Grace smirks a little when your eyes flick down again, and you would very much like to wipe the expression off of his face. Your hand twitches against your leg. “Well, technically I have a pair, but there’s a hole in them.”
“A hole.”
“Yep,” and he pops the ‘p’ very deliberately and shifts in the chair. The movement causes the hem of his boxers to hike up, revealing another sliver of his bare thigh. “Haven’t gotten around to patching them yet.”
“Of course. So the natural solution was to just walk around in your underwear.” You push yourself off the frame to stand straight up. He does not say anything when you look at his legs again, but his smile grows.
His tongue darts out to wet his lips, just barely, and you know that it’s intentional. “They’re basically like shorts.”
Okay, you think, at least this is something to do. You look at the screens, then, and tilt your head toward them. “Can I take a look?” He blinks at that, because this is not where he was expecting you to take the conversation, but he nods anyway and starts to get up so you can sit. “Oh, no, you don’t need to get up.”
You cross the room, but instead of turning your attention to the screen, you slide your legs underneath the chair to sit on the footrest. His legs widen to accommodate you. It is…not a very comfortable place to sit, all things considered, but now you have a front-row seat to the pale skin of his inner thighs. “Ah. You didn’t want to look at our trajectory.”
“Nope.” He looks down and watches as you place your hands on his knees, smoothing the skin with your thumbs. The sight of him, his legs spread, looking down at you with reddening cheeks, the rise and fall of his chest, is so delicious that you wish you were holding a camera. You settle for taking a few mental pictures before you slide your hands forward, now resting midway up his quads, feeling the hairs on the tops of his thighs. Your fingers have almost reached the hem. “How fast are we going?”
“Uh—what?”
You look up at him through your eyelashes, smiling softly. Your finger starts to idly trace random shapes. “How fast are we going? What’s our speed?”
Grace clears his throat and shifts in the seat again. His boxers are already tenting. “You—already know this, but okay. We’re going ninety-two percent the speed of light.”
You nod at his answer and splay your fingers a little wider, so your thumbs reach down to the soft skin of his inner thigh. “And what’s that in miles?”
“Um, that’s—ninety-two percent of, hah,” he gasps, because you’ve just pressed a kiss to the side of his knee, “one hundred and eighty-six thousand, two hundred and eighty-two miles per second, so—about—”
You interrupt him sharply. “I didn’t ask for an estimate.” You look at his thigh, then, just above the crease of his knee, before leaning forward to gently graze your teeth against the spot. His hips shift up, and you glare at him, cheek pressed against his leg. “I didn’t ask you to move, either.”
“Sorry, sorry, I’m—okay, alright, mental math, not super easy at the moment—” His hands tighten their hold on the arm rests when you nip gently at his thigh in warning. “One hundred and seventy-one thousand, two hundred and eight-two point forty-four. Miles. Per, per second.” Grace is already panting slightly.
Pressing a kiss against the spot you just bit, you murmur, “Good. Now in meters?” There’s not actually any way for you to check his numbers, but you know he’s good at math. You trust that he’s giving you the right answers. He’s too much of a nerd not to.
His head falls back onto the headrest, but he keeps his legs and arms still. “You—you’re killing me here, you know that?”
You shift your head to his other leg, moving up a little, and you bite this new area of skin, still on his soft inner thigh. Grace keens, low and desperate, and you can imagine his knuckles turning white from gripping the arm rests so hard.
He is, apparently, not done with talking back. “If that’s the punishment,” he breathes, mouth curling up in a slight smile, “I might just, you know, keep giving the wrong answers.”
This is the wrong thing for him to say, and he realizes it as soon as the words leave his mouth, because then you’re leaning back and nodding, removing your hands from his legs. “I see. Then I probably shouldn’t bother, right?”
“No, that’s—please don’t.” His eyes are wide with panic. “I’m sorry, you—do you still want our speed in meters? I can, I have the number.” You say nothing at that, instead slowly returning your hands to his thighs. “Oh, thank god, okay, it’s—it’s—two hundred and seventy-five million, six hundred and fifty-two thousand, three hundred and sixty-seven point one hundred and nineteen meters per second,” he rushes out.
It is very impressive, so you give him an appreciative squeeze and mouth against his skin gently, right on top of a little mole he has on his right leg. “Very good.” You can hear his head rest against the chair again at the praise. “How long is the journey from Tau Ceti to Erid?”
“It’s almost—” Your nails dig into his skin, not hard, just enough to make him whine. Grace is catching onto the game very quickly—he wants the sting that comes from your teeth and your fingernails, but he doesn’t want to push back so far in order to get it that you’ll stop, so he’s probing the boundaries of what you’ll let him do. “Sorry, you didn’t ask for an estimate, I know, it’s—wait. Do you want from our perspective or Earth’s?”
“Hm, good question,” your purr, sucking lightly on the same spot of this thigh. He whimpers, and you think he’s nodding. You wonder if his eyes are open or closed, but you are too busy to look. “Ours first.”
“A little less than four years.”
The edges of your mouth lift up in a smile, and you switch back to his other thigh and bite, farther up, a little harder than the last one, not enough to break skin, but enough for the imprints of your teeth to remain visible when you pull back. Your tongue darts out to soothe the spot as he groans, and you can just barely see his cock twitch underneath the fabric. “Why did I do that?”
He sucks in a breath through his teeth; he is trying very, very hard not to buck his hips up. “Because—because—you haven’t asked for an estimate, not once, so I shouldn’t have assumed, because you didn’t explicitly say.”
You gently brush your finger across the teeth marks indented in his skin. “That’s exactly right. So…?”
“Three point nine years from our perspective.” Your hands move up just a little bit more, the tips of your fingers now brushing up against the hem of his boxers. His hips shift, almost imperceptibly, but you decide that you will let him off the hook for that. For now. You toy with the edge of the fabric and look up at him. He’s waiting for you to ask how long the journey is from Earth’s perspective. You simply nod, and he exhales in relief. “Thirteen years. I’m sorry, that is an estimate, but I don’t, relativity is really hard—which, right now, feels very topical, I have to say, but ask me another question, please,” he begs.
Maybe on a different day, you might have been a little meaner, might have pointed out that he’s not the one who gets to decide how all of this happens, but right now you would like to keep biting and sucking on his bare thighs, so you show him a little mercy. “Alright. Would you like me to touch you now, Dr. Grace?”
This makes him moan, loudly, and it’s a good thing that Rocky is asleep (though, of course, he would have heard all of this anyway). “Yes, oh my gosh, yes—assuming you mean, well, where I think you mean,” and then he sees the look you give him and decides to stop talking for a few seconds.
First, you keep sliding one of your hands upward, still kissing and biting at his thighs, until you can feel his muscles quivering underneath your mouth from the strain of keeping still. Your fingers hit the crease of his hip and then stop. He looks so good like this, you think, sitting so nicely and waiting for you to do whatever you want with him.
Instead of moving the hand underneath his boxers where you know he would like it to be, you drag it downward, lightly scratching the top of his thigh. Your other hand moves up, over the top of the fabric, and finally, finally slides over his aching cock, and the groan he lets out shoots straight between your legs. You shift, just slightly, so the metal rod connecting the footrest to the chair presses against your core. Grace is too busy squeezing his eyes shut and gasping at the way you’re slowly palming him through his boxers.
“That’s—hah, so good, not exactly what I was thinking, but—”
You stop moving your hand and wait to speak until he’s looking down at you again. “I didn’t ask you to think,” and then you lower your head to bite at his inner thigh, just below the hem of his underwear.
He throws his head back against the chair again. You are slightly worried he might give himself a concussion at this rate. “You’re right, sorry—thank you, this is really good, amazing even, please—I can, are there more questions?”
“Not at the moment,” you murmur, pressing a soft kiss against the bite mark you just left. Your hand resumes in its movements. God, the sounds he is making right now; maybe you could turn the camera on, start recording, and the next time Rocky sleeps again you could play it in the screen room, have two versions of Grace whining and moaning at the same time while you ride him.
It seems like a little too much effort, and you don’t want to pull away to set it all up, so you simply focus on sucking and nipping at his trembling thighs, twisting your hand and listening to the way he gasps when your palm moves over his tip.
You rock your hips forward a little as you consider your options. You could pull his boxers down and take him into your mouth—he really enjoys it when you do that—or, maybe, you could stand up and turn around, placing your hands on the console and let him fuck you. They are all pretty great, but then you wouldn’t get to watch in between bites and kisses as he grips the armrests, alternating between tipping his head back and looking down at you, face entirely flushed.
“I have another question,” you say, and you think he tries to respond, but all that comes out is a choked whimper. “Do you think you could come like this?”
It takes him a few shuddering breaths to gather himself enough for words. “Is that—that’s a rhetorical question, really, yes, yes I can, it won’t even take that long. Which, that might sound a little pathetic, but I have the feeling that you like when I’m—”
You cut him off by sucking another spot on his thigh, your nose brushing against the fabric. Your back is straining a little to lean forward like this, but it is so worth it for the reaction it pulls out of him. You are fairly certain, at this point, that you would probably be able to come like this, too, just from grinding into the footrest.
But that is a side benefit, really, while this is the main event, so you focus on grasping his cock and searching for the movements that make his hips stutter upward, because then you have a reason in this game the two of you have created to nip at his soft skin even more. Grace is right: it won’t take that long, if the way his control starts to deteriorate is anything to go off of.
He swallows hard and manages to whisper, “Can I—would it be alright, would you let me touch you?”
Technically, he’s still not supposed to be asking any questions here, but you nod (and then press your teeth into his thigh for it), and one of his hands lets go of the armrest to gently slide through your hair. He doesn’t grab or pull; he simply cards his fingers through your hair, so softly that it’s almost at odds with the way his cock feels in your hand and the positively obscene noises he’s making.
“So good,” you mumble into his skin, “you’re doing so good. Want you to come like this, whenever you want to, yeah?”
Grace nods feverishly and stops trying to keep his hips pressed against the chair. They jerk and stutter against your hand, and you keep palming him and sucking at his thighs, chasing the thing that you know is coming, the thing that you will watch and hear and tuck away in your mind to replay over and over again.
The sound he lets out when he finally comes is so broken that you might call it a sob. You guide him through it, still moving your hand, tenderly kissing and licking at all of the marks that you’ve left. Finally, you lean back a little to take it all in: the way his glasses have slid down his nose, the flushed tinge of his cheeks, the rise and fall of his chest as he pants, the red splotches you’ve sucked into his thighs, the indents from your teeth, the dark spot in his boxers.
You keep staring for a few moments before looking back up and meeting his eyes. A spark travels down your spine and sits in between your thighs at the thought of him watching you look over his body, taking stock of all of the ways that you have marked him. “So,” he finally says, “I hope you know that this means I will be walking around without pants, like, all the time.”
You simply smile at that and extract your legs from underneath the chair to stand, a little shaky, until he has to tilt his head back to keep looking at you. “I think I would probably lose it a little bit if you did that.”
“Is that a promise?” Grace returns your smile and raises his eyebrows a little bit. You grab his face then, softly, gently, only pressing your fingers in enough to see the way his skin dimples underneath them.
( cont.of exhibit of his life. ) feat. doctor john carter (ER).
summary. after a nasty fall, you get sent to presby hospital rather than ptmc where you get treated by a doctor that eerily looks like your fiancé.
word count. 2.2k
content warnings. none, just fluff!
notes. this takes place after exhibit of his life, also i know that ER takes place in chicago (cook county hospital) but i'm having the ER gang work at presby for fanfic purposes thank you! also as always, medically inaccurate!
You should know better than to try and change the lightbulb in the study yourself; that's what your grumpy old fiancé is for. But said boyfriend is currently working his shift at the pitt (the nickname's rubbed off on you, much to Gloria's dismay once she's overheard you last week when you had dropped off Robby's lunch) and the flickering light above your desk is driving you insane.
So you enlist one of your older neighbors next door to hold the ladder for you, hoping this would be enough to avoid any mishaps. But mishaps occur anyways when sweet 65 year old Lillian had stepped away to grab lemonade for the both of you, only gone for five minutes, giving you ample time to lose your footing and fall off the ladder.
While it might've resulted in a sprained or broken ankle at worst, your shitty luck had you pitching forward towards the edge of a piece of blunt furniture before falling onto your back and your head landing onto the hardwood floors. It clips your hairline and while the sudden burst of pain has you seeing stars, your vision evens out and the pain lessens to a dull throb. You wince and settle back onto your ass as you gently touch the source before whimpering.
"Mrs. Robinavitch—!"
Lillian gasps as she rushes into the study, kneeling by your side, and the title has you chuckling weakly. "Not yet, Lils. We haven't even picked a date yet— Ow."
"I'm calling the ambulance," the sweet old woman says and before you can protest, you look at your fingertips when you had touched something wet upon your forehead. Blood. Immediately, your vision blurs and your stomach turns. Then the spots in your vision bloom and the world goes dark.
—
You come and go as the paramedics arrive, your sweet neighbor rattling off what she knows as you try to deny and refuse any help. The paramedics ignore you, attaches leads onto your chest as they flash a penlight in your eyes.
"Do you know your name?"
You mumble, your tongue heavy in your mouth. "… Robby…"
The world spins above you and when you come to, you're in a hospital bed but fortunately still in your own clothes. The sounds of the emergency room comes to life around you but while it all feels familiar, it all feels off— like entering your bedroom and the curtains are the wrong color.
"Mrs. Robinavitch, how are you feeling?"
The curtains slide open and an unfamiliar face enters your room. Blue scrubs, kind face. Your head tilts slightly; you'd figured Lillian would've told the paramedics to send you to the pitt but if you aren't recognizing anyone, panic threatens to settle in at the damage done from falling.
"I— Um. I'm okay," you manage as your gaze flits around the room, searching for anything that could look familiar. But your heartrate is starting to skyrocket and you raise your hands to stop the approaching nurse. "Just—can you give me a minute, please?"
The older nurse stops and gives you a warm smile, understanding laced in her next words. "Of course. My name's Lydia." When you remember your name, you offer it next. Lydia nods and plucks your chart from the foot of your bed, tapping through the iPad before the curtains shift and a new doctor steps in.
Your mouth goes dry. Now you're absolutely positive you must've scrambled your brains on the way down the ladder because right in front of you is a man that's the spitting image of your fiancé— only… ten years younger.
"Looks like you took quite a nasty fall," the handsome doctor smiles as he taps through the screen. "Your sweet old neighbor was smart to call the ambulance as quick as she did, you were losing a lot of blood."
The severity of your injury takes your notice first and you startle. "But I didn't fall that high… there wasn't that much blood when I fell at first. Are you sure?"
The doctor nods, sets the screen down to give you his full attention. It's enough to bring forth a blush; he looks so much like Michael. Behind the doctor, Lydia rolls her eyes goodnaturedly. There he goes, she thinks, charming another patient.
"Head wounds usually look a lot worse than they are but you sustained a minor concussion when you landed. Lillian said you hit your head on the way down," he tells you kindly. With the pain ebbing away from whatever they've given you, it gives you the bandwidth to realize how embarrassing it is to get sent to the hospital for a concussion for just attempting to change a lightbulb.
Before you could respond like a proper adult woman, you blurt out the next thing that comes to mind. "Your name isn't Michael, is it?"
An incredulous chuckle escapes him, cards a hand through his soft brown hair. Your eyes track the movement. "No, my name's Carter. Dr. John Carter. You know what, can you sit up for me?"
Your lashes flutter as you nod. Slowly, you pull away from the hospital pillows to sit up. "Are you sure?"
Lydia sighs and exits the room; she's worked with the young doctor for a good amount of time now, she knows when Dr. Carter's upping the charm for a pretty patient. He approaches your side and settles onto the edge of the bed.
"Am I sure of my own name?" Carter repeats with a soft laugh as his hands gently cradle your jaw. His hands are warm, smelling vaguely of antiseptic, as the pads of his fingertips apply pressure from the back of your head. "Yes, I'm quite sure. So, what happened?"
Your cheeks burn. "I was trying to change the lightbulb. I lost my footing on the ladder."
"Oh, well—it's a good thing you came in. Might've had a bigger injury," Dr. Carter murmurs and warmth returns to your cheeks but it's coming from his palm where he's cradling your jaw, his penlight coming up to gently flash in your eyes.
"I know, I know." You sigh as you blink away the slight spotting, a part of you missing the warmth of his hand before guilt takes a stab into your gut. Fortunately, you chalk it all to the fact that this young doctor looks eerily like your fiancé. "I learned my lesson. Wait 'til my fiancé gets home to do it. God, this just sets back feminism," you mutter dryly.
Dr. Carter laughs again. "No, there isn't anything wrong with waiting for someone else to do something in the name of safety. Fiancé, though? When's the special day?"
A flustered smile curls upon your lips. Pretty, John thinks. "We haven't picked a date yet. He just proposed like last month."
"Congratulations." Dr. Carter murmurs as he begins to edge off the bed. As he does so, Lydia returns but with a new man in tow. You perk up immediately, a glimmer in your eyes and a smile that nearly knocks John off his feet. But that smile is directed over his shoulder and when he gets up to face the newcomer, his eyes widen.
Michael Robinavitch is a storm when he enters, barely managing a quick thank you to the nurse that had greeted him at the front before she recognized his name as the one listed as your emergency contact. Lydia had barely been able to keep pace with his long legs as she guided him through Presby Hospital towards your room in the emergency department.
"Michael," you say in such adoration that John feels a stab of jealousy of the man that looks like an older version of him. "I thought you were at work—?"
Your fiancé shakes his head as he circles the bed, bypassing Dr. Carter, to cradle the back of your head before he lowers down to press a gentle kiss to your lips. "Drove straight here when Dana got a call that you were admitted into Presby for a concussion of all things. Peaches, what the hell happened?"
Your embarrassment returns full force. "I— The bulb in the study," you mutter sheepishly before Robby blinks twice, a fond chuckle curling along his lips as he shakes his head and pulls you in for a kiss to your nose.
"Sweetheart, I was gonna take care of that tonight when I got home," he tuts lightly before he gently takes your chin and lifts your head up. His hand flies up to his scrub pocket for his pen light but another appears in the corner of his eye. He pauses and glances aside to see the doctor offer his. "Hooooly shit."
Dr. Carter chuckles and nods. Both men rub the back of their necks in unison. Between them, you sit and stare in slight awe. "That's what I was thinking. I'm Dr. John Carter." He offers his hand across the bed to Robby.
Robby takes it with a shake. "I'm Dr. Michael Robinavitch."
"This is really fucking weird," you cut in and when both men turn their attention to you, your heart flutters. "Are you two not related?"
Your fiancé shakes his head as both hands drop and fall away, his body shifting to settle beside you with a gentle arm around your shoulders. You melt immediately, leaning your cheek into his soft stomach.
"I had a brother," Carter says with a quiet smile. "He passed when I was a kid, though. But no. No one else."
"Could just be one of those odd coincidences," Robby shrugs as he gently rubs your shoulder. "Very odd, though."
"Very."
A quiet and not-so-awkward silence follows so you cut in with a quiet clearing of your throat. "Can I go home now? I was told I only had a minor concussion."
"Yes, that's right. Sorry about that, I'll go ahead and get started on those discharge papers. Sit tight." Dr. Carter gives you both a terse smile before he exits, leaving you with Robby. When he's gone, your fiancé gives you a little wry grin.
"Did he flirt with you or somethin'?"
You splutter, "what—? No, I don't think so…?"
"Sweetheart, he was doing a head exam with less than a foot of space between you two." Robby raises his brow as he stays standing, your head tilting up to maintain eye contact. "I don't think he had to stand that close, let alone sit beside you."
Your cheek nuzzles into his palm, kissing his calloused skin there before a mischievous grin blooms across your features. "You're jealous."
Now it's his turn to splutter. "I don't get jealous."
"Yes, you do!" You laugh as you latch onto his reaction, digging your metaphorical heels in. "Honey, you got jealous when Mateo complimented my outfit the last time I came to visit you at work."
"He was staring, Peaches."
"The time before that, you got fussy with Jack when he walked me to my car after I dropped you off for work."
"… He pissed me off before you dropped me off, sweetheart."
You pause and fix him with a deadened glare which he had enough sense to buckle down and nod. Happy wife, happy life, he chants to himself.
"Alright, alright. I get… a little jealous," he mutters before he leans in for a stolen kiss, mumbling against your lips. "Could you blame me? My wife's a knockout."
"Not your wife yet, Robinavitch," you giggle teasingly against his lips.
"Don't tell me you're getting cold feet, Peaches."
You pull away to huff at your fiancé. "Definitely not. But I'll start having second thoughts if you can't even admit to being jealous—"
"Okay, yes—I was jealous that the doctor that creepily looks like a younger version of me was hitting on my wife. Would that be such a hard concept to understand?" Robby grumbles as he traces your jawline with his fingertip. He waits for your correction but it doesn't come. You see where he's coming from; although you've been together long enough that the age gap is irrelevant to you, you'd also feel uncomfortable if an older woman that looks just like you had been flirting with Robby.
"No, I see what you mean," you murmur as you kiss his palm once more. "But I really don't think he was flirting."
Robby fixes you with an incredulous look but he had no time to argue because Lydia's returning with discharge papers and sheets on aftercare— although she sees no reason why since you've got a whole doctor in your life that seems as though he'd go above and beyond for you.
Once everything's in order, Robby's got an arm around your waist (you had to fight him on getting a wheelchair for you) and your papers in his other hand. Lydia and another nurse— Carol—waves you goodbye. Down the hall, Carter's conversing with another doctor. When he sees you and Robby, he gives you two a wave before Robby guides you out back to his car.
—
Back inside Presby, Carter and Carol lean against the nurse's station as they watch Robby help you inside the passenger's seat. Carol sighs sweetly when Robby leans down to kiss you before he shuts the door.
"That's sweet," she murmurs.
Carter startles slightly. "Yeah, I guess."
When the older woman notices the way the doctor couldn't seem to look anyone in the eye, something sparkles in the nurse's eye. "And that ring, did you see it? That rock on her finger's just as big as my nail, I swear."
"Mhm."
"Carter, please tell me you did not flirt with that woman even after you've seen that ring?"
He flips through another patient's chart, staunchly keeping quiet.
Carol releases a scandalized gasp. "John—!"
thank you for reading! likes, reblogs, and replies are heavily appreciated! ♡
Summary : Of course, out of everyone in the universe, you had to fall in love with a soldier from Brooklyn.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Guardian of The Galaxy! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Will they, won’t they trope, one night stand to lovers, fluff, angst-ish with a happy ending! grief/mourning, sexual content (including semi public sex, no anatomical detail as per usual). Childhood abuse/neglect, trauma dumping with Bucky, Reader is a humanoid alien described to have non-specific markings on her skin. Reader is described to have two hearts but looks like a human female otherwise. Reader is the daughter of Ego (half siblings to Star Lord and Mantis). Described the plot of GOTG vol 2, Infinity war, Endgame, GOTG vol 3, and a little bit of lead up Thunderbolts. Earth is referred to as Terra. Food. (Let me know if I missed anything!)
Word count : 13.7k
Note : This has been in the works for like, 6 months now, and I’m finally happy with how it turned out! The title is taken and inspired by “Let Me Down Easy” by Gang of Youths. Enjoy!
You told Peter Quill you would never live on Terra when you were thirteen years old.
You were sitting cross-legged on the floor of a Ravager ship with grease streaked on your cheek and a stolen ration bar in your hand. You had the confidence of a little girl who had never once seen Earth and had already decided it was not fun at all.
“You said your planet still uses wheels,” you said, horrified.
Peter looked up from where he was painting a blue stripe on one of Yondu’s old shoes because he thought it looked cool. “Wheels are useful,” he shrugged.
“They are primitive.”
“Cars are cool.”
“Cars are slow.”
“They have music.”
That, unfortunately, made you stop dead in your tracks, because Terra did have good music. Peter made sure everyone knew that. He had his cassette player and he treated it like the planet lived inside that little plastic box and those stupid orange headphones.
Still, you lifted your chin. “Fine,” you rolled your eyes. “One point for Terra. I’m still never moving there.”
Peter threw a bolt at you. You caught it without looking.
From the doorway, Yondu laughed,“Both of you kids are idiots.”
You grinned. Peter grinned. Yondu scoffed and pretended he didn’t love either of you.
Back then, you and Peter were just Ravager kids. You grew up with rooms under engine bays, learning how to steal and squeeze into tight spaces before you learned how to talk about feelings.
You called Peter your brother as a joke. He called you his sister, too, when he was annoyed with you, which was often. Mostly because you stole his snacks, rewired his blasters, and told alien girls he cried during Footloose (the girls would be so confused and ask what is a loose foot?).
Neither of you knew, until years later, that the joke turned out to be true.
Why would you even think that? You looked so different.
By the time you learned you were both children of Ego, everything was already falling apart. You and Peter both stood there with celestial light in your veins and heartbreak deep in your stomach.
Ego looked at you and Peter like you were not his children at all. To him you were not people, not family. You were not kids Yondu had fed, clothed, shouted at, protected, and raised in his own terrible way.
You and Peter were… batteries.
And then Yondu died.
What were you supposed to do then? How were you supposed to process the fact that your father was a monster and your daddy was fucking dead?
That grief changed you. It changed Peter, too.
For a while, neither of you joked about anything.
Yondu’s parenting hadn’t always been… healthy. He had been mean, loud, unfair. He pitted you and Peter against each other because he said it “builds character”. He taught you to steal, lie, shoot, and run,
But he had also taken you in. He tried his best and loved you, even if he never knew how to show it properly.
The Guardians became your family after that, making space for you the way that they made space for Peter.
And it didn’t take long for you to realise why your brother was so fond of them : no one really knew how to leave each other alone.
Rocket complained about everyone while making sure everyone had weapons that worked. Groot wrapped little branches around your wrist when he thought you were upset. Drax gave you advice that was almost always terrible and occasionally devastatingly profound. Gamora understood what it meant to be made by a monster, and yet still wanted to be better. Mantis, newcomer to the group, too, touched your hand one night and whispered that your sadness felt like a dying star.
The Guardians didn’t fix that grief, they could not. They filled that hollow emptiness with arguments over music, bad plans, worse jokes, emergency repairs, and shared meals.
You had been a Ravager first, but with this rag tag band of freaks, you became more than Ego’s child, more than Yondu’s ward. You were a Guardian of the Galaxy, with all the terrible decisions and accidental tenderness that came with it.
For a while, that was enough. What more could you ask for? Your family was insane and the galaxy kept trying to kill you in increasingly creative ways, which honestly felt normal enough. You had missions and people to annoy. You had Peter to bully whenever he got too sentimental about Terra. You had a place to stand. You had a reason to stay.
Then came Thanos, and Titan.
Titan was dead in a way that made your skin crawl. It was huge and orange and silent, a ruined sky stretching above you like the planet itself had given up long before you arrived.
The fight came back to you later in flashes, though your brain still struggled to fill in the full picture: You remembered Tony Stark bleeding into the ground and Stephen Strange looking at everything like he already knew the ending. You remembered Mantis holding on to the Mad Titan’s sleep with everything she had, small but braver than almost anyone gave her credit for. Peter Parker, an arachnid boy to the best of your understanding, had been fighting for his life. You remembered throwing yourself at him, blades in hand, the remnants of power burning beneath your skin. You hated the way it reminded you of Ego. You hated the way it made you feel like his daughter. But in that moment, with your chosen family around you and that monster in front of you, you used it anyway.
You were a guardian; and guardians didn’t have to be healed to fight for each other. You didn’t have to be whole.
But it was not enough.
The plan almost worked, which just made it worse. For one breathless second, it felt like you might actually pull it off. Mantis had him under and the gauntlet was right there. Everyone was moving, shouting, straining, almost winning.
Then Peter found out about Gamora, and grief did what grief always did in your family: it broke.
You couldn’t even blame him, really. Later, maybe, people would.
Maybe they would say he ruined everything. Maybe they would say he should have held it together.
But you knew Peter. You knew that kind of loss. If someone had stood in front of you mentioning Yondu’s death like it was necessary, you weren’t sure you would have been any smarter, any less reckless.
Neither you nor Peter had ever learned how to grieve quietly.
Then Thanos was gone, and you never knew silence would get worse than the fight.
At first, you thought the dust on your hand was from the planet. Titan was full of it, after all. But then your fingers started to break apart, coming undone, and grey at the edges, scattering into the air before your mind could make sense of it.
You stared at your own hand, as if you looked hard enough, you could force it to stay.
Peter saw it happen.
One second he was Star-Lord, heartbroken and still trying to understand what he had done, and then he was just Peter. Your brother, the boy from the Ravager ship, the idiot who used to throw bolts at you.
“Hey,” he said, and there was panic in it immediately. “No. No, no, no—”
You tried to reach for him, but your arm started disappearing halfway there.
That was when the fear finally hit you like a child reaching for light in the dark. You looked past Peter and saw Mantis fading too, eyes wide and wet, her hand stretching toward you even as her own body betrayed her. Drax was already gone. The battlefield was emptying itself one person at a time, and all you could think was that your family was scattered across the galaxy and you had not said goodbye to any of them.
You had spent your life acting like leaving was easy because Ravagers left. Guardians left. People like you learned how to walk away before anyone could see what it cost. But this was not leaving. This was being taken. This was the universe reaching into your chest and ripping you out before you could choose a final word, a final joke, a final insult about Terra just to make Peter laugh.
Peter lunged for you, hand outstretched, desperate to catch what was left, but he… started disappearing, too.
Then you were both dust.
—
And then, five years later, you woke up in what felt like the middle of the end of the universe.
One second, you were dust on Titan. The next, you were gasping air back into your lungs, stumbling through a portal with Peter shouting and Mantis grabbing your arm like she needed to make sure you were real. There was no time to understand or ask what had happened, where you had been, or why everyone looked like they had spent years grieving you.
There was only Thanos standing across the battlefield like the galaxy had not already suffered enough because of him.
So you fought him again, and this time, you won.
Earth, as it turned out, was not boring.
Earth was loud and muddy and actively on fire, which was frankly more personality than you had expected from Peter’s stupid little wheel planet. Earth had witches throwing red light from their hands, sorcerers opening glowing doorways in the air, flying men in metal suits, a giant green Terran who looked like someone had inflated a nerd with steroids, and at least one god with an axe. There were soldiers with wings, tiny insect people, archers with no self-preservation, and a man dressed like a flag who kept throwing a shield like he had never heard of blasters.
Earth also had Bucky Barnes.
Rocket introduced you to him two days after the battle, when everyone was still sleep-deprived and trying to figure out what the fuck had happened in the five missing years. The Avengers had put the Guardians in a motel, which was… an interesting choice. The bed was too soft, the ceiling was too low, and everything on Terra smelled like detergent and old carpet. You were sitting on the floor because it felt less ridiculous than the springed-cot thing they called a mattress when Rocket kicked the door open without knocking.
Rocket had been introducing “Terran freaks” to you, which mostly involved dragging various Avengers to the motel and describing them in the least respectful way possible. He had spent five years coming back and forth from Earth, apparently, which meant he met most of the important ones. And those he hadn’t met yet, he already knew about through stories.
“This is Green Monster Man,” Rocket said yesterday, showing Banner around to the guardians.
“That’s Bug Guy,” Rocket said this morning, taking Scott Lang on a tour of the motel, showing him off like a show-and-tell presentation.
Of course, this time, he had a new guy to show around.
“Hey,” he said, jerking one thumb over his shoulder. “This is Metal Arm Man.”
You looked up.
And fuck.
Metal Arm Man was beautiful, in the way some Terrans seemed to admire. He was not shiny, like a Sovereign. In fact, he was quite the opposite. He looked like a man who had crawled out of several consecutive wars. He had tired blue eyes, dark brown hair tucked behind his ears, a jawline carved by old gods, and a black-and-gold metal arm— so it made sense why Rocket had taken a liking to him. Or. y’know. His metal appendages.
He stared at you too, and there was nothing polite about it. His eyes moved over the faint shimmer under your skin and the Ravager leathers you had refused to trade for Earth clothes. He looked at the bruise healing along your collarbone, and the knife strapped to your thigh.
Rocket looked between the two of you and made a gagging sound. “What the hell are you two doing?”
The man cleared his throat, like he had remembered manners halfway through staring at you. “My name’s Bucky.”
You blinked. “Bucky?”
His mouth twitched. “Yeah.”
You stared at him for another second, genuinely trying to decide whether Terra was playing some kind of joke on you. “Is that even a real name?”
From somewhere in the hallway, Peter shouted, “Don’t make fun of Terran names! You’re embarrassing me!”
You ignored your brother. Bucky, to his credit, didn't look offended. If anything, he looked amused, which only made him more annoyingly attractive.
“It’s um...” He scratched the back of his head with a human arm. “It’s short for James Buchanan Barnes,” he said, as if that made it any better.
You frowned. Why are earth names so unnecessarily long and complicated? “That’s worse.”
Peter, who apparently had still been listening in, made a noise from the hallway. “Can you be normal for literally one minute?”
“No,” you and Rocket said at the same time.
Bucky actually smiled then.
And you, who had spent most of your life insisting Terra was primitive, boring, and overrated, had the unfortunate thought that maybe you had been wrong.
—
You ended up on the motel roof that night because Earth rooms were suffocating.
It wasn’t exactly difficult. Terran buildings were hilariously easy to escape from. All it took was one window, one rusted ladder, a short jump, and you were on the roof with your back against a humming vent and your knees drawn up to your chest, looking out over a planet you still didn’t understand.
Earth was strange at night. The fire and smoke from the battlefield were gone from here, replaced by yellow streetlights, blinking towers, the rush of wheeled vehicles dragging themselves along roads like they had nowhere better to be. The sky was weird. There was too much light from the city and not enough stars visible. You could barely see anything past the haze, and for someone who had grown up under infinite darkness in a space pirate ship, that felt almost cruel.
Your fingers moved absently over your arm.
The markings there were faint tonight, but still visible. Thin lines of soft, light trailing from your wrist toward your elbow, glowing under the skin like someone had hidden stardust in your veins. Proof, if you needed it, that you were not human. These were markings of your mother’s species, but it didn’t really matter, did it? Your mother’s planet was a dead one. You had no true home.
Behind you, the roof access door creaked.
You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. “You’re still here, Metal Arm Man?”
You heard a pause, then a huff that might have been a laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “Still here.”
Bucky Barnes stepped onto the roof like he was trying not to startle a wild animal. He was wearing the same thing he was earlier: dark shirt, dark jacket, dark boots. The metal arm reflected the weak rooftop light as he walked closer, black and gold lines shifting with him.
He stopped a few feet away, giving you space.
“Your brother cornered me downstairs,” he said.
You finally looked over at him. “Pete?”
“Yeah,” he shrugged. “He wanted to talk to me about Captain America collectible trading cards.”
You blinked. “About what?”
“That was pretty much my response.”
You tried to picture Peter, still freshly returned from being dust in his home planet, cornering this beautiful and haunted-looking Terran soldier in a motel hallway to discuss little paper images of a man in a flag suit. You had no idea what trading cards were. You had no idea why Captain America needed collecting. You had no idea why Peter was like this, except that unfortunately you knew exactly why Peter was like this.
“He’s very embarrassing,” you said.
Bucky’s mouth twitched up. “He seemed excited.”
“He gets like that when Terra is involved. The planet does something to his brain.”
“Pretty sure he was asking if I knew how much the 1944 set was worth.”
You stared at him. “Do you?”
“No.” This time, he did laugh. It was a startled sound that seemed to slip out of him before he could stop it. The sound suited him too much. It made him look younger for half a second, less broken from war and more like someone who might have once been very good at smiling.
He walked closer after that, though still not too close. “Mind if I sit?”
You looked back out over the city. “It is your planet.”
“Not sure that means much.”
“No?”
“No.” You could hear him being flat and careful. There was something he wasn’t really saying.
So you shrugged, and Bucky sat beside you with a polite amount of space between your shoulder and his. For a while, neither of you spoke. Somewhere in the building, you could hear Drax laughing. And in a nearby home, you could hear a young voice crying quietly enough that they probably thought nobody could hear. But you could, your hearing was better than human hearing.
You did not feel better than human that night, though. You… felt tired.
Bucky’s eyes moved to your arm. You thought he was looking at your species marking. But then he asked, “does it hurt?” and you knew he was talking about something much more… sensitive.
You glanced down at your arm, turning it over to show the deep scarring line that never quite healed from your battle with Ego. “No. Not usually.”
“What is it?”
You flexed your fingers, watching the light shift faintly beneath your skin. “Proof that my planet-sized narcissist father tried to kill me.”
Bucky turned his head toward you.
You smiled without humour. “My biological father is a living planet. He made many children across the galaxy because he wanted to use us as batteries for his expansion plan.”
Bucky stared at you for a second, then looked out over the city again. “That’s a lot.”
“Yeah,” you leaned back, “I have been told my childhood is not a good first-date topic.”
His mouth twitched again, but it was kinder this time. “This a first date?”
You looked at him, and the rooftop seemed to tilt slightly. “I don’t know. Is sitting on a roof after a universe-ending battle a date on Terra?”
“Usually no.”
“Usually?”
“I’m old. Dating got weird while I was gone.”
While I was gone.
Huh. Another little door with some probably horrible backstory behind it. You wondered how many of those he had
So you pushed your door open first.
You just started talking because the city sounded too alive after all that death, and because Bucky Barnes gave you the kind of comfort that made people say things they didn’t mean to say yet.
You told him about Ego first, because that was the biggest part of the story on paper. But he was not the part that hurt the most.
You told him how mother’s home planet had already been dying when Yondu found you. The sky had been the wrong colour for so long that you thought all skies looked sick. You remembered your mother’s hands, or maybe you had invented that memory. You remembered being small, hungry, angry, and too tired to cry properly.
Then Yondu came. He got you out because that was what he did.
Bucky listened without interrupting. He didn’t rush to relate, though you suspected he might’ve been able to. He sat there beside you on the motel roof, one knee bent, metal arm resting still against it, and let the words come out.
You looked down at your hands.
“I’m sorry,” Bucky said eventually.
People said that a lot, and you usually hated it. But from him, it didn’t sound empty. Maybe, it was because his voice already carried so much sorrow that it knew how to make room for yours.
You swallowed. “The funny thing is, Yondu threatened to eat Peter and me so many times. But at least he was there. I might have Ego’s blood, but Yondu gave me a home.”
Bucky sighed. “Blood doesn’t mean much by itself.”
You looked at him.
His eyes were fixed on the city, but he was not really seeing it anymore. The streetlights reflected faintly in his face, illuminating the tired slope of his mouth and the shadows beneath his eyes. “I had a family once. Parents, a sister, everything.”
And just like that, Bucky pushed his door open too.
Maybe it was easier to trauma dump to a pretty alien girl who he’s pretty certain he won’t see again.
He told you about war, handing you broken parts of himself and trusting you not to cut yourself on them. He told you about leaving home, about falling, about waking up in the hands of monsters. He told you enough that your stomach turned cold.
You had known there was something wrong in him. It made more sense now that you knew they had taken a living thing apart and put it back together with instructions missing.
You looked at his arm again, even though that wasn’t the arm. Then, you looked at his face. “Oh,” you said, after he told you about HYDRA. “They made you a weapon.”
Anger rose in your stomach, a real, hot, familiar anger. It was the kind of anger you had learned from Ravagers. It was actionable. It was pure and feral.
“Are they dead?” you asked.
That made him look at you.
You blinked. “What? It’s a reasonable question.”
Bucky studied your face, and he looked almost amused behind the exhaustion of his eyes. “Most of them.”
“Most is not all.”
“No,” he said. “It’s not.”
“Do you want help?”
His eyebrows lifted.
“I am very good at killing people,” you added, because honesty, that seemed polite.
Bucky stared at you for half a second, then laughed again, this time with more breath in it. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
You smiled despite yourself, then looked away before it got too real. You had known him for less than a day, properly, and the rooftop felt smaller than it should. His shoulder was not touching yours, but you were aware of the space between you.
Bucky seemed aware of it too.
“So,” he said after a while, voice lighter in a way that felt deliberate, “do aliens have one-night stands?”
You turned to him slowly. “Do we have what?”
“One-night stands.”
You stared.
He seemed to realise he had lost you and shifted slightly, almost embarrassed. “I uh… Casual sex. You know… two people spending a night together because they want to.”
“Oh.” You considered that. “Yes. Obviously.”
He exhaled a laugh. “Obviously?”
“You thought Terrans invented casual sex?”
“No.”
“That would be a very Terran thing to think.”
His smile lingered, and so did yours.
The air changed then, and it had been changing for a while, probably from the moment Rocket shoved him into your orbit and called him Metal Arm Man like he was doing you both a favour. But now there were no Guardians yelling in the lobby, no brother to embarrass you with trading cards. Just the two of you on a motel roof, talking your asses off about monsters who called themselves fathers and creators, grief, and sex like any of it belonged in the same conversation.
Maybe it did.
Maybe this was what survivors did. Maybe they took the worst things that had ever happened to them, laid them down between each other, and then reached for each other anyway.
“So,” you said, because you were suddenly very aware of your own two heartbeats, “is this you asking?”
His eyes flicked back to yours. “Maybe.”
“Maybe is a coward’s answer.”
That did something to him. You saw it in the slight shift of his jaw, the way his gaze darkened, the way his human hand curled loosely against his knee. Still, when he spoke, his voice was careful.
“I’m asking,” he said. “But only if you want that.”
You didn’t answer immediately, though not for being unsure. You were very, annoyingly sure, actually. You wanted him in a way that felt too quick and too simple after a lifetime of things being complicated. You wanted his mouth and his hands and the sadness in his eyes. You wanted to forget the battlefield for a few hours. You wanted to feel alive in a way that didn’t involve fighting for it, for once.
You leaned closer anyway.
“On my planet,” you said, “we do not call it a one-night stand.”
“No?”
“No,” you shook your head with a chuckle. “Mostly because I don’t have a planet. But if I did, I would call it a very reasonable use of a night.”
Bucky’s smile was small and devastating. “That so?”
“Yes.”
You were close enough now to see the tiny flecks of grey in his blue eyes and the faint scar near his mouth. Yet, he held himself like he was giving you every chance to change your mind.
You didn’t.
Instead, you touched the metal fingers resting beside him. The vibranium was cool under your hand.
“I want that,” you said. Then, because you had never been good at masking kindness, you added, “And I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
Bucky’s face changed, but not with pity, thank the stars. You would have left immediately if it had been pity.
Instead, it was recognition.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me neither.”
When he kissed you, it was careful for all of two seconds.
His mouth pressed yours once, soft and hesitant. His human hand hovered near your waist before settling there, warm through your shirt. His metal hand stayed braced against the rooftop beside you, like he was holding himself back from touching too much too soon.
It was infuriatingly sweet.
So you fixed it.
You leaned into him, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, and kissed him back harder.
Bucky made a small sound against your mouth, and his hand tightened at your waist. His mouth opened under yours, and the kiss turned deeper, messier.
You had kissed people before. You had kissed in back rooms of spaceports, against ship walls, in the dark corners of bars where nobody cared about names. You knew what casual was.
This did not feel like that.
Bucky kissed you like he was trying to remember how, and somehow that made it worse. When your fingers slid up into his hair, he exhaled against you.
He was a little rough at the edges. He was careful, then hungry, then careful again when you shifted closer and his metal hand finally moved to your hip.
You pulled back just enough to breathe, your forehead nearly touching his.
Bucky’s eyes opened slowly. His pupils were dark, his mouth swollen.
“Sorry,” he said, voice rough. “I’m a little rusty.”
You blinked at him. Then you looked very deliberately at his metal arm.
“You don’t have rust.”
For a second, he just stared at you. Then he laughed. “No, I don’t.”
You traced your fingers down the front of his shirt, feeling his breathing change beneath your touch. “You don’t need to apologise.”
His eyes dropped to your hand.
It should not have been so attractive, how kind he was. So you kissed him again.
By the time the two of you made it back inside, laughing under your breath, Bucky nearly knocked his shoulder against the frame trying not to let go of you.
It was still supposed to be simple. That was what you told yourself when he kissed you against the wall. That was what you told yourself when your hands found the edge of his shirt and pulled it over your head. That was what you told yourself when he paused, forehead against yours, and asked again if you were sure.
You were.
So for a few stolen hours, neither of you had to be a weapon.
You just made each other feel good.
—
In the morning, someone knocked on your door.
It was a determined knock, followed by a pause, followed by another knock that was weirdly polite.
You opened your eyes slowly.
For a second, you had no idea where you were. The light coming through the curtains was thin and grey and Terran. Then you became aware of the warm body behind you, the weight of an arm across your waist, the steady rise and fall of Bucky Barnes breathing against the back of your neck.
Oh.
Right.
The knocking came again.
Beside you, Bucky stirred awake. His arm tightened around you for half a second before he seemed to remember where he was, who you were, and what had happened the night before.
“I am Groot?” came a muffled voice from the hallway.
You closed your eyes.
Bucky’s voice was sleep-rough when he whispered, “Is that…?”
“Yes,” you whispered back. “That’s Groot.”
“He okay?”
“He’s asking about breakfast.”
“I am Groot,” Groot said again, more insistently this time.
You dragged a hand over your face. “What the hell is an IHOP?”
Bucky blinked, then made the mistake of laughing.
It wasn’t particularly loud, but you felt it against your shoulder and immediately wanted to do several stupid things, including staying exactly where you were and never opening the door. Unfortunately, Groot knocked again, and then someone in the room next to yours opened their door.
“I am going to kill both of you” Nebula called to you from the hallway.
You sat up so fast Bucky almost got elbowed in the chin.
Oh, shit.
Bucky sat up beside you with his hair a mess, eyes wide, mouth pressed tightly together like he was trying very hard not to laugh and make this worse.
You put a shirt and trousers on, panicking, making bucky put his boxers on, too.
Nebula continued, voice flat and merciless. “Some of us were trying to sleep. Some of us didn’t need to hear whatever Terran mating ritual you were performing in there all night!”
Your entire body went hot.
“You heard?” you opened the door to peek outside to see a crowd of guardians already converging there. You weren’t opening the door fully yet. Obviously. Bucky was still trying to find his shirt.
Nebula scoffed, “It was impossible not to.”
From the hallway, Rocket’s voice cut in. “I just put a pillow over my head.”
You dropped your face into your hands.
Bucky’s hand touched your back as he made his way to look for his socks, still shirtless.
“I still don’t know what IHOP is,” said Mantis, because apparently, she was there too.
“A breakfast place,” Bucky said, loud enough for everyone to hear. To be fair, Bucky had never really been there either. It was only a thing after the war, so all the knowledge he had about chain restaurants came secondhand from Sam’s stories and Shuri’s travels.
Drax, answer loudly from the hallway. “Why is it called that?”
“It stands for International House of Pancakes,” Bucky shouted back, looping his belt through. You stared at him, and he looked almost apologetic.
Before Bucky could answer, there was another voice in the hallway.
Peter.
“Why is everyone standing outside—” His voice cut off into a silence, which meant Peter Quill had looked through the half-open door, seen Bucky Barnes half-dressed, and experienced several emotions at once, most notably disgust and awe, which you were unaware could coexist .
Then he shouted, “YOU HAD SEX WITH A HOWLING COMMANDO?”
You froze. Bucky froze.
You stared at Peter through the gap in the door, genuinely exhausted. “I have no idea what that means.”
Peter looked like he hated that he knew something about his sister’s sex life, but was amazed you bagged a historical figure he learned about in school. “It means he’s a war hero!”
Bucky, looking increasingly like he regretted being alive, said, “Quill—”
Peter opened the door a little wider. “No, no, no, no, I’m not judging. Sir, I respect you very much.”
“Oh my god,” you said.
“Don’t call him sir,” Nebula said from somewhere out of sight.
Peter ignored both of you, because Peter had never once let good advice stop him. “Bucky, sir, would you like to join us at IHOP?”
You turned to him in alarm. “No.”
Bucky looked between you and the doorway.
“No, please,” you said, smoothing your stupid borrowed human shirt that said I ❤️ New York. “Bucky. Just go.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
You immediately realised how that sounded a bit aggressive and winced. “Not like that. I mean— before they make this worse. Before Peter starts asking you questions about ancient Terran history or Rocket asks if your arm has detachable components.”
“I was building up to it,” Rocket said, looking a bit pissed.
Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. You could see the smile fighting its way onto his mouth despite everything, still unfairly attractive. He finally found his shirt under the bed, while you looked very hard at the wall and pretended you were not noticing the way his back moved.
Bucky pulled his shirt on, then his jacket, then paused by the bed.
Rocket was still muttering about pancakes, Groot was making curious little noises, and Peter was whispering something that sounded like “World War Two Legend” under his breath. But inside the room, between you and Bucky, there was a pocket of silence.
“I’ll see you around?” you said.
“I hope so.” Then he smiled like he wanted to say something else, but then Peter coughed very loudly in the hallway, and the moment snapped. Bucky gave you one last look, then stepped out into the corridor, where Peter immediately straightened.
“Big fan,” Peter said.
“Pete!” you groaned.
Bucky, because he was apparently kind even under extreme psychological pressure, just nodded. “Thanks.”
Just like that, he left with a kiss on your temple.
Peter spent the entire walk there explaining World War Two to you.
Rocket and Drax collectively ordered too much food. Nebula threatened three different utensils. Groot liked the syrup so much he tried to drink it straight from the little container. Mantis, still not fully adjusted to Earth mornings, asked if your “night of physical bonding” had helped with your sadness, which made you put your head down on the table while Peter choked on his coffee.
By the time you got back to the motel, you saw a small Terran phone on the nightstand that you hadn’t noticed when you left.
It had one number saved: Bucky.
—
You were supposed to leave Earth after a week.
It had been the initial plan. It was only supposed to be one extra week on Peter’s weird little wheel planet, just long enough for Rocket to patch the Benatar, insult several Earth scientists, establish reliable interstellar communication, and call NASA a hobby club with delusions of grandeur.
Unfortunately, the Benatar was more fucked than anyone wanted to admit.
Earth, being a backwater planet with no shortage of paperwork, five years of stagnation, and parts that apparently could not just be stolen without “causing an international incident,” made repairs painfully slow. Rocket had to source pieces from Stark warehouses, Wakandan labs, old S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra storage, and one aerospace facility where he bit a man for calling him a raccoon.
So one week became five months.
And of course, you had to pass the time somehow.
Bucky Barnes was a very, very good way to pass the time.
The phone came in handy, because every time you weren’t helping a guardian with an annoyingly administrative task, you were lonely. So, you would call him.
It might not have been a one night stand anymore, but it was still casual.
It was so casual you fucked him every time the two of you were alone for more than seven minutes. You did it in his temporary apartment, your motel room, the roof, his kitchen, the backseat of a borrowed car, after he made the mistake of telling you the windows were tinted.
Huh. Maybe this contraption on wheels wasn't as useless as you thought it was.
Bucky had survived many things, including war and brainwashing, but apparently nothing had prepared him for you, wearing Ravager leathers deciding she wanted him immediately and treating Terran public decency like a loose suggestion.
There was the bar incident, which he still could not talk about without going pink in the ears. See, Bucky Barnes had not expected to be getting a blowjob from an alien girl in a cubicle of a newly reopened dive bar bathroom.
But there he was.
Things happened.
There was also the alley behind a Brooklyn diner, where his metal hand ended up in your folds, and you learned, very quickly, that Terran technology was not always primitive.
There was the temporary compound supply closet, where you had gone in looking for a power converter and came out with your hair ruined and knees weak, and Bucky looking like he had seen god in a storage room full of printer paper. There was the motel laundry room at three in the morning, where the machines rattled so loudly that you thought no one could hear you, until Drax walked past the next day and told you he sincerely wished his “pounding” would produce “strong children.”
You looked like you wanted the planet to split open and swallow you whole.
It was filthy and stupid. It was fun. It was definitely casual.
That was what you kept saying, anyway.
Calling it casual meant it didn’t matter that his metal arm felt good. Casual meant it did not matter that his human hand felt just as good. Casual meant it didn’t matter that he figured out exactly when you wanted him to be gentle and when you very much didn’t, that he could make you forget every insulting thing you had ever said about Earth with his mouth on your neck and that Brooklyn rasp in your ear.
Casual meant you could leave when you had to.
Bucky made that harder by being annoyingly charming outside of bed. He introduced you to human food like pizza, bagels, and pancakes. He taught you how to tell real New York pizza from the “modern stuff,” even when you were still struggling to eat the flimsy-foldable bread thing in the first place.
“You like it,” he said, watching you steal a pepperoni from his box.
You shrugged, but didn’t deny it. He smiled at you like you were funny, which was dangerous because you liked his smile far too much.
Then one afternoon, he told you he was from Brooklyn, and you sat up so fast you nearly kicked over the coffee table.
“Brooklyn,” you said. “As in No Sleep Till?”
Bucky blinked, then laughed. “Yeah. Shuri made me listen to that.”
“Pete loves that song.”
“Of course he does.”
You nodded solemnly. “It is one of the only respectable things about this planet.”
He leaned back, smiling into his coffee. “Brooklyn?”
“No. Music.”
He looked so offended you had to kiss him.
That was the problem with Bucky. He was too easy to kiss, too easy to want, too easy to crawl back to after a long day of Rocket screaming at wiring diagrams and Peter trying to explain why Earth malls used to matter culturally. Bucky made you food and started leaving space for your knives on his temporary dresser like that was a normal thing to do for someone you were only sleeping with.
The Benatar was fixed eventually.
Rocket announced the news to Avengers and Guardians and Asgardians and Wakandans alike, over breakfast like it was good news, because it was. Your family could leave, because the ship could fly.
Bucky didn’t say anything.
He just looked at you across the table, and you realised with a sick little twist in your chest that casual had become the biggest lie you had ever told.
—
The night before you left Earth, you found yourself on top of Bucky Barnes again in his makeshift New Asgardian tent.
It was getting increasingly harder and harder to pretend your chest didn’t hurt every time he looked at you like you were a treasure he had found in the wreckage and wanted, desperately, to keep.
His hands were on either side of you, your knees pressed into the cot on either side of him, your palms braced against his chest, your hair falling around your face while you rode him hard enough to make the frame knock into the fabric.
“Fuck,” Bucky breathed, head tipped back against the pillow, eyes half-lidded and wrecked. “Baby—”
You hated when Terrans called people that. Well. You hated it until he did it.
When he did, it made a warm pool in your stomach, made both your hearts kick faster, made you grind down harder just to hear him lose his breath again.
His metal hand tightened on your thigh. His human hand slid up your waist, warm and rough, thumb pressing into the place beneath your ribs like he was checking that you were still there.
You leaned down and kissed him because you couldn’t stand his face.
You could not stand his beautiful, sad, earnest face. You couldn’t stand that he had kissed you on the temple in a motel hallway once and therefore ruined your life forever. You couldn’t stand that he had made Earth feel less like Peter’s stupid planet and more like a place with someone waiting for you to come back.
Bucky groaned into your mouth when you moved again, taking him until your thighs shook.
“Christ,” he rasped, dragging his mouth down your throat, the place where your pulse was too fast. One pulse. Then the other. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Good,” you said, breathless. “Then I don’t have to leave you.”
It was meant to be a joke. It didn’t feel like one.
You were leaving in the morning, and earlier today, Drax had asked if Bucky would be joining you and then said that he hoped so because Bucky seemed like he had “excellent reproductive prowess.”
You had kicked Drax under the table.
Bucky had not laughed much after that.
Now he looked up at you, hair messy against the pillow, mouth swollen from kissing.
After you rode out your high and drawn out his at the same time, you collapsed next to him.
“Stay,” he said, barely above a whisper, as if he had been holding it in for weeks and it had finally slipped out
“Bucky...”
“I know,” he said quickly, and his hands slid up your back, holding you against him. “I know. Pete’s out there. The Guardians are out there. I know that’s your family.”
You swallowed hard. “You could come with me.”
His face changed. There it was, the conversation you had been circling. You knew in reality, that this was nothing more than a ridiculous, impossible fantasy you had been trying not to build.
“You could,” you said again. “Thor’s coming.”
Bucky huffed a laugh, but it broke halfway through. “Yeah, well. Thor doesn’t exactly blend in here either.”
“You don’t blend in anywhere.”
“That’s fair.”
You tried to smile.
Bucky’s hand came up to your face, metal fingers careful against your cheek. The cool touch made your eyes sting.
“I haven’t been home in a long time,” he said.
“I know.”
“I don’t even know if New York is still home,” he admitted. “But I think I need to try.”
You nodded, even though it felt like swallowing glass.
You understood. Bucky had been dragged through so much. He had only just been handed a life that belonged to him. For the first time in a long time, this was his chance to figure out who he was when nobody was using him.
How could you ask him to leave that?
And how could he ask you to stay?
Your only tether to anything like family was Peter and Guardians.
Earth had Bucky.
Space had everyone else.
You pressed your forehead to his. “You’re breaking my hearts,” you whispered.
His breath hitched, kissing the edge of your lips. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” you said, wiping at your cheek angrily. “And they’re both beating quicker than they should be.”
He laughed then, and you laughed too, even as tears slipped hot down your face and fell onto his skin.
He kissed them off your cheeks.
You kissed his lips then as if you could press every unsaid thing into his mouth and make him understand. I’m sorry. I want you. I have to go. Come with me. Stay safe. Wait for me. Don’t wait for me. Please wait for me.
Eventually, Bucky rolled you beneath him with one smooth shift and you gasped against his mouth.
For a second, you thought he only meant to hold you there.
His weight settled over you, his hair fell around his face, his breath still uneven from what you had done to him not long ago, and yet when his hips pressed between your thighs, you felt him already hard again.
You blinked up at him.
Bucky froze, because in all honestly, his uncontrollable evidence of wanting you had made him feel like a perv. It was almost funny, really. This man had survived unspeakable things, but apparently getting hard again too quickly in front of the girl leaving his planet in the morning was what made him look embarrassed.
Your lips parted.
He let out a rough little breath, eyes flicking away for half a second. “Sorry.”
You stared at him. “Why are you apologizing?”
He was embarrassed and wanting and so painfully Bucky that it made your chest ache. “Super soldier thing,” he muttered. “I can, uh…”
You raised an eyebrow.
He looked down at you, cheeks faintly flushed now, and that was worse than all the filth you had done together in the last five months. “…go again,” he finished.
Then, you laughed, but not because it was funny.
But because of course James Buchanan Barnes would be hovering over you on your last night on Earth, looking sweet and apologetic for the fact that his body still wanted yours after you had already wasted him half to death.
He laughed too, quieter.
“You don’t have to,” he said quickly. “I just— I want you. But you don’t have to.”
You reached up and touched him. His stubble scratched against your palm. His eyes closed for half a second like he was trying to memorise that too.
It was your last night, with his sheets tangled around your legs, with his body over yours.
You were tired and sore. But you wanted him again so badly it felt dumb.
“Yes,” you whispered.
Bucky opened his eyes.
You hooked your legs around his waist and pulled him closer. “Yes. Please.”
He kissed you first, like he was saying thank you into your mouth. Then his hand slid down your side, over your hip, between your thighs, touching you with careful fingers until your body reacted to him all over again.
He pushed into you again, slow enough that you felt every inch and stretch until your back arched.
His forehead dropped to yours.
“Look at me,” he said.
You did.
He moved slowly at first,one hand tangled with yours against the sheets, the other braced beside your head. It was not the frantic, filthy kind of sex the two of you had gotten so good at. It was not trying to see how fast you could make him come apart before someone noticed you were missing.
This was him fucking you like he wanted you to remember exactly what leaving felt like.
Every thrust pushed the air from your lungs, and every drag of his body against yours made your thighs tighten around his waist. You dug your nails into his back and he groaned into your neck, hips snapping harder for a second before he caught himself again.
“Don’t,” you gasped.
He lifted his head. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t hold back.”
His eyes darkened.
Your voice cracked around the next words. “I want to miss all of it.”
Bucky kissed you hard, and then he gave you exactly what you asked for. He fucked you into the mattress with the kind of hunger that had been hiding his mouth at your throat, his hands on your hips.
You let yourself have it.
For once, you didn’t try to make it funny.
You just let him have you.
And when you came, it hit you so hard you cried out against his shoulder, bones trembling. Bucky followed after, burying his face in your neck with a broken sound, holding you so tightly it almost hurt.
Good.
You wanted it to fucking ache.
For a long time afterwards, neither of you moved.
The room smelled like sweat and sex and Bucky’s laundry soap. Your skin was damp against his. His heartbeat thudded under your ear, steady precious.
Eventually, you whispered, “I’m going to miss this.”
His hand stilled in your hair.
You closed your eyes. “I’m going to miss you.”
Bucky pressed his mouth to the top of your head.
“I’m gonna miss you, too,” he said.
You wanted to be brave about it. Still, your throat burned.
You shifted enough to reach for the little device on the makeshift nightstand. It was small, flat, and ugly, because Rocket had built it from three different communication systems, one stolen Stark component, and another thing he claimed was “probably not radioactive anymore.”
You placed it in Bucky’s hand.
He looked down at it. “What’s this?”
“A communicator.”
His brows lifted. “This works in space?”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes?”
“Some parts of space are unreachable,” you said, defensive because Rocket had already explained the limitations six times and you understood maybe half of them. “There are dead zones, black-market relay issues, Kree interference, and weird cosmic nonsense. Also Rocket said if you press the red button too many times, it may get hot.”
Bucky stared at you.
You sniffed. “But it works.”
His thumb moved over the edge of it, careful. “Yeah?”
“Yes. So reach out, please.” Your voice went low. “Even if I don’t answer right away, even if it takes a while. I’ll answer when I can.”
Bucky looked at you then, and the naked hope in his face nearly killed you.
“I’ll visit,” you said quickly, because if he looked at you like that much longer, you were going to do something embarrassing like stay. “From time to time.”
“From time to time,” he repeated.
You winced.you knew that sounded terrible, as if you didn’t want to give enough effort. “I mean I will come back,” you said, grabbing his wrist. “I mean it. I don’t know when. I don’t know how often. My family attracts disasters like Drax attracts confusing conversations, but I will come visit.”
Bucky’s hand turned under yours until he could lace your fingers together.
“I’ll be here,” he said.
Then Bucky sat up, reaching toward the floor where his jeans had been abandoned hours ago. He searched the pocket and pulled out a thin chain tangled around his fingers.
He looked almost shy when he handed it to you.
You took it, frowning at the two small metal plates hung from the chain, stamped with Terran letters and numbers you didn’t fully understand.
“What is this?”
“My dog tags.”
You stared at him, then thought of the only other dog you know of: Cosmo. “You’re not a dog.”
He laughed, soft and pained. “No.”
“Then why are they called that?”
“I don’t know. It’s an Army thing.”
You turned the tags over in your palm. “They have your name,” you said, before looking up.
His smiled.
Oh.
“They’re important,” you realised.
Bucky nodded once. “They’re from… before.”
And just like that, you understood. Your fingers closed around the tags.
“Bucky,” you whispered.
He shrugged like it didn’t matter, which meant it mattered terribly. “Figured you should have something.”
You looked down at them again, and your vision blurred. “I don’t have anything like this to give you.”
“You gave me a space phone that might explode."
You laughed. Bucky smiled, but his eyes were wet too.
You leaned forward and kissed him gentler, before he slipped the chain over your head. The tags settled between your breasts, cold against your skin, right between your two stupid, breaking hearts.
Bucky watched them land there, and the look on his face made heat curl through you all over again.You touched the tags. “How do they look?”
His eyes lifted to yours.
“Like mine,” he said, then seemed to realise what he had said.
You went very still.
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t mean—”
“You did,” you said.
He looked at you.
You crawled back into his lap, the chain shifting against your bare skin, the communicator forgotten on the bed beside you. His hands came to your waist automatically.
“Good,” you whispered.
Then you kissed him again.
By morning, your body ached everywhere.
When you finally stood in the doorway with your bag over your shoulder and his dog tags hidden beneath your shirt, you and Bucky looked at each other like you both wanted to ask again.
Stay.
Come with me.
Both of you were too kind to say either out loud.
You kissed him one more time before you boarded the Benatar.
—
You visited Bucky Barnes four times in the next three years.
Four times sounded almost generous if you didn’t think about all the days between.
Still, you messaged him when you could.
Sometimes the communicator worked, and sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes your voice arrived through the little device in his palm three weeks late, half-swallowed by static and distance, saying, “—Rocket says if this thing starts beeping, that's technically your fault—” before cutting out entirely.
Sometimes Bucky sent you a message and had no idea whether it reached you.
Still alive?
That was his most common one. It looked and sounded casual. It was anything but.
You usually answered with something stupid, like: Unfortunately. Or Yes. You?
Or once, after apparently being shot at by pirates, chased through a collapsing space station, and nearly eaten by something Peter insisted was “not technically a worm”, you texted back: Define alive.
Bucky read that one in his kitchen at two in the morning and was scared shitless for your life.
Then he looked out of his window.
Brooklyn never showed enough stars, but some nights, when he couldn’t sleep, he went up to the roof anyway. He stood there with his jacket pulled close, metal hand resting on the ledge, eyes lifted to a sky that hid you from him.
He wondered where you were.
He wondered if you were safe. He wondered if you were injured and pretending you weren’t. He wondered if Peter was annoying you. He wondered if Rocket was taking care of you the way he promised to. He wondered if you ever looked out into the dark and thought of him, too.
—
The first time you came back, it was only for two days.
You told nebula to land on his roof, because of course you did. Bucky had already learned that you considered swinging, hinged doors a Terran inconvenience because you stubbed your toe on one once.
He had been waiting there for twenty minutes, when your little shuttle appeared above the building, and Bucky forgot every reasonable thing he had ever planned to say.
You jumped down with a bag over your shoulder, boots hitting the concrete like you had never once doubted you would land on your feet. For a second, you just looked at him. He looked at you, too. Eight months sat between you awkwardly, until you smiled.
“Your planet still smells strange,” you said.
Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Hi to you too.”
He kissed you, and it wasn’t frantic at first. It was worse. His hands came up to your face like he was checking that you were real, thumbs brushing your cheeks, before you made a small sound and pulled him closer by the front of his jacket.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead stayed against yours.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said quietly.
You swallowed, suddenly irritated with him for sounding so grateful. “For two days.”
“I know.”
“It’s not enough time.”
“I know,” he said again.
His apartment was exactly like him in the worst way. There were books stacked beside the couch, a blanket folded over the arm, mugs drying beside the sink, and a little space cleared on the dresser where, after one hour, your duffel bag somehow ended up.
You walked around slowly, inspecting everything. Bucky followed you like he was trying not to look nervous.
“It’s very square,” you announced eventually.
He leaned against the kitchen counter. “You said that about the motel too.”
“Terrans love boxes.”
He laughed and spent the days showing you his neighbourhood.
That night, you didn’t do half the filthy things you had promised yourself you would do on the way there. You had thought you would make the most of the short visit, but instead, you ended up under his blankets, your back against his chest, his arm around your waist, your body so tired from travel and space jumps that you fell asleep before you could even make a joke about his mattress.
Bucky stayed awake.
He couldn’t help it. He had spent eight months imagining you in this apartment, and now you were here. His dog tags rested against your chest beneath one of his shirts. He could feel the little metal plates when his hand settled over your ribs.
“You still wear them,” he murmured.
You weren't fully asleep. “They are important.”
“To me.”
“To me too,” you said, voice thick with exhaustion.
Bucky’s breath hitched.
You seemed to realise what you had said a second later, because you shifted and cleared your throat. “Also, they’re useful identification in case I misplace you.”
He huffed a laugh into your hair. “In case you misplace me?”
“Yes.”
“Where would you misplace me?”
“I don’t know. Your planet has many streets.”
A long silence passed as your fingers found his hand over your waist, and instead of moving it away, you threaded your fingers through his.
After a while, Bucky said, “You know, this feels like one of those old war movies.”
You turned your head slightly. “What does?”
“This. You showing up for two days and leaving again.” His voice was light, but trying too hard. “Like you’re a sailor being shipped out.”
You blinked in the dark. “I am the sailor?”
“Yeah.”
“And what are you?”
You felt his smile against your neck before he said, very seriously, “The damsel.”
You chuckled sleepily. Bucky chuckled, too, arms wrapping around you properly when you playfully tried to twist away from him. “Oh, you poor thing,” you said. “Do you require rescuing, princess?”
“Every few months, apparently.”
You laughed again, quieter this time.
Then the humour faded, because every joke with Bucky seemed to have a cliff beneath it.
—
The second time you came back, it was for five days.
Rocket needed Bruce Banner for something involving gamma signatures, and deep-space interference. You came with him because someone had to stop Rocket from biting another scientist.
Also because Bucky was there.
Not that you said that.
You invited him to the ship and while Bruce was there, too. Rocket gagged. “Not in my lab.”
You didn’t make it to dinner before you ended up in Bucky’s apartment.
This time, the urgency was there. Five days was longer. You could do more than cuddle in five days.
Bucky kissed you against his front door with one hand at your waist and the other braced beside your head. You laughed into his mouth when he almost tripped over your bag, and he muttered something about you being a menace before kissing you harder.
Afterward, as your skin cooled beneath his sheets, Bucky went quiet.
“What?” you asked, turning your head on the pillow.
He stared up at the ceiling, one hand resting on his stomach. “I went on a date.”
He looked like it had been eating him alive. He looked like he hated himself for it.
Against your better judgement, as you took in the absurdity of the conversation, you laughed. It came out a little too bright.
“Oh,” you said. “Okay.”
Bucky looked at you. “Okay?”
“Yes. Okay.” You pushed yourself up on one elbow and tried to look mature. “That’s good.”
He didn’t answer. He almost would rather you shout at him, even if you never said you were exclusive and had no reason to assume so.
You kept going because silence was dangerous. “You live here. You should date. You should have… Terran meals and Terran walks and whatever else dating is.”
“I had dinner where she worked,” he said quietly.
You looked at him for a moment, then asked another question because you were stupid and cruel to yourself. “How was she?”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Nice.”
“Nice is good.”
“Yeah.”
“Pretty?”
He turned his head toward you, and he looked hurt now. “Don’t do that.”
Bucky seemed to regret saying it as soon as he did. He looked away again, but you had already seen too much.
You swallowed. “It is not like we’re in a relationship.”
“I know.”
“You can date.”
“I know.”
“Then how was it?”
“She…” he gulped, knowing it went nowhere, knowing he would never see her again because it felt so wrong, he felt nauseous afterwards. “She’s not you.”
Oh.
You didn’t know what to do with that.
You wanted to tell him not to wait for you, but the thought of him not waiting made your breath hitched. You wanted to tell him to date someone else, but not her. Actually, not anyone. You wanted to say you were sorry, or that you loved him.
Instead, you reached for his hand.
He let you take it.
“I don’t want you to be lonely,” you said.
“I know.”
You looked at him. “But?”
Bucky squeezed your fingers once. “But I still am.”
—
The third time, you visited, you stayed for a week
That time, Sam invited you to a Wilson cookout at his sister’s house.
Bucky asked badly as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Sam’s having a cookout. Sarah’ll be there. The boys too, but… we don’t have to go.”
You stared at him. “Do they know about me?”
“Yes.”
“What do they know?”
He looked uncomfortable.
You narrowed your eyes. “James Buchanan Barnes.”
“Oh, now it’s the full name?”
“What do they know?”
“That you visit.” He smiled faintly, but it faded quickly. “I… I just wanted you there.”
So you went on the short flight to New Orleans with him.
The Wilson’s Louisiana house was warm and smelled of grilled food and salt air.
You stood beside Bucky, as kids pointed out your markings, and suddenly became very aware that you didn’t know how to be introduced.
Sarah solved that immediately by smiling at you like she had already decided she liked you.
“So,” she said, handing you a plate, “you’re Barnes’ long-distance girlfriend.”
Bucky froze. Sam took one sip of his drink like had been waiting all day for this.
You laughed at once. “That’s not what this is.”
Sarah’s eyebrows lifted.
“It is more like…” You glanced at Bucky, then away, because his face had gone blank. “What you Terrans call an intergalactic booty call.”
Sam choked.
One of the boys immediately asked, “What’s a booty call?”
“Ask your uncle,” Sarah said.
Sam looked betrayed. “Why would you do that to me?”
You wanted to take it back.
You wanted to say, actually, no, that was wrong. Actually, he’s not that or I cross galaxies for him.
But you didn’t say any of that.
Later, while Sarah’s boys asked you increasingly strange questions about space, you caught Bucky looking at you from across the yard. He was leaning against the railing beside Sam, who was saying something to him. But Bucky was not really listening. His eyes were on you like a lost puppy.
You mouthed, stop.
He smiled faintly.
Three days later, you begged for his spare arm.
Bucky said no before you even finished explaining.
“It is for Rocket,” you insisted.
“That makes it worse.”
“It’s for Christmas!” You told him, leaning across his kitchen table. “He’s my best friend.”
Bucky leaned back, looking at you. You were wearing one of his shirts again, hair still damp from his shower. His apartment looked both wrong and right around you, as if you had always belonged there and were always about to leave.
“Fine,” he said at last.
Your face lit up. “Really?”
“Yeah. But I want something.”
You immediately narrowed your eyes. “I don’t make deals with soldiers.”
Bucky smiled, but it was fragile. “Just come back soon, yeah?”
Oh.
He didn’t look away, even though you could tell he wanted to.
Soon.
As if soon was easy, as if your life was not a mess of missions, emergencies, broken engines, family obligations, cosmic disasters, and Peter doing stupid things with massive diplomatic consequences.
“Bucky…”
“I know,” he said. “I know you can’t promise me anything.”
You swallowed.
“I know,” he repeated, but his voice was rougher now. “Just… try.”
You could have fought a demand or mocked a plea. But this…
You reached across the table and took his hand.
“I’ll try,” you said.
—
The fourth time, you came back two months later.
He opened the apartment door and just stood there, staring at you like he couldn't quite believe you were here.
You held up a bag, because apparently, you had taken a detour on the way to his apartment. “I brought bagels.”
His eyes dropped to the bag, then back to your face.
You lifted the bag higher, because you couldn’t survive much more of that look. “Bread circles, Bucky. Are you going to let me in or do Terrans eat in corridors now?”
He let you in.
The bagels were forgotten on the counter within minutes.
You told him about Mantis on the second night.
You were in his bed, his arm around you, the room dim except for the weak city light through the blinds. The dog tags rested against your bare sternum, rising and falling with your breathing. Bucky’s fingers had been tracing absent shapes along your side, soothing, when he asked about how Christmas in Knowhere went.
So you told him that Rocket loved the arm, but you also told him the bigger revelation.
“Mantis is my sister,” you said.
Bucky’s hand paused for a second. “Your sister?”
You nodded, staring at the ceiling. “She’s one of Ego’s, too.” You said with a smile. “She was already family. I mean, before. She was already one of ours. But now…”
“Now it’s different,” Bucky said.
“Yes.”
He shifted slightly to look at you. “How do you feel?”
You took a long breath. “Happy. I want to kill him again, but he’s already dead, so...”
Bucky smiled faintly. “I’m glad you have her.”
You believed him.
And he was telling the truth. He was glad, and Bucky would rather jump off a bridge than ever be cruel with your happiness. He never made you feel guilty for having family beyond him, never treated the Guardians like a competition, never asked you to shrink your world until only he was left in it. He loved you too much for that, even if neither of you had said the word.
But mantis being your sister, when all you ever wanted in life was family, meant that you’ve got another reason to stay up there.
Every piece of family you found among the stars tied you tighter to a life Bucky could only visit through broken messages and sparse wondering.
And what did Earth have?
One soldier in Brooklyn.
And later, after you fell asleep, Bucky laid awake beneath you and looked toward the window.
He wondered where you would be in a month.
He wondered if the communicator would work or if Rocket would be stripping it for parts again in an emergency.
He wondered if one day you would stop coming back and he would still find himself on the roof, looking up, waiting for you.
Then he looked down at the dog tags resting against your chest. For a few days, at least, the universe was small enough to fit in his bed.
—
Months later…
Rocket almost died, not in the abstract way all of you almost died every other cycle, either.
Rocket actually almost died.
You could still see it when you closed your eyes: his body on the table, fur matted, chest refusing to rise like a normal raccoon.
For a second, you thought your best friend had gone somewhere none of you could follow.
Then he came back.
Against all odds, Rocket lived.
The High Evolutionary was gone, his ship was wreckage. The children and the animals aboard the ship were safe. Knowhere had become both an ark and a home to many, many new faces.
Everywhere you looked, there was evidence of survivals. There were kids sleeping in corners because they hadn’t yet learned beds were safe and strange animals blinking under unfamiliar lights.
And now, your family was changing.
Mantis said she wanted to go. Although it felt like your sister was abandoning you, she reassured you that she wanted to see the universe without Ego. She wanted to find herself without the guardians breathing down her neck.
Which was fair
But she was your sister. You had barely gotten to have that before this. And yet, you understood.
Then Peter said he was leaving, too.
He was leaving for Earth because he wanted to see his grandfather again.
Peter tried to say it casually, but he was terrible at it. When he said it, he was not Star-Lord. He was not the idiot who had danced in front of Ronan, or the man who had lost Gamora, or the brother who had thrown bolts at you across Ravager floors.
He was just Peter, a little boy who had been taken from home, finally admitting there was still someone there he needed to go back to.
And maybe because everyone else was saying the brave thing out loud, you did, too.
“I could come with you,” you said.
Peter blinked at you. Then his face scrunched up in immediate disgust. “You can’t come live with my grandpa with me.”
You smacked him upside the head.
“Ow!”
“No, dumbass,” you rolled your eyes, "I'm not gonna live with you.”
Peter rubbed the back of his head, wounded and hurt, but then his eyes dropped to the chain beneath your shirt.
His eyes changed.
“Ohhh,” he said.
You looked away at once. “Don’t.”
Peter’s mouth opened wider. “Ahhh.”
“Peter.”
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t.”
But he was already grinning, all mischief and brotherly cruelty. “I see now.”
Drax leaned forward, deeply alarmed by being left out of something. “What? What are we seeing?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly.
Nebula folded her arms, finally catching up, “Guess who else is on Terra?”
Your face went hot.
Drax’s eyes widened. “Ah.”
“I am not going because of him,” you sputtered out, clearly lying through your teeth, “maybe I just want to learn of Terran music!”
The pretense was paper thin, and even you knew it.
Rocket made a rude little noise from his seat.
You turned. “What?”
He lifted both paws. “Didn’t say anything.”
“I am Groot,” Groot said mildly from beside him.
Rocket nodded. “Exactly.”
You looked at Groot in betrayal.
Groot only blinked at you with those gentle eyes.
Mantis smiled softly. “You do touch the metal necklace every time someone mentions Terra.”
“I don’t.”
“You are touching them now.”
You dropped your hand like the metal had burned you.
“This is amazing.” Peter looked delighted. “My sister is moving to Earth for that old robot. We’ll practically be neighbors.”
“He’s not old.”
Nebula finally looked up.
Peter held up a finger. “He fought in World War Two.”
“That means nothing to me.”
“It means old.”
“He looks fine.”
Rocket barked a laugh. “Oh, she’s got it bad.”
“I don’t have anything”
Drax nodded with grave certainty. “She has been claimed by the metal warrior. He gave her necklace plates.”
“They are called dog tags.”
“You are not a dog.”
“That is what I said!”
Nebula smiled a little, which for her was basically hysterics. “You cross galaxies to crawl into his bed and wear his military identification around your neck.”
Well, when she said it like that…
Mantis leaned closer. “He makes you less lonely.”
Finally, everybody shut the hell up.
Because yes. He did.
Right.
Rocket looked away first.
He was picking at a seam in his jacket, claws worrying the fabric until the thread started to pull loose. His ears were low, though he was clearly trying to make them not be. His mouth had twisted into that flat line he wore whenever feeling like he wanted to bite.
Mantis was leaving. Peter was leaving. You were leaving. The children of Ego, all drifting off in different directions like the dead bastard pleft cruelty in your blood.
Rocket scoffed. “Great. Real touching. Everybody’s got somewhere better to be now.”
Your hearts felt hurt. “Rocket.”
“What?” he snapped, too fast. “It’s good. It’s great. Everyone’s got somewhere to be.”
Rocket didn’t look at you.
He had almost died. He had woken up into a universe where he was finally captain, and now his family was peeling apart.
“Family’s still family,” you said, “Even when we’re spread out.”
You looked around the room at the only family you’d ever really known, and here was Rocket pretending not to be sad.
The raccoon looked up at you three, and this time, he looked… okay.
“I am groot,” Groot said, finally.
I love you guys.
—
Bucky wasn’t expecting a knock on a random Tuesday.
He should have been, probably.
That was his life now: he always had knocks at weird hours, which was usually campaign staff with clipboards. Sometimes it was Sam showing up because apparently “boundaries” were optional during election season. Other times it was someone from legal, or from security, or an intern from the press being brave enough, or stupid enough to knock on the former winter soldier’s door at 8AM.
He had only just started his campaign for congressman, and already his personal life felt less personal the more people tried to pry open his head with a crowbar.
So when the knock came, he thought someone had leaked his address.
He thought this must be a reporter. His life must be blowing up.
He set the mug down, rubbed a hand over his face, and walked to the door trying to make his expression less like it belonged on a wanted poster.
Then he opened it and the entire world stopped.
You were standing in his hallway.
You.
You were actually there, clothes damp from rain, hair windswept, a duffel bag hanging from your shoulder, his dog tags tucked beneath your shirt.
Behind you, Peter Quill stood near the stairwell, a respectful amount of distance, but probably a reminded that he was still your brother. He gave Bucky a small thumbs-up before scurrying down the stairs. He had already said goodbye in the car and given you his address in Missouri after driving you here, obviously. You didn’t know how cars worked. Yet.
Bucky barely saw him, mostly because he couldn’t stop looking at you.
You looked nervous, which was so wrong it almost hurt to see. You had fought gods, monsters, armies, and living planets. And now you were standing in his doorway like you were afraid he might say reject you.
“Hi,” you said, voice smaller than usual.
Bucky’s hand tightened around the edge of the door.
“I’m here to stay,” you said. “If that’s okay.”
For a second, nothing existed to Bucky, not even the campaign or reporters or Earth or space. Just you.
Then Bucky stepped forward and pulled you into his arms.
Your duffel slipped off your shoulder and hit the hallway floor, but neither of you cared. His metal hand spread across your back, gentle even when the rest of him was shaking. His human arm was wrapped around your waist as buried his face against your neck.
You went still, startled by it, and then folded into him without any resistance whatsoever.
Bucky closed his eyes.
His throat tightened so suddenly he almost couldn’t get the words out.
“How long?” he asked.
Your fingers curled into the back of his shirt. “For the foreseeable future.”
Oh.
Oh, stars.
Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you.
Your eyes were watering. His probably were, too, but he didn’t care. He didn’t have room to care. You swallowed.
“I should’ve asked you first,” you rushed out. “I know. I just wanted it to be a surprise, and Pete thought it might be a good surprise, so I’m—”
Bucky kissed you.
He couldn’t stand to listen to you ask permission to be wanted. Because of course you were wanted.
Yes.
Yes, stay.
Yes, here.
Yes, with me.
You made a broken little noise into his mouth, and Bucky’s hand slid into your hair, holding you there like he was anchoring both of you to the same planet.
When Bucky finally pulled back, his forehead stayed pressed to yours.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
Then you whispered, “Good surprise?”
Bucky let out a laugh, but it broke. “Yeah,” he said, voice wet. “Yeah, sweetheart. Good surprise.”
You sighed then.
Bucky bent down, picked up your duffel, and stepped back into the apartment. You crossed the threshold, eyes moving over the campaign papers on the table, the tie abandoned on the couch, the books stacked by the window, the stupid square Terran box of a home you had to teased every time you visited.
—
And then life kept going.
You stayed, and the world didn’t collapse.
Bucky still had campaign meetings and reporters still asked questions that made your fingers twitch toward knives you were no longer allowed to carry in certain government buildings. Peter sent too many messages after getting you both a smartphone. Rocket called every once in a while, calling Earth “a bureaucratic sinkhole.” Bucky tried to teach you how primaries worked, and you told him Terrans had made voting sound more complicated than interstellar smuggling.
He won anyway.
By the time Mantis visited Earth months later, Bucky Barnes was now Congressman Barnes, which still sounded fake to your alien brain.
The news loved it, obviously. They wrote all sorts of headlines:
Former Winter Soldier wins historic congressional seat.
James Buchanan Barnes sworn into office.
Congressman Barnes has an alien girlfriend.
That one was your favourite.
You framed it.
Bucky came home one evening, saw it hanging in the hallway of your new DC penthouse, and stopped dead with his briefcase still in his hand.
You were sitting on the floor nearby, sorting through a box of your things and pretending very hard not to watch him notice.
He stared at the headline.
“You framed it,” he said.
“Yes.”
“In the hallway, where guests can see it.”
“That is usually why people hang things in hallways, is it not?”
Bucky sighed, but he didn’t take it down.
The penthouse had been a compromise, which was to say Bucky had wanted something secure and reasonable, and you had wanted the biggest house with the biggest windows.
You’re still not used to Terran skies, but from high up, DC was lovely. You could see glowing roads and monuments with headlights and ridiculous little wheeled vehicles dragging themselves around.
Bucky said the place made sense for security.
When Peter visited for the first time, he looked at the glass walls, the high ceiling, the guest rooms, the kitchen big enough for a small diplomatic crisis, and said, “Oh. So you guys are rich rich now.”
“It’s practical,” Bucky said, even though rich wasn’t a place he’d use.
“It has what? Two walk in closets ” Peter said, and guessed right.
“I wanted a third one for all my knives,” you said. “But I had to compromise.”
Bucky looked at you like he loved you and regretted encouraging you at the same time.
And slowly, it became yours.
You had your weird human boots by his polished shoes. You had strange little space trinkets on his shelves, and your faux fur jacket thrown over the back of his very expensive chair.
When Mantis visited, Peter visited, too.
He was still arguing with security about his blasters when she stepped into the penthouse and looked around with wide eyes.
“Oh,” she said softly. “You live very high.”
Bucky was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, opening pizza boxes.
“Your sister likes windows,” he said.
He said it like your wanting mattered enough to explain the whole place.
Mantis smiled.
Bucky glanced at you, then slid a box toward all three of you. Eventually, Peter sat on the floor like he owned the place. Mantis sat cross-legged beside him, studying her slice with concern. You curled into Bucky’s side on the couch, his arm along the back of it, his knee against yours.
Mantis took one bite and her eyes widened. “This is amazing.”
You looked at Peter, your brother, who had once thrown bolts at you across the floor of a Ravager ship and now sat eating pizza in your living room. You looked at Mantis, your sister, free and alive and choosing her own way through the universe. You looked at Bucky, the man who had once been a one-night stand in a motel room, but now, he was your home in every sense of the word.
And tonight, the universe was small enough to fit in one living room.
Mantis leaned back, pizza balanced carefully in both hands.
“I like Earth,” she said.
You looked at her, then at Peter, then at Bucky.
“Yeah,” you said, leaning into your lover’s side. “It has one or two good things.”
—end.
Extra note: I think this reader would make a wonderful Thunderbolt. Thoughts?
