sunny

Reblogging fics I love; 18+

[sunny747]

I’m bad at tumblr, but trying to make finding fics easier lol

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ warm juice.

pairing – garrett graham x reader summary – a low blood sugar scare at beau’s frat house cuts the party short, but garrett handles it with juice and crackers. warnings – diabetes, blood sugar drop, dizziness/lightheadedness, alcohol, frat party, food/juice as treatment. notes from me – hi my babes!! as requested here, thank u so much! word count – 0.8k

navigation – masterlist |

The first warning isn’t the Dexcom alert, because Beau’s speakers are trying to shake the plumbing loose and her phone is buried beneath three coats on the kitchen counter. The first warning is the hollow tilt of the room when she turns her head too quickly, the red cup in her hand suddenly heavier than a cup containing two melted ice cubes and one mouthful of vodka soda has any right to be.

She blinks at Blair, who’s halfway through a story and hasn’t noticed that the kitchen tiles have begun moving unpleasantly beneath her shoes. Heat gathers beneath the collar of her top. Her fingers feel distant Badly connected, like her hands have been assigned to somebody else for the evening.

“Are you listening?” Blair asks.

“Mhm.” It comes out soft enough that Blair’s face changes.

She sets the cup down before she drops it, which feels like excellent planning from a brain currently buffering, and looks toward the living room. Garrett’s beside the couch with Logan and Beau, laughing at something Dean’s performing with both hands and no dignity.

He looks unfairly solid from here. Grey Briar hoodie, one hand around a beer, feet planted like the floor has personally promised not to move for him.

She leaves Blair with, “One second,” and crosses carefully, brushing past warm bodies and somebody wearing enough cologne to qualify as chemical warfare.

Garrett sees her before she reaches him. His smile stays, but his attention leaves the conversation so completely Dean could probably set himself on fire without winning it back.

“Hey, baby.” Garrett’s hand finds her waist. “You good?”

She presses her fingers into his hoodie. “Don’t feel good.”

That’s all it takes. No panic, no loud questions, no Garrett Graham Medical Emergency Spectacular for Beau’s entire fraternity. He puts his beer into Logan’s hand and bends slightly, bringing his face closer. “Low?”

“Think so.” She rubs at her forehead. The music seems to be arriving from far away now, each beat landing late. “Feel weird.”

“Okay.” His thumb moves against her side. “Phone?”

“Kitchen. Coats.”

Blair’s already there, holding it and her bag. The Dexcom graph glows when Garrett checks it, his mouth flattening at the number and arrow.

“Alright,” he says, still maddeningly calm. “Couch first.”

“I can stand.”

“Thrilling. Sit anyway.”

She might argue if the couch weren’t suddenly beautiful. Garrett guides her over with his palm firm at her back, waits while Beau evicts two freshmen, then lowers her onto the cushions and crouches in front of her. His knees bracket her shoes while he searches her bag.

“You have juice?”

“Side pocket.”

He finds the little carton, stabs the straw through the foil with more aggression than the juice has earned, and passes it over. “Drink.”

She takes three pulls, then lets the straw fall from her mouth. “It’s warm.”

“Yeah, Beau’s frat house failed its Michelin inspection. Keep going.”

A laugh catches weakly in her throat. Garrett’s eyes lift to hers, steady, checking more than her number without making her feel inspected. She finishes it while he stays crouched there, thumb moving over the inside of her wrist where her pulse is quick beneath the skin.

By the time the room stops slipping sideways, tiredness has moved in behind it, thick and immediate. She sinks into the couch and presses her hand to her forehead. “I’m gonna go home.”

Garrett nods like she has suggested something ordinary. “I’ll take you, baby. We’ll go to mine, yeah? Get you something proper to eat.”

“I’m so tired, baby.”

“I know.” He sits beside her, tugging her gently into his side while they wait for the next reading. “Come on. We’ll go.”

She tips her face into his shoulder. He smells like detergent, beer he barely drank, and cold air caught in his hoodie. “I don’t wanna ruin your night.”

“You’re not ruining anything.” His mouth brushes her hair. “Dean was explaining cryptocurrency. You saved me.”

From behind them, Dean says, offended, “I was not.”

Garrett does not turn around. “See? Already feeling better.”

Her mouth twitches against his shoulder. When the number begins nudging upward, Garrett hands her crackers from her bag, then stands and pulls her carefully with him, taking her coat from Blair and slinging her bag over his own shoulder.

“I can walk,” she murmurs.

“I know.”

“I’m not dying.”

“Also know that.”

“You’re being bossy.”

He tucks her coat around her and kisses her temple, warm and absent-minded, as though caring for her isn’t an interruption but simply the next thing his hands were always going to do. “Yeah, baby. Terrible character flaw. Let’s go home.”

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[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ for content.

pairing – garrett graham x briar media!reader summary – garrett finally agrees to film a personal tiktok after three weeks of begging, one threat involving dean, and absolutely no concern about being climbed mid-story. warnings – fluff, established relationship, suggestive ending, social media/tiktok trend, teasing, hockey house antics. notes from me – as requested here, thank u babes!! word count – 1.6k

navigation – masterlist |

The problem with dating Garrett Graham was that he had absolutely no respect for production timelines unless the production timeline involved hockey, which meant she could get twenty-one sweaty men to stand in formation for a Briar hockey media day carousel with less resistance than she could get her own boyfriend to sit still for one personal TikTok.

“It’s not even for the team account,” she said, folded sideways on the hockey house couch with her socked feet tucked beneath his thigh and her phone held in both hands. “It’s for me. My personal brand.”

Garrett, who had been lying there with one arm stretched behind her head and the other hand absently rubbing over her ankle like he’d forgotten he was doing it, looked away from the game playing on mute. “Your personal brand is bullying me with good lighting.”

“My personal brand is being adorable and underappreciated.”

“By who?”

“By you.”

He gave her the kind of look that would have been more effective if his thumb hadn’t moved automatically over the knob of her ankle again, warm and steady through the soft cotton of her sock. “Baby, I let you post a photo of me holding a latte with the caption ‘hockey boy enrichment activity.’”

“And the people loved you.”

“The people thought I was stupid.”

“The people were moved by your range.”

He snorted, turning back toward the television like the conversation had ended. It had not. The conversation had been going on, in some variation, for three weeks. She had brought it up in his car, at the rink, in his bed with his hand under her hoodie, once while he was eating cereal directly from the mixing bowl Tucker claimed was for shared use only. 

Every time, Garrett had made the same face: amused, suspicious, too handsome to be allowed, and deeply aware that agreeing to anything involving her personal TikTok was how men ended up edited to Sabrina Carpenter and mocked in the group chat.

Fine. She had been patient. She had been respectful. She had been, by most accounts, a saint. She opened her mouth and said, “I’ll ask Dean.”

Garrett’s head turned so fast she heard his neck crack. There it was. “No.”

She blinked at him sweetly. “No?”

“No.”

“Dean likes content.”

“Dean likes attention. Different disease.”

“He’d do it.”

“That’s exactly why he’s not doing it.”

“He’d probably be really committed, actually.”

Garrett sat up properly, the couch shifting under the weight of him, broad shoulders rolling forward as he reached for her phone with the resigned aggression of a man accepting a prison sentence. “Set it up.”

Her smile spread before she could stop it.

“Don’t look that proud of yourself,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“You’re literally glowing.”

“That’s my personal brand.”

He muttered something about social media ruining society, but he stayed where she put him: in the middle cushion, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, hair still a little damp from the shower he’d taken after practice, mouth curved like he was trying very hard not to let her see how much he liked being wanted for ridiculous things. 

The living room around them was its usual hockey-house disaster, half-clean in the way men considered acceptable if the sticky things had been wiped and the visible socks had been kicked under furniture. 

A controller sat abandoned on the coffee table beside two water bottles, a roll of athletic tape, and a bowl Logan had absolutely eaten ramen from hours ago and decided was now part of the architecture.

She propped her phone against a stack of textbooks Dean definitely wasn’t reading and checked the frame. Garrett watched her with the wary focus he usually reserved for penalty shots and any text from his father.

“So I just talk?” he asked once she slid back onto the couch beside him.

“Yeah, babe.”

“To who?”

“The camera.”

He looked into the lens, then back at her. “Right. Normal.”

She pressed record, settled beside him with one knee tucked under her, and nodded encouragingly.

Garrett cleared his throat. “Uh. Hi, TikTok.” His eyes cut to her immediately, already embarrassed. “I’m Garrett. This is my girlfriend.” He paused, brow creasing. “Wait– what am I doing, baby?”

She bit the inside of her cheek so she wouldn’t ruin it too early. “Just tell them the story of how we met.”

“Right. Okay. Um, well.” He leaned back a little, one hand landing on her thigh because he couldn’t narrate their relationship without touching proof of it. “She worked for Briar media, and I played hockey, obviously. I mean, I still play hockey. That made it sound like I retired at twenty-two, which would be embarrassing.” His mouth twitched when she laughed silently beside him. “Anyway, she used to come to practice with the camera and act like she wasn’t judging all of us, even though she was definitely judging all of us.”

She began shifting closer.

Garrett didn’t look down. “And I thought she was cute, but she was also, like, terrifyingly unimpressed by me.”

She slid one knee over his thigh.

“She once told me my ‘good side’ was whichever one was facing away from her deadline.”

She climbed fully into his lap.

“Which was rude,” he continued, one hand automatically moving to her waist like she had simply changed seating arrangements and not started crawling over him mid-sentence. “But, uh, accurate, because I was being annoying on purpose.”

She braced a hand on his shoulder and started climbing behind him, biting down on a grin so hard her cheeks hurt.

Garrett adjusted. That was it. No blink, no curse, no startled what the fuck for the camera. His arm hooked behind her knee before she could wobble, palm spreading firm over the outside of her thigh, and he kept talking like this was an entirely normal development in the story of their meet-cute.

“She kept asking me to redo this stupid intro clip because I wouldn’t answer the question normally.”

“It was not stupid,” she said from somewhere near his ear, hauling herself up with very little dignity.

“It was ‘what’s your pregame ritual’ and I said ‘winning.’”

“Because you’re annoying.”

“Because I’m honest.” He ducked slightly when her leg came over his shoulder, then straightened with her perched across the back of him, thighs bracketing him, his hands holding her calves like she weighed less than his hockey bag. “So, yeah, I had a crush on her for a while. Logan knew. Tucker knew. Dean knew because he’s nosy and unemployed.”

From the kitchen, Dean yelled, “I heard that.”

Garrett didn’t even turn. “Good.”

She had one hand planted in his hair now, the other gripping the couch for balance, laughter fizzing through her ribs, warm and bright and impossible to hold neatly in her chest. 

The whole point was that he was meant to react. The whole point was that the boyfriend looked increasingly alarmed while the girlfriend climbed him like unsafe playground equipment. 

Instead, Garrett was sitting there broad and steady beneath her, voice only slightly amused, like this was lower on the list of strange things she did than rearranging his kitchen cabinet for better morning light.

“So eventually,” he said, glancing up at her for half a second with that smug little curve of his mouth, “I asked her out. She pretended she had to think about it, which was bullshit.”

“I did think about it.”

“You texted yes in eleven seconds.”

“I think fast.”

“Sure.” His thumbs rubbed once over her shins, easy and unconscious. “And now she makes me do TikToks on my own couch under threat of Dean. There you go. That’s, uh… that’s how we met.” He looked up again, eyes warm and pleased with himself. “Was that okay, baby?”

She stared down at him. “Why didn’t you react to me climbing on your shoulders?”

Garrett blinked. “Was I supposed to?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” He thought about it, then shrugged carefully beneath her. “You do a lot of weird shit, baby. Sorry. Didn’t really notice.”

She lasted one second before she broke, laughing so hard she folded over the top of his head. “Garrett.”

“What? You climbed into my laundry basket last week because you said you wanted to know if you could fit.”

“That was research.”

“That was weird.”

She slid down off him in a graceless heap, landing back on the couch with her legs over his lap and her hand still caught in the front of his hoodie. Garrett caught her before she could knock the coffee table, tugging her into his side with a grin pressed against her temple.

“Can we film another kind of video now?” he murmured, low enough that the phone probably wouldn’t catch it, but close enough that the warmth of it moved across her skin.

Her laugh changed shape in her throat. “You’re disgusting.”

“You threatened me with Dean. I’m healing.”

She grabbed her phone and ended the recording, watching the final frame freeze on Garrett looking stupidly handsome with her half-draped over him like a victorious cat.

From the kitchen, Dean called, “For the record, I’m available for content.”

Garrett stood, hauling her up with him by the hand before she could answer. “No, you’re not.”

She tucked the phone against her chest, smiling as he pulled her toward the stairs. “Where are we going?”

Garrett glanced back at her, all dark curls and smug mouth and trouble sitting easy in his shoulders. “Upstairs.”

She let him tug her along, already laughing. “For content?”

“For my personal brand,” he said.

And then he closed his bedroom door before Dean could offer notes.

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[kooksandpearls]

How You Get The Girl ❀ 01

pairing – Petal!Reader x Garrett Graham summary – Garrett Graham has a ten-step plan to get his girl back. warnings – Emotional abuse references, domestic violence references, abusive parent, family trauma, anxiety. word count – 10.3k

navigation – Masterlist ❀ Chapter One ❀ Chapter Two

Chapter One. Broke Your Heart, I’ll Put It Back Together.

Garrett waits until the dorm door closes behind her before he lets himself breathe properly. Not that he’s been holding his breath. Technically. 

His lungs have been performing all necessary functions since they left the theatre, through the drive with her hand tucked into his over the centre console, through carrying her bags up the short path while she held the flowers against her chest, through standing beneath the ugly fluorescent light outside her building while she smiled at him with the last of Juliet still clinging around the edges. 

Smudged eyeliner beneath her eyes. Hair only half rescued from its pins. His jacket over the white dress, one sleeve pulled over her fingers because the night had turned cold while they were inside watching everybody die beautifully.

He’s been breathing. Just badly.

“Thank you for tonight,” she’d said at the door, quieter than she’d been in the car, where she’d spent eight full minutes explaining why Micah’s final scene had nearly gone wrong because one of the fake blood capsules had split early and then another four telling Garrett that no, this was not funny, it could have ruined the emotional architecture of the entire ending.

Garrett had understood approximately sixty percent of the explanation and loved every second of it.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he’d said, shifting her tote higher on his shoulder even though they had reached the door and there was nowhere left to carry it.

Her eyes had moved over his face. “I know.”

That had been worse somehow. Better, but worse. Something small and careful sitting between them, because she knew he wasn’t there out of obligation and he knew she had noticed. 

The bouquet had rustled when she adjusted it against her chest, one pink peony brushing the underside of her chin.

Then she had smiled. Soft. Tired. Still a little stunned by the night. “Goodnight, Garrett.”

“Night, baby.”

The word had slipped out without permission, but she hadn’t gone still. Hadn’t looked wounded or warned him back into his lane. Her smile had only shifted at one corner before she took her bags from him, fingers brushing his around the straps.

Now the door catches with a dull institutional click, leaving Garrett alone on the front step with cold air pushing under his collar and the faint rectangle of her shape moving away behind wired glass.

He stands there for longer than a normal person would. Long enough to watch her reach the stairwell. Long enough for the light inside to flatten her into white dress, brown paper, then take her around the corner. 

Long enough that a guy approaching the entrance with a laundry basket looks at Garrett, looks at the shut door, and makes the extremely reasonable decision not to ask why a Briar hockey player is staring into a dorm lobby like it has swallowed someone important.

Garrett finally moves when the guy’s key card gives an impatient little beep beside him.

“Sorry,” he mutters, stepping out of the way.

The guy nods with the careful neutrality of someone who has recognised him and would prefer not to become involved in whatever emotional hostage situation is occurring outside his own residence hall.

Garrett walks back to the Jeep with both hands shoved into his jacket pockets and his entire body still full of her.

It isn’t the old wanting. Or it is, partly, because he isn’t dead, and she had spent the evening in a thin white dress looking like every bad decision he would happily make twice. 

He wants her in his bed. Obviously. He wants her legs tangled through his, her cold feet shoved beneath his calves, her hair covering half his pillow while she complains that he sleeps like an aggressively warm corpse. 

He wants to kiss her without stopping himself after one careful second. He wants to hear the sound she makes when he puts his mouth beneath her ear and feel her fingers catch in his curls with exactly the pressure nobody else had ever got right.

That part is still there. Loud. Healthy. But it isn’t the thing hollowing out the centre of his chest as he climbs into the Jeep.

He wants the rest of it. The parts that don’t end with her naked and happy beneath him. He wants to sit on the edge of her bed while she walks in circles talking about an audition she’s already declared a disaster even though callbacks aren’t posted until Friday. 

He wants her to shove a set of sides into his hands and get progressively more offended while he reads the other character like someone being held at gunpoint by punctuation.

More feeling, Garrett.

I’m giving it feeling.

You’re giving hostage negotiation.

He wants that. He wants her grabbing the pages back and demonstrating the line with her whole body, eyebrows lifted, one hand cutting through the air like the character’s objective is physically located near his desk lamp. 

He wants to know what sides are without needing Dean to explain it. He wants to recognise the difference between being nervous about an audition and being nervous about a specific director. 

He wants to know which flowers belong after which performances and why actors keep saying break a leg even though that feels medically irresponsible.

He wants to be in the third row. First row, maybe, though she’d probably tell him that was annoying and too close. 

He wants to sit wherever she tells him the sightlines are best, shut the fuck up, and watch.

He wants her in the stands too. In his jersey, his name stretched over her back because she put it there willingly, yelling at a ref who can’t hear her and misusing hockey terminology with the confidence of a seasoned analyst. 

He wants to find her after he scores. Not because she’s watching Garrett Graham, Briar’s star forward, the guy half the arena knows by name. Because she’s watching him. Because when he looks through the glass, she’s already looking back.

He wants coffee-shop lines and theatre lobbies and late-night drives and her stealing the fries she swore she didn’t want. He wants arguments about whether a dining chair can have emotional stakes. 

He wants her at the kitchen table with Dean and Allie, rolling her eyes while Logan says something concerning and Tucker quietly removes a knife from his reach.

He wants her back so fucking badly that the wanting feels less like hunger now and more like architecture. Rooms appearing inside him faster than he can furnish them. A whole life making space.

But he doesn’t want to drag her into it. Doesn’t want to stand under another dorm light saying love of my life like the words themselves should outweigh every time he made her feel small.

He wants to be the love of her life. Not because he told her he was. Because, one day, she looks at him and decides he is.

Garrett grips the steering wheel, leather cool beneath his palms, and stares through the windshield at the brick dorm building until one of the upstairs windows flicks on. 

It probably isn’t hers. He doesn’t know which room is hers from this side, which feels like another entry on an increasingly humiliating inventory of things he should know and somehow doesn’t.

The Jeep still smells faintly like her perfume and cold night air. There’s a silver streak of stage glitter across the passenger seatbelt where it rested against her chest, catching dimly whenever the streetlamp hits it. 

Garrett rubs his thumb over it once, which accomplishes nothing except spreading theatre across more of his vehicle.

Great. Excellent. He’s emotionally compromised and sparkly.

His phone buzzes in the cup holder.

Baby: inside. flowers are in water. nobody has been killed by campus furniture yet.

Strong start. Stay vigilant.

Baby: goodnight, graham. thank you for showing up.

Goodnight, baby. Wouldn’t have missed it.

It’s not completely true. An older version of him might have missed it. Might have arrived late, or looked at the schedule and decided the final performance counted just as much as opening night, or assumed she knew he cared even while the seat stayed empty. 

The thought sits badly enough that Garrett doesn’t soften it. He lets it stay sharp. Some things should. Then he starts the car.

The hockey house is lit up. Every downstairs light is on. The kitchen windows glow against the dark, and someone has left the porch light burning even though the porch is currently occupied only by three empty cans, one abandoned sneaker, and a delivery menu plastered damply to the boards.

Garrett parks beside Dean’s car, shuts off the engine, then sits for one more second with both hands resting on the wheel.

He needs to do this right. Properly.

He gets out.

The smell reaches him before the kitchen does: butter, bacon, something starchy and aggressively comforting. Tucker has returned from two hours of Shakespeare-induced emotional violence and responded by feeding everyone, which is the most Tucker thing Garrett can imagine. 

The front hall is crowded with discarded shoes and coats. Dean’s program lies open on the little table by the door, folded back to Allie’s name in the cast list with a dark circle drawn around it and three exclamation points in the margin.

Garrett toes off his shoes and follows the noise.

All three boys are in the kitchen. Tucker stands near the stove in grey sweats and a long-sleeved shirt, dividing some enormous skillet situation between four bowls. 

Potatoes, eggs, chopped bacon, melted cheese. The exact nutritional profile of men who have been emotionally devastated after nine p.m. 

Dean leans against the counter eating directly from his bowl with his eyes still faintly pink, though Garrett knows he would rather claim a rare onion allergy than admit Romeo and Juliet got him. 

Logan sits on the island with one foot hooked around a stool, fork moving with the focus of someone who has survived a cultural experience and needs protein immediately.

All three look up when Garrett walks in. Logan studies him first. His fork pauses halfway to his mouth while his eyes travel from Garrett’s hair to his face and then settle there with the predatory interest of a person who has just discovered fresh material.

“Well,” he says. “Someone looks smitten.”

Garrett tosses his keys into the bowl near the refrigerator. They miss, hit the counter, and skid into a stack of unopened mail. “I’m not smitten.”

Logan turns his head toward the others without taking his eyes off Garrett. “Doesn’t he look smitten?”

Tucker glances over while spooning eggs into the last bowl. His gaze rests briefly on Garrett’s face, calm and assessing. “Looks smitten to me.”

Dean chews, swallows, then nods with the grave authority of a physician confirming a terminal condition. “Definitely smitten.”

Garrett drags a hand over his mouth. The smile is still there. Buried, but not enough. “All of you can go fuck yourselves.”

“See?” Logan points his fork at him. “Smitten. Hostile because he’s overwhelmed.”

“That isn’t a symptom of being smitten.”

“It is for you.”

Tucker slides the fourth bowl across the counter. “Eat.”

Garrett takes it because Tucker has the exact tone of a man who will physically supervise the first bite if challenged. 

The food is hot enough to steam against his face, smelling like salt and butter and bacon, and his stomach tightens with the belated realisation that the handful of sour candy Logan threw at him during intermission doesn’t qualify as dinner.

He carries the bowl to the dining table, pulls out a chair, then turns it around before sitting so he can face the kitchen with his forearms braced over the backrest.

The boys keep looking at him.

Dean’s mouth twitches. “Did you kiss her?”

“No.”

“Did she kiss you?”

“No.”

Logan narrows his eyes. “Did you nearly kiss?”

“No.”

“Did you stare at each other for a significant amount of time?”

Garrett thinks of the dorm light catching on her face. The peonies against her chest. Goodnight, Garrett.

“Shut up.”

Logan nods, pleased. “That’s a yes.”

Garrett digs his fork into the potatoes, then stops before taking a bite. 

The sentence has been sitting behind his teeth since the Jeep, heavy enough now that it feels stupid to keep holding it. “I gotta win her back, man.”

The kitchen goes quiet. Tucker’s spoon scrapes once against the skillet. The refrigerator keeps humming. Dean keeps chewing, though slower now. But something in the room shifts out of teasing and into attention so fast Garrett can feel it.

Logan looks between the other boys, then back at Garrett. “I thought that’s what you were doing.”

“It is.” Garrett looks down at the fork in his hand, turning it once between his fingers. “I mean, I have been. Kind of.”

“Flowers,” Dean says, counting against his bowl with the handle of his fork. “Coffee. Carrying her shit around like a hot bellhop. Publicly threatening me over a jersey.”

“That last one probably lost you points,” Tucker says.

Dean lifts one shoulder. “Depends what she’s into.”

Garrett ignores both of them. “No, but I mean seriously.” He leans back slightly, chair creaking beneath him. The words feel awkward in his mouth, because the boys know him too well for any polished version to survive contact. “Properly. I gotta… I gotta do it properly. I need to do it right.”

Dean’s expression settles first. The humour doesn’t leave completely – it would require medical intervention to remove it from Dean – but it moves aside enough for something sharper. “What changed?”

Garrett looks at him. “Nothing changed.”

Dean lifts his eyebrows.

“Fuck, I don’t know.” Garrett pushes his fork through the melting cheese without eating any of it. “Watching her tonight, I guess. Seeing how fucking good she is at that shit. And how much of it I didn’t know because I never–” His jaw tightens briefly. “I knew she loved theatre. Obviously. I went to shows. But I didn’t know it right. I didn’t understand what it was to her.”

Tucker leans one hip against the counter, arms folding loosely across his chest.

Garrett looks back at his bowl. It’s easier to talk to potatoes. Potatoes have never watched him fuck up a relationship in real time.

“I don’t just want her back because I miss having her around,” he says. “I mean, I do. I miss her all the fucking time. But I want all of it. I want to go to her shows. I want to know when her auditions are. I want her at my games. I want her yelling at me because I’m shit at reading those page things.”

“Sides,” Dean says.

Garrett’s eyes lift. “Yeah. Those.”

Dean gives Tucker a pointed look. “He needs help.”

“I’m aware,” Tucker says.

“I want her to be able to trust me when we’re out somewhere,” Garrett continues, quieter now. “I want her to know I’m not gonna forget she’s standing there the second somebody says my name. I want to be…” He stops, because the sentence catches somewhere rough and embarrassing.

Logan waits. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence.

Garrett rubs his thumb along the fork handle. “I told her she was the love of my life when we broke up.”

The boys know. Not the exact argument, but enough. Logan’s face loses the last of its grin.

“And I said it like it should’ve mattered more than how I was treating her.” Garrett swallows once. “I want to actually be that guy. The one who deserves to say it.”

Tucker unfolds his arms. “We should make a list.”

Logan groans so immediately it sounds rehearsed. “A list?”

Tucker nods. “Yep.”

“A list of what?”

“How to get Garrett’s girl back.”

Dean’s face pinches. “Name’s too long.”

Tucker looks at him. “It’s six words.”

“No punch.” Dean places his bowl on the counter and straightens, visibly activating the part of his brain that thinks naming things is a leadership skill. “Should just be How to Get the Girl.”

Logan shakes his head. “Too presumptuous.”

Dean turns to him. “It’s a plan. Plans are aspirational.”

“Still sounds like she’s an object you win at a carnival.”

Garrett looks between them. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Logan ignores him, fork gesturing through the air. “It should be How You Get The Girl.”

“That is the same title with one different word,” Tucker says.

“No, it’s instructional now.”

Dean’s eyes narrow as he considers this. “Stronger.”

Garrett stares at all three of them. He has trusted these men with his life on the ice. This suddenly seems like an administrative error.

Dean’s already moving. There’s a whiteboard hanging near the pantry, mostly used for grocery lists, practice reminders, and passive-aggressive household communication. 

At present, it says BUY DISHWASHER TABLETS beneath a badly drawn skull and, in Logan’s handwriting, DEAN OWES ME $14. 

Dean yanks it off the hook.

“Step one,” he says, grabbing the black marker from the ledge and wiping half the grocery list away with the sleeve of his sweater. “Go to her fucking shows.”

The boys laugh.

Garrett does too, because Dean’s delivery is ridiculous and because Tucker has just rescued BUY MILK from the eraser with the urgency of a man preserving historical records.

But then Garrett looks at the board. “Okay,” he says slowly. “But actually.”

Dean stops laughing first.

Tucker takes the marker from him. “Actually.”

Something moves through the room all at once. The same shift that happens in the locker room when a joke becomes a problem and a problem becomes something they can win. 

Dean puts his bowl down completely. Logan slides off the island. Garrett turns his chair back toward the table as Tucker carries the whiteboard over and props it against the fruit bowl.

Four hockey players gather around it with the sober focus of men preparing a power play.

For a while, none of them says anything. The whiteboard is propped in the middle of the dining table, leaning crookedly against a bowl containing two bruised apples and a single banana that has entered the final, frightening stage of ripeness. 

Dean stands with both hands braced on the table, rereading the list like he’s preparing to defend a thesis. Tucker has his arms folded again, marker still tucked between two fingers. Logan has moved close enough that his shoulder presses Garrett’s, eyes narrowed at step six.

Garrett sits back and reads the whole thing again. It should feel stupid. Some of it is stupid.

But beneath the marker fumes and the leftover bacon and the fact that Logan is now arguing that step four should include a diagram of correct hand placement, there it is. Every place Garrett went wrong, written in the language of people who know him well enough not to let him hide inside a good intention.

Show up. Learn her shit. Don’t let go. Listen. Change. Ask.

Garrett reaches for the marker.

“What?” Tucker asks.

He uncaps it and leans over the board. At the bottom of step ten, beneath ASK HER BACK PROPERLY, Garrett draws one clean line through the last sentence Dean originally wrote in smaller letters: GET HER BACK.

He rewrites it beside the crossed-out words. LET HER CHOOSE YOU.

Dean reads it over his shoulder. “That’s annoyingly good.”

Logan nods, solemn. “Yeah. Hate that.”

Tucker takes the marker from Garrett before he can make the lettering worse. “There.”

The four of them stand around the whiteboard again.

Dean folds his arms and surveys it with the satisfaction of a general who has successfully planned a military operation despite having no jurisdiction, training, or stable relationship with risk. “Pretty good fucking plan, G.”

Garrett nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“Actually,” Tucker says.

“Actually,” Logan agrees.

Garrett pulls his phone from his pocket. “I’ve gotta put this shit in my phone.”

Logan immediately claps him once on the shoulder, hard enough to jolt him forward. “Write it down, man. Write that shit down.”

“This is genius,” Dean says.

Tucker nods. “It’s solid.”

“Fucking genius,” Logan repeats, already leaning over Garrett’s shoulder while he opens the Notes app. “Title it properly.”

The boys nod around him as if they have collectively solved love. Logan returns to his food. Tucker rehangs the whiteboard in the kitchen, directly over the dishwasher-tablet warning. Dean photographs it from two angles and declares the second one more cinematic.

Garrett stays at the table with his phone in one hand and the bowl Tucker made him cooling beneath the other.

At the top of the screen, the title looks stupidly confident. HOW YOU GET THE GIRL. Like there’s a guaranteed sequence. Like women are puzzles and love is something four hockey players can diagram between breakfast potatoes and an argument about fridge space.

He looks down at the final step. Let her choose you.

Garrett asks her to dinner two days after the show. The text arrives at four-thirteen in the afternoon while she’s sitting on the floor outside Studio B with her back against the wall, a pencil caught badly through her hair and the heel of one boot digging into the opposite calf. 

Rehearsal has technically been on break for seven minutes, though Dexter’s still inside arguing with the lighting designer about whether the scene feels too emotionally blue, and she’s used five of those minutes to stare at the same section of her audition sides without absorbing a word.

The audition is next week. A whole week away, which should feel like time. Seven full days. Enough time to change her mind about every choice she has made, destroy the choices she replaced them with, and arrive at the theatre annex carrying six versions of the same woman inside her body like a deeply unstable nesting doll.

Her phone lights up against her thigh.

Garrett: Are you free tomorrow night?

She reads it once, then again.

maybe. why?

His answer comes before she can lock the screen.

Garrett: Dinner.

Then, after a pause:

Garrett: Somewhere with actual food.

She glances down at the paper cup beside her bag. There are three sips of iced coffee left in it, mostly melted ice now, and half a cereal bar folded inside its wrapper near her knee.

i eat actual food.

Garrett: Sure.

rude.

Garrett: Seven?

There’s something almost deliberately plain about the invitation. No joke about it being a date. No little trap built into the wording where she has to either correct him or let something stand between them that she isn’t ready to name. Just dinner. A time. Room to say no. She bites lightly at the inside of her cheek.

okay.

Three dots appear, disappear, then return.

Garrett: I’ll pick you up.

She smiles before she’s decided whether she means to.

“Is that him?” Allie asks.

She looks up. Allie’s come out of the studio without her noticing and is standing over her with both arms folded, blue rehearsal skirt hitched unevenly at one hip and one eyebrow raised.

“Is who him?”

Allie glances pointedly at the phone. “The dentist.”

“Yes,” she says. “He’s checking on my molars.”

“You’re smiling at a message about gingivitis?”

“I have a rich inner life.”

“You have Garrett Graham asking you out.”

She presses the lock button and drops the phone onto her lap. “He asked if I was free.”

“For dinner.”

“Yes.”

Allie’s mouth curls. “Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“What are you wearing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you shaving your legs?”

“Oh my god.”

“That’s a yes.”

“It’s winter,” she says, gathering her sides off the floor with more force than the paper deserves. “Nobody is seeing my legs.”

Allie nods slowly. “So you’re considering the possibility that someone might.”

“No.”

“Interesting.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“And yet,” Allie says, reaching down to offer her a hand, “I’m still not the one getting into Garrett Graham’s car tomorrow.”

She takes Allie’s hand and lets herself be pulled up. “It’s dinner.”

“Mhm.”

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“That noise.”

Allie smiles sweetly. “Mhm.”

Garrett’s already outside when she comes down the next evening. He’s standing beside the passenger door with his phone in one hand and his shoulders tucked slightly against the cold, wearing a dark sweater beneath his jacket and jeans she remembers from before because they fit him obscenely well and had once caused an argument about whether she was allowed to call denim distracting.

His hair is still damp at the ends. He must have showered after practice. The thought arrives with too much information attached to it, so she pushes it aside and walks toward him.

Garrett looks up when he hears her boots. Whatever he’d been reading disappears from his face immediately, replaced by a smile that starts small and then gets away from him.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi.”

His eyes move over her, lingering just long enough to feel warm without making her regret the fitted coat or the pink sweater beneath it. “You look pretty.”

She smiles. “Thanks.”

He opens the door. Garrett waits. There’s no flourish to it, no grin begging for praise. He just holds the door while she climbs in, then closes it and walks around the front of the Jeep with his hands tucked into his pockets.

The inside smells faintly like coffee, his cologne, and cold air. It is cleaner than usual, though a single hockey glove still sits on the back seat beside what appears to be a textbook with a cracked spine.

She buckles herself in while Garrett starts the car. “Where are we going?” she asks.

“You’ll see.”

Her head turns slowly. “That’s ominous.”

“It’s not ominous.”

“That’s exactly what somebody says before driving a woman into the woods.”

Garrett glances across at her as he backs out of the space. “You think I cleaned my car to murder you?”

“You cleaned your car?”

“Mostly.”

She looks over her shoulder toward the glove.

“That lives there,” Garrett says. “It’s different.”

“Right.”

“It has seniority.”

She turns back in her seat, smiling despite herself. “Where are we going?”

“Thai place near Hastings.”

“The one with the yellow sign?”

“Yeah.”

She nods. “I like that place.”

“I know.”

Garrett keeps his eyes on the road, one hand loose at the bottom of the steering wheel. She looks out the window before she can make too much of him remembering a restaurant she had mentioned once after rehearsal, months before the breakup, while complaining that nobody at the hockey house understood the importance of ordering enough rice.

The restaurant is small and warm, all fogged windows and close tables, the air thick with chilli, garlic, and steamed rice. A string of little paper stars hangs crookedly near the front counter. They’re seated near the back beneath a framed photograph of a beach neither of them recognises.

Garrett pulls out her chair.

She gives him a look as she sits. “You’ve become very formal.”

“Have I?”

“You opened the car door.”

“I’ve opened doors before.”

“Not this many.”

He takes the chair opposite her and picks up a menu. “Maybe you’ve been walking through the wrong ones.”

She snorts softly. “That didn’t make sense.”

His nose scrunches slightly. “It did in my head.”

“That’s worrying.”

The first few minutes are easier than their earlier dinners had been. There’s still care in the way they move around each other, but less visible effort. She doesn’t feel as though every question might open a trapdoor beneath the table. 

Garrett asks about rehearsal and actually waits for the answer, even when it becomes a seven-minute complaint about Dexter changing a transition she had spent two weeks making feel natural.

“He says it needs to breathe,” she tells him, stirring her straw through the ice in her water. “Which would be fine if he knew what he wanted breathing to look like. Every time I ask, he just does this.”

She lifts both hands and gives him her best impression of Dexter directing through spiritual distress – fingers spread, face pained, a tiny gathering motion toward her chest.

Garrett watches with his mouth pressed together. “That clears it up.”

“Exactly.”

“So you just sort of…” He copies the movement badly, looking more like a man trying to gather smoke with his hands. “Do that?”

“No, because I have dignity.”

“You yelled at a roast chicken onstage.”

“That was textually justified.”

“Sure.”

She points at him across the table. “You don’t get to mock the chicken when you still read scenes like you’re reporting a gas leak.”

Garrett’s eyes narrow. “I wasn’t that bad.”

“You paused before every line.”

“I was finding the emotion.”

She shoots him a look. “You were finding the next word.”

“That too.”

Their food arrives. Garrett’s remembered she likes the dumplings from here, though he doesn’t announce that this is why he ordered them. He only moves the plate closer to the middle of the table, lets her take the first one, then complains when she takes the last.

“You had four,” she says.

“You had five.”

“I’m smaller.”

Garrett watches her dip the last dumpling into sauce, then shakes his head. “Unbelievable.”

“You’ll recover.”

“I don’t know. This could change me.”

“You’ve survived worse,” she giggles. 

“I’ve taken hits that hurt less.”

She smiles into her food. “So dramatic.”

“That’s your influence.”

The conversation wanders. His classes. Her upcoming audition. The fact that Logan has developed a bruise on his thigh and is making everyone inspect whether it’s changed colour. Dean’s latest conviction that he could cook if Tucker stopped being controlling. Allie’s refusal to let anyone in rehearsal say the phrase trust the process after one of the actors forgot his entrance for the third time.

Garrett asks what the audition is for. He remembers the play, the director, and that the character talks to a plant during one of the sides. He asks what she wants from it.

She sits back slightly, fork resting against the edge of her plate. “I don’t know.”

“You’ve been working on it every day.”

“That doesn’t mean I know.”

“What part?”

She exhales and looks toward the window. The glass is fogged except for one clear streak where somebody has wiped a sleeve across it. “She’s funny, but she doesn’t know she’s funny. Which sounds obvious, because nobody walks around thinking they’re delivering comic relief, but…” She shifts her shoulder. “The scene gets sad later. If I put too much weight into it early, then there’s nowhere for it to go. But if I make it too light, the end feels like it belongs to a different person.”

Garrett turns his glass slowly between both hands. “Couldn’t she be trying to make it light?”

Her eyes come back to him.

“What?”

“No, say that again.”

He looks faintly alarmed. “I don’t remember exactly what I said.”

“You said she could be trying to make it light.”

“Yeah.” Garrett shrugs. “Like she knows it’s bad, but she keeps joking because if she stops, then she has to admit it.”

She stares at him.

His brows lift. “Is that wrong?”

“No.” Her fingers move absently over the edge of her napkin. “No, that’s actually…”

“Brilliant?”

“Let’s not get carried away.”

He tilts his head. “Helpful?”

“Possibly.”

He smiles, pleased but not smug enough to ruin it. “I’ll take possibly.”

She spends the rest of dinner turning the thought around in her head, enough that Garrett catches her going quiet twice and lets her. He doesn’t demand to know what she’s thinking or make a joke about losing her to a fictional plant. He only nudges the rice toward her when she stops eating and asks whether she wants another drink.

They leave after ten. The cold outside has sharpened, clean and dry against her cheeks. Garrett walks beside her toward the Jeep without reaching for her hand. At the curb, a car cuts too close through the parking lot, and his palm lands briefly at her back to guide her in toward him.

The touch is gone again almost immediately. Her body notices both parts.

On the drive back, she turns the music down so they can keep talking. Garrett tells her Coach has scheduled an extra skate early Saturday and Logan has already begun campaigning against it as a violation of labour law. 

She tells him she picked up a weekend shift at the campus events office, and he glances over. “You’ve got rehearsal Saturday night.”

“I know.”

“And class all day Friday.”

“I also know that.”

Garrett’s mouth tightens slightly. “When are you sleeping?”

“Later.”

“Very specific.”

“I have a system,” she shrugs. 

“Your system is coffee and lying.”

“That’s a system.”

He huffs a laugh but doesn’t lecture her. “Just don’t run yourself into the ground before the audition.”

“It’s a week away.”

“Yeah. You can do a lot of damage in a week.”

He pulls into the dorm lot at ten-twenty-three and parks beneath the same lamp as before. The building glows across the pavement, close enough that she can see the paper snowflakes somebody has started taping along the inside of the lobby windows.

Garrett shifts the Jeep into park. “I had fun.”

“Me too.”

Neither reaches for the door.

The engine idles beneath them, soft vibration moving through the seats. Garrett glances toward the dorm and then back to her, but he does not ask whether she wants him to come up. The absence of the question leaves something inside her body unclenched.

Garrett’s hand rests near the gearshift, broad and loose, fingers curled slightly inward. She touches the side of his thumb.

His gaze drops. There’s no real thought behind it. Or there’s too much thought and touching him is easier than sorting through any of it. 

She turns his hand palm-up and runs her finger along one of the calluses beneath his fingers. “You’ve torn this one.”

Garrett looks down. “From my stick.”

“It looks sore.”

“It’s fine.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it usually is.”

Garrett closes his hand gently around her fingers before she can pull away. His thumb brushes over the rings stacked near her knuckles, turning one slowly.

“This one’s new.”

She looks down at the thin gold band set with a tiny pink stone. “My mom gave it to me.”

“When?”

“A couple months ago. It was my grandmother’s.”

Garrett angles her hand toward the dashboard light, studying the ring. “It suits you.”

“Because it’s pink?”

“Partly.”

“What’s the other part?”

He traces the slightly uneven setting with the edge of his thumb. “It looks delicate, but it’s held together better than it should be.”

Her throat tightens before she can decide whether the observation is sweet or too close to something else. Garrett seems to hear it after he says it, because his eyes lift and his expression changes.

“I mean the ring,” he says.

“I know.”

“Okay.”

She lets him keep her hand.

The conversation restarts around it. Nothing important at first. A professor he hates. A costume fitting she has next Thursday. Whether Dean is genuinely becoming interested in theatre or only interested in Allie wearing costumes. 

They move from one subject to another without noticing the joins, their hands staying between them. Sometimes Garrett plays with one of her rings. Sometimes she presses his fingers flat against her own palm and compares the size. His hand almost covers hers completely.

At eleven, Garrett shuts off the engine but leaves the heater running from the battery. At eleven-twenty, the inside of the Jeep has cooled enough that she tucks both hands into his.

She knows she should leave. Her room is right there. Her bed is upstairs, along with three textbooks, a laundry basket she’s been ignoring, and the audition pages she will probably read again before sleeping despite every promise made to herself during dinner.

But letting Garrett walk her inside feels different from sitting here. The Jeep is suspended space. Nothing in it asks what happens next. They can sit shoulder to shoulder and talk until the windows fog, and when she finally leaves, she can carry the warmth upstairs without having to decide whether he belongs in her room again.

She doesn’t want him in the dorm. Not tonight. She doesn’t want to explain why she’s happy to stay in his car until midnight but would panic if he followed her through the lobby. The distinction feels stupid even inside her own head.

Garrett doesn’t make her explain it. He stretches one leg beneath the steering wheel and settles deeper into his seat, as though they have all night.

Thanksgiving enters the conversation quietly. She mentions her mother sent her home with enough leftovers to feed the whole cast and that Allie ate most of the pie over the sink. Garrett laughs, eyes lowered to her hand while he rotates the ring around her finger.

“How was yours?” she asks.

His thumb stops. The pause is short enough that someone else might miss it. She doesn’t.

Garrett looks through the windshield. “It was alright.”

She waits.

His jaw shifts slightly. The parking lot light catches the faint shadow along it, the tiredness beneath his eyes that she had assumed came from practice.

“You go to your dad’s?” she asks.

He nods.

She knows the outline of what that means. The long drives where Garrett goes quiet before they even leave campus. Phil’s house made too large by money and silence. The way Garrett used to return with his shoulders set high and hard, then pretend he was only tired until she touched him in the wrong place and felt the tension jump beneath his skin.

“He’s engaged,” Garrett says after a moment. “Her name’s Cindy.”

Her fingers curl slightly around his. “You hadn’t met her before?”

“No.”

“What’s she like?”

“Nice.” His mouth pulls faintly, not quite a smile.

Something cold moves along the inside of her ribs. Garrett rubs his thumb against the side of her ring again, though now the motion looks less like fidgeting and more like something to keep his hand occupied.

“We sat down for dinner,” he says. “My dad wanted to say grace.”

His voice has thinned around the edges. She turns a little more toward him.

“He made this whole thing about it.” Garrett swallows. “Like we’re some fucking normal family sitting there holding hands.”

The word normal comes out with quiet disgust.

“I took hers,” he continues. “Cindy’s. And her sleeve moved.” His fingers tighten around hers. “There were bruises around her wrist.”

The air inside the Jeep seems to change pressure. She can hear the faint electrical hum from the dashboard, the wind moving dry leaves across the pavement outside, Garrett drawing one careful breath through his nose.

She lifts her free hand and pushes it into his hair. He closes his eyes the second her fingers touch him.

“Garrett,” she says softly.

“I asked her what happened.” His brows pull together, face turned slightly away from her. “She said she hit it on a cupboard. She wouldn’t look at me.”

Her fingertips move slowly through the curls near his temple.

“I waited until he left the room and told her she needed to go.” Garrett’s voice catches, and he stops to clear it. “I said I’d take her wherever she wanted. Hotel, friend’s house, police station. I didn’t care. I told her I knew what he did.”

A tear gathers against his lashes. He blinks it away hard, jaw clenching as if his own body has embarrassed him.

“I begged her,” he says. “I actually fucking begged her.”

Her fingers slide toward the back of his head, nails tracing lightly over his scalp.

“She kept looking at the doorway. He wasn’t even there, and she kept watching for him.” Garrett’s mouth trembles once before he presses it flat. “Then I got louder. I just– I was trying to make her understand, and she started backing away from me.”

The tear gets free this time, moving quickly down his cheek.

Garrett wipes it off with the back of his hand. “She looked scared.”

“Of you?”

He nods. The movement is small and miserable.

“She said, ‘Please don’t make him angry.’” Garrett’s breathing breaks slightly on the last word. “Then she asked me to leave.”

Her hand stills in his hair for half a second before moving again.

“You’re not him,” she says.

“I know.”

The answer comes quickly, almost defensively, but then his face folds in on itself a little.

“I know I’m not,” he says again, quieter. “But she didn’t. She saw me getting angry and she couldn’t tell.”

“She’s scared of what happens after somebody gets angry,” she says. “That isn’t the same as thinking you’re him.”

Garrett stares down at their joined hands. “It felt the same.”

She runs her thumb along the edge of his hairline. “Why didn’t you call me?”

His head lifts.

“I could’ve…” She stops, not entirely sure what she could have done from campus, or whether she would have driven out to Phil’s house and walked through the front door beside Garrett after everything between them. “You could’ve called.”

Garrett watches her for a moment, eyes red and wet.

“You wouldn’t have come,” he says.

“I might’ve.”

A sad little smile touches his mouth. It disappears almost as soon as it arrives.

“No,” he says, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers graze her cheek on the way back. “You wouldn’t have.”

Her brows pinch together. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.” His hand settles over hers again. “And that’s okay. I wouldn’t expect you to.”

There’s no accusation beneath it. No attempt to make her feel the distance he’s naming. If anything, Garrett sounds like he’s protecting her from needing to lie.

She looks down at their fingers. “I’m still sorry you went alone.”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

“You shouldn’t have had to deal with that by yourself.”

“I didn’t know who else to tell.”

The sentence lands quietly, with more weight than Garrett seems to realise he has placed into it. Her thumb brushes his knuckle.

“I don’t want to see him again,” he says.

She looks up. His face has gone still in the particular way it does when he has made a decision and is bracing for someone to argue with it.

“Okay,” she says.

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“He’s going to call. He’s going to make it into this whole thing about me embarrassing him or disrespecting him in his own house, but I don’t…” Garrett exhales hard. “I can’t go back there.”

“Then don’t.”

His eyes search hers.

“You don’t owe him another holiday,” she says. “Or another dinner. You don’t have to keep walking into that house because he expects you to.”

Garrett’s throat works. “What about her?”

“Cindy?”

He nods.

She considers it for a moment, fingers still curled through his. “You can give her a way to contact you without seeing him. A number he doesn’t know about, maybe. Or information for somewhere she can go. You can tell her the offer is still there.”

“And if she doesn’t take it?”

The helplessness in his voice scrapes at something under her ribs.

“Then it’s still there,” she says. “You can’t make her leave before she’s ready. You can only make sure she knows there’s somewhere to go.”

Garrett looks through the windshield again. His shoulders lower slightly, though not with relief. More like exhaustion has finally found room inside them.

“I hate him,” he says.

She strokes her thumb across the back of his hand. “Yeah.”

“I really fucking hate him.”

“I know.”

They sit with it for a while. She doesn’t tell Garrett that hatred will eat him alive, or that Phil is still his father, or that one day he might regret cutting him off. 

She doesn’t hand him any of the soft, polished phrases people use when another person’s pain makes them uncomfortable. She stays beside him while his breathing settles, her fingers moving slowly through his hair until he leans back against the headrest and closes his eyes.

When he opens them, the rawness hasn’t disappeared, but it’s moved farther from the surface.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

Her hand stops. “For what?”

“This wasn’t exactly dinner conversation.”

“It’s nearly midnight.”

“Late dinner conversation,” he murmurs. 

She gives him a look. “You don’t have to apologise for telling me.”

Garrett’s eyes hold hers. “Okay.”

She brings his hand toward her without thinking too hard about it and presses her mouth lightly to his knuckles.

His breath catches.

The kiss lasts less than a second. When she lowers their hands, Garrett’s staring at her with an expression so open that she looks away first, toward the fog gathering at the edges of the windshield.

They stay in the car for another hour. The conversation doesn’t return to anything as heavy. It loosens gradually, circling through stories that require less care. 

Dean borrowing a canoe freshman year and somehow returning without it. Logan getting locked out of the house wearing only shorts and one skate. Her first disastrous audition at Briar, where she forgot her own name during the introduction and then delivered the scene perfectly out of spite.

By the time the dashboard reads 1:17, her feet have gone numb and Garrett’s phone is down to eight percent.

“I should go,” she says.

“Yeah.”

Neither sounds pleased about it. Garrett gets out with her anyway. The night air hits hard after the stale warmth of the Jeep, and she folds her arms across herself while they cross the lot. He walks beside her without touching, matching his stride to hers.

At the dorm door, she pulls out her key card and turns.

“Thank you for dinner.”

Garrett puts both hands into his jacket pockets. “Thanks for coming.”

“And for telling me.”

His expression shifts. “Yeah.”

She swipes the card.

“Text me when you’re upstairs,” he says.

“The stairs are inside a locked building.”

“I know.”

She raises her eyebrow. “There are cameras.”

“Great.”

“And a resident assistant who once wrote someone up for leaving a shoe in the hallway.”

Garrett nods. “Sounds dangerous.”

She smiles. “Goodnight.”

“Night, baby.”

The next morning, his first text arrives at eight-forty.

Twenty minutes later, he sends a photograph of the glove sitting upright in the passenger seat with the seatbelt fastened across it.

She laughs loudly enough that her roommate looks over from her desk. “Is that Garrett?”

She locks the screen. “No.”

Her roommate looks unconvinced. “Okay.”

By lunchtime, the glove photograph has somehow reached Allie.

At four-forty, Dean creates a group chat.

It’s seven-twenty when she and Allie finally reach the hockey house, which Tucker accepts with the tight silence of a man adding their lateness to an internal file.

The kitchen windows are fogged from cooking. Warmth rolls over her the second she steps through the back door, carrying the smell of tomatoes, garlic, melted cheese, and bread. 

Music plays quietly from a speaker on the counter, something old and guitar-heavy Garrett usually puts on when he’s trying to stop Logan from controlling the playlist.

Tucker stands at the stove with a wooden spoon in one hand. Logan’s leaning against the island eating grated cheese directly from the bag. Dean sits on the counter beside Allie’s usual spot, waiting for her with the patience of a dog that has been told someone is bringing food even though the food is already here.

Garrett’s at the dining table, moving a stack of textbooks off one of the chairs.

He looks up when they come in. “Hey,” he says.

The smile is quieter than the one from outside her dorm, but no less immediate. “Hi.”

His eyes travel briefly over her face and then stop. “You look tired.”

She slips her bag from her shoulder. “It’s nice to see you too.”

“I didn’t mean you look bad.”

“Good save.”

“I meant–”

“She does look tired,” Allie says, taking off her coat. “She fell asleep during notes.”

“I closed my eyes.”

Allie gives her a look. “For a minute and a half.”

“I was thinking.”

“You snored.”

She turns. “I did not.”

Allie looks toward Garrett. “She did.”

Garrett reaches for her bag. His fingers stop just short of the strap. “Can I?”

The question is small enough that no one else reacts to it. She looks at his hand, then lets the bag slide from her shoulder. “Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re thanking me for carrying my bag?”

“I’m polite now.”

Dean snorts from the counter. “Debatable.”

Garrett carries the bag into the living room and sets it beside the couch rather than dropping it near the door with the coats. When he comes back, he places a glass of water in front of the empty stool beside his.

She notices both things. She tries not to.

“What are we eating?” Allie asks, walking straight into Dean’s space until he opens his knees and lets her stand between them.

“Baked ziti,” Tucker says.

Dean puts one arm around Allie’s waist. “I assisted.”

“You grated cheese,” Tucker retorts. 

“I was integral.”

“You ate half of it.”

Dean shrugs. “Quality control.”

Logan lifts the bag. “Still good.”

Tucker points the spoon toward him. “Put that down.”

Logan takes one final handful before obeying.

Dinner is noisy in the comfortable, overlapping way the hockey house does best. Everyone talks before the previous person has finished. 

Dean tells a story with so many irrelevant details that Tucker eventually asks whether the original event has occurred yet. Logan interrupts three times to correct the chronology and is wrong twice. Allie steals garlic bread from Dean’s plate, then acts surprised when he takes a bite from the piece in her hand instead.

Garrett sits beside her. Close enough that his sleeve brushes hers when he reaches for the water jug. He asks about rehearsal without turning the whole table toward her, and she tells him Dexter has reversed the transition change after deciding the original blocking had better emotional circulation.

Garrett pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth. “What does that mean?”

“No one knows,” she says.

Dean points toward her. “I know. It means the energy flows.”

Allie turns her head slowly. “You learned one phrase backstage.”

“I have instincts.”

“You walked into a flats cart,” she mutters. 

“It was dark.”

She raises her brows at him. “It was fluorescent.”

Dean looks at Tucker. “Why is everyone hostile tonight?”

“Because you’re here,” Logan says.

After dinner, Tucker refuses help from anyone he considers likely to create more work, which leaves him with Garrett and Allie at the sink while the others migrate into the living room. She tries to join them, but Tucker glances at the dark half-moons beneath her eyes and tells her to sit down.

“I can dry,” she says.

“You can sit.”

“That feels pointed,” she mumbles. 

“It is.”

Garrett looks over from where he’s rinsing plates. “Go sit down.”

She narrows her eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

“Asshole.”

His grin flashes. “There she is.”

Something soft moves through her before she can stop it.

She takes her audition sides from her bag and settles onto the couch, curling one leg beneath herself. Dean and Logan are arguing over which movie to put on. Allie’s still in the kitchen, leaning her hip against the counter while Tucker explains that plates don’t need to soak if people rinse them immediately.

She reads the first page of the scene. Then reads it again.

The words hold for perhaps thirty seconds before rehearsal fatigue starts tugging at the backs of her eyes. She rubs one hand over her face, presses her fingers briefly into her temples, and forces herself down the next paragraph.

Garrett comes into the living room carrying two glasses of water. He gives one to her, then sits on the other end of the couch. “What are you doing?”

“Reading.”

“Looks painful.”

She sighs. “It’s not.”

He nods toward the pages. “Audition?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s next week.”

She gives him a look. “I’m aware.”

“You’ve got time.”

“I know.”

Garrett takes a drink and looks toward the television while Dean scrolls through a streaming menu at a speed that makes every title impossible to read. He doesn’t tell her to put the pages away. Doesn’t remind her she looks tired again.

A few minutes later, when she reaches blindly toward the coffee table for the highlighter she left there, Garrett picks it up and passes it to her without comment.

“Thanks,” she murmurs.

“Mhm.”

She marks a line. Reads another paragraph. Rubs her thumb over the corner of the page until it begins to soften beneath her skin.

The boys finally settle on a movie nobody seems particularly interested in. Tucker turns off the kitchen light and joins Logan in an armchair. Allie comes in and folds herself against Dean’s side, both legs thrown over his lap.

Garrett stays where he is. She reaches the bottom of the second page and realises she cannot remember the top. A breath leaves her nose, sharper than she intends.

Garrett glances over. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You made a noise.”

“I’m reading,” she mutters.

“You’ve been on that page for ten minutes.”

She looks at him. “Are you timing me?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

“Because Dean has changed his mind about the movie twice and you haven’t turned the page.”

From the other couch, Dean says, “This one has terrible reviews.”

“Nobody asked you,” Garrett says.

She lowers the sides slightly. “I need to work on it.”

“You’ve been working on it.”

“The audition is in a week.”

“Exactly.”

“That doesn’t mean I can ignore it for a week.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what are you saying?”

Garrett turns slightly toward her, one arm resting along his thigh. His voice remains quiet enough that the others don’t have to stop talking around them. “I’m saying you look like you’re not getting anything out of it right now.”

The defensive answer reaches her tongue quickly. She swallows it back because, irritatingly, she knows he’s right.

Garrett watches her face. “Leave it for tonight.”

“I’ll feel guilty.”

“You already look guilty.”

“That’s just my face.”

“No, your face is meaner.”

Her mouth twitches before she can stop it. “Charming.”

“I’m serious.” He holds one hand out toward the pages, palm up rather than reaching for them. “You can have them back whenever you want.”

She looks at his hand. Then at the scene. The text has begun to swim slightly at the edges, enough to confirm she has been awake and moving for too many hours.

With a sigh, she places the pages in his hand.

Garrett doesn’t look triumphant. He only closes them neatly and sets them on top of her bag where nobody will step on them.

“Happy?” she asks.

“Deeply.”

“You’re annoying.”

“I know.”

The movie starts. Ten minutes in, nobody has followed the plot except Tucker, who gives up explaining after Logan asks whether two characters are brothers for the third time.

She sits upright at first, hands folded around the glass Garrett gave her. Gradually, the warmth of the house begins pulling at her. Her shoulders lower. Her head tips once, then jerks back up.

Garrett pretends not to notice. The next time it happens, her temple lands against his shoulder.

Her whole body stills. Garrett does too.

There’s a tiny space where either of them could correct it. She could sit back and laugh. He could shift as though he needs to reach for his drink.

Neither moves. His shoulder is warm beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. She can feel his breathing there, slow and deliberately unchanged.

After a minute, Garrett adjusts his arm along the back of the couch. Behind her, leaving the choice where it belongs.

Her hand rests on the cushion between them. His is nearby, palm down. She touches his smallest finger with hers. Garrett turns his hand over.

Their fingers slide together quietly, hidden in the dip between their bodies.

Across the room, Dean’s telling Allie he absolutely understood the play she was in, then immediately calling Mercutio the funny cousin. Logan laughs so hard he chokes on his drink. Tucker pauses the movie while everyone yells conflicting advice.

The house fills with the familiar mess of them. Garrett’s thumb moves once over her grandmother’s ring. She closes her eyes.

She doesn’t know that her audition date is sitting in the calendar on his phone. She doesn’t know he spent part of the afternoon searching the play so he could understand why the plant matters, or that the glass of water had been set beside her place before she walked through the door. 

She doesn’t know the boys have spent two days watching him follow a ridiculous list written on their kitchen whiteboard before Tucker erased it ahead of dinner.

She only knows that Garrett asks before taking her bag now. That he listens when she talks long enough to lose the point. That when she tells him about the ugliest part of himself, he doesn’t ask her to make it prettier.

And that tonight, when her body gives up before her pride does, he lets her sleep against him without trying to turn the softness into anything more.

notes from me – hi loves!!! first chapter is out! each chapter will come out at the same time and day every week! i also probably won’t post any other petal x garrett fics during this time to try not to be too confusing.

some other little notes, this is very closely following canon off campus (the show, not books) events, but there are slight deviations (obviously!). notably, allie and dean are together and not secret, and hannah and garrett never had their talk about her assault (the events of drunk shakespeare & that scene are flipped!) but pretty much everything else is mostly the same!!

enjoy, let me know all your comments and thoughts as always!! xx

to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.

[aquaticmercy]

Grace Under Pressure

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 am Groot,” Groot said again.

“I know,” Rocket said. “We’re going to IHOP. Quill’s handling it.”

“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?

[aquaticmercy]

I Could Drown Myself In Someone Like You

Summary : Dex was doing just fine being the only prisoner in Enhanced Supervision Housing until they put you in the cell next door.

Pairing : DDBA!Benjamin Poindexter x mutant!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : hurt/comfort! Meet cute at Rikers, prison isolation, mutant!reader, thermokinetic!reader (controls temperature, pyrokinesis and cryokinesis), restraint jacket/straitjacket, institutional neglect, arson and murder mention, Foggy’s death mentioned, blood, injury, prison break, guard death, violence, through-the-wall romance, hurt/comfort, first kiss, Set in DDBA S1, including part of the episode 8, where Dex uses his tooth to break out of prison. (let me know if I missed anything!)

Word Count : 6.3k

Notes : Need more mutant! reader in this fandom. The title is inspired by Impossible by Nothing but Thieves. Enjoy!

Dex had spent five months alone in Rikers’ brand-new Enhanced Supervision Housing after killing Foggy Nelson.

Of course, the city had decided that Benjamin Poindexter was not a man you put in general population, or solitary, or protective custody, or any other place built for your run-of-the-mill violent offenders. Apparently, if a person could kill his way out of most situations with a paperclip, a loose screw, or the edge of a dinner tray, the state had to start getting creative.

So they made a new building just for him and called it Enhanced Supervision Housing. ESH for short.

It was funny. As if calling what he could do an enhancement instead of a talent meant anything when they still fed him through a slot, restrained his hands before opening the door, and had three men with rifles posted behind reinforced glass every time he was escorted anywhere.

There were eight cells in ESH. Eight beautiful little boxes built with reinforced doors, observation panels, pressure sensors, thermal cameras, anti-ligature fixtures, shatterproof windows, and enough cameras to make privacy feel like a fairy tale told to a child.

Dex had seen the brochure when one of the guards had left paperwork too close to his cell during intake, and Dex had read it upside down through a reflection in the polished floor.

It was made for “high-risk enhanced detainees” with “special containment protocols” and “behavioural isolation.”

Cute.

The problem was, there were no other enhanced detainees. After all, not every day did somebody with a weird little gift or near-superhuman talent get arrested in New York. Not every day did someone land in Rikers with enough justification of being locked in a concrete aquarium, and half of them were in the supermax across the country, and the other half was in The Raft.  

So it was just Dex. 

Eight cells, seven empty. A whole hallway built for monsters, and only one monster inside it.

It was isolating, sure. But it was fine. There were worse places to be in the world. Maybe. Meh.

Rikers still had a rhythm. Even the ESH had one, if you were trapped long enough to learn it. He learned that the lights dimmed but never went fully off and guards passed every twelve minutes unless the night shift was bored, then every nine. The vents clicked twice before the air shifted temperature. Camera four made the smallest electric whine when it adjusted focus. Guard Velasquez dragged his left foot when he was tired and guard Miller breathed through his mouth and smelled like cheap coffee.

Dex knew all of it, and it helped with the silence creeping in sometimes. 

The silence was the worst part, probably, not the restraints. Not even the meals so bland they felt punitive on a spiritual level. 

This type of silence made his thoughts louder and made the walls seem closer at night, when he lay on the thin mattress with his hands folded over his stomach, staring at the ceiling like the ceiling might someday blink first.

Sometimes he thought about Foggy Nelson, but not in the way people probably wanted him to. He didn’t feel guilty; he did what he thought he had to do. He thought about that chapter in his life like a splinter under skin– impossible to forget without digging too deep and making it worse.

Sometimes he thought about Fisk. Sometimes he thought about his spine. Sometimes he thought about how easy it would be, if someone made one mistake.

Just one.

If someone would just accidentally give him the wrong set of cuffs. If a new guard would just be standing too close to the bars with his badge clipped to the wrong side of his belt.

But no one had made a mistake. Yet. 

Then, in the middle of June, in the middle of the night, the hallway suddenly erupted.

The far door opened with a metallic groan, then another. Buzz. door one. Buzz. door two. Buzz. door three.

Eventually, boots flooded the corridor, and Dex counted twenty guards. Maybe more.

He could hear the metallic clangs of rifles and the plastic bounce of shields as static popping over radios. A guard whispered., “Keep moving,” like whatever they were escorting might change its mind if they hesitated.

Dex sat up.

The lights snapped brighter overhead, white and ugly, turning his cell blind at the edges.

He didn't move to the door. He stayed on the bed, head tilted slightly, listening.

There was a slightly smaller set footsteps beneath all the others.

This one must be the prisoner. It dragged, but not fighting. Perhaps this person was sedated? No. There was a little bit of struggle. Maybe they weren’t sedated enough. Whoever it was kept resisting the pace without ever fully stopping.

Metal clinked as someone cursed under their breath.

Then came a sound like fabric straining, and he could tell it was heavy fabric. Then, he heard thick restraints being adjusted. Not ordinary cuffs, and definitely not a chain.

Dex tilted his head. Interesting.

The procession stopped in front of the cell next to his.

The guards shifted around the door, blocking his view through the narrow panel in his own cell. He caught pieces of you, though nothing whole. He could see a bit of your hair, and the corner of something white and reinforced strapped across your torso. Your rikers-issued shoes were planted firmly against the floor, like you were refusing to be placed anywhere by anyone.

One of the guards knocked twice on Dex’s door with his baton. “Got a neighbor now, Poindexter.”

Dex looked at him.

The guard smiled like he’d said something funny, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. In fact, none of them looked relaxed.  

Tonight, they were not afraid of Dex. They were afraid of you.

The door to Cell Two opened and they moved you inside.

You didn't scream, threaten, or beg, even if you were half-awake.

Weird, Dex thought, people usually did one of the three when they arrived in a place like this.

You were shoved past the threshold in silence, and the guards backed out fast. The door shut with a brutal final sound, locks engaging one after another, heavy and layered and unnecessarily dramatic. A guard gave an all-clear over the radio. Another laughed once, shakily, then stopped abruptly when nobody joined in.

Dex stayed very still as the guards filed out, one by one, until the hallway swallowed their footsteps one by one.

Eight cells, two occupied.

For the first time in five months, Dex was not alone.

He waited for you to make a sound, but he couldn't hear any noise, not even crying from the next cell. You weren’t pacing, like he did on the first night, and you barely even rattled whatever restraints they put on you. Most notable, you didn’t even attempt to make contact through the wall.

Dex stared at the wall between his cell and yours: solid concrete, thick enough that he shouldn't have been able to feel anything through it.

He did, though he didn’t know how to explain it. The only measurable metric was that somehow the room had felt cooler than it had been an hour ago.

He lay back down eventually.

From the other side of the wall, you still said nothing, no sound at all except the occasional shift of fabric and once, very quietly, an exhale through your teeth.

Dex almost smiled. That’s when he saw the window.

At first, he thought the glass had caught the overhead light strangely. ESH windows were narrow, reinforced slits. You could see a suggestion of the sky if you stood at the right angle, but mostly you saw the garden roses and your own reflection staring back like a bad idea.

Tonight, the glass was… clouding.

What?

Dex sat up again.

A thin white film crept across the corner of the window, delicate and pretty. Tiny veins of frost branching outward in lacy patterns, spreading over reinforced glass that had no reason to be cold.

Why was his window frosting up in the middle of summer?

—

For the first couple of days, Dex assumed you were asleep. Or unconscious. Or dead.

It was hard to tell with the wall between you and him. Still, the guards checked on you often enough that he knew you must technically be alive, but they did it through the panel, never through the door unless there were at least six of them and one of them had the long black shock baton they liked pretending it was not a weapon.

Dex had seen criminals arrive angry. During his time in the bureau, he had seen them arrive screaming, pleading, spitting, promising lawsuits, promising revenge, promising innocent. He had seen prisoners break under silence in twelve hours and start telling the ceiling their childhood nicknames.

You did none of that. In fact, you barely moved.

That was the strangest part, not the frost, not even the straitjacket, which was still interesting in a funny way to him, because they had Dex’s hands restrained any time they opened his door like he was going to start flicking femurs through skulls, but you must be special. After all, you had arrived wrapped up like a badly behaved present.

By the second day, he started actively listening for you.

It was pathetic, maybe, but there were very few things to do in Enhanced Supervision Housing besides become intimately familiar with the sound of your own breathing and develop opinions about fluorescent lights, so a new person on the other side of the wall was not nothing.

You shifted sometimes, when he heard a small scrape of fabric against concrete. He could hear the faint clink from whatever additional restraints they had attached to the jacket. Once, your head hit the wall with a dull little thud, and Dex turned his face toward the sound before he could stop himself.

Then… nothing. Nothing but a drag of breath through your nose.

The guards did not like you either, that became obvious pretty quickly.

They liked Dex, in a way. Obviously, they didn’t like him as a person, they were not stupid. But they understood him. They had made a little mental box for him: former FBI agent turned murderer. They had rules: keep your distance, keep his hands restrained, do not let him near anything that he could throw.

You, they did not understand.

They approached your cell like prey approaching a sleeping animal in the wrong enclosure.

On the third morning, one of them brought your breakfast and stood too close to the slot.

Dex heard a soft crackle before the guard even reacted. Then the man swore and stumbled back. “What the fuck—”

“Don’t put your hand in,” another guard snapped.

“I didn’t put my hand in!”

“Then stop whining.”

“She froze my fucking fingers, man!”

Dex sat on his mattress, elbows on his knees, staring at the wall. Interesting.

Your cell stayed silent and the breakfast tray was shoved in with much less dignity after that.

Nobody asked if you were hungry. Nobody asked if you were hurt. Nobody asked if you needed the jacket loosened, even though Dex could hear the shallow and held in breath, clearly struggling for air half the time. It was as if the straps cut across your ribs and you were trying not to give anyone the satisfaction of knowing it bothered you.

By the fourth day, Dex had decided you were either extremely disciplined or extremely broken. Possibly both.

He had also decided that the silence was annoying. This was unfair, because he had hated the silence before you arrived, and now that the silence had another person inside it, he hated it more.

He tried not to care, but that only lasted until evening.

A guard walked past and muttered, “Crazy bitch still hasn’t said a word.”

Dex’s head lifted.

The guard kept walking, probably feeling very brave because there were reinforced doors and rifles between him and the consequences of being stupid.

Dex watched him go. He didn’t say anything, and neither did you.

The night after that, the frost came back, but not just on Dex’s window this time. They were crawling up the walls.

It crept from the seam where the concrete met the floor, thin and white under the dimmed lights. At first, he thought it was moisture, a product of bad ventilation and  Rikers being Rikers. Then the frost branched, crawling in little veins across the wall between your cells.

Dex got up and walked over, putting two fingers against the concrete. It was painfully cold.

On the other side of the wall, you breathed out, and frost thickened under his fingers.

Dex almost knocked. That felt ridiculous.

What was he going to do? Tap his knuckles against reinforced concrete and ask the stranger in the murder-prison next door if she was making the building colder because she was sad?

No. So he went back to bed, but did not sleep.

By day five, the guards had stopped pretending this was normal.

Maintenance came in wearing insulated gloves, and even gave Dex a thicker orange jumpsuit, even though he never minded the cold. They took temperature readings in the hallway, checked the vents, checked the windows. They argued about condensation. One of them said it was probably a system fault, and then immediately shut up when a thin line of ice crawled over his boot.

Dex enjoyed that a lot, actually. It was the first entertainment he’d had in months.

By the fifth night, Dex woke up to snow.

At first, he thought it was dust falling from the ceiling. But then a single cold snowflake landed on his cheek.

Dex blinked.

For a moment, he lay very still, staring up at the ceiling where tiny white flakes drifted down from nowhere. Another landed on his chest. Then another. Soon there were dozens, small, delicate, almost shy.

Dex sat up slowly.

The floor was beginning to powder white. His blanket had caught a fine layer of it. The air was cold enough now that his breath was visible.

He looked toward the wall, and for the first time in five days, he spoke to you. “You doing this, neighbor?”

Nothing but silence.

Dex waited.

The hallway outside was quiet, which meant either the guards had not noticed yet or they were all standing very still pretending they had not noticed yet. Dex watched snow gather on the toes of his prison-issued socks.

Then, from the other side of the wall, there was the faintest shift.

And then your voice, rough from disuse. You sounded almost… bored. “...mmhm.”

Dex’s mouth curved up.  Ah. She speaks. 

He leaned back against the wall, feeling the cold bite through the cotton of his shirt. “Should I be concerned?”

Then, barely louder than before, you said, “Probably.”

Dex laughed once under his breath.

His own sound surprised him, because it sounded wrong in the cell. Too human then he had ever been.

The snow kept drifting down. It should have made him uneasy. It should have made him think about containment failures and emergency protocols and what the guards might do if the whole unit iced over. Instead, Dex sat there with his shoulder pressed to the wall between you, watching winter collect in his lap.

“Good to know,” he said.

You didn’t answer. But a few seconds later, the snow slowed down.

—

After that, Dex learned how to read you. It was not subtle, once he understood what he was looking at.

When you were sad, you were cold so it made sense that in the first month, it snowed almost every day.

You barely spoke during those days, you barely even moved.

The guards asked questions through your door and received nothing but silence. The nurses came by with clipboards, asking if you had eaten, if you were injured, if you needed medical attention, if you understood where you were. You gave them nothing.

Sometimes, actual ice sealed your food slot shut. Snow collected in the corners of Dex’s cell.

His blanket went damp and cold and his breath fogged when he sat up. Even the guards stopped making jokes when they passed Cell Two because nobody wanted to laugh in a place that had started to feel like a morgue.

Dex sat with his back to the wall and listened. That was all there was to do: listen and wait for proof that you were still in there.

Then, eventually, the cold would begin to cease.

The frost on his window would sweat and snow would melt into silver lines down the concrete. The air would warm by a degree, then another, like your body was remembering that it was summer.

And then, and only then, you would speak. “Neighbor?”

His eyes opened in the dark. “What?”

You inhaled, as if you had been thinking about this for days. “Do you think they’d let me have a hairbrush?”

Dex stared at the ceiling. “No.”

You were quiet for the rest of the night, but the cells suddenly became as warm as a hug, as if someone had reminded you that human connections were possible.

Then, the next day, you called out again. “Poindexter, right?”

“Mm,” he replied.

You paused, as if considering whether or not the question was stupid, but said it anyway. “Do you think pigeons know they’re ugly?”

Dex blinked. “I don’t think pigeons care.”

“Good for them.”

Then, a few hours later, after hearing a prison guard during dinner time call you this, you said, “Dex.”

The name came too naturally from your mouth for someone who had never said it before.

He turned his head toward the wall. “What?”

“I have an itch.”

He waited. You said nothing else.

“Okay.” he finally said.

“I’m in a restraint jacket.”

“I figured.”

“It’s under my shoulder blade.”

“That sounds inconvenient.”

“It is,” you sounded very, very annoyed.

The room heated so fast it made the steel bars creak.

Dex smiled into the dark.

You were quiet a moment longer, then said, “They keep calling it that.”

“What?”

“A restraint jacket.”

“That’s what it is.”

“No,” you said. “It’s a straitjacket.They just call it a “fireproof restraint jacket” because that sounds nicer with the taxpayers, and straitjacket makes me sound like I’m supposed to be in a basement eating wallpaper.”

Fireproof, huh?

Dex found your comparison amusing and laughed under his breath. “You’d prefer that?”

The wall warmed. You heard him. He knew you did, because the warmth stayed.

“At least it’s not an inhibitor collar,” you muttered finally.

Dex went still. “They have those?”

“Not anymore,” you said, though Dex didn’t ask for any clarifications that day.

For a while he stared out quietly.

After a moment, you asked, “Are you in one?”

“An inhibitor collar?”

“A straitjacket, genius.”

“No.”

The temperature dropped, but only in a small enough increment. “You’re not in a straitjacket?”

“No.”

“That is so fucked up.”

Dex closed his eyes. “Is it?”

“Yes,” you scoffed, “What makes you so special?”

“I don’t know.”

“This is discrimination.”

Dex, who couldn’t miss if he wanted to, looked around to see nothing in his cell that he could throw or ricochet with. And if he was imagining you right, your hands must be the main conduit to your power. You didn’t need an object to break out if your hands were free. “I don’t think that’s what that is.”

“It is to me.”

After that, you told him your name. You said it at two in the morning, half-muffled through concrete, like it had slipped out by accident.

Dex repeated it once.

The heat that bloomed through the wall felt almost shy.

After that, Dex started sleeping with his shoulder closer to your side of the cell, though he told himself it meant nothing: The bed was narrow and the room was small, that’s all. There were only so many places to put a body inside a box. But every night, somehow, he ended up turning toward you, listening for your breathing through concrete like it was the only sound in Rikers that mattered.

And when you went quiet for a bit too long, Dex would listen in, panic blooming, and it would not calm until you shifted or sighed or muttered something ridiculous about prison oatmeal, and then he could breathe again like an idiot.

That was when he understood the other half of you.

When you were in a good enough mood, your powers weren’t icy anymore. You’d run hot.

The first time it really hit him, Dex woke up sweating with his shirt clinging to his back. The window was fogged over and the snow had vanished completely, and the whole cell felt damp and tropical, like a greenhouse in Rikers.

And you were talking. God, you were talking.

You were talking your ass off, giving him whole floods of thought, fast and impossible to hold still.

“Do you think they built this place because of you specifically,” you asked once you realised your rambles had shook him awake, voice bright through the wall, “or do you think someone made a budget request years ago and then got really excited when you gave them a reason?”

Dex looked to the wall. You didn’t wait for an answer.

“Because eight cells is very ambitious. Someone must’ve sat in a meeting going, no, trust me, we are going to have so many enhanced criminals. And then it was just you for like, half a year.”

Dex sat up, and the air was even warmer.

On the other side of the wall, you shifted in the jacket, fabric rasping hard against concrete.

“Also, do you think enhanced is offensive? I can’t decide. It feels offensive. Like I didn’t ask to be labelled like a skincare serum.”

Dex’s mouth twitched up a little. “You done?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“I also think the eggs are powdered.”

“They are.”

“I knew it.”

Then you laughed, and it was a half-controlled laugh this time, wild around the edges. The temperature in Dex’s cell jumped so fast it felt like someone had opened an oven door.

Dex now knew how your powers worked: when you were kinda sad, things frosted over. When you could barely move, it snowed.

Good mood meant warmth. Full manic meant tropical.

It was ridiculous and fascinating all the same. Sometimes, the whole unit went damp and sticky, other times the reinforced windows fogged over, the walls sweating like the building was nervous. 

Eventually, it got warmer and warmer, and you would be pacing, five steps one way, five steps back, talking out of your ass like language had become a pressure valve.

You talked about everything. The guards’ schedules, the ceiling tiles, how ugly prison socks were, whether corporations should be burned down in alphabetical order or by severity of moral failure.

Dex listened to all of it.

He learned of who you were without ever seeing your face. He knew when you were smiling because the wall warmed before your voice changed. He knew when you were pretending not to cry because the frost came fast, like you were trying to hide it and failed anyway. He knew the difference between your tired silence, your angry silence, your sad silence, your plotting silence. So he knew you.

And you knew him, too, in ways no one alive had earned before. You knew when his guards had pissed him off before he said anything. You knew when his spine hurt from the way he breathed through his teeth. Once, when he had gone too silent, you knocked your forehead lightly against the wall and said, “Dex, don’t go wherever your mind just went.” He had stared at the concrete for a long time after that, because nobody had ever come looking for him inside his own head before.

That's why, when you talked, he listened.

Some of it was nonsense. Some of it was clever. Some of it was both. You talked like someone sprinting downhill with no interest in stopping, fast and too amused by terrible things. You even told him what you did: apparently you burned down a warehouse and office of a company called Meridian Dynamics. They made suppression tech: Inhibitor collars, cuffs, injectables, sold to prisons and private security. Apparently, you planned to burn the building down during a very important board meeting, which resulted in your two counts of arson and twenty four counts of murder.

And, inevitably, you started talking about escape.

“I’m getting out,” you told Dex one night.

He was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, sweat dampening his collar. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“You can’t burn through reinforced doors.”

“I could if I had my hands.”

Dex looked down at his own, free, for now. He was still dangerous. His hands had always been the part of him people watched first, the part they feared, the part they restrained before opening any door.

He understood, suddenly, the cruelty of having your body treated like a weapon even when you were just sitting there, breathing.

You shifted in the jacket, and the fabric rasped like it hurt.

“Obviously,” you said, trying for lightness and missing by inches, “I don’t have them.”

Dex stared at the wall. For once, he did not know what to say.

You laughed, but it came out thin. “I can feel them. That’s the worst part. They’re right there. I just can’t use them.”

The heat dimmed.

“That why you keep talking about chewing through your jacket?”

You shrugged, though it hurt.  “Maybe.”

“You’ll break your teeth.”

“You care about my teeth?”

“I care about not listening to you complain.”

“You care.”

He should have denied it, but he didn’t.

Dex had spent his entire life understanding attachment as a liability, something people could weaponize until he became useful or pathetic or both. But with you on the other side of the wall, this attachment didn’t feel temporary. It was clear in the way he measured his nights by whether you spoke. He had an ache of wanting to see your face and being terrified that if he did, it would only make this feeling worse.

The silence stretched, warmer than it should have been. Then you said, very quietly, “I don’t think I could actually chew through it.”

“No,” Dex said. “Probably not.”

“I still might try.”

“Don’t.”

That made you laugh for real. The wall warmed beneath his palm. For a moment, it was almost gentle.

One night, after hours of heat and pacing and a long speech about how prison architecture lacked imagination, you went suddenly quiet.

Dex waited.

The wall was warm against his shoulder. Then you whispered, “Dex?”

“What?”

“Do you think I’m going to be like this forever?”

Dex looked at the concrete between you, at the damp shine where the heat had melted old frost.

“No,” he answered. 

It was the closest thing to a promise he could make through a wall. He wanted to say more, but everything else felt too fake.

He didn’t know why, but he had the urge to tell you that you were not an object or a containment problem. He wanted to tell you that if the world had built eight cells for monsters, then fine, let the world call him one, because he had found you in the next cage over and suddenly the world didn’t feel so lonely anymore.

Instead, Dex pressed his palm flat to the wall.

A second later, warmth bloomed under his hand. Not enough to burn, but enough to meet him.

 —

Dex getting moved to general population should have made him think about the Fisks.

It should have made him think about the obvious thing first, which was that Vanessa Fisk wanted him dead. 

Being moved to genpop was not a transfer. To him, a former FBI agent in a room full of convicts who has also pissed people off by working for the Kingpin, it was a death sentence. Genpop was a fancy term for a room full of men, any one of them purchasable, any one of them stupid or desperate enough to try him with a sharpened toothbrush, a melted piece of plastic, a hand around his throat in the showers.

But when the guards dragged him out of ESH when you were asleep in your cell, that was not what Dex thought about.

He thought, with a sudden, sick clarity, that you were going to be alone.

You would be alone like he had been alone for five months, rotting in a hallway built for people the world didn’t know how to categorize. 

Alone with no one but the guards who would never understood your moods.

So he called Matt and offered him a lifeline: tell him who hired him to kill Foggy Nelson in exchange for freedom.

Of course he didn’t think Matt would forgive him. But Matt had believed in the law. And mercy too, whether he wanted it or not. Dex needed both, and hated needing both, and hated more that he was not even asking just for himself.

Need sat wrong in his head. It had always felt like weakness or an exposed artery, as if anyone could just hook a finger into and pull. Needing Matt Murdock was bad enough. Needing Matt Murdock for you was humiliating in a way that Dex didn’t have vocabulary for, because it meant there was something in the world he could not take, kill, steal, or aim to fix.

See, he wanted an appeal for you, too. He had this whole speech of how in another life, Matt would defend him. About isn’t that what good men do? Defend their worst enemies? About I’m bargaining for our life here, counsellor.

Our life. Not mine. Ours.

“Oh,” Matt said. “That’s what this is.”

Dex said nothing.

“So fell in love in prison?” Matt said sarcastically. “Sweetheart, what do you want me to do? Want me to get a couple of murderers out of prison, want me to get an appeal?”

Dex didn’t answer, because answering would have made it sound too… juvenile. 

Love was not a strong enough word for a woman he had only known through a concrete wall and had fallen for anyway. It was not right for experiencing snow in a prison cell, or feeling heat through the wall, or your voice talking nonsense at three in the morning. It was not right for the way he had started sleeping closer to your side of the room. 

Matt saw enough of it anyway, and maybe that’s why he had a glimmer of sympathy. Maybe it was disgust. Maybe he thought again of Foggy, and before he knew it, Matt was slamming his head on the metal table. 

Dex barely had time to register it before pain flared through his mouth and his head snapped hard enough against the metal that the room flashed white, blood filling his mouth.

Then, he felt something small and hard come loose against his tongue.

A tooth.

A projectile.

“Thank you, counsellor,” he smiled. 

The guards pulled Dex back, and he let them haul him away, head bowed, blood dripping down his lip, the tooth hidden carefully.

Killing the doctor and the guard was child’s play after that. Navigating the prison with the dead guard’s badge was even easier. 

He would break out and kill Fisk in his black and white ball. But for now, he had something else to do in this hell hole. 

He wouldn’t escape without you.

Dex moved through Rikers with blood still drying at the corner of his mouth. 

When he reached ESH, he killed the two stationed guards with medical tools stolen from the infirmary.

And when he got in, the hallway was frozen.

Ice crawled over the floor in white veins. Frost had swallowed the observation glass. Snow had gathered in the corners like the building had been abandoned for winter. Your food tray sat untouched outside the slot because the mechanism had sealed shut.

Dex stopped outside Cell Two and looked through the narrow panel. 

This was the first time that Dex ever really saw you. 

He had seen flashes between guards, maybe a reflection from one of the guard’s shields during training drills. 

You were curled on the floor in the fireproof straitjacket, knees drawn up as much as the restraints allowed, cheek resting against the concrete. Your hair was messy. Your lips were discolored from the cold, frost clinging to your lashes like a lifeline, delicate as glitter, cruel as evidence. 

You looked… smaller than he had imagined, but no less beautiful.

He had built you in his head as strong as weather, a voice bright enough to make lights flicker. But through the glass, you were just a girl in a white straitjacket, cold and alone and trying not to disappear.

Dex pressed his bloody hand to the door.

He looked at the jacket and the lock and and thought of every hand that had put you in there and every person who had looked at you like you were a weapon before you were a human being.

He broke the door open with the stolen keycard first. 

When the door gave out, the cold rushed out around him.

You stirred, eyes opening slowly.

For one second, you only stared at him like he couldn’t possibly be real. Like maybe the cold had finally started making things up for you.

Then the frost nearest his feet began to melt.

“Dex?”

You looked confused. As if it was a guess. 

That's when you realised… you had never really seen him, either. 

He nodded, stepping inside.

Snow fell between you, unnatural and absurd beneath the fluorescent lights. Your eyes moved over his face to the blood on his mouth and the stitches on his forehead. You knew him,, finally, after months of knowing him only as a voice through concrete.

Your voice sounded broken. “Is that what you look like?”

Dex almost smiled, thrilled that you looked anything but disappointed. “Yeah.”

You blinked at him, dazed and trying very hard to make your mouth curve up like this was funny. Like you had not been left alone, and that loneliness without him had turned the building into a snowy wasteland.

He crouched in front of you.

For the first time, there was no wall between you.

Dex reached for the straps.

You flinched, but not because you were afraid of him, but because the last person who reached for the jacket had touched you like you were an object, and you had burned him by accident, and then they had hurt you for it.

Dex saw all of that cross your faces so he stopped.

His hands hovered over the buckles.

“I’m taking it off,” he said, “that’s all.”

You looked at him, considering your choices. Then, just a little, you nodded.

Dex broke the first strap, the fabric strained under his grip before giving in with a harsh snap. The sound echoed through the frozen cell. Your breath caught, and his eyes flicked back to yours immediately, checking if you were okay. 

You were.

So he broke the next one.

Then the next.

Each strap breaking felt personal, and each piece tearing loose felt like he was taking something back from everyone who had decided your hands were too dangerous to belong to yourself.

When the last strap snapped, the jacket loosened.

Then your arms slipped free. You did so slowly, like you had forgotten they were ever yours.

Your hands trembled in your lap. 

Dex looked at them.

So did you.

You had not seen them for months. 

The snow thinned at first, then eventually, it stopped, the last few flakes drifting down and melting before they touched the floor. Warmth bloomed from you in a fragile little wave.

This time, it wasn’t manic heat. Instead it was warmth, like spring breaking after a cold winter. 

You lifted one hand carefully, almost shyly, and the first thing you did was touch the scar on Dex’s face.

He went perfectly still.

You brushed the blood at the corner of his mouth with your thumb, your eyes furrowing. 

“You came back,” you whispered, which, to Dex translated to: I thought you left me forever.

Dex leaned into your touch before he could stop himself. “Yeah.”

There were alarms somewhere in the distance, but ESH was far away, out of security. It would take them a while to get here. And by the time they did, it would’ve been too late. 

Dex didn’t move. Neither did you.

Then your fingers curled lightly against his chin, and before he could think better of it, Dex bent forward and kissed you.

It was small, nothing but a brush of his mouth against yours, warm and bloody from the missing teeth. 

You froze for half a second before you kissed him back.

You were sweet and a little clumsy, because your arms were stiff and your hands were shaking and neither of you had any business being tender in a prison cell full of evidence of your sadness and isolation. 

When he pulled back, you stared at him.

The frost on the walls ran down in thin silver lines.

Then you smiled, sheepish and dazed, like you were embarrassed by your own warming heart.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” you admitted.

Dex looked at you and he had no answer.

The ruined straitjacket was still in his hands, your fingertips still against his face, and the warmth of your lips lingering on his mouth.

Outside, the prison began to panic. Inside, you smiled at him like he had brought summer with him.

And Dex, who had spent five months alone in a place built for monsters, thought there was no better reason to become one again.

—end.

Extra note: I reread this before posting and realised I may have accidentally written reader as bipolar-coded, which is very me😭😭😭 I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder around a decade ago, and it’s manageable now, but this fic ended up feeling way more personal than I expected. This is the first time I’ve ever written mood disorder x mood disorder so I hope I did alright. So please be kind with this one. She’s special to me 🫶

Please send in an ask or message if you want to be added to the dex general / series specific taglist! Comments get lost sometimes! Let me know if I missed anyone!

[aquaticmercy]

Reblog for Dex taglist part 1:

@itsdynotdaddy @diabolicallydownbad @doesanyonereadthis @meicore @pixie2k5 @bibiishin @starlitflora @pearlstiare @glorybeat @stardustworlds @castawaybarnes @supervampireflame @not-the-teen-witch @billybonesxx @ultimatewolverine @treetrees-world-of-imagiation @bitch-spaghetti-o @lostinthes4uce @cotton-eee @weallhaveadestiny @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @moonbug333 @yujyujj @mattdexx @lostfallenangelsblog @bloomsberryfairy @flimsysquid @abbotfan @leonetta2014 @ficcharsimpsblog @odairtrqsh @ugh-whytho @noonenuts @akiyhara @genya1617 @itzrachel04 @avidreader73 @quicksilver21 @lmg-stilinski24 @magnificentlymoltenpatron

[aquaticmercy]

Reblog for Dex taglist part 2:

@natalia42069 @eaumyth @hxdxs @cemeterystardust @alligatortears87 @outpostsworld @scarlet48 @lunarbandwidth @star-yawnznn @smorgasbrods @21st-century-daydreamer @mismwaa

[wannabehockeygf]

Skating date with gavin with a reader that can skate. The only reason i would date a hockey player is so he can tie my skates, i hate tying them, i always end up getting blisters

the city rink is washed in golden afternoon light, the ice catching every last shard of sun, turning it all into a shimmering stage just for the two of you. you’re tugging your gloves on, skates already halfway laced, tongue sticking out in concentration, but the laces keep getting bunched up and loose at the top, never quite tight enough to feel safe. you huff, shooting a look at gavin where he’s already gliding backwards on his own skates, grinning at you like you’re the center of gravity and he’s just orbiting.

“hey, gavin,” you call, holding up your hopeless laces, “can you…” you don’t even finish, because he’s already there, crouching in front of you, eyes bright and soft, smile wide enough to split his whole face.

“yeah, course,” he says, voice low and gentle, like this is the best part of his week. he tugs off his glove, fingers warm as he takes your skate in his hands, and you catch him staring up at you, eyelashes thick, cheeks a little pink from the cold. “can’t have you eating shit out there,” he teases, but his thumbs are gentle, testing the tightness, knotting the laces just right. he double knots them and then triple knots them, just to make sure, all the while sneaking little glances up at you like he can’t help himself.

you watch him, heart thudding, and he must see something in your expression because he grins even harder, chin dropping as he shakes his head. “you know you could just ask me to tie your skates every single time,” he says softly, like he’d do it a thousand times for you, no questions asked, even if it meant cold hands and bruised knees forever.

he finishes the first skate, smooths his hand up your calf, and starts on the next. “plus, you look cute when you’re pretending you’ve got it handled,” he adds, dimples showing, eyes crinkling like he’s seeing right through you. you bump his knee with your own, rolling your eyes, but you can’t stop smiling.

“you have such an ego,” you whisper, and he laughs, almost loses his balance, and then he’s squeezing your ankle a little, eyes going soft and bright and so obviously whipped it’s a miracle he’s not just a puddle on the ice.

“not even a little bit. i just loooove you,” he beams, but he doesn’t mind, not one bit. when both skates are finally tied, he slides his hands up to your thighs, steadying you as you stand, careful and sure. “there you go. perfect,” he says, but he doesn’t let go right away, and neither do you.

you stand there, laced up and wobbly, and he leans in, presses his forehead to yours, noses brushing, his hands still on your hips. “ready to show off?” he asks, but he doesn’t move until you do, like he could just stay there forever, balancing you in place.

“only if you don’t skate circles around me,” you joke, but the words are barely out before he’s pulling you onto the ice, hand snug in yours, eyes never leaving your face. every time you catch his gaze, it’s that same sweet, smitten look, like he can’t believe his luck, like he’s memorizing you against the cold.

you wobble once, and he’s instantly there, arms around your waist, steadying you, breath mixing with yours in the chilly air. “i got you,” he whispers, and it’s so earnest you almost giggle, letting him guide you, his hands sure, his voice low in your ear with every turn.

he shows you how to glide just a little smoother, how to pick up speed, but mostly he just stays close, never more than a breath away, glancing at you every few seconds like he’s afraid he might blink and you’ll disappear. at one point he spins you, just a little, and you end up pressed against the boards, laughing, his body caging yours, faces inches apart. he kisses you then, quick and sweet, the cold burning your cheeks, his lips soft and careful.

“god, you’re cute,” he mutters against your mouth, and you shiver, not from the cold. you loop your arms around his neck, squeezing him close, and he just grins, totally gone for you, eyes shining.

the afternoon stretches out, the rink slowly emptying, but he never lets go of your hand, not once. you could stay like this for hours, hearts pounding, skates laced just right, his smile warm enough to melt the whole damn rink.

[pellucid-constellations]

Source Material (2)

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: You had always been a reader—always drawn to worlds outside of your own. Always seeking more. This world, Azriel's world, was trying to teach you something; you were sure of it. Or, maybe, it was where you were always meant to be.

Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: Confusion, self-harm in desperation/confusion, angst, reference to psychosis and related symptoms

a/n: Sorryyy this took so long I wanted it out sooner but life was happening! I hope you enjoy :) Promise romance will come along in time and there are some hints of something already ;) This is def slow burn though which I think is crucial for this trope okay I'm blabbing love you bye <3

Read Part One Here

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~~

You were alone in a room you had once read about. 

Well, maybe you hadn’t read about this room exactly, but you’d read about this house, how it was alive and had agency and had magic. You’d read about the magic that blanketed the entire world, the land of Prythian, and what a magnificent read it had been. You could vaguely remember the stage of life you had been in. You could picture the covers. There was an audiobook downloaded on your phone for one of them—maybe the second—because you’d been on a road trip and you couldn’t put the series down. 

The characters had looked a bit different in your mind. Rhysand was more built than you had initially imagined, more imposing and less lean. Azriel was… well, he was more of everything. His shoulders were broader, his jaw sharp and defined. He was frightening, in every sense of the word, but you could also remember how he moved when you were panicked. How he held your head in his hand and spoke low when he asked you questions. Your skull gave a dull throb as you thought back on your run-in with the wall, and you threw a sidelong glance at the disruption in the paint by the window. 

That had been real then. There was evidence that you had been there. Your head ached because you had done something to it. You reached your hand up to brush along your hair and had the absent thought to pinch yourself, even though you’d already experienced pain in this strange state, and so the theory that you were dreaming was squashed. You hadn’t been too attached to that one, anyway; everything had been too vivid, too coherent for it to be a figment of a dream. 

But that still left psychosis, or maybe a coma. You figured there was a difference between normal dreaming and medically induced dreaming. Given the long duration of typical comas, there were many opportunities for something like this to occur. But you had somewhat of a hard time believing a dream—even a comatose one—could be so clear. Most of your knowledge of comas was from fiction, so what you believed was also not a very reliable source. You cursed yourself for not delving further into the medical textbooks in the campus library when you were on shift.

Frustration nipped at your chest when logic and sense continued to evade you, so you huffed, slapped your palms on the bed, and gave in to the nonsensical. You slid from the bed, finally doing so without watchful eyes, and meandered around the room. You’d taken it in from the bed, mostly, but there was still the chance that you’d go to open a drawer and it would be a cardboard cutout of a desk rather than the real deal. You sighed from your nose when you opened four drawers, and all of them were, unfortunately, very real. 

To your continued disappointment, the room was rather empty save for the furniture and the pictures on the wall. It made sense that a flighty stranger would be placed in a barren guest room, but you were hoping for a little more context. For that, you walked over to the window and tried to make sense of something there. 

Your breath caught in your throat at the view. You remembered from the books that the House was built into the side of a mountain, but it was surreal to see the plummet. No rock face or landing was keeping this building up, and the sky seemed… endless, clouds and strange-looking birds flying past the walls as if the house were part of the environment, and you supposed it was. 

Velaris—the name was dropped into your memory. You peered down and could see speckles of a city, the city, but were too far up to make anything out. The passing clouds were another deterrent, and you gave up with the window after another beat. You turned, and in the vaguest reflection, you startled.

Your hand moved up before you willed it to, tracing over the shell of your ear and then slamming back down to your side. But that wasn’t enough time to properly assess, so you found your ear again, moving it in every direction it would manage, pulling closer to the window to find the point you were sure you were feeling. It was getting you nowhere, the bright sunlight washing out your reflection.

There was a mirror in this room. You remembered how it had made you panic. You spun on your heel, fingers still running over your cartilage, but you looked across the room and found nothing. The wall held a suspicious space where a picture, or a mirror, might hang, and you searched your thoughts for what you had seen before. 

Yes, there had been a mirror, and you could picture yourself in it—a blurry image of yourself, tainted by panic. Your limbs had seemed longer. Your skin had seemed to glow.

But then you had bashed your head into the wall, and thus, your mirror privileges were taken away. 

You turned back to the window and searched for the outline of your ear. 

“Um, hello.” 

You gasped, maybe yelped, your back connecting with the wall as you registered that another person had entered the room. You could hear their blood running in their veins and exactly how fast their heart beat; that didn’t seem normal. You ignored it as you took in the effervescent woman before you. 

Her hair was golden and sleek, falling in waves along her back and covering her shoulders. She wore casual clothes that seemed out of place on her, a plain shirt tucked into a flowing, draping skirt—not actually casual, not by your standards, but in comparison to what you knew this setting to be, it was quite lax. 

This had to be Mor. She clasped her hands together in front of her waist and tipped onto the balls of her feet. 

“I’m Mor,” she smiled, and you felt the muscle in your eye twitch. “I know… Well, I know that you have been through a lot, and I didn’t think you’d want to talk to those two buffoons any longer. I heard they didn’t even introduce themselves when you woke up. It’s no wonder you… well—” 

Mor seemed to wince at herself, words trailing off. Her head lopped to the side, and you snatched your hand to your side, realizing that you were still clutching the high point of your ear—which was undoubtedly pointed. 

“Tried to bash my head in?” you offered. You sounded insane, voice twinkling and light. Was that your voice? It had to be. Perhaps you were depersonalizing along with your psychotic break. 

Mor grimaced. “Right. That’s what I meant.” She nodded to the bed, taking a hesitant seat on the edge. “Would you mind talking with me for a little? I just want to know more about where you came from. We don’t—none of us want to hurt you, but the circumstances of your… appearance have been strange.”

Of course they didn’t want to hurt you; you figured that wasn’t their way. You had stopped reading the series a few years ago, too inundated with work and school and trying to figure your life out, but from what you’d heard, the cast of this novel had been acquainted with unexplained figures appearing in their home. You weren’t sure where you were in their timeline, however. That thought struck you as you slowly stepped towards the bed and sat too far away from Mor. 

“The men in here before,” you started, once again giving in and leaning into the crazy. “They mentioned something about me landing in the library?” 

Mor perked up, obviously eager to have a conversation going. “Yes. We have a library further down the mountain. There have been reports from the priestesses there that a creature living in the depths has been unsettled over the last few days, today being the most unruly. One went down to see if she could speak to him—rather brave for a priestess—and she saw you. You were, well, unclothed. And unconscious. She called for us then. You only woke up that first time when Rhysand and Azriel were in the room. Unfortunately.” 

Bryaxis—that was the creature. You also knew of the library, and the priestesses, and were able to pinpoint somewhere in your mind that Cassian, who you had not yet met, was terrified of the very creature living just beneath this house. But you couldn’t say any of that. Couldn’t paint yourself suspicious with too much information.

Of course, if you were imagining this all, that wouldn’t really matter. Unless, of course, you chose to punish yourself in this wild fever dream. That would definitely be something your brain did. 

You shook the spiralling thoughts away. 

“How long was I out?” you asked, because that was neutral. 

“About a day and a half. Rhys had tried to—wait, are you aware of… where you are?” 

“Um, Velaris?” you offered, the name sounding bulky as it came out of your mouth. 

Mor paused. Her expression twitched. 

Wrong answer. Wrong answer. You should have said no. You should have said Night Court, or even Prythian, or anything other than the only secret city in the book.

But could you keep your origins a secret? 

You felt a hysterical laugh build at the base of your throat, and the thought to ask the year drifted through your mind because, at least then, maybe you could know where in this delirious fantasy delusion your brain had dropped you off at, but you didn’t know how time was quantified here. You hadn’t the slightest frame of reference, and you couldn’t exactly ask, “Mor, remind me, have you yet killed the King of Hybern, or are we in book two?” and expect to be trusted. 

You kept your mouth shut as Mor processes the two words you have spoken. 

“Yes,” she eventually replied, the ghost of a confused smile on her face. “Are you from here? A citizen? Or, um—” 

She was having trouble finding words. In the books, you remembered Mor as confident, sure of herself, and casually intimidating. Right now, she was none of those things, and it was because of you. 

And you had a decision to make. 

You could lie, but you’d never been a very good liar, and your lack of context would make it difficult to fit into the time. One wrong move and this would all be over, your fate most likely ending with Azriel’s blade to your throat out of fear you were infiltrating their lands, and you weren’t exactly sure what would happen if you died in this strange figment of your recollection. If you were hallucinating, or even dreaming as a comatose, there could be repercussions. 

You were taking too long to answer. Mor’s expression had gone from hesitant to wary, and you were still mulling over your options. Still considering the impossible as if you weren’t already experiencing it. 

“I’m not from here,” you landed on. You stared down at the lithe stretch of your fingers and then tucked them beneath your thighs. “I think my home is very, very far away.” 

“You think?” Mor pressed. 

“I’m not exactly sure where it would be in relation to here. I don’t think I could show you on a map. Or a globe. Do you have planets here?” 

“Do we have planets?” 

“Right. That feels like a ridiculous question. I’m not quite sure how to explain any of this.” 

“Perhaps it should be done all at once.”

~~

It took a few moments for Azriel and Rhysand to return to the room. You had half a mind to ask for the rest of the inner circle to join, simply to get more explaining out of the way, but you still hadn’t decided how much you were planning to share—how much you wanted them to know that you knew.

You startled when Azriel's wings displaced the air in the room. You heard them before you saw them, the sheer size creating a presence that body alone couldn’t replicate. So far, your reflection and the ethereal, larger-than-life qualities of the fae were the most jarring to come to terms with, but you had yet to leave this room, so there were surely other feats you would need to overcome. Unless your brain shook itself loose from this state before then. 

When you jumped, Azriel seemed to as well. His feet moved in a small, unsteady pattern, his wings pressing into his back. He had kept his eyes down upon entering, but you must have made a sound, a gasp, and he looked at you with a pinched expression. You tried to avert your gaze, but it got caught on the shadows again. He was so huge, his wings hooked and towering, the inky wisps taking up even more space. 

Rhysand had also joined the group, though you found it much easier for your eyes to pass over his form as he settled against the window. 

“I apologize for scaring you earlier,” Rhysand offered, a sincere hand over his heart. He didn’t need to apologize; you had scared yourself. The lack of reflective surfaces in the room was a testament to that. “We hadn’t meant to. Truly.” 

You shook your head but didn’t reply. Struggled to reply. This felt insane. 

“Mor said you aren’t from here?” Rhysand posed. 

“I’m not,” you said, taciturn from lack of direction. You hadn’t made up your mind. Hadn’t made sense of your brain and why it was taking you on this strange trip. You could give in, or you could give way to reason and see yourself back to reality from pure spite. 

To your dismay, being curt only got you more pressing, gentle looks. Rhysand was looking at you with a tender caution, and that was confusing because before, it was only suspicion. Before, he had stayed by the door and observed you like an animal. 

Was this your brain digging in?

The High Lord met you on the bed, sitting on the corner and giving you space, but coming down to your level. "I realize that you may have been through a lot, so I’ll give you some information first, okay?” he enticed. Azriel was still standing by the window, every muscle in his body seemingly on edge. You threw him a glance before nodding at Rhys. “You know you are in Velaris—Mor told me that. And she was also gracious enough to share our names, I’ve heard.” 

Mor snorted, crossing her arms as she stood beside Azriel. 

Rhysand lowered his brows from the look he threw her. “I am the High Lord of this court. You were discovered in my library. The library is not open to the public, so since you arrived there, seemingly by a magical occurrence, my inner circle and I have had many questions.” 

“Why don’t you just look into my mind and answer your questions?” you shouted into your thoughts. “Mind-reading would be the clearest solution, since I’m already going insane.” 

“I don’t know how I ended up there,” you said instead, digging your fingers into the plush material of the bed. “I wasn’t feeling well, I passed out, and then I woke up here. I don’t—I don’t even know what your library looks like.” 

A partial lie. You had read about the contents of the library and had a general description floating in your mind, but you could only remember the vaguest outline of the space. 

Azriel was next to speak. “What do you mean—not feeling well?” 

That was simpler to answer; you could handle that. Maybe Azriel was a doctor, and this was reality seeping through. “It was like a pain in my stomach, but more like an excruciating pulling. Something was… strange inside of me. I thought maybe my appendix, but now that I’m thinking back, I’m sure that couldn’t have been it. I got up to get help, but I barely made it to the door before I was out. That’s all I remember before I woke up in this room.” 

“Appendix?” Mor murmured as Rhysand paused, let the word simmer in the space, and then leaned his elbows on his knees.

Anxiety spiked as he sat there, contemplating. Your fingers felt glued to the bed, the back of your neck prickling. You gnawed on the inside of your cheek as silence ticked past, and then you were screaming again. You were tired of screaming. 

A slinking feeling had inched its way into your mind, rolling along the edges and searching for a weak point. You thrashed back on the bed, pushing yourself against the headboard even though the threat wasn’t physical. The feeling flattened against the surface of your mind, expanding in rolling darkness, and prickled pain across your vision. You held your head in your hands but felt no relief. 

“Rhys,” Azriel said, his voice low and strained. “It is not working.” 

“Working?” you breathed out, clutching then at your chest. “What’s—” 

“Let me—” 

“Rhys.” Azriel snapped when you let out another shout. His voice was calm, a measured calm, when he said, “We can ask her. We don’t need to resort to this yet.” 

“We tried asking,” Rhysand countered. Your mind was still being invaded. Invaded, but nothing gleaned. Something ached, and something else was a sharp crack.

“I don’t—” you started and failed. “You can ask me. Ask me!” 

Shit. Shit. What was this? Were you being lobotomized in real time, unable to find your way back to the present before you were deemed really and truly unfixable? Something in your head knocked, but you were unable to answer with the pressing pain. Unable to even make sense of a knock in your mind. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t—” 

Mor’s hesitant tone was cut off. Rhysand gritted out, “We don’t have the luxury of waiting for a lie. She wasn’t telling us everything. If she’s working with them—for him—we need to—” 

“Need to what?” Azriel spat out, his voice sounding closer. The pain lessened, but the fog in your mind remained. 

“Azriel, I don’t want to hurt her, but—” 

“And so you won’t.” 

A long, pointed pause. 

The High Lord spoke once more. “We can’t take any chances.” 

“You haven’t given her a chance.” 

“No fae has that strong a barrier in their mind without having secrets. We cannot afford secrets.” 

“I can’t—” 

Your whimper cut Azriel off, the pain building again, and you couldn’t take it. It seemed never-ending. If you could drop whatever barrier they were talking about, you would, but without even the slightest knowledge of what it was, Rhysand would never stop his assault. You cracked your eyes open despite the light blistering your vision, tears brimming from the discomfort. 

“I won’t lie,” you promised, heaving out breaths before the pain could take over again. “I won’t. I promise. Please don’t do that again. Please. I don’t know—I didn’t make a barrier.” 

Azriel was nearly on the bed, his knees brushing along the mattress where he stood. You would have been startled by the proximity, but the throbbing in your head had lowered the threshold for shock. Still, the hulking Illyrian dwarfed you where you sat, shadows pooling along your lap. If you extended your hand, you could have grabbed his. 

The thought quickly extinguished from your mind. 

“Are you working for the uprising?” 

That threw you. You shook the lingering murkiness from your mind and squinted into the room to find Rhysand, the shadow from Azriel helping immensely. “I don’t know anything about an uprising.” 

It didn’t ring a single bell from the books. Maybe it was from one of the newer series you hadn’t read yet? Or a novella? An uprising seemed much too poignant for a novella. 

An ache was returning in your brain, and so you panicked. “I swear. I swear! I don’t even know how I’m here! I live in New York! I’m getting my master’s degree, and my student loans barely cover my rent! My upstairs neighbor got a tiny dog that keeps me awake half the night, and I swear I’m hallucinating all of this from chronic lack of sleep, so I’m probably shouting this into a void, but that hurts so bad and I’m begging you to believe me. I know I sound crazy. I just—” 

You paused. Took in the room. The pain had ceased, but the looks you were getting weren’t much better. You thought back to the source material these characters came from, and said what you thought might make sense. 

“I’m human. I’m not—I’m not supposed to be here. I got so scared when I saw myself because I don’t look like that. I’m not from here, and I meant that. I need to go home. Through a portal or some magic object or through that creature in the library maybe. And I don’t know what uprising you’re talking about because I come from a place where the most exciting things that happen are on my phone so I need to get back home because I have experienced more pain and fear in the last hour than I have in my entire life.” 

The room stayed silent. 

Azriel’s hands were limp at his sides.

[pellucid-constellations]

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relationship coded

word count: 4,537 ship: Garrett Graham x reader rating: PG-13 summary: for someone who claimed to never have time for a girlfriend, garrett graham is pretty good at the whole 'boyfriend' thing notes: i have a masterlist now bc i've lost control of my life notes2: gifs are from this gifpack :)

There were rumors that spun around Briar U about your relationship with Garrett Graham and how you managed to tie down someone who notoriously ‘never did girlfriends’. Some ranged from the ridiculousness of blackmail to the ‘stream over rock’ concept, which is essentially just about wearing him down enough until he agreed. At the beginning, these ideas annoyed you—it wasn’t anyone’s business why you and Garrett decided to take a long-term friendship and turn it into something more. But then you realized that most people talking were just jealous or far too curious for their own good. The point in all this? For someone who insisted he’d never be someone’s boyfriend…he’s ridiculously good at it. 

That’s not to say that Garrett hasn’t always been thoughtful or kind or hadn’t gone out of his way to do something for someone else before dating you. It’s just that now, with that rose-colored lens of being exclusive, everything he does just tips you closer and closer into falling in love with him. 

As if you weren’t standing on that precipice already. 

—

You’re not sure whose grand idea it was to have a party in the woods, yet here you are. You suppose it’s aesthetically sort of pleasing, given that it’s October and the spooky vibes are slipping into everything your friend group wants to do. Don’t get it wrong—you love this time of year, you love Halloween and pumpkin carving and hay rides and decorating and dressing up. Woods, however? is kinda where you draw the line. 

Garrett’s arm slips around your waist as you sit in front of a small bonfire, tucking you back into his chest. You breathe out, turning your head to offer him a small smile. He smiles back, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You know he can feel how stiff you are, shifting every so often, your gaze caught to the woods just beyond where everyone is…

“You know the likelihood of us getting killed by a forest witch is like…low, right?” 

You huff at the teasing in his voice, “But never zero.” You mumble.

Garrett smirks, squeezing around your waist. “I think you need to lay off the horror movies for a while, babe.” 

“I think you should do more research,” You squirm, an uncomfortable feeling settling in your lower belly. “Literally these movies are available so people don’t make stupid decisions in the woods.” Your nose crinkles, “The minute Dean disappears, we’re leaving. Don’t even think about going to look for him either. Big fucking trap.” 

A laugh rumbles in Garrett’s chest and you know he’s looking around the bonfire for his friend because, yeah, if anyone disappears in a horror movie first you’re pretty sure it’d be Dean. 

“I think we all should probably leave the woods if Dean is our canary in the coal mine.” Garrett comments, taking a sip of his beer. 

You shift again, suddenly uncomfortable. Though after a moment of taking account that it’s not the woods giving you the creeps (it is, but this is something else), you hone in on that sharp ache that’s touching on your lower belly. It blooms suddenly across your abdomen and—

Oh no. 

It’s cramps. It’s cramps but—you tug your phone out of your pocket, checking your period tracking app and…three days early. You’re usually never early. If anything, you’re a one to two days late kind of girl. Shit. 

“I’ll be right back.” You say suddenly, getting up so fast you nearly elbow Garrett in the shoulder. 

His eyebrows draw together, his hand gliding down from your waist to rest on your outer thigh, “I’m pretty sure you told me that’s a death sentence in some of these movies.” 

A laugh strangles up your throat. Jesus Christ, he does listen to your horror genre rambles, “I’m just using the bathroom. If I’m not back in five minutes, send a search party,” You lean down and kiss his cheek, “Just kidding, but avenge my death.” 

“That’s not funny.” He calls after you as you begin walking towards the bathrooms but you can hear a twinge of humored warmth in his voice. 

You quickly make your way towards this stone-like structure in the woods which, at the very least, isn’t porta-potties. It reminds you of a park bathroom that doesn’t have a closing door but an open entryway that leads to three stalls and sinks. Running water, at least, which feels like a win. You shiver against the cold as you slip into one of the stalls, missing the warmth of Garrett’s body and the bonfire. It’s always so damp in these sorts of things. 

Tugging your jeans down, you groan as your suspicions are confirmed. You got your period early and there’s blood in your underwear and…staining the back of your jeans. Jesus. You pinch the bridge of your nose before rifling through your purse and—

“Seriously?” You mutter to yourself, realizing you brought a smaller bag tonight and not your usual purse which has all your period supplies. 

You bite down on your lower lip, frustration and annoyance pinpricking the back of your eyelids. You are not about to do something stupid like cry in the middle of the woods in a shady bathroom. You’ll just text one of your friends—odds are, they’ll have something for you to use. 

You use a wad of toilet paper in the meantime, tugging your jeans back up. Heading back out to the sink, you wash your hands and—

There’s the sound of someone coming. Large footsteps, shuffling leaves, branches breaking and—

You hear Garrett call your name just outside the doorway to the bathroom. You sigh out of your nose, your hand coming to rest on your hammering heart. Jesus. 

Moving around the corner, you see him standing near the entrance, “Hey, consider this the search party you wanted.” There’s a small smile at the corners of his lips until he gets a good look at your face, “What’s wrong?” 

God. This is so embarrassing. Look, you fully believe that if a man can’t talk about periods and blood and whatever comes with it shouldn’t be anywhere near fooling around with you on good days. But…you still feel heat kiss the back of your neck all the same. 

“I uh, I got my period.” 

Garrett shifts on his feet, his gaze brushing over you in what feels like a gentle caress. He opens his mouth to say something but you start rambling, 

“I’m early and I brought a stupid tiny bag tonight so I don’t have anything. And my jeans are ruined and uhm,” Emotion clogs the back of your throat, “And here I was worried about a vindictive forest witch when I should have been worried about my own body turning against me.” A strangled laugh escapes, “Like—how dumb is that?” 

He takes a step closer to you, brushing a hand over your cheek. It’s not until he pulls away that you realize a tear escaped from your eye. Fuck. 

Garrett slides his leather jacket off, handing it to you to hold for a moment as he tugs that purple hoodie he likes to wear over his head. Your eyebrows draw together in confusion, watching as he trades the sweatshirt into your hands to put the leather jacket back on. And then he’s…

He’s tying the purple hoodie around your waist, hiding the back of your jeans. The sentiment is so easy and so gentle that more tears slip down your cheeks. This is so—

You quickly wipe them away, sniffling. “Thank you.” 

He gives you a small smile, his hand resting on your shoulder. His thumb traces back and forth over your neck, “Okay, two options. One—we go back to the Jeep and I have some stuff in the trunk. I don’t actually…know if it’s what you need, but—” 

You blink, tipping your head back to look at him, “You have period supplies in your trunk?” 

Garrett rubs the back of his neck now, seeming uncertain, “Yeah. It’s just the pads, I think. I thought maybe you might need them at some point, like an emergency stash—” 

You press yourself up on your toes to kiss him. You can feel him smiling against your lips, wrapping your arms around your waist to press you in close. His hand trails up and down your spine before settling on the back of your neck, squeezing the tense muscles there. 

When the kiss ends, Garrett rests his forehead against yours, “Or option two, we can go home. You can get a shower and I’ll set up the couch with your favorites.” Meaning lots of blankets, a heating pad, a bowl of ice cream and salty snacks. “We can even watch something that’s going to give me nightmares.” 

You can’t help but smile at the reluctance in his voice, cupping his cheek to stroke your thumb over the bone, “My hero.” You tease.

He rolls his eyes but his smile is fond as his hand slips into yours, guiding your way back towards his Jeep. 

—

You’ve been dealing with migraines for as long as you can remember. They’re usually brought on by stress, which, it’s like you want to tell your body that there’s no other version of yourself that you can be at college. Regardless, this one lecture never fails to cause tension to pinch the back of your eyes. Usually you’re able to stave it off, take your meds, drink a lot of water and deal with a regular headache. 

Today though? It knocks into you like a cinderblock to the temple. 

A grateful noise leaves your lips as you make it back to your dorm room, toeing your shoes off and making a b-line for your bedroom. Your hip bumps into your desk and you curse whoever decided that was a good place for it to go. You can’t see out of your right eye and your head is pulsing along with the beat of your heart. You don’t even bother changing your clothes or reaching for the blinds because if you don’t sit soon gravity is going to take over and you’re going to fall. 

Lying face down on your bed, you bury your face under your pillows, hoping the cacophony of sounds and light and pounding stops soon. 

—

You’re not sure what time it is. You think you hear a door open and close and low voices in the living area of your dorm. Your roommate and…someone else. Maybe her boyfriend? Regardless, you don’t move. There’s an aching soreness to your temples and behind your eyes, a grating sort of pain that’ll get worse if your body shifts at all. It’s not…it’s not as bad as when you first got back to your room, but it’s teasing the edge of tipping into something that’s worse or getting better. There’s no way to tell other than just waiting it out. 

A soft sigh leaves your lips and more sounds gently fill the space. Your door opens, you think—blinds are being pulled down? Someone takes off your shoes and then slowly crawls into bed beside you. You draw in a breath, the smell of cologne mixing with laundry detergent and something purely Garrett. 

It’s like your entire body relaxes when you feel his hand gently trail up your back. 

You move just a fraction, your face peeking out from underneath the pillow. He offers you a small smile, “Hey,” He whispers, brushing some of your hair out of your face, “How you doing, champ?” 

“Bad,” You whisper back, the word crackly and tired. Your eyebrows draw together because you’re not sure how he figured out you were here—

“You missed your shift at Malone’s,” He fills in, his hand sneaking up and under your shirt to smooth his fingers against your skin. It feels really nice. 

“Fuck,” You clear your throat, shifting just enough to get yourself above the pillows. Garrett moves closer, his arm tucked around your waist, “I completely forgot—” 

“I told Della that the only reason you’d miss is because you were sick,” He assures, “She knows about your migraines, right?” 

You nod, your hand coming up to rest against your face. It’s quiet for a few moments, just the sounds of the dorm settling around you and your shared breathing. Garrett pulls a blanket free to drape over you, pressing a kiss to your forehead, 

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” He mumbles a moment later. 

You shake your head, “You didn’t.” You pull your hand from your face, your arm resting along Garrett’s side, tucking it underneath his hoodie. “I was kinda in and out.” 

Garrett is quiet for a few moments, his big hand rubbing along your shoulders, squeezing every so often. Despite sometimes feeling far too overstimulated and emotional, it feels good having him here, that unwavering silent support alongside you. 

“Do you need anything?” He asks. He doesn’t try to force you to eat or nag you about pills, he doesn’t try to assume he understands the inner workings of what your migraine might be doing to your emotions or your body. He’s just offering whatever might make you feel like you’re more in control. 

And he has no idea how much that means to you. 

Eventually shaking your head, you inch closer to him until your face is tucked against his chest, your leg sliding between both of his own. He breathes out, his lips and nose burying themselves in your hair. 

“I just need you.” Your soft reply comes a moment later and Garrett squeezes your body to his before relaxing against the mattress. 

—

One of the many things you love about Garrett is how willing he is to be completely ridiculous with you. He’s silly, which you don’t think many people realize. He’s very dedicated and determined and hyperfocused sometimes on his future, on hockey, on things that really matter. But when he allows himself to unwind, when he smiles freely, when he laughs hard and jokes with you just to get you to smile—it’s one of your favorite things. 

It’s late and the bar is packed. You’re a bit more tipsy than you usually allow yourself to get, but it’s your friend’s birthday and the shots have been steadily flowing since you got here. Garrett came late because he was finishing practice, so he’s a few drinks behind you, but that doesn’t stop him from dancing when you ask. 

His moves are wildly dorky, but in this charming kind of way that makes you bend a bit in full bellied laughter. Garrett is somehow awkward and boxy with some of his movements and yet it doesn’t stop him from being attractive, either. It’s not something a lot of people can pull off. You grin when he grabs your hand to twirl you and when the song gets to the chorus, you can’t stop yourself from bouncing along to the lyrics. Garrett doesn’t jump but he does hold onto your hand, a laugh slipping free every time you use his arm to push yourself up further. 

When you stumble over Garrett’s shoe after another spin, he wraps an arm around your waist and gently holds you to his chest, “Alright,” He chuckles, “C’mon, how about some water?” 

“How about a kiss?” You pout, your hand moving to touch his cheek. 

Garrett smirks, turning his head to press a kiss to your fingers before he leans down and captures your lips. It’s slow and easy and the way his tongue sneaks into your mouth makes your toes curl. You want to whine that it’s far too short but he peppers a few against your face when he pulls back and you suppose that’s good enough for now. 

Leaning against the bar once you get there, Garrett grabs a water from the bartender and sits it down in front of you. “Also paying for her tab.” He says over the music, motioning to you. 

You take a long sip of water, about to protest because you can pay for it, or at the very least half but two girls that you definitely recognize from other Briar U parties and hockey games come right up beside Garrett. Puck bunnies. 

They’re pretty, if not carbon copies of one another—blonde and tall and giggly when they talk to him. One of them is offering shots while the other is asking Garrett if he wants to dance and while he fixes both of them with a polite smile, he declines. You scoff softly as they nod, looking disappointed and pouty before disappearing. 

You chew on your straw as Garrett turns his attention back to you, raising his eyebrows, “You’re pouting.” 

You sip on your water, definitely sounding like a little gremlin when you voice, “I am not.” 

Garrett lets out a sudden laugh, “Okay.” Then, “You know there’s no reason for you to be jealous.” 

Oh my god. The back of your neck heats from the audacity of this man (and because he’s so right). And yet, “I am…I’m not jealous.” 

Your boyfriend hums like he doesn’t believe you and…you suppose he shouldn’t. You’re still looking at girls who approached him further down the bar. Before you can say anything else, Garrett hooks your chin between his fingers and kisses you again. 

Heat curls all the way down your body and you swear you can feel yourself melt directly into the floor. Your fingers curl into his shirt, holding onto him, and all other thoughts fade away. Especially the ones that don’t matter. 

—

In the morning, when you wake up in Garrett’s bed, tucked against pillows and too many blankets—there’s a bag of fast food on the nightstand along with some aspirin and water. The bag has a note written on it; 

—practice, see you later :) 

A small smile presses itself onto your face despite your hangover. 

—

Garrett is a boyfriend to keep, and as it turns out, you’re pretty good as a girlfriend too. 

—

It’s not often that Garrett gets into fights on the ice, but it does happen. You’re not sure what’s up with this player on the other team, but 32 won’t keep his mouth shut. You may not be close enough to hear what’s being said, but you have eyes. You tend to follow your boyfriend as he plays and 32 won’t let up. You can tell that Garrett is getting increasingly pissed off the longer the game goes on. You’re not sure whether the other player is trying to just…throw Garrett off his game so that he fucks up? Or get him in the penalty box? You can’t be sure. 

But the entire thing makes you nervous. 

The game is so close to being over—in fact, Briar U scores the last goal and the crowd goes wild, music playing and horns going off. 

You feel like there’s a moment in which you can exhale; both teams are lining up to congratulate one another on a good game played. Which would be fine, business as usual, except 32 opens his mouth for one last chirp. Whatever he says has Garrett seeing red, he launches himself across the line, gloves off, throwing a punch. Logan and Dean are quick to draw him back so it’s not as bad as it could have been? But fuck. 

You can’t sit in the stands anymore. You turn on your heel and rush through the crowds of people, trying to pass and get through. Your fingers play with the keys to Garrett’s Jeep, the cool weather a refreshing kiss to your flushed face once you get outside. You linger near the exit where the players come out and as time passes, a lot of them head out for the night. All but Garrett. 

When Logan opens the door next, he connects eyes with you, his gaze soft, “He’s still in the locker room.” 

You swallow, “Is he okay?” 

“I think he’s just trying to calm down.” 

Your legs move you forward and past Logan as he holds the door open. You don’t even realize he’s behind you, making sure you get past any lingering security so that they don’t escort you out. He disappears once you push the locker room door open, seeing Garrett sitting in front of his stall. His body is bowed, still in some of his gear, his elbows on his knees and his hands hanging loosely between his legs. 

The door gently closes behind you and you walk forward, “Garrett.” Your voice is loud in such a quiet room. 

He glances up at you, swallowing over emotion thick in his throat. He straightens his shoulders, centering himself, “How did you get in here?” 

Chewing on your lower lip, you stand in front of him, not touching him. Not yet, “Logan.” A moment passes, “Actually, I ran past him when the door was open. He just made sure I wasn’t tackled by campus police.” 

A ghost of a smile pulls the corners of his mouth, gone as soon as it appears. Close up now, you can see how upset he is. Like a livewire, barely contained, his hands shaking and breathing slightly shallow. You don’t want to ask him what happened because you don’t want to wind him up more than he already is—and honestly? It doesn’t matter what set him off. The point is that he’s having a hard time coming down from it now. 

That’s your priority. 

You breathe out and step closer, nearly bumping his one knee. You drag your fingers through his damp curls, getting them out of the way of his face. His head tips back and the stark emotion in his expression, the slight mistiness to his eyes—it’s like a punch in the gut. 

“Are you hurt?” You ask softly. 

Garrett looks down at his hands, which are still trembling, but he shakes his head, “No, I just—can’t get out of my head.” 

You nod softly, knowing how much violence is a trigger for him. How he struggles with it. You really wish you could speak your peace to Phil Graham, because you have so much to fucking say. But Garrett has never had you meet him, has never allowed him within two feet of you, even when he’s here at his son’s games. And you know why, you can respect that. But it doesn’t take away the anger and frustration you feel on your boyfriend’s behalf.

Especially when he’s like this. 

32 must have said something to create this headspace, Garrett wouldn’t have allowed himself to dip this low otherwise. 

You shift, standing between Garrett’s legs, gently untying his shoulder pads and sliding them off and onto the floor. Once you have access to his body, your hands fall, massaging the stiff muscles above his collarbones. You work your thumbs into his upper neck and trail your fingers to his back and then all over again—in a calming circle that eventually has his body relaxing, his shoulders unhooking from his ears, his jaw unclenching. 

“I don’t know what 32 said,” You say after a moment, “And I don’t need to know. But whatever it was? He’s not worth it.” 

Garrett swallows, “I’m sorry.” 

“No,” Your voice is firm, reaching for his chin so that he’s looking at you when you add, “Don’t be sorry—I’m not upset. I was just worried about you. I care about you, so much. You know that, right?” 

Garrett lets out a slow breath, his face pinching a little. His hands suddenly grip your sides, pulling you closer, his face pressing into your abdomen. You can feel that soft hitching of him trying to control himself, maybe trying not to cry. Your heart aches in your chest as you step closer, allowing him to clutch onto you, your hand soothing through his hair and down his back in slow, even circles. 

After a few minutes, Garrett finally seems like he’s calmed down, or at the very least he’s not shaking anymore. When he pulls back, you run a hand through his curls, offering him a small smile. You lean down to kiss him but before your lips can map over his, 

“I love you,” He says, “You know that, right?” He mirrors what you said, making your heart flip-flop in your chest. 

You smile fully, nodding, before kissing him. It’s gentle and quick, but seemingly enough. 

“I love you too,” You add, taking a step back. “C’mon, grab a shower before we head out. You stink.” 

A laugh rumbles in his chest before he shakes his head, standing to his full height. “Yeah, yeah,” He mumbles, tugging off his long-sleeved thermal. He turns to make eye contact with you, pausing, as if—

“I’ll be here,” You promise, sitting down in front of his stall, “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Garrett nods, leaning down to kiss you again, leaving you with a warm sensation that feels a lot like home as he heads off to the showers. 

—

“Are they supposed to be like that?” 

You purse your lips, turning your head as you take a long look at the muffins you made, cooling on the stovetop at Garrett’s place. You wouldn’t consider yourself a baker or…even a cook, at any rate, but literally how hard is it to follow directions and like, put something in the oven for a specific amount of time? 

Apparently difficult. 

“Uhm,” You poke one of them with a fork and…as suspected, they are rock solid. “Maybe?” Garrett chews on his lower lip and you can tell he’s trying not to laugh. You smack him in the chest. “Shut up.” 

“I’m sorry,” A laugh escapes, “I’m pretty sure you could injure someone with one of these.” 

You groan, your head tipping back as you set the fork down, “I don’t understand, I followed the recipe. Maybe they…taste better than they look?” 

“Do you wanna chip a tooth?” 

“Garrett.” 

He laughs again, “Fuck, sorry. I’m just saying—think it might be a lost cause, babe. I say we toss them and let Tucker bake something when he gets home.” 

There’s a pout on your lips, even as you untie your apron, “Maybe I could try one, just to see…” You slip the apron over your head, setting it aside. But the moment you reach for one of the muffins, Garrett crouches down and scoops you up into his arms, tossing you over his shoulder. 

“Put me down!” You squawk, reaching down his back in an attempt to smack his ass, “Caveman.” 

He carries you over to the couch, “Sorry,” He does not sound sorry at all. In one easy motion, he plops you onto the cushions. You land in a flourish, a soft oof leaving your lips. Garrett maps his body on top of yours, smiling against your lips, “Boyfriend code says I have to protect you from eating inedible muffins. Those are just the rules.” 

A soft laugh rumbles in your chest, mixed with fluttering butterflies and your heart flip-flopping—all at the sound of boyfriend. Yeah, that never gets old. 

“Oh,” You smile, “Well if those are the rules.” You wrap your fingers in his shirt, tugging him down into a kiss. 

You think you can live with that. 

[sunny747]

Obsessed

[moonstruckme]

hi!! would i please be able to request independent reader who craves comfort but has a hard time admitting when she's vulnerable (sick, in pain, scared, etc.) with any or all of the marauder boys? no pressure and thank you!! love your writing <3

Thanks for requesting sweetness <3

a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 861 words

Sirius thinks you might be upset with him, but he's too scared to ask. 

He can think of a number of things he might have done, from forgetting to take the recycling out yesterday to that tone he took a few weeks ago. If he were upset at him (which he might be, depending on why you are), Sirius would have a plethora of reasons to choose from, but he can't figure what's made you decide to go quiet on him this morning specifically. 

Adding to the confusion, despite not seeming to want to speak to him you're being more affectionate than usual in a tactile sense. Not that Sirius minds, not in the least. He's happy to hold your hand and keep you tucked to his side—he'd sew you there if he thought you'd let him. It's strange from you, though, to reach for him as often as you have been. 

While he puzzles it out, Sirius reciprocates all of your doting and then some. Best case, it's what you want; worst, it might endear you to him enough for you to tell him what he's done wrong. He kisses your head while you both read your books on the sofa, and you melt further and further down his side. Gloopy. 

"Okay," you say, a sigh somewhere in your voice, "I'd better go." 

Sirius frowns. "Go where?" 

"I have a doctor's appointment." You stand and pick up your back, looking around for where you left your shoes. You're still holding Sirius' hand like you mean to pull him along. 

"Do you want me to come with you?" he jokes. 

You blanch. "What?" 

He grins through his own confusion, squeezing your fingers. 

"Oh." Your expression relaxes, but something zaps across it first that gives him pause. You let Sirius' hand go. "Sorry." 

"Don't be sorry. Do you want me to come with you?" 

"No," you say quickly, spotting your shoes under the armchair, "I'm fine, thanks." 

Sirius smothers his hurt. "Did I do something?" 

"What?" You pick your head up from where you've bent over to tie your laces, nearly hitting it on the coffee table. "No."

"Are you upset with me?" 

"No, not at all." 

"Are you sure? Because you've been—you're being really quiet. If you are, I'd rather know." 

"No." You sit up, and there's something raw in your gaze as it meets his. Your voice softens with earnestness. "I mean yeah, I'm sure. I don’t mean to be quiet, sorry." 

"I don't want you to be sorry, lovely." Sirius sits forward, his chest tight with apprehension yet undispelled as he leans toward you. "Be quiet if you want to be, it’s fine. I'm not trying to make you feel bad. I just don't understand what's going on." 

Like holding his gaze gets to be too much, you drop it. Your lips rub against each other. "It's not you." 

"Then what is it?" he asks softly.

"I've just…it's stupid, but I've really been dreading this." 

"Dreading what?" 

"This appointment." Your voice is low, like it costs you to say it aloud. You're still looking anywhere but his eyes. 

Sirius blinks at you. It's not what he was imagining you'd say; honestly, he’d nearly forgotten the reason you untucked yourself from his side in the first place. He knows you're squeamish, that you don't like to watch bloody things or medical procedures on television, so he can see how that sort of feeling might extend to doctor's offices. It's just not something you've ever mentioned to him. 

"Hey," he coaxes, "I did mean it. I could go with you if you want." 

It's like Sirius' gentleness provokes the opposite reaction in you. You shake your head swiftly, standing. "Thanks, but I'll survive." 

"I think we can do a bit better than surviving, probably." 

"I mean, I'll be fine." 

Sirius catches your hand when you make to cross in front of him. "If it has a shot at making you feel better," he says, "I want to come with. Is that okay?" 

Your expression cracks, the rawness he glimpsed earlier finally revealing itself. "It's embarrassing," you murmur. 

"I don't think so," Sirius counters. "We all have our things. It's easier when there's someone nearby who wants to give you a hug. At least, I've always thought it was." 

Your trepidation doesn't vanish, but you lift the corners of your mouth halfheartedly. "You want to come along to give me a hug?" 

He raises his eyebrows. "Unless you're planning on asking someone else for one. I've been told they're not all equally as good, though, just to warn you." 

"I usually do this sort of thing without a hug." It sounds like a confession. 

Sirius matches your tone. "Well, that won't do anymore. Let me come with you, please?" 

He throws in the please for extra persuasiveness, and it works. You wave him up from his seat. Sirius hops to, stepping into his shoes and following you to the door. 

"Thanks," you nearly whisper on your way out, shame still lingering at the edges of you. 

Sirius slips an arm around your shoulders and kisses your cheek in hopes of curing it. 

[flowersforbucky]

don’t you ever end up anything but mine

bucky barnes x reader {soulmate au}

everyone is born with a mark that matches their soulmate’s. but what if the red room erased yours before you were old enough to remember it?

word count: 15.7k+ ~ warnings/tags: 18+ only mdni! smut, post thunderbolts, ex widow reader, angst, themes of fate vs choice, heavy mutual pining, no use of y/n, reader is implied to be shorter than bucky, bucky is a level 84827282 yearner, mentions of trauma associated with the red room and hydra, pov switches, oral, reader is afab

author’s note: i haven’t posted anything for bucky in monthsss. this took me an embarrassing amount of time. i think i struggled with this more than anything else i’ve ever written but thanks to @fru1t4fr0gs continuous love and encouragement, i finally finished it after more than two months of writing.

i tried to keep physical descriptions to a minimum but this fic does feature soulmates being born with matching tattoos, birthmarks, scars, etc. also, this fic was inspired by “the prophecy” by taylor swift ♡ i highly recommend giving it a listen!

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Soulmate.

A word that fills most people with hope and peace.

Hope for those who have yet to find their other half, but know that it’s only a matter of time. Peace for those who have already found them, and fall asleep each night knowing that they’re exactly where they’re destined to be.

For others, it can be a word synonymous with grief. They found their soulmate and had to say goodbye to them too soon.

But for you, it means nothing. There’s no warmth, but also no ache. No hope, but no loss, either.

Because there’s no point in hoping for something that’s impossible, and you can’t lose what you weren’t allowed to have in the first place.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”

You smile, and shake your head. It’s the third time she’s asked in the last half hour. You appreciate the invitation, but the thought of being a fifth wheel is somehow more depressing than spending your Friday night holed up in your bedroom eating an egregious number of peanut butter cookies by yourself.

“I’m sure, Lena.” You try your hardest to sound convincing. “It’s been a long week, anyway. I’m just going to relax and catch up on some laundry.”

She gives you an understanding look. At this point, you know she expects you to find some kind of partial truth based excuse to avoid whatever plans she, Bob, Walker and Ava have.

You can’t help it. It gets to you more than it should - seeing Walker and Ava walk hand in hand while Bob has his arm around Yelena’s shoulder and you awkwardly stand to the side or trail behind them.

It wouldn’t be as big of a deal if Valentina hadn’t used it as a marketing tactic to win people over. The New Avengers: not only did they save all of New York from being consumed by interconnected shame rooms, but four of them found their soulmates in the process!

It’s an effective strategy, you’ll give her that much. Really pulls at the heartstrings. People go fucking crazy over it.

“If you change your mind, you know where we’ll be,” she tells you gently before exiting the kitchen to catch up with the others, leaving you to finish baking your cookies. You exhale, roll up your sleeves, and turn back to the bowl of dough on the counter.

Everyone on the team has their own little rituals. Walker wakes up at the ass crack of dawn every morning to go on a run, no matter the weather. Yelena drinks peppermint tea before bed every night. Baking is your thing.

It’s usually a good distraction. It keeps your hands busy and your mind quiet enough. But tonight, on the six month anniversary of the New Avengers forming, your thoughts are louder than usual.

Tonight makes six months of watching almost all of your teammates fall into the kind of love that you have only ever dreamed about. Walker and Ava. Yelena and Bob. Even Alexei has his soulmate in Melina, Yelena’s mother figure.

You drop another scoop of dough onto the baking sheet and for probably the millionth time, you wonder how different your life would be if your soul mark had survived. If you’d only been old enough to remember what it had looked like before the Red Room erased it. Like Yelena. Hers too had been taken from her, but not before she was old enough to commit it to memory - the initials RR written in black cursive letters on her wrist.

But you’d been even younger than her when the Red Room took you, and you have no memory of what your mark looked like or where it had been on your body.

They vary person to person. Some soulmates are born with matching tattoos, others identical birthmarks or scars. Had yours been your mate’s initials, like Yelena and Bob? Or a constellation like Walker and Ava? Maybe a small, heart shaped scar like Alexei and Melina.

Whatever it had been, the Red Room did a phenomenal job of getting rid of it. You’ve inspected your body from head to toe more times than you can count throughout the years, and you’ve never been able to find the faintest trace of what could have once been a soul mark.

“Chocolate chip?”

A familiar voice interrupts your thoughts as you place the cookie sheet in the oven. You glance over your shoulder to find Bucky taking a seat at the kitchen island, undoubtedly returning from the gym or an evening run.

“Peanut butter, actually,” you hum, trying to ignore the way your heart rate spiked at the sight of him, flushed face and glistening skin.

“Peanut butter? You must be feeling adventurous. Friday night is usually chocolate chip night.”

“What can I say?” You sigh, unable to stop the way the corners of your lips quirk upwards. “Felt like changing things up.”

“It’s my lucky night then. Peanut butter is my favorite.”

Your cheeks heat up. You know peanut butter is his favorite, but you don’t tell him that. Just like the way you’ve memorized how he takes his coffee, or the exact protein powder he prefers - details he’s never actually said aloud, yet somehow, you know. Little things that stick in your mind without effort, even though he isn’t yours to take such notice of.

No matter how much you may wish that was the case.

You might know what his favorite kind of cookies are, but you don’t know the one thing you wish to know the most about him. Where or what his soul mark is.

You’ve never seen it, so it’s safe to assume that it isn’t somewhere highly visible, like his wrist or neck. But you can’t stop yourself from wondering sometimes - what does his mark look like? Has he found his soulmate? He’s single now, but has he always been alone? Maybe it was someone he knew a century ago, before the war? Before Hydra? Before his innocence and bodily autonomy were stripped away? Someone old and gray now, or someone that he’s already lost?

Or is he still searching, all these decades later?

As curious as you are, you don’t ask. Asking someone about their soul mark is like asking about their weight or salary. It’s taboo - you just don’t do it. If they volunteer the information, fine. But Bucky has never mentioned his mark or his mate, so it remains as much of a mystery to you as your own mark.

You realize that you’re staring at him and try to play it off. “Really? I would’ve guessed chocolate chip’s your favorite by the way you ate over half of them last week.”

There’s a look of exaggerated hurt on his face, but he can’t hide the amusement in his eyes. “I can’t believe you’d say that to your most loyal taste-tester.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well, my most loyal taste-tester is going to have to start pulling his weight if he’s going to keep eating half of the product.”

“Pulling my weight?” His brows shoot up. His eyes dart back and forth from yours to all of the ingredients and baking supplies spread across the kitchen island. “I mean, I’d be happy to, but you’re gonna have to teach me.”

“Teach you?” You snort, unsure if he’s just messing with you. “Have you never made cookies before?”

“Well, not from scratch, no,” he admits with a sheepish grin. “But it’s better to learn at 110 years old than to never learn at all, right?”

You purse your lips to refrain from looking too excited at the prospect of getting to spend your Friday evening teaching him to make cookies, but you don’t doubt that it reaches your eyes. You can think of very few ways that you’d rather spend your time, but you don’t want to seem overeager. He probably just doesn’t have anything better to do tonight.

“I suppose it is your lucky night. I just so happen to have enough ingredients left for one more batch.”

He comes to stand beside you on the other side of the island. With all of the ingredients already on hand, you slide the mixing bowl in front of him. If he really wants to learn to bake cookies, the best way to do so is a little hands on experience.

You can’t help but think he looks a little apprehensive as he picks up a measuring cup. “Don’t tell me the Winter Soldier is intimidated by baking.”

He rolls his eyes, his already flushed cheeks turning a deeper red. “By baking? Psh. No. By how you’re going to critique my cookies? Maybe a little.”

“I’ll try to go easy on you,” you promise. You hand him a piece of paper with your handwritten recipe on it. “Now start by combining the peanut butter, unsalted butter, brown sugar, granulated sugar, and vanilla. Then mix all of that together until it’s smooth. Sound easy enough?”

“I think I can handle that.”

You take a seat on one of the barstools beside him and watch as he takes his time measuring each ingredient before dumping them into the mixing bowl.

Right away, he’s focused. His brows knit together and his lips are pressed in a firm line - by looking at him, you’d think he’s trying to diffuse a bomb instead of measuring out a cup of peanut butter. You try not to stare too hard, but you find it quite endearing.

It’s impossible to not notice the way a thick lock of his dark hair falls into his face when he leans over the bowl, or the way he seems to bite the inside of his cheek when he’s concentrating particularly hard on getting the measurement of the brown sugar just right.

It’s a far more gentle and domestic version of him than you see most days. It hits you how much you long to see this side of him more often. No training, no missions, no teammates surrounding you almost always.

For a moment, you allow yourself to pretend that soulmates don’t exist. That no one has marks that tell them who they should be with. It would be so much easier, in a lot of ways, you think. At least for people like you.

He turns to you, interrupting your thoughts as he shows you the pale brown mixture in the bowl. “Like this?” He asks, an almost eager smile on his face.

“Perfect,” you hum, hoping that your face doesn’t give any of your thoughts away. He smiles, visibly pleased with himself at your praise, and waits for the next set of instructions.

So you do all that you know how to do - push your thoughts down and enjoy this moment for what it is. Even if it’ll never be anything more.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky had lied to you, and he doesn’t regret it.

Well, partially lied.

Peanut butter cookies aren’t his favorite anymore. They had been - but these days he’s more partial to chocolate chip, thanks to you making the best chocolate chip cookies he’s ever had.

But an excuse to spend the evening with you is a valid reason for telling a white lie, in his opinion. He had been telling the truth when he told you that he’s never baked cookies from scratch before.

What can he say? Baking wasn’t exactly something he was interested in back in his twenties, and he’s been busy, to say the least, since he was pardoned a few years ago. For the first time in over seventy years, life is just now settling down enough for him to think about something as mundane as baking.

No, he’s never cared about baking too much, but that started to change about six months ago. Not even forty-eight hours had passed since The Void had nearly succeeded in turning New York into a giant cloud of shame rooms when he followed the scent of cinnamon and vanilla to the Watchtower’s communal kitchen, where he found you making cinnamon rolls from scratch.

You had been so immersed in rolling the dough into a perfect log that you hadn’t noticed him enter the room. Right away, his eyes were drawn to the dusting of flour that you’d somehow managed to get all over your cheek. He couldn’t help but think back to just forty-eight hours prior when instead of flour on your face, it had been blood and grime from the aftermath of The Void. You were just as pretty then, he thought, but there was something so peaceful about you in that moment that he couldn’t stop himself from watching you.

Until you inevitably looked up and saw him staring at you like a creep.

He had yet to decide whether he wanted to stay at the Watchtower or go home. Valentina had announced to the entire world that you’re all members of the New Avengers and an invitation to live in the Watchtower had been extended to the whole team, but Bucky already had his own place in Brooklyn - a city that had just started to feel like home again.

Did he really want to terminate the lease to his private apartment and move into the Watchtower with a bunch of people that he barely knew and Walker?

But as he stood there and watched you cut the rolled dough into equal sized pieces, the answer became clear to him: with you here, this is place could easily feel like home to him, too.

He felt a little crazy for thinking so. He barely knew you. He’d only met you a few days ago, but every time he was in close proximity to you, he felt it - a faint, phantom tingling sensation deep in the vibranium plating of his left forearm.

Right where his soul mark used to be.

Six months later, he still has to convince himself that he’s imagining it. Even if his mark hadn’t been ripped from his body when he fell from that train nearly a century ago, that isn’t how soul marks work. They aren’t magnets. They don’t tingle or glow or ache when one is in the general vicinity of their soulmate.

It’s wishful thinking for something that he’ll never have. That’s all. His mate is probably in a senior care facility or six feet under already.

He knows this. Reminds himself of it as he falls asleep each night. You and him - the two of you aren’t Bob and Yelena. Or Walker and Ava. No, the two of you didn’t get quite so lucky. His mark exists only in his memory and yours is a mystery even to you.

He wonders though, when he’s reminding himself of these things, if it would really be so crazy to forget about it all - soul marks, destiny, fate - and just choose each other.

Because when he looks at you, he finds it hard to care about the lack of ink on your skin. He thinks about what his own mark looked like, and the thought of yours having been different doesn’t lessen his feelings for you.

Maybe it should. Maybe he should hold out hope that his mate is still out there, waiting for him with a mark identical to the one he once had.

But the thought of that doesn’t excite him like it should. It fills him with a sense of dread. Because in the unlikely event of finding his soulmate at 110 years old, he’d be forced to face the reality that it isn’t you.

So instead, he hangs onto the tiniest sliver of hope he feels every time the phantom itch in the crevice of his vibranium arm flares up.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“This sure would be a lot easier if someone could fly.”

The twelve foot tall tree in the middle of the New Avenger’s common area is almost fully decorated. Through the combined efforts of all seven of you, the branches of the bottom two-thirds of the tree now twinkle with ornaments and lights of every shape and color.

There’s no theme whatsoever, and it looks like a bunch of five year olds got their hands on it, but it’s been a lot more fun than you expected it to be. You don’t remember the last time you decorated a Christmas tree. Plus, Walker has only been somewhat of a control freak.

Bob rolls his eyes at Walker’s teasing and hands Yelena another ornament from where he stands at the base of her ladder. “Why don’t you try to fly, Walker?” says Yelena, always quick to match his energy. “Just step right off of that ladder and give it your best effort.”

You shake your head at them, focusing on the shimmery gold ornament in your hand. Unlike Yelena and Walker, you don’t have a ladder, instead choosing to add a final few ornaments to the bottom half of the tree. The branch you want to hang it on is just out of reach, even standing as tall as you possibly can on the tips of your toes. You lean a little farther, wishing your arm was just an inch longer—

Yelena yelps and Walker curses as the entire tree shifts slightly. Your foot slips on the tree skirt and you brace yourself to fall directly into the tree when firm hands grab onto your hips from behind, steadying you.

You instinctively step back, trying to put space between you and the gargantuan tree before you can completely knock it over, your back colliding with a solid mass that stops you in your tracks. You’re vaguely aware of Walker scolding you to be careful, but all you can focus on is the stark contrast of warm skin and cold metal on either side of your waist.

“I assumed that Alexei would be the one almost accidentally knocking over the tree,” Bucky laughs lowly. You feel the soft vibration of it against your back. Only when you tilt your head to look up at him does he drop his hold on your waist and step back.

“He doesn’t have enough eggnog in him yet,” you mumble, your cheeks hot from the sudden close proximity. “Give it another hour and we’ll see if this tree is still standing upright.”

Without taking his eyes off of you, he takes the ornament that you’d been attempting to hang on the tree out of your hand and comes to stand beside you. “Where did you want this?”

“Oh - uh,” you look away from him, back to the tree in front of you. Your eyes dart around, suddenly unable to pinpoint the branch that had seemed like the perfect spot just moments ago. “Just…right here,” you shrug, motioning to a random branch in the general vicinity of where you’d been reaching.

He smiles, placing the ornament on the branch without any difficulty. Show off.

“Is that good?” He asks, his gaze back on you.

“That’s perfect.” You nod a bit too quickly and your voice sounds breathier than intended, but if he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

He’s just being helpful, you tell yourself. He didn’t want you to fall into a tree. You would’ve knocked the entire thing over and dozens of ornaments would have shattered and then—

Yelena calls your name, breaking the tension between you. She’s climbing down from her ladder with an amused expression. “We are completely out of ornament hooks. Will you come with me to buy more?”

Something about the look on her face makes you nervous to say yes, but the alternative is to stay here and try to pretend like Bucky didn’t just make your brain completely short circuit, so you agree.

As soon as the elevator is in motion, she turns to you with a smile that makes your stomach tie itself in knots.

“I have a confession to make.”

You exhale. “Let me guess. We aren’t actually out of hooks?”

“Nope.”

You brace yourself. This would not be the first time she’s broached the subject - you and Bucky. She’s made little teasing comments here and there over the last few months, but she’s never pushed you too much. But between finding an excuse to get you alone and the look on her face, you know your luck has run out.

“So,” she continues, infuriatingly casual. “Who do you think will be the first to break? You or Bucky? Personally, I think it will be Bucky. Bob thinks it could go either way, but I suppose only time will tell.”

You snort, refusing to look her in the eye. Not that it matters - she can see right through you, anyway. “I hate to disappoint, but you’re wasting your time placing bets on me and Bucky. We’re just friends. That’s all. You know that,” you add in a smaller voice.

From your peripheral vision, you can see her shaking her head. “Just friends do not look at each other like that.”

“And how do we look at each other, exactly?”

You can’t help it. The question leaves your lips before you can stop yourself. It shouldn’t matter. The answer serves no purpose other than satisfying a selfish curiosity. Whatever she says won’t change the truth of the matter: you and Bucky will never be anything more than you are right now. Whatever that is.

“He…looks at you like you hung the moon and stars. Like you are the moon and stars, really.” She may have been joking about her and Bob betting on your love life, but she’s completely serious now. “And you…well, you look at him like he is the only thing you really want but will not let yourself have.”

The elevator comes to a stop at the first floor of the Watchtower. A large group of people are waiting to enter as soon as the doors open, and you can’t help but feel grateful for the brief moment it gives you to process what Yelena had just said. She grabs you by the arm, looping hers through yours as she guides you through the throng of people.

You don’t even bother trying to argue. Do you really believe that Bucky looks at you as if you hung the moon and stars? No, but Yelena does, and when she has truly made up her mind about something, there’s no point in trying to convince her otherwise.

“I don’t suppose it really matters, does it?” You sigh. “At the end of the day, facial expressions aren’t what make people…” You trail off, unable to bring yourself to say the word. It tastes a little more sour every time you do.

“Soulmates?”

“Yeah,” you grimace. “Soulmates.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just hums to herself in thought. Then, she hugs your arm tighter, as if you might go sprinting down the street at what she says next.

“Have you ever considered that it doesn’t matter as much as you think it does?”

You tense beneath her touch. “That’s easy—”

“Easy for me to say, I know,” she interrupts. “I know our situations are not exactly the same. I do not know how you feel. But I am not blind. I see the way you look at each other…it reminds me of how Bob and I look at each other. How Walker and Ava look at each other. How every pair of soulmates I have ever known have looked at each other.”

When you don’t respond, she continues. “It is only natural for you to wish to know the truth. But you may never get the answers you long for. Does that really mean you should resign yourself to being alone for the rest of your life when love is right in front of you?”

You swallow hard, trying to force down the sudden lump in your throat. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”

“Maybe not,” she agrees. “But simple or not, it’s still a choice that you have. The Red Room tried to take that choice away from you. All I’m saying is that you should not let them.”

You could tell her to drop it. Part of you wants to. Part of you wants to say but they already did. But deep down, you know she isn’t entirely wrong.

Truthfully, you’ve never had much of a reason to care. For as long as you can remember, you have told yourself that it doesn’t matter - the lack of answers. The matter of choice. You had resigned yourself to a life of solitude a long time ago. You’d made peace with it all. At least, as much as you could.

But that was before you met someone that made you want to say screw destiny and question all of the rules.

That was before Bucky.

“You’re really nosey sometimes. You know that?”

She snorts a laugh. “I might be nosey, but I am also right. Usually. Most of the time.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s reassuring.”

“Let me ask you this,” she implores. “If you were to find out today that he is not your soulmate, would it change the way you feel about him? Or would you still love him?”

“No pressure to answer me,” she continues quickly. “Just…give it some thought, yes?”

As if it doesn’t already consume your every waking thought.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky had been naive to think that he’d actually get to sleep in today. He hasn’t had a Saturday off in nearly two months, why would today be any different?

No, he isn’t surprised when his phone buzzes with a text from Valentina to the team’s group chat demanding a last minute meeting at the crack of dawn this morning.

Zero indication as to what is so urgent, of course. That’s not Valentina’s communication style. Just be at this place, at this time, and don’t ask any questions.

He’d been having the best dream, too. A dream he’s had more times than he can count - not all that much different than what he daydreams about while awake, but it always feels more lifelike when conjured by his subconscious.

You, prancing around an apartment that overlooks the city. He doesn’t recognize the place, but it looks how he’d imagine home to be. Low, soft lighting and a vase of fresh wildflowers on a dining room table just big enough for two. Occasionally, a small white cat makes an appearance, weaving herself between Bucky’s legs and purring in an effort to get his attention.

You never say a word. You don’t need to. He’s content to watch as you chop vegetables at the kitchen island, bare-faced and wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt. Every few minutes, you glance up from your task and smile at him.

It’s simple. Impossibly so. There’s no New Avengers, no missions or impending doom. It’s just you and him, somewhere entirely your own. And it always ends too soon.

Reality is never quite as sweet.

Listening to Walker, Yelena, and Valentina all try to talk over each other at seven o’clock in the morning on a Saturday, before he’s had a chance to take a sip of coffee… that’s his reality.

You sit directly across from him, slouched back in your chair and pinching the bridge of your nose with your eyes closed. Bucky is at least attempting to hide his displeasure at this morning’s agenda, but yours is on full display. This doesn’t surprise him in the slightest, as you aren’t much of a morning person even in the best of circumstances.

“Alright, alright!” Val snaps at Yelena and Walker with enough bite to shut them up. Then, addressing the whole group with a sarcastic smile, “How lovely of you all to join me this morning.”

“Didn’t really have a choice, did we?” Ava mumbles.

“No, you didn’t,” Valentina agrees. “I have a flight to Mumbai to catch in a few hours so I need to get this over with.” In front of her are a stack of manila folders. One at a time, she slides the folders across the table to each member, starting with you.

Bucky watches as you open yours with a yawn, your tired expression morphing into something between confusion and unease within seconds of skimming the first page. Your eyes dart back and forth between Valentina and whatever it is you’re seeing. Bucky opens his folder the second it lands in front of him.

“What the hell is this?” You ask, not bothering to hide the annoyance in your voice.

Bucky’s eyes scan the first page. Key words catch his attention: Slovakia. Decommissioned Hydra warehouse. Low frequency signal detected. Encrypted, Hydra coding.

He knows this facility. He’s never been there personally, but he knows someone who has.

Someone sitting directly across from him, looking like she’s seconds away from jumping across the table and throttling Valentina or throwing up.

“This should be straight forward,” Val answers. “Details can be found in the dossiers I’ve given you all. All you really need to know is that there’s some kind of low frequency signal pinging from what should be an inactive Hydra base in Slovakia. The site was flagged three days ago. It’s weak and intermittent, but seeing as how Hydra fell over a decade ago, it should not exist.”

“So? What?” Yelena huffs. “You want us to do a welfare check on a haunted warehouse?”

“You’re verifying that the site is empty,” Val clarifies impatiently. “If it’s not, you neutralize whatever is there and secure anything of value. Files, tech, archives.”

Your eyes snap back to Valentina at that.

“You know your way around, I presume?” Val directs the question at you. “You were stationed there for a brief time, after all.”

Your face is unreadable. Bucky normally prides himself on being able to read you like an open book, but right now, he’s drawing blanks. When you’d first opened the folder, you looked like you were seeing a ghost. Now, your expression is impassive - eerily calm for someone who has just learned they’re being asked to return to a place they were once held prisoner and pumped full of drugs that took away their free will.

Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re thinking, you’re doing a great job at hiding it.

“If by brief time you mean over ten years,” you say flatly, “then yes. I know my way around.”

“That’s why you’re running point on this operation. No one else has been—”

“It can’t be too difficult of a place to navigate, can it?” Bucky speaks up for the first time since entering the briefing room. “Most Hydra bases are roughly the same. I’m sure that the five of us can handle it ourselves.” He glances around the room at Yelena, Ava, Walker, and Alexei. “I don’t think it’s necessary to make her go back—”

“I’m fine, Bucky,” you interrupt, gentle but firm. “No one is making me do anything.”

“Perfect.” The annoyed look on Val’s face is quickly replaced with a satisfied smirk. “The jet leaves in twenty-four hours. You’re dismissed.”

And just like that, the meeting is over. Chairs scrape back against the floor. Ava and Walker are already halfway to the door, Walker muttering something about Val wasting his weekends under his breath. Alexei follows, declaring he’s going to sleep the entire flight to Slovakia. Only Yelena hesitates, looking at you as she stands. She seems to be searching for the same answers as Bucky, but when you don’t look up from the folder in front of you, she reluctantly follows the others.

Bucky doesn’t move.

You slowly close your folder with a steady exhale. When you finally stand, you don’t look at him. You’re the only two left in the room, and you don’t say a word to him as you start to walk towards the door with the folder clutched to your chest.

“Hey,” he calls softly, standing to follow you. “Wait.”

You stop just short of the entryway. For a second, he thinks you won’t turn around at all. When you do, your expression isn’t quite as stoic as it was moments ago. Your face mostly remains neutral, but there’s a storm of emotions in your eyes.

“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” He asks, his voice low even though you’re alone now. “Going back there?”

You give a small shrug. “We’ve had plenty of missions far more complicated than this.”

He frowns. “That’s not what I asked. I’m asking about you.”

“I know what you’re asking, Bucky,” you say flatly, “and I said I’m fine. I’m going with you guys. Alright? Drop it.”

You’re turning around and walking away before he can get another word out. He stands there, staring after you with his mouth agape and your name on the tip of his tongue.

He feels it as he watches you disappear down the hallway. The faint but undeniable phantom itch in the bend of his vibranium arm. His flesh hand comes to rest atop the spot where his soul mark used to be.

It may as well be a tiny devil perched on his shoulder urging him to chase after you.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

You don’t go back to your room.

You take the file and go straight to the roof of the Watchtower. It’s windy, and cold, but the alternative is your bedroom where the silence is just a little too loud right now.

There’s something about the hum of the bustling city below that serves as calming white noise to your mind when it’s whirling. So, you often come up here when you need to clear your head.

There’s a small part of you that expects - and selfishly hopes - that Bucky will follow you. Still, you aren’t surprised when he doesn’t. You’d been short with him when he had shown concern for you, and he didn’t deserve that.

You’ll apologize to him later. It’s probably for the best that you aren’t near him at the moment, anyway. Looking at him will only make you second guess what you’re about to do.

Of course you don’t want to go back to Slovakia. Going back there is something that had never even crossed your mind until Val said the word archives and a lightbulb went off in your brain.

Archives that might not even exist anymore. That might have been destroyed ages ago. That might have never existed in the first place.

Archives with information about you.

You had been stationed there for over a decade, after all. You and dozens of other widows at various points. There had to have been some sort of records about all of you. Personal history, special abilities, weaknesses. Operations and procedures you’d undergone throughout your life. Maybe, just maybe - the smallest maybe possibly ever - documentation about your soul mark and its removal.

It’s a long shot. But it isn’t impossible.

And if you’re ever going to get an answer to the question that most people never even have to ask themselves because the answer is displayed on their bodies, this is your chance. What are the odds that you’ll ever have another?

You tighten your grip on the file in your hands as if the wind might carry it away. You try to read through the first few pages of the dossier, but all of the words just run together on the page. After trying to read the same paragraph for a fifth time, you slam the folder closed with a huff.

You can’t retain any of the information because you can’t get his fucking face out of your head.

Every time you picture his ocean eyes, or his plush pink lips, or his effortlessly perfect hair that most people would only be able to achieve with the help of a Dyson Airwrap, it makes your conversation with Yelena replay in your mind.

Have you ever considered that it doesn’t matter as much as you think it does?

If you were to find out today that he is not your soulmate, would it change the way you feel about him?

Or would you still love him?

Deep down, you know the answer. No, it wouldn’t make a difference. You’d love him. You’d love him no matter the truth.

But he has a mate. There’s someone for him, somewhere. And maybe, just maybe, if you can see proof that you have a mate - that there’s someone, somewhere meant for you - it’ll at least lessen the ache that you feel in your chest every time you look at him.

That’s what you’re going to keep telling yourself, anyway.

“I can tell that you’re plotting something.”

The sudden voice makes you nearly jump out of your skin. You jerk your head around fast enough to give yourself whiplash, though you know who it is before you see him.

“I’m not sure what it is,” Bucky shrugs, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans. “But I know you well enough to know you’re plotting something.”

You huff, though this time it’s more out of amusement than frustration. You look away from him, back to the morning skyline in front of you. “How’d you know that I’m up here?”

Soft steps thud against concrete until you feel his shoulder brush against yours.

“Like I said. I know you well enough.”

You hum. He might be a little cocky, but he isn’t wrong.

Here you are, as suspected. Plotting.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” you say, partially because it’s true and partially because it’s easier to apologize than it is to confirm or deny his assumption. You glance at him to find that he’s already looking at you.

He shrugs again. “I’ll let it slide if you tell me what you came up here to think about.”

You sigh. You know him well enough, too. Well enough to know he isn’t going to drop this easily. You breathe in, bracing yourself for what you’re about to say. Bracing yourself for whatever his reaction may be.

“I’m thinking about something I’m going to do in Slovakia.”

He shifts his weight, turning to face you fully and leaning against the railing. “Okay,” he says patiently. “Do you want to tell me what that is?”

You swallow hard, choosing to stare down at your hands instead of meeting his eyes.

“There might be files in the base,” you start. “Might be leftover archives. Records with information about the widows that were stationed there.” Your face warms under his stare but you still can’t bring yourself to look up. “I want to check. I want to see if there’s anything about me. About my past, what was done to me as a child. About what was…taken from me.”

For a moment, the silence between you is filled only with the sound of traffic below and the low howl of wind. And then—

“Okay,” he murmurs.

Your head snaps up. You blink. “Okay..?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “If you think there’s something there worth looking for, then we will look.”

We.

You shake your head. “No. You don’t have to—”

“I know.” His voice is gentle, but there’s no trace of pity. “I know I don’t have to. But you shouldn’t have to face that alone.”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You aren’t entirely sure what you expected him to say, but it wasn’t this - no hesitation, no questions asked.

It makes your chest ache in a way that you can’t fully explain. There’s gratitude, but there’s also fear. Gratitude that he’s willing to help you with something so deeply personal. Fear that maybe the outcome - should you actually succeed in finding what you’re searching for - won’t affect him either way.

It crosses your mind, just for a split second, that you should ask him right then and there. What is your soul mark? Is it on your chest, your ribcage, your back? Do you hope that mine looks exactly like it?

But you don’t. You’re too scared of the answers.

“It might be a giant waste of time,” you murmur instead. “I don’t even know for certain if there were ever any files to begin with. Let alone all these years later…”

“If it helps bring you peace of mind,” he says softly, his gaze unwavering, “then it isn’t a waste of time.” He offers a small smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You deserve answers. Whatever they may be.”

You nod because you don’t trust your voice enough to speak.

Best case scenario? A slight tremor in your voice when you try to say thank you.

Worst case scenario? You word vomit every thought you’ve had since learning you’ll be returning to Slovakia.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky wishes that he could be selfish when it comes to you. With every fiber of his being, with every molecule, he wants to be selfish.

And if he loved you just a little bit less, he would be. If he didn’t love you enough to care more about your happiness than his own, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell you that he doesn’t want you to step foot anywhere in Slovakia.

But he does love you that much. He loves you enough to stand by your side as you search for the revelation that fate says you belong with someone who isn’t him.

Not only stand by you - actively help you make that discovery.

Because if anyone deserves to know the truth, if anyone deserves that shot at finding true love, it’s you. Even if it leads to you eventually finding your soulmate and he has to watch you fall in love. Even if it isn’t with him.

“So, what’s the plan?” Bucky murmurs low enough that none of the other super-soldiers in the jet can hear him, taking a seat directly across from you. “Val put you in charge here, so I’m assuming you have a plan. What are we doing?”

Yelena is piloting with Ava beside her in the cockpit. Walker is cleaning his guns a few yards away and Alexei appears to be sleeping, but he isn’t snoring loudly enough to rock the whole damn jet, so Bucky isn’t convinced.

A couple hours into the nine hour flight to Bratislava, you’re curled up in one of the leather seats by the window with the mission folder open across your lap. You sit up straighter, your knees brushing against his.

“My memory is a bit hazy since I was under chemical subjugation the whole time I was there,” you say quietly, closing the file and glancing out the window beside you. “But from what I can remember, the building’s layout was relatively straight forward. I doubt it has changed very much.”

“We’ll sweep the basement,” you continue, now looking at him. “You and me. If there are any sort of archives, that’s where they’ll be. Yelena and Alexei will take the east wing and Ava and Walker will take the west. If they find anything of concern, we abandon our little side quest and go to them right away. Even if things go smoothly, we won’t have a lot of time to search. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes max.”

He nods in agreement. “However much time we have, we’ll make it count.”

You purse your lips, once again looking back to the endless expanse of ocean and sky outside of the jet. You’re nervous - he can tell by the tension in your jaw and the way you’re fidgeting with a ring on your thumb. He just isn’t sure if you’re more scared of not finding answers… or finding them.

“Hey.” He leans forward and braces his forearms on his thighs. His hand comes to rest on your knee - a featherlight touch to remind you that he’s there. That he’s with you, no matter how this goes. Your gaze flashes down to his flesh hand on your leg and then to his face.

“I mean it,” he murmurs. “We’ll take however much time we can get it. If there’s anything down there worth finding, we’ll do everything in our power to find it.”

You huff a humorless laugh. “You seem awfully sure for someone who’s never seen the place.”

He shrugs, his lips quirking ever so slightly. “Call it a gut feeling.”

That’s what he’s been calling it, anyway. Because he doesn’t know how else to explain the way he just knows that by this time tomorrow, everything will be different.

For better or for worse.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

The abandoned base is somehow even colder than you remember it being. Despite the well below freezing winter temperatures, you’re sweating through your tactical suit.

Yelena had noticed that you were distracted. Of course she had noticed. You’d barely been able to give everyone their mission instructions because your thoughts were running wild with all of the unknowns - all of your questions that may or may be answered by the time you’re back on the jet.

You’d tried your hardest to lie through your teeth and assure her that you’re fine. You doubt you were very convincing, but thankfully she didn’t have time to hound you before she needed to land the jet.

Like muscle memory, you find your way down to the lowermost level with Bucky right beside you. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet since your conversation on the flight to Slovakia, but the warmth from his arm brushing against yours every few steps is enough to keep you from completely spiraling at the unwelcome familiarity that has crept into your bones since you crossed the threshold of the building.

The overhead lights are long dead, leaving only the illumination of your flashlights to guide the way. Every sound feels infinitely louder down here, from the scuff of your boots against the concrete to the slow, steady drip of water from somewhere in the distance.

“This is it,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “This is the last level. I think.”

Bucky nods. “You’re doing good.”

You want to laugh at that. Your hands won’t stop shaking and your heart is beating so hard it feels like it’s trying to break out of your ribs. You’re barely keeping your composure.

A left turn. Then a right. You don’t have to think about it. Your body begins to remember the path, even if your brain wishes it didn’t. Soon, you stop in front of a rusted metal door. An old biometric lock is nothing but a dead panel now, a spiderweb of cracks running across the busted screen.

Bucky steps forward without hesitation. He wedges his metal fingers into the seam of the door and pulls. The screech of rusted hinges ricochets down the empty corridor, loud enough to make you flinch.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. He isn’t looking at the door - he’s looking at you, checking if you’re still with him. “You okay?”

You swallow and nod once.

Inside, the room is dark and the air is thick with dust and disuse. But the outline of shelves and dozens of tall, metal filing cabinets are visible in the glow of your flashlights.

Your stomach somersaults. This has to be it. If anything is to be found, it’s in this room. Bucky called it a gut feeling, but you feel it in your bones.

You don’t even know where to start. This had been one of the very few rooms completely off limits to the widows. Of course, you’d never questioned it at the time, but now you hope that the restriction had been in place to prevent you and the other girls from discovering certain information.

Bucky shines his flashlight towards the far right of the room. “We’ll start on opposite sides,” he suggests quietly. “Meet in the middle?”

He pauses, his gaze settling on your face before taking a step inside the room. He looks like he wants to ask are you sure you’re ready for this?

You wouldn’t know how to answer that if he asked. But you came all this way, so you suppose you have no choice but to be ready.

“Okay,” you whisper.

You move to the nearest cabinet. The metal handle is icy beneath your fingers. You hesitate for half a heartbeat and then pull it open with a rusty screech.

Inside are rows and rows of old manila folders, each labeled in Russian. You curse under your breath - your Russian is a bit rusty to say the least. You primarily spoke Slovak and Hungarian.

Dates. Identification codes. Names that you don’t recognize. Words in a language you aren’t fluent in.

You take a deep breath and begin flipping through the files. One by one, line by line, until you’re confident that each one contains nothing of value.

You try to move as strategically as possible, forcing yourself not to rush even though the voice in the back of your head keeps reminding you that you don’t have much time. Any of your teammates could call for help at any given moment.

Most of the files are filled with incident logs and mission reports, some are behavioral assessments of girls who may or may not still be alive. You don’t recognize any names.

You grab one at random and flip it open.

Not you. Another widow - someone you didn’t even know that you remembered until right now, looking at a grainy, black and white Polaroid of her young face.

You can feel your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Is she still alive? Did she make it out of this place? Has she found safety? Happiness? A life for herself, like you have?

“Any luck yet?”

Bucky’s voice snaps you out of your trance. You clear your throat, quickly closing the file and cramming it back in the drawer.

“No,” you murmur, voice strained. “Nothing yet. Nothing about me.”

You keep going. Third cabinet, then fourth, then fifth.

Your stomach feels as if it is tying itself in knots, each drawer that turns up empty making bile rise higher in your throat. Maybe this was stupid. Maybe there’s nothing here. Maybe Bucky was wrong, maybe you were wrong, maybe this is a waste of time and—

Your fingers halt on a tab. The label is faded and the ink is smudged with age, but the writing is still visible. Still legible. Numbers - it’s how they identified you. Widows were just numbers to them. Just assets. Not people worthy of names.

“Bucky.”

Your voice is only a notch above a whisper, but he hears you. He pauses what he’s doing right away and walks the short distance to where you stand frozen with the manila folder clutched in your trembling hands.

“68465,” he breathes, then glances up at you. “That’s you?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “This is me.” You place the flashlight you’re still gripping tight on top of the filing cabinet to take the file in both hands.

You could be seconds away from answers. From closure.

Still, you hesitate. Your mouth goes painfully dry and your fingers hover over the cover as you’re hit with the overwhelming realization that whatever you see when you open this file cannot be unlearned. Once you open it, there’s no going back.

But you came all this way for this. 4,263 miles, to be exact.

You take a deep breath and start to pull the cover back.

“Wait.”

Bucky’s vibranium hand closes around your wrist before the folder opens a fraction of an inch. You freeze, looking up at him. He’s already looking at you, mouth parted like he’s on the verge of saying something but holding himself back.

“What?” You breathe. “What is it?”

He doesn’t drop your hand. His grip is loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted to. But you’re still frozen in place, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Before you open that, there’s something you need to know. Something that I should have told you before now,” he says, voice low.

You nod because you don’t trust your voice enough to speak.

“I don’t care what that file says,” he starts, looking at you with a kind of intensity that you’ve never seen from him before. “It doesn’t matter to me.” He pauses, exhaling a shaky breath.

You shake your head meekly. “I don’t understand—”

“Because I’m in love with you.”

The confession is followed by the kind of silence that would allow you to hear a pin drop from down the hallway. You blink, trying to convince yourself that this isn’t your subconscious playing some kind of twisted joke on you.

Your body feels numb except for where the icy vibranium of his fingers still grip your wrist. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

“I’m sorry if that’s weird for you to hear,” he continues, swallowing thickly. “I know my timing isn’t great. But I needed you to hear it. At least once. Before everything changes. I’m in love with you. Even if you open that file and find out that you’re meant to be with someone else. Even if your mark looks nothing like mine, it won’t change the way I feel about you. I’ll love you just the same as I do right now.”

You hold your breath the entire time he’s speaking, only exhaling when heavy silence settles over the room and you feel lightheaded. A thousand different questions race through your mind.

“Bucky—”

Crackling static from your comms interrupt whatever thought hasn't even finished forming inside your head when you speak his name.

Yelena’s voice fills the silence and Bucky finally drops your hand.

“Guys? We think we found the source of the signal,” she calls, blissfully unaware of what she is interrupting. “Looks like some old equipment came back online. Probably just wires short circuiting from the recent snowstorm.”

Walker’s voice pours from the comms next, muttering some complaint about traveling so far for nothing, but you’re not paying attention to him.

Neither is Bucky. His gaze drops from your face down to the file in your hands.

“Barnes?” Yelena calls, followed by your name. “Can you two hear us?”

You click on your comm without looking away from him. “Yeah,” you answer, your voice cracking. “We hear you. Let’s get out of here.”

It’s not that you want to walk away from him. It’s that you can’t fucking think straight while he’s looking at you the way that he is. Like you have the ability to break his heart into pieces with whatever you choose to say next.

And even if you didn’t know that was possible until two minutes ago, breaking his heart is the last thing you ever want to do. But he just dropped a nuclear level bomb and said the last words you ever fucking expected him to say to you.

You don’t know what to think. What to feel. You’re torn between kissing him, looking in your file for the answers you came here for, and screaming at the top of your lungs.

You do none of these things, of course.

Instead of doing something in the heat of the moment that you might regret, you tuck the file under your arm and turn to walk away.

You haven’t even taken three steps when a hand closes around your wrist again. This time, warm skin instead of vibranium. You immediately come to a halt - both your steps and your breathing.

“Say something,” he pleads, voice low. “Anything.”

You don’t look back. Can’t quite bear to face him. At least until you’ve had a chance to clear your head and attempt to make sense of what you’re feeling right now.

But you don’t pull your hand away, either.

“I just need some time to think,” you whisper, though it feels like you’re shouting in the eerily quiet warehouse basement. “I don’t know what to say, Bucky. I just..need some time.”

His fingers twitch around your wrist like he’s debating whether he should let go or hold on. “Okay,” he whispers back. “I can wait. When you know what to say, you know where to find me.”

God. He’s so good. Gentle, patient, understanding. Even now, when you can’t bring yourself to say the one thing he most wants to hear.

You nod because your throat is too tight for words. You nod because if you open your mouth, you’ll let your heart make a decision that you aren’t ready for.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

The flight is calm in the familiar way that they usually are after missions. Everyone is ready to be home, and annoyed that the trip to Slovakia was essentially for nothing.

Well, to their knowledge, it was for nothing. Everyone except for Bucky remains unaware of what transpired in the warehouse basement, as you had managed to conceal your file in the interior of your tactical vest until you made it back to the jet.

Yelena was quick to curl up under a blanket across the aisle from you, her face now lit by the glow of her phone as she FaceTimes with Bob. Walker and Ava are cuddled up on a cot that is far too small for the both of them, already fast asleep. You’re not really sure where Alexei is - probably raiding the nonperishable food supply in the back of the jet.

Bucky, who detests flying and usually does everything in his power to get out of doing so, took it upon himself to pilot the trip back to Manhattan.

As soon as everyone was properly distracted, you crammed the file into your duffel bag. Out of sight, but far from out of mind.

You’d been so sure that you were moments away from answers. And you had been - just not the answers that you were expecting.

Bucky loves you. He’s in love with you.

You haven’t gone a full minute without replaying his exact words in your head since he first said them.

I don’t care what that file says. It doesn’t matter to me. Because I’m in love with you. I needed you to hear it. At least once. Before everything changes.

Say something. Anything.

But it isn’t any of these words that echo the loudest in your mind. Not the confession or the pleading for a response. No, it’s something else that he said - something that answers a question you’ve had since you met him but never had the courage to ask.

Even if your mark looks nothing like mine, it won’t change the way I feel about you.

The implication of the words isn’t lost on you. Maybe your mark doesn’t match his - but there’s a chance that it could. There’s a chance it could because he’s never found his soulmate.

Not at any point in the thirties or forties. Not during the war. Not when he was in and out of cryofreeze for decades, not during his time in Romania or Wakanda, not after the blip.

The weight of that truth sinks in as you lift your gaze toward the cockpit. You can only see the edge of his profile from here, the line of his jaw illuminated by the soft light of the controls.

The sight of him makes your chest ache. You dig your nails into the leather of your seat to resist standing up and going to him right now.

He loves you. Not because he’s meant to, not because a mark on his skin tells him to, but of his own free will. And that’s enough for you. More than enough - enough to keep the file closed and choose him, too.

And when you get back home, that’s exactly what you plan to do.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky doesn’t remember the walk from the jet to his bedroom. He barely even remembers going through the motions of showering five minutes ago, let alone flying a jet from Slovakia back to New York.

Honestly, it’s a miracle that he got everyone back safely. The last thing he should have been doing was piloting a fucking jet, but he needed something to focus on other than you.

You, and what he said to you, and how you looked at him in the old archive room where he begged you to say anything.

Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut. Maybe he should have just let you open the file. But he knew that once you did, he may never have the chance again. He knew that if he didn’t say it then, he may never say it at all.

And saying it hadn’t felt wrong. How could it? He meant every word. He meant it when he said he loves you, he meant it when he said that he doesn’t care if your mark doesn’t match his, and he meant it when he said that he can wait for you.

He sinks down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hair still damp from the shower and dripping onto the floorboards. He should be exhausted. He is exhausted. The digital alarm clock by his bedside reads that it’s nearly four in the morning. But his mind hasn’t stopped spinning since the moment you pulled away from him in that cold, musty archive room.

He has yet to stop replaying the look on your face. Equal parts disbelief and shock mixed with something that he wants to believe was longing. You may not have verbally returned his sentiments, but the way you’d looked at him had given him hope. At least a little.

He doesn’t blame you for not answering. Hell, what answer had he expected? You’d literally been holding the file in your hands and he physically stopped you from opening it when you were seconds away from learning crucial information about yourself.

Information you’d been denied your entire life. Information that he had no idea what it was like to not have. At least, not in the same way as you. He may have lost his arm, and with it his soul mark, back in the forties when he fell from that train - but he eventually regained his memories. This was your only chance to know what most people know about themselves their whole lives.

And he’d essentially asked you to choose him without knowing it. Without knowing anything other than he loves you.

That wasn’t fair.

He wonders if you’ve opened the file yet. Or if you crawled in bed and fell asleep as soon as you closed the door to your bedroom. Or if you happen to be wide awake and borderline spiraling like he is right now.

A quiet sound pulls him from his thoughts. A soft, tentative two tap knock against his bedroom door.

He freezes. For a split second, he thinks he imagined it - that it’s just sleep deprivation and he’s hallucinating. But a moment later, he hears it again.

“Bucky?” You call softly from the other side of the door. If he didn’t have heightened senses, he likely wouldn’t have heard you at all.

He’s on his feet before his brain makes the conscious decision to move. When he opens the door, you’re standing there. Barefoot in plaid pajama shorts and a tank top, file clutched to your chest.

“Hi,” you whisper. Your voice is hoarse, like you haven’t used it since the warehouse.

Bucky swallows. “Hi.”

“I know it’s late but…” You shift your weight nervously, looking down at the ground. “Is it okay if I come in?”

“Of course,” he murmurs, stepping aside and opening the door wider for you. “Always.”

For one, impossibly long moment, neither of you speak. You pause near the foot of his bed, looking like you aren’t sure if you should sit or continue to stand.

He parts his lips to speak when you take the words right out of his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out.

He stiffens. “Sorry? For what?”

“For…back there.” You lift your eyes to meet his. “For not saying anything. For just walking away and leaving you hanging.” Your throat bobs as you swallow. He opens his mouth to tell you that you don’t owe him any kind of apology, that he shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that, that he understands - but you keep speaking before he can.

“I haven’t looked,” you murmur, looking down at the file in your hands. You release a shaky breath and toss the folder onto his bed. “Haven’t opened it. I didn’t even touch it again until I came here.”

His breath catches in his chest. He tries not to look relieved - knows he shouldn’t feel that way, but selfishly does. “You didn’t?”

“No.” You shake your head. “There’s something else I want to do more.”

You take a step closer to him. And then another. And another, until you’re close enough that he can feel warmth radiating from your chest and smell notes of vanilla from your perfume. Until you’re close enough that he can count each individual eyelash.

He doesn’t move. Couldn’t even if he tried.

Your eyes lock onto his, seemingly searching for some hint of hesitation that you aren’t going to find. Then, your gaze flickers to his lips and he swears his heart stops beating until the moment he feels your lips touch his.

The first brush of your lips is featherlight and still manages to send a shock through him. Your hands hover against his chest for a brief moment before curling into the fabric of his t-shirt and pulling him down to you.

He melts. There’s no better way to describe the way his vibranium hand grips your waist and flesh hand raises to cup the side of your neck, tilting your head slightly to deepen the kiss.

You’re somehow even fucking sweeter than he imagined you’d be. One taste of the birthday cake flavored balm on your lips and it suddenly makes sense why he fell from that train over seventy years ago.

He tries and fails to swallow a groan as your fingers trail up his chest, over his shoulders and into the still damp strands of his hair.

You let out the tiniest whimper against his mouth when his tongue rakes over the swell of your bottom lip and he’s convinced he’s dreaming. He had to have passed out when he got home and this is one of his dreams on steroids.

He’d happily stand here and kiss you until you both pass out from lack of oxygen or exhaustion, but you pull away all too soon.

“Did you mean it?” You breathe, spearmint breath fanning across his lips.

He doesn’t need to ask what you’re referring to.

“Yes,” he whispers, immediate and more sure than ever. “More than you know.”

You close your eyes with a shaky exhale, cupping his face in your palms. “That’s all I need. That’s all that matters to me.” You lean up on the tip of your toes, pressing your lips to his once more. It’s brief but still knocks the air from his lungs all over again. Before you pull away, he notices that your cheeks are damp and he can’t tell if it’s from your tears or his own.

“I love you, Bucky,” you whisper. “And I choose you. Of my own free will. Regardless of what any mark or piece of paper says, I love you.”

He doesn’t know who kisses who this time, but that doesn’t matter. All he can think about is the way you said you love him.

I love you, Bucky. I choose you.

Regardless of what any mark or piece of paper says.

It would be so easy to lose himself in this. Too easy to pick you up and carry you the short distance to his bed and continue to kiss you all over as you tell him exactly what he wants to hear until the sun rises.

Which is why it takes every ounce of strength he has to tear his mouth from yours - breathing hard and eyes squeezed shut like it physically pains him to stop.

“Wait,” he manages, missing the way you taste the second he pulls away. “Hold on just a second, baby.” The petname slips from his lips without a second thought.

Fuck, he hopes he won’t regret his next words.

You look up at him, dazed, and drop your hands from his face. “What’s wrong? Did I do something—”

“No, no. God, no,” he huffs, planting his hands firmly on either side of your waist. “Not at all. You have no idea how badly I want this. How badly I’ve wanted this for so long. But the last thing I want is for you to have any regrets. You deserve to know the truth. The whole truth.”

You shake your head, your eyes boring into his. “Bucky, it doesn’t matter—”

“Look… whatever is in there, it changes nothing for me. But it’s yours. It’s a piece of you that you deserve to have before making any decision. So please… don’t do it for me. Do it for yourself. Look in the file. And no matter what you find, if you want me, I’m yours.”

You exhale something between a sigh and a laugh. Then, a smirk blooms on your face. “If I look in the stupid file, will you let me keep kissing you?”

He releases a breath that he hadn’t even realized he was holding in. He smiles. “Of course.”

You stare at him for another moment before reluctantly stepping out of his hold and turning to where the file still rests on his bed.

His hands fall to his sides and he forces himself to stay still. To let you walk two steps without reaching for you again, to give you space until you’re ready to share whatever you may find. He doesn’t move, doesn’t sit, doesn’t even breathe. He just watches as you sit down on the edge of his bed, taking the file into your hands.

You glance up at him one final time, as if you’re expecting him to change his mind and tell you to stop. When he doesn’t, you take a deep breath and flip open the cover.

He watches as your eyes skim the first page before flipping to the next. At first, your expression is impassive, giving nothing away. Then, upon flipping to a third page, he hears a sharp intake of breath. He can’t see what you’re looking at from where he’s standing, but the way your teeth dig into your bottom lip and your brows knit together tell him what it must be.

“It’s your mark,” he murmurs. “Isn’t it?”

You don’t answer right away. Your fingers trace over something on the page. Then, slowly, without looking up at him, you nod.

His stomach sinks. He knew it was coming, but yet his stomach still sinks. He hesitates for a moment longer before taking a tentative step towards you, still unsure if you want him to see. Then, you angle the folder enough for him to catch a glimpse.

A Polaroid. A three inch by three inch square picturing a tiny arm. Too small. Barely the size of his fucking hand. And on that tiny arm, right in the ditch - right where his soul mark once decorated his own skin - is dark lettering. He can’t make out exactly what it says, but the location and positioning is so similar to his own that his knees nearly buckle.

“It’s in Russian,” you huff, holding the photograph out to him.

The brief hope he’d felt immediately disappears.

His soul mark hadn’t been a word in Russian - his had been a word in English.

Home.

“My Russian is rusty. What does it say?” You ask softly.

He reluctantly accepts the picture. His heart plummets at the sight of your tiny arm. You couldn’t have been more than two or three years old. He focuses on the soul mark in the bend of your arm. The picture quality is grainy but he can still make out the Russian letters.

The picture nearly falls out of his hands.

“дом.”

“дом?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “What does that mean?”

But his brain is reeling. His heart feels like it’s beating a mile a minute.

“Bucky?”

He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Just a breathless, incredulous laugh that leaves you looking more confused than ever.

He’s going to answer you. He’s going to tell you what your soul mark translates to in English. But first, there’s something he wants to find.

In just three large strides, he’s to the closet on the opposite side of his bedroom. He flings the door open and crouches down, sifting through random storage totes and boxes on the floor as you question what the hell he’s doing from behind him.

He knows he looks like a lunatic right now. But it’ll all make sense to you in a matter of moments, if he can just find—

There.

A manila folder. Similar to yours that lies on his bed just feet away. A folder that, years ago, Natasha Romanoff had managed to get her hands on. A folder that she gave to Steve when he first began his search for Bucky after learning that he was still alive. A file that, like yours, contains photographs of him.

Various photographs. One of him at just twenty-seven years old, in his army uniform. One of him in a cryofreeze chamber. And lastly, the one he’s about to show you.

A picture taken the day he fell from that train in 1945. A picture that has made him sick to his stomach every time he’s looked at it, until now.

Because now, it isn’t just the last picture ever taken of his left arm - mangled and bloody and barely attached to his body before Hydra fully amputated it and replaced it with a metal appendage.

Now, it’s physical, undeniable proof of what that pesky phantom itch in the ditch of his vibranium arm has tried to tell him since he first met you.

That you’re his soulmate.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

It’s the third time you’ve asked that exact question in the last sixty seconds.

You can see what he’s doing - rummaging through his closet on his hands and knees. What you don’t know is why. He hadn’t given you any explanation as to what he’s doing - what he’s looking for.

He said a word in Russian - presumably the word that was once displayed on your arm - and started ripping shit out of his closet like his life depends on it.

“Jesus Christ,” you mumble, sitting down on the edge of his bed. “If you’re not going to tell me what you’re looking for, will you at least tell me what дом means? I didn’t bring my phone with me so I can’t exactly ask Google Translate—”

He turns around, a rectangular photograph visible in his hands. You freeze mid sentence.

“It means home,” he murmurs, his expression calm. A soft smile that reaches his eyes. He stands up and walks over to you, stopping when he’s standing directly before you. He holds the picture out.

“Home?”

You take the picture. At first glance, you grimace at the sight, not even entirely sure what you’re looking at. It’s an arm - barely attached to a human body cut off from the rest of the picture. No face, but you quickly deduce that it’s him. Then, after processing the initial shock of what you’re looking at, your eyes settle on black lettering in the middle of his arm.

Home.

It’s English. Not Russian like yours. But it’s on the exact same arm, exact same location, exact same font. Same word. Just a different language. Like Yelena’s and Bob’s marks - each other’s initials. They may not be identical, but they’re still a perfect match.

You look up at him to find him smiling at you. “Home,” he repeats quietly, as if he’s still trying to believe it himself.

“Does this really mean what I hope—”

“Yes.” His answer comes before you can finish your question, his voice gentle but certain. “That’s exactly what it means.”

You blink rapidly, fighting a losing battle with the tears that threaten to spill over. “You’re my soulmate. I’m your soulmate.”

They aren’t questions. Just facts - beautiful facts that you want to scream to the skies, but it’s the middle of the night and everyone else in this tower is undoubtedly asleep, so you’ll settle for saying it loudly enough for the two of you alone to hear.

“I am,” he hums. “You are. Always have been.” He crouches down in front of where you still perch on the edge of his bed, kneeling on both knees before you. “I’ve waited more than a century to be able to say that.”

You lift one hand and rest it gently on his jaw, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. He seems to melt into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut. You just stare at him, overwhelmed with emotion and at a loss for words.

He’s so fucking pretty. You can’t help but feel a little silly for thinking so at a time like this, but it’s true. He’s so pretty. His hair - his beautiful hair that you get to run your fingers through. His gorgeous ocean eyes that you get to gaze into. His lips. Oh god, his lips that you get to kiss because he’s yours.

He’s really yours.

“Come here,” you murmur.

He braces his hands on either side of your hips on the mattress, pushing himself up just enough that your faces are inches apart. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your lips. He’s close enough that you can see every fleck of blue in his eyes. Close enough that he could kiss you if he leaned forward a fraction of an inch.

“I love you,” you hum. He swallows hard, like he’s having to physically hold himself back from pinning you to the mattress at the sound of those words leaving your lips.

His hands settle on your sides, one warm and one cold. You aren’t sure which causes goosebumps to erupt across your skin. His intoxicating scent, his close proximity, the feeling of his fingers twitching against your waist - it all makes you feel lightheaded. If you weren’t already sitting down, your legs would surely turn to jelly.

“I love you,” he breathes, his eyes darting between your eyes and your lips. “Remember how I said you could keep kissing me if you looked in the file?” Heat pools in your core. Your mouth goes dry. Too dry for you to form a verbal response, so you just nod dumbly.

“Yeah? You should do that now.”

Your heart thuds at the gentle command. You barely have time to register it before he leans in and closes the last sliver of distance between your lips and his.

This kiss makes the first ones seem tame by comparison. You quickly realize you had both been holding back, but there’s none of that now. No caution, no restraint. Just months and months of tension and longing pouring from one into the other.

You pull him onto the bed with you by the collar of his shirt until you’re lying flat and he’s hovering above you, caging you to the mattress. He supports himself with his vibranium armed braced next to your head, his flesh hand caressing the side of your neck as he explores every inch of your mouth with his tongue.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him flush against you. Through his sweatpants, you feel the firm press of his erection between your legs and involuntarily roll your hips, earning a low, guttural groan from him.

He pulls his mouth away from yours with a breathless laugh before attaching his lips to the column of your throat. He sucks the flesh between his lips and then soothes the bite with a kiss before peppering more down your neck, all while you rock your hips against his.

There’s an unprecedented type of want blooming within you. It isn’t a want, it’s a need - like if you don’t get as close to him as humanly possible, you’re going to fucking combust.

You grab the hem of his shirt and begin to tug the fabric upwards. He realizes what you’re doing and leans back on his knees to yank his t-shirt over his head, tossing it to some far corner of the room.

With his long brunet hair falling around his face and his pink lips kiss-swollen, he looks ethereal staring down at you in the soft orange glow of the lamp light. Your gaze drifts to the jagged scar carved along his shoulder, and then lower - over the broad planes of his chest, the sharp dip of his hips revealed by low-hanging sweats, and the unmistakable outline straining against the thin fabric. Heat coils low in your belly, wanting nothing more than to touch every inch of him.

“You’re so pretty,” you hum, voice unrecognizable with adoration and arousal. Pretty is the understatement of the century, but you can barely form a coherent thought.

He blushes pink. “Pretty,” he scoffs lowly, shaking his head, though he can’t conceal the smirk growing on his lips. “You’re one to talk.” He trails a vibranium finger along the waistband of your pajama shorts before hooking it inside, pausing before moving the fabric. “Is it okay if I take these off and make you feel good?”

“Yes.” You can’t find it in you to care if you sound too eager, because you are. Your panties are uncomfortably sticky and the ache in your lower belly is growing by the second, desperate for release. “Please.”

He eases the cotton material, along with your underwear, slowly down your thighs and calves and then discards them haphazardly behind him. Feeling awkwardly half-dressed in only your tank top, you sit up just enough to yank it over your head before you can talk yourself out of it.

You’re left completely bare before him. Normally, if someone looked at you the way he is right now, you’d feel the urge to hide - to cover your chest with your arms or turn away. But with him, you feel none of that. You feel the opposite. You feel seen in a way that doesn’t make you feel like you need to shrink. You’re happy to open yourself up for him because you’re made for him. And he’s made for you.

His gaze drags down your body and back to your face, his normally bright eyes dark. “Ты идеальна,” he whispers, voice strained but still soft.

Heat blooms across your cheeks and you exhale a shaky laugh. “Gonna have to tell me what that means,” you murmur. “My Russian isn’t the best, remember?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he slowly parts your legs, his hands splayed over the skin of your inner thighs as he presses them down to the mattress. You bite your bottom lip to refrain from hissing at the sudden sensation of the tower’s chilly night air washing over your wet, sensitive folds.

“I said you’re perfect.” He answers at the exact same moment that he presses the pad of his flesh thumb over your slit, not taking his eyes off of your face as he massages the digit over your clit. A small gasp escapes you and you arch into his touch, giving your hips another roll.

He pulls his thumb away and you practically whine at the loss of pressure, but the digit is quickly replaced by his index finger teasing your entrance. He swirls the tip of it around your opening, coating it in your arousal before pulling it away, too.

Before you can so much as utter a noise of complaint, he brings the slick-coated finger to his mouth and wraps his lips around it. His eyes roll shut and he groans at the taste. “Perfect and so sweet.”

“Fuck,” you whimper. “Fuck, Bucky. Please.”

You aren’t even sure what you’re begging for. Something. Anything. There’s a fire blazing in your lower belly begging to be put out.

He hops off of the bed, hooking his arms under your knees and easing your body across the bed until your ass is level with the edge of the mattress, your legs dangling over. He crouches down, nestling himself between your legs, his face just inches away from where you need him most.

“What is it, baby?” He croons. “Tell me what you want.” Two cool vibranium fingertips tease your hole and you fight against the overwhelming desire to sink yourself onto them. “Do you want my fingers?”

Just as you open your mouth to plead with him, he glides those two metal fingers inside you - just up to his middle knuckles, but you still see stars at the welcome but sudden stretch and fullness.

“Or my mouth?” His breath fans across your cunt and he presses his lips to your clit in a brief kiss. Your fingers thread through his hair, nails digging into his scalp with just enough pressure to draw a half laugh, half hiss from him. He shakes his head in amusement, the tip of his nose brushing over the sensitive nub.

“Take your pick and stop being such a menace,” you sigh. “You’re really gonna torture your soulmate like this?”

“Sorry,” he huffs a laugh. “I’ll be nice now.”

His definition of nice, you quickly find out, is plunging the two thick digits the rest of the way inside you and curling them at the same time that he sucks your clit between his lips until you look like you’re having an exorcism. His flesh hand glides up your stomach and settles over your breast. He kneads it with enough pressure to send heat rushing through you, each squeeze making that coil in your abdomen grow tighter and tighter.

He alternates between sucking your clit and soothing it with soft kitten licks of his tongue while pumping metal fingers inside you at a torturous pace and in no time, you’re a borderline delirious mess, gasping out pleas and desperate sounds.

The sound of you whimpering his name has him moaning into you, the vibration of it giving you the tiny push you need to go tumbling over the edge. Your walls clench around his fingers as he continues to fuck you through the height of your climax, not ceasing until your body goes slack against the mattress.

Bucky presses one final kiss to the inside of your thigh before rising. He lays down on the bed beside you, propping himself up on his elbow. You’re still catching your breath when he tilts your face towards him in his flesh hand and leans down to kiss you slowly.

When he pulls back, he looks down at you hesitantly. “We don’t have to do anything else tonight. We can stop right here, if you want. We can take our time. We have all the time in the world now.”

Your heart swells at the promise. The promise of simply being with each other, for all time. You tuck a lock of his hair behind his ear and shake your head.

“Bucky,” you whisper, your voice shaky but sure. “I want you. All of you. Now that I have you…I’m always going to want all of you.”

“You have me,” he murmurs, flesh hand trailing down your arm, pausing when he gets to the spot where your soul mark once adorned your skin.

“All of me.”

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑ one year later ✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“If we do the chicken marsala and the lemon rosemary chicken, is that too much chicken? That’s too much chicken. Right?”

Before Bucky can give you an answer, you’re switching topics and rambling about the seating chart - something about how Sam and Walker can’t sit too close together because even after all this time, they still bicker every chance they get - as you flip pancakes with your back to him.

It’s Sunday - the one day of the week that always looks the same. He wakes you up with fresh coffee, you cook breakfast for the two of you, and you spend the morning lazing around your Brooklyn apartment. From catching up on housework, going grocery shopping for the week, and eating lunch at that one sandwich shop you love so much, it’s usually a day of familiar comfort and routine.

But you’re on edge this morning. Frazzled. The wedding is a mere six months away and it’s time to lock in final decisions about the menu, seating arrangements, and all of the other things you’ve rattled off of your mental checklist before nine o’clock this morning.

Bucky had practically felt the stress radiating from you as soon as you woke up. He’d done what he could to help you relax, of course - not letting you leave the bed until he had taken his sweet time making you moan his name in that raspy, sleep-laced voice of yours that he adores so much.

Unfortunately, the effects of that had been temporary and your fretting returned tenfold by the time you started cracking eggs into a bowl.

Even Alpine seems to take note of your stress. The usually mellow white cat is perched on top of the fridge, tail switching as she watches you pace around the kitchen. Every few minutes she lets out a little mewl, like she’s trying to ask if you’re alright.

“And we need to decide on a wedding cake flavor this week, too. The lemon one tasted like floor cleaner, so that narrows it down a bit, but we still have to decide between red velvet and—”

Bucky doesn’t give a shit if the cake tastes like Pine-Sol or if Sam and Walker knock each other unconscious in the venue parking lot. He just wants to marry you.

“What about…no chicken, no Sam or Walker, and no cake?”

You glance up at him with an annoyed expression. “What are you talking about?”

He shrugs, trying not to smirk. He knows that even propositioning something like this is risky, but it’s worth a shot. “What if we just…didn’t? Didn’t worry about any of it? What if we just go to the courthouse and get married? Tomorrow morning.”

You freeze where you’re standing on the other side of the kitchen island, plating up the food. Your expression shifts from annoyed to amused, like you’re trying to figure out if he’s joking or not. He quirks his brow and takes a sip of his coffee.

“You’re serious,” you scoff. It isn’t a question.

“Dead serious.”

“But we - we already sent out invitations. And paid a deposit on the venue. And booked a photographer, and videographer, and—”

By this point, he’s already made his way to the opposite side of the island where you stand, pulling you to him by your waist.

“Look,” he starts softly, cutting off your panicked rambling. “If you want to have a wedding, we’ll have a wedding. Of course. I want you to have whatever the hell you want.” He takes your left hand in his, staring down at the ring on your finger. His mother’s ring, from the early 1900s, passed down to his sister, Rebecca, and then given to Bucky to give to you.

His soulmate.

“But I’ve waited a very long time to marry you. All I care about is that I get to call you my wife. None of the other stuff really matters to me. Not the color of the table linens or the—”

“Okay.”

“Wait. What?” He takes an involuntary step back as if you’ve physically shocked him. Whatever the next words out of your mouth were going to be, he definitely was not expecting okay. “Really?”

You’re smiling from ear to ear. “Really. I mean, a wedding sounds nice in theory, but…this is a lot.” You gesture vaguely to the dry erase board that you had used to sketch potential seating arrangements and an array of fabric swatches littered across the dining room table. “You’re right. None of that stuff really matters. In fifty years, we probably won’t even remember any of it. When we’re old and gray, all that will matter is our vows, the rings on our fingers, and the fact that it’s me and you.”

A soft laugh escapes him. He cups your face in his hands and leans down to bring his lips to yours, vibranium thumb grazing across your cheekbone. “Speaking of vows…” He sighs, pulling back, “if we’re doing this, I should probably finish writing mine.”

“Finish them? I haven’t even started mine. I’ve been too busy trying to keep up with how many fucking gluten free entrees we need to order.”

He cackles at that. “Well, you better start writing, then. Because tomorrow morning we’re driving to the county clerk’s office and I’m making you my wife.”

He starts to lean down to kiss you once more when a melodic purr sounds from the floor at his feet. He glances down to see Alpine weaving herself between your legs, her bright blue eyes blinking up at you both.

“What do you think, Alpine?” You coo, leaning down to scoop her into your arms. “Do you think your mommy and daddy should get married tomorrow?”

The cat nuzzles your chin in answer. Bucky grins, scratching behind her ear. “See? She thinks it’s a great idea, too.”

You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her fuzzy head before setting her back down. Bucky slides his arms around your waist the moment you straighten, pulling you against him. “Tomorrow,” he murmurs into your hair. “I can’t wait.”

You smile up at him, cheek still pressed to his chest. “Tomorrow,” you hum in agreement.

Right in his line of sight are the scattered linen samples, dry erase board, and a planner all taking up the majority of the small dining room table. “Should we, uh…do something about all of that?”

“Hm?” You follow his gaze to see what he’s talking about. “Oh. We can chuck all of that off the fire escape for all I care.”

He was so hoping you would say that.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

if you read to the end of this, thank you so much. i love you forever if you comment/reblog <3

[cosmictheo]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 | bob reynolds

( gif credits to @springseventeen )

—summary: bob loves you so much that he slowly begins to transform into a house-husband for you. and he loves it. —pairing: bob reynolds x female!avenger!reader —word count: 5k (wow) —content: ultimate husband material boss. pure fluff tbh, bob's insecurity and low self-esteem, his need to be loved and approved. he is literally starting to act like your house-husband. he wears an apron!!! you reassure him as he deserves. bucky is such a dad. love confessions, some intense make-out session but nothing more than that. bob loves the reader so much it's crazy.

writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!

Bob.

He had been quite special since you had met him, really. 

Yelena had told you that he liked you. Then Bucky had told you so too. And so had Ava. And Alexei. And John.

But how could Bob not like you, in all honesty? You'd been unnecessarily nice to him since you'd met. You didn't know him, he was a complete stranger, and yet you still showed him compassion and kindness. You stood by his side when you all together escaped the death trap that Valentina had set for you, and you defended him when Walker was getting especially mean to him. 

How could anyone not like you? That was the real question. You were perfect. In every sense of the word. Both figurative and literal. From your soul to your mind. You seemed to be an angel fallen from heaven. Something ethereal, something crafted by his own mind, made in the most beautiful dreams.

Bob would normally think of himself as a big idiot, a loser. That he could never have you. A part of him insisted that never, not even in a million other universes could he ever deserve you. He wanted you as his lover or his friend? It didn't really matter, he just wanted you in his life.

And yet, he was flirting with you anyway. Or at least that's what he thought he was doing.

“Here,” he'd told you every morning since you'd set up at the tower as the New Avengers... you insisted that you all should think of a new name. In his hand he held a cup of coffee, your favorite coffee, and on his face there was a sheepish little smile, your favorite smile. His eyes held that softness all over, that slight, hardly visible gleam, that you could always see it anyway, always, you caught a glimpse of it. Every time he looked at you. As if stars were hung from your hands. Well, technically they did, due to your superpower, that is.

“Thank you, Bobby,” you would say, offering him a warm smile, pronouncing that nickname so fondly and gently, that it had become a favorite nickname for his name. After so long hating it, after having caused him so much pain. Sure, now, his heart pounded when he heard it, his breathing quickened as well, but his chest swelled with tenderness. It was a good emotion, coming from a nice place. It didn't make him feel pain or sadness. Quite the opposite.

Bob was used to being an alien, isolated, left behind, to be hurt and broken. But you, you never left him behind. You always turned to look for him, to walk beside him, to gaze at him with those pretty eyes filled with concern and caring. You owed him nothing, you barely knew him, and yet, you were willing to walk in the void, in the darkness that concealed his heart and illuminate through with your light. You had saved him. And since then, you were his anchor.

You were patient. With his mood swings, his stuttering, his lack of confidence and his self-proclamation to inclination to ruin everything. He could never ruin you, you always assured him.

Love.

Bob had never even thought that he would ever have love in his life. That he would never truly grasp the concept of love, of loving. He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve you.

You were the closest thing to love he will ever know. There was love in everything you did, in everything you said, in the way you called his name and in the way you looked at him.

He loved you.

“Relax, kid. You miss your Romeo that much?” Bucky blurted out in a tone that bordered near teasing, giving you an amused glance as you both walked over to the entrance of the Watchtower of the (New) Avengers, your home.

A mission had been assigned to the both of you as a duo. To locate the position of a small but potentially dangerous group of terrorists in the suburbs of New York city. There was an indication of where their base might have been. With your super senses it had been easy enough to just stumble upon it and with Bucky covering your back, you had arrested them all in less than twenty minutes.

It had been a successful mission. But the anxiety of being out in public had never really been something you could ignore, so the urge to go home was always lurking in the back of your mind.

To return to Bob, as well. Bob was a lingering thought in your mind now, an incessant remembrance. Something worth coming home safe and sound for.

“Drop it, Barnes,” you replied to your old friend, mumbling softly.

Bucky cracked a little chuckle, pressing the button to the top floors on the elevator once you were both inside. You could feel his intent gaze on your face and you could also sense all that he was trying to talk to you about.

“Look, I've never seen you like this before, okay? In all the years I've known you." He began to lecture you in a 'fraternal speech' mode, turning around so he could look at you, noticing how your cheeks were slightly flushed. “You're happy. It's been months since I've seen you as happy as you are now. You've been smiling and laughing more, you even started playing the piano again. And that's good, sweetheart,” he offered you a small smile, completely sincere and gentle, “You deserve to be, you know? Happy. You've been through a lot. And you have helped to protect this world longer than all of us. You deserve everything you want.”

You smiled back, but it soon twisted more into an apprehensive grimace, “Yeah, I just—” you heaved a sigh of concern, sensing that Bucky wanted you to talk to him, not from the exterior, but from your inner self, about how you felt. “It scares me....”

Bucky shook his head lightly, extending his flesh-and-blood hand to rest it on your shoulder, expressing sympathy. His fraternal demeanor always managed to make you feel comforted.

“It's normal to feel fear” then he cocked his head, narrowing his eyes as his face grew full of playfulness, “But, sweetheart, have you seen him? He's the strongest guy currently on planet Earth. What I know is that anyone who would try to hurt him or you is the one who should be afraid. He almost wiped out all of us together at once. It was kind of humiliating...”

“That wasn't him” you immediately replied using a low tone, remembering how chaotic and painful that day had been. You had had to fight the Void, you were the strongest among all the others, after Bob of course.

“I know,” Bucky replied, sighing softly, “What I'm trying to say is that you both deserve to be happy. Shit, the guy looks at you as if the stars hung from your hands. You both deserve to have something to fight for and protect. How are you going to protect a place that has nothing to protect?”

“That doesn't even—”

Bucky rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue disapprovingly, “Makes sense, I know—” he shook his head, frowning and gesturing with his hands in exaggerated fashion, “You know what I mean, kid.”

“Yeah... I know” you smiled softly at him, thoughtfully.

Once you had entered into your floor, you had gone straight to your room. You took off your suit, tossed it in the laundry basket, and then changed into more comfortable clothes.

You were combing your hair when you heard three soft knocks on your door. You didn't have to look to know who it was, you had already recognized his racing heartbeat from the moment he had turned around the corner.

“Come in!” you exclaimed, concentrating on combing your hair, letting it loose.

The door opened to reveal Bob. He was wearing a chef's apron, with an adorable cat pattern design. And his face was even more adorable. His cheeks were slightly flushed, his eyes were soft all over, and a sheepish smile graced his thin lips. 

He was wearing that beanie again. 

He had been wearing it for more than two days now, for some unknown reason, making it impossible for you to see his hair. It wasn't even cold in there, the building's heating system was perfect.

“Hi,” he greeted you, raising his hand to wave at you with it, making you smile, “I cooked for you”

He watched you put the hair comb on your vanity desk, his blue eyes fleetingly roaming over all of you. 

Bob thought you always looked beautiful. In the suit or in a shirt of some really old band you'd never heard in your life. But the suit truly looked good on you. The colors were perfect and even though you said the cape was ridiculous and over the top, it made you look magnificent when you flew.

It was like a second skin, the fabric clinging tightly to your body, molding your curves so perfectly. He never thought he would be jealous of a piece of fabric.

Before he kept picturing you in your suit, he let his gaze wander across your room, falling on your record player, playing a Jeff Buckley song, from your favorite albums, he knew. Many times he had listened to it with you, sitting right there on the bed next to you.

His eyes then fell on the pair of small pictures you had on your nightstand next to your bed. In one of the pictures, he could see himself sleeping with his head resting on your shoulder, your self also sleeping on the couch, just having a Disney movie marathon. Alexei had taken the picture, of course, and you had begged him to give him a copy. Bob had also asked for one, keeping the picture next to his bed. It was a cute photo, you looked so cute in it.

“You cooked for me, Bob?” you asked back, your face expressing the tenderness you felt inside. “Again? You know you shouldn't—”

He turned back to you and nodded his head, interrupting you, “I know you like tacos, you said so the other time. I thought you might like to eat them after the mission.”

Realizing you weren't saying a word back and just stared at him, he grew even more nervous under your powerful gaze, his fingers fidgeting at his sides and his gaze dropped to the floor, puffing out a small awkward chuckle.

“But— uh— if you don't want to eat them, it's okay‒ you must‒ you must be tired. I don't think I cook very well either—”

“Why are you wearing that beanie again?” you interrupted his rambling, genuinely confused. 

You had noticed the way he was pulling the edges of the fabric down his forehead, preventing any strands of his hair from slipping out and being seen.

“Uh?” he stammered, his brow furrowing slightly, “Oh, this? It's nothing, it's just—” he gestured with his hands anxiously, making it impossible for him to look you directly in the eye, “It's a bit chilly in here. I don't want to catch a cold.”

You sighed softly, looking at him with concerned eyes, “Bobby, I can literally sense you're lying to me.” You then slightly shook your head, “You can't catch a cold since Project Sentry, honey. And it's almost twenty degrees in here.”

He shifted his body weight down between his two feet, still staring at the ground, resembling a child who was being scolded. When he eventually looked up from the floor, his eyes held a dull, sad look.

“It's just...”

This time he interrupted himself, growing quiet and letting the silence carry his words away. It took him a few moments to reflect on an answer for you, sorting through the words and phrases that were rushing through his head.

You waited so patiently for him. As always.

“The bleach is wearing off and I have a horrible mix of colors. My hair is just a mess now,” he was finally able to express, motioning with his hands, in some way to detract from what he was talking about, but you could see beyond that. You understood that this was something important to him, something that had been troubling him.

You patted the bed, sitting down on it and inviting him to sit down as well, “Come here, Bobby." 

He obeyed you, of course, making his way to your bed, awkwardly tripping over his own feet on the path.

Once he was seated next to you, he made an effort to maintain eye contact with you, but just couldn't, casting his eyes down to his lap, where his hands were fidgeting, revealing sheer nervousness and anxiety.

“You don't want to be seen with your brown hair?” you asked him in a soft tone, intending to seek his gaze and attempting as well to let him allow you to let you see beyond his mask and beyond what he usually pretended to be. “I like your natural hair color.”

“Brown?” he questioned back, appearing genuinely troubled, even more gloomy now. His brow was furrowed and his voice wavered into disbelief, “But it's so.... lame.”

“Let me see” you pleaded and Bob immediately gave in, sighing shakily before raising his hands to his head, tugging the cap off and allowing you to see the, as he put it, mess that was his hair. But it wasn't at all.

Sure, the ends were still affected by the bleach, they were mainly burned and dehydrated, and now most of his hair was brown, gradually returning to its natural color. A couple of wavy strands fell on his forehead, contrasting so beautifully with the color of his skin.

Bob looked embarrassed now. Still gazing down at his lap, his hands clenching the beanie between his fingers. He was expecting you to make fun of him, to make some joking remark about how ugly his hair was or how ridiculous he was for even giving so much thought to how it looked in the first place.

But you, you just offered him a gentle smile. And then your hand ran down the side of his head, picking up a brown lock and brushing it back away from his forehead. That's when he finally looked back up at you, awestruck.

“Your hair is so pretty just the way it is, Bob” you began to tell him and your voice delivered so much reassurance and comfort, it was so soothing. The way you pronounced his name made him feel his heart flip in his chest. “You don't need to change anything about it. You don't have to prove anything. You're not him.”

“I know,” he whispered, holding your gaze, pressing his face against the palm of your hand, clawing desperately for your touch. He didn't want to beg. He didn't have to. He knew you could feel it, his longing, the aching, the need for love, for your love. “I just thought that.... well, they all said that blond was better, to be the Sentry, to look stronger and— and‒ and attractive. I thought, that way you'd like me better—blond, I mean.”

“Does the opinion of others matter much to you?”

Bob shook his head, just barely, so as to avoid under any circumstances straying far out of your hand, and then murmured, shyly, “Only yours.”

“I like you in any way, Bob” you replied, assuring him, and when he placed a kiss on the palm of your hand, you felt your heart halt, “Every side of you. The good side, the bad side. I like you. All of you.”

Bob swallowed saliva, parting his lips to let out a soft shaky sigh, “With you it's only the good side. You bring out the best in me.”

“Can I kiss you?” you even had the audacity to ask. When he was looking at you like that, as if you were the most precious creature in the entire universe. When you had never felt or known love as pure as the love Bob was extending to you through his mere gaze.

“Y‒yes, p‒please” he begged.

You kissed him. 

And the world stopped. All the noise muffled around him, the voices whispering that he'd made a mistake once again hushed. The darkness was succumbing to the light. Your light.

His lips followed yours like an instinct, like something they had been used to in another life, in another universe. Like picking up an old habit. Like second nature, his hands landed on your waist, a tentative but yearning touch.

Your mouth connected with his like old pieces of a puzzle finally coming together, fitting as if they were made for each other. Now, everything seemed to make sense, the whole universe, all the pain, all the suffering, all the mistakes, everything that had brought you there, to that very moment.

“You're everything I've dreamed of” he whispered against your lips once the kiss was over, still with his eyes closed, like it was all a dream, if he dared to open them, you would disappear from his arms. So he held you close, pulling you desperately against him.

You kissed him again. 

Eventually Bob opened his eyes and they instantly softened as they found yours looking back at them. It wasn't a dream, no. It was reality. This was really happening.

He had kissed you- well, you had kissed him. But you were there, in his arms, his hands molding the curve of your waist as if they were made to hold you. All of a sudden, he realized he wasn't really meant to be anyone in this life, not some superhero, some weapon, some asset, no, Bob was meant for you. He was made to be yours. 

His hands were not made to destroy, they were made to hold you. To protect you.

His whole being was made to love you.

Bob loved you.

“Can I kiss you again?” he asks, his eyes lowering from yours to your lips again, and again, and again....

His fingers caressed your hips, nudging your bare skin below the hem of your shirt, and the very touch sent shivers down your spine.

“Don't hesitate, just kiss me” you assured him back in a whisper and he savored the breath of your utterance, kissing you again, most passionately this time. 

Your hands embraced his neck and you pulled him close to you, leaning back against one of the many pillows on your bed. He kept kissing you, like a starving man, careful not to crush you with his weight, one of his hands rested on the side of your body against the bed.

His hair brushed against your face, tickling you.

“I'm bad at this, I'm sorry—” he suddenly apologized, as if he just was coming back down to the ground and snapping back to reality, detaching himself from you, only barely, just enough to be able to look at you. Above you he looked like a god. Looking down at you with those eyes, darkened by love and longing. His face was all red and his pupils dilated. Up close, you could distinguish the tiny greenish shades within all the light blue of his orbs. “I haven't kissed anyone in— God, I can't even remember— I'm sorry.”

“Hey, it's okay” you tried to reassure him, looking up at him with doting, soft eyes. He took the moment to just admire you, his lips parted, reddened from all the kissing. “Me neither.”

“What?” Bob displayed his incredulity at your words, his brow furrowing faintly, barely a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. His unoccupied hand trailed up your body, tracing your curves, all the way to your jaw, his fingers fondly caressing your skin, looking down at you with adoration, not even missing a chance to marvel at you to blink, “That makes no sense— You're a good kisser. The best kisser.”

Now it was your turn to blush, shifting your gaze down to his chest, avoiding his, feeling flushed and really hot all of a sudden. But Bob didn't let you stray too far from him, as he kept his hand on your chin, lifting your face so he could gaze directly into your eyes.

“Don't look at me like that” you pleaded in a quiet whisper, locking your gaze with his again. The blue of his eyes sparkled in reflection of yours, all threatening to surround you entirely and pull you into the serene indigo sea they held within them.

Bob soaked his lips with his tongue, catching a glimpse of your gaze dropping to them for just a second. His finger nuzzled up against your cheek, tracing a tender caressing line across your skin. The touch struck an earthquake inside you and your heart thumped unquietly in your chest, menacing to leap out to join his.

“I always look at you like this,” he uttered your name as if it were his own religion, “You are so pretty...”

You are incomparable in his eyes. His love for you is unconditional, even on bad days. His loyalty relies on you blindly, unbreakable.

“Y‒you make me happy” he murmured after a comfortable and serene silence, full of emotions, good emotions. “I'd forgotten what that felt like. But you gave it to me again. Happiness. Belonging. Love.” He breathed out a chuckle, appearing incredulous, “God, I even started cooking. I mean, w‒when had I ever done that?”

You kissed him again, devastatingly gentle, tender, loving, just the way you always addressed him and only him. 

And he drank in everything you gave him, every kiss, every caress and every touch, as if you were the reason he existed, the reason he breathed.

He breathed out a raspy whimper against your lips when you pulled his hair at the nape of his neck, your fingers sinking through the brown locks, pressing him closer to you.

“Do that again, please” Bob pleaded in a husky whisper, in between kisses, nearly in despair, breathing out in a cracked voice.

You tugged on his hair once more and Bob's voice broke into a groan, his eyes squinting, gazing into yours as if they were the center of the universe.

“Can I touch you?” you asked him before kissing his lips once more and you could almost feel him vibrate against you as he nodded his head in a frenzy.

He kissed you again, uttering your name like a prayer, “Please touch me, do whatever you want to me, but don't ever stop touching me.”

You breathed out a little giggle as when you realized that he was in fact wearing an apron. He looked so cute in it.

“The apron looks good on you.” he blushed furiously at your words, if it was even more possible. His skin was now crimson, as red as a tomato. “You would be a fine house husband”

The lights in your room flickered just as you pronounced the words, and you knew it had been him. So powerful, so strong, yet he was melting apart under your touch, completely at your mercy.

His skin was warm, it felt like porcelain under your touch.

The lights faded in and out again.

“I'm d-doing okay?” Bob asked, his hands settled on your hips, digits sinking into the fabric of your shorts. His lips quivered, forming a hint of a nervous smile, looking down at you, searching for your approval,

“You're perfect, baby” you assured him, kissing his chest one last time before beginning to make a path of kisses through all his face, making him smile.

“Perfect, perfect, perfect” you murmured several times against his warm skin.

Bob gasped shakily, his hands groping as much of you as they could, slipping under the thin fabric of your shirt, “Fuck-- you drive me crazy. You're so pretty, so good to me... You make me so happy, baby”

And then you hugged him, pressing him against you close, impossibly close. He carefully rolled you both over on the bed, with him now under you, so that he could hold your whole body, feel your full weight pressed against his.  

Your eyes filled with tears at his statement, fully understanding that it was difficult for him to express his emotions, to say out loud what he was feeling and what was going on inside his head. But anyway, he had done all that for you.

“You make me happy too” you whispered to him, reassured him, promised him back. He hugged you tightly, snuggling close to you, locking his body to yours.

Bob placed a tentative but loving kiss on your shoulder just as you were pulling away from him, gently tugging on his shoulders to make him sit up on the bed as well, in front of you, with your legs entangled.

“You must be tired. Your mission went well?” he asked curiously, releasing one of your hands to run it up the side of your face and you pressed it against his palm as an instinct, closing your eyes and letting yourself feel the warmth and reassurance his touch provided, “I missed feeling you here.”

He was looking at you in awe. The way you pressed yourself against his hand, the same hand that had hurt so many people, that had caused so much pain and destruction. And now it was holding your face as if it were the whole world.

“Feeling me?” you raised your eyebrows, tone of voice growing teasing.

Bob blushed, and let go of your hand to pass it through his hair, “Y‒your presence, your heartbeat, your breathing, y‒you know.”

“My heartbeat?” you asked him another question just to tease him.

He became even more nervous, his hand returned to yours, interlacing his fingers with yours and giving you a gentle squeeze, asking for silent mercy, but you looked at him attentively with a smirk, “All I can think about is you, h‒honestly.” he watched as your smile quivered with his words, “You're everywhere. I just... feel you.”

He left you speechless once again, looking up at him, holding your breath.

“I'm sorry—I'm just saying what comes to mind” Bob rushed to apologize once again, lowering his gaze to your joined hands, feeling your warmth engulf him all over, as your thumb stroked his knuckles soothingly. His own thumb traced your cheekbone as if he were brushing the most magnificent shape in the world. You were. In his eyes. “I'm not being polite right now. It's nothing—”

“Bob,” you called his name, interrupting him and causing him to look up at you, both of your hands going to cup his face. He fell silent, gawking at you, in utter awe, roaming his eyes over every inch of your face, intending to remember every single detail, every fragment of your complexion, “You're everything. Everything.”

His eyes glistened, crystallizing with a couple of tears, not out of sadness or pain, no, they were from happiness, from feeling complete, from feeling that he finally belonged somewhere. By your side.

“Thank you” he then breathed a few times, kissing the palms of your hands pressed against his face, cupping them with his own.

Your fingers caught a lock of his hair that had fallen over his face, brushing it back once again.

“I like it better this way” you commented, smiling sweetly.

“Yeah?” he asked gently, so happy he could leap.

You nodded your head, humming approvingly, “Blond looks good on you too. But I met you with brown hair, so I like you better that way.”

Bob kissed the palm of your hand once more, looking at you tenderly, “You met me at my worst.”

“We all have bad days, Bobby,” you murmured, trying to reassure him, “You've been through so much. And you're still here, still standing. You're so strong”

“Thanks to you,” he replied and hurried to add, blushing, “And to the others— of course. Anyway, you must be hungry. Your stomach is growling.”

He took your hand, and waited for you to put on your shark slippers, still blushing. Then he led you out of your room, 'Lover, you should've come over' playing from your record player as you closed the door behind you. You smiled affectionately, walking beside him.

But your smile was washed off your face once you passed through the threshold of the kitchen, encountering Alexei and John, devouring the tacos that Bob had cooked, especially for you.

Seeing you appear in the kitchen, with both of you looking absolutely terrorized, Alexei took a big sip of his beer, raising his eyebrows, “What happened to you, kids?”

John, sitting next to him, burped, just finishing munching on the last remaining taco, “These were really good.” he wiped his mouth with a napkin and made his way towards the kitchen doorway, patting Bob's shoulder as he passed by him, “Thanks, Bobby.”

Alexei nodded his head enthusiastically, showing agreement, following John, with his half-drunk beer in his hand, “You should be the team cook.”

You turned your face toward Bob, who was staring at the plate, now empty of tacos, with a frown on his face and a small pout curving his lips.

You gave his hand a squeeze, tugging him to walk into the kitchen with you.

“Come on, honey, we can do more tacos” you tried to encourage him, holding back the urge to laugh at the sight of his face all pouty.

“I hope they don't have sex in the kitchen, that would be gross” you heard John say to Alexei with your super hearing.

“I heard that!” you exclaimed, looking toward the open kitchen door.

Then you heard Alexei's guffaw as you turned to look at Bob, pouty and blushing now.

[aquaticmercy]

Meet Me Halfway

Summary : Bucky has to recruit the love of his life to save New York from the void. He doesn't know if she wants to ever see him again, though.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers below the cut!!!!!!! Exes to friends to lovers. Fluff,  angst, reader is a tracker with enhanced senses. Cursing, Trauma. Implied sex. Alcohol consumption. Death(Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Requested by : anon 

Word count : 15k whoops

Note : This story touches on the events of Civil War, IW, Endgame, FATWS, BP Wakanda Forever, and Thunderbolts*! I used google translate for the Xhosa, so please let me know if it needs to be corrected. If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

You were a tracker.

Your body was a weapon, biologically improved by enhanced senses. You could smell a carcass from ten miles away. You could hear a pin drop on the other side of town. Your eyes could track body heat through a crowd of thousands— and it meant you were a hunter in a world full of invisible prey. Some people hunted with tools. You were the tool. 

So, of course Steve Rogers found you when he needed to find a ghost. Steve found you when the world turned on James Buchanan Barnes. 

After the UN bombing in Vienna, when Bucky was framed and every intelligence agency on Earth wanted him in chains or dead, Steve came to you— he heard of you through old SHIELD files— with desperation and a duffel bag full of cash. 

“I need you to find him,” he said. “Before they do.”

You didn’t even hesitate before taking the job. Because even then, before you met Bucky you believed Steve. And more than that, you believed in redemption.

You tracked Bucky down with your senses—following the scent of gunpowder and cold metal, the subtle trail of heat left in his wake, the ragged sound of breath through the cities of Bucharest. 

You found him before the world did and pointed Steve and Sam in the right direction.

— 

By the time the Avengers disbanded, you were a fugitive—hunted by that least half of the world’s government. Helping Steve Rogers had branded you a traitor in their eyes, but you didn’t regret it. Not then. Not now.

When T’Challa offered sanctuary to Bucky, he extended the same offer to you. Wakanda didn’t just take you in; it gave you purpose. In exchange for refuge, you worked for the royal family— tracking those who dared to steal vibranium from the borders and ensuring justice found them before they slipped through the cracks.

Your home was a modest apartment tucked into the east wing of the palace. It was secluded, perfect for someone like you.

—

When Bucky finally woke from the ice and the trigger words were gone, he didn’t know who to trust. The world had changed too much. He had changed too much.

He trusted Queen Ramonda, who always made sure there was room for both of you at the palace table. He trusted Shuri and the Dora Milaje, because they helped him heal his mind. He trusted both you and T’challa, simply because… Steve trusted you. 

He didn’t expect to fall for you, though.

—

At first, Bucky barely spoke. He moved like a shadow through the palace when he even left his little hut at all. 

He was healing, but not whole. Not yet. The arm was gone—torn from him in Siberia, left behind with the rest of Hydra’s wreckage. 

Bucky hadn’t gotten his new arm yet. Shuri insisted they take their time, that his body and mind needed rest before they complicated him with upgrades. It was the right call. But it left him vulnerable in ways he hated. 

For a man who’d lost so much already, it felt like one more cruel subtraction. You noticed how he avoided using his left side. How he winced at imbalance. How he hated needing help.

You didn’t pity him. You just made space for him to breathe. You shared meals together in the palace garden, never pushing for a conversation he wasn’t ready for.

Sometimes, you’d sit and sharpen your blades while he watched the sky. Other days, you’d bring him small things—a worn paperback with dog-eared pages, a piece of fruit from an outreach mission, or a knife he could train with using only one hand.

“You're not trying to fix me,” he said once, more surprised than grateful.

You shrugged. “You’re not broken.”

You started getting really close because of jars. Peanut butter, mostly. Occasionally pickles. Once, a stubborn jar of papaya jam.

You noticed how he hesitated at cabinets, how he didn’t ask for help even when he clearly needed it— especially because he didn’t know how to use just one hand. 

If he needed a jar opened, you’d walk by, say nothing, and twist the lid off. Then you’d leave it on the counter and move on. No questions. No pity. 

Over time, it turned into more than jars.

He started joining you on your patrols—not in an official capacity, just to walk, perhaps to feel the beauty of the world again without being chased. You’d track down potential threats to Wakandan borders—smugglers, black market mercs—and Bucky would wait for you to get back before having his meal. 

He eventually told you about Bucharest in fragments. About Hydra in pieces. In return, you told him about the experiment. Not all of it—just enough for him to understand that you, too, had been shaped into something you didn’t ask to be.

Days passed like water through your fingers.

You trained with him in the early mornings — barefoot in the dirt, palms open, bodies moving like you were learning each other through motion. You’d fight, laugh, fall, rise again.

At night, you sat together under the stars, sharing stories in fragments — half-finished memories neither of you were strong enough to say out loud in full. You learned he liked fruit, that he slept on his side, that he sometimes talked in Russian in his dreams and didn’t realise it.

One night, you asked, “Do you remember who you were, before all of it?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “I think… I remember who I loved. My sister. Steve. The Howling Commandos. But who I was a long time ago? He’s long gone.”

“He’s not,” you whispered. “You’re him. Just… in pieces.”

He looked at you like you were a miracle.

And one of those days, you fell in love with him. 

You didn’t fall in love all at once. It happened slowly, quietly—like stepping into warm water without realising how deep it’s gotten until you’re already submerged.

You tried not to make too much of it. Tried to keep it buried. But your heart had a mind of its own.

So one afternoon, you found yourself pacing in the royal garden while Nakia and Okoye pruned herbs, and blurted it out before you could stop yourself.

“I think I’m in trouble.”

Okoye raised an eyebrow, “Did you get injured?”

“No,” you said, “but I—“

Nakia interrupted you, a knowing smile curling at the edges of her mouth. “Is this the kind of trouble with blue eyes and long hair?”

“Well, yes, I—“ You groaned, pressing a hand to your face. “—I think I like him.”

Okoye tutted, not unkindly. “You think? I’ve seen the way you look at him like he’s a sunrise after a long night.”

Nakia laughed.

“I’m serious!” you said, trying to sound firm and absolutely failing. “He looks at me like I’m not broken.”

“What is wrong with that?” Okoye asked.

“Because I might believe him.” 

Nakia finally stopped  laughing. Her voice softened. “Sounds like someone sees you the way you’ve always deserved to be seen.”

You didn’t answer her. 

—

Meanwhile, Bucky sat on a sun-warmed bench beside T’Challa, overlooking the city below. After a long silence, Bucky confessed, “I think I’m in trouble.”

T’Challa turned to look at him and raised a brow. “The kind with bullets or feelings?”

“Feelings,” Bucky muttered under his breath. 

“Ah. More dangerous,” T’Challa smiled slightly. “The tracker?”

Bucky blinked. “How the hell does everyone know?”

“You are not subtle, my friend,” T’Challa said, patting him on the shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Bucky chuckled cynically, “Well…”

There was another pause, and then T’Challa spoke softly, “When I was hung up on Nakia, my baba used to tell me Uthando aluyomdlalo; ngumlambo ongenamkhawulo.”

Bucky stared at him for a while, translating in his head. Love is not a game. It is a river with no end.

“You cannot control where it takes you,” T’challa explained, “Only whether you choose to step in.”

Bucky sighed. “I think I already have.”

—

Later, by the lake, the air was still. The moonlight danced on the surface of the water, casting silver over the little hut Bucky called home.

You stood at his door, hands in clenched fists at your sides, heart racing in a way you hadn’t felt since you first got your powers. You knocked, and it was softer than intended— like a question more than a demand.

He opened the door like he’d been expecting you. You didn’t wait. You didn’t explain. You just looked at him and said, “I think I’m in trouble.”

He stepped aside without a word and let you in without a word. “Me too,” he whispered.

Inside the hut, the world seemed a bit quieter.

Bucky stood a few steps away, uncertain. You didn’t move at first. Neither did he.

Then he reached out, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. His fingers brushed yours. You curled into his touch without thinking. “I— I think,” you choked out the words. “Fuck— I don’t know how to say it or where to begin…”

“Shhh, I know,” he whispered reassuringly, “because I do, too.”

You nodded, throat tight. “I know.”

You had known for a while now. Your senses allowed you to smell the oxytocin in the air when he was around you, to hear his heartbeat quicken when you spent time together, 

He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. He just stepped closer, forehead resting against yours like it was the only place he belonged. Your fingers traced the curve of his jaw, then slid to the scar marring his shoulder—a mark where his Hydra arm used to bed.

“I’m scared,” he confessed, voice low.

“Me too,” you whispered, your lips trembling.

But then you leaned in, and kissed him.

At first, it was tentative—testing. Then, almost immediately, it turned urgent, like you needed to carve this moment into memory, like you were oxygen to him. 

He kissed you back with desperation, like he was terrified you might vanish if he let go. His hand gripped your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left, no more hiding. When you finally broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed, fingers still clinging to each other like anchors, you said it again, softer this time. “I know.”

“Yeah,” he smiled, “I know.”

The next few months unfolded in pieces.

You were his lover, though neither of you used the word much. Labels felt too fragile, too small for what you were building. You sparred in the mornings, slept tangled together some nights. Sometimes you held him through dreams he didn’t remember. Sometimes he held you through memories you couldn’t say out loud.

Neither of you said “I love you.”

You didn’t need to. You showed it in the broken ways people like you do. He cleaned your knives after missions. You kissed the scars on his body without asking where they came from. But in each other, you found peace.

But you did, though you didn’t say it until a year later, When Thanos’ army broke through Wakanda’s barriers.

You stood on the battlefield, shoulder to shoulder with the Dora Milaje. He was beside you, new arm gleaming.

You both knew you might die here.

So just before the charge Bucky turned to you and reached for your hand, calloused fingers threading with yours.

“I love you,” he said.

You looked at him, heart pounding. And in that final moment—when the world outside this little bubble burned and the force field opened—you said it back. “I love you too.”

And then you let go and ran into the fire together.

—

The battle was chaos.

Together, you carved a path through the madness, never far from each other’s side. Each glance was a tether. But when Thanos snapped—

You felt it first. A strange pull in your chest. Like gravity forgot you.

Bucky turned just in time to see you stumble.

“Doll?” He breathed out, voice catching in his throat.

You looked down at your hand— and your fingers were dissolving.

“Hey…” you said softly, like you didn’t want to scare him.

And then— you were gone, carried by the wind.

Bucky’s knees gave out next.

His vision blurred as your hands started to vanish. The world felt far away as he turned to Steve next and said his best friend’s name.

There was no time to be afraid. He just had one last thought— I’m coming with you.

And then— nothing. 

—

Five Years Later.

You came back gasping.

One moment there was nothing—and the next, the battlefield roared around you again. Portals opened. War cried out for soldiers. You ran through it, only searching for one person. You searched the air for his scent, tracked body heat through the crowds looking for Bucky.

When you found him, he grabbed you and pulled you into his arms, and held you so tightly it hurt. But you didn’t care. You buried your face in his shoulder and let yourself feel everything all at once. 

You fought side by side again that day, but even after Thanos was defeated, even after the dust finally settled, the weight on Bucky's shoulders hadn’t lifted.

That night, you and him laid down on a half-collapsed med tent. You were bruised, your leg cut, his knuckles torn open—but you both refused to be separated.

“Bucky,” you said gently as you took his shaking hands. “I’m here.”

He didn’t answer, he just stared blankly at you like you might disappear again.

“Talk to me,” you whispered.

And then— he broke.

His hands grabbed your face and kissed you like he had to prove you were real. Like if he didn’t, the universe might take you away again. His breath was uneven, voice hoarse as he finally spoke, “You turned to dust in front of me.”

You pulled him in, forehead to forehead, hearts thundering between bruised ribs. “We came back.”

“I watched it happen,” he choked. “You looked right at me—and then you were just gone. I—“ 

“I came back,” you repeated, firmer now. “I am here.”

He didn’t ask. He didn’t explain. He just pushed his forehead into your collarbone and let his walls fall. 

And in that surrender, you undressed in a desperate attempt to feel something, anything at all. 

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t perfect. His hands shook against your bare skin, yours ached. You kissed the scar at his shoulder where metal met flesh, and he kissed the bruise on your cheekbones as if he could heal it. 

And when you moved together, it was achingly intimate— two ghosts trying to remember how to be alive.

After, he stayed wrapped around you, hand on your stomach, breath finally steady. You ran your fingers through his hair and kissed his temple.

—

You soon learned that you were different people to who you were five years ago. 

You were still yourself—but edged. The senses they’d carved into you had only grown keener in the dust. You could smell grief in the air. Taste the metallic echo of time. You threw yourself into your work because it was the only way you could process anything. You have given more time to your job and less to everyone else in your life because it was the only way to block your demons out. 

And Bucky—God, Bucky.

Maybe it was watching you vanish into nothing. Maybe it was watching Steve choose a life he didn’t get to have. Maybe it was both. Whatever it was, it left him wound tight, walking through the world like it might crumble beneath his feet at any second. He became suffocatingly protective.

Now, he was always checking exits. Watching windows. Reading strangers’ faces. Looking for ghosts with Hydra insignias or familiar flags. Always ready to run.

You soon realised that while you both have survived death, surviving life was harder.

Some nights, he woke drenched in sweat, eyes wide and terrified. Sometimes he dragged you with him—out of bed, into the hall, whispering about danger that wasn’t there. About people who might take you from him again. You held him anyway.

You wrapped your arms around his trembling body.. You whispered to him that he was safe, that you were real. And some nights, he even believed you.

And on the quietest nights, when your pulse thudded steady beneath his hand, you’d say the only promise that mattered, “If we vanish again—we vanish together.”

He would nod against your chest and weep. 

And while your words helped him in the moment, things only got worse. 

He was still obsessed with not losing you again.

He watched you like a man teetering on the edge of a cliff. Always scanning, always planning, always afraid. He checked your comms before you left on a mission. He memorised your schedule like a battle plan. He begged for access to your Kimoyo beads so he could track your movements like a tactician studying the terrain.

It wasn’t protective anymore. It was paranoia.

He wouldn’t sleep if you were out past dark. Would sit by the window, waiting for footsteps or the sound of your key in the lock.

You tried to reason with him—gently, at first. You reminded him who you were, what you could do. 

None of it mattered.

To Bucky, you were breakable simply because you were his.

When he got pardoned, the first thing he said was, “Come with me. Brooklyn. I have to… make amends.”

“Bucky, the Wakandan royal family is extending my contract,” You sighed, kissing the crease between his eyebrows. “They trust me. I’m not leaving that behind.”

He didn’t argue. Not really. He just clenched his teeth and nodded. But you could feel the storm brewing, so you compromised. You would spend three months in Brooklyn with him, then three in Wakanda for work. A split life. 

But even in that compromise, the obsession bled through. Every time you left, he’d call. Text. Ping your locator chip on your kimoyo beads. Just checking, he’d say. Just making sure you’re okay.

It stopped feeling sweet. It started to feel like surveillance.

Sometimes you’d be halfway through a mission—deep in a jungle or in the middle of a compromised crowds—and his name would light up your screen five, six, ten times. His worry grew into desperation. 

You knew he didn’t mean to be cruel. But it didn’t make it easier.

And then one day— it was too much.

You’d just gotten back from a run along the Wakandan border. You were bruised but fine as you walked into your apartment and found your phone flashing with fourteen missed calls and a message that said, “If you don’t answer in five minutes, I’m calling Shuri. I’ll track your signal myself if I have to.”

When you called him, he picked up instantly. “Are you okay? I thought—God, I thought something happened—”

“Bucky,” you snapped. “Stop.”

You were pacing now, your heart hammering harder than it had in the field. “You have got to stop doing this. I am not going to disappear every time I step outside!”

“I just—” he started, but his voice cracked. “I can’t lose you again. I can’t—”

“I’m not yours to lose,” you said, quieter this time.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you too,” you said, softer now. “But this—this isn’t love. This is fear in disguise. You’re watching me like I’m one wrong step away from disappearing, and it’s like you’re still stuck in that moment five years ago.”

“I am,” he said, unbearably honest. “You turned to dust. We can't just pretend that's not real.”

“We turned to dust, Bucky,” you corrected, your voice shaking now. “And we came back. We both did.”

There was a long pause. He just exhaled like the air had been punched from his lungs.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said again, but this time, it sounded like a prayer. 

You wiped a tear from your cheek and whispered, “Then let me live.”

That night, he promised he’d do better.

He swore he would be on time to his therapy sessions. That he’d let you breathe. That he’d learn how to love you without gripping so tight it left bruises.

And for a while, he did. 

But healing isn't linear, and Bucky Barnes fell back into the spiral like it was a black hole.

Two months later, the calls started again. The check-ins. You’d wake to a dozen voicemails. You’d tell him your mission schedule, but he’d still show up unannounced in Wakanda under some flimsy excuse, saying he just needed to see you, to make sure.

Then the court notices started coming. Missed sessions. Warnings from the state department. Red letters in bold ink.

He wasn’t going to therapy anymore. He was tracking you instead.

When you returned from your latest mission along the southern border, there he was— waiting in your apartment in Wakanda, hands shaking.

“Bucky?” you asked, dropping your gear. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just stepped toward you, breathing hard like he’d run the whole way from Brooklyn.

“I tried calling,” he said. “You didn’t answer. You were late reporting in. You weren’t supposed to be gone that long—”

“I was on a stealth mission, James!” you shouted, incredulous. “Do you hear yourself?”

He winced when you used his first name. “I thought you were in trouble.”

“You thought I was in trouble so you hopped a plane, skipped two international borders, and missed court-mandated therapy to come stalk me?!”

“I wasn’t stalking—” he started, but you cut him off, voice shaking.

“Bucky, go to fucking therapy! You are missing mandated sessions to follow me around like I’m going to vanish into smoke again. You’re not okay.”

His eyes flashed with tears building up in the corners. “I’m not okay because the one person who makes me feel safe disappears for weeks at a time without warning!”

“What kind of pressure is that? I am not your fucking safety net!” you finally screamed, though you did not mean to. “I am your girlfriend, not your property.”

He flinched.

“You don’t trust me,” you said, your voice cracking at the seams. “You trust your fear more than me. You trust your obsession more than you trust my skills, my choices, my life.”

“I do trust you—”

“No, you don’t!” you snapped. “If you did, you wouldn’t be here. You’d be in therapy. Not sitting on my damn bed, panicking because I missed a check-in by three hours.”

He looked down. “I just wanted to make sure—”

“I know,” you said softly, bitterly. “I know. And I love you. God, I love you.”

Your voice cracked again, but your words were firm. “But this isn’t love anymore, Bucky. This is control. This is not good for you. Being here? With me? It's hurting both of us.”

Finally, Bucky nodded. Just once.

“Do you think we’ll ever be okay again?” he asked, voice barely audible.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and sat next to him, squeezing his human hand. You didn’t want to do this like this. But the moment you looked at him you knew you couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine and dandy. 

You took a breath.

“This…” you started gently, like saying it softer might hurt less. “This isn’t working.”

He blinked. “What?”

“This,” you said, motioning between you with a shaking hand. “Us. The way it is right now. It’s not working.”

He jerked his hand back, standing up in shock like you’d slapped him. “Wait—what the hell are you saying?”

“I’m saying you left Brooklyn without clearance. Again. You broke parole—again. You’ve got people looking for you.”

“I don’t care about any of that,” he snapped, eyes dark. “You weren’t answering. You were off the grid. What was I supposed to do? Just sit around and wait?”

“Yes,” was all you said. You didn’t need to remind him that he needed to trust you. That he needed to trust your skills. 

His voice was shaking now. “What happened to ‘if we vanish again, we vanish together’?”

You closed your eyes at the words. You’d meant it.

But promises can rot when fed with obsession.

Your voice cracked. “I said that when you could breathe without having to know where I was every second of every day, Bucky.”

He looked down, jaw, hands balled into fists. “I can’t lose you again.”

“And I can’t live like this,” you said, voice strained as you wiped your tears away. “I’m not your leash, and I’m not your cure. You can’t chain yourself to me because you don’t know how to be with yourself.”

His eyes filled with watery tears, and he didn’t speak.

So you did. 

“Please,” you said, “leave by morning. Go home. Check in with Dr. Raynor when you land. If you don’t, they’ll arrest you.”

He opened his mouth, but you shook your head. You couldn’t do another round of argument.

“Don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t make this harder.”

He took a breath, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon just to make it this far. “So that’s it?”

You didn’t answer.

Just stepped up and pressed your hand gently against his chest—where his heart still beat too fast and your enhanced hearing was picking it up too well—and whispered, “Goodbye, Bucky.”

He turned without another word, because anything he said might break you both.

And when the door shut behind him, the silence that followed felt like a funeral.

—

Bucky didn't know where to go, so he wandered and wandered until he sat down on the palace steps, hands shaking, heart swirling like a thunderstorm in his chest. 

He didn’t notice T’Challa approach until the king sat beside him, arms resting on his knees.

For a long while, neither of them spoke. “She told you to leave,” T’Challa said simply. Not unkind, but not sparing.

Bucky’s teeth clenched. “Yeah.”

“She’s right, you know.”

“I don’t want to hear that right now.”

“I know,” T’Challa said. “But I am saying it anyway, my friend.”

Bucky said nothing, fists digging into the vibranium infused staircase step beneath him. T’Challa went on, “You love her. I know. She loves you too. But love twisted by fear is dangerous. You were not protecting her. You were holding her hostage in your panic.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” T’Challa interrupted gently. “And she forgave you for longer than most would. But she cannot carry both her past and yours. You nearly became what you once fought against: control.”

Bucky turned his head away, chest tight. “I didn’t mean to. I just— I couldn’t lose her again.”

“It’s not just you,” T’Challa said softly, “she… she needs space. She’s throwing herself into work, and perhaps that’s how she copes, but she’s becoming… distant. From you. From all of us.”

Bucky’s breath hitched.

“You know I know what it feels like firsthand to come back from being turned to dust.” T’Challa said, “and when we came back, we all changed. I believe you might need time away from each other to first understand how you both have changed.”

Bucky finally looked at him, eyes rimmed with red. “So what, I just pretend none of this happened?”

“No,” T’Challa said. “You leave. You go to therapy. And you become someone who deserves a second chance—not from her. From yourself.”

Then T’Challa stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his robes. He looked down at the man once known as the Winter Soldier— now just a man.

“I will have a jet ready within the hour,” he said. “You will not say goodbye. That would only cause more pain.”

Bucky could only nod. Deep down, T’challa was his friend as much as he was yours. He was looking out for him as much as he was looking out for you. 

—

Bucky didn’t go straight to the jet in the landing pad. 

He walked around first—through the gardens he used to kiss you in, down the quiet stone paths lined with flowering trees. And then, when he couldn’t stall any longer, he found Shuri.

She was in her lab, sleeves rolled up, a smudge of grease on her cheek, working on a new upgrade for the Kimoyo bead system. She didn’t look surprised when she saw him.

He stood just inside the door for a while, fidgeting with the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. 

“I’m leaving,” he said finally, voice hoarse.

Shuri nodded with a sad smile. “I heard.”

He hesitated. “Can you keep tabs on her for me?” He asked. As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he realised how bad it must’ve sounded. “I’m not asking you to spy on her. I swear.”

That made her pause. She turned to him, brows raised in wary curiosity. “Sounds like you are.”

“I’m not,” he said again, hands up in surrender. “But I need—I just need to know if she’s hurt. That’s all. If she’s injured. If something happens in the field. Not every move, not every detail, just... if she’s okay.”

Shuri’s eyes softened. “She wants you to move on. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Bucky said quickly. “And I won’t reach out. I won’t interfere. But if something serious happens—if she’s in the med bay or worse—I need to know. I can’t breathe not knowing that.”

Shuri crossed her arms. Studied him.

“You still think it’s love, don’t you?” she asked quietly.

He flinched. “I don’t know what it is anymore. But I know that it’s not trust. Not peace. That’s why I’m leaving.”

She held his eyes for a long time. Then she nodded once. “If she’s ever in danger, you’ll hear from me. That’s all I’ll promise.”

He nodded, relieved. “Thank you.”

Shuri stepped closer, pressing a new set of Kimoyo beads into his palm. “These won’t track her. But they will let you receive encrypted pings if I send one. No contact. Just information.”

Bucky curled his fingers around the beads like they were a lifeline.

“I’ll earn my second chance,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Even if it’s just for me.”

Shuri nodded. And with that, she turned back to her work.

Bucky walked out of the lab with the bracelet tucked into his pocket and boarded the jet alone.

Not with closure. But with a choice to begin again.

—

Six Months Later

You hadn’t meant to watch the news. It was just playing in the corner of the lab, the volume low was meant to be background noise.  

But there he was.

Bucky, onn screen, his hair shorter now, beard shaved. He was standing next to Sam, both of them looking like they’d just walked through hell and come out victorious. 

“Barnes and Wilson led the operation to contain a Flag Smasher attack—”

The footage cut to shaky video: Bucky saving hostages from a burning truck. Sam dropped from above, wings that Shuri gave him expanding in the night sky

You stopped breathing for a second.

Not because he looked good— though he did— but because he looked... different. Lighter. Still sharp around the edges, still Bucky, but not strung so tight he might snap. His shoulders weren’t so hunched. His eyes didn’t carry that haunted glaze you'd come to know too well.

You looked down at your phone, thumb hovering over the screen. Muscle memory had already opened your messages. The text thread was still there.

You started to type. 

Saw you on TV today. You looked—

You paused and backspaced.

Took down some Flag Smashers, huh? Didn’t even trip once. I’m impressed.

Delete.

You looked okay.

No.

You stared at the screen. You wanted to say something small, something kind. Something to let him know you’d seen him, that you still cared.

And then—

“Nope,” Okoye said from behind you.

You jumped, flipping your phone face-down like a teenager caught texting a crush.

Okoye raised an eyebrow, arms crossed in full general-mode. “I know that look. You are thinking about him.”

You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “He looked... better.”

“Good. That is what healing is supposed to look like,” she said, tilting her head. “But do not dishonour that progress by dragging each other back into the fire so soon.”

“I wasn’t going to send it,” you muttered under your breath. 

Okoye gave you a really? look. 

You smiled sheepishly. “Okay, maybe. But just a little.”

She stepped forward, took your phone, and pocketed. “Let him move on. I will take you on patrol,” she said briskly, already walking toward the hangar. “And after, we have tea. And girl talk.”

“Girl talk?” you chuckled, following.

“Yes. I have opinions on your taste in emotionally volatile men. It is time you heard them.”

You laughed despite yourself.

—

One Year Later.

The palace was quieter now that T’Challa was gone.

And grief didn’t move cleanly through your body like it used to. It crept and lingered and collected behind your eyes, in the back of your throat, in the hollow ache of your chest that wouldn’t quite go away.

You’d expected to feel lost. But not like this.

You stood at the balcony outside your quarters, fingers curled around a steaming cup of tea Ayo had forced into your hands. 

You hadn’t slept. Couldn’t eat. Before returning back to your quarters, you stayed with Shuri the entire day today, being present for her and Queen Ramonda.

And then the doorbell chimed.

You opened it to find a small wrapped bundle of flowers on the floor. A delivery slip attached in elegant Wakandan script: With honor and remembrance.

In the bouquet was Snowdrops, winter jasmine, and White hyacinth.

It was a winter bouquet.

Not many people in Wakanda would choose those blooms. Not unless they’d meant something.

It was him. Bucky.

He must’ve contacted his old florist in the city to have it delivered to your wing of the palace. 

You sat on the edge of the bed, the flowers still in your hands, too stunned to cry.

And then, before you even realised what you were doing, your phone was in your lap. You opened the message thread with Bucky. 

You typed, Shuri said she texted you. Said you could come to the funeral. Why didn’t you?

You stared at it. Then, slowly, you deleted it.

Because what would he even say? That he wanted to give you space? That he didn’t know if you wanted to see him? That he sent flowers because showing up would hurt you more?

Maybe he thought the blooms were enough. But they weren’t.

You needed him— a friend who had known T’Challa like you had. Someone who remembered the man like you did— not just the king.

You wanted Bucky to hold you and reminisce about that time you dared T’challa to arm wrestle him. You wanted to laugh about his horrible jokes during harvest. But all you got were flowers.

And wasn’t this what you asked for?

You had told him to let go. To move on. To live his life. And he had.

You wiped at your eyes with the back of your wrist, too tired to be angry. Too empty to cry. Later, you placed the bouquet beside the small altar in the throne room, next to T’Challa’s photo.

A winter gift for a king.

You whispered, "I miss both of you."

—

You didn’t sleep much the year after that.

You didn’t eat much either. Grief gnawed at your gut like hunger, but nothing ever settled. Not even water. Not even rest.

All you had left was work. You helped Wakanda defend itself from foreign attacks, and when the time came, you helped track Riri Williams for Shuri. 

But when Shuri was taken by the Talokan, your sanity was cracked clean in half.

You didn’t feel fear. Or rage. Just focus. Razor-sharp, ice-cold, deadly focus.

You helped Nakia track her— followed her scent through the water, infrared vision scanning jungle heat signatures, nose full of salt and humidity until found her underwater. You got her back.

But then Namor attacked, and Queen Ramonda didn’t make it.

You had to look at one more coffin. One more goodbye to one more person gone who had offered you safety, love, and dignity.

Ramonda had seen both you and Bucky when you came to Wakanda scarred and haunted. She had welcomed you with open arms. And now she was gone too.

At the funeral, you held Shuri up because she was shaking. You held her hand. And when it was over, you took her into your quarters and let her sob into your shoulder for hours

You didn’t cry.

You couldn’t. You had to be strong for her.

That night, your phone buzzed with a message.

Bucky : “You okay?”

That was it.

You stared at it. You read it again. Then again.

Are you okay? 

You almost laughed. As if that was a question that could be answered in a text. As if that was something you could possibly explain.

Your queen was dead. Your sister in everything but blood had just buried both her brother and mother within 14 months. The kingdom you had called home for the past decade was under attack. You hadn't slept in four days. Your body was covered in bruises. And Bucky—the man who had once buried his face in your collarbone and sobbed because he couldn’t bear to lose you—sent a text.

A fucking text. Not even a call. 

You set your phone down and didn’t respond.

You didn’t throw it. You didn’t curse. You didn’t scream. You just... sat there. Numb. 

And that was the first night you drank.

You drank because your hands wouldn’t stop shaking and your mind wouldn’t stop screaming and no mission could numb you enough to silence the memory of T’challa’s last words or Ramonda’s last breath or Shuri’s tears soaking through your shirt.

You didn’t stop after one. You wanted to not feel at all. And when the bottle emptied, you drank again. And the next night. And the one after that.

It didn’t fix anything.

—

A Year Later.

You had buried yourself in fieldwork— back to back missions for Wakanda with little to no rest in between. It dulled the ache of grief, but it never fully faded. You were getting better. Still dying inside, but a little slower now.

You took risks that made even Okoye grit their teeth, but you didn’t care. With Shuri as the new Black Panther and the Midnight Angels at your side, it felt like movement was the only thing keeping you from collapsing. 

You didn’t care if the assignments were dangerous. Maybe you even preferred it that way.

Shuri was adjusting your new visor in her lab when she glanced up casually. “You know your ex is running for Congress?”

You tilted your head, “What?”

She flicked her fingers and brought up a holographic newsfeed. There he was—James Buchanan Barnes. Neatly combed hair in a dark blue suit, sporting a nervous half-smile. He was shaking hands somewhere in New York, surrounded by cameras.

You stared. “Bucky… in politics? Are we sure that’s not a skrull?”

Shuri laughed, brightening the room. “Positive. He filed last week. His campaign’s all over the place—veteran advocacy, post-Blip recovery programs.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Making amends.”

“He always said he wanted to,” she said gently.

You nodded, silent for a second too long. “He’ll do well.”

Shuri studied your expression. “You think?”

You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes stayed on the image—on Bucky’s restrained expression, the way he looked down like he was afraid to take up space.

“Yeah,” you said. “Have you seen that smile? He could charm a whole room without opening his mouth.”

Shuri laughed again. You found yourself smiling too, even if it hurt to do so.

For a while, she was as self-destructive as you. But now, you didn’t know how Shuri carried her own losses so gracefully, how she held herself together. Maybe it was the suit or the legacy. Or maybe she was just stronger. Your method was simpler: run into danger and don’t care if you make it out. It wasn’t healthy. But it was efficient.

Still, your senses were stronger than ever. You have noticed how Shuri’s heartbeat always picked up when you mention Bucky. You always assumed it was because she was worried about you— about the old wounds reopening. 

What you still didn’t know, what she never told you, was that she and Bucky were in constant contact. And after her mother’s death, her updates to him became more detailed, more frequent. Perhaps, it was because you were the closest thing she had to a sister. Perhaps she wanted to keep you safe— and letting Bucky know of your missions meant that if anything were to go wrong, he would be there to help.

She had already lost T’challa and Ramonda. She was not going to lose you, too.

—

Utah. Thunderbolts* timeline.

The gas station was run-down, lit by flickering fluorescent lights and signs buzzing with static. Inside, the team Yelena had apparently nicknamed the Thunderbolts stood in varying degrees of impatience as Bucky took off the last of their restraints.

Yelena rubbed her wrists and shot Bucky a sidelong glance. “So. How are we going to track Bob?”

Bucky didn’t answer immediately. He was already pulling out his phone, lips pressed in a hard line. “Can’t track Mel’s phone,” he muttered under his breath. “Wherever they are, they must have signal jammers.”

“Great,” John said. “And we’re just supposed to... drive and hope we’re going in the right direction?”

Ava narrowed her eyes. “We don't have time. If Val has Bob, there’s no telling—”

Bucky raised a hand. “I… I might know someone nearby who can track a scent halfway across the world.”

Alexei straightened with a hopeful gleam in his eye. “Ah! We are getting reinforcements?” He cracked his knuckles. 

Bucky was already reaching for his phone, hesitation coiling in his chest. His thumb hovered over the screen.

He shouldn't be doing this, right?

Were you ready to see him? After everything? After how you ended things? Did you even want to see him?

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shove down the uncertainty clawing at his ribs. 

Focus, Barnes. 

This wasn’t about closure or guilt or anything personal. Civilians could be in danger. And if Sentry project was as dangerous as they said, then they were way past playing it safe.

Even if it was messy. Even if it hurt.

“Something like that,” Bucky muttered, then hit Call—and walked out into the gas station parking lot.

—

Call to Shuri,  Wakandan Secure Channel.

“Bucky,” Shuri answered briskly, “If this is about a replacement arm because the raccoon stole it again—”

“It’s not,” Bucky cut in. “I need hotel information.”

A pause. “For whom?”

“For her.” He didn’t have to say your name. Shuri knew exactly who he meant.

“Why?”

“You told me she was in a joint op with Everett Ross in Salt Lake City. I just need the hotel name, Shuri.”

“That’s classified,” she said, more defensively than she meant. She was willing to give him many things about you, but this might be teetering on a line she wouldn’t cross.

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t urgent. We need to track someone before he levels a city,” Bucky explained, “Please.”

Shuri went quiet, because she knew a call from the White Wolf meant things were getting out of hand. 

—

You smelled him before he knocked.

He smelled like leather and metal. He had that faint, signature scent — like snowmelt clinging to old wood. 

You just finished an intel swap with Everett Ross, and now all you wanted to do was lie down and sleep. That was until you caught a whiff of his scent and you stopped dead in your tracks. 

The knock came a second later.

You took a breath, schooled your expression, and opened the door.

And there he was. James Buchanan Barnes. Standing in a Salt Lake City hotel hallway. 

His hair was longer than you last saw on TV, a little more silver threading through the temples. A black t-shirt that clung to him in all the ways that weren’t fair, leather jacket over it. 

You froze for a moment. 

“Wow… I— you…,” he said, as if he couldn’t help himself. “You’re still as beautiful as the last time I saw you.”

You let out a dry laugh before you could stop yourself, folding your arms. “You showing up uninvited in a hallway in Utah wasn’t exactly how I imagined hearing that.”

Bucky gave you a lopsided little smile — the kind that once made your knees weak. “Yeah, well… surprise?”

You rolled your eyes. But it was hard to ignore how your heartbeat had kicked up. “How did you even know I was here?”

He winced. “Okay, so… don’t be mad.”

“Oh no,” you said, flatly. “Great way to start.”

“I, uh… may have asked Shuri.”

Your brows rose. “You what?”

“Just for updates.”

“Bucky.”

“She didn’t tell me much! Just—like—general stuff. Missions. If you were injured. If you’d… eaten.”

“You’ve been asking my best friend to report on my food intake?”

“Okay, that was one time!”

“You don’t get to be worried anymore,” you cut in ever so gently, and the smile dropped from his face.

“I know,” he said. 

You stared at him, longing pressing under your ribs.

“You could’ve just called,” you said.

He swallowed. “I didn’t think you’d answer.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I…” He ran a hand through his hair. “I needed your help. For something. But part of me… I- I don’t know. I would be lying if I said I didn't want to see you.”

“Well, congratulations.” You rolled your eyes, “You found me.”

He didn’t respond. Just stood there with that goddamn puppy-dog look on his face — the one you used to wake up to. The one that said he still loved you in ways he probably didn’t know how to stop.

The silence stretched thin.

Finally, you sat down on your bed and said, “You weren’t there.”

Sitting down on the armchair across from you, Bucky’s brows pulled together, and he knew instantly what you meant.

“T’Challa,” you said. “Ramonda. You didn’t come. You sent flowers. A text. That’s all.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Your voice cracked at the edges. “You don’t get it, Bucky. You were family. They loved you.”

“I loved them, too,” he said. “God, I loved them. T’Challa gave me a second chance. Ramonda treated me like a second son. You think it didn’t kill me not to be there?”

“Then why weren’t you?” you asked, quieter now. “Why didn’t you show up?”

He looked away. “Because I knew I’d see you, too.”

Oh. 

He continued, voice rough, eyes fixed on a random point over your shoulder. “I knew I’d see you in white, standing in front of that city that saved both of us. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold it together. I couldn’t go to Wakanda to grieve them and be reminded of you. I was already falling apart. I couldn’t break in front of everyone.”

Your breath hitched, just a little.

“You think I didn’t fall apart?” you whispered. “You think I didn’t wake up everyday being reminded of you? That I didn’t carry Shuri when she couldn’t stand even when I missed you?”

He looked back at you, “You are stronger than me.”

“No, Bucky,” You shook your head. “I just showed up.”

He swallowed hard, his chest heaving just slightly.

You stared at each other again — that thick, choking silence drowning you like a wave.

And still… underneath it all, there was love. Frustrated, frayed, unresolved — but alive. 

Bucky leaned forward. “I know I messed up. I know I don’t deserve to ask you for anything.”

You didn’t answer. You just watched him, waiting.

“I’ll stop,” he promised. “The updates. Everything. I’ll leave you alone. I just… need you to do one thing.”

Before you could respond, your nose twitched.

You frowned and sniffed the air, eyes narrowing when your ears picked up four new heartbeats in the vicinity. 

“Bucky,” you said slowly. “Does this have anything to do with the four jackasses currently pressed up against the hallway wall?”

He blinked. “...No?”

You sighed, walked to the front of the room and opened the door.  Yelena, Ava, John, and Alexei all flinched like a bunch of kids caught behind a curtain.

“I told you to wait in the car,” Bucky groaned. 

You crossed your arms at the four extremely guilty faces frozen mid-lean.

Ava, arms crossed like she wasn’t just eavesdropping with laser focus. Yelena, who gave a tiny wave. “Hi.” John, trying very hard to act casual. Alexei was grinning wide. “Ah! She is even more terrifying than Mr. Soldier described! I like her.”

You stared at them. Then at Bucky.

He winced. “...So yeah. About that one thing.”

—

They gave you the rundown on Bob and the Sentry Project—chaotic, riddled with questions and coded language that made you realise that Bucky was right— this was a larger-than-life situation.

It was enough to raise every red flag in your head, and by the end of it, you were just dragging a hand down your face like you were wiping off the last shred of peace you had left.

“Fine,” you muttered, already rerouting your mental map like instinct. You stepped in closer, tilting your head just slightly at the three people who had been in close vicinity to Bob. 

Yelena, John, and  Ava.

You went in close and did a focus inhale through your nose. Your senses lit up. You could smell a thread between them— that must be Bob’s smell. 

You could pick apart the sweat and smoke residue. You could smell the iron-spike scent of stress hormones surging through their blood. You could practically taste the adrenaline.

“Got it,” you said, nodding once.

Then you turned, already moving.

Your pupils contracted as you flipped into the edge of your infrared vision, sweeping the environment in layered pulses of heat and light. People lit up like sketches in flames. Your hearing tuned up next, catching radio chatter three blocks out, the thrum of a drone overhead.

You walked out, and they followed you as you followed the scent straight toward Avengers Tower.

—

Void, New York.

The city was being devoured—block by block, building by building—into a yawning chasm of darkness,a  negative space eating reality alive. It was as if Bob had carved a hole in the fabric of reality and let nothingness bleed through. The skyline blurred at the edges, buildings sucked into the black like paper into flame. 

People were turned into shadows, and what scared you the most was you can’t smell them anymore. You can’t hear them anymore. They… vanished.

You stood on the edge of where Grand Central Station used to be. Bob was in the center of it all—or what was left of him. 

You had found him, and it had gone bad. Catastrophically bad.

Yelena didn’t hesitate. She was the first one to go in. 

The others had followed—Alexei, John, Ava—one by one, swallowed whole by the nothingness.

Now it was just you and Bucky.

The edge of the Void shimmered like a heat mirage, the floor fracturing under it. 

You stared into the nothingness and it looked exactly how you’d felt the day Wakanda lost its king. The day Ramonda breathed her last breath in that throne room. The day you held Shuri’s hand as she lost everything.

And all you could think, selfishly, was how Bucky hadn’t been there.

You swallowed hard, voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m scared.”

Bucky looked at you, eyes softening.

You didn’t know what was on the other side. You didn’t know what you’d see— what the Void would show you, or take from you.

But for the first time in years, the love of your life reached out and took your hand. 

“If we vanish again,” he said quietly, “we vanish together.”

Right. 

Your fingers curled around his, Your voice barely trembled as you said it again, “Together.”

Then you stepped forward and let the Void take you both.

—

Bucky woke up in the snow.

He recognised this place even before he heard the screaming wind, before he looked down and saw his blood soaking into the white ground.

Bucky was twenty-something again—still Sergeant James Barnes. Still just a soldier, a friend, a smartass.

He was watching himself fall. Watching his arm catch on the railing, and breaking on impact. He watched his body spiral and bounce once before settling.

He tried to look away, but he couldn’t.

He remembered waiting for hours for help. No one came.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispered, but the younger version didn’t respond. He blinked once more and then stopped moving altogether.

Then, in an attempt to escape this vision, he buried himself in an avalanche of snow.

He woke up in another room. It was his apartment, familiar and claustrophobic at the same time. The curtains were drawn tight, the air thick with the scent of cheap whiskey 

And there he was — himself again. This Bucky was slouched on the floor, back against the wall, surrounded by a graveyard of bottles. Some still full. Most empty. The floor was soaked where he’d dropped one earlier.

He had a bottle pressed to his lips now. He took another long, angry swig. Then another. Then—

Nothing.

No burn. No warmth in his chest. No haze. He roared suddenly, launching the bottle across the room. It shattered against the wall. Glass rained down like glittering snow.

“Why won’t it work?” he shouted, voice hoarse. “Why won’t it fucking work?”

He lurched to his feet, fumbling for another bottle in the kitchen. His hands shook. His breathing was ragged.

“Just let me forget,” he begged, staring at his reflection in the microwave’s glass. “Let me forget. Let me be numb.”

But his body refused. His curse of super soldier metabolism was that he would never let him escape. He would never get drunk ever again.

He threw the next bottle harder. The glass cut his knuckles. He didn’t feel it.

He had only landed from Wakanda twelve hours ago. But this time, he landed with the knowledge that you were not his anymore. And now there was no one to fight with. No one to talk to. No one to hold his hand when the nightmares got bad. No one to anchor him when he spiraled.

He slid down the wall and pressed his forehead to his knees like he could disappear into his own body.

He whispered your name over and over again.

The most devastating part was knowing that he had finally found someone who saw him, and still, somehow, he had driven you away.

He stayed like that for what felt like hours. Days. Maybe he never left that floor at all.

Then — Bucky saw a ripple from a puddle across the room where he had spilled his drink earlier. 

He looked into it, and instead of a reflection, he saw you. 

You were curled up on a couch in another life, in another room. Fingers wrapped around a half-empty bottle. Your head lolling against the armrest, eyes glazed. Laughter bubbled out of your mouth that didn’t belong there — not the happy kind. This laughter was crooked, the kind you used to hide the sobs building beneath your ribs.

The bottle slipped from your fingers and onto the floor.

You were drunk. Not a buzz. Not a haze. You were gone, and it showed.

You started slurring words to no one and between fits of laughter. The makeup smeared across your cheek wasn’t from a night out — it was from wiping away tears with the back of your hand over and over again.

You were wrecked in a way Bucky couldn’t be.

You had the freedom he envied, the escape he was never allowed. You could bury the grief. He had to live with it. And then— he saw what you were clutching in your lap.

It was a photo of You, Bucky, Shuri, and T’challa, taken by Queen Ramonda by the lake, only a couple of days before Thanos attacked. 

You stared at the photo like it might move. Like if you looked hard enough, you could reach through the glossy paper and pull them out.

But they were gone.

T’Challa. Ramonda.

And Bucky.

He hadn’t died, but he wasn’t there either. Not when it mattered.

Your grip on the bottle tightened. And then—suddenly—you screamed. “WHY AREN’T YOU HERE?!”

The words tore out of you like glass, shredding you from the inside out.

You hurled the bottle across the room. It hit a wall, shattered, and splashed liquor across the floor. Your body jolted with it, like you’d thrown a piece of yourself.

And then you just collapsed yourself, rocking back and forth. “My fault,” you whispered over and over again. “My fault. All my fault. My fault.”

Bucky watched from the other side of the reflection, both of you broken in different ways—he, invulnerable and furious that he couldn’t feel the poison work; you, drowning in it.

The grief between you wasn’t just shared.

It was mirrored.

Both of you in your separate corners of the world, drinking like it might erase memory, like it might bring someone back, like it might turn regret into penance.

With a deep breath, he took a leap of faith and stepped into the puddle. 

It felt like falling like leaping off a rooftop with no guarantee of landing, but choosing the fall anyway because it might bring him back to you.

And he was right.

He was there, with the real you. 

You were in that room, in the corner, watching it all play out like a film you couldn’t pause.

That puddle had been more than a doorway. It had been a choice. And he had chosen you.

Bucky knelt down beside you slowly. He didn’t say anything at first. Just pulled you into him.

And for a moment, you didn’t move.

But then his arms wrapped around you, the walls gave in. Your fingers clutched at the back of his jacket and you buried your face into his shoulder.

You stayed like that for a while. 

Then, muffled against him, you said, “I should’ve called.”

He just held you tighter.

You continued. “You gave me flowers. A text. It wasn’t much, but… at least it was something. I didn’t even text back. I didn’t give you anything.”

Bucky pulled back slightly to look at you, his hands still resting gently on your shoulders. “No,” he said. “Don’t apologize. I—” He exhaled slowly, eyes dark and honest. “I was suffocating you. I… I ruined you.”

“You never ruined me, Bucky,” you said. “You broke my heart. But you never ruined me.”

Silence stretched again — for a while.

“I was scared I’d never see you again,” you admitted, quieter now. “That you’d disappear into some mission and I’d never get to tell you I was still… that I still— fuck… I—” Unable to finish your sentences, looked away instead, chewing the inside of your cheek. Then you asked what had been burning in the back of your throat this whole time: “Are we ever going to be okay again?”

His answer was quiet, immediate. “We already are.” He kissed your temple — not possessive or desperate, just… loving. 

You blinked up at him. “What?”

He smiled. “You’re here. I’m here. We’re talking. Yelling. Holding each other. That’s more than most people get.”

You chuckled, exhaling a shaky breath, forehead resting against his. “So what now?”

“Now?” he murmured. “We get up.”

Your hand slid down his arm and laced your fingers with his. “And what about the end of the world?”

He gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Right. That.”

You both stood, like people learning how to walk for the first time again.

He looked at you, wiping a tear from his cheeks. “C’mon,” he said, nodding toward the door. “Let’s go find Bob.”

And this time, you walked out together.

—

Post-Void. New York, again.

You’d done it. You’d pulled Bob out, helped him control the void inside of him. 

And just as the dust started to settle, Val ambushed you all with a press conference. She threw around the word New Avengers like it was already printed across a glossy magazine cover. 

Your phone immediately lit up like a Christmas tree.

Everett Ross: Did my EX-WIFE just put you in the New Avengers lineup? Why did you not tell me this?

You winced. Ex-wife. Of course.

Then, Shuri: ??? What is HAPPENING? Should I have not given Bucky your hotel?

And the kicker came from the current king of Wakanda himself.

M’Baku: Weren’t you on a foreign mission on behalf of Wakanda? You are now on AMERICAN NEWS? Call back immediately.

You groaned and thumbed your phone to Do Not Disturb.

The others were watching you now. Bob was still sitting in the sun. Yelena tried ignoring the cameras with practiced disinterest. 

Beside you, Bucky was catching his breath, hair tousled, jacket streaked with dust. 

“You wanna come back to my place?” he asked, pointing to your phone. “Make the calls from there, if this is too much.”

You blinked. “Don’t you live in D.C. now? Whole Capitol Hill, suit-and-tie Bucky?”

He shrugged, glanced at a hovering drone cam, and flipped it off without changing expression. “Kept my old apartment in Brooklyn. Rent controlled.”

You smirked, though the change in his heartbeat did not go unnoticed. “You’re sentimental.”

“No,” he chuckled. “I’m cheap. But if it helps, the water pressure is still garbage and the radiator still sounds like a haunted typewriter. Just like last time you were there.”

Before you could answer, Alexei called out from behind you. “Can we all come? Team debrief?”

You turned, and shook your head. “Top secret. I’ll find you later.”

Ava lifted a hand lazily. “She’s a tracker. She will.”

She was right. If anyone tried to disappear, you’d have them in an hour.

As you turned away with Bucky at your side, your super-hearing picked up everything. Far behind you, John Walker, never one for subtlety, muttered to someone — probably Yelena, “Twenty bucks says they’re back together by tonight. I mean, do you see how they look at each other?”

You kept walking. Bucky hadn’t heard it — his senses weren’t as sharp as yours, even with the serum.

You debated pretending you hadn’t either. 

—

You knew before he even unlocked the door that keeping this place wasn’t about rent control.

When it creaked as you walked, the first thing you could smell was remnants of yourself. 

The radiator still coughed in the corner like it was dying. Everything smelled faintly of old wood and clean laundry, and something faintly him — steel and cedar and memory.

Your breath hitched when you saw the shelf to your left still had your copy of Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time, the one Bucky swore he never borrowed.

Your old hoodie — the grey one with the thumb holes — was folded on the arm of the couch like you had just worn it yesterday.

The photos in the frames hadn’t changed. There was one of you and him, laughing in the sunset. One of Bucky, Sam, Steve, and T’challa with you and Shuri making faces while photobombing them. Then, a photo of you, him, Shuri, and T’challa— his copy of the one Ramonda had taken. 

Oh. 

The space was like a museum and a time capsule rolled into one.

You didn’t say anything at first.

You sat down at the kitchen table and pulled out your phone. A stack of voicemails and messages had piled up, still buzzing in the background. The world was catching up to what had just happened — the Void, Val’s PR machine spinning headlines while you were still scrubbing concrete dust out of your hair.

You answered M’Baku first, then Shuri, then Ross. But your eyes kept drifting to the photos, the jacket, the battered mug with the chipped rim that you used to have your coffee in, no matter how much it leaked.

Bucky stayed quiet. 

He didn’t hover. Just leaned against the counter with a mug in his hand that had long since gone cold.

When you finally finished the last call, you let out a deep breath. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the table. Then, you looked at him. “Rent control, huh?” you raised an eyebrow.

He blinked, looking down to his feet.

“You’re full of shit,” you added, gentler this time.

And Bucky chuckled his first real laugh since your reunion. He dropped his head for a second, shaking it slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess I am.”

He stepped a little closer, leaning one hand on the table across from you. His other hand hovered, like he wanted to reach out but didn’t want to break whatever fragile platform you were both standing on.

“I kept thinking I’d throw it all out,” he said. “That I’d come back one day and finally… take it all down. Pack the clothes. Box up the books and mail them to you. But I never did.”

You looked down at your hands. You could feel his eyes on you.

“I think,” he said, quieter now, “that part of me thought… if I kept it all exactly the same, maybe you’d come back.”

Your throat tightened.

He ran a hand through his hair, his voice rough around the edges. “I don’t know how to do this. I’m not… good at this. At any of it. But I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t want you in my life .”

Silence stretched for a long moment.

Finally, you said, “Shuri told me something the other day.”

Bucky straightened a little.

“She was trying to explain quantum entanglement to me. That even when particles are separated by galaxies, they still feel each other. React to each other. Like distance doesn’t matter. Not really.” You met his eyes. “That’s us, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Bucky gave you a sad smile, “It’s us.”

You looked around the room again.

“I’m not ready,” you said. “I don’t know how to go back to what we were. I don’t even know if we should.”

“I don’t want what we were,” he said, without hesitation. “I want better.”

You studied him. He looked different than the last time you saw him — older, maybe. Not physically. But his eyes were angry. Less anxious.

You nodded. “Slow,” you said. “We take it slow.”

He looked… relieved. 

He didn’t step closer. He didn’t grab you or kiss you or make some grand statement. Instead, he reached out and gently rested two fingers against the back of your hand, just enough to feel you there.

“Okay,” he said.

And somehow, it was enough.

Not everything was fixed, but for the first time in a long time, you had him back in your life. —

You didn’t know what you expected when you landed in Wakanda. Maybe M’Baku would challenge you to one final sparring match and attempt to win the truth out of you with his bare hands. Maybe Shuri would yell. Maybe Okoye would look at you like a traitor.

But no one raised their voice, and that almost made it worse.

The throne room was still. M’Baku stood tall with his arms crossed. As you stepped forward, you tried to square your shoulders, trying to find the version of yourself that had once stood tall here— not as a visitor, not as a liability, but as someone who helped this nation rebuild from the blip, from the loss of their king, from the loss of their queen.

But your throat was dry. Your heartbeat thrummed in your chest. “I came to explain,” you said, voice thinner than you’d hoped.

“You do not need to,” M’Baku replied, his voice grave but not unkind.

You stopped, stunned by how final he sounded.

He descended the steps from the throne, each footfall echoing through the vibranium coated walls. “I regret to inform you that your contract with Wakanda is terminated,” he said. “Effective immediately.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he lifted a hand before you could speak.

“You are now aligned with the New Avengers,” he said, reciting an uncomfortable truth. “You report to the CIA’s director. Your loyalties have shifted—by necessity, perhaps, but shifted nonetheless. Wakanda cannot afford blurred lines.”

Fuck. 

“I didn’t ask for the public announcement,” you said as a last line of defence. “Valentina made that move without consulting anyone.”

“And yet the world knows,” M’Baku answered. “Perception, as you know, is reality. The eyes of the world are on you now. And those eyes inevitably turn toward Wakanda.”

You lowered your gaze, heart dropping in your chest. “I understand.”

“But…” he continued, “I want you to know that you were never just a contract to us.”

When he stepped closer, his stance shifted. He wasn’t Wakanda’s king now. He was M’Baku— your sparring partner, your most stubborn friend, the man who once cracked your rib in training and called it ‘bonding.’

“You were family,” he said quietly. “You annoyed me more than any outsider I’ve ever met, and I will miss that more than you can imagine.”

Before you could speak, he pulled you into his arms and… hugged you.

You held onto him—tighter than you meant to. You didn’t want to let go. Wakanda had been more than a mission or a job. It had been your home. It was the place that gave you purpose when the rest of the world had hunted you. And now, with a few words and a king’s goodbye, it was slipping through your fingers.

“You’ll be alright, sister,” he reassured, voice. “You always land on your feet.” He pulled back just enough to smirk. “Like a very ugly cat with no grace.”

You laughed. Or maybe you cried. You weren’t sure.

—

Outside the throne room, Shuri was waiting.

She stood like she’d been pacing with her eyes trained on the floor— but when you appeared, her head snapped up. Okoye was beside her, and even her usual perfect posture had softened.

“I’m sorry,” Shuri said the moment your eyes met, brittle at the edges. “For giving Bucky your location.”

You let out a deep breath and a sad smile ghosted across your face. “Don’t be.”

“He said there was a threat,” she shook her head, stepping closer. “And he wasn’t wrong. But I didn’t know it would end…. like this. I thought I was helping.” Her voice broke slightly. “I thought I was giving you back something you’d lost.”

You shook your head. “You weren’t wrong.”

She didn’t look at all startled by that— as if she knew whatever hole had been carved into you by the loss of Wakanda had immediately been filled by Bucky coming back into your life, by the rest of the team that you found. 

“Every time I hit a wall,” you said, just above a whisper. “I throw myself into work and pretend I don’t need anyone.” Your voice cracked open without permission like a dam that had held too long.

“But maybe…” You glanced down, then up at her. “Maybe it’s time I stop pushing away the people who love me. Maybe it’s time I meet them halfway and let them care for me.” You took her hand, “like you do.”

Shuri stared at you like sunlight through storm clouds— equal parts pride and heartbreak.

“Bucky cares,” she said. “Do not let each other slip away this time.”

You swallowed hard.

Okoye, always watching, always knowing, stepped forward.

“He is better,” she said, almost approvingly. “He has learned how to breathe without you. Perhaps it is precisely the reason you need him again. And he might just remind you that life is not all about survival and contracts— it is meant to be lived.”

You tried to blink away the sudden sting in your eyes. “Okoye…” you managed.

She raised a finger in warning. “Do not make me cry, girl.”

That startled a snorting laugh from Shuri.

You smiled. Just a little.

—

Two days later, Bucky helped you move into Avengers Tower.

He smiled sadly when he spotted your duffel bag on the curb beside a single, battered box.

“That’s it?” he asked, easily lifting the box labeled in your unmistakable handwriting: SENTIMENTAL SHIT.

You raised an eyebrow. “You expected me to have more emotional baggage?”

He let out a small laugh, missing your sense of humour. “I meant literal baggage. But…” he glanced down at the label, the corner of his mouth twitching, “…noted.”

You fell into step beside him, entering the still-mostly-empty tower. The echo of your footsteps followed you down halls that smelled like fresh paint and industrial cleaner. A few rooms were already occupied—Bob’s, Ava’s, and an unnamed office space—but yours was at the far end of the residential floor: a bit secluded, sunlit, and overlooking New York in a way that felt almost too generous.

You dropped your duffel onto the bed with a sigh. He set the box on the desk and stood back, studying in the space like he was mentally filing it away for future reference.

“You alright?” he asked softly.

You shrugged, arms crossing out of reflex. “I guess. Feels… weird.”

“What does?”

“Living out of Wakanda.” You glanced at him. “It’s even weirder being around you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Friends,” you said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “That’s what we are now, right?”

“I guess so.” He gave a gentle laugh, scratching the back of his head. “Friends who know exactly how the other one likes their coffee.”

You smiled for real then. “Friends who have seen each other naked. And cry. And leave.”

His voice was quieter now. “And come back.”

—

Two days later, the tower was silent after midnight.

It didn’t feel like a base yet—more like a draft of a memory— place still deciding what it wanted to be. The lights in the common room were dimmed to an amber gold. Somewhere down the hall, a ventilation unit clicked and sighed like an old house learning how to breathe again.

You couldn’t sleep.

You’d unpacked your bag. Stacked your few books with spines you knew by heart. Hung your jacket on the back of the door and lined up your toiletries with mathematical precision, like symmetry might trick your brain into believing this was home.

But your body didn't buy it yet, So you wandered barefoot down the hallway in an oversized sweatshirt—the same one Bucky had given you all those years ago.

You found him in the common room, curled into one corner of the couch, damp hair curling at the ends from a recent shower and mug of tea cradled between his metal fingers,

He looked up when he saw you. “You too, huh?”

“Sleep is a myth,” you said, plopped onto the cushion beside him. 

He handed you the mug. You didn’t hesitate before sipping— he used to share drinks with you all the time. The tea was warm, chamomile and honey, just the way you used to make it for him when he couldn’t sleep.

You let the heat sink into your palms for a few seconds longer than necessary before handing it back.

“This place is too clean,” you said at last. 

Bucky nodded. “Won’t be for long. Alexei just moved in. Give it two days before something explodes.”

You snorted. “I give it twelve hours.”

That made him laugh, as he leaned his head back against the couch cushion and looked up, like he could see constellations through the ceiling. You looked at him and, for a second, you imagined  you were both back in his hut again, painting stars on the ceiling with glow-in-the-dark stickers and half a bottle of wine.

“Remember that night by the river?” you asked.

His eyes flicked to yours. “The one after T’challa’s birthday dinner?”

You smiled. “Yeah. We dragged the blankets out and tried to sleep under the open sky. You brought out your old army jacket. I stole your pillow.”

He didn’t say anything for a second. Slowly, he reached out, brushing his fingertips across yours. 

—

The next few months passed easily.

You and Bucky slipped back into some old habits. Mornings were for training. Afternoons often ended in sparring sessions and conversation. And in the hours in between, you found each other again and again— sometimes late night tea. Sometimes, you'd leave a book by your door. Sometimes, he’d put in your favourite movie after a stressful day. He never made a big deal out of it, and neither did you. It wasn’t discussed. It simply was.

Of course, the team noticed.

Ava, subtle as a brick, started running a betting pool in the group chat on who would initiate getting back together. She never said who the odds favored, but winked at you every time you entered a room with Bucky in tow.

John grumbled about “weird tension” on mission briefings, mostly because he lost his first bet. Even Bob— still learning how to survive in a household of ex-spies, assassins, and super-soldiers—picked up on it. One morning over coffee, he glanced at you, then at Bucky, then said, completely unprompted, “You breathe easier when he’s around.”

You blinked at him, stunned. He just sipped his coffee and went back to his crossword.

But the real kicker came at breakfast, a few weeks later.

You were barely awake, slouched at the long kitchen island in the tower. Bucky sat beside you, reading news with a tablet in hand.

Yelena walked in, grabbed a banana, and without hesitation said, “So. When are you two getting back together?”

You nearly choked on your tea. Bucky froze mid-scroll. You coughed for a solid ten seconds before managing, hoarsely, “I—what?”

Yelena leaned on the counter. “Please. The movie nights? The sparring together all the time? You are basically together.”

Bucky cleared his throat. “We’re… talking. Taking it slow.”

Yelena squinted at him like he was the world’s worst liar. “Slow like friends slow, or slow like ‘you slept in her room after the Prague mission and thought no one noticed’ slow?”

You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks. Bucky stared at the ceiling like he was considering defenestration.

“I—I didn’t—we didn’t—” you stammered.

“She had a nightmare,” Bucky said valiantly. “I stayed in her armchair.”

Yelena raised her eyebrows. “How noble. You’ll be married by June.”

And with that, she bit into her banana and walked out as if she hadn’t just casually set your entire life on fire before 8 a.m.

You stared at the doorway for a long time before turning to Bucky. “We are never living that down.”

He smiled, just a little. “She’s not wrong, though.”

You tilted your head. “About what?”

He shrugged. “About the slow part not really being all that slow anymore.”

That shut you up, but not in a bad way.

—

The day it had finally happened, though, you’d been in the tower’s comms room, backlit by flickering screens, teeth clenched as you watched the mission feed buffer and skip. Bucky and John were on the field on recon and containment. It should be routine. No reason to worry.

You told yourself it was fine. You knew Bucky could handle himself. You’d said it a hundred times.

But then the feed glitched again. Then John mentioned gunfire and Bucky’s comms went dark.

The jet returned fifteen minutes later, skidding onto the landing pad. You were already waiting there when they brought him in.

Bucky.

His combat suit was torn, blood soaking through the thigh, gashes deep in his side. His vibranium arm was scorched, still hissing faintly from an energy blast. And yet… he was awake. Breathing. He gave you a small smile, somehow, even when the poor nurse wheeled him into the med bay. You ran to follow

He could’ve died. And you weren’t there.

That’s when you saw John.

“You were supposed to watch his six!” you shouted at him before you could even register how much you meant them. “Do you even know what a field partner does, or do you just wing it and hope the super soldiers heal fast enough?”

John blinked, surprised. “Jesus, I didn’t—”

“Don’t!” you snapped. “You were with him! He had your back—where the hell were you?”

“He told me to take the high ground!” John barked, his voice rising. “I didn’t know they had long-range fire!”

“It’s literally your job to know!” Your skin felt like they were on fire now. “Do you even remember the brief? You think because he’s got the Hydra serum he can take every shot for you?”

“Hey.”You heard Bucky say from the bed behind you. “Relax.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Relax?”

He half-winced as a doctor pulled a bullet fragment from his thigh. His breathing was shallow, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward in dry amusement

“Yeah. Relax. You’re doing that thing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What thing?”

“You sound like me back in the day,” he managed to say, letting his head fall back on the pillow. “God. The role reversal’s kinda scary.”

And just like that, you shut up.

He did used to do this. When you were still together. When it was you on the field and him pacing the halls of the palace like a caged wolf. Every bruise you got, he catalogued. Every mission report, he read twice. When you brushed off injuries, he’d pull you aside and look at you like you'd died and no one told him.

And now here you were, standing over him, boiling over like your heart had been under for years.

“It’s different,” you whispered under your breath. “You were obsessed.”

Bucky opened his eyes again, squinting slightly. “What?”

You could hear the beeping of monitors overwhelming you. You could taste the metallic tang of blood and antiseptic. “You were obsessed,” you said, a bit louder, “I’m freaking out over bullets. You used to freak out over a scratch.”

He gave a nod, not flinching. “Yeah. I know.” He shrugged. “Wasn’t healthy. But I cared.” But then his tone shifted. “And you don’t get to talk to John like that.”

You took a step back, caught off-guard. “Are you serious?”

“He’s not perfect,” he said, matter-of-fact.

“Wow,” John interjected under his breath, “Thanks.” 

Bucky paid him no mind “But he tried. This wasn’t on him.”

You pressed your fingers into your temple, trying to breathe. “I know, I just—I didn’t know what else to do, Buck.”

You looked at him then, and all the fire in your chest dimmed into ash. He looked… tired. Older. Stronger, too. But there was something in his eyes—some flicker of the man you left behind. 

Bucky glanced toward John. “Give us the room when they’re done, yeah?”

John, for once, didn’t argue. He just nodded and backed out, probably relieved.

The door shut with a hiss, and you waited until the doctors had finished stitching him up and giving him the okay to rest before you walked back to his side, a little more tired, a little more human.

You sat on the edge of the bed. Your hand found his immediately, as if it was instinct. His skin was warm and he smelled like bullets and iron, the way it always got when he’d been running on too much adrenaline and too little self-preservation.

“Is this okay?” you asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

He nodded before reaching for you with both hands in that familiar, greedy way he always used to, like he couldn't stand another second without you touching. “C’mere,” he said.

So you climbed carefully onto the too-small mattress beside him, your body curving into his like muscle memory. You avoided the bruised side, settling in close with your head tucked beneath his chin, just where it used to belong. His wrapped his arm around you.

Your palm rested over his chest, right above his heart. It beat steady, and you wondered if it ever really stopped beating for you.

He breathed in your hair. "You always smell like home," he whispered, so quiet you almost missed it.

You watched the little cuts and bruises heal on their own, bit by bit. His lashes fluttered like he was teetering on the edge of sleep — then opened again, just to make sure you were still there.

You stayed tucked beneath his chin for a long while. Eventually, you spoke, your voice muffled into his chest. “I didn’t mean to scream at Walker,” you said with a small laugh. “Or be… so overbearing. Like you used to be.” You peeked up at him with a sideways smile. “Funny, right?”

Bucky chuckled. “I deserved that,” he smiled, rubbing slow circles against your back with his human thumb

You swallowed, then pulled away just enough to look at him properly.

“I just…” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully, like they mattered. Because they did. “For the first time in a long time, work isn’t the most important thing to me.” You reached up and gently brushed your fingers along the edge of the bruise on his cheeks. “You are.”

“I know,” he said, voice rough. “And I… I just wanted you to know I never stop caring — just didn’t know how to care right.”

You both laughed a little at that — sad and sweet, like the punchline to a very old joke.

“Remember that time you hacked into a satellite feed because I missed one check-in?” you teased, smirking.

Bucky groaned, his cheeks turning pink. “Okay, first of all, it was a tactical recon satellite, I didn’t hack it, I borrowed a login.”

“Oh, that makes it better,” you said, eyes sparkling. “You bribed M’Baku with a reservation at a two Michelin Star vegan restaurant just because I didn’t text ‘safe’ fast enough.”

“I was worried,” he shook his head, then, quieter, “You didn’t answer for four hours.”

“I know,” Your brows relaxed again. “I know you were trying to love me. I just… couldn’t let myself be loved like that back then.”

Bucky reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Are you now?”

You smiled, eyes filling up with a puddle of tears.“Well,” you said, voice a little wobbly, “Only if we meet halfway.”

He smiled, and god, it was like the sun rose just for you.

“Okay,” he agreed, leaning in until you could taste the air he breathed.

Just before your lips touched, he stopped. “You sure?” he asked, looking down at your lips.

Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could feel it through your chest.

You nodded. “I’m sure.”

He didn’t move yet.

“You sure you’re sure?” he whispered, voice lower now. His fingers had tightened just slightly at your waist, anchoring you there,but he just needed to give you one last chance to run — but you didn’t take it.

“Bucky…” you whispered, and the way you said his name answered everything for him.

“Okay,” he said, more a sigh than a word. “Okay.”

Then he kissed you.

It was heat and hunger that only two people who had been starved of each other, who’d tasted what it was like to be apart and never wanted to go back could feel. His mouth claimed yours like he needed to make sure you were his and you kissed him back just as fiercely, just as desperate to prove that you were.

You curled your fingers into the collar of his tac vest, pulling him closer, and he groaned against your lips. His metal hand slid up your back, and his other hand cupped your cheek and pulled you closer

And he kept saying it between kisses, like a litany, “You’re sure?”

You answered with another kiss. Deeper now, borderline bruising.

“You’re sure?” he asked again

“I’m sure.” Your lips parted on a gasp, and you nodded, forehead pressed to his. “I’m so sure, Buck, I— I never stopped—”

His mouth was on yours again before you could finish, and it didn’t matter. His thumb traced your cheek like he was re-learning you all over again, when he realized he still remembered all the ways you liked to be kissed. When you finally pulled back, breathless, he looked at you like you’ve been to hell and back for him.

“God, I missed this,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I missed you so bad, doll.”

You smiled, blinking back the tears that weren’t sad at all. “I missed you worse.”

He grinned, all wrecked and completely in love.

You kissed again, gentler this time, remembering how good it felt to be known by each other again.

Which was exactly when the door slid open with a cheerful whoosh.

“—Bucky! I was gonna check on—oh,” came Alexei’s voice, suddenly flat as pancake batter left too long on the griddle.

You froze, lips still an inch from Bucky’s. Your heart leapt straight into your throat, and you turned slowly toward the door, horror across both your faces.

Alexei stood there, blinking once, before giving the slowest nod known to man. His hands were crossed on his chest, looking too smug for his own good.

“Well,” he said, dragging his voice out. “Well. I’m going to tell team it finally happened!”

Bucky let out the deepest, most resigned sigh imaginable and let his head thunk back against the pillow. “Can you please wait until I’m discharged?”

“Nonsense!” Alexei said brightly, already halfway down the hallway. “Ava owes me twenty American dollars. And John will make that face. You know the one.”

You groaned and buried your face in Bucky’s chest, playfully mortified. 

“Back then,” he chuckled, lips brushing your hair, “I would've fought him for interrupting.”

You peeked up at him, “And now?”

He smiled. “Now I’m just glad you’re here.”

-end.

[lovebugism]

Omg girlie can you imagine bob adjusting to having super strength after the serum? I'm thinking of the classic marvel scenes of wolverine and spiderman breaking the sinks bc they don't realise their own strength yet

ty for requesting :D — the one where bob reynolds has a way of ruining everything but you (established relationship, post-thunderbolts, cw smut 18+!! | 1.5k)

Robert Reynolds is the strongest Avenger known to man. He’s also the clumsiest one, too.

It’s a running theory among the Thunderbolts that his newfound powers didn’t relieve him of his gracelessness, but rather amplified it along with his strength. His perpetual awkward disposition would be endearing if it weren’t the absolute worst trait a superhero with otherworldly capabilities could possess.

Of all things to be known for, Bob is notorious for breaking things around the tower — not because he’s angry or because he ever means to, but because he’s happy and totally unaware of his strength, like some kind of large-breed puppy.

But, by all accounts, Bob Reynolds is completely and utterly harmless. 

Most of the time.

He’s the last to wake and join the lot of you by the poolside, where the team scarfs down their breakfast by the water. Ava forks down her omelet and meanders aimlessly on a pool float, while Alexei belly flops into the water until his tattooed torso is glowing red. “Lena, look,” he calls to his daughter with a grin every time. “Watch me, Lena.” (He’s got no idea Yelena’s fallen asleep behind her sunglasses.) 

Alexei hits the water harder this time and inadvertently splashes Ava from the opposite end of the pool. She glares with her mostly unscathed omelette in hand. “Do it again, fat man,” she threatens callously enough to make the aging super soldier cower. 

“Hey,” Walker scolds instinctively from where he sunbathes in a lounge chair. “Play nice.”

Bob enters then like a total ray of sunshine — a giddy, golden thing in a white tank top and a pair of tropical-patterned trunks. He glows with the distant understanding that this will likely be the first time in years he’s gotten to have fun. The ‘totally sober, free from experimentation, no obligation to fight crime’ fun.

He’s got a smile on his face that someone could see from a mile away. The kind that shows the dimple in his left cheek and makes his eyes squint at the edges. The kind that you’ve learned often means trouble. “Bob, slow down—” you just manage to caution from where you kick your feet in the shallow end with Bucky.

But by then, it’s already too late. 

Bob’s already slammed the door shut behind him — a simple flick of his wrist that’s got a world of inadvertent power behind it. Everyone flinches, bracing themselves for the inevitable impact. The thick glass of the sliding door cracks and shatters until you can’t see through it anymore. 

Bob just freezes, cheeks burning red, like staying still enough will make him invisible. 

“Nice going, Bobby,” Ava chides with her mouthful.

“I’ll fix it,” he squeaks out.

Walker laughs. “How?” 

Bob falters. “I’ll… I’m sure I’ll figure it out,” he shrugs with a wavering smile, much too pretty to argue with.

It stays broken for two days after that, which is how long it takes Valentina to send someone up to fix it.

Typically, when Bob breaks one thing, he breaks several others in quick succession. None of you is totally sure why that is — you only know that a few of you have made quite a bit of money betting on what he’ll break next. (You once made a pretty penny in one night after correctly assuming that Bob would break the dining table before dinner after he’d shattered one of the chairs at breakfast that morning.)

So, you feel pretty confident now betting that Bob will end up shattering the newly installed glass door. 

Of all the other guesses from the remaining Thunderbolts, Alexei’s is the most horrid. “The bed’s next. I know it,” he guesses in a low Russian drawl, then scoffs at the screwed look of disgust on your face. “I share a wall with you, you know? I hear these things—” 

When Bob follows you into the bathroom later that night, half-asleep and insistent on keeping you company while you shower, you wonder silently what’s in there for him to break — the sink, the towel rod, the mirror maybe (if he’s being particularly reckless, which would then mean you’d owe Yelena fifty dollars). 

You can’t help but worry as he trudges in behind you, visibly weighed down by sleep.

“You don’t have to wait for me, Bob,” you giggle from behind the foggy, translucent curtain. He can just barely make out the pretty sound of it beneath the thundering water cascading over you in steamy droplets. “You know that, right?”

Bob rubs a fist over his swollen eyes, wearing the need for slumber all over — in his wild chestnut curls and the glazed-over look in his dark ocean eyes. “I want to, though…” he murmurs in tired slurs. “I missed you.”

“Well, if you were asleep, you wouldn’t be able to miss me.”

“I always miss you when you’re not around,” Bob scoffs, wrapping his fingers around the counter’s edge as he angles himself to sit on top of it.

You open your mouth to respond, but the words dissolve on the tip of your tongue at the dull crack that fills the bathroom. Bob freezes, eyes wide and breath hitching in his throat. The feeling of the marble counter shifting underneath him sobers him from sleep almost instantly.

Your hand slides the shower curtain back, just enough to reveal your flushed features and dripping hair. “…Did you break just something?” you wonder aloud when you don’t find anything obvious out of the ordinary.

Bob swallows hard and shakes his head, despite the split marble slowly pinching his sweatpant-clad thigh. “No,” he answers in a voice an octave higher than usual.

He shifts uncomfortably, and your eyes narrow into the thin slits. “You broke the counter, didn’t you?”

“I’ll fix it,” he blurts, just like he always does. 

Because he always has the best intentions, never means to ruin anything — he just wishes he had the ability to put things back together after he’s broken them. He’d want that power over being some stupid invicible schmuch any day. At least then he’d feel actually deserving of all the praise he gets from the public, if he could make things better instead of destroying them.

As far as Bob’s concerned, the only thing he knows how to do properly is make you feel good. You’re the only thing he’s touched that he hasn’t totally ruined. Despite everything he’s hurt with his hands and his body and his mind, he uses those things to bring you to heaven and back too.

He fucks you within an inch of your life into the mattress, propped on his arms above you with his hands balling the pillow into his fists. His core burns with the intensity of his merciless thrusts, which punch so many pretty whines out of you.

“That the spot, baby?” he pants when your mouth parts in a silent moan, head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut. “That the spot? Huh?”

You nod wordlessly, unable to form the words, as your body grows taut underneath him. The stimulation is constant and ruthless — your sensitive nipples caged beneath his chest, your swollen clit rutting against the coarse thatch of hair above his cock, your velvet walls gushing around his piercing thrusts. 

The pleasure is all-consuming. You couldn’t run from it if you tried.

Bob watches with lidded, attentive eyes as your orgasm racks suddenly through your body. Your nails dig crescent shapes into his shoulders in a desperate attempt to tether yourself when your limbs start to tremble underneath him. Your cunt pulses around his twitching cock, and his own orgasm swells in the pit of his stomach along with his pride.

“There you go…” Bob pants into your neck, hiding his face there while he chases his high with rapid and erratic thrusts. His fingertips threaten to dig bruises into your skin from where he holds so ardently to your hips. “Take it, baby,” he whimpers. “Take it…”

Your body feels lighter than air as you come down. You exhale deeply and rake your fingers through his curls, coaxing him softly as his cock begins to jerk within your pulsating confines. “Cum for me,” you beg in quiet slurs. “Need it so bad, baby, please cum for me—”

A pained sort of groan sounds deep in his throat. He punches into you once — hard — and suddenly a dull and hearty crack sounds from underneath you. You blink, and suddenly you’re lying halfway crooked on a lopsided bedframe. 

If Bob notices the damage to the wooden thing, he doesn’t show it. He just keeps exhaling pretty little whines into your skin as his cock spits deep inside you. It takes several long moments for the haze to pass, for his cock to soften, and for Bob to realize how both of you are leaning ever so lightly askew.

“…I broke the bed, huh?” he pants against your neck, face still hidden, as his body weight rests wholly on top of you.

You nod, still breathless. “I think so.”

“I’ll fix it,” he promises.

You know he won’t, but you can’t bring yourself to care. 

All you can think about now is that you owe Alexei fifty dollars.

[wonderlanderings]

Whiplash

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: spencer reid x fem!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.4k 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: hurt/comfort, I think, either that or fluff, mid-ish seasons Spencer, some very mild violence, mentions of blood and injury, protective Spence 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Spencer Reid has never moved that fast. Not in the field. Not in training. Not ever. But when a grieving father shoves you into a kitchen cabinet during an interview, Spencer is across the room before anyone can blink—hand on the man's chest, voice like steel, all that quiet intensity finally aimed at someone who deserves it. The team is stunned. Morgan is asking questions. And the secret you and Spencer have been keeping for months is about to come crashing down.

: ̗̀➛ [𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧] [𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭] [𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱]

𝐚/𝐧: is this anything?

You’d been bracing for this the second you stepped through the door.

The victim’s mother had the same wild, searching look you’d seen a hundred times before—the desperate need to blame anyone, anyone, other than the abstract monster who took her daughter. Grief curdling into rage at the nearest warm body. You’d taken point instinctively, not because you were the senior agent, but because Hotch’s gaze had already flicked to you in silent question. Can you handle this? You gave a single nod. I’ve got it.

“Mrs. Hartwell, I know this is unbearable. But every piece of information you can give us—her schedule, anyone new she mentioned—”

“You don’t know anything.”

Her composure shatters on the word. Her hands claw at the air between you, fingernails catching the kitchen’s fluorescent light like small, dull blades. “You stand there with your fancy credentials and your clinical words. My Maggie is gone.”

You hold your ground, even as your pulse kicks hard against your ribs. Don’t flinch. Don’t feed the spiral. You’ve seen grief turn feral before—watched it coil and strike like a cornered animal. You’ve also seen what happens when you back away: it tells them their rage is justified, that you’re afraid of the very pain you’re asking them to relive. So you stay. Soften your voice, but not your stance. “I understand. And I’m so sorry. But the small details—her routine, anyone new in her life—those could be the thing that brings her home.”

That’s when the father snaps.

He’d been vibrating in the corner, a burly man with red-rimmed eyes and fists clenched so tight his knuckles have gone bloodless. You register the shift in his weight a half-second too late—the draw of his arm back, the pivot of his hips, the ugly twist of his mouth. 

There’s no room to dodge.

His palm catches you high on the shoulder—a glancing blow meant to shove, not strike. A warning, maybe. Or the last thread of restraint from a man who hasn’t slept in days. But the momentum is brutal. You slam backward into the kitchen counter. The granite edge bites into your lower back, a hot wire of pain that lances straight up your spine. Then your head whips forward and then back—the crack of your skull against the upper cabinet is a sound you feel more than hear. A wet, hollow knock that echoes inside your own skull.

White-hot splinters through your vision, stars collapsing and reforming behind your eyes. Your teeth click together so hard you taste enamel. Then copper, hot and sharp, blooming across your tongue.

The room tilts.

Your knees buckle.

You catch yourself on the counter, one hand slipping on a forgotten dish towel as the world lists sideways. Warmth trickles from your scalp down the nape of your neck, a slow, alarming heat that doesn’t match the sudden cold in your fingers. You blink, and for one long second, you can’t remember where you are. The faces in front of you are smears of colour and grief.

Before you can even draw another breath, a blur of motion cuts through your peripheral vision.

Spencer.

Not the lanky, cardigan-clad genius who stammers through small talk and apologizes for existing in someone's personal space. Not the man who once spent ten minutes explaining the migratory patterns of monarch butterflies because he couldn't read your social cues, who carries paperback novels in his satchel like other men carry wallets, who still flushes when you hold his hand in the dark of your apartment where no one can see.

This Spencer moves like a spring uncoiling. Like something kept on a very short leash just got loose—all that coiled tension, all those suppressed instincts, snapping into terrible, beautiful focus.

He crosses the kitchen in three strides you don't consciously track. One moment he's across the room, and the next he's there, inserting himself between you and the father with a speed that makes Hotch's head whip up from across the room. 

His right hand shoots out, palm flat against the man's chest, and shoves. Hard enough that the father's back hits the wall with a dry, echoing thud—the kind that rattles the framed school photos hanging nearby. A child's smile. Maggie's smile. The irony doesn't escape you. Neither does the way Spencer's arm doesn't tremble. He's not straining. He's planted—weight distributed, centre of gravity low, the stance of someone who's been trained to hold his ground and forgotten to mention it.

"Keep your hands off her."

Spencer's voice is low. Stripped of its usual breathy pitch, stripped of the tentative upward lilt that turns every statement into a question. The stammer is gone. The apologetic half-smile is gone. In its place is something you've only ever seen in glimpses—when he reads a case file a little too closely, when he stares down an unsub who's made the mistake of threatening a teammate.

It isn't a plea or a warning.

It's a fact. Delivered with the cold certainty of a ballistic report. The kind of voice that makes seasoned interrogators lean back in their chairs.

"Reid." Hotch's voice cuts across the kitchen, not unkind but pointed. A reminder. We're still here. We're still watching.

Spencer's spine straightens almost imperceptibly. His chin lifts. When he turns toward the unit chief, his expression is perfectly neutral—open, cooperative, the eager young agent who quotes statistics and fumbles with his words and never, ever pushes back against authority.

Hotch studies him for a long moment. That gaze—the one that sees everything, the one that's made unsubs confess just by existing—sweeps over Spencer from head to toe, cataloguing, assessing. Whatever he finds must satisfy him, because he gives a single nod.

"That was an assault on a federal agent."

His words come precise and clipped, each one landing like a hammer strike. No rambling. No tangential footnotes about statistical probabilities or legal precedents. Just steel. The kind of voice you've heard Spencer use exactly once before—on a hostage negotiator's training tape Hotch made the whole team watch three years ago. The one where a twenty-something Reid talked a man off a ledge in under four minutes, then vomited behind the squad car afterward.

"You raise a hand again, and I will personally ensure you spend the next forty-eight hours in a holding cell while we decide how many additional charges to file."

His jaw is set. A muscle ticks beneath his eye—the only sign that he's even breathing. The father is twice Spencer's width, built like a man who's swung a hammer for a living, shoulders rounded with years of manual labour and grief gone toxic. And yet he shrinks. His mouth opens, some bluster forming on his tongue—a denial, maybe, or a defence—something about not meaning it, about his daughter, about grief making him crazy.

Spencer cuts him off.

"Don't."

The word snaps through the air like a rubber band breaking. Sharp. Final. It lands in the small kitchen and seems to suck the oxygen out of the room. 

"Not a word." Spencer's voice hasn't lost its edge. If anything, it's sharper now—honed to a fine point. "You're going to sit down, and you're going to calm down. If you so much as look in her direction again, we're done here. And your daughter's best chance walks out that door with us."

The man sits.

It's not graceful. His knees buckle more than they bend—a controlled collapse masquerading as obedience. His back slides down the wall until he's a heap on the linoleum, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. The fight drained out of him in less than ten seconds.

The mother makes a sound—something caught between a sob and a gasp—and Hotch is already there, guiding her to a chair, murmuring something about cooperation and finding Maggie. His voice is low, practiced. The same voice he uses for panicked witnesses and grieving families a hundred times a year.

But you're not watching any of that.

You're watching Spencer's hand drop from the man's chest. You're watching his shoulders rise and fall once, twice—a deliberate breath, the kind he uses to ground himself during panic attacks, the kind he taught you to use after nightmares. You're watching the way his spine stays rigid even as his fingers curl into a loose fist at his side, knuckles still pale.

He's shaking.

Not much. Not enough that anyone across the room would notice. But you're close enough to see the fine tremor running through his forearm, the way his throat works on a swallow he's trying to hide. He just threatened a man twice his size into silence with nothing but his voice and his presence—and now he's trembling like a leaf in a windstorm.

Only then does Spencer turn.

His eyes find yours—and for a split second, the mask cracks. Beneath the steel is something raw, almost frightened. You did that to him. You realize it with a small, stunned jolt—the way your pain becomes his panic, the way he'd burn this whole house down if it meant you walked out unscathed. It's not a protective instinct. It's something deeper. Something that lives in his bones now, whether he's named it or not.

His fingers are cool against your heated skin as he tilts your chin toward the light—the overhead fluorescents, merciless and buzzing, the kind that make everyone look washed out and exhausted. He doesn't seem to notice. He's examining your head with the same hyper focused intensity he brings to cold cases and obscure scientific journals. But his touch is different. Softer. The pads of his thumbs brush the skin just below your hairline, following the ache you hadn't realized was radiating outward from your skull.

Feather-light. Almost reverent. Like you're something precious he's been trusted to handle.

His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, coming away with a thin smear of copper. You watch him look at it—that single red line across his skin—and something in his expression fractures. Just for a second. Just enough for you to see. The mask doesn't just crack; it shatters, and underneath is something raw and unguarded: a man who has spent his whole life being too much or not enough, who has finally found something he can't bear to lose.

"You're okay," he murmurs, quiet enough that only you can hear.

It isn't a question. It's the same declarative certainty he used on the father—that same steel-and-ballistic-report finality. But this time, it's wrapped in something tender. Something that sounds like I need you to be okay dressed up as a fact. Like if he says it enough times, with enough conviction, the universe will have no choice but to comply.

You nod. Just once. Small.

His throat works as he swallows—a visible, effortful thing, like he's pushing down something that wants to claw its way out. Rage, maybe. Or relief. Or something else entirely, something that doesn't have a name yet, something that's been living in the space between you for months.

Then he blinks.

And the Spencer the team knows clicks back into place. The tension in his shoulders doesn't fully release—it's still there, a wire pulled taut somewhere deep—but he smooths it down, tucks it away into whatever internal compartment he's built for exactly this purpose. His expression cycles through three micro-corrections: softening the jaw, relaxing the brow, lowering the shoulders. A man putting on his own face again, like adjusting a mask before stepping through a door.

You've seen him do this before. In interrogation rooms, when a suspect hits too close to home. At crime scenes, when the victim looks like someone he loves. In the quiet hours of the night, when nightmares leave him gasping and he has to remember how to be a person before the sun comes up.

But you've never seen him do it this fast.

His hand finds your lower back. Warm. Steady. A pressure that says I'm here without a single word as he guides you a step away from where the father sits slumped against the wall, weeping quietly into his hands. The shift is subtle—just a few inches—but you notice. Of course you notice. He's positioned himself between you and the room.

Behind you, Derek Morgan stands frozen mid-step, one foot forward, having lunged a second too late. His eyes are wide—not afraid, exactly, but stunned. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. He looks like a man who just watched his nerdy little brother body-slam a bully twice his size and isn't sure whether to be proud or deeply concerned.

"Did… did Reid just physically intimidate someone?"

The question hangs in the air. Not accusatory. Just genuinely bewildered. Like he's asking the universe to confirm that his eyes aren't deceiving him, that the laws of physics haven't somehow inverted, that Spencer Reid—who once apologized to a door he walked into—just made a grown man shrink.

A slow, incredulous smile spreads across Emily’s face. The kind she gets when she's witnessed something she'll be holding over someone's head for years. Her eyebrows have climbed so high they're threatening to disappear into her hairline.

"I think he just threatened a civilian with federal prison and gave him a time-out." She tilts her head, watching Spencer angle his body between you and the room—a human shield disguised as casual concern. "That's… actually impressive. In a terrifying sort of way."

She says it lightly. But there's something underneath. A question she's not asking yet. Her eyes linger on the space between you and Spencer—on the absence of distance, on the way he hasn't looked at anyone else since he turned around. Emily has spent too many years in deep cover, has read too many micro-expressions, to miss the way Spencer's hand is still hovering near your back, even though the threat is neutralized.

Curious, her expression says. Very curious.

JJ's gaze flicks between you and Spencer, her reporter's brain cataloguing every detail. The hand on your back. The way your weight has shifted slightly toward him. The blood on your lip that he hasn't let you touch again. She doesn't say anything. But her eyes narrow—just a fraction—and something shifts behind them. Noticing. Filing it away.

She's going to ask you later. You can already tell. Not at the scene. Not where anyone else can hear. But later. In the bathroom of the jet, maybe, or while you're both pretending to sleep on the flight home. JJ has a way of making questions feel like kindness, like she's not prying, just checking in. 

Spencer’s thumb has started moving. An unconscious back-and-forth, a tiny circle, a soothing pattern he probably doesn't even realize he's making. The heat of his palm seeps through your shirt, grounding you in a way that has nothing to do with the pain still pulsing behind your eyes.

"You need ice," he says finally, practical now, his voice climbing back toward its usual register. But his eyes haven't left yours. They're scanning—forehead, temple, cheekbone, lip—with the same intensity he'd bring to a crime scene, cataloguing every shade of bruise, every smear of blood. "And probably stitches. One suture, maybe two. The temporal region bleeds disproportionately to the severity of the injury because of the superficial temporal artery, so the amount of blood isn't necessarily—"

But Morgan isn't done.

"Reid," he says slowly, drawing out the name like he's testing the weight of it against his tongue. "You just put a man against a wall."

Spencer stiffens almost imperceptibly beneath the attention. His hand flexes against your lower back—a nervous twitch, fingers curling like they're searching for something to hold onto—before he remembers himself and lets it drop to his side. The absence of his palm is immediate. You feel it like a missing step on a staircase, like a word left hanging at the end of a sentence, like the hollow ache where a tooth used to be.

He clears his throat.

"He was a threat to a federal agent." His voice is carefully neutral. Clinical. The kind of tone he uses when citing case law or explaining blood spatter patterns to a room of sceptical local PD. But there's a faint flush creeping up the back of his neck—the one he gets when he's been caught doing something embarrassing. Or something revealing. "Protocol permits reasonable use of physical intervention to prevent further harm."

Morgan crosses his arms. His head tilts—that slow, assessing angle he uses when he's already figured something out and is just enjoying the process of watching someone squirm. The ghost of a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. Not mean. Just knowing.

"Uh-huh." He draws out the syllable, lets it hang in the air like smoke. "And the part where you haven't let go of her for three minutes straight? What protocol is that?"

Spencer opens his mouth. Closes it. His ears are turning pink now, visible even under the horrible kitchen lighting—that particular shade of red that creeps up from his collar and stains everything in its path. 

His hands are now shoved deep in his pockets, like he's physically restraining himself from reaching for you again.

You watch him cycle through approximately four different responses in the span of two seconds.

It was three minutes and seventeen seconds—too defensive, too precise.

She was injured—too obvious, too flimsy, too easy to poke holes in. 

“That's not protocol, that's—” He stops himself before he can finish that sentence, but the word hangs in the air anyway, unfinished and damning.

That's personal.

Morgan lets the silence stretch, patient as a cat at a mouse hole. His eyes flick to you—just for a second—and there's something softer there now. Not pity. Understanding, maybe. The kind of look that says I see you, I see both of you, and I'm not going to make this harder than it needs to be.

But he's not going to make it easy, either.

"You know," Morgan says, feigning casual, "I've known you for years, Reid. Watched you freeze up around witnesses. Watched you stammer through interviews. Watched you apologize to furniture." He pauses, letting the contrast sink in. "I've never seen you move like that. Not unless someone on this team was about to get shot."

Spencer's throat works. His hands are still buried in his pockets, knuckles pressing outward against the fabric—a white-knuckled grip on nothing. "Situations evolve. People adapt. It's not—" He stops. Swallows. "It's not indicative of anything beyond the immediate circumstances."

"The immediate circumstances," Morgan repeats slowly, tasting the words. "Right. So if it had been me who got shoved, you'd have done the same thing?"

The question lands like a grenade with the pin pulled.

Spencer's eyes dart to Morgan's face—searching, analysing, trying to figure out the trap. Because it is a trap. You can see it. Spencer can see it. The only correct answer is the one that incriminates him.

Yes, he could say. It would be a lie, and Morgan would know it's a lie, and the lie itself would be a confession.

No—well. No would be even worse.

Spencer says nothing. His silence is louder than any answer he could have given.

Morgan's grin softens into something gentler. Something almost fond. "That's what I thought."

"I don't know what you think you're implying—" Spencer starts, but Morgan holds up a hand, cutting him off.

"I'm not implying anything, kid. I'm observing." He takes a step closer, dropping his voice so only the three of you can hear. The kitchen feels suddenly smaller, more intimate, like the walls have leaned in to listen. "I'm observing that you just went full tactical on a civilian. I'm observing that you haven't looked at anyone else in this room for more than two seconds at a time." He ticks each point off on his fingers, slow and deliberate. "And I'm observing that you're standing so close to her right now that if I took a picture, it'd be Exhibit A in a 'why the hell didn't we notice this sooner' slideshow."

Spencer's jaw is clenched so tight you can see the tendon in his neck straining. His hands have come out of his pockets—when did that happen?—and they're hanging at his sides, fingers twitching like he's fighting every instinct to reach for you again.

"I—" He stops. Starts again. "It's not—"

He can't finish the sentence.

He can't say it's not what you think because it is what Morgan thinks. It's exactly what Morgan thinks, and maybe more, and maybe worse, and maybe the most terrifying thing Spencer has ever had to name out loud.

[dismalflo]

ten weeks total

Clark Kent x shy!reader ✩ 5k words

summary: it takes ten weeks for clark kent and a shy, touch starved, you to fall in love. (or, 4 times clark touches you and 1 time you touch him.)

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week one

The Daily Planet only seems to employ lovely, outgoing people. You're convinced of it. 

You don't know how or why they hired you after meeting some of the people here. Maybe your interview self had somehow managed to make you seem like you’d fit right for that thirty minutes.

Whatever happened, they hired you anyway. 

For the past week you’ve tried so hard to settle in. To put yourself out there a bit more. It hasn’t helped much.

There's some faulty wiring in your brain, you're sure, that makes you awful and awkward and idiotic around people you don't know. And right now, you don't know anyone. At work or in metropolis as a whole. 

Cat Grant has tried no less than five times to strike up a conversation with you. Which is nice of her and horrible for you. Every attempt leaves you fumbling through responses and replaying every part of it in your head for hours afterward.

To avoid inflicting your shyness on anyone else, you've got into the routine of taking lunch late. By the time you head to the breakroom. Most people have already finished theirs up.

With your head shoved so far into the refrigerator you might as well be looking for the opening of another reality in the back of it, you squint at the shelves. Where the hell is your cherry soda? You know you set it right next to your lunch box so it can’t have gone far. Unless someone took it. But putting it next to your lunch box kind of implies–

“Hey!”

You yelp and jerk upright, immediately slamming the crown of your head into the shelf above you. Shocking pain explodes across your skull as you stumble backward, one hand flying to the throbbing spot on your head. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The unfamiliar voice is still going, apology after apology tumbling over itself as you blink through the stars in your vision. When your eyesight steadies, you turn towards the sound and a man is already pulling out a chair.

“Here,” he says, “Sit down.”

You follow the instructions easily, it's a sharp and startling kind of pain hitting your head, you think you’d do anything you're told until it dulls a little. The apologies don't stop coming as you try to pull yourself together. Seriously, he will not stop apologising.

You press your palm against your head and wait for the ache to dull while he hovers nearby looking increasingly distressed.

Once you’ve gathered yourself a little better, you chance a glance up at him, and immediately avert your eyes back to the floor. He’s staring at you with so much concern your stomach ties itself in knots. 

There's a couple of thoughts to sort through then. The first, how the hell didn't you hear him step into the room? He’s tall and broad and firm. You should've heard his footsteps for sure, maybe he moves like a cat or maybe you were too in your own head, it wouldn't be the first time. The second, that one revolves around how pretty he is. He is with no exaggeration maybe the handsomest man you’ve ever seen. Glasses and curly hair and bright big eyes.

“S’okay,” you find your voice, staring at the floor. “I’m okay, I'm fine.” 

You hear him release a sigh of relief, it makes your face warm.

“Okay, that's good.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I thought you’d hear me come in, but–”

He cuts himself off and you chance another look at him. The sheepish smile on his face somehow makes him even prettier.

“Gosh. Sorry. I’m being rude. I’m Clark.”

You give him a soft smile, which he returns and you murmur your name in reply. 

Clark can't believe it when you tell him, he’s heard from the others how slow and reluctant you've been to warm to anyone at all since you started and now he’s done this. He might've ruined everyone’s chance, not just his own, of getting to know you. He could kick himself. Nice going, Kent. 

“Nice to meet you,” he gestures toward the refrigerator, “what were you looking for?”

His question makes embarrassment flare up in you all over again. Clark watches as you dip your head away from him again, he has to fight the urge to reach out a hand to your shoulder to comfort you. He doesn't think he's met someone quite so shy before. 

“I, uh, just my soda,” you give a helpless little smile while your fingers worry at your cuticles. “It's fine though, it doesn't matter.”

Clark can feel his heart clench as you dismiss it. It's your soda! You should have it!

“Was it cherry?”

“Uh, yeah?” 

“Theres a cherry soda thief, I haven't figured out who it is yet though,” he puts a hand on his hip and points at you with an open hand. “Stay there a sec, okay?”

You watch open mouthed as he rushes out of the room. It's shameful to admit, even to yourself, but you'd probably do whatever Clark told you to despite having only just met him. Something is clearly wrong with you.

When he comes back into the room it's with a bit of a crash and a new can of soda in his hand from the vending machine. How strange. Then he's murmuring a Here you go and holding it out towards you. You can't come up with a cohesive response, your mind goes blank because this is really so strange.

It’s simple to Clark, he’s just making up for scaring you out of your skin. To you there's nothing to make up for, accidents just happen. That's life.

Still you reach out. What you’re sure of then is that as your finger tips brush taking the can from him, the touch fucking burns.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week three

Your easy routine – get up, go to work, go home, maybe go for a walk before settling in for the night, all without really speaking to anyone – has been slightly tweaked.

Every morning, Clark goes out of his way to stop by your desk and talk to you.

At first, you were convinced he was doing it out of pity. (Clark would be devastated to know you thought that.) Then you decided he must just enjoy the sound of his own voice. (He'd be equally horrified to hear that conclusion.) After all, you rarely give him anything more than a one-word response. Neither explanation feels quite right, but you can’t figure out what else it could be.

Little do you know that in Clark's mind his one and only mission currently is to befriend you. He wants to know more, curiosity piqued by the pretty shy thing that lingers around.

Lately, your walks home have been plagued with thoughts of him. How kind he’s been. The slope of his nose. His dark hair and cute glasses.

 As if you’ve summoned him with thoughts alone you hear your name called from somewhere behind you. You turn and sure enough Clark’s impossible to miss.

He’s a head taller than almost everyone around him, weaving apologetically through the crowd with one hand raised so you won’t lose sight of him. As if you could. His bag bounces against his side as he finally catches up. Stopping beside you with an easy smile on his face while you frown at him in confusion.

 “Where’re you heading?” he asks, dipping his head down closer to you.

Clark likes asking odd questions but this one really throws you for a loop.

“Home?” you answer with a tilted head and scrunched brow.

He nods once, like that's exactly what he expected. You wonder if you’re so predictable that having no plans on a Friday night is just a given to other people. He adjusts the strap of the bag on his shoulder and nudges his head towards the sidewalk.

“Can I walk you home?”

What is going on?

“Uhh… sure.” you agree, taking a step in the right direction. “If you want to.”

You start walking and he falls easily into step beside you, matching your pace.

For someone who never seems to run out of things to say at work, Clark is surprisingly comfortable with silence. You half expected him to chatter the entire walk, but you suppose you can scratch likes his own voice off of your list of reasons he might talk to you.

The evening sky has melted into streaks of pink and orange, casting everything in a warm night. As you sneak glances over at Clark he almost doesn't look real.

It all makes your shoulders tense and curl forwards. You don't understand how someone can move through the world the way Clark does, so confident without seeming arrogant, so open, so completely unafraid to ask for what he wants. He talks to everyone like they're already his friend.

And he's walking you home from work. It's weird. He has friends, cool friends but he’s spending his time with you. You're… just you.

What you don't know is that Clark has spent the time between your first meeting and now trying to figure out how to become your friend without scaring you off. He hasn’t figured it out yet. Still, in for a penny, he supposes.

“What, uh…” He clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck before turning his head towards you. Somewhere during the walk he’s drifted closer without noticing, his shoulder almost brushing yours now. “What’re you doing this weekend?”

“Oh…” your mouth opens and closes as you try to come up with a lie that makes you sound less lame, it doesn't work. “Nothing, I guess.”

“Really?”

“Well,” you shrug, “I need to do my laundry, I guess. And clean my apartment.” 

Clark hums, nodding absently, “You’re not hanging out with your friends?” 

He knows it's the wrong thing to ask as soon as it leaves his mouth, he feels like he’s missed the last step as he watches you curl in on yourself again, embarrassed. 

“...I don’t really have any.” you whisper, timid.

Clark's brain seems to misfire and he can’t formulate words because how can sweet lovely, albeit quiet you, not have any friends. His silence stretches too long and you quickly take it for judgement.

“I haven’t had time to make any, okay?” You say quickly, voice sharper than you intend.

It’s maybe the most assertive Clark has ever heard you. Hell, it's probably the most assertive you've heard yourself. But you don't need Clark knowing you're a bigger loser than you probably already are in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” He blurts, shaking his head, “I didn't mean it in, like, a bad way or anything.” He sighs like he's all disappointed in himself before murmuring under his breath. “I’m such an idiot.”

You're not supposed to hear it, but you do, and it pulls a giggle from your lips before you can stifle it. Clark's head whips towards you at the sound with a great beaming smile on his face delighted by the noise. Reflexively, you smile back, the biggest one he's been on the receiving end of.

You can see your building moving closer in the distance now and it disappoints you. You don't want this walk home to end. The company is too nice.

“It’s not true anyway. You have at least one friend.”

You scrunch your face at that, maybe Clark really does have too much faith in your social skills outside of work or something, but he is dead wrong. When you turn your head to tell him as much, his upper body is angled towards you with a hand raised pointing to his face which is sporting a dopey grin. It takes a second to catch his meaning as you come to a stop outside your building. 

You feel your eyes start to sting, as wetness builds in your lashline. There's no threat of tears falling, it’s just so nice.

“Really?” you ask, sad eyes staring up at Clark. He can practically feel his heart break in his chest. 

“Yeah, I’m your friend.” he nods “if you’ll have me.” 

When you give a small nod, he reaches out a hand to your shoulder and rubs a steady back and forth to console you.

This touch is less of a burn and more of a sharp pinch.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week five

The park is filled with people, it's a warm day with sunlight spilling over the grass in sheets of gold. Groups of friends lounge on the grass with their shoes kicked off, the basketball court is packed out and there's couples meandering along the path holding hands. It's all so nice, yet you find yourself worrying at your bottom lip as you cross the grass..

Is your outfit okay? Do you look nice enough? Is it obvious that you’ve rushed here because you left the apartment too late? 

Clark Kent, from what you can tell, is a genuine guy. Not a deceitful bone in his body, you'd bet. Really you shouldn't have been surprised that he meant it when he said he was your friend, but you were, and now he walks you home from work nearly every day and you can manage to speak more than two words at a time to him. You know, he probably won't care what you look like, but if he does, maybe a smile can win him over instead, proving he hasn’t made a mistake.

You seem to see Clark at the same moment he sees you. He’s already spread out the sweetest little picnic blanket beneath a tree that casts shadows across it. Beside him sit two grocery bags bulging with, if you had to guess, more food than two people could possibly eat at once. He's gone so over the top it hurries you forward. 

“Oh gosh,” your eyes are wide, they don't seem to settle on any one thing. “Am I late?”

“Nope,” he says easily, already getting to his feet. “I’m early. I wanted to get everything set up.”

As soon as you're standing in front of him, Clark reaches for your tote bag without seeming to think twice about it. He slips the strap from your shoulder and places the bag carefully beside the blanket. Thoughtless and sweet.

It's the first time you’ve seen him not in the slightly oversized suit he wears to work and somehow he looks more handsome. It's unfair. 

“You look really nice, honey.” 

That's even more unfair. Heat rushes to your cheeks so quickly you have to look away, hiding your pleased smile by lowering yourself onto the blanket instead.

“So do you, Clark.” you murmur.

Your quiet compliment seems to level the playing field a bit. His own smile turns unexpectedly bashful, the tips of his ears flushing pink beneath the dark curls that fall over them. To distract himself, Clark quickly kneels beside one of the grocery bags.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he admits, beginning to unpack containers one after another. “So… I got a little of everything.”

“This is too much, you shouldn't have,” you giggle, shaking your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re too nice to me.”

As he lays out the variety of picnic food, you can't help but notice how close your knee is to his. How close they are to bumping together. You wonder if that closeness is intentional or not. 

Clark shrugs, before leaning closer to you. Maybe that answers your question. “Theres no part of me that could be mean to you,” He says, earnestly. His blue eyes meet yours without hesitation. “It’s easy to be nice to you.”

There's no time to digest what that means beyond the way it makes your stomach flip and your head feel lighter before he's offering you a punnet of strawberries, like what he said was simple and easy. When you reach for one you give Clark the sweetest smile you can muster which makes his stomach flip in return.

It's hard to believe how lucky you’ve got. How the hell have you ended up sitting in the sunshine, making a life here, inches away from Clark Kent the kindest man you’ve ever met. Sharing strawberries and sandwiches while he smiles at you like spending time together is the easiest thing ever.

“I’ve never been very good with people,” you start. “And I moved here just for the job, I didn’t really think about… about all the other stuff and it's so tricky to make friends…” 

You trail off, losing steam in your confession. Your fingers find your cuticles automatically, picking absentmindedly at the skin as your nerves creep back in.

“What I’m trying to say, I guess, is thank you, for being patient with me.”

Clark’s expression changes immediately, his brows pulling together. There's something almost heartbroken in the way he looks at you, as though he's genuinely upset you’d ever think gratitude was necessary. “You don't have to thank me,” he says, quietly. “It’s my pleasure, really, honey.”

You try your best to internalise those words as soon as he’s said them, the corners of your lips lifting.

“And…” He pauses, until you look up at him, Clark wants to make sure you’re listening. “I get it, y’know.”

The words shock you so much that you let out an unattractive but entirely authentic snort. It’s so unbelieveable, you think that maybe Clark Kent is a liar after all. 

“Yeah, right.”

“No really,” he turns until he’s fully facing you, one leg tucked beneath him. “I grew up in Kansas, on a farm! All this was so overwhelming but you learn to love it, I promise.” Looking at Clark in the light, you think that, yeah maybe you are learning. 

By the time the sun begins to set, you’ve both packed everything away and Clark is walking you home. He has the picnic blanket rolled beneath one arm and a bag with food neither of you touched in that hand, leaving his other arm free to swing comfortably at his side as you both make the walk back.

It’s so sweet the effort he’s taken to make today nice, the thought of it makes your next words bubble up and out before you can stop them.

“Next time, I’ll bring the food.”

Clark's eyes widen, surprise flashing so openly across his face that your stomach immediately drops and you can't help but scold yourself mentally. Why would you just assume there would be a next time? You don’t notice his thrilled expression at you suggesting a next time until it bleeds into his voice. “Yes!” he says a little too quickly, almost laughing at himself before adding, softer, “Whatever you wanna do.” 

The enthusiasm in his voice catches you off guard. It's so genuine, so earnest. You can't stop yourself from grinning back and you're fairly certain the way you're looking at him now leaves every ounce of your affection written plainly across your face.

The rest of the walk passes quickly. Soon enough, you both come to a stop outside your building. You turn toward him, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands.

“Thank you.” you say quietly.

Clark shakes his head almost immediately.

“No, thank you.” His smile softens. “I had a really great time.”

Before you know it, Clark is pulling you in for a little side hug. Warm and solid and gentle. His arm draped across your shoulders in goodbye.

This feels like less of a pinch and more like pushing on a bruise.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week seven

When did recipes become so hard to follow? How much salt is too much? How much isn't enough? The most important question really is, why would you offer to cook for Clark?

The answer to that, you do know. The number of nice things he’s done for you is innumerable now and somewhere along the way you figured you should return the favour. And maybe impress him a little. You always seem to want that, whether you admit it to yourself or not.

 It's easier now to not be so shy around him. Clark makes things easy. 

With two trays safely put into the oven all you need to do is set a timer and–

There's a steady knock on your door, obviously Clark being as punctual as ever. You stumble quickly through your apartment, nearly catching your foot on the corner of the rug, not wanting to keep him waiting on you now. 

You pull the door open. Clark stands there looking exactly how he always does, broad shouldered and gentle eyed with the light catching in his glasses. In his hands is a bouquet of flowers.

The arrangement is beautiful. Soft pink peonies together with pale lavender sweet peas. Somehow, despite how large the bouquet is, Clark still manages to dwarf it. The sight has you a little shocked, mouth opening and closing as you try to figure out what's going on.

“...For me?”

The corners of Clark’s mouth lift to an easy smile and a tiny furrow appears between his brows as though he's genuinely puzzled you had to ask.

“Of course they are,” he says. “My ma raised a gentleman, I couldn't show up empty handed.”

“You totally could’ve,” you shuffle to the side of the doorway, gesturing him in. “I invited you to treat you for a change, remember. They're beautiful.”

Clark gives a small shrug that suggests he doesn't entirely understand your logic.

“They made me think of you when I saw them.”

Heat rushes to your face but the instinct to duck your head away from him when he says nice things has all but disappeared. Instead you meet him head on now with a bashful but thankful smile.

Your apartment suddenly feels impossibly small as Clark follows you into the kitchen. It’s cramped enough with just one person moving around. With him leaning against the counter, close enough that you can feel the heat coming off of him, it’s tight but nice.

You crouch down, digging beneath the sink to find a vase you're sure you own. You find the slightly dusty glass vase. 

When you stand, head well away from anything you could bump it on, Clark speaks again. 

“What can I help with?” he asks, “Put me to work.”

You laugh softly as you begin trimming the flower stems.

“Nothing,” you point toward the tiny table. “you can sit and relax.”

Clark huffs, discontent with that and it prompts a faint laugh to fall from you once again. You can practically feel the energy coming off of him now. He doesn't do well sitting still, having no purpose while someone else works. He’s always in motion, a quirk of his you've learnt. 

“You’re so strange, Clark.” you drawl, arranging another stem into the vase. It's maybe the first time you’ve teased him properly, and from the wide smile and joy that basically radiates from him, you’d guess he likes it. “You can’t sit still, can you?”

“I can sit still.” he defends, though his tone wobbles, betraying the lie. 

When the flowers are finally arranged, they're even prettier than when they were wrapped in paper. Maybe it's because Clark Kent bought them for you. You place the vase carefully on the counter before leaning beside him.

“I don’t think I've seen you relax the whole time I've known you,” you say, shaking your head fondly, "You're always up to something, helping someone… helping me.”

His blue eyes flick away from you, almost shy. When they return to yours they’re softer, somehow. His face seems to filter through a number of emotions before simply settling on content.

“That is relaxing to me.”

“Yeah?” you snort, “Helping me unjam one of the printers while you had an article due was relaxing?.” 

“It was,” he replies, tone genuine. “Besides those printers are super fiddly, honey.” you roll your eyes, jovially. “I like looking out for the people I care about.”

Now that does make you duck your head away from him, too overwhelmed by him to look at him any more.

“People you care about…” you start, “Including me.” 

“Including you.”

All this vulnerability makes you fidgety where Clark stands tall finding it easy to be so open about all this. He smiles as he watches you fix your hair and brush away imaginary dirt from your clothes. The smile you wear is almost blinding, so pleased to have verbal confirmation that you mean as much to Clark as he does to you. It’s the nicest thing to hear.

The smell of fresh flowers gives way to the crisp scent of burning and both of your heads snap to look at the other alarm growing in both of you. 

“Oh no.”

You spring into action moving towards the oven but you don't get far as the handle before Clark is gently nudging you aside with your oven gloves already in hand. 

The blast of heat that escapes when he opens the oven carries the acrid scent with it. What he pulls out is beyond saving, everything blackened and charred. Your face crumples before you can stop it.

“Oh, no no no.” you groan, stepping forward like getting a better look might change it. “I forgot the timer,” You press a hand to your forehead. “I'm such an idiot, sorry.”

Clark sets the ruined trays aside and turns back to you, both hands raised, palm forward. This is such a disaster, a simple dinner you couldn’t get right. 

“Whoa,” he says gently, closing the distance until only a few inches separate you. “It’s fine, it's fine, sweetheart.” 

“No It’s not,” your voice comes out smaller than intended. “I wanted to do something nice for you.”

“You have!” he exclaims, looking over his shoulder and turning back to you. “It’s just a little… over done.” you swat at his bicep with a roll of your eyes at his teasing. “We could order takeout and pretend you made it.” 

It takes a second to think over that offer, and yes, clarks attitude is right and your evening isn't ruined.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you nod, a sheepish smile tugging at your lips.

His face lights up. Without another word, Clark lets out an amused little laugh and closes the remaining distance in one easy step, wrapping both arms around you.

“Jeez,” you mumble, though there's no real complaint behind it.

The weight of his arms around you makes you stiffen. It feels awkward and unfamiliar and what are you supposed to do? Your arms hover awkwardly by your sides. 

One of Clark's big hands sweeps a smooth arc back and forth across your back and that's all you need to relax into his hold. You move to wrap your arms around him in return. Comfort and security in his arms.

It's nothing like pushing on a bruise, all you feel is warmth.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week ten

Clark’s apartment is nice, it’s maybe the third time you've been here. The big windows are gorgeous, spilling the last of the evening light across the hard wood floors until the whole place sort of glows. You sink into his couch, soft enough that you’d happily stay here forever. You probably would, too, if it meant spending it with Clark.

He’s very quickly become your favourite person ever. His easy touches have become frequent and you've come to love them even if you don't initiate them.

You’ve noticed Clark tends to stomp around when he's tired. Most people wouldn't notice but learning about Clark has become a wonderful thing. There's no surprising you when he appears from his kitchen with a bowl of popcorn in hand.

“Here you go, pretty.” he murmurs as he drops down beside you, placing the bowl in your lap. He’s closer than he needs to be, but that just seems to be how Clark likes it now, you won't complain. 

Another thing that seems to have changed for him is the amount of pet names that fall from his lips. Honey, sweetheart, lovely, pretty and even a babe once or twice. It’s weird because when you think about it now, all signs seem to point to Clark Kent liking you. Like liking you. Romantically. 

You turn your head to look at him while he watches the screen. The movie reflects in his eyes, they're enchanting usually but it's tenfold now. Clark hands out caring touches like it's nothing and you’ve grown to crave them. Despite this, you can’t figure out why he hasn’t tried to kiss you yet.

Clark turns towards you with concern across his face, as he takes in the way you're looking at him.

“Whats wrong?” he asks.

It takes concerningly little deliberation for you to make up your mind. You know that Clark is nice enough that if you’ve got this wrong he’ll let you down gently. But you're pretty sure you haven't got this wrong.

“Why haven’t you kissed me?” there's no hesitation in your voice.

His relaxed slouch disappears as he sits upright, eyes widening behind his glasses.

“I…” He laughs once under his breath, more startled than amused. “I wasn’t sure you'd want me to.” His gaze drops, almost involuntarily, to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes. “I’ve wanted to.”

That's all you need, with a faint fuck it you surge forward to connect your lips. For a second, Clark doesn't move, not an inch, and heat floods your face as panic creeps in. He seems to be knocked out of his shocked reverie when you start to pull away.

Before you can get far, Clark raises his hands to frame your face. Large, impossibly gentle hands cradle your jaw as he draws you back towards him with obvious care. He kisses you, slowly.

There’s no urgency in it, you both have all the time in the world. His thumb brushes softly over your cheek as he smiles into the kiss. It's contagious, you feel your own smile widen until, with all the happiness, it's unclear whether you're still kissing with all the smiling going on.

There's no pain in his kiss, only joy.

[snoopysupe]

⭑.ᐟ 7 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU ── Clark Kent

summary: you have feelings for your neighbour, clark kent. too bad you hate superman after your car became collateral damage in a fight. or: 3½ times clark kent tries to convince you that superman is good (ft lois lane) and 1 time superman finds you to apologise. (wc: 9.0k)

pairing: clark kent / f!reader

content: neighbour!au. fluff/humour/angst. idiots in love. reader despises superman. #supershit mentioned. mean!reader at times. mentions of an ex-boyfriend. descriptions of injuries, blood and tbh clark is giving wet towel throughout all of this. he’s desperate for reader to like his true identity. 18+ suggestive themes at the end! not proofread, i ain’t reading allat.

i. WORD OF MOUTH

The city of Metropolis had barely roused from its sleepy state, the skyscrapers painted in colours of pink and orange as the sun lazily peered from its slumber beneath the horizon. 

Clark Kent shared a similar sentiment as the giant ball of gas, his hair mussed and tie not sitting quite right against the crisp white button shirt that took an embarrassing amount of time to iron the creases out of. There was little requirement for him to sleep, aside from maintaining a side of humanity he’d like to keep, but the mental fatigue from the tensions between the US Government and his actions in Jarhanpur had contributed to his flat energy. 

His feet felt like concrete against the stone stairs, one hand on the railing that the paint was peeling off of, his steps echo all the way to the ground floor; where he had every intention to muster the courage to open up his mailbox on the communal postal area for the apartment complex. 

There was never anything bad in there, but when your standard 9 til’ 5 job consists of fact-checking, pitching article ideas and fighting for the hot spot on the front page of the company you worked for…well, the last thing he wanted to do was read. 

Either way, the mailman waits for nobody and it was evident in the papers crammed into mailbox painted with Clark’s door number on it. 

Clark sighs. He got up earlier than usual to do this—and he was sure he’d still be late to work with an extra twenty minutes under his belt. He persists past the procrastination, and slots his mailbox key into the lock; a few envelopes topple out and he bends at the waist to retrieve them from the floor riddled with chewing gum pressed into the material. 

“Oh hey, Clark,” Clark shoots up, the back of his head catching the corner of the small metal door at the abrupt sound of the secondary voice. You—the owner of the groggy voice—wince, “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

Clark feels his face go pink. You were one of the many residents within the mid-rise apartment complex on Clinton Street in midtown Metropolis. Quick-witted, with a generous amount of extrovert which made the perfect concoction in befriending your neighbour Clark Kent upon his first week in his new pad.

You had believed the dark-haired and bad postured journalist to be a little lacking in the social skills forefront when you had first met him. His skin maintaining a healthy flush whenever you stopped by his door with house-warming plants—that he took incredibly seriously in keeping alive—or whenever you bumped into him around the building. 

(Worst time was in the laundry room, where Clark had missed a pair of boxers with hearts printed on them in the dryer. You were the one to find them and return them to their rightful owner that had written his name in sharpie on the tag.) 

Eventually, you just accepted that was who he was. A six foot something pink man. 

It also didn’t help that Clark found you incredibly gorgeous amongst all the other feelings that bubbled in his stomach when he caught some small talk with you. 

You weren’t as much as the girl-next-door, as you were the girl-one-floor-above.  

Unbeknownst to him; you also felt the same way. 

Clark clears his throat, “Don’t apologise. I should have my wits about me.” he says as he rubs the back of his head. 

“I’ll announce myself by a bell, or something next time.” you joke as you step up to the communal mailboxes and find your one with ease. Your mailbox has the correct amount of letters for someone who checks it daily—unlike Clark—and you begin to siphon through them whilst you speak, “Aside from the headache…how are you?” 

Embarrassed! Publicly humiliated! 

“Swell.” Clark settles for, “And you?” 

You sigh, which can’t be good. “I got let go from my job. I say that term loosely—I got fired.” 

“No kidding?” 

“Turns out you shouldn’t shit where you eat.” you grumble, flipping a pamphlet over in your hand, “Power imbalance prevails, I suppose.” you shrug at the thought. 

Clark pulls his lips into a thin line, the pinky flush slowly dissipating from his face from the distracting subject of your workplace drama. It had been common knowledge between three floors in the building that you and your seedy boyfriend who, also, happened to be the manager at the establishment you had been employed in; had since gone your separate ways after you found several of his accounts on a plethora of dating apps—one app, he had a passport for in order to speak to women across the globe. 

Because his cheating needed to be international. 

Things went sour, like really sour. It wasn’t your finest moment, but Clark reassured you through breathing exercises and a firm rub up and down your back that it was completely acceptable to hold an illegal street bonfire with your ex’s belongings as the kindlings to ignite it. 

(He didn’t mention the part where he was lying about it being okay. Or, the amount of bail he paid to get you out of the local police station.) 

Turns out the retaliation from your ex was firing you. The irony. 

Jackass. 

“I’m sorry about that.” Clark stares at your side-profile with empathy in his blue eyes, “Have you found anything?” 

“Nope.” you emphasis the ‘p’ with a pop, finger peeling a brown envelope open, “So, if you hear anything—literally anything—send it my way. I’m down to scrape the barrel to keep up with my rent payment each month.” 

“You have my word.” Clark promises and then you both fall comfortably silent. Which just means, he was going to admire you for a minute. 

After Clark had heard through the grapevine of your split, he had every intentions to build up the courage to ask you out on a date in the near distant future. It had been nine, torturous months of watching you from afar with a man that Clark Kent knew was not up to par with being able to be with a woman like you. That guy dimmed you down in every single way possible, and Clark had to stop attending neighbour-hangouts as he couldn’t bear to watch your radiance shrouded.

Plus, your ex took a real disliking to Clark after he watched your compatibility with him flourish.

So, when the news broke via—as you graciously called her—Old Woman Jenkins who lived in Apartment 3-B with her seven cats and two budgies; it was safe to say Clark was ecstatic for two reasons. 

1.) You were free from the toxicity, and 2.) This gave Clark the opportunity to show you how a real man should love you. 

Only downside was…Clark wasn’t sure when to approach it. He wasn’t emotionally stinted, so he knew that asking you out within a day, or even a week after your split would’ve just been grounds for a restraining order. On the flip side, he didn’t want to catch a rebound case because his feelings ran a lot deeper than a fleeting, emotional distraction.

Therefore, Clark just never asked. You don’t ask, you don’t get your heartbroken or something like that.

He just couldn’t ruin a good thing. 

You eventually speak again when you close your mailbox, eyes trailing down to the newspaper clutched in your neighbour’s hand, “You a front pager again?” you ask with a smile. 

“Oh—Ah, yes,” Clark flips the folded newspaper open to reveal the front page regarding his recent fight with the Hammer of Boravia. He points to the article, “That’s all me.” 

You peer at the print, “Congratulations again, Clark! That’s a huge deal in journalism world.”

“Oh…I—Thank you.” Clark stumbles through his profound gratitude for your praise. The tips of his ears start to turn pink again. 

You nod and adjust the tote bag on your shoulder, “Seriously, it takes balls.” 

“Yes, that’s why I enjoy the job—” he says at the same time as you speak.

“I mean, making that guy look good? I didn’t think that could be possible.” you add earnestly. 

Clark blinks. 

“…” he breathes a laugh, “I—I don’t follow.”

“Superman? I mean, come on. He is an egotistical white knight that faces zero ramifications from his actions. He only gets away with things because he’s handsome.” you wave off the tail-end of your statement in a flippant manner paired with a roll of your eyes, “I can’t stand the guy.”

You think he’s handsome? Clark has to shake the compliment off like water off a duck’s back. Low priority in comparison to the other things you had just off-handedly stated in your brief rant on the man in red and blue. 

There is part of Clark that almost leaps at the opportunity to get a little bad tempered over it, toss his toys out of the pram from the unwarranted criticism. Superman was good! He was good! 

Instead, Clark compartmentalises his hurt feelings and puts his Pulitzer prize-winning star reporter title to good use. 

“What—What makes you say that?” Clark tucks his chin to conceal the pout on his face, masking it as deep interest to the letters in his hands, “He’s got a glowing track record of keeping the streets of Metropolis safe.”

He was really hoping that he didn’t unearth a Boravian supporter out of you.

Or, that you agreed with the statement that had begun to grow arms and legs about his so-called ‘alien entitlement’ to house himself within Earth’s atmosphere. 

You answer in an unwavering tone of resentment. “It’s a personal grudge that’s grown ever since that fight on Clinton Street broke out—before you got here. I had just paid my car off, and whaddya know? Superman and his body made of steel, totals it alongside his own defeat with whatever shithead guy he was fighting against.” you blurt sarcastically, “He owes me a car.” 

“Oh. That isn’t so bad.” is how Clark responds, without a thought behind it. 

To him, it wasn’t so bad. He felt guilty, obviously collateral damage was something he wasn’t so favourable over.

However, this was fixable. 

Clark’s answer threw you for such a loop, that you almost forgot to answer. “Isn’t so bad?” you repeat, “Under what circumstances does that fall under the category of: isn’t so bad?” 

“No—I, I didn’t mean it wasn’t bad. It’s quite terrible actually,” Clark swallows, the heat capturing beneath his collar as he speaks. “In the grand scheme of possibilities that could have happened, at least you weren’t in your car. And—And, on top of that, he saved multiple citizens from becoming a casualty statistic.” 

“My car became a casualty statistic. Superman fucking sucks.” you state sternly. “Nothing can change my mind about that.” 

Clark frowns, “Nothing?” 

“Nothing.” you affirm, “Anyway, I’ve got a job interview in thirty. I’ll see you around?” 

“Yes. See you.” Clark offers a strained smile as you wave him goodbye and disappear round the corner to exit the building.

He lets out a breath he had been holding since you confessed your acquired distaste for Superman. 

Clark’s gaze drops to the newspaper, his fingers curl tightly into the pages as he decided on the spot; he was going to convince you otherwise regarding the personal vendetta against, well…him. 

ii. WEEKLY PAPER

The art of apologies seemed pretty simple, right? 

A heartfelt card, or a bouquet of flowers could go a long way in the tumultuous events that led up to an apology being a necessity to mending a friendship, relationship or family bond. However, the situation with you was a little different to a petty squabble, despite Clark believing it to be petty to hold such a grudge—he saved lives that day! 

For one, you weren’t aware that there was any mending to be done. Your hatred toward Superman had been cemented the day you returned from work, having decided to walk that particular sunny day, only to find your beloved vehicle crumpled. To you, there was no putting bandaids over wounds, and you certainly had zero forgiveness in your heart for the man that patrolled the skies of Metropolis. 

The whole crux of the matter was, Clark Kent was raised on the rule that honesty was the best policy. Honestly, no, he doesn’t recall crushing your car after being tossed across Clinton Street like a rag-doll. He’s sure he’s crushed a few cars in his time in the city, and he knows he would have felt guilty at the time; but it was better to forgive and forget rather than bottle up all your resentful feelings toward someone who was just trying to help. 

Further to this, Clark wanted to take the chance and ask you out on a date. He really did. Time was a healer, and it had been three months—give or take—since your split from the egotistical cheater, meaning it felt like ample enough time to be justified in his intentions. However, if you despised Superman, you unknowingly despised Clark Kent…and that wouldn’t be something that would sit right on his chest. 

That would take away part of his honesty. If he had to continue concealing his identity behind the glasses to appease your objectifications on Superman. 

(At least it was more a personal issue than a shared thought with the less friendly bunch that lived in Metropolis.) 

So, in conclusion, Clark came up with the bright idea to slowly introduce you to the good side of Superman. You know, the one that saves Metropolis and much further, fetches kittens down from trees, gives back to the community. 

He was basically trying to fill your head with Superman shaped stars. 

The best option came to him whilst he sat at his desk in the bullpen of Daily Planet. Knees touching the underside of his desk, his mind had been elsewhere for the better part of the day; as Clark was more or less sulking over the revelation you shared with him that morning. 

How could he change your mind? Clark had learnt that you were strong-minded to an extent from a personal experience with a fellow neighbour, who had a terrible habit of pausing Clark’s laundry in the dryer and dumping his half damp clothes into a hamper just so they could use that one particular machine. (There were ten in total.) 

When Clark expressed his frustrations to you, he hadn’t expected you to begin a psychological warfare against the neighbour in Apartment 1-D. It was safe to say, you won out of sheer resilience. 

He dared not to share the same fate as Apartment 1-D. 

Then, it sort of went off like a lightbulb in his head. Clark Kent created articles in which he interviewed himself, in order to shed a positive light on his actions. Why not bring those interviews to your doorstep under the Daily Planet subscription service? 

It meant you’d receive weekly newspapers from the Planet, delivered to your home with no extra cost aside from the cheap subscription fee to keep journalism alive and kicking.

Clark would pay for it out of his own pocket, of course. 

Not only were you strong-minded, but you were curiouser than a cat and that meant your interest would pique to flip through the pages of the newspaper and, eventually, read all about the good deeds of Superman. 

Not to mention how charming and handsome he was…but you already knew that. 

It was the perfect idea, with the perfect execution! 

That was, until, you had received the third instalment of your new $3.99 subscription to the newspaper company Clark worked for. 

“Morning, Clark.” you chirp as you reach your mailbox, sparing the male a glance with a pretty smile that had his heart thump a little harder. “This is the most I’ve seen you in the communal mailbox area.” 

(There was a reason for that.) 

Clark hums, “Best to keep on top of my mail, I think.” 

“You’d be right. The shredders are hungry for junk mail.” you had a tendency to laugh at your own jokes with a cute snort. Something that was cut short when you open your mailbox. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“What’s wrong?” Clark asks with his brows pinched.

“I think my ex is tormenting me,” you grouse, “As if I was the one sharing my favourite position on six different dating apps—ugh. He’s signed me up for the Daily Planet subscription when he knows how much I don’t want to read about the brown-nosing of Superman.” you pause, eyes flitting to Clark’s face, “No offence.” 

“None taken.” (A lot taken. All at once.) 

You continue, “I mean—I guess it is a retaliation because I signed his phone number up to receive regular calls for recruitment within Scientology. But, this almost feels worse.” you whine as you toss the newspaper in your tote bag for later shredding. 

“You signed him up to Scientology?” Clark asks and you spare him a shameful glance. He redirects the topic, for your sake. “Is it really so bad, reading about all the things Superman is doing to keep Metropolis afloat?” 

“It’s hard not to hear about it, let alone be subjected to reading it too.” you seethe, “It’s a constant reminder that he wrecked my car, and never had to face the consequences—unlike me. You know, I hate riding the subway? I swear I’m one sticky seat away from contracting a new strain of the plague. He caused that.” 

Clark wants to call you dramatic. 

He goes for, “I hear you.” instead. 

“Do you think you could get this cancelled for me?” you ask as you shut your mailbox, “I want to support you, but, this is like rubbing salt in an open wound.” 

How could Clark say no? He had a firm grasp on boundaries, and part of him felt remorseful over the fact that you believed that his own doings were that of your ex-boyfriend—someone you really didn’t need reminding of. Plus, you were staring at him all glittery-eyed which was part of his weakness when it came to you. 

And your means to be overtly theatrical.

Not only that, but Clark led himself to believe he had crossed a big company no-no by inputting your details into the Daily Planet subscription system and, has since spent every day since unlawfully signing you up to the weekly newspapers, convincing himself he was border-lining on identity theft. 

Clark likes you. He likes the idea of keeping his job just a little bit more. 

He exhales. “Yeah. I will sort that for you. No problem.” 

“You’re a life saver. I owe you one, Clark.” (He owes you a car.) “I’ve got to go. I need to get to Hob’s Bay for an interview with Metro Souvenir.” 

“Good luck. They’d be lucky to have you.” Clark enthuses sweetly. 

You blink at his compliment, a smile growing slowly on your face, “Thanks, Clark.” 

“Anytime.” Clark gives you a lopsided smile, forgetting he’s already ten minutes late to work, being so wrapped up in your addictive presence and all—he’s already forgotten the pit in his stomach over you loathing his true identity. “I’ll catch you later.” 

iii. SUPERSHIT 

Similar to the rest of the population on Earth, Clark Kent had a number of things that got under his skin. The obvious, being that of his own fabrication of an alter-ego in an ill-fitting suit that he hid behind in order to keep those around him safe. It was the finest quality of deception, and Clark found it vexing to upkeep. Then there were other issues, such as: the US Government’s reluctance to side with his good intentions in Boravia, Steve Lombard at times, and the smear campaign against him that had recently gained traction online.  

One specific insult within the smear campaign that tested Clark Kent’s abundance of patience; was Supershit. It was juvenile. Completely undermined his efforts in guiding humanity into a better tomorrow. It was…bothersome to a man like Clark Kent. 

His agitation toward the name had only furthered when Steve Lombard had mentioned it in passing toward the end of the day, leading Clark to trudge home under his own personal grey cloud of discontent. 

The mental fatigue of it all weighed his shoulders down and he took to the three flights of stairs in the apartment like a kicked dog. 

“Whew. Bad day?” 

The grey cloud breaks overhead at the sound of your melodic tone. 

Clark looks over his shoulder to see you with a plastic bag in one hand and a newspaper in the other. “Oh, no. Just a rather long one.” he says in partial dishonestly.

“I hear you.” you take a couple of steps up, “Want to come to mine and wallow over some Thai?” 

When Clark hesitates, you answer for him. 

“It’s free,” you lift the warm bag to wiggle it, “Plus, the cashier asked if I was eating for two…so.” 

Clark’s brows raise at your reiteration of an inconsiderate presumption. “Looks like we both were insulted today.” he murmurs, allowing you to pass him on the stairwell to lead him up to the fourth floor.

You both greet Old Woman Jenkins and her three-legged cat with a taste for ankles on the third floor—she was the eyes and ears of the complex—and then you dip into explaining how the Metro Souvenir interview was a complete bust after you openly belittled the small Superman collection in the corner of the store that was made up of 90% Superman bobble-heads. 

Turns out it was the owner’s daughter’s hobby in her past time. 

Keys jingle in your hands as you pull them from the abyss that was your unorganised tote bag and as you open the door to your apartment, Clark stands behind you with a pout; fiddling with the strap of his work briefcase. 

He was putting it down to mental fatigue or lack of direct sunlight which had instilled the glass half empty mentality into him. Clark couldn’t quite shake off the impending doom of a sharp rejection of, not only a possible blossoming of a relationship, but the friendship you two had made along the way when he eventually takes off the glasses and you’re exposed to the man who wrecked your car. 

(For good reason!) 

The thought stays chewing the back of his mind as he sits on the new sofa—a piece of furniture you decided to invest in after your ex’s body warped a dent in his shape on your old couch—in your apartment, and whilst you spread out the lukewarm Thai food in plastic tupperware boxes; across your rickety coffee table. 

The two of you sit closer than necessary for a four-seater sofa with cushions that felt like the equivalent to clouds from cartoons, Clark had forgone his suit jacket and rolled his ironed sleeves of his white button-up shirt up to rest at his elbows. It wasn’t hard to miss that his suit pants were almost bursting at the seams from being taut against his muscular thighs. 

It was hard not to look at him. 

The friendly neighbourhood heathen. Dwarfing doorframes and, sometimes, having to walk sideways into a room due to the broadness of his shoulders; was sitting flush with your own shoulders and occasionally making eyes with you. 

That’s what you translated it as, anyway—even if he had entered a little broodier than usual. 

Clark eventually strikes up a conversation in between eating, “I actually wanted to tell you about a job going at Daily Planet,” he swallows the chewed up food in his mouth, “Sort of a support role.” 

You perk, “Really?” 

“Yeah. You’d be working under Lois Lane. She’s a good friend and great journalist.” Clark informs, mirroring the excitement that lights up on your face. “I can put in a good word, if you’d like?” 

“I mean…I know nothing about journalism, but it’s a learning curve.” you state. 

Clark bites into a spring roll, the aromatic kaffir lime takes over his senses as he nods into the bite, “You can only try.” 

“Thank you, Clark. I seriously owe you double now.” you pluck a spring roll from the tupperware, “You’ll have to think of something.” 

The idea that crosses Clark’s mind is like a balloon being popped with a sharp needle. His blue eyes shoot to your side-profile, happily dissecting your own spring roll to inspect the food inside. He’s suddenly swamped in those warm fuzzy feelings Ma Kent had told him about during his bedtime stories at a young age. 

Clark didn’t want to detract from the slow process of your own heartbreak over your ex-boyfriend. 

Yes, the guy had shattered the innocence on the idea of love, and how to be loved—he used to turn the TV up to drown out your cries. He robbed nine months of your life with poor judgement that his online escapades with other women wouldn’t see the light of day, he had purposely used his position of power to terminate your employment; leaving you without a job, and zero income to pay for the bills that were on a steep incline from inflation. 

Even with all of this taken into consideration, you were taking your time in experiencing your own version of heartbreak. Because, deep down, you had been naively and so incredibly blindly in love. 

That was something Clark didn’t want to overstep on until the time was right. 

But, on the contrary, when was the timing ever right? It had been three months since you split from your boyfriend, and honestly? Clark wanted you. Heart broken, or not.

He just hoped those feelings would be reciprocated. (Nobody sits that close to you without it being intentional, right?) 

It comes out of him with all the confidence he can muster. “You…you could let me take you on a date.” it almost sounds rhetorical in the way he chose to ask. 

It makes you turn your head, eyes wider as if you were a deer that had just been caught in the headlights. Your cheek swollen with pocketed food, the room goes silent enough to hear a pin drop. 

It makes Clark suddenly regret his decision. 

“I’m sorry—” Clark shakes his head, pink from head to toe, “I don’t, I don’t know why I thought that was acceptable. You’re still going through the process of a breakup. That was all rather silly of me—” 

“Clark.” 

Clark hums, “Hm?” 

“Relax, dude.” you lilt, “I’d like that.” 

“You would?” 

You breathe out a laugh, “Yes. That sounds like the perfect I.O.U.” you bump your shoulder shyly with Clark’s and then mumble, “I knew you weren’t a constant shade of pink around me for no reason.” 

“Yes, well. It was for a good reason.” Clark mumbles and tugs at the collar of his shirt to release some heat that had been trapped beneath it. “A pretty reason.” he says with a smile. 

The night shared in Apartment 4-A would’ve ended perfectly there. Clark had found his voice, and in turn, became more openly flirtatious with you as the pair of you cleaned up the leftovers of the takeaway. The touches became more tactile and it made both of your heads a little fuzzy with excitement. 

His dampened mood from Steve Lombard had shifted, Clark quickly finding that you were a version of sunlight that he could metabolise and recharge on. 

The night should’ve ended there—on a high. 

Then the topic of conversation rolls back around to, well, Clark. 

You take a sip from your water bottle before you speak, “So…I hear your buddy is in some type of hot waters with the government.” you spare Clark a glance. 

“You could say that.” Clark pinches his brows at the thought, “He was just trying to save people—” 

“From a tyrannical president?” you interject, “It’s the one time I’ll give it to him.” 

Clark is surprised, and he struggles to hide that on his expression; so you quirk a brow. He clears his throat, “I didn’t expect you to side with him. Seems like you may be one of the very few people who do.” 

You end up shrugging, “His actions to save Jarhanpur override my personal issues with Supershit.” 

Supershit. You just had to use Supershit.

(Sunlight status revoked.)  The atmosphere shifts and you’re blissfully unaware of the nerve you had hit as Clark shifts beside you. All of the impulsive reactions surge forward in Clark, entangling themselves in the warmth he had felt by being within close proximity with you, making his mood sour like milk left in the sun. 

His nostrils flare from frustration. The tips of his ears are an angry shade of red. 

Clark bores a hole into your coffee table. “I think that’s a little unfair to call him that.” he says lowly. 

“You think that because you’re a good person who sees past all the bad stuff, Clark.” you reason without much deliberation over his defence, “Me, on the other hand—” 

“Should give him a chance, perhaps?” Clark retorts bluntly, leaving you to blink in surprise, “He’s misunderstood. He’s doing what he thinks is right, what is good for the citizens of Metropolis.”

“I’m not questioning if he’s good or not.” you argue back, “It’s just a personal gripe.”

Clark stands, “Oh, come on,” he gravels, “Superman is not your enemy. Supershit is not a fair nickname!” 

“Why do you care so much if I like him or not?” your eyes narrow, “You’ve been selling him to me this whole month. What is that all about?” 

OK, maybe your career in journalism would be a steer in the right direction. 

You sigh when Clark fights for an explanation. “He wrecked my car, Clark. I’m allowed to dislike someone that you favour. That’s just life.” 

Clark doesn’t look at you when he speaks, “Yeah.” 

He backs down after that. Not because he wants to, or that your stare has him pinned to the spot. It was down to the reason that, if he projected anymore resistance against your grievances with Superman; he may be on a slippery slope of a bad-tempered confessional in the middle of your living room.

Clark grabs his suit jacket from the back of your sofa, fiddling with it as he sulks, “I think I should leave. Thank you for the food. I’ll…um, I’ll talk to Perry and Lois about the job.” 

“Okay. Thank you.” you look up at him from your seated position, a little confused by the whiplash from the energy shift in the room. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“Yeah. Yeah. Tomorrow.” 

iiii. LOIS LANES’ DIVINE INTERVENTION

So…you don’t hear from Clark for three days—aside from a short text giving you the thumbs up for an interview at Daily Planet.

After the blip of Supershit, Clark took the mental load of keeping his distance from you. His patience was stretched thin from outside opinions and he feared with the hard-to-budge bad taste that Superman left in your mouth; that you would be a target of hot-headed retaliation if you utter the word Supershit in Clark’s presence again.

The safest assumption was that he was busy—he was a Pulitzer prize-winner at the end of the day. It definitely hadn’t been in relation to the immediate debate that came after you used the trending, cancel culture-esque nickname, Supershit, on his nearest and dearest interviewee. 

Even with your feelings now left up in the air with a date being strung over your head with zero confirmation of a date or time, you weren’t one to sit and dwell over a man’s fragile ego—for whatever reason Clark’s ego was made of glass, you were unsure but close to figuring out—and put all your energy and abundance of spare time into perfecting your knowledge about Daily Planet prior to your interview. 

The interview process for the support role beneath Lois Lanes’ expertise as a front-runner journalist for Daily Planet had gone smoother than you could have anticipated. To be quite frank, you had little experience in the journalist field, let alone a degree, but you came prepared with a good amount of charm and some background knowledge on the company.

Founded in 1775, globally renowned for its pursuit of justice, home to some brown-nosing of Superman and the Justice League, and the employer of the curly-haired neighbour you had been crushing on for quite some time. (The last two weren’t verbalised as such. Edited version: enthralling interviews that capture the true essence of the city’s extraterrestrial and meta-humans, and the employer of Clark Kent. Your neighbour. Nothing else.)  

Lois likes you. Perry White isn’t easily convinced. She spends the rest of her shift arguing your case—the Editor-in-Chief calls it favouritism for the only woman who applied for the role. 

Before you leave, you are tail-ending a conversation with Lois. She’s the epitome of a thriving journalist in a trim waistcoat and white tee beneath, a mug of hot coffee with at least, fifteen lumps of sugar stirred into the mix.

“You have to make sure you’re not in favour of one particular person that we write about. You know, like Superman is a good guy, but you can’t show bias. Even if Daily Planet have been hit with some accusations of preference.” Lois says in a monotonous tone. 

You nod along, not wanting to ruin your chances by shit-talking one person that brings the money in for the company. “I mean, everyone seems to like him, right? Clark has been fawning over him for sometime.” you prod at her brain intentionally for an underlying curiosity of your own. 

“Clark sees a lot of himself in Superman,” Lois choice of words make your brow quirk—she’s being careful. “He does a lot of questionable things—Superman, I mean, but he saves a lot of lives. They both live their lives to be good, I guess that’s why Clark is drawn to him.” 

“I guess so.” you pause, “You know he totalled my car in a fight?” 

“Clark?” (No, but you were starting to think otherwise.) 

“Superman.” you correct and Lois looks at you as if it isn’t that big of a deal. A major inconvenience at best. “Yeah, he got into a fight on Clinton Street and was thrown into my car that I had just paid off. I was pretty torn up about it…still sort of am.” 

Lois wracks her wonderful brain, “Clinton Street?” you nod, “Yeah—We covered that story. The meta-human he had been fighting was headed for a nursery a few blocks down, for whatever sick reason. Superman diverted him to Clinton Street and saved about fifty kids. He took some punches over that. Anything to keep the guy away from those kids.” 

You blink, “I didn’t think about it like that.” 

“You have to look at the bigger picture, if you’re going to be apart of this world.” Lois smiles, “Although, it doesn’t take away from the fact that your car got ruined. Did you get another one?” 

“Uh…no.” your mind is elsewhere—you kind of feel like an asshole. You shake it off, “Doesn’t matter, though. I like the commute.” 

“Clark mentioned that you had said that you were one sticky seat away from catching a new strain of the plague.” Lois quips and you shrink with embarrassment, the elevator is so close you could just…make a break for it. 

It makes you laugh nervously, “Yeah. Well, that’s the fun part. The risks. Gets my adrenaline pumping.”

Lois really likes you. She decides. 

“We’re all about adrenaline and risks.” 

“Yeah—Well, thank you for giving me an interview. I’ve gotta head, sort of overstayed my welcome.” you express, thumb gesturing over your shoulder to the elevator, “It was nice meeting you!”

Lois bids you a goodbye, her eyes trained on your frame as you press the golden button umpteen times out of impatience to take your leave. She smiles to herself, turning on her heel as the elevator doors peel open. 

Your eyes are cast downward, brain on autopilot over the realisation that struck the back of your neck like the side of a hand. The visit to Daily Planet for the interview had not only been relatively exciting—because you felt like you gelled well with Lois Lane—but it had been incredibly insightful to the incident relating to your deeply rooted dislike for Superman. 

He was saving kids. How could you resent that? 

Perhaps there was an aspect of selfishness on your behalf. Most times you had broken into a rant about the car tragedy of 2024, people have asked you if you knew the reasoning as to why Superman happened to be on Clinton Street, fighting a meta-human. More times than not, you’d shrug. You didn’t care, it was your car that suffered! 

But, now? Lois Lane had smothered that year-long grudge with the missing pieces of the story. 

“Holy shit. Am I an asshole?” you say out loud to yourself. The elevator slides shut and you stare wide-eyed at the golden doors. 

“Pardon me?” 

You turn your head to see Clark Kent clutching into his briefcase as if you were going to bite. You don’t even bat an eyelid as you say, “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Unavailable.” 

“Well, now, I—I can explain my absence—” 

“Can we just bury our last interaction?” you interject with a sharp tone, “I’m feeling a little forgiving today.” 

“Right. Yes, I was going to apologise for how I left—” Clark’s voice trails off as you deadpan at him. He shakes his head, “—All is said and done. Can I ask why you called yourself an asshole?” 

“It’s a long story.” 

“I have time.” 

You peer up at him, “Weren’t you meant to get off on that floor?” 

“Yes. I suppose I should have.” 

It makes you look him up and down. “…Alright, well, I mean I just had this super insightful conversation with your friend Lois about Superman—” Clark visibly winces, “—And the fight on Clinton Street, that ultimately lost me my car. This whole time, I just…I just didn’t care about the details, just knew I was pissed about my car. Then—Then Lois tells me it was collateral damage over Superman saving a nursery from a rampant meta-human. That sort of makes me the asshole in this story, Clark.” 

“You are upset about it, that doesn’t make you an asshole.” 

“No, but it does!” you exasperate, “Sure, it’s been a huge inconvenience to me, and a lot of money lost. But he was putting himself in harms way to save innocent lives. My car doesn’t even matter in the grand scheme of things.” 

Clark wants to argue the fact that Superman has been saving lives even before the incident on Clinton Street. However, the revelation that you’ve been put on track for is at the precipice of a complete 180 in your opinion of Superman; why stunt that growth? 

He makes a note to thank Lois—who is well aware of his secret—for feeding you the breadcrumbs that led to this.

You know…once he takes elevator back up. 

Clark waits for you to breathe. “So, no hard feelings over Superman?” he asks hopefully. 

“He’s still an asshole for wrecking my car.” you retort, arms crossing over your chest, “But, I suppose that’s sort of the closure I needed. I can’t stay mad at a guy for forfeiting his own life to save fifty little ones.” 

“I can work with that.” Clark says without thinking. The colour pink creeps up his neck when you cock your head to the side inquisitively—because, what did that mean? He gulps some air, “I—Can I still take you on a date?” 

“I don’t know, can you get Superman to apologise to me?” you lilt in an unserious tone, essentially throwing a hook with a fat piece of bait impaled on the end.

The elevator reaches the ground floor. 

“I can try.” Clark absolutely would. Without a shadow of a doubt. 

(Hook, line and sinker.) 

“Then yes.” 

+1 APARTMENT APOLOGIES

You had got the job at Daily Planet. It took all of two days, and the persistence of the tenacious Lois Lane for Perry White to accept somebody without even a scrap of journalistic experience onto the team; for you to get the call to start in a weeks time. 

And how you celebrated your elation was by grabbing a greasy pizza en route to your apartment, and watching reruns of Golden Girls on your sofa.  

It was pure, unadulterated bliss. 

That was, until the hairs on your arms unexpectedly stood on end on the last bite of the cheese-filled crust. 

Immediate from this, there’s a silhouette that captures your attention from your periphery on the fire escape outside your living room window. Heart chasing its own beat, you drop the pizza crust into the cardboard box, your hand slowly reaching to curl round the steel bat you kept beside the sofa; the other one was located in your bedroom. 

You didn’t want to engage, or even look. There’s been enough viewings of horror movies to know that the person that is curious, is the person that gets killed. You even think about sprinting out the front door and banging on Clark’s front door on the floor below.  

When your bare foot touches the wooden floorboards, that’s when you hear a groan from just outside your window. 

Your brows pinch from the familiarity. “Clark?” 

It sounded like him. 

Instinctively, you lift your bat as you stand. This was Metropolis after all. You wouldn’t put it past some extraterrestrial visiting the city to mimic the sounds of your neighbour. But honestly, where would they have gotten the sound of Clark in somewhat pain? 

The large silhouette moves when you speak Clark’s name, and you make it to the window in two swift steps; forcing the window up to let in the billowing winds of the city air and noise pollution into your apartment. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“Good evening ma’am.” 

You raise your bat, “Superman?” you waver in your impulsivity to strike him across his head, “What the fuck are you doing on my fire escape? You’re—ugh—you’re bleeding!” 

He peels the palm of his hand away from his torso to reveal a much bigger wound, “Just a scratch. I’ll be alright. May I come in?” 

“No! Crazy!” you argue back, “You’ll get your blood all over my new rug.” 

“I’ll pay for it.” 

You scoff, “Oh yeah? Like the car you wrecked—?” you pause to stare at him, the cogs turning in your mind, “Did Clark Kent put you up to this? Are you—Are you two in cahoots or some shit?” 

“He may—” Superman groans when he shifts from one foot to the other, “—Have mentioned something about a disgruntled neighbour.” 

Oh. He took your joke seriously. 

Your fingers shift around the metal bat. “Yeah, that would be me.” you watch as a loose curl flops down onto his forehead, familiarity spreads across your chest, “Look. You can just let me hit you over the head with my bat. Once. Then, all is forgiven.” 

“I’d rather you didn’t.” 

You sigh, “Worth a shot.” 

Superman’s lips quirk into an amused smile, “Please? It will only be for a moment.” 

“…Fine.” you drop the bat down to your side and step back, “Only step on the wooden flooring, and just head to the bathroom. I’ll get you a wet flannel.” 

A red boot swings over the threshold and suddenly, Superman is standing in the middle of your apartment at full stature, bleeding from the wound on his torso. He’s handsome, you’d give him that. In an omnipresent superhero type of way. He gives you a strained friendly smile, his dimples deep whilst his forehead creases from the sharp pain that elicits from the wound site. 

Without further instruction as to where your bathroom was located, Superman makes a beeline down the hallway, breadcrumbs of blood leading you to him after you wet a spare flannel beneath the kitchen sink tap. His familiarity with your apartment only worsens your suspicions. 

You find him dwarfing your toilet with the lid down. He has a handful of toilet paper stuffed against the bleeding gash, lips parting momentarily to exhale intermittently as he applies pressure with the worst gauze replacement to soak up the excess blood. 

Pieces of tissue paper break apart from the saturation of blood and Superman—without thinking—gives you a clumsy smile. Lopsided and without confidence to fuel the curve of his lip. It is sort of vexing for you, coming from a place with purposefully minimal knowledge, these so-called ‘Protectors of Metropolis’ exuded self-righteousness because they needed to have a strong backbone to be a public figure. The man who sat on the lid of your toilet, in a vibrant red and blue suit that clung to his muscular physique presents nothing of the sort. 

You wish you could approach it differently. This rare moment captured in time, where you come face to face with the destructor of your beloved vehicle and you had asked for permission to strike him across the head, rather than just doing it; as you had practiced multiple times in your head. 

He wouldn’t even flinch, you suppose. 

Further to this, if Lois Lane hadn’t intervened with her sharp memory of the Clinton Street incident, then Superman wouldn’t have been able to step foot into your apartment. Then again, you were stood at the threshold of the bathroom questioning his identity altogether. 

“I don’t bite.” The male informs on borderline playful. 

You don’t budge—a prisoner in your own home.

“I’d rather not take any chances.” you quip, tossing him the wet flannel because watching the pieces of tissue paper fuse to his wound was near painful. You observe him for a moment, “Clark sent you here?” 

He hums lowly. 

You continue, “When…did you see him? Usually he catches you at the scene of the crime, so to speak.” you tilt your head when Superman lifts his gaze to look at you, “I didn’t see any fights break out on the news today.” 

“He called in a favour.” Superman responds with faux-innocence, “By phone.” 

“Right, right.” you fall silent to watch him dab at his injury with care. There’s a deep inhale before you speak again, “You guys are close?” 

“You could say that.” he mumbles, “Is there a problem?” 

Your eyes narrow, “Is there a problem to be addressed? Other than the wreckage of my car, but, y’know, you already knew about that coming here. Did he give you my address?” 

“No.” Superman jumps to Clark’s defence because giving a stranger—let alone a so-called enemy—your address without consent was a downright breach of your privacy and safety; let alone dangerous. He then adds, “He wouldn’t do that.” 

“So you just happened to know where I live in a mid-rise apartment complex with eleven floors?” you take a step into the bathroom to goad him, “Is that part of your superpowers? Being a creep?” 

“What—?” he flaps, “No! Nothing like that.”

“A woman alone in her apartment at night and you’re watching her from her fire escape. That’s pretty creepy, Supe.” you point a finger in his direction, essentially pinning him to the spot. 

“I just came to apologise. Okay?” Superman takes a deep inhale in mild panic, “I never intended to destroy your car. But, if you ask me, I’d do it a hundred times over if it meant I saved those kids that day.” 

“Why does it matter if you apologise to me or not? You must have damaged thousands of cars by now.” (Try hundreds of thousands.) 

Superman huffs, “It matters to Clark. He—uh—Forgive me if this isn’t common knowledge, but he likes you. Truly likes you. He sees a future with you, and then you had mentioned that if he were able to have me apologise to you…then perhaps you’d proceed with the date.” 

Oh, boy. 

“I was joking when I said that.” you state, “Can you not tell the difference between a joke and a serious request, Clark?” 

“Clark?” the tips of Superman’s ears go pink. Dead giveaway. 

You throw a hand in his direction. “Oh, come on, Clark. It’s obviously you. You’re Superman. You think I’m dumb enough not to catch on when you’ve been fighting his corner for the past couple of weeks?” 

Superman—or, Clark to you—gawks, “I’m not quite sure what you’re implying here.” 

“What I’m stating is, that you are Superman. You just so happen to be able to interview him every single time and shed a positive light on his actions, you were unbelievably mad after Supershit—” Clark’s eye twitches, “And, what, Superman just so happens to know what apartment I’m staying in without any information handed out? Don’t even get me started on the glasses.” 

“The glasses?” 

“Well, you mentioned once that the glasses were for short-distance reading. You never took them off after reading the letters in your mailbox.” you shrug as you explain your theory, “Plus, you’re not wearing them now so you obviously don’t need them. You just wear them for a whole identity thing.” 

Clark is struck silent. You were good. Like, incredibly observant. 

“Did you get the job at Daily Planet?” when you nod, he proceeds to talk, “Good. We’ll need someone like you.” he pauses, “Are you mad?” 

“No, I’m not mad.” you deflate a little, “I would have been if my theory was wrong and you did happen to hand out my address to some random man without my knowledge.” 

Clark gives a feeble nod, “I’m a little shellshocked that you figured it out.” 

“I’ve never seen you two in the same room, I guess.” your joke makes both Clark and you smile widely at each other. The break of tension allows you to move closer to him as you bend at the waist to look at his injury. You hiss at the sight of it, “That looks sore.” 

“Oh, it isn’t so bad.” Clark gives you a dopey sort of smile when he catches your eye. “I didn’t intend to get hurt on the way here.” 

You nod, taking the sodden flannel from his grasp in order to dab at his torso, “Superman sells me a sob story and bleeds out on my fire escape to get me to like him. That would have been dramatic.” 

“You’re not mad?” Clark asks again for reassurance—his confidence since shaken from the rise of resistance in the Metropolis community in regard to his presence within the city. 

With a shake of your head, you meet his blue eyes again, “No. I mean, we have a lot to talk about. But that’s what first dates are for, right? Getting to know each other?”

“So, the date is still going ahead?” (Gosh. He sounded so insecure.)

“Oh, I’m not sure. Clark Kent might have an issue with it.” you joke, “He called first dibs.” your playful tone ebbs along with your smug smile when Clark’s brows pinch and he swallows deeply. His eyes flit to your lips and then back up to your eyes. “Are you about to kiss me?”

“Is that okay?”

“Again, Clark Kent—”

Your repetitive joke is smothered when Clark captures your lips with his own. He cradles the back of your head to keep you in position, his head tilting in one direction to refrain from your noses being pressed together. Your stomach is splattered with a heavy warmth as your fingers curl around the bluish fabric of the suit he wears. The room falls into a blissful silence aside from the occasional smacking of lips when Clark deepens the kiss with a sense of heated desire—the innocent kiss soon turning open-mouthed and desperate. 

The signals of it allow you to climb onto his lap, wet flannel disregarded behind you as you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling yourself closer into his arms that begin to circle your frame. Your hips tilt and press downward and Clark responds with a faint whimper that makes you smile against his lips. 

There’s that sensible part of your brain that screams for this to come to a screeching halt. No first date and you’re practically dry-humping Superman? Of all people? But the way he pathetically whined beneath you; that was all Clark Kent. Your neighbour that you had been crushing on for the better part of a year, even when you had been dating your ex-boyfriend, the poorly-postured, socially inept male had always been in your peripheral. (Turns out he had just been biding his time.) 

You feel him shift beneath you and the memory of an open-wound that your all of a sudden flush against is thrown to the forefront of your mind. It makes you pull back promptly, Clark’s face written with concern—his lips all puffy and wet. 

“Is something wrong?” 

“Your wound, Clark.” You lean back and Clark’s hands hold your weight for you. “It’ll probably need stitches.” 

He frowns, “No, it won’t.” he leans in to press another kiss to your lips with less eagerness than before, “I can heal easily without human intervention.” 

“Are you serious? You just wanted some attention?” you tug at the grown out curls at the nape of his neck and laugh. “You have so much explaining to do.” 

“Of course.” Clark smiles against your lips, quickly making you forget your train of thought as he stands with a grunt with you bundled up in his arms. He speaks between hungry kisses, “But first, I have a destroyed car and a year of apologies to make up for.” 

You giddily laugh as he carries you to your bedroom. 

“I hate you.”