For reasons to be expanded upon at a later date (because I love the little bits about Boothill and possible paranoia/betrayal canon gives us so very dearly HNGH) I think Boothill like... He won't let himself fall into disrepair or anything of course, but he reeeeeeeeeeally does not like letting other people poke around at his body. It's a necessary evil to him. He does whatever maintenance and repairs he can himself. He started out with a massive knowledge deficit, simply because he didn't really have any exposure to that kind of technology until he left Aeragan-Epharshal, but he's taught himself a lot since then, he worked really hard at it!
Anyway, the point being, Boothill generally isn't super trusting of people.
But I think he would come to make an exception for Himeko, since he trusts Dan Heng a lot, and Himeko is one of Dan Heng's once-in-a-lifetime dearly beloved companions.
Himeko is so unflappable, I don't think she would even bat an eye about anything he throws at her, either. Like she enters the Parlor Car one morning (she's always the first one up) and Boothill is already there, waiting for her.
"Mornin', Madam Navigator."
"Good morning, Mr. Boothill."
And despite the fact that he blatantly broke into the Express (Pom-Pom is NOT happy about this JDKSAJDSKL), Boothill tips his hat, greets her politely, and is nothing but respectful when he says he has a favor to ask of her. Except it won't stay a favor long, of course- he has every intention of paying it back.
Himeko never agrees to things blindly, but she does bring up that all the knowledge Boothill contributed during the Charmony Festival was essential to preventing the universe from being pulled into Ena's Dream. And they were able to hold onto the Jade Abacus because Boothill used Tiernan's burial relic to summon the Galaxy Rangers instead. The Astral Express owes him a debt of gratitude, and besides, he's a friend of Dan Heng's. Of course she'll try to help him.
Boothill fidgets a bit, quickly brushes off the thanks, and tells Himeko he's having a problem with error codes. He keeps getting the same one, seemingly at random times, but the darn thing has no obvious cause. Dan Heng mentioned Himeko had been the one to rebuild the Astral Express. He knows it ain't the same, but it's not like he's askin' for any major repairs or nothin'. He was wonderin' if she could just take a look, maybe offer him some insight, since she seems to be somethin' of a mechanical wonder.
So Himeko walks him back to a another car, where she goes to tinker with machines without them crowding her bedroom. It's all neatly laid out and organized, and it only takes a second for Himeko to locate some specific device with a long cord. Instead of plugging it in herself, she holds the end of it out to him, like an offer rather than a demand, and Boothill visibly relaxes a bit. He still eyes it just a little warily for a second, but he accepts and plugs it into the port on his side.
Himeko pulls up the list of all recent errors, and they really are all the same. Boothill has had multiple temperature alarms over the past couple of weeks since the Charmony Festival, and they know it's not the environment, because Penacony is mostly dreamscape and kept mild year-round. The long-forgotten natural deserts are too far away.
Boothill is staring from the corner of his one good eye, so Himeko turns the hologram to let him see what she's doing easier. They don't appear to be false alarms. His internal temperature spikes and then slowly lowers again, high enough that if it lasted it would eventually cause damage.
One option is for her to start rooting through personal data, figuring out what he was doing at the time of each code, and tracing cause and correlation.
Instead, Himeko reads out the timestamps, and asks Boothill if he minds sharing what was happening around him when it occured.
Two weeks ago: He and Dan Heng went to explore Dreamflux Reef and found a bar- nice place, good atmosphere. Woman runnin’ it was a doll. Boothill left fer not even two minutes to get them drinks (Dan Heng knows like nothin’ about liquor, Madam Navigator, can you believe this guy) and when he came back, someone had already stolen his seat and was hittin’ on Dan Heng! Dan Heng didn't even care, just shooed ‘em off. Boothill laughed and said not to let him get in his way if he wanted to meet someone. Dan Heng looked at him like he'd grown a second head. Why would he want to leave with someone else, when he came here to be with Boothill?
Twelve days ago: While laying low- er, just rustlin’ up some grub- in the Moment of Blue, Boothill passed Dan Heng with March and Caelus playin’ on the beach, buildin’ sandcastles and the like. When he passed by again almost two hours later, they were still out there, with Dan Heng pullin’ March through the water on her inner tube and Caelus hangin’ off the back of it. He swam so fast! You'd think he was part water snake or somethin’. He looked happier ‘n a cat in a sunbeam… He has a nice smile, doesn't he?
Eleven days ago: Boothill was killin’ time in Dreamflux Reef when he turned the corner down a shady alley and saw Dan Heng, surrounded by three men demandin’ “protection money.” None of ‘em stood a chance, they were all on the ground before Boothill even blinked! So cool! Boothill wants to see that spear of his closeup- Anyway, Dan Heng stepped on one of ‘em on his way out, hahaha! Boothill stepped on the same guy a second time as he hurried to catch up.
Eight days ago: Here on the Express, actually. Boothill had mentioned bein’ curious about the archives, and Dan Heng personally invited him.
(“I remember that day, I saw you in the hall.” “Was there any problem with the heating that day?” “No, none. I don't think the temperature has anything to do with these error codes. I have a different theory, keep going.” “If ya say so.”)
Boothill was fascinated by an entry on aeons, and from a single question he asked about Lan, the two of ‘em ended up talkin’ fer hours. About aeons and Paths and Emanators, Acheron and Self-Annihilators, the Sea of Nihility, Tiernan, the Nameless and the Galaxy Rangers, their burial relics and their customs. Dan Heng finally just started writin’ and editin’ the entries in real time, with Boothill pointin’ things out and tellin’ him what to add in. They were at it so late that Boothill ended up sleepin' on a couch in one of the cars.
He'd figured there had to be something to make Dan Heng chatty- he'd caught just a glimpse of it that first night they met, sittin’ at the bar in the Reverie together. He'll have to ask about the archives more often, if it gets him all revved up like that.
One week ago: After that night of energetic discussion, Dan Heng was apparently hyped up, because after he'd downed some of Himeko's coffee (“You had some too, right? What did you think of it?” “It was great, even better'n chewin’ bullets!” "Thank you! That was my newest brew, I can't wait for everyone else to try it.") he actually asked Boothill to go hunting with him. Boothill asked who their target was, and was surprised when Dan Heng pulled out photos that looked like they were from March's camera, of all things, instead of a bounty or wanted poster.
And as he sat there, studying these pictures, Dan Heng explained that he wanted to hunt down these specific memory zone memes to record them into the archives. Planets with so much memoria are a rarity, especially with the Stellaron's activity thrown into the mix, which has surely affected the local “wildlife.” He might not get another opportunity like this for a long time. And Boothill had talked last night about his extensive expertise in tracking and hunting, so he should have plenty to offer here, Dan Heng would like to learn from his experience and see how he does things!
And oh, Madam Navigator, by the time Dan Heng was done speakin', his eyes were practically sparklin'! Just lit up like the sun! Boothill could scarcely believe it! The two of them couldn't even wait another day, they set out that very morning. It had been a long, long while since Boothill had tracked someone- er, somethin’- without the intent to capture or kill. It was…actually really nice. Nostalgic, but in a good way. It might even have been his favorite day on Penacony…so…far…
Boothill trails off as a couple of realizations crash into him. All the temperature alarms he's spoken about thus far- they've all happened in the company of Dan Heng. And now that he's thinking about it, he's pretty sure even the ones he hasn't yet talked about were with him, too. Dan Heng has been responsible for all of his error codes, every. single. one.
The screen in front of Himeko suddenly refreshes to the top of the list, displaying a new notification for the current time. Alert! Core temperature above normal range.
Himeko's knowing smile is sly as a snake.
Wwwwwelp, would ya look at the time, Boothill has some errands to meet, people to run, y’know how it is, he should really get goin'-
“Oh, Mr. Boothill? About that favor.” And Boothill jolts to a stop in the doorway because fudge, he can't just leave without hearing her out. He'd given his word. He has no problem running out on someone he thinks deserves it, but Himeko really had been kind to him to try and help him out. Her voice is just as knowing as her smile, Boothill can't turn around to look at her, or else he knows he won't be able to disguise the sound of his cooling fans kicking on.
I am once again tagged by @radellama, thanks a bunch!
~
Last Song: Song of the Ancients / Fate, by Keiichi Okabe
Currently Watching: Still Trigun (1998), I am unfortunately too busy to watch much else (Though I do sometimes think about how much I want to rewatch TGCF season 2....)
Three Ships: Xiao/Venti, Feng Xin/Mu Qing, Minamoto Kou/Mitsuba Sousuke
Favorite Color: Still cobalt!
Currently Consuming: Nothing at the moment, last thing was some chai tea. Now I'm thinking about grilled cheese again tho...
First Ship: Leo/Takumi from Fire Emblem: Fates
Relationship Status: Unfortunately, no
Last Movie: I genuinely don't remember... It was either Spirited Away or a combined Megamind/How to Train Your Dragon movie night
Currently Working On: A lot of my current angst is actually over the fact that I'm too deep in the schoolwork trenches to actually work on any of my own personal creative projects. But, my other project besides the Genshin Poetry Gala fic that I've been working on for months now is a TGCF essay about how the main couple are representative of the story's main themes. They make my brain explode <3
There’s only one thing Mayumi hates more than her mother—and that’s change.
She hates not having Momo around the house anymore. Hates that she doesn’t get to see her daughter every morning and every night and a part of her can’t help but wonder if it’s because her daughter has gotten out of her sight that all the awful things have happened to her. She hates that now, when she talks to Momo, she keeps seeing traces of… things that weren’t there before: there’s a new step in her usual gait, a new wisdom in her young eyes, a constellation of bruises and small scars that mar the fairness of her skin.
She hates that Ichirou has started acting so strange around her. Hates that for years they had the workings of a perfectly functional relationship, that she had gotten accustomed to and had even begun to rely on. She hates that now he’s so obviously keeping secrets from her because it makes her wonder if perhaps he’s always been keeping secrets from her; if, maybe, she was wrong to have started to trust him, if, maybe, she really is just another tool in his arsenal and that he’s simply been playing the game this whole time. She hates how much she had allowed herself to get attached to a person who, from the beginning, was introduced as someone who would use her for her body and her family’s money and nothing more.
She hates that some stupid parent-teacher conference is churning up so much doubt within her: about Momo, about Ichirou, about herself. Hates the anxiety it causes to swirl up within her, hates how self-conscious and exposed it’s left her feeling, how unsure of herself. She hates the idea that, despite everything she’s done, everything she’s tried to do, she might still be considered a bad mother—even though it’s the only role she’s actively tried to assume for herself. She hates that it just seems to prove her own mother right; that, at the end of the day, no matter how hard Mayumi tries, everything will always result in failure. And that… That changes a lot of things.
When she re-enters the lobby, she quietly takes the open seat next to her husband, who seems so lost in his own thoughts that he likely hadn’t even noticed her absence. She waits for a moment or so, half-expecting him to say something first before finally asking, “Have you already checked on Momo…?”
Ichirou doesn’t even turn to look at her. “Yes. She’s still in the bathroom but there’s a classmate taking care of her.”
Mayumi feels the frustration tugging at her once more at the nonchalance of his response and the silence that resumes its place between them. Usually she didn’t mind the silence but now…
“Well. That meeting couldn’t have gone much worse…” She murmurs, forcing a short chuckle. The truth of her statement is obvious enough, but that’s exactly why she thinks it’s the perfect statement to fill the silence.
She couldn’t be more wrong.
She feels Ichirou freeze up beside her rather than sees it, feels his body turn rigid and his aura turn icy. “... I hope you’re not implying what I think you are.”
Mayumi’s genuinely taken aback—not just because of his change in tone but also due to genuine confusion. The pitch of her voice rises a little in self-defense as she replies, “Excuse me? I wasn’t implying anything—”
“Do not speak at me with that tone right now, Mayumi,” Ichirou bites back, eyes finally meeting hers with something that looks like a challenge shining in them.
Mayumi feels her cheeks flush in anger, all logic fleeing her mind as her emotions begin to consume her very train of thought. “For god’s sake,” she hisses. “What on earth has gotten into you? I wasn’t going to push it until after Momo’s conferences were finished but—”
“But here you are anyway,” Ichirou interrupts, turning his attention away from her to gaze forward once more. “Pushing it before her set of conferences are over.”
Her lips part in shock, and it takes her a few moments to remember that they’re in public and so people can freely see the stupidity of her expression. With that in mind, she takes Ichirou by the hand rather roughly and drags him down a hallway, narrowed eyes scanning for a secluded enough place for them to have what is—evidently—going to be their first argument after over fifteen years of marriage.
Wonderful.
Ichirou, for his part, doesn’t even fight against it. In fact, a part of him isn’t even surprised that this is happening at all; a part of him actually thinks that perhaps this had all been inevitable. It doesn’t mean that he’s glad that it’s happening, but it does mean that when Mayumi finally throws open the door to an abandoned classroom, slams it shut behind them, and then promptly raises her hand to smack Ichirou in the face, he’s prepared enough to catch her forearm before she’s able to make contact.
The worn leather of his gloves only accentuates the roughness of the action, and Mayumi actually flinches at the coarseness of the garment against her bare skin. A part of her knows that, logically, the gloves aren’t all that old—she had watched as Ichirou had created them just hours ago this morning. And yet, the unfamiliar texture feels all at once sobering and discomforting. Something flashes in Ichirou’s eyes—anger, astonishment, frustration, hurt—as he leans into Mayumi’s space, backing her up into a wall as he just stares down at her.
They’re in the back corner of one of the U.A. classrooms, sandwiched between the door itself and the supply cupboard—the only space in the room where the sunlight doesn’t touch. It’s almost eerie, in a sense: a place that is usually so full of life and energy and vibrance shouldn’t feel this desolate and cold.
But it does.
And Mayumi hates that it does.
She hates feeling so little and small and fucking helpless as she squirms against Ichirou’s grip. Her lips part to demand that he let her go, but he cuts her off.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Momo’s weight loss?”
Mayumi stops for a moment, the tension in her body dissipating at the familiar concern in the undertones of his voice. She has to look away for a moment so that she can finish collecting her thoughts before she finally releases a soft little sigh. “... Do you really think I didn’t try?”
(Do you really think that’s something I’d keep from you?)
The question weighs itself for a moment between them before she quietly adds, “You’re the one who suddenly cut off all contact with me… How else was I supposed to let you know?”
(She doesn’t mention anything about how his sudden change in behavior had freaked her out; how it had made her feel cut off and closed off and fucking vulnerable—)
Ichirou’s jaw clenches a little at that and he has to avert his gaze.
He had somehow managed to avoid giving Mayumi a proper explanation the night before, but he doesn’t think it’s a feat that he can accomplish once more without further repercussions. All he’s trying to do is hide the proof of his guilt: that he had been plotting something with his father behind Mayumi’s back, and that… That brat had done something to him that had left him like this. But he couldn’t just come out and tell her that… Because then he’d have to try and explain that he had only agreed to his father’s plan because he wanted to assure that Momo would have a proper future—he had gone behind her back, sure, but only to further secure the goal they both shared…!
(Perhaps one of the few things they still share.)
But he can’t say any of that. So instead, he releases her arm to run a nervous hand through his hair. “I didn’t… I didn’t want to bother you with something as… Ridiculous as this.” He throws his hands up in the air lamely. “I know that you have things on your plate as well, and I… I didn’t want to keep burdening you and I thought I could handle this by myself so I—”
It’s not convincing in the slightest.
“You’re lying to me,” Mayumi cuts in, quietly and matter-of-factly. “You’re lying to me, Ichirou.”
The accusation—despite its truth—makes Ichirou’s insides drop, heart pounding mercilessly in his chest. “I’m not,” he insists, desperation dripping from his voice. “I-I would never!”
It hits too close to home.
“Bullshit,” Mayumi fires back, eyes eyes blazing.
No. No, no, no, it wasn’t supposed to be like this, it wasn’t supposed to—
“Put yourself in my shoes for once,” he tries, the gears in his mind whirring as fast as they possibly can to try and build some sort of argument for him. “Imagine that I had come forward with this stupid problem of mine—tell me that you wouldn’t have made me feel like an absolute idiot even though I have absolutely no idea what’s going on and what could have caused this.”
(He has a hunch. But she doesn’t have to know that.)
The shock makes Mayumi try to take a step back, but the wall prevents her from moving any further. It’s so, so easy for her to see the truth in his words, and when he puts it that way… She sounds almost like a monster. And she’s not, she just—
“I don’t… I don’t mean to make you feel that way… But I have to push you because without any push from me, you never take any initiative whatsoever!” The frantic need to defend herself is evident in the high-pitched panic of her voice—despite the accusatory nature of her words. “And when you don’t do anything it just pisses me off even more, so—!”
Ichirou can’t help but scoff. In all actuality, her matter-of-fact behavior has never been all that off-putting to him. In fact, he quite liked that she took charge off things so often—with all that was going on with the company, it was nice to know that all his other bases would be covered thanks to Mayumi’s constant vigilance. But to hear her justify it that way? It leaves a sour taste in his mouth. “Well. I’m glad to know that your view of me is so low then."
“What, as though your view of me isn’t?”
As soon as that question releases itself out into the open, it’s as though the whole world stops spinning.
A sharp, bitter bark of laughter escapes Ichirou’s throat as he shakes his head in incredulity. “Are you serious, Mayumi?”
She feels like crying. No, of course she’s not serious, she’s not dumb, she’s not stupid. She knows exactly how Ichirou feels about her; knows it from the way he looks at her and the way he says her name and the way he always knows things without her having to say anything—that sense of understanding that can never be replicated, that she knows she’ll never be able to find anywhere else—
But Mayumi has her pride.
And so she puffs her chest out a little in defiance before glaring up at him and saying, “Of course I am.”
For all his life, up until the very moment that Ichirou met Mayumi, he hadn’t really believed in happiness; sure, there was momentary joy at making his family proud, and there were times when he felt truly content with the cards that life had dealt out to him, but long-term happiness? No. It wasn’t something that he saw in his future—and he was okay with that. He had a company to run, a family to succeed, a life to live that was destined to play out regardless of whether or not he was enjoying himself with all the world had to offer.
But then they were introduced to each other as soon-to-be betrothed, and he felt his heart stop at the warm smell of jasmine and vanilla, at the sound of bitter, spiteful laughter, at the sight of mischievous eyes and a haughty smirk and something deep, deep, deep hidden away in the layers of velvet and satin that she had draped over herself. And Ichirou just knew, from that very moment onwards, that he was desperately, desperately in love with the woman before him.
And it didn’t take him long to figure out that it was a love she’d never return.
That didn’t mean he’d stop trying though—she didn’t need to love him for Ichirou to be happy. No, just being allowed in her presence would be enough for him; just being able to see her smile and laugh and be the person that she would sometimes—sometimes—reach for in comfort, during her times of need, would be enough for him. Mayumi, herself, would always, always be enough for him.
And so for Mayumi to doubt him… After everything they’ve been through, after everything he’s done for her…
For once, when he looks into her eyes, he’s filled with something akin to disgust.
“You do know that absolutely everything I’ve ever done has been for you, right? That literally the only reason why I’m able to wake up every day and face every challenge and consequence without complaint is because I just tell myself that I’m doing it for you, right? That, for the past fifteen years, I’ve done absolutely everything within the parameters of my being to try and secure your happiness, to try and make you love me, right?” It hurts him to admit it all out loud like this. Tears prick his eyes as he forces another incredulous laugh, stepping even closer into her space to fire his words down at her. “I honestly can’t believe that after everything we’ve been through together, after everything… You can still act as though I don’t love you. I’ve never loved anyone more in my entire life and I’m okay if I never do because—”
Mayumi slaps him, frustrated tears streaming down her face in fervent rivulets.
The shock is obvious on Ichirou’s features, and when Mayumi begins to speak, there’s a certain edge to her voice that he’s never heard before. “God, you’re so stupid. You don’t actually love me, you’re just… You’re just so good at doing what you’re told. And so when your parents ordered you to marry me, of course you tricked yourself into thinking that you loved me.” She lets out a sad, broken, little laugh. “God, Ichirou, how would you even know what love is? You’ve been sheltered your whole life—even more so than me—and… And you’d have to be an even bigger idiot than I already thought you were if you seriously think that anyone could genuinely fall in love in a situation like ours…”
(She doesn’t mean it. Or does she? She doesn’t know, it’s all so much, it’s all too much, and no matter how hard she tries to process the rush of emotions that surge through her small frame, it’s not enough. It’s never enough. She’ll never be enough for anything, for anyone, because there’s really no hope for her. Maybe her mother was right, and that’s the part that hurts the most because it means that maybe it’s time for Mayumi to stop trying, but if she stops trying then…)
“God, I… I hate you.”
(She doesn’t mean it.)
“I hate you.”
(She knows that she doesn’t.)
“I hate you.”
(She knows that she doesn’t mean the words as they’re spit from her lips but she can’t stop herself from repeating them, as though the mantra is the only thing grounding her to her senses.)
“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”
With each repetition of the phrase, she gets a little louder. And when the height of her voice is about to reach its crescendo, Ichirou crashes his lips onto hers.
For a moment, it’s like even time stands still: the warmth of another’s lips against her own is something she hasn’t felt in the longest of times, and to have her thoughts cut off by something so sudden and sincere and just… all-encompassing is enough to make Mayumi’s entire mind go blank.
And then the seconds begin to tick—slowly but surely—and the world begins to spin once more—or perhaps it had never stopped to begin with—and then Ichirou’s tongue gently swipes at the parting of her lips and Mayumi can’t help but gasp a little and—
Where… Where is this even coming from…?
Before she knows it, she’s kissing him back— fingers entangling themselves in his hair as she pulls him even closer towards her, gripping at him desperately as though she’s afraid that once this moment is over, he’ll never be hers again.
And then they hear it from outside.
“Mother? Father? Where did you go…? It’s time for our meeting with Aizawa Sensei now…”
Ichirou and Mayumi release each other immediately, each of them hurrying to fix themselves into a presentable state and not meeting the other’s eyes.
It’s Ichirou that exits the room first, staging his entrance into the hallway as well as he can. “My apologies, darling! I couldn’t seem to find the bathroom.” He follows up the pathetic excuse with a laugh that sounds painfully fake, but judging by the way Momo’s laughing along, it seems that it had been convincing enough.
Mayumi lingers back a few moments longer though, face flushed, tears threatening to prick at her eyes, and fingers thoughtfully set upon her lips as she stares at her husband’s back.
For the first time in fifteen years, she had actually felt something.
Request: Hii!! I love your writing so so much (pls never stop)!!! How do you think the lads men would react to the following scenario: mc makes one of her girl friends dress like a guy and post that on her story/moments (to ward off an annoying co-worker, like what Caleb did in uni, but mc didnt want to bother the guys with this request so she asked Tara or another one of her girl friends). The picture, though, is convincing enough to make even the lads men question if she actually does have a partner and who tf is he. I think Xavier would absolutely malfunction since they are also neighbours lol
AN: I am taking a break from the ship event to gather some inspiration. But this was super fun to write. Thank you for sending in such an amazing idea.
Warning: Potential Spoilers. Be Mindful 👺
Pairing: Lads boys x fem reader
Genre: fluff and angst
(I do not own these characters)
Summary: Waking up after an amazing girls' night, you and Tara spent the morning taking silly photos, making all kinds of concerning faces, until inspiration struck.
"Wait, wait, hold on," Tara grinned, pushing her short hair back. "What if—"
Moments later, you were both giggling uncontrollably, staging fake hard launch photos in your bed. The blurry, cozy results? Surprisingly convincing.
"Oh, this is gonna blow up at work."
Tara rested her chin on your neck, wrapping an arm around you for the final shot. The picture was better than you imagined, so naturally, you posted it to your story before the two of you rushed to get ready for work.
And just like that, your social media went up in flames.
Rafayel:
623 missed calls.
200 texts.
82 more missed calls.
All hours after your post.
Who is he?
Why are you in bed with him?
Is he your boyfriend?
What is his name?
You barely have time to breathe after your meeting before the onslaught of texts floods in. Even the comment section of your post hasn’t been spared.
Thomas is already on the case. Rafayel is whining, sobbing, crying and absolutely not afraid to play dirty to get you back.
He's already planned a hundred ways to nip this budding romance at the root.
He thinks he has the upper hand, feels kinda smug about it too.
Still… there’s a twinge of heartbreak. A little ache for having to wait longer for you, for the idea that you might have chosen someone else. But if nothing else, Rafayel is persistent.
So, of course, he’s already forgiven you.
But don’t think, even for a second, that he won’t complain about it.
He’s still mulling over it, dramatically painting all his canvases black, getting ready for his villain arc, when you finally call him back.
"A prank?"
He is indignant.
He cried over a prank.
All that effort… for nothing.
"IT’S BEEN 800 YEARS. JELLYFISH ARE WALKING.
NAKED SEA TURTLES ARE CLIMBING TREES.
SHARKS ARE EATING GRASS—FOR FREE. "
AND RAFAYEL?
RAFAYEL CRIED OVER A PRANK.
HE WENT FULL VILLAIN ARC FOR A LIE.
HIS CANVASES ARE BLACK.
HIS PLANS FOR REVENGE? RUINED.
ALL BECAUSE YOU AND TARA WANTED TO PLAY GAMES.
He might never recover. Might. But first, he needs to call Thomas back before his "investigation" starts a national crisis.
Xavier:
He had just returned from a long night of fighting Wanderers when his phone chimed with an alert.
Half-asleep, he smiled at the sight of your name, already thinking of how he'd respond once he changed and collapsed into bed.
That smile froze the moment he saw the picture.
The phone slipped from his fingers, landing on his face. But he didn’t even wince. Too numb to feel it.
His vision blurred. His chest ached. Tears welled, unbidden.
Genuinely heartbroken. So weary. So tired. For a moment, he was shattered.
Did he have the strength to wager another lifetime?
His time was already running out. His strength faded with each passing day. He had selfishly wanted this spring with you...but this was better for you. You were too kind, too caring to bear his loss.
Perhaps this was for the best. His lips trembled at the thought.
You had someone now, someone who would not bring you grief. And you looked so happy in that photo. He stared at the blurred curve of your smile, tracing it with his gaze.
Somehow, he managed a small smile too.
And then he folded into himself. And slept.
For days.
So long that you started to worry, noticing his absence at work.
Until, finally, you barge into his apartment, breathless and frantic, only to find him asleep, moonlight spilling across his face, eerily still.
Your heart plummeted.
"Xavier." Your voice trembled as you rushed to him, fingers shaking as you took his hand.
For a terrible, suffocating second, he didn’t move.
And then, his brow twitched.
Air rushed back into your lungs.
Zayne:
This was to be expected.
He was never what you needed.
He often failed at words. His gestures, too vague to be understood.
You deserved someone who loved you. Someone who had the courage to say those words out loud.
Not him.
Not someone who could hurt you. His scars only grow deeper with time.
So he accepts it. Buries himself in work.
If he could not be your lover, then he would play his part as a friend.
Pays extra attention to your health. Pours over your reports. He must. Because he is no longer close enough to watch over you himself.
And weeks later, when you finally visit him, he keeps up the act—cold, distant, unbothered.
He does all the tests. Runs all the checks. Everything is routine.
But you see it.
The dark circles, deeper than ever. His skin, paler. Cheeks, sunken. His shirt, unwashed.
"You're coming home with me."
Your voice leaves no room for argument as you take his hand. "You never call. You only text about my reports and nothing more. We need to talk."
You tug him forward. He follows, until he stops.
"Your boyfriend won’t like it," he murmurs, staring anywhere but at you.
Silence.
"What boyfriend?"
You blink at him, dumbfounded.
Sylus:
Sylus spits his coffee, choking as he stares at the pictures.
Does not buy it.
That’s clearly not a man.
Yet somehow, he keeps going back to it, again and again.
It’s only when Luke and Kieran peer over his shoulder that his denial starts cracking.
"Ooooh, boss has got competition," Luke chimes.
One minute, they’re laughing. The next, they’re outside the mansion, the door slamming shut behind them.
Luke blinks. "That explains..."
Kieran yanks him into a chokehold for getting them banished for the day.
Inside, Sylus switches to wine.
The day has been too much.
Not a man, right? he muses, scrutinizing the photo, before accidentally pressing the heart button.
And then, he all but chews the glass in his hand.
He’s not worried.
He just suddenly feels the urge to burn his entire closet because nothing looks good enough.
He doesn’t care.
He’s just made a few calls, just to make sure you’re not involved with anyone sketchy. Unless, of course, it’s him.
Then, like an absolute idiot, he gets a panicked call from an associate.
The only person who’s been in your apartment? Tara.
Sylus stares at the image. Facepalms.
That evening, when he picks you up from work, he looks exhausted.
As if a few hours have aged him years.
When you ask, he waves you off, dodging every question.
You raise a brow. "Are you sure? You look—"
"I said it’s nothing," he snaps, before sighing, dragging a hand down his face. "...Can we just go home
Caleb:
Storming to Linkon.
Geared up to blow up the entire apartment complex.
Spends five minutes struggling with the locked door before finally getting it open.
Marches in.
Stops. Sighs in disapproval at your empty fridge.
Good thing he packed snacks. Leaves them on your counter. You’ll thank him later.
Then, back to the mission.
Collects all forensic evidence needed. Marches out.
No time to waste.
Supervises the DNA administration.
Hair sample. Used coffee mug. Both next to yours.
He will find the bastard. He will take him out.
And then, he will whisk you away to Skyheaven, to console you once you learn of your tragic, mysterious loss.
Grief will bring you closer.
Every intern running tests is sweating.
So are the lead scientists, who have been personally forced to oversee this insanity.
No one is messing with the colonel today.
And then, finally, the results land on his desk.
Caleb stares. Dumbfounded.
Is he to fight both men and women for you now?
You better watch out for Tara because he does not discriminate.
Summary: When Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody was taken into care Smurf pulled some strings and got him put in a place close to Oceanside. That place was with you and your parents. Something Smurf would later regret when she realised that the bond you and Andrew forged in the month he was there was never going away. The years went by and the older boy became your best friend. Your protector. Your person. Fast forward and when Andrew gets out of prison he finds out Smurf’s hatred for you has gone to a whole other level.
Pairing: Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody x reader
Warnings: smut, angst, violence, protective Andrew, slightly toxic Andrew, friends with benefits, mentions of murder.
a/n: Again I can't thank everyone enough who has given any feedback, likes or reblogs for this series. And the taglist has grown! Thank you for reading and I really hope you continue to enjoy as I'm having so much fun writing this. This part starts us going into Season 2. It felt like one of the things that I needed to include in the series. Definitely getting more towards angst here but hoping I got some fun stuff in here too. Enjoy and please continue to let me know what you think. p.s Im learning that protective angry Andrew Pope Cody is like... my favourite thing.
You knew it was bad when he had clearly let himself into your apartment. You knew it was really bad when you woke up and he was just sat in the chair he’d placed beside the window for you to read in.
He’d turned it to face the bed.
Not the first time and certainly wouldn’t be the last he’d watched you sleep.
The worst part? As you said his name sleepily he didn’t look at you. Just stared ahead. Your heart was racing instantly. What had he done? What had they made him do?
“Andrew?” You say in that special voice reserved for him as you slide out of bed to walk over to him but still his eyes don’t move from where they’re fixed on your floor. Now that you’re closer you can see they’re red rimmed. He’d been crying. No, he’d been sobbing. You fall to your knees trying to get yourself in his eye line but his eyes are dissociated and your own fill with tears.
He had kept taking the medication. Smurf had admitted it was her. Of course she had, it was obvious both you and Andrew knew. The spiteful bitch had even told him to ‘do it for her.’ Convinced him three years away meant you weren’t going to be able to take him unmedicated. You had of course told him how ridiculous that was.
Smurf wanted him on the medication, pliant, so she could continue to fuck him up.
“Andrew, what happened?” You take his face in your hand. Notice how when you take his hand in yours it doesn’t move at all but its smooth, red like he’d scrubbed them with something too harsh. “Fuck..”
You press against him, resting your forehead against his. Not sure what else to do but be there. “It’s okay.” You whisper but you cringe inside. It definitely wasn’t okay. Smurf has probably made him do some barbaric shit and it definitely wasn’t okay.
He finally broke, a heavy sob leaving him as he buried his face in your chest, moving to your neck and back like whatever guilt wrecking him made him incapable of staying still any longer. He didn’t speak. Neither did you, as it often worked in these situations. You just cooed words of comfort. Your heart breaking. Hating Smurf for putting him in this position. For putting you in this position.
Just that morning you’d been laughing with him. You’d woken up to a flat tire and hadn’t immediately remembered that you could just call him again. So you did.
He’d answered straight away even though it was 7am.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” You’d said smiling. “Are you busy?”
“Kinda…” He said and you could hear Baz in the background. “Why… are you okay?”
“Yeah. It’s okay. Just a flat tire and I thought I’d make the most of my favourite mechanic being free again but it doesn’t matter.”
“Ahh… shit.” You could tell he was torn. If he was with Baz it was probably some kind of job. “Erm…” You could tell he was planning. Probably working out timings in his mind.
“Hey, it’s fine I just thought I’d see if you were free. I can figure it out, don’t worry.” You say because how hard can it be? He’d never let you change a tire in your life. He knew that.
“No…” He says sounding annoyed but you know it’s not at you. “Fuck…”
“Andrew it’s fi…”
“Give me ten.” He says before just putting down the phone. You roll your eyes.
When he approaches your car just over eight minutes later pulling open the driver door he’s wearing combat pants with a zip jacket over the top. Your eyes trail from his pants up to the blank expression on his face, with a smirk. He holds out his hand to you, his own lips upturning ever so slightly.
“Should I even ask?” You say as he pulls you out of your car. One of his arms rests on the top of the door and his body corners you in. You can’t help your chest fluttering slightly as he leans his head down, close enough to speak quietly and you still hear the soft rumble.
“Nope.” He says before pushing away and getting to work on your tire. “I’ll just have to put the spare on for now.” He says from inside your trunk. “Just drive slower. I’ll replace it tomorrow.” He easily lifts the tire from the boot and you wish he wasn’t wearing the jacket.
“It’s fine. I’ll drop by somewhere on the way home from wo…” You’re interrupted by him getting in your space again. His eye’s are playful and you want nothing more than to take him into your apartment… or backseat… and just about anywhere. And of course he knows it.
“I said I’ll replace it.” His voice is soft but the undertone of certainty makes your knees weak.
You bite your lip to stop from grinning and his eyes light up as he works on changing your flat.
Of course, he see’s how flustered you are and his jaw tightens as he looks away from you.
“Don’t.” He says roughly. “Don’t look at me like that right now, okay?”
Somehow his reaction makes you even worse and you literally have to take a breath and turn away from him for a second as you call work to tell them you’ll be a little late.
He see’s the effort you’re putting into calming yourself and it’s killing him.
He finishes the job in record time, slamming your spare tire in and securing the flat in your trunk.
“Thank you for this.” You smile softly now, feeling more sentimental now at having him back again.
He just nods running his hand over his head.”No problem.” His voice is strained as his eyes zero in on your lips, in a way that only Pope could make look good. Dazed like he didn’t realise he was doing it but heated enough for you to know exactly what he was thinking.
You wondered if this was just how it was with you guys now.
You hoped so. You grinned and couldn’t stop yourself from stepping closer to him, playful look in your eyes as you slowly pulled down the zipper of his jacket to see what he was wearing underneath. As the zipper slowly went lower it revealed a tight dark green t-shirt underneath.
“What’s under here?” You say.
“Don’t” Hey says again. Softer this time. “I’m serious I can’t…” He falters, his puppy dog eyes looking like he almost breaks. “Fuck…”
“Okay…” You take pity and hold up your hands, taking a step back. “Sorry.” But you’re grinning.
“You’re not sorry.” He steps forward backing you against the car door, his hand bracing on the roof as he looks down at you.
“You’re right I’m not.” You lean up and leave a lingering kiss on his cheek. “Go on. I’m sure Baz is calling me every name under the sun.”
“He wouldn’t dare, sweetheart.” He says as his face moves within an inch of yours and your face tips up, wanting a kiss but you hear the car door click open and feel him pull it. It effectively just pushes you closer into him and you almost whimper when he moves back, pulling you to get in the car.
He laughs as you all but pout at him through the open window. “Go on.” He directs obviously wanting to see you drive away, make sure the tires okay. “Easy on corners.” He shouts as you reverse onto the road.
You salute him and the last thing you saw was him watching you drive away, shaking his head as he smiled.
Not the man clinging to you now.
The man his own Mother and family made him.
You don’t know how long he stayed that way. Not saying a word. Just crying.
Then he pulls away, snaps his head back as he abruptly wipes away his tears, almost hitting himself. You try to pull his hands down. Try to give him softness but he won’t let you.
He never lets you when he’s like this.
“I’ve got to go.” He says standing up and walking out ignoring you shouting out his name.
You had stopped asking him to leave this life a couple years before he ended up in prison.
Couldn’t leave his family.
Couldn’t make you have to put up with him forever. Still so convinced one day you might give up on him. Knew it wasn’t personal. Just almost subconscious to him to expect people to leave.
That you’d realise he actually is the freak, the monster Smurf makes him believe he is. Shoo him away like an animal they eventually got sick of.
All these years and he still wouldn’t let you give him the life he deserves.
Because he only thinks he deserves this. Pain. Blood. Violence.
But how much longer could you do this?
Watch the man you loved be dragged further and further down.
The man you were in love with.
The realisation hit you just as hard as the message you received from Baz a couple of hours later.
Baz:
Have you seen Cath?
You didn’t want the dots to connect. You couldn’t make the dots connect. It didn’t make sense but you’d long ago learned that nothing made sense where Smurf was involved.
You:
Why would I have seen her?
Maybe she’s run away to join your secret other family?
Keep it normal.
You and Cath weren’t friends. Never had been anything other than civil. She’d followed Andrew around when you were kids and resented how close you were. Had tried everything she could to make him be how he was with you, with her. It had never worked of course and so a childish resentment grew into adulthood indifference. Cath moved onto Baz before he’d even fully broken Julia’s heart.
You hated Baz.
Baz:
Don’t have time for your shit.
I’m worried about her.
You don’t reply and try to call Andrew again. He’d been gone for the whole morning. You’d called in sick to work and were so close to driving over to see if he was at the house but something told you to keep out of it.
If you were right. This was way deeper shit than anything you’d ever been involved in before.
You message him.
You:
Are you okay?
Andrew:
Don’t worry about me.
See you tonight.
Just like Andrew to act like nothing had happened.
When you answer the door to him that night he can tell instantly that this time you won’t let it go. He follows you into the kitchen where he sees the glass of wine on the table. He just stands there rigidly on the other side of the kitchen as you sit down and look at him.
He looks away. You know that he knows something is wrong. He always knows just with one look.
“I need you to be honest with me Andrew.”
His hands are shaking and the silence stretches too long before he finally looks at you face hollow and eyes tired.
He looks broken.
“Please don’t ask me that question.” He knows you know. He can see it in your eyes and he can’t take it.
You know in that instant he’s done it. He killed her. You go cold. “Andrew…” your voice is shaking.
“She was speaking to the cops…” His voice cracks, his eyes pleading but you’re not sure what he’s pleading for… forgiveness? That wasn’t yours to give. “She was going to ruin everything…”
“Smurf told you that?” You ask looking at him sadly.
He doesn’t answer verbally, just one sharp nod. He looks shattered, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. His mother had manipulated him using the family, using prison, using his greatest fear - losing you. Leaving you again. “She said… she said she was working with them. They were gonna put me away again.” His chest is heaving. “I couldn’t leave you… and then…”
You can’t ever remember a time you hadn’t instantly gone to his side when he was in this state but you couldn’t stomach the thought of you him doing it with you being even part of the reason.
“Fuck… Andrew.” You cry now, head bowed in your hands as you’re frozen in the dining chair. A million different scenarios running through your mind. Feeling guilty as fuck that the scariest one was him getting caught.
Seeing you cry he crosses the kitchen frantically, falls to his knees in front of you, reminiscent of the way you had just this morning. “Please…” He begs brokenly, his forehead falling to your knee. “Please don’t cry…” he murmurs. “Please don’t look at me like that.” His shoulders shake as he silently sobs and you instinctively go to rub them but you don’t. “You’re the only one… the only one who’s not scared of me.”
Your hands fall from your face, tears streaming. “Andrew… I can’t do this anymore.”
Because you can’t. You can’t keep watching this shit show.
He freezes, his body going rigid before he pulls back slowly, eyes wide with desperation.
“No…no…no… You can’t leave me.”
All you see in front of you is a worried, scared boy wanting so desperately to be loved and your heart cracks. “Fuck…” You pull him to stand up along with you. “We need to leave.”
You’d been here before. He’d always said no. Too loyal to his family. Too convinced you deserved more.
“I can’t.” He wonders if you’d asked him that this morning would he have gone. Probably. “Not now.”
“Not ever.” You say brokenly. You step away from him and finish your glass of wine. “You know Andrew, I have loved you since I was thirteen years old.” You walk past him to lean on one of the counters.”Maybe younger.” You laugh. “I always will. I’m not going anywhere without you. But I can’t keep watching her do this to you.”
He just stands there looking at the floor, eyes full of guilt.
Your heart breaks for him. For all of her victims but something feels different about Cath. You knew Pope had a soft spot for Lena. And probably as much as you never wanted to admit it to yourself… a little one for Cath too.
This was different. You weren’t sure he would ever really get over this one.
He needed to get away from all the bullshit. After all this time you finally felt defeated.
Still he says nothing.
For the first time you don’t know what to do. What to say.
“Just go, Andrew.” You sigh. You’d never done this before and you see him flinch like a knife was twisting. “I just need some space…” You reassure but it doesn’t help.
“I’m not good enough for you.” He says sadly. “I never have been. I don’t des…”
“Who are you to decide what I deserve, Andrew?!” You raise your voice at him, not a common occurrence but you need to get through to him.
He stares at you, just processing. The fear of you pulling away overwhelming him. “Okay.” He breaths out. You notice his fingers twitching nervously at his side as his head dips. “I’ll… I’ll go.”
You have you clench your jaw, gripping your wine glass to stop yourself running over and pulling him into your arms.
And he just leaves. Locking the door behind him, of course.
You cry…
And you cry…
You eventually finish your wine and really wish you had more.
Fuck it.
You grab your bag and stumble slightly putting on your shoes. You would never do this sober. Andrew obviously forked out for a better area but it was still Oceanside at… you look at the clock on the wall beside the picture of you and Andrew when you were twenty one… nearly eleven o’clock.
You shrug and leave the house. It’s only a 5 minute walk you tell yourself. What’s the worst that could happen.
You’re walking home, only just past the shop. The chill in the air having sobered you up slightly and you began to regret the decision the second you hear footsteps behind you.
You speed up but so do they. You turn seeing a figure behind you, a glint of silver in his hand and you instantly start running. Hearing them getting closer you scream, the bottle of wine forgotten smashes all over the floor.
Everything feels like a blur as you think this is it.
Andrew is going to be alone.
The pounding of feet getting closer and closer.
You spot the headlights approaching and run into the road but the cars already on it’s way to you, turning at the very last minute to meet you. The car has barely stopped when the drivers side opens next to you and Andrew steps out. Face like thunder.
He unceremoniously grabs you as you crash into him and all but throws you into the car before slamming the door. You manage to crawl clumsily over to the passenger side just in time to see Andrew dodge the knife, slipping behind the man. He grabs the wrist of the arm that holds the knife and grips the top of his arm before shifting his body harshly, you can hear the crack as your attacker screams and drops the knife.
It doesn’t end there.
Andrew tackles the man on to the ground, forearm pressing into his neck as his head bounces off the sidewalk. You don’t gasp, you don’t even blink. You’d seen Andrew like this before, of course you had. Sometimes over the stupidest things but you were genuinely scared he was going to kill this man.
A flash of Cath entered your head. You flinched. How had he done it? Why were you wondering for the first time? You’d known he killed people before. Maybe because you knew her?
Maybe because it could have been you?
No.
Smurf would love you to think that way. You pushed open the passenger side and stepped out shouting Andrews name. He had been saying something to the man when you stepped out.
He turns to you. His eye’s don’t soften as he looks over to you, fist in the air dripping with blood. He suddenly looked panicked instead of enraged. Thinking about what could have happened to you.
One final well landed punch and he walks back over to the car.
“Get in.” He says harshly. You know he’s mad at you when you get into his truck and the only sound are his heaving breaths. He says nothing as the engine roars and makes the short journey to your apartment.
“How did you…?” You start quietly.
“Don’t you fucking dare ask me questions right now.” His voice is dangerously low. His hands are shaking on the wheel, white knuckled and bloody.
You want to argue, you really do but you don’t think you’ve ever seen him this angry. Especially at you but he had seen the knife, played through every possible stupid position you could have put yourself in.
He pulls up outside your apartment and as soon as the cars stopped you go to get out, thinking he won’t want to be around you.
“Don’t fucking move.” His voice stops you cold. He gets out and slams the door, walking quickly to your side, still shaking with anger when he opens your door. He grabs your arm and pulls you out roughly into his chest. “Do you have any idea…” he can’t even finish his sentence, his eyes squeezing shut at what ever thoughts he’s having.
You try to pull your arm back but can’t, he’s never hurt you intentionally and you know he won’t now but you’re not about to let him man handle you so much.
He practically drags you inside, slamming the door behind you both. The moment the lock clicks, his hand is on your throat as he pushes you against the door, not squeezing, just there, pressing lightly against your pulse. Almost as though he needs to feel it to know you’re safe. His thumb strokes over your racing heartbeat, his own ragged breathing harsh against your ear.
“Don’t you ever. Ever. Fucking do that again.”
You want to argue. Tell him that you weren’t in the wrong here. The fault lay with the man who had chased you with a knife but you knew deep down Andrew knew that. He just needed some control so you stay quiet for now.
Especially when you feel his shaking hand grab hold of your hip. You see fear in his eyes now that the adrenaline is wearing off and he doesn’t know what to do with it.
The tears fall, silent and heavy down his cheeks as the hand on your throat begins to tremble, realising how close he’d come to loosing you. The fear of that, the anger at himself for not being there sooner, it breaks him completely. For a second time that night.
You’re still mad at him and want to tell him that this is exactly how you feel every time he’s injured on one of his stupid jobs but you know it’s not the time.
“Shh…” You wipe his tears softly. “We’re okay.” It’s a statement as you know this is probably a combination of the events before and the horrific event after it.
His breath hitches. Then he lifts you like a child would a comfort blanket when they’re upset, into his arms and walks you to your bedroom before gently lowering you both onto your bed. He doesn’t let go, just holds you like a lifeline.
“Need you…” You hear him murmur, his hand, knuckles bloody inching under your t shirt to stroke your lower stomach.
Your body instantly reacts, also needing to feel that closeness with him and within a minute you’re both naked. Sideways on the bed, too desperate to move before he spreads your legs wide.
He enters you with his hand still caressing your knee as he holds it up before his hand trails down your calf to guide around his hips. Your moans meet on each others lips as he slowly starts to move inside you. Grinding deep inside you, like he wants to be as deep as physically possible. As close to you as physically possible.
His forearms are on either side of your head, one hand holding the back of your head and the other pushing back your hair from your forehead as he watches you. He’s completely caging you in and your nails scratch gently on his rib cage.
His pace increases as he leaves wet kisses all over you jaw and neck, the top of your head hitting the hands cradling it. It feels more tender than anything you’ve ever experienced with him and the ache from where you’re connected extends to your chest.
“Don’t leave me…” he moans on a whisper, over and over in a way you’re not even sure he’s aware of.
You knew it had so many meanings. Because of what you now knew. Because of how close you’d come to harm. How close he thought you were to being done.
You grip the back of his neck to pull him in closer. “I love you.” You pledge. You don’t think too hard about it. You just need him to know.
He moans your name as you already start pulsing around his cock.
“Come on.” He moans. “Please.” The quiver in his voice and the way he’s starting to tense, grabbing softly at your hair means you know he’s coming right along side you.
And he does, panting and moaning as an he comes inside you. Watching him come only intensifies your climax and even as he starts to come down, cock starting to soften you’re still wantonly rocking up into him. Your pussy pulsing, the aftershocks somewhere on that fine line between too sensitive and not enough. You whimper.
“Want do you need, sweetheart?” His voice is soft, adoring, laced with lust still. You open your eyes. Hadn’t realised they were squeezed shut.
He doesn’t pull out, presses his hips down harder as he watches you with heavy lidded eyes.
“I need…” You can’t think straight, right on the edge. He see’s how sensitive you are, always knew what you need and without even thinking he pushes his thumb into your mouth. Even though your brain is fully occupied you know to suck, make it wet and he pushes himself up slightly to move his hand down between you.
You gasp at the way he knows your body better than yourself sometimes, his thumb rubbing the perfect pressure on your swollen clit. He stays buried inside you, half hard, giving you something to grind against. He watches your face, transfixed as your mouth falls open and eyes roll back.
“That’s it.” His voice is hoarse and the moment he leans down, lips closing around your sensitive nipple, tongue flicking and laving, you’re gone.
As you come again around his sensitive cock, feeling his wetness leak out of you, you hear him murmur “thank you, sweetheart…” in a low and possessive voice. You swear you nearly pass out as he gently strokes you through it.
He ruts against you taking in every sound you make, ever tremor of your body, committing it all to memory. When you finally calm down, he’s breathing just as heavy as you with his forehead resting against your collarbone, pressing lazy kisses there.
His thumb still strokes gentle circles against your clit almost soothingly until the oversensitiveness makes you whimper and squirm.
“Sorry.” He moves his hand away and pulls out of you with a groan but he stays on top of you. The atmosphere instantly switches, the weight of everything making him feel heavier on top of you. Bracing himself in-between your legs he slowly, almost nervously looks up at you. His eyes.
Those damn eyes. You can see everything he’s thinking. Every fear.
He’s expecting you to tell him to leave, push him away. You sigh sadly.
“Don’t think so hard, handsome.” You tell him softly, in that voice. You feel him instantly relax. His face pressing into your neck.
And just like that you’re back to normal. You hate it but love it. You know you’ll never be able to get him to leave. So you’ll take the bad with good.
Even if there’s a niggle in the back of your mind. How bad will you accept?
You both shower together. Not really speaking. Not wanting to ruin anything.
He holds you tightly against him that night. Stroking your hair, not willing to not have you in his arms at any point and when you nuzzle into him he tells you softly. "You're safe." "I've got you." "No one's ever gonna hurt you." And you believe. Just like always.
You have no reason not to.
Here you were again playing house.
The kind of house he would never let you have.
Time passed.
Andrews hair grew.
So did his resentment for Smurf.
Cath had been a turning point. Leaving Lena motherless had been a turning point.
The secret he was keeping from the child and his Brother slowly eating at him.
You became an unofficial babysitter for Lena, who despite her shitty paternal DNA was the best kid you’d ever met. You would do anything of her.
You didn’t think too deeply about how much of it was guilt that you knew her Mom’s fate. Guilt that you loved the man who murdered her Mom.
Andrew was getting ice cream while you sat with Lena. She’d spent over an hour on the swings and you’d alternated between pushing her, not that she needed it and staying beside Andrew watching her. Your heart aching at the scene. Another future that stays lost behind the fog in your mind whenever you let yourself imagine it.
“I like Uncle Pope.” Lena says, her small frame relaxed in one of the chairs in the seating area. The sun lighting up her face as she smiles. It’s not a full smile, you notice.
“Yeah?” You ask with a soft smile. “Why’s that?”
“He takes me to the beach.” She says simply. Such a child like response you have to fight past the tightening of your throat.
“I think he’d do just about anything for you, honey.” You smile over at her.
“He would for you too.”
“You think so?” You raise your eyebrows, this kid was switched on. You’d not met her since she was a toddler, before Andrew went to prison but the second Andrew introduced you both again. As Auntie no less, you could tell she was special.
“Daddy said it’s cos Uncle Pope is so far up your as…”
“Woahh…” You interrupt her abruptly. “Lena.” You say laughing along with her when she starts giggling. “You don’t repeat everything adults say, okay?”
Andrew comes over at that moment, one of his small smiles as he watches you both and places the ice cream onto the table.
“What?” He asks.
“We’re just talking about how much she likes coming to the beach with Uncle Pope.” You say to him with a twinkle in your eye at the way he lights up slightly.
You knew it was fucked up. There was a constant truth nudging at the back of your mind when you were around her, a deep sadness and you knew Andrew must be feeling the same way. Ten fold.
His phone vibrates and he pulls it out, face dropping instantly. You knew straight away it was something to do with Smurf.
“Smurf.” He echoed your thoughts. “Making meatloaf. Wants us there for seven.”
“Her meatloaf sucks.” You say without missing a beat. Any chance to insult her but smirking at a specific memory of when she was insulted that you didn’t eat it one night when you were a teen. Piling it on Andrew’s plate.
It had caused a huge argument which resulted in Andrew sleeping at your house. Your parents always welcoming of him. Which Smurf hated, of course.
You knew it wasn’t about the meatloaf.
From under his lashes he fixes you with a stern look for Lena’s benefit but softened by the hint of your shared private amusement. You wondered when this man would lose the ability to give you butterflies.
Lena giggle again, mouth full of ice cream before asking if you could come too. You’re about to let her down gently when Andrew speaks first.
“Yeah, sure she can. Means I get extra meatloaf.” He jokes in that dry way of his.
You look over at him confused. You never came to those things anymore. No need to piss Smurf off anymore than necessary but it seemed he now wanted it to be known you were a permanent fixture.
Like the statement of calling you Auntie to Lena. Little ways he was trying to make you aware he was trying. Slowly but surely.
“Come on. You can keep Lena company.” He stands, you and Lena follow his lead, both grabbing your ice cream and your breath catches as you feel her little hand reach to hold your free one.
He ushers you both to the car, not letting either of you in the Jeep with the ice cream so you both tease him as you finish it.
You take them the empty pots to the trash whilst he buckles Lena in and when you walk back he’s holding open the door for you to get in. Once you have you go to reach for your seatbelt but he’s already grabbed it, reaching around you to click it into the buckle.
His intense gaze meets yours once he’s done it and your heart skips a beat. You wonder if it’s because he’s thinking the same thing as you.
About a future, a life in which this was all he had to do.
Take care of his girls.
You get out of the car as Baz thanks Pope for coming. The look on Baz’s face when Pope reminds him that he has his daughter makes you want to say something but you don’t want any negativity for Lena. You just walk around the car to stand beside Pope ignoring the surprised looks from the other brothers as the little girl runs to her Father.
You stopped coming to these things years before Andrew went into prison.
Lena tells her Dad that you and Uncle Pope bought her ice cream before he tells her to go find her Grandma.
“Thanks.” Baz says with a shrug. Surprisingly he looks at you earnestly as well when he says it. You look away.
“We really gonna do this?” Craig asks.
You stand awkwardly. You hate this shit. It was always toxic but since they were all trying to separate from Smurf it was even more awkward.
“Yep.” Baz responds.
“She says one god damn thing…” Pope rasps before looking at you, “about anything…” He doesn’t finish. None of you need him to. He gives Baz one last serious look as he guides you inside, his hand on the small of your back.
You both enter the kitchen and Smurf see’s you first.
“Oh.” She says simply. “You came. I didn’t realise you were invited.”
“I invited her.” Pope all but growls.
This makes her turn to him, smiling now. You hadn’t seen her since the smoothie incident and you could see it all now. She was desperately grasping to gain back control of him. It made you proud and slightly scared.
“I’ll put out another plate.” She says trying to hide her annoyance.
Andrew grabs your hand and pulls you into the living area where Lena is. You’re sat on the floor playing with her, Andrew sat on the couch watching you both, sat stiffer than usual. He always was in this place.
J walks in and you freeze as you look up at him. You hadn’t seen him since he was maybe two years old? Pope had told you about Julia, of course, you had cried together but you had yet to see J.
When Smurf kicked out Julia you had been the only one to continue to try and see her. Not often. Julia wanted nothing to do with The Cody’s or you by association.
You had been close once. Couldn’t not be with how close you were to her twin but as she got older she got other friends instead of just hanging around her brother and his younger best friend so much.
Then Baz happened.
Pope knew of course. He gave you money to take to her but she would never take it. Probably for the best since she fell back into drugs pretty quickly after having J. As much as you wanted to protect J, Julia disappeared not long before his second birthday.
You stand up about to walk over to him but stop yourself. What were you going to do? Hug him? You were a stranger to him as much as his Uncles were when he first arrived.
“Im…” Instead you start to introduce yourself.
“I know who you are.” He says and you’re confused when he looks a little wary. Then you remember how Pope had been giving him a hard time. Something you said he should stop. Just like his Mom, by association he probably assumed you were wary of him too.
You just nod. J looks over your shoulder and you can only imagine the glare Andrew is giving him.
“I’m sorry.” You say. You’re sorry you didn’t try harder to find them. You’re sorry you didn’t make Andrew put up more of a fight. You’re sorry you were too young to be braver. Instead you just finish with… “about your Mom.”
“Yeah.” He says, blank faced. Much more like his Uncle Pope than he realised. “Me too.” He walks out of the living room. “Hey Lena.” He greets as he walks out.
You turn to Andrew and just as you suspected he’s glaring at J’s back.
A heavy sadness sits in the air.
Yet more lives fucked by Smurf. You can only sit back down beside Lena.
When it’s time to sit at the table you’re reluctant but sit down anyway, between Andrew and Craig. Andrew had grabbed your thigh under the table to pull you closer to him.
“Don’t worry Pope. I won’t steal your girl.” Craig teases as he sits down on the bench before starting to fill his plate. Pope gives him his renowned death glare over your head. It was an easy dynamic. Something familiar.
“I don’t have the health insurance to cover what you’d give me Craig.” You tell him as you start filling your own plate, avoiding the meatloaf.
Deran laughs loudly, J laughs, still not sure of you. Even Baz cracks a smile.
“Wait, you don’t have health insurance?” Andrew asks lowly from beside you, eyes widening and clearly very concerned.
You laugh and tuck your hand around his bicep comfortingly as you lean into him. “I’m joking, handsome.” You whisper. You know he’s probably going to ask to see it later.
“Are you two together finally or what?” Baz asks the question you used to crack a joke about but now felt like a punch to the chest. Pope stiffened too.
Neither of you spoke.
“Shut the fuck up, Baz. You know how it is. We all do.” Deran says casually before filling his mouth with food. You smile over at him thankfully.
Smurf walks in, swaying slightly, clearly drunk and the air shifts with her.
She sits down and you sit up straighter. Andrew leans into you.
You all commence eating.
It’s an awkward silence. Just the sounds of eating and utensils clinking. It’s almost painful.
It’s the other woman at the table who breaks the silence.
“At least everybody still likes the meatloaf, huh?”
More silence.
You know you shouldn’t exacerbate things. You really do but you can’t help it.
You lean over to the meatloaf and cut a piece off. Everyone who clearly remembers meatloaf gate watches you warily. You see Smurf’s unimpressed face out of the corner of your eye.
You lift the piece as though you’re putting it on your plate and last minute dump it onto Andrew’s plate. You keep a completely straight face as Craig nearly chokes on his food trying not to laugh. Deran cover his mouth with his napkin and of course golden boy Baz just shakes his head. J is completely lost.
Andrew turns to look directly at you with that same stern look from the ice cream parlour as you look up at him innocently through your lashes.
His mouth quirks and you can see by his expression what he’s saying. Really? Was that really necessary?
In hindsight probably not.
“I’m gonna go keep Lena company.” You announce before standing using Andrews shoulder. Giving it a gentle squeeze before walking inside and closing the door. Pretty sure whatever was coming next Lena shouldn’t be hearing.
That table had enough children fucked up by Smurf on it. You’d be damned if you let Lena be one too.
That night Andrew drives you home. He takes you into your apartment and keeps you company while you get ready for bed. You know he’s not staying, he never did when Lena was sleeping at Smurfs.
“You want me to stay until you fall asleep?” He asks from the chair he’s sitting on, the one that now stayed permanently facing your bed. Since the night you were chased you had been having some difficulty feeling as safe as before.
He of course found out who it was, made sure it wasn’t targeted. It was just some tweaker looking for some cash or a phone. There was always a niggling thought that Smurf could easily pay someone like that off but nobody would have known you were going to make a split second decision to leave the house that night.
“No, it’s okay you must be tired.” You say as you get in bed. He walks over to you and kneels beside your bed like he’s praying.
“I’m not tired.” He says as he reaches to push a piece of hair out of your face. You smile over at him and he looks back at you like you’re a work of art in the dim light of your lamp.
“You’re going to stay either way aren’t you?” You ask as your hand strokes his forearm. He just nods. You nod back with a soft smile. “Goodnight handsome.”
He kisses your forehead tenderly before he gets up and walks over to the chair, just sitting in the shadows. Even on the nights he didn’t sleep over he would stay in that chair until you were asleep before returning to Smurfs to be there in the morning for Lena.
Most people would find it creepy, a man sat watching you sleep because that’s all he did. He would sit unmoving, watching you without so much as a shift, like something that didn’t need to breathe. Just stay alert. For you. To make you feel safe.
He was a comforting presence to you where others would find it disconcerting. That had never ever changed.
For some reason that particular night you focused on staying awake. Made sure to take deep breaths, even snore ever so slightly to make it believable as you knew he would’t leave until he thought you were in a deep sleep.
Eventually when you are almost actually asleep you hear him stand, walk over to your bedroom door and whisper so low you’re not even sure you hear him right…
Summary: Bucky and reader are secretly married. Stolen moments and private nights filled with softness Bucky shows no one else, until Yelena starts becoming suspicious.
Warnings/tags: a little smut, mostly plot, afab reader, mild language, very brief descriptions of minor injuries, HYDRA reference, secret relationship, domestic fluff
A/N: I feel like I'm a little late to the party with this one, but I had so much fun writing it! Enjoy! :)
The Thunderbolts Tower had its own rhythm. Not the polished, gleaming precision of Stark's Avengers compound—this was different. Rougher around the edges. Lived in. More like a bunker someone had tried to dress up with half-hearted plants and matching living room sets. Valentina sure does love to keep up appearances.
Still, it functioned. And in its own strange way, it felt like home.
You'd carved out your space in it months ago, when Valentina first tapped you for the position of on-site medic. The team wasn't exactly stable, to put it mildly, and if someone wasn't bleeding, they were probably sulking. That meant your little medical bay was rarely empty.
Today, though, it was. You'd slipped out of it and into the kitchen, still wearing your black scrubs. You'd gotten used to the sounds of the tower—Bob flipping pages on his newest read, Ava drifting in and out of sight, Yelena's music blasting from her room whenever she got bored. Walker and his constant bitching. Alexei and his loud, very loud laughing (or sobbing) at himself on TV.
And then there was Bucky.
He wasn't loud. Not like the others. But you always knew when he was around.
"Coffee?" His voice came from behind you, low, carrying that faint rasp that never quite went away.
You turned, already smiling before you saw him leaning in the doorway. His hair was pulled back, the loose strands falling near his jaw, and he'd swapped his tactical gear for a dark t-shirt that clung just right across his shoulders. Underneath it all was him. Something deeper, steady, and unmistakeable. A mix of cedar wood and warm leather, like his well-worn jacket and late nights tucked into his chest. It wasn't a cologne he wore so much as a presence that surrounded him, grounding, familiar, and achingly intimate.
"You're making it?" you teased, arching a brow. "Brave of you."
His mouth tugged into the faintest smirk. "I can manage a pot of coffee without burning the place down."
"That's debatable," you said, reaching past him to grab the mugs. His arm brushed against yours—just a small thing, the barest touch, but deliberate. He tilted his head, eyes catching yours for a beat too long before he pulled back, the ghost of that smirk still on his lips.
If the others had walked in right then, they probably wouldn't have thought twice. But you knew better. You knew how careful he was with everyone else. How rarely he touched anyone. The way he let the walls down just a fraction when it came to you.
You slid him a mug. "Don't tell me you're going to spend the whole day brooding in the corner again."
His expression softened, just for a second, before his walls snapped back into place. "I don't brood."
"Of course not," you murmured into your coffee, fighting the grin that wanted to spread.
You reached up, fingers brushing lightly along the stubble of his jaw, and for a moment he leaned into the touch. Just barely, but enough to make your chest tighten. The world was still quiet, the tower not yet awake. It was the kind of stolen second you both lived for. Your thumb traced the edge of his mouth before you pressed a fleeting kiss to the corner of his lips, careful and warm. His hand came to rest on the small of your back.
"I should go," you whispered against his skin.
Bucky sighed into your hand, the sound quiet and rough in the stillness, but his eyes lingered on you like he'd rather just stay. Then he forced himself to step back, slipping his hand into his pockets, wearing the blank mask again as he walked down the hall.
✪✪✪✪✪
That evening, movie night in the common room followed the same chaotic pattern as always: Yelena and Alexei shouting at the screen, Ava pretending not to care but secretly invested, John Walker arguing about plot holes, and Bob shoving fistfuls of popcorn into his mouth like it was a competitive sport.
You sat near the edge of the couch with your legs curled under you, flipping open a med kit to clean up the scrape on Bucky's knuckles.
He didn't flinch when you touched him—he never did—but his eyes stayed locked on your face as you worked. Your fingers were steady, the pads brushing lightly against his skin, and he tilted his hand ever so slightly to make it easier for you.
"Keep this up," Yelena muttered, eyeing the screen, "and your patient is going to miss the big reveal."
Bucky didn't even look at her. "I'll live."
The words were simple. But you caught the faint warmth behind them, the unspoken because she's here.
And maybe you shouldn't have smiled the way you did. Maybe you shouldn't have lingered when you pressed the bandage against his knuckle. But for now, the others were too distracted to notice.
✪✪✪✪✪
The tower went quiet eventually. It always did, though sometimes it took longer depending on how long Yelena stayed up watching movies or how restless John decided to be. Tonight, the silence fell sometime after midnight, the muffled sounds of footsteps and laughter fading into the walls until the whole place seemed to exhale and settle.
Behind the locked door of your quarters, the quiet was different. Softer. Safe. Bucky was stretched out beside you, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other wrapped loosely around your waist. He hadn't even bothered with a shirt (thank god), just the flannel pants slung low on his hips, and the faint heat radiating from his skin soaked into yours. His hair was loose now, falling around his shoulders in an uncharacteristic mess you secretly loved. For a man who could hold his own in a fight against super soldiers, he looked strangely vulnerable here. His gaze traced lazy patterns across the ceiling, but his thumb was stroking absent circles along your hip as though he needed the grounding.
"They're gonna figure it out eventually," he said quietly. His voice was low, almost swallowed by the dark.
You shifted, propping yourself on one elbow so you could look at him properly. "You think so?"
His lips quirked, but there was no humor in it. "I know so."
You smiled, he was subtler than he gave himself credit for, but you knew what he meant. The little glances, the way he let himself soften around you. He tried to hide it, sure, but the walls weren't as high as they used to be, not when you were in the room.
"You don't like keeping it a secret," you said, reading the tension in his jaw.
"I don't like feeling like I'm sneaking around," he admitted, turning his head to look at you. His eyes were softer in the dark, stripped of that guarded steel he wore in daylight. "Not with you. Not when it comes to this."
You reached out, brushing a strand of hair away from his face, letting your fingers linger along his cheekbone. "We're not sneaking. We're protecting."
For a long moment, he just searched your face, the faintest crease forming between his brows. Then he exhaled, his shoulders relaxing beneath your hand.
"Guess I'm not used to... good things," he said finally, voice rough. "Feels like if I say it out loud, somebody's gonna take it away."
Your chest ached. He rarely let himself be this open, even with you, but when he did, it always unraveled you. You pressed your forehead to his, closing the space between you.
"No one's taking me away from you, Bucky. Not now, not ever."
He hummed softly, then after a beat, said dryly, "Unless Yelena decides to drag me to an interrogation room."
You snorted. "She's not the CIA, James."
"She's worse than the CIA." He muttered, earning a quiet laugh from you.
"She has good instincts." You shrugged, "I told you, you have the face of a man with secrets."
Bucky gave a mock-offended grunt. "I do not have a face."
You raise your eyebrows. "Bucky. You sit stone-faced in corners."
He groaned and dragged a hand over his face. "So what if I do?"
"Mhm..." You poked lightly at his ribs, and he caught your hand easily, metal fingers wrapping around yours.
His arm tightened around you, pulling you flush against him. He kissed you then—slow, lingering, a contrast to the quick pecks you sometimes risked in the hallways. Here, there was no rush. No fear of being caught. Just him, just you, and the vow hanging between your lips like a promise renewed every night.
When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours again, his voice barely a whisper.
"I just... I don't want anyone to look at you differently."
You smiled softly, brushing your thumb over the cool vibranium where his hand rested on your waist. "Let them think whatever they want. At the end of the day, they don't crawl into bed with you."
That earned a laugh from him—quiet and low, the kind that rumbled through his chest and vibrated against your cheek as you pressed closer. "Yeah," he said against your hair, voice still laced with amusement. "Poor bastards."
You nudged him playfully. "They'd be lucky."
"Damn right they would," he said, all mock-gruff, and you could feel his smile against your temple.
Then, in the quiet that followed, his hold tightened around you, the humor softening into something warm and steady. "God, I love you," he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple like a promise.
Wrapped up in his arms, the secret didn't feel like a burden. It felt like a shield.
And for now, that was enough.
✪✪✪✪✪
The medical bay always smelled faintly of antiseptic and coffee—the two things that kept you sane. Tonight, the air was thick with both, the pot on your desk still steaming as the team trickled in after another mission gone sideways.
"Line up please," you ordered, not unkindly but firmly enough to keep them from scattering. You'd learned quickly that herding Thunderbolts wasn't far off from corralling feral cats. Thankfully, you'd become a friend to each one of them.
Yelena dropped herself onto one of the exam chairs first, a shallow gash cutting across her bicep. "I get to go first because I was most heroic," she announced, her accent thick, her smirk smug.
"You tripped over a crate," John grumbled from the doorway.
"It was tactical tripping," she shot back.
You fought a smile as you cleaned the wound, Yelena continuing to narrate her version of events with dramatic flair. "Hold still," you warned, swabbing antiseptic along her skin.
"Your bedside manner needs work," she muttered, but her grin said otherwise.
Ava was next, silent, though you caught the faintest twitch of her lips when you asked if she was at least planning to phase through the enemy's bullets next time instead of her teammate's.
"Don't take this the wrong way," Ava muttered, "but I think you stab harder than the bullet did."
You huffed a soft laugh. "It's called cleaning a wound, Ava. You should try it sometime."
She rolled her eyes but didn't pull away. "Pretty sure this violates the Geneva Convention."
"Pretty sure you've broken the Geneva Convention."
That got a snort out of her. She tilted her head toward Bucky, who was sitting on the next cot, watching you like he always did when you worked on someone else—quiet, steady, unreadable to everyone but you.
Then came John, who complained through the entire process as you wrapped his bruised ribs. "I don't even know why I'm standing here. You should see the other guy—"
"I don't want to see the other guy," you cut in, taping the bandage firmly enough to make him grunt. "I want you to sit still so I can finish this."
"You're bossy, you know that?"
"Only because you don't listen," you shot back, stepping away to jot notes in the file.
That earned a chuckle from Bob, who was waiting patiently by the door with a cut on his forehead. You patched him quickly, his easy chatter filling the air. He talked about the mess in the hangar bay, how they'd need to clean blood out of the flooring again, and you hummed responses while securing his stitches.
Alexei stomped into the medbay like he hadn't just taken a beating, leaving a faint trail of mud and blood in his wake. "I am fine!" he announced, throwing his arms wide as if the declaration alone could patch him up. "A little bullet, a little blood—pfft. I have had worse papercuts."
"Sit down," you ordered, pointing at the exam table.
He blinked at you, then at the chair, then at you again, like sitting was somehow beneath him.
"Now," you added.
With an exaggerated groan that could've rivaled a Broadway performance, Alexei flopped down onto the table. "Okay, okay, doctor," he said, rolling his eyes dramatically. "You are scarier than HYDRA."
"You say that every time," you replied dryly, grabbing the antiseptic.
He grinned. "Yes, but every time, it is still true."
The second the alcohol-soaked gauze touched his arm, he let out a roar so loud Bucky actually turned his head from across the room.
"AAAAAAAAAAGHHH! It burns!" Alexei bellowed. "This is cruelty. Cruelty to old super soldiers!"
You didn't even flinch. "It's disinfectant, not lava."
He thumped his chest with his good arm. "I am Russian bear. I do not cry."
"You just screamed like a toddler who dropped his ice cream," John muttered from the cot next to him.
"Lies," Alexei said, glaring dramatically at him. "Russian bear only roars."
"Russian bear is about to get more disinfectant if he doesn't hold still," you warned, pressing another gauze to the wound.
Alexei gasped, affronted. "You are merciless woman. My daughter should take notes."
Yelena, perched on the counter watching the circus, smirked. "I have taken notes."
That earned a bark of laughter from Bucky on the next cot, quiet and low, the kind he tried to hide behind a cough. You caught the edge of it anyway, warmth blooming in your chest at the sound.
Alexei, of course, was still muttering in Russian under his breath as you taped down the final bandage.
"Done," you announced, tossing the bloody gauze into the bin.
He sniffed, offended but proud. "I am picture of health."
"You're a picture of something," Yelena muttered.
And then there was Bucky.
He'd waited until the others were mostly finished before claiming one of the chairs, tugging his shirt up to reveal a graze along his side. It wasn't serious—he could've handled it himself—but he didn't.
"Doesn't look too bad," you murmured, pulling on fresh gloves.
"Hurts like hell," he deadpanned, but the corners of his mouth twitched.
You glanced up at him, lips tugging. "You've had knives through your ribs and you're telling me this little scratch is the one that finally does you in?"
"I'm dramatic," he said, his tone flat, shrugging his shoulders.
You laughed softly, shaking your head as you swabbed the wound. "Next time I'll make sure to keep lollipops in the kit for your bravery."
Something in his face shifted, just the tiniest pull at the corner of his mouth. A smile. Almost.
From her spot across the room, Yelena's head snapped up. She narrowed her eyes, watching the way you leaned in to tape the bandage down, how Bucky's gaze didn't leave you once. She'd seen him grumpy, stoic, cold. She'd seen him snap at Walker, ignore Bob, brush off Ava. But this?
This was different.
"Alright," you said, stripping the gloves and tossing them into the bin. "All patched. Try not to get shot tomorrow, yeah?"
Bucky huffed through his nose, tugging his shirt back down. "No promises."
Yelena tilted her head, filing away the half-smile she'd caught on his face. She didn't say anything—not yet—but she didn't forget it either.
✪✪✪✪✪
Dinner at Thunderbolts Tower was always a strange mix of chaos and silence. Half the team shoveled food down like it was their last meal; the other half acted like eating in a group was some kind of foreign concept.
You'd learned to roll with it.
Tonight, Yelena had taken over the kitchen, which meant everything smelled like garlic and butter. She plunked a heavy pan of pasta onto the table with a flourish, announcing, "I am better cook than all of you, so sit down and eat before Walker ruins it with ketchup."
"I wasn't going to—" John started, indignant.
"Yes you were," she shot back, sliding into a chair.
Bob already had two heaping spoonfuls on his plate, and you were still laughing as you reached for a serving spoon.
"Don't take too much," Yelena warned you with mock severity, "or Barnes will starve. He needs the carbs for brooding."
You bit back a smile. "Guess I'll just have to leave some for him, then."
From across the table, Bucky made a quiet sound—not quite a laugh, but close. He ladled pasta onto his plate, then slid the bowl toward you with a little nudge that was casual to anyone else's eyes. But his hand lingered a fraction too long near yours, brushing your fingers as he passed it.
"You eat first," he said, low enough only you caught it.
Your lips tugged as you scooped food onto your plate. "What, afraid I'll waste away before you?"
He gave you a look, something dry and teasing. "You're a lot scarier when you're hungry."
It was subtle. Barely anything, really. But it was more than he gave anyone else.
Yelena noticed. Yelena continued to notice.
She noticed the way you rolled your eyes at him, fighting a smile you didn't let the others see. She noticed the faint softening around his eyes when he looked at you, how it wasn't the same sharp stare he gave Walker or the guarded glance he threw Bob. And when you reached for your glass, Yelena's gaze stopped on your hand. A simple gold band wrapped around your finger, topped with a small diamond. She wouldn't have noticed if the gem hadn't caught the light.
She tilted her head, expression unreadable as she studied the ring, then flicked her gaze back up just in time to catch the smile tugging at Bucky's mouth when you teased him again.
Interesting.
She didn't say a word. Not yet. She twirled pasta onto her fork and leaned back in her chair, watching the two of you from beneath her lashes.
Bucky thought he was subtle.
But Yelena Belova never forgot the details.
✪✪✪✪✪
Bucky's apartment in the tower wasn't much by anyone else's standards—just a small, squared-off space with worn furniture and a couple of plants you'd talked him into keeping alive. But to you, it was perfect. Quiet. Yours.
The two of you were sprawled across the couch, your legs draped over his lap while he absently traced patterns against your shin with his thumb. A half-empty bowl of popcorn sat on the coffee table, and an old black-and-white movie played softly on the TV.
"You only like these because they make you nostalgic," you teased, tossing a kernel into your mouth.
Bucky smirked faintly, eyes still on the screen. "And you only like them because you pretend you're cultured."
You gasped dramatically, swatting at his arm. "Excuse me, I am cultured. Just because I don't remember who every single actor from the 1940s is—"
"Doesn't mean you aren't hopeless," he finished for you, his lips twitching.
You threw another piece of popcorn at his chest, which he caught effortlessly in his metal hand. "Cheater."
The banter came easily like this, the kind of rhythm that had taken months to build but now fit like a second skin. You leaned your head against the back of the couch, watching the way the light from the screen painted his face softer, younger somehow.
"You know," you said after a moment, "I think Yelena's onto us."
That got his attention. His hand stilled against your leg, and he turned his head slowly toward you. "What makes you say that?"
"She's been watching," you murmured, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve. "She caught you almost smiling in the med bay. And at dinner—she saw the way you passed me the food before yourself. I think she noticed my ring, too."
His jaw tightened, just for a beat, before he exhaled through his nose. "Of course she did. Kid's sharp."
"Bucky—"
He shook his head, leaning back. "Doesn't matter. She's probably just curious. As long as she keeps it to herself, we're fine."
You studied him, brow furrowed. "Does it bother you? Keeping it quiet like this?"
He met your eyes, and for a second, the weight he carried showed there—the years of hiding, of being hunted, of never letting himself have something wholly his own. Then he reached out, catching your hand in his and rubbing his thumb over the band of your ring.
"No," he said softly. "What we've got... it's ours. Doesn't need to be anyone else's business."
Your chest warmed, and you squeezed his hand. "I just don't want you to feel like you have to hide me."
His expression softened in that way it only ever did when you were alone. "I'm not hiding you. I'm keeping you safe. There's a difference."
You smiled faintly, leaning forward to press your lips against his. It wasn't desperate or hurried—just steady, reassuring. When you pulled back, he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing.
"Besides," he murmured, tugging you closer until you were curled into his chest, "if Yelena thinks she's figured something out, let her. I kinda like watching her squirm when she doesn't know for sure."
You laughed softly against him, and for the rest of the night, the world outside the apartment didn't matter.
Here, he wasn't the grumpy soldier or the reluctant Thunderbolt. He was just Bucky. And he was yours.
✪✪✪✪✪
It was late, and the team was scattered around the common room. John was nursing a beer and arguing with Bob about which action movie was superior, Ava and Yelena talked about the recent mission, and you sat curled up in one of the oversized chairs, medical journal open on your lap.
Bucky and Alexei were on the couch a few feet away, arms crossed, staring at the TV. To anyone else, Bucky looked as disinterested as ever. But you caught the way his gaze flicked toward you every so often, tracking the way your brow furrowed at the page, the way you absently chewed your lip when you concentrated.
Yelena caught it too.
She was sprawled across the other end of the couch, eyes narrowed just slightly as she watched the not-so-subtle softness on his face. And then, with that mischievous tilt of her head, she struck.
It started innocently enough. At least that's how Yelena made it look.
"So, Barnes," she said casually, twirling her spoon in the bowl of ice cream she'd commandeered, "what is it you like in a woman?"
Bucky's eyes snapped to her, flat and unimpressed. "What?"
"You know," she said, shrugging, her voice innocent in a way that wasn't innocent at all. "Tall? Short? Broody like you? Or maybe you like someone who bosses you around when you get shot."
Your head jerked up from your book, pulse kicking.
John snorted. "Barnes doesn't like anyone. Man's a statue."
"Statue who bleeds a lot," Yelena countered, her gaze sharp as she took another bite of ice cream. "But maybe statue has secret taste, hm? Someone who makes him... smile."
Bucky's jaw tightened. Just barely.
"I don't smile," he muttered, eyes fixed firmly on the TV.
"Oh no?" Yelena drawled, leaning forward. "Because I could have sworn I saw you almost do it the other day. In med bay. And at dinner. Very suspicious."
Ava tilted her head from her shadowy corner, curious now. Bob perked up, mid-swig of his beer. Even John paused, grinning like a shark sensing blood.
"Barnes? Smiling?" Walker said with a laugh. "Now that's suspicious."
Heat prickled at the back of your neck, but you forced your expression neutral, fingers tightening on your book.
Yelena's lips curved, triumphant at the flicker of defensiveness in his tone. "Am I?" she asked softly, watching him like a cat with a cornered mouse.
The room held its breath for a beat, waiting for more. But Bucky didn't give her anything else. He just crossed his arms tighter, eyes boring into the television like he could set it on fire. Finally, Yelena leaned back, satisfied... but then her gaze shifted. Straight to you.
"And you," she said, voice deceptively light. "Why do you wear ring on your finger, hm? Pretty little thing like that, you married?"
The room went still. Even Bob stopped chewing his popcorn.
Your heart thudded, but you lifted your chin, slipping into the calm professional tone you always used when patching them up. "Yeah. I'm married."
John's brows shot up. Ava tilted her head again. Yelena's smile sharpened, sensing the opening.
"Really?" she pressed, spoon poised between her fingers. "And who is lucky man? Where is he? Why have we never seen him ever?"
You let yourself smile faintly, soft and careful. "Just a handsome guy from New York. He's not around much. Travels for work."
Bucky shifted in his seat, pretending not to care, but his thumb rubbed absently at the dog tags around his neck. You felt Bucky's gaze burning into the side of your face. You didn't look at him. Not here. Not now. But Yelena... she clocked it.
"Mm," Yelena hummed, leaning back again, her eyes darting between you and Bucky. "Very suspicious indeed. Sergeant Barnes flirts with you like he does not care about the poor husband somewhere out there. It is very bold of him, no?"
Your eyes grew wide and Bucky huffed a quiet, almost exasperated sound, "I don't flirt."
"You were just staring at her like she... what do they say? Hung moon?"
"I don't stare." Bucky insisted.
"You stare like a man who has just seen his first steak after ten years of eating kale." Walker said, full of glee now.
"I think you are reading into this more than you should. I'm friends with all of you, even brooding Sergeant Barnes over there." You jut your thumb towards Bucky, "I fix you all up and then I go about my business."
"Interesting... so why not bring husband by next time he is around?" Yelena suggests, eyes bouncing between you and Bucky.
You laugh, "are you serious?"
"I second that." Ava pipes up.
"Me too. Would we get along?" Bob asks.
"Yes. Bring him for food. We must see if he is worthy." Alexei claims, standing with a giant smile and his arm flexed.
Bucky finally moved, standing with a muttered, "I'm going to bed." He didn't wait for a response, just stalked out of the room, shoulders tense.
Yelena watched him go, her grin sly as she spooned another bite of ice cream. She didn't call him out. She didn't say a word.
"I can do that, but he's gone for a couple more weeks." You shrug, "I'm sure he'd be happy to meet you guys."
✪✪✪✪✪
The quarters were dim and quiet, the low hum of the tower's heating system the only sound cutting through the stillness. You were curled against the pillows, already in one of Bucky's t-shirts, while he paced the small space in nothing but sweats, his bare feet making soft thuds against the floor.
"She doesn't quit, does she?" he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Always watching, always poking. Like a damn cat playing with a mouse."
You bit back a smile, folding your legs under you. "To be fair, Yelena's job is noticing things."
His head snapped toward you, a scowl tugging at his mouth. "Noticing things is one thing. Sticking her nose where it doesn't belong is another."
"She asked a couple of questions, James," you said gently.
The name made him pause, his jaw tightening. You rarely used it, only when you needed him to slow down, to listen. He let out a sharp breath through his nose and crossed his arms, glaring at the floor.
"She asked you about your ring," he said, voice low, almost accusing.
"And I told her the truth," you countered evenly. "That I'm married. To a handsome guy from New York."
That earned you a dark look. "Cute."
You tilted your head, eyes soft. "You are handsome, Bucky."
His scowl faltered, just slightly, and you caught the twitch of his lips before he turned away. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows braced against his knees, his metal hand flexing restlessly.
"I don't like it," he admitted after a moment, voice rough. "The way she looks at you. Like she's already figured it out."
You scooted closer, laying a hand on his back. "So what if she has? Yelena's sharp, but she's not cruel. If she puts it together, she won't use it against us."
"You don't know that," he grumbled.
"I do," you said softly. When he didn't answer, you leaned in, pressing your forehead to his shoulder. "James. Look at me."
Reluctantly, he did. His eyes were darker than usual, stormy with all the things he didn't say out loud—the fear, the instinct to protect, the bone-deep habit of secrecy.
"Nobody can take anything from us even if they find out. So what if they know that we love each other? The most they'll do is make some stupid jokes about you being soft," you whispered.
He stared at you for a long moment, the fight slowly bleeding out of his posture. Finally, he huffed, muttering, "You're too damn calm about this."
You smiled faintly. "That's why you married me."
That broke the scowl, just a little. His hand found yours, lacing your fingers together before tugging you down onto the bed with him. He kissed you, slowly and delicately, then pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips:
"I hate how nosy she is."
You laughed quietly, brushing your nose against his. "She's just curious. And maybe a little too smart for her own good."
"Sounds dangerous," he muttered.
He sighed, pulling you closer until your head rested against his chest. His heartbeat thudded steady beneath your ear, but you could feel the tension still coiled tight in him.
"She's gonna figure it out," you teased, glancing up at him. "If you keep staring at me like that."
His mouth tilted into the kind of grin you only ever saw behind closed doors — small, wicked, a little soft around the edges. "I don't want to be subtle," he rasped, brushing the backs of his fingers down your cheek. "I want to look at my wife."
Your breath caught — not because the word was new, but because he said it like it was a secret he loved keeping.
You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants, tugging him just a little closer. "Bucky..." you whispered, letting the warning slip between your lips even as your hands betrayed you.
"Yeah," he murmured, leaning in until his forehead touched yours. "I know."
And then he kissed you. Slow, like he had all the time in the world. His lips were warm, a little chapped from the cold, and they moved against yours with that familiar, careful pressure — the kind that wasn't just about wanting. It was about knowing. About everything you'd already shared.
Your hands slid up his chest, over the warm skin and the cool plates of vibranium, and into his hair. He shivered when your fingers threaded through it. He always did.
He guided you back against the mattress, lowering himself over you with that quiet, practiced ease, like this was as natural to him as breathing. His weight sank into the bed around you, caging you in without trapping you — his way of showing trust.
When the kiss deepened, so did everything else — the heat between your bodies, the little sound you made when his thumb brushed along your jaw, the way his dog tags swung forward and brushed your collarbone.
That tiny clink always made your heart stutter.
You knew his ring was there too. The things that mattered most to him, next to you.
You helped him peel the shirt over your head, fabric catching briefly against your skin before it was tossed somewhere to the floor. His breath caught; not in surprise, but in that quiet, reverent way he always looked at you — like you were something he never thought he'd be allowed to have.
Bucky's mouth left yours only long enough to trail down the line of your neck. He kissed the sensitive spot below your ear, then lower, leaving soft, unhurried kisses like he was mapping out the places he loved most. You arched into him, fingers clutching at his hair, and he let out a quiet, low sound against your skin — the kind that made heat pool in your stomach.
"Mine," he whispered, not possessive but reverent. It wasn't a claim. It was a promise.
You lie back on the bed, your breath catching as Bucky's warm hands roam over your body. He starts by gently massaging your inner thighs, his fingers tracing circles that send waves of desire coursing through you. His touch is like a flame, igniting your desire and stoking the fire that burns within you.
"You're so beautiful," Bucky whispers, his voice laced with longing. He leans down to place soft kisses along your neck, his fingers venturing closer to your core.
Your body reacts instinctively, arching towards his touch. "Bucky," you moan softly, your voice betraying the pleasure that courses through your veins.
His fingers slip between your thighs, delving into your wet heat. He explores you with a slow and deliberate pace, each movement designed to drive you wild. Your hips buck against his hand, seeking more of his tantalizing touch.
"Tell me what you want," Bucky murmurs, his blue eyes locked on yours as he teases your sensitive flesh.
"I want you," you reply breathlessly, reaching for him. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as you guide his head towards your aching core.
He obliges with a lustful grin, his lips and tongue working in tandem to devour you. His mouth is a skilled instrument, drawing forth waves of pleasure with each flick and lap. Your body writhes beneath him, lost in the sensations he evokes within you.
As the pleasure builds to an unbearable crescendo, Bucky positions himself between your legs. His throbbing erection hovers at your entrance, teasing the edge before slowly sinking into you. The fullness is overwhelming, stretching and filling you in a way that only he can.
He begins to move, setting a rhythm that matches the pounding of your hearts. Each thrust drives you closer to the edge, the tension coiling tighter within you. Your nails dig into his back, leaving trails of red as you cling to him.
"Bucky..." You moan out his name as you teeter on the brink of release. Your walls clench around him, pulling him deeper into your heat.
His movements become more frantic, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. With a final, powerful thrust, you both reach your climax. Waves of pleasure crash over you as you come undone beneath him.
Bucky moans, too, finishing with you. He gently thrusts a few more times, riding out his high. Then he pulls out and lies next to you, breathing heavy as he pulls you close.
"Still grumpy?" you teased softly.
He gave a low chuckle, pressing a kiss to your hair. "Always. But you make it easier."
✪✪✪✪✪
The kitchen was loud with clattering forks, the smell of eggs and coffee heavy in the air. Yelena sat at one end of the long table, picking at her plate, her sharp eyes scanning the room. Walker and Ava were arguing over something stupid about who'd carried more weight in the mission, and Bob was trying—and failing—to tell a joke that nobody wanted to hear.
You slipped into the room a few minutes before Bucky, sliding into the seat beside Ava with a warm smile. You greeted her casually, poured yourself some coffee, and tried to keep your heart rate steady.
It was all going according to plan. Until Yelena leaned forward, eyes fixed on you like a predator spotting a rabbit.
"I knocked on your door this morning," she said, her voice deceptively casual. "But you weren't there."
The room went quiet. Forks froze halfway to mouths. Even Walker stopped arguing, looking between the two of you with a raised brow.
You blinked at her, tilting your head as though surprised. "Oh? When?"
"Early," Yelena replied, her accent curling sharp around the word. "I wanted to ask you something. But no answer. Where were you?"
Your pulse jumped, but you forced a sleepy smile, wrapping both hands around your coffee mug for warmth. "I must have been in the shower. Didn't hear you."
Yelena's gaze narrowed slightly, like she was testing the weight of your words. "A long shower, then."
Before you could reply, footsteps echoed against the tile. Bucky walked in, hair damp from his own quick shower, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie. He glanced around the table, then grabbed a plate and sat heavily across from you, muttering something about the eggs being cold.
Yelena's eyes slid from you to him, sharp as a blade. She didn't say anything—not yet—but the corners of her mouth tugged into a knowing smirk.
"Next time," she said softly, almost too soft for the others to catch, "I will knock louder."
Walker frowned, confused. "What the hell does that mean?"
"Nothing," Yelena replied smoothly, spearing a bite of eggs. "Just girl talk."
But her gaze lingered on you a beat longer, then flicked to Bucky—catching, just for a second, the way his jaw had tightened.
✪✪✪✪✪
Later that morning, after breakfast had broken up and the others scattered through the tower, you slipped back toward Bucky's quarters. He was already waiting inside, pacing like a caged animal, his hands raking through his hair.
The door shut behind you with a quiet click.
"Doll—" His voice was low, a growl edged with frustration. "You've got to be more careful."
Your brows lifted. "Me? James, you're the one who nearly gave us away with that jaw clench across the table."
He scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. "I didn't—" He stopped, exhaling sharply. "Okay, maybe I did. But Yelena was already sniffing around, and then she pulled that stunt in front of everyone..."
You stepped closer, reaching up to touch his arm. "She's just testing us. And we didn't break, did we?"
Bucky muttered something under his breath, grumbling like he always did when he knew you were right. His eyes softened slightly when they met yours, but the worry was still there, etched into the lines of his face.
"She's too damn smart," he said finally. "She notices things the others don't. The way I look at you... the way you—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "One slip and it's over."
You gave him a small smile, brushing your thumb along the seam of his hoodie. "It's not over, James. It's us. And we've hidden bigger things before."
He let out a low chuckle, humorless, and pulled you into his chest. His arms tightened around you, his chin resting in your hair. "Doesn't mean I like it. I hate having to pretend like you're not mine in front of them."
"They have to find out soon anyway, before my husband comes home in a few weeks from his business trip." You laugh lightly.
That finally tugged a small smile from him, a real one, rare and fleeting. He pressed a kiss against your temple. "That is a little funny, having him 'come for dinner' and it's just me."
For a moment, the world outside—the suspicion, the secrets, the games—faded. It was just him, his warmth, and the quiet steadiness of being held by Bucky Barnes.
✪✪✪✪✪
The common room smelled faintly of coffee and bacon, sunlight slanting across the table where the team had gathered for breakfast. Bucky was slouched on the couch, arms crossed, half-lidded eyes tracking you as you poured yourself a cup of coffee.
You quipped lightly as you reached for the sugar, "Careful, Barnes. You might spill all that brooding before breakfast."
He let out a low, almost inaudible snort, and then... a small, genuine smile tugged at his lips.
The team froze. Forks hovered mid-air. Bob blinked. John's orange juice paused halfway to his mouth. Ava leaned forward, eyebrows shooting up.
"Wait... did he just—smile?" Walker asked, dumbfounded.
Bob shook his head. "He's flirting. With a married woman!"
Bucky's grin faltered into a half-scowl, but he didn't deny it. Instead, his gaze softened as it landed back on you. "I don't flirt," he muttered under his breath.
Yelena, lounging across the table, leaned forward, eyes sharp. "Shall we talk about your husband? Or the wedding?" Her tone was casual, but her gaze pierced. "Where did you get married? What did you wear?"
You set your coffee down, keeping your expression neutral. "He's a soldier," you said evenly. "Not around much, but we make it work."
The team stared, their disbelief palpable. Bob almost choked on his cereal. John muttered something under his breath. Ava leaned back, shaking her head in wonder.
"And the wedding?" Yelena pressed.
"Liberty Warehouse in Brooklyn," you said softly, letting a trace of warmth creep into your voice. "There were lots of people there—friends, family. He wore a black tux. I wore a pink dress. We had music we loved, people we loved, food we loved. My husband is a big dancer so we did a lot of that. It was really perfect for us."
Yelena hummed thoughtfully. "Busy soldier husband, big wedding, lots of people... clever."
✪✪✪✪✪
Your apartment was nothing like the Tower. Where the compound was sleek, modern, and impersonal, your space was bright and lived-in, bursting with color and warmth. Sunlight spilled across the hardwood floors, catching the leaves of trailing vines that hung from shelves and clay pots perched on the windowsills. Pillows and throws in mismatched colors were scattered across the couch, and framed photos lined the walls in an intentionally chaotic collage: some tilted slightly, some large and some small, all telling the story of a life well-loved.
Bucky lingered there, drawn to one particular cluster of frames. His eyes traced over the wedding photos: mismatched frames filled with frozen laughter, bright lights, soft touches, and stolen glances. His chest tightened in a way he couldn't explain.
He didn't hear you approach until your hand brushed lightly over his back, grounding him. You pressed your head against his shoulder, following his gaze.
"Lost in thought?" you asked softly.
He huffed, but didn't pull away. "Just... remembering."
The picture in the center of the collage was of the ceremony itself. The Liberty Warehouse in Brooklyn stretched out over the water, the red brick patio dressed with rows of white chairs. Overhead, strands of string lights cut across the open air, bulbs glowing faintly against the fading daylight. A wooden chuppah stood at the edge of the pier, draped in sheer fabric and twined with vines and yellow flowers. Beyond it, the harbor opened wide, the Statue of Liberty watching from a distance as if she'd been invited herself.
You tilted your head, smiling faintly. "It was a short ceremony," you said, your voice softened by nostalgia. "Exactly how we wanted it. Straight to the fun."
"You wore that pink dress," Bucky said, lips curving at the memory. "All soft and glittery. Thought you were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen."
You nudged him gently. "You weren't bad yourself. Black tux, sharp as hell... but you had the pink pocket square. That made me cry."
He smirked, eyes flicking to yours. "That was the goal."
You chuckled, then grew quiet as your eyes found another frame. "We didn't even get five minutes before we snuck away," you whispered, recalling the way his hand had stolen yours that night, tugging you into the shadows of the warehouse to steal a moment just for the two of you. "We just wanted to be alone... to celebrate that we were finally husband and wife."
Bucky swallowed, his throat tight. "Worth every second."
The collage told more stories, and together you began to relive them.
"Sam," Bucky muttered, half a laugh escaping. "Man couldn't shut up about being best man. Said he was the best damn choice I'd ever made in my life."
"He was right," you teased.
His eyes softened then, landing on a smaller photo of the front row. A single chair sat empty, a picture of Steve resting on the seat, a tiny tea candle flickering in front of it. Bucky didn't say anything for a long moment, just let the memory pass between you in the silence.
You broke it gently. "He was there in spirit. And I swear... the way the candle didn't go out all night? That was him."
Bucky nodded, jaw tightening before he exhaled. "Yeah. That was him."
The rest of the night had been chaos—music, laughter, voices calling your names from every corner. You had danced until your feet ached, twirling through both modern songs you'd picked together and the old 40s tunes that always pulled Bucky back to a time when life had been simpler. For him, it was nostalgia; for you, it was a way of holding on to every version of him, past and present. Between the greetings and congratulations, you stole quick kisses, whispered I love yous, and laughed at the strange rhythm of it all.
"It wasn't perfect," you said quietly, "but it was perfect for us."
Bucky smiled, leaning down to brush his lips against your temple. "Yeah. Ours. That's what mattered."
The memory didn't end with the last song, though. That night had carried over into your hotel room, where the laughter and music faded into something slower, deeper, more intimate. Where you celebrated in the most private way a husband and wife could.
You slipped your arm around his waist, grounding him in both the memory and the present. "Still the best night of my life," you whispered.
Bucky let himself smile, soft and rare. "Mine too, doll. Mine too."
✪✪✪✪✪
The kitchen smelled of roasted peppers and cumin, steam rising from the skillet as you carried tray after tray to the table. The Thunderbolts were loud already—chairs scraping, voices overlapping, Walker bitching like always.
"HYDRA again," Ava said, rolling her eyes as she tore into a tortilla chip. "Feels like the universe has run out of villains and is recycling the leftovers."
"Yeah, leftovers that bite back," Walker muttered. "You knock one down and two more pop up. It's like they breed."
"Disgusting visual," Bob said flatly, nursing his beer.
Ava grinned. "Better than your contribution, which is always 'doom and gloom.'"
The banter bounced around the table, but at the far end, Bucky sat quieter, rolling his dog tags between his fingers. The metal clicked softly against his palm, the movement quick and restless. You noticed—of course you did. You always noticed.
You set down a tray in front of him, brushing your fingers across his shoulder in a quick squeeze. His dog tags stilled, his shoulders loosening just enough to show he'd felt it.
That was when Yelena's eyes snapped up, catching everything.
She leaned back in her chair, chewing slowly, her gaze sharp as a blade. "Funny," she said, her accent curling around the word.
Walker squinted at her. "What's funny?"
"You." She gestured between you and Bucky with her fork. "Our medic here knows exactly how to calm Soldier Boy when he starts rattling his chains. Very attentive, hm?"
The table went quiet.
Ava raised her brows, glancing between you two with open curiosity. Walker smirked. "Hold up. Is Barnes actually flirting with a married woman? Tell me I'm not hallucinating."
Your cheeks heated, but before you could speak, Yelena pressed harder. "So, tell us, what is he like? This husband of yours. Must be very understanding." Her eyes cut to Bucky as she said it, daring him to flinch.
You set the last plate down, carefully keeping your voice steady. "I told you already. He's a soldier. Doesn't get to be around much."
"Mm." Yelena twirled her fork, unimpressed. "And tell us again about this wedding. Where was it again?"
"The Liberty Warehouse," you answered, smoothing your napkin onto your lap.
Yelena tilted her head, studying you like a cat with cornered prey. "Let me guess—white, long veil, traditional vows?"
"Not at all," you said, smiling softly despite the knot in your chest. "It was a pink dress. Short ceremony, lots of dancing."
Walker barked a laugh. "Pink? Damn, Barnes, you hearing this? Guy's wife is way out of your league."
Bucky smirked just faintly, shaking his head. "Yeah. I've heard that before."
Ava narrowed her eyes, suspicion sparking. Yelena didn't let up either, her grin sharp. "And the music? The flowers? The cake?"
You chuckled, trying to deflect. "You sure you don't want to see the photo album while you're at it?"
"Oh, I do," Yelena said sweetly, but her eyes were cold.
The tension at the table was so thick it could be cut with one of Bucky's knives. Everyone's food sat cooling on their plates, untouched, as Yelena leaned forward with that foxlike smile.
"And the cake?" she pressed, her fork clinking against her plate. "You skipped that part."
Your lips parted, but before you could answer, Bucky's hand slammed down on the table. Silverware rattled, Walker cursed, Bob jumped so hard his drink sloshed.
"Enough," Bucky growled, his voice low and sharp.
The room went dead silent.
Yelena didn't flinch, only arched an eyebrow. "What, did I hit a nerve?"
Bucky's jaw worked, his metal hand curling tight against the wood. For a second, he seemed to wrestle with himself, like he could still drag the secret back into the shadows. But then his flesh hand dropped to the chain at his throat, tugging the dog tags out from underneath his shirt where everyone could see.
The tags swung once, clinking together—except they weren't alone.
There, threaded beside the scratched metal, glinted a simple gold band.
Your wedding ring.
The air shifted instantly.
Walker blinked. "Wait. Hold up—" He pointed like he'd just spotted Bigfoot. "That's not just dog tags."
Ava's eyes widened, darting between the ring and Bucky's stony face. "No. Way."
Yelena leaned back in her chair, lips curling in triumph. "Ha. I knew it."
Alexei laughs loudly, "Wonderful news!"
You swallowed hard, your heart thundering in your chest. But Bucky beat you to it, his voice rough but certain as he looked across the table—not at them, but at you.
"She's not married to some guy in New York," he said. "She's married to me."
The silence broke in a rush.
Walker threw his hands up. "You've gotta be kidding me. Barnes? Mister sunshine-and-rainbows himself?"
Ava laughed, sharp and disbelieving. "All those looks, all the flirting—oh my god, it makes sense now."
Bob sputtered. "You mean—you've been sneaking around under our noses like teenagers?"
Yelena only smirked, pleased as a cat with cream. "Finally. Now I can sleep at night."
You wanted to melt into the floor, but Bucky kept his eyes steady on you, his thumb brushing over the ring on the chain before tucking it back against his chest.
"Yeah," he said simply, almost daring them to argue. "She's my wife. And I'm not sorry about it."
For a long moment, no one said anything. The words She's my wife still hung in the air, suspended above the table like smoke.
Then Walker barked out a laugh. "Alright. No, seriously. Who put you up to this? Barnes doesn't date. Let alone—" he gestured at you, incredulous, "get married."
Bob leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Wait—you expect us to believe that she—" he waved his fork in your direction, "fell for you? Mister doom-and-gloom? How the hell did that happen?"
Ava smirked, crossing her arms. "Yeah, explain this. Because I have seen you brood at walls for hours, Barnes. Hard to imagine anyone voluntarily signing up for a lifetime of that."
"I love the idea that her husband loves dancing... her husband being Barnes," Walker added, laughing and surprised all at once.
Bucky growled under his breath, but you reached over and rested your hand on his arm. His shoulders dropped just a fraction. You lifted your chin, meeting the team's curious stares head-on.
"We met at the restaurant I was working at," you said simply.
They leaned in as if you'd just dropped the opening line of a thriller.
Walker snorted. "Barnes? In a restaurant? That alone is suspicious."
But your gaze softened as the memory unfolded in your mind.
It had been a quiet night. The dinner rush was over, and the last of the customers were filtering out into the Brooklyn night. You were tired, hair pulled up, apron dusted with flour and grease stains you'd given up trying to scrub out. That was when he walked in.
At first, you didn't recognize him for who he was—the Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier, the ghost of a hundred history books. To you, he was just a man who looked like he hadn't smiled in a long time. He sat down at the counter and ordered a coffee, low voice rasping like gravel. You poured it, tried a little joke about how strong he wanted it. To your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitched.
You talked as you worked, cleaning up the counters, restocking silverware. It was small talk at first, but there was something about the way his eyes lingered on you—not sharp and guarded, like the man he was known to be, but curious. Almost... hopeful. You told him your shift would end around ten. He didn't say much then, only nodded, finished his coffee, and left.
But at ten-oh-five, when you walked out the door with your jacket slung over your arm, there he was. Leaning against the brick wall, hands shoved in his pockets like he wasn't sure if he belonged there. You stopped, startled. He looked up at you and said, "Buy you a drink?"
The bar was small, dimly lit, tucked away on a corner that tourists didn't bother with. You both ordered beers, and for hours you talked. Not about missions, not about his past, not about the name that followed him everywhere. Just... life. Favorite songs. How you hated the smell of bleach in the morning. How he liked the sound of the subway because it made the city feel alive. The longer you talked, the more the weight seemed to slip off his shoulders. By the end of the night, you realized he'd smiled more than once. And each time, it made your heart flip.
You came back to yourself, smiling faintly at the memory. "That's how it started. A coffee, a couple beers, and a lot of talking."
The table erupted.
"Wait—" Walker slapped the table. "Barnes flirted in public? With strangers around?"
"That's impossible," Bob agreed. "The man doesn't even flirt with us, and we're irresistible."
Ava pointed a fork at Bucky, eyes narrowing. "You actually went back to meet her? Same night? Barnes, that's practically romantic comedy behavior."
Bucky muttered something under his breath that sounded like "shut up," his ears pinking.
Yelena leaned in, her tone softer now but still probing. "So... what then? He just charmed you with brooding silence? Because, I have to admit, I'm still not seeing it."
You smiled gently, your hand brushing Bucky's arm again. "There are parts of him that are just for me. That's all I'll say about that. But I love him very much."
The warmth in your tone silenced the table. Even Yelena didn't have a retort right away.
Bucky ducked his head, a quiet flush creeping into his cheeks. He reached for your hand under the table, squeezing once, and for the first time in front of the Thunderbolts, he didn't pull away.
✪✪✪✪✪
The tower had finally quieted. The laughter, the teasing, the shock of the Thunderbolts learning the truth had all dissolved into the hush of midnight. The city outside hummed with life, but in your apartment, it was only you and him.
Bucky sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, dog tags slipping through his fingers. The chain caught the light, and you could see the faint glint of his wedding band threaded between them. He hadn't tucked it back under his shirt yet.
You leaned against the doorway, watching him for a moment before speaking. "You know," you said softly, "I always thought it'd be me who slipped first. I never imagined you would be the one to tell them."
He huffed out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "Neither did I." His thumb rolled over the edge of the ring again, back and forth. "Guess I just... couldn't do it anymore. Listening to the grilling and you talking about your husband like it isn't literally me."
You crossed the room, sliding onto the couch beside him. He immediately leaned into you, his weight heavy, grounding, as though he could finally rest.
"So," you murmured, tilting your head to look at him, "how do you feel now that everyone knows?"
For a long moment, he didn't answer. Then he exhaled, deep and shaky, and turned his head toward you. His blue eyes caught the lamplight, open in a way that still startled you sometimes.
"Relieved," he admitted. "So relieved. For once in my life, I don't have to hide the best thing that ever happened to me. They can laugh, they can tease—hell, Walker can choke on his disbelief for all I care. Doesn't matter. Because they know now. They know I've got you."
Your throat tightened, and you reached up to cup his cheek. "James," you whispered, letting the name settle in the air between you. His eyes softened at it, his hand coming up to hold yours in place.
"I love you," you said simply.
He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, voice low and rough. "I love you too. More than I thought I could love anything again."
A small smile curved your lips. You traced your thumb over his stubble, memorizing the warmth of the moment. "I can't wait to love you out loud."
Bucky closed his eyes, breathing that in like a promise. Then he kissed you—slow, tender, lingering, as if sealing the words into forever.
And for the first time in a long time, James Buchanan Barnes let himself believe he deserved this kind of peace.
———
Thanks for reading<3 Just a reminder that my requests are open! I’d love to hear from you!
you loosen your gear as soon as you get in the bedroom. your shoulders roll back like you’re trying to physically shake off the day. “oh my god.” you groan, reaching your arms upwards to stretch.
katsuki walks in the house a few minutes after you. he shuts the door and you hear him greet the doberman you owned. he strides into the bedroom, taking the top of his costume off. “that mission was hell on earth.” he murmured. his eyes scanned you while you rubbed at your shoulders.
you whine and nod. “yeah. but we did it.” he jerks his chin upwards. “what’s up with your shoulder?” you shake your head.
“nothing. just sore.” you say simply. you still have to take off your boots so you sit on the edge of the bed and lean over to do that. katsuki maneuvers around the bed and he kneels in front of you. he reaches for the strings on your boots and loosens them. you sigh. “you don’t have to do—“
his eyes snap up to you, eyebrows raising as if he’s warning you. you slouch your shoulders and lean back, letting him take off your boots. “thank you.” you whisper. he’s gotten much softer than high school. he does the smallest things yet they still make your chest flutter. you tilt your head as he pulls off your second boot. “kiss me,” you say. katsuki tosses your other shoe to the side and he stands up. he pulls you up by your arms and pecks you on the lips. you grab his collar and tug him closer, wanting another kiss or two.
he wraps his hand around your wrist and tilts his head. “don’t try to distract yourself. take your ass in the shower, I’ll meet you in there.” katsuki says. you sigh obnoxiously. “you’re no fun.”
still though, you take your ass to the bathroom and get in the shower. he meets you in there like he said and helps you rid yourself of the dirt and soot from your body before he does his own. his hands run along your shoulders and he stops mid-way. “your shoulders are tight as hell. you been stretching?”
you freeze as if you’ve been caught red handed. “nno…” katsuki sucks his teeth. “oh, come on.” he complains, flicking the back of your head. “ow!” you yelped.
“you should be stretching!” katsuki scolds. his thumbs dig into your shoulders and you whimper. “ouch! quit it!” you swat at his hands and he smacks your hands away. “if you stretched, this wouldn’t be an issue. stay still.”
you sigh, tears prickling your eyes. “it hurts.” you sob quietly into the air, bowing your head forward. katsuki hushed behind you, kissing the nape of you neck with one quick smooch, “i know baby, but I gotta massage it out. it’ll feel better when I’m done, trust me.” you sniffle and lean forward a little. his thumbs press into the tight knots at the base of your shoulders again, firmer this time. you let out a shaky breath. after a few more of those caresses, his grip eases and he lets up.
“better?” he asks. you roll your shoulders slowly, the tightness still there but looser than earlier. “yeah,” you admit. the shower ends and you two pass out before even eating dinner. the mission was rough, but falling asleep in each other’s arms afterwards was more than worth it.
from yuumi , I’m genuinely in a tough spot mentally right now but writing makes everything so much better. I’ll be posting frequently for the past few days, but if i go mia for a while, i shall return lmao. Thank you guys so much for 1.5k followers i know it’s not much but seriously thank you.
LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "You with the dark curls, you with the watercolor eyes / You who bares all your teeth in every smile" - Lady Lamb, Dear Arkansas Daughter
ᝰ PAIRING: lando norris x reader | ᝰ WC: 5.5K
ᝰ GENRE: best friends to lovers (we cheered!), reader = ex karting driver + med student, you have loved lando since the day you met etc etc etc
ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: fun fact - the colors used in the title/headings on this post are actually the colors of lando's eyes from this post // this was a behemoth of a fic to write and i'm still nto entirely pleased, but the people yearn for lando norris ꨄ requested by anon!
send me an ask for my line by line event.ᐟ
The first time you see Lando Norris, he’s face-down in the mud, crying because someone called him a posh baby in the paddock, and you think he’s the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen.
There’s mud crusted on his cheek like it belongs there, curls pressed damp to his forehead, and his whole face is crumpled like paper in a storm. He’s got one sock half off and a fresh scab on his shin, and still, somehow, he looks like he belongs in a painting. The messy kind. Watercolor, probably. Something soft and bleeding at the edges, impossible to frame.
He’s eight and you’re eight and a half, which means you get to say things like “it’s okay, babies cry,” even though you don’t really mean it. He wipes his face on his sleeve and looks up at you with blotchy cheeks and kaleidoscope eyes, like someone spilled a little too much green into blue, and says, “I’m not a baby.” You believe him.
You sit next to him on the curb, knees knocking together, watching his kart like it’s some sacred thing. The sky is gray, threatening rain, and he’s all flushed skin and scraped palms and frustration.
“They’re just jealous,” you mutter.
He doesn’t look at you. “Of what? That I cry like a baby?”
“No,” you say. “That your eyelashes are stupid long and you drive like the kart owes you money.”
That gets a huff out of him. Half-sob, half-laugh.
You offer him your juice box. He doesn’t smile, but he bares his teeth when he takes it, all crooked and endearing and real. That’s the thing about Lando. He’s always been real.
He holds out a sticky, dirt-streaked hand.
“I’m Lando.”
“I know,” you say. “Everyone knows.”
You shake his hand anyway.
A month later, you beg your parents to sign you up for the junior karting class — not because you like cars (you don’t, really), but because you like him. Or maybe just the way he lights up when he talks about apexes and engine sounds like they’re things that breathe.
You come home smelling like oil. Your knuckles blister from gripping the wheel too hard. You cry once when you spin out and hit the barriers; but he’s there, pulling your helmet off like you’re made of glass, telling you, “You looked cool, though. Like, action movie cool.”
He makes you want to win. So you start trying.
When you’re eleven, he wins a race with his hair slicked back by sweat and wind, curls flattened into chaos. He leaps from the kart like he’s weightless, helmet swinging from one hand like a trophy of its own, and the grin he throws at you — all teeth, no restraint — nearly knocks you over.
“Did you see that?” he shouts, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Did you see?”
You did. Every lap. Every line. You saw the way his hands tightened before the last corner, the way his shoulders settled like he’d already decided to win.
You hand him his water bottle.
“You were okay.”
He gasps. “Just okay?”
“You’ll be cooler when you stop smiling like you’re showing your teeth to the dentist.”
He grins wider. Shoves you lightly with the back of his hand.
“Admit it. I looked sick.”
He did. He always does. Even like this, eyes stormy and pale all at once, flushed with the kind of joy that doesn’t need to be explained. He’s not handsome yet, not in the way the magazines will call him later. But there’s something about the way he holds a moment. The way you can’t look away when he’s in it.
Later that summer, you win.
It’s not a big race. Junior category, barely a crowd —but he’s there. Leans so far over the barrier during your final lap the marshal tells him to get down before he falls in.
You don’t hear the cheering. You don’t even feel the medal when they hang it around your neck. All you feel is Lando barreling toward you at the speed of light, helmet in one hand, arms wide, like you’re the one who gave him wings.
“You were flying,” he breathes, practically vibrating. “You were magic.”
You pretend to scoff. “Guess I’m not just here to hand you water bottles.”
He pulls you into a hug anyway. No hesitation. Just heat and sweat and the faint scent of petrol and whatever soap he uses. His heart’s pounding against your shoulder like he’s the one who just won.
Later, when you look at the photos, you don’t care about the trophy in your hands. You care about the boy behind you — curls wild, smiling so hard it looks like it hurts.
At fifteen, you start noticing the way other girls notice him.
It starts in Italy, or maybe Spain. Somewhere with sunburnt afternoons and the scent of burnt rubber curling off the asphalt like smoke. The girls linger after his heats now. They lean too close and laugh too loudly. Twisting their hair, asking if he’s going to the after-party, the lake, the whatever.
You stand beside him in the hoodie he gave you two summers ago: faded navy, sleeves chewed at the cuffs. It smells like sunscreen and old fabric and something unnameable that has always just been him. You pick at the hem while they talk, eyes on his profile.
The same boy you’ve known since he was sobbing on a curb with gravel in his socks has started to shimmer, like something just out of reach. Something made of light and speed.
His hair’s longer now, curling wild at the edges of his helmet. His smile’s the same, though. All teeth, all instinct. It still takes up half his face like he hasn’t learned how to hide anything yet.
But he doesn’t smile at them. He never does.
He looks at you.
“You’re quiet,” he says, tugging at the drawstring of your hoodie.
You shrug. “I’m always quiet.”
“Not with me.”
He says it like a secret. Like he likes that about you — that there’s a version of yourself reserved just for him. You don’t say anything back, because you're not sure your voice would work even if you tried.
That night, you find yourselves walking the hotel parking lot, drinking vending machine soda that tastes faintly like metal and sugar. The sky's a navy bruise, and everything hums: the street lamps, the asphalt, your pulse.
“You’re kind of becoming a big deal,” you say, finally.
He laughs, low and a little shy, like you’ve caught him off-guard.
“Don’t say that,” he says. “I’ll get cocky.”
“You already are.” You bump his arm with yours. It’s too dark to see his face clearly, but you know he’s smiling wide, teeth and all, like he’s baring it just for you.
And maybe he is.
Because even now, even with sponsors circling and flights booked across Europe, even with interviews and mechanics and the way his name sounds over loudspeakers, he still comes to your races.
He’ll show up between practice sessions with a baseball cap pulled low and sunglasses that don’t do much to hide him. You’ll spot him first, sitting on the pit wall like he’s always belonged there, one leg swinging like a kid with too much energy.
“Why do you still come?” you ask him once, after you’d placed second and felt like it wasn’t enough.
He shrugged. “Because I like watching you win.”
You think about that now, under the flicker of a buzzing lamp, watching the way his lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks when he looks at you. His eyes are still that strange in-between — not quite blue, not quite grey, always shifting like skies about to storm.
Like watercolor left out in the rain.
You look away first.
You always do.
At sixteen, you run until your lungs burn. You don’t stop until your fists hit his front door, nails bitten down to nothing and eyes already stinging. He opens it in a hoodie three sizes too big, and the second he sees your face, he doesn’t ask.
He just pulls you in.
You’re crying too hard to speak at first, shoulders shaking, throat raw. He closes the door behind you and guides you to the stairs like it’s muscle memory, like this has happened before, and maybe it has, in smaller ways. Skinned knees. Lost heats. Bad days.
But this is different.
“They’re making me quit,” you finally get out. “They said— they said I have to focus on school. On real life.”
You say it like a curse. Like “real life” is something you never asked for.
Lando’s quiet for a moment. His hand curls around your wrist, thumb brushing a soothing rhythm over your pulse. His eyes — moss green in the dark — watch you without blinking. Always watching. Always knowing.
“Come on,” he says.
You frown. “Where?”
“Just— trust me.”
He doesn’t wait for you to agree. He just grabs his keys and your hand and pulls you out into the night. The wind has teeth. The sky hangs low, indigo and velvet. When you realize where you’re going, your heart breaks all over again.
The track sits behind the hill, silent and sleeping.
Lando hops the gate first, then turns and offers you his hand. You take it, fingers cold in his. He pulls you over like it’s nothing.
The lights are off, but the moon’s enough. It glints off the asphalt, pale and silver, the same way the sun used to gleam on your helmet when you’d throw it off at the end of a race, breathless and laughing. Back when your name had a number next to it and your dreams had engines.
Lando walks the edge of the track, then steps aside, gestures toward the start line like he’s offering you a crown.
“One more,” he says. “For old time’s sake.”
You laugh, watery and shaking. “There’s no kart, idiot.”
He shrugs. “Run it.”
So you do.
You take off, sneakers slapping the track, heart thudding like it’s trying to break through your ribs. Your hair whips behind you, tangled and wild, and you run like you used to race: reckless, full tilt, like the only thing that’s ever made sense is forward.
The wind hits your face and the tears dry on your cheeks and the world blurs around the edges. You run with everything you are; for every lap you’ll never finish, every podium you won’t stand on, every flame they’re trying to snuff out of you.
When you make it back to him, gasping and breathless, Lando is watching like he always does, with something quiet and fierce behind his eyes. Like he sees not just you, but the version of you the world won’t let exist anymore.
You collapse next to him, panting. He says nothing for a long time. Just sits beside you on the track, knees pulled to his chest, hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands.
“You’ll come back to it,” he says eventually, soft like the curve of a turn. “I know you will.”
You don’t answer. You can’t.
He glances over, and for a moment, he looks like a boy again: the same boy with curls damp from rain, whose smile could split the sky. A boy who’s watched you win, lose, burn, rebuild. A boy who’s carried your dreams in the quiet way he carries everything.
“Besides,” he says, nudging your knee, “I’m still gonna win stuff. Someone’s gotta keep me humble.”
You laugh, finally — a real one. It cracks through the ache like sunlight through smoke.
“Always with the fast mouth,” you murmur. “And an ego the size of an engine.”
He grins. All teeth. Unashamed. Something ancient flutters in your chest, something that’s always been there but has never had the nerve to speak.
You don’t say you are the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen, but you think it.
You don’t say I’ve loved you since I was eight and a half, but maybe he knows.
Maybe he always has.
By eighteen, Lando’s face is in magazines. He’s a headline now, a profile shot under stadium lights, a name that doesn’t need explaining anymore. He smiles with his whole face — wide and unguarded — and sometimes you see a photo that feels so much like him you have to close the tab and sit with your hands in your lap, breathing slowly.
You still see the boy who once spilled chocolate milk all down his overalls at Silverstone and sobbed so hard he hiccupped for twenty minutes. The one who used to braid daisy chains into the laces of your boots between heats. But now there are articles that say things like rising star and British darling, and he fits in their glossy pages better than he should.
He FaceTimes you after qualifying P1 for the first time. It’s late, past midnight, and you’re still in the library, alone but for the hum of the vending machine and the ache behind your eyes. You almost don’t pick up.
But then you see his name flash on the screen — 🚦LAN-DON’T CRASH🚦 — and your stomach flips like it used to before lights out.
He’s still in his race suit, curls a mess of damp ringlets, cheeks flushed like he’s been running. There’s something in his eyes, too: watercolor green, vivid and blurred around the edges, like adrenaline and disbelief have soaked into his skin.
His smile breaks the second you answer. Wide and wild and so familiar it stings.
“Did you watch?” he says, already breathless.
“Obviously,” you say, tipping your phone back so he can see the chemistry notes scattered across the desk. “Had it up on mute during organic synthesis. You’re lucky I didn’t scream when you took the final sector.”
“You think I was okay?”
“You were sick.”
He pumps a fist and flops back onto some impossibly white hotel bed, still grinning like a kid who’s snuck past curfew. The camera wobbles, then steadies on his face again: flushed and freckled, sweat still clinging to his jaw. He looks happy.
You used to know that feeling. That kind of high. The kind that only came with rubber and gasoline and the blur of corners taken clean.
Your helmet lives in the back of your closet now, tucked behind winter coats and forgotten notebooks. You’ve traded it for lab goggles and timed exams, for ink-stained hands and the quiet sort of excellence no one applauds. Your medals sit in a shoebox beneath your bed, and you haven’t opened it in over a year. You tell people you’re pre-med now. That it’s what you’ve always wanted.
Two years have dulled the ache. Sandpapered it down from a blade to something you can live with. Sometimes you still dream of the track, of the smell of rubber and the scream of engines, but you wake up and make coffee and keep studying until the want quiets again.
Lando watches you for a second. He sees things other people don’t — always has.
“You good?” he asks, voice soft now, like it used to be when he’d sneak out to meet you by the tire stacks after dark.
You nod, a little too fast. “Yeah. Just tired.”
He raises an eyebrow, not buying it. “What are you working on?”
You sigh and flip your notebook toward the screen. “Chemical compounds. I’ve got a practical on Monday. Enantiomers, ketones, the whole gang.”
He makes a face. “Nerd.”
“National treasure,” you correct, dryly. “And future doctor, maybe.”
He lights up at that. “Sick. You can be my medic when I crash.”
You roll your eyes. “So I’ll see you, what, every weekend?”
“Exactly,” he says, smug. “We’re soulmates, remember?”
You want to say, you with the stupid grin, you with the disaster curls, you with the heartbeat I could always find in the noise.But instead, you shake your head and say, “God help your insurance.”
He laughs, throws his head back, bares every tooth like he always does. There’s a soft curve in the center of his front two that never straightened out, even after braces. You used to tell him he looked like a Labrador when he smiled like that. You still think it now, but it feels like something tender and sacred, like a memory you keep pressed between pages.
“I miss you,” he says, quieter now.
You don’t say I miss the version of me that only exists around you.You just whisper, “Yeah. I know.”
The call ends eventually. It always does. But you sit there for a while after, your notebook untouched, watching the ghost of his smile in your screen’s reflection.
You’re twenty-one and a half when Lando sneaks into your college graduation. You don’t see him at first. You’re too busy sweating in your robe, clutching your diploma like it might disappear, wondering if your cap looks stupid in photos. Your parents wave from the stands, your friends cheer, and you try to hold still long enough to soak it in — but it never lands quite right. Everything feels too big, too loud, too fast.
Until he finds you.
Until he hugs you from behind and says, low in your ear, “Told you you’d look cool in a cape.”
You twist around, and there he is, in a hoodie pulled low over those unmistakable curls, sunglasses at night like the world’s worst disguise. His smile is crooked, tired. Familiar.
“What the fuck,” you whisper. “Aren’t you supposed to be—”
He grins wider. “I skipped media day.”
Your jaw drops.
“Shhh,” he adds, holding a finger to your lips. “I’ll get yelled at later. Worth it.”
You don’t know whether to laugh or hit him. So you do both —thump his arm, then drag him into a hug, still warm from the sun and whatever it means to grow up.
He stays through the party, tucked into the background, stealing finger food and smiling like he’s always belonged. He doesn’t pull attention the way he does on track. Here, he just… exists beside you. Quietly. Constantly. Every time you turn around, he’s already looking.
Later, long after the music dies and your parents have gone to bed, the two of you end up on the grass in your front yard, barefoot, robes ditched, diplomas crumpled somewhere behind you. The stars are blurry, a little from distance, a little from everything else.
He lies flat on his back, arms spread like a kid making snow angels, and says, “I’ve got a flight in two hours.”
You hum. “FP1?”
He nods.
You both fall quiet. The silence between you has never been uncomfortable. It stretches like elastic, worn in with years of knowing — from tire stacks and afterschool karting, from night tracks and vending machines, from every version of growing up that had the other curled into its corner.
“I’m scared,” you admit, finally. “For med school.”
Lando turns his head to look at you. You’re lying close, your hair fanned out against the grass, fingers plucking gently at the blades. You don’t meet his eyes, but you feel them on you. The color of seafoam, soft in the dark. The kind that still knocks the breath out of you when you're not bracing for it.
“You’ll be great.”
You scoff. “You don’t know that.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Why?”
There’s a rustle of denim and hoodie fabric, and then he’s sitting up, pulling something from his pocket. A worn-out square of photo paper, crumpled and soft at the edges. He presses it into your hand.
You blink. It’s a picture of the two of you, age nine, arms thrown around each other in the pit lane. His curls are messy and stuck to his forehead, flushed cheeks stretched in a grin so big you can count every tooth. You’re buried in his side, beaming up at him like he hung the sky. Lando’s holding a trophy, but even then, he’s not looking at it. He’s looking at you.
“You gave me your gummy worms right after that,” he says. “Said I earned it.”
You run your thumb over the crease down the middle. The image is faded now, but you remember the moment like it’s stitched into you.
He says it like it’s obvious. Like gravity. “Because we’re soulmates. And I feel it in my bones.”
You don’t answer right away. You can’t.
The stars above you scatter like sugar across navy velvet. Your eyes sting.
“You know,” you say after a while, voice low, “If you crash, I’ll be the one stitching you back together.”
He grins. Not his media-trained one — not the sharp, rehearsed smile he wears under paddock lights — but the real one. The one that splits across his face without warning. That bares all his teeth like he’s never learned to hold anything back. That’s lived on every page of your memory since you were old enough to chase him across a track.
“That’s hot,” he teases.
You roll your eyes. “You’re a nightmare.”
“But I’m your nightmare.”
And that’s the thing, isn’t it?
It’s always been him.
Him with eyes that shift with the light, that catch everything, that still find you first.
You with your goggles and your notebooks. Him with his fireproof gloves and nowhere to land.
You, who traded circuits for classrooms.
Him, who never stopped circling back to you.
He looks at you like he always has, like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.
You think maybe you believe him.
That you’ll be okay.
Because he said so.
Because he always shows up.
Because he’s flying across the world in an hour, but somehow, you’ve never felt more grounded.
At twenty-three, he invites you to Monaco.
You’re dead on your feet when he calls. It’s nearly midnight and you’re cramming for your pathology exam, cross-eyed from the fluorescent lighting in your apartment. You don’t even remember what you said exactly; something like “med school is killing me and I swear to God I haven’t seen the sun in four days.” Laughed it off with the tired grin he knows too well.
You forgot it by morning.
He didn’t.
Now, a week later, you’re barefoot on his balcony, letting the gold-tinged air sink into your skin as the sun sets over the Riviera. The track lies sprawled beneath you like a secret. The sea beyond it glints like something ancient, something wild.
Your breath hitches without meaning to.
“I used to dream about racing this track,” you say, barely above a whisper. “When I was fifteen, I’d watch the onboard cams on my laptop and try to memorize every corner. I knew the lines like poetry.”
Beside you, Lando is quiet. But when you glance over, there’s a glint in his eye, the one that always spelled trouble. Or magic. Or both. His curls are pushed back haphazardly, like he ran a hand through them too many times on the flight, but there’s still that boyishness, untamed and familiar.
“What?” you ask warily.
He doesn’t answer. Just grabs your wrist. “C’mon.”
“Lando—”
“No time. Let’s go.”
You barely have time to yank on your sneakers before he’s dragging you out the door, past the sleepy concierge and down the quiet streets like he’s done it a thousand times. He takes sharp turns with muscle memory, his fingers tight around yours.
Only when the city’s noise has thinned and the streetlights spill onto the famous asphalt do you realize where you are.
“Lando,” you whisper. “We can’t—”
“We’re not driving,” he grins. “Just running it. Like when we were kids, remember?"
“FIA—”
“Would fine me until my hair turns gray.” He pauses. “Still worth it.”
Your heart kicks against your ribs, but your legs are already moving.
You run.
Past Sainte Devote, hair flying behind you. Past the casino, your laughter ricocheting off elegant facades. You’re breathless by the tunnel, aching by the chicane, but he’s still pulling you like he did when you were kids and he insisted you could make it to the top of that hill if you just didn’t stop.
The air smells like salt and speed.
By the time you reach the harbor, your lungs are burning and your face is flushed and he’s glowing, cheeks pink, smile wide, teeth bared like he’s daring the night to find a brighter joy than this. He looks every bit like the boy you fell in love with fifteen years ago.
The one with grass stains on his overalls.
The one whose curls never obeyed a comb.
The one who grinned like mischief itself.
The one whose eyes — not blue, not quite green — shimmered like someone had taken watercolors and washed them into something soft and stupidly beautiful.
You stop, breathless. He does too.
And for a second, it feels like everything’s still. Like the world just pressed pause.
Later, you sit at the edge of the marina, legs swinging over the water. Your shoes are abandoned on the dock. The air is heavy with the scent of engine oil and sea spray. The waves slap gently against the boats, like applause winding down after a show.
Beside you, Lando says nothing.
But you feel him watching.
And when you turn, he’s looking at you like he’s never seen you before.
But of course he has. He’s seen you in worse light: that post-rain haze in your old garage, your hair frizzed to hell and braces catching on your lower lip, oil on your jeans and mud on your ankles. He’s seen you bleary-eyed on FaceTime at 3AM. He’s seen you panicking over exams, crying in the paddock, snorting over bad pizza and better jokes.
Still, he looks at you now like he forgot the color of your laugh until this exact moment brought it back. His hair hangs loose over his forehead, still damp from the run, and the way his mouth twitches — almost a grin, almost not — makes your stomach turn over.
He bumps your knee with his.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod. “Better than okay.”
“You looked happy back there.”
“I was happy back there.”
“Good.” He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “I miss that.”
You glance at him, surprised.
“Miss what?”
“You. Like that.” He exhales, eyes trained on the moon's reflection on the water. “Laughing. Running. Being ridiculous with me.”
You don’t say anything.
He does.
“I miss you all the time,” he says, voice low. “Even when I’m with you.”
Your breath catches.
“You’re always somewhere else now. In your books. In your head. In hospitals I can’t pronounce.”
Your heart tugs at the edges. He doesn’t sound bitter. Just tired. Honest.
“I get it,” he adds. “It’s important. It matters. But sometimes I think about that summer when we were fifteen, and you stole my hoodie, and we made fake pit passes just to sneak into the garage.”
You laugh, quiet. “We were so stupid.”
“We were so happy.”
The silence after that isn’t awkward. It’s full. Like the city’s holding its breath.
You look over at him. Really look.
His lashes are darker now. His jaw’s sharper. A lock of hair curls against his temple, untamed. But he’s still him. Still the boy in the mud, the boy who taught you how to drift on your cousin’s farm, who shared his Capri-Sun at the track because you forgot yours, again. Still the one who taped your wrist when you wiped out in the rain and told you you’d make it to Monaco someday.
And here you are.
“Lando,” you murmur.
“Yeah?”
“I missed you too.”
He doesn’t wait this time.
He kisses you like he’s been waiting years to remember how.
And maybe he has.
Maybe you both have.
The world blurs for a moment: the moon climbing higher, the boats bobbing gently below, the buzz of the city dissolving behind you, and all that’s left is him.
All sun-warmed skin and trembling fingers and eyes the color of every good memory — soft-washed, warm, like light bleeding through a window at golden hour.
He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath mingling with yours.
“I didn’t think you’d let me do that,” he whispers.
“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”
You both laugh. Just a little. Just enough.
You’re twenty-five when you catch him watching you from across a hotel room in Japan. There’s a storm outside, low thunder rolling through the glass, and Lando’s shirt is damp from the run to the lobby. His curls are still wet, clinging to his forehead in loose, chaotic swirls. He should be tired — hell, you’re tired — but he’s watching you like you’re something new.
It’s not the first time he’s looked at you like this. Not by a long shot.
He’s never been subtle about it, not when he warms your hands in his pockets on cold walks back from the paddock, not when he lights up the second your name shows up on his phone. He’s the kind of boy who leaves his heart in plain sight, who grins with his whole body, who never learned how to want quietly.
You feel his gaze before you meet it. The kind that makes your chest go a little soft, like the edges of a photograph curling with time.
“You’re staring,” you say, without looking up from your textbook.
“I’m allowed to,” he replies. “I’m in love with you.”
You blink. Not because you didn’t know — he’s never been subtle — but because of how easily he says it. No drama. No orchestra. Just him. Lando, who once stuck gum in your hair during a twelve-hour drive to Wales. Lando, who whispered you’ve got me into your hair the night your grandmother died. Lando, who still trips over his own shoes in hotel corridors and grins like a child when room service arrives.
You toss a pillow at him. “Say it prettier.”
He catches it one-handed, kaleidoscope eyes glinting in the dim light. Smirks. “You make me want to write poetry, but all I know how to do is drive.”
That shuts you up.
His eyes crinkle at the corners, a blue-green haze in the lightning glow, and he grins wider, like he knows he’s just won something. Like he’d lose a thousand races and still call this the prize.
“Told you,” he murmurs.
There are races, years, chapters.
Seasons where you barely see each other, where you wake up to hotel ceilings and unfamiliar time zones and forget what city you’re in until he kisses your shoulder and mumbles something in a sleep-heavy voice like, It’s Thursday. We’re in Austin. His curls are flattened from sleep, his voice rough at the edges, and his arms still warm from whatever dream he was having.
Sometimes he wins. Sometimes he doesn’t. You never love him any more or less.
He still gets grumpy when he’s hungry, still laughs at memes from 2014, still buys you the weird flavored gum at petrol stations because you used to love this stuff, remember? Still leans into your space like gravity’s something personal. Still has a grin that cracks through your worst moods like sunlight.
There are cameras. Headlines. Speculations.
But you’ve always known who he was.
You know the versions of him that never make it to the press: the quiet frustration of a red flag, the way he presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek when he’s nervous, the silence he sinks into after a loss. The way his curls flop over his forehead when he finally takes off his helmet. The way he says your name when he’s scared. The way he finds you in every crowd like it’s instinct. How his eyes — storm-colored, sometimes soft, sometimes sharp — flick to you the second anything starts to feel too loud.
And you’ve always let him.
You always will.
He’s thirty-one when you find an old photo in a drawer: the two of you, muddy and grinning, barely ten years old. His curls are a mess, more fluff than form. You’re wearing his jacket, sleeves bunched up to your elbows. Neither of you have front teeth. You’re both sun-drenched and ridiculous.
“God,” you mutter, holding it up to the light. “We were a disaster.”
From the kitchen, he says, “Still are.”
You hear the clink of a spoon against ceramic. The rustle of his socks on the tile.
“You still love me?” you call, teasing, but not really.
He appears in the doorway, hoodie half-on, spoon in his mouth. He’s older now — jaw more carved, eyes a little softer around the edges — but the grin he gives you is the same one from every memory that matters. That lopsided, toothy thing like he’s always one second from bursting into laughter. A single curl falls against his temple, and for a moment, it’s hard to tell what year it is.
He swallows and says, “I’ll love you even when we’re bones.”
