The room smells like disinfectant, warm blankets, and that weird hospital air that feels too clean to be real. You’re half propped up in bed, exhausted in that bone-deep, cosmic way, staring at the absolute UNIT swaddled against your chest.
Your baby is… enormous. Respectfully. A marvel of biology. The nurses kept saying things like “wow” and “that’s a strong baby” with the same tone people use when they see a truck doing something illegal.
And Simon?
Simon is unwell.
He’s standing too close to the bed. Too stiff. Like if he locks his knees he’ll pass out. His skull mask is gone, because apparently hospital staff draw the line there and without it, he looks wrecked. Red-eyed. Hair a mess. Hands shaking like he’s about to diffuse a bomb using chopsticks.
Soap walks in first and immediately stops dead.
“…Jesus Christ.”
Price follows. Gaz behind him. All three of them stare.
Soap points. “Is that— is that the baby?”
Gaz squints. “That’s not a baby. That’s a loaf.”
Price clears his throat, deeply impressed. “Strong start. Good head on ‘em.”
Simon makes a noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
“Shes breathing,” he says urgently, like this is breaking news. “She just— she breathes and then she sighs.”
Soap grins. “Yeah mate. That’s what babies do.”
“No,” Simon insists. “This one does it… meaningfully.”
You adjust the baby slightly and Simon flinches like you just tossed a live grenade.
“Careful!” he blurts, then clamps his mouth shut, horrified. “Sorry. I’m sorry. You’re doing perfect. I just”
The baby lets out a tiny grunt. A chunky, offended little noise.
Simon’s entire soul leaves his body.
“She’s mad,” he whispers. “I’ve upset her.”
Gaz is already losing it. “Lt, you look like you’re about to apologize to the Prime Minister.”
Soap leans over the crib. “Blimey. Look at those cheeks. You could lose a man in there.”
The baby’s hand escapes the blanket and immediately grabs Simon’s finger.
Simon freezes. Again.
“…she’s got me,” he says quietly. “I can’t move.”
Price sips his coffee. “You’re a parent now, Simon. Accept your fate.”
Simon looks at you. Completely undone. Voice shaking, eyes soft, like he’s staring at the sun but it’s wrapped in a blanket.
“I don’t know how you did that,” he says, reverent. “You’re incredible. Both of you.”
The baby yawns. Wide. Dramatic. Fat
Soap actually clutches his chest. “I can’t believe this. The scariest man I know just got emotionally KO’d by a newborn.”
Gaz snaps another picture. “This is going on the fridge.”
Simon doesn’t even protest.
He just gently presses his thumb against the baby’s knuckles, whispering like a vow, like a promise, like a man who is absolutely, irrevocably gone.
“Hi, love,” he murmurs. “I’m yer dad. I’ll sort it out. Promise.
Simon Ghost Riley, will not survive becoming a father.
THE MEDIC & THE MASK | LT Simon "Ghost" Riley x Field Doctor! Reader
direct inspiration from this cosplay tiktok, which is a scene from s2 of punisher. you must watch it. it went platinum in my house.
↣ pairing: LT Simon "Ghost" Riley x Field Doctor! Reader
↣ genre: hurt/comfort, guardian complex, shielding you with his body, only soft for you, emotional repression, grumpy/sunshine, protects his little bird at all costs
↣ rating: teen + up
↣ word count: 2.8k
“Easy,” Ghost said, lowering his rifle and stepping forward, slow and deliberate. The sight of her hit harder than he expected - shaking, eyes wide, breaths short and uneven. A wrecked, frightened little thing trying to remember how to breathe. His chest tightened. “Easy,” he said again, softer this time, as if the word itself might steady her hands.
“I-I killed him,” Her voice is cracked and low, the words barely making it past her lips as her eyes stare at the blood still pouring from the soldier on the ground, who’s now rasping for air, moving too much for Simon’s liking.
“Give me th’ gun,” Ghost said, extending a steady hand toward her. His tone was calm but firm, every movement deliberate. She didn’t look at him at first. Her wide, frantic eyes flicked between Ghost and the man dying in the mud, her fingers white around the weapon.
Simon “Ghost” Riley always had a soft spot for the new field doctor.
Too small. Too pure. Too gentle a hand for the brutal world she’d thrown herself into headfirst.
One late night in the mess hall, she told him about her father — an SAS veteran who’d once been saved by a field nurse after a sniper’s round tore through his leg. She said she’d never forgotten that story. Said she wanted to make the same kind of difference, not for the soldiers themselves, but for the wives and daughters waiting at home.
Simon played that conversation over in his head more times than he cared to admit.
The way she’d looked at him — at Ghost — like the worn plain black balaclava didn’t hide most of his face.
The way her voice softened when she spoke about mercy and mending, as if such things could still exist in their world.
And the way she looked so… innocent. Too much light in a place built for darkness.
She worked in the med tent a few clicks back from the line, patching up the ones lucky enough to crawl out alive. He’d pass by sometimes on his way to debrief, catch the faint glow of lamplight through canvas, hear her voice — calm, steady, sweet — above the chaos.
But when he was out on the front lines, Ghost kept one ear tuned to the comms from the forward operating base, the channel she would occasionally chime in on. He told himself it was just habit, just precaution, but it wasn’t. Sometimes, he’d catch her voice cutting through the static, composed even when distant shelling could be heard through in the background. There were times it made him miss a transmission from Johnny or Gaz, but his instincts always covered the lapse. They’d never know. And he’d never admit it — that in the middle of fire and fury, he was sometimes listening for her.
Nothing of note ever came through on that channel, which was a relief for Simon. Silence meant she was safe.
Until the night in Verdansk.
Rain hammered against his mask, heavy and relentless, blurring the edges of everything — sightlines, orders, reason. The line of fire collapsed faster than they could call it. Enemy positions shifted in the downpour, tracers slicing through the dark in crooked lines. Johnny was swearing in his ear, Gaz shouting coordinates that made no sense anymore. They were losing ground, slipping further into chaos.
As Ghost ducked behind cover, rifle pressed tight to his shoulder, he lined up his sights to drop a few tangos through the rain. That’s when he heard it — her voice. Not soft and sure like it always was back at base. This time it was tight. Small. Shaky. The kind of sound that cut straight through the noise of gunfire and thunder, straight through him.
“—this is Alpha Med, we’re taking fire— repeat, taking fire near FOB. We’ve got wounded— I can’t—”
The rest drowned beneath the deafening burst of gunfire, louder than it should’ve been. Too close. Far too close. It filled his head, drowning out Johnny, Gaz, Price - everything.
She was armed with only a handgun.
Five days of rushed training before they’d thrown her into the field. Everyone had said she’d never need it — that the SAS never let enemies close enough to touch the Forward Operating Base. It was unheard of. So, she carried the pistol out of regulation, not conviction. An accessory clipped to her belt. Never a weapon.
Until tonight.
The power had been cut — deliberate and clean. The tent was swallowed by darkness, the only light the erratic flicker of muzzle flashes outside. Rain hammered against the canvas, thunder rolling low across the hills like artillery. Somewhere nearby, a radio sputtered to life, then died again. Her pulse filled the silence that followed.
One wounded soldier lay on the cot beside her, unconscious. A deep, rattling breath was the only sign he was still alive. He’d been shot through the clavicle hours ago, useless to the fight, but God, she wished he were awake now. Just to say something. Anything. To tell her it would be alright.
Ghost moved like a shadow through the night — silent, invisible, deadly. Price had ordered him to hold the line, but he didn’t listen. Not this time. The man who built his life on discipline, on doing as he was told, broke formation without hesitation. It wasn’t strategy anymore. It was instinct. Something in her voice had stripped him of reason.
She was cowering in the corner, the silly handgun clutched in both hands as if holding it tighter would make it matter. Her breaths came quick and shallow, too loud in the dark. She tried to quiet them, to think like the soldiers did, measured and calm - but it was futile. Panic had already taken her.
Her thoughts slipped to her father. Retired now, confined to a wheelchair, safe at home. And here she was — the daughter he called his angel — crouched in the mud of a darkened med tent with rain bleeding through the seams. All because she thought she owed the universe a debt. Because someone once saved him, and she couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t try to return the favor.
She heard the boots first — heavy, splashing through mud and puddles outside the tent. Then came the silhouette: a man in soaked fatigues, mask on, rifle raised, flashlight cutting through the dark like a blade.
The beam swept the space, found the unconscious soldier on the cot. He limp, breathing shallow, utterly unaware of how close death had crept. The intruder moved slow, deliberate, his focus locked on the easy kill. She heard it — the click of the safety, the metallic slide of the rifle cocking as he lifted the sight to his eye.
And that’s when her bleeding heart won over the panic.
She lurched to her feet, hands trembling so badly the gun wobbled in her grip. A broken sound escaped her throat, part gasp, part cry, as she tried to summon the will to pull the damn trigger.
The flashlight swung, cutting across the cot, then landing squarely on her. For a heartbeat, the enemy froze - maybe startled by the sight of her, maybe weighing whether she was even a threat. And in that heartbeat, she found it. The will to fight.
Her finger tightened. The shot cracked through the storm.
The bullet found its home in the side of his neck.
He staggered once — just a second — before crumpling to the ground. The rain caught him, pooling beneath his body until the puddle darkened, red spreading like ink in water. But he was still breathing. Still trying to move. One trembling hand pressed to the wound as if he could hold the life in.
She stood frozen, shaking like a leaf, her heartbeat roaring in her ears. Absolute devastation flooded through her, the horror of watching a man fight for his life, when saving lives was supposed to be her job. Her purpose here.
Before she could process any more, the tent flaps were ripped open. Rain and wind rushed in — and with it, Ghost. Rifle raised, breath hard, eyes scanning for threats. He’d heard the shot and sprinted the last hundred yards, lungs burning, instincts driving every step.
His flashlight swept the scene — the fallen man gasping in the mud, the beautiful medic frozen with her weapon still trembling in her hands. For a second, neither of them moved. Only the rain, and the wet, ragged sound of a dying man between them.
“Easy,” Ghost said, lowering his rifle and stepping forward, slow and deliberate. The sight of her hit harder than he expected - shaking, eyes wide, breaths short and uneven. A wrecked, frightened little thing trying to remember how to breathe. His chest tightened.
“Easy,” he said again, softer this time, as if the word itself might steady her hands.
“I-I killed him,” Her voice is cracked and low, the words barely making it past her lips as her eyes stare at the blood still pouring from the soldier on the ground, who’s now rasping for air, moving too much for Simon’s liking.
“Give me th’ gun,” Ghost said, extending a steady hand toward her. His tone was calm but firm, every movement deliberate. She didn’t look at him at first. Her wide, frantic eyes flicked between Ghost and the man dying in the mud, her fingers white around the weapon.
“Give me,” he repeated, softer this time. Her grip faltered. Then, with a trembling breath, she let it go. The small pistol slipped from her hands into his gloved ones.
“Look, look,” Ghost said, his voice low but cutting through her panic. Her eyes snapped up to meet his — wide, glassy, trembling — and for a moment, she forgot there was a mask between them.
“You didn’t kill ’im,” he murmured, tone softer than he’d ever used with that mask on. “Just shot ’im. That’s all.”
He moved before she could answer. Turned the gun in his hand, aimed down at the writhing soldier and fired twice. Two sharp cracks split the air.
She flinched so hard it jolted her whole body, hands flying to her ears as her gaze stayed fixed on the corpse now lying still in the mud.
“I killed ’im, yeah?” Ghost said quietly, lowering the weapon. “You just shot ’im.”
She inhaled, shaky and uneven, chest hitching as the world tilted beneath her. Before her knees could buckle, Ghost was there - one arm catching her, pulling her close, steadying her as if he’d done it a thousand times before.
“You did good,” he murmured, almost a coo beneath the mask, guiding her out of the tent. But her feet dragged through the mud, every step reluctant, her head turning back.
“No, no, no—” she breathed, voice rising, ragged.
Ghost tightened his hold, kept pulling.
“He’s not dead!” she cried, twisting in his grip, her eyes locked behind them.
Ghost’s voice dropped to something impossibly soft. “He’s dead, love,” he said, calm as rain. “I promise.”
“Our operator,” she hissed, jerking against his hold.
Ghost followed her gaze — saw the shape on the gurney. One of theirs. Unconscious. Shot, but breathing. And of course she’d never leave him.
Something in his chest twisted.
Before he could stop her, she pulled away, stepping over the dead man without hesitation. Her shaking hands were already on the wounded soldier, checking vitals, pressing fingers to a pulse that barely answered back. Ghost wonders if she knew she was crying.
Ghost watched her work - quick, desperate, hopeless. The man’s skin was ashen, lips already turning blue. Ghost didn’t need to ask; he’d seen that color before. It was a lost cause. Especially in a warzone gone to hell, the front line broken, comms scrambled, the rain still coming down like punishment.
“Love,” Ghost called from the open flaps of the tent, rain streaming down his mask, his rifle still raised. Every muscle in him was wired tight, ready to strike. He wanted to drag her out of there — out of the mud, the noise, the blood — wanted it so badly it almost drowned out reason.
She ignored him, hands still moving, doing her job even as tears streaked her pretty little flushed face.
“Doc, we need to move—” Ghost barked, louder this time. Not a plea. An order.
That made her look up.
Her eyes were glassy, her breaths shallow, her shoulders rising and falling like she’d forgotten how to breathe. She shook her head, small, desperete and went right back to the dying man on the cot.
Ghost rolled his shoulders, biting out a curse under his breath before storming back into the tent. In two strides he was on her, one arm wrapping tight around her middle, hauling her back from the cot.
“Yer gonna hate me for this,” he gritted out, voice rough and close to her ear, “but I can’t let ye die here.”
She shouted, twisted in his hold, fists hitting against his chest and arms, but it was useless. He was a wall — all muscle, armor and raw determination. When Ghost made a call, nothing stopped him. Not bullets. Not shrapnel. Not her.
Ghost wasn’t sure when she stopped screaming. Not sure what gave out first, her voice or her body. She’d gone limp over his shoulder, small and still against the weight of his wet gear.
He hated how exposed she was like that. Every step felt wrong. Too open, too loud, too easy a target. So, he kept to the shadows, every turn calculated, every wall or wreck used for cover.
“Gettin’ ya to exfil, lass,” he muttered between clipped calls over comms. His voice was rough, half breath, half command. The gunfire behind them was fading now — swallowed by distance and rain — as he carried her closer to safety.
When her feet hit the ground at exfil, the site was buzzing with movement. A line of humvees idling as techs and support staff loaded gear. She finally looked at him.
Her face was flushed, streaked with rain and tears, eyes red but burning. Devastated. Haunted. Thirty minutes of hell carved into every line of her expression.
And Ghost couldn’t look away. Not from the wreckage of her, not from the proof that she’d survived it.
“Is this what it’s always like?” she asks, voice flat, exhausted. Void of the fury she was spewing on the way here.
“Aye,” Ghost mumbles after a long pause. “When you’re lucky.”
She’s bristling before she even knows it — jaw tight, shoulders squared despite the tremor still running through her. Her mouth opens, the start of something sharp on her tongue. He can see it, the spark in her eyes, the words building.
But then she stops.
Her lips press together, and the anger shifts, melting into something smaller. More human. She swallows hard, blinking away tears that cling stubbornly to her lashes.
“Thank you,” she says finally, voice hoarse but steady.
Ghost goes still. The words shouldn’t hit as hard as they do, but they do. Something eases in him - relief, maybe - knowing she’s breathing, standing, still fighting to hold herself together. But it twists, too. Because he can see the ruin in her eyes, the way she’s thanking him for surviving something she’ll never walk away from clean.
He gives a small nod, nothing more. Words feel useless here. He just keeps watching her — rain running down his mask, the sound of engines and orders fading into the background and hopes she never has to thank him again.
A/N: i'm literally begging you to go watch that tiktok if you haven't already. here's the link again, you don't even have to scroll up. okay thanks all my love!
thinking about simon riley and how he gets worried when he gets his labs back from medic!reader:
"Bloody hell, Doc. You could include this in my dossier if you wanted."
You let out a chuckle at his words when you saw him skim through his blood work, a whole packet worth of vital information, from the number of red and white blood cells he has, a basic metabolic panel, and so much more. He skims through the information, every row a new test and labeled with a green "normal" on each one.
Until he reached one of the rows: testosterone.
A red "above average" was next to his testosterone count and you could see the panic in the man's eyes but you didn't know what caused it. You decided to let him speak up about it.
"Hey, doc?" You could see the stress manifest into a physical form the way you saw his thumbs clutch the packet of paper tighter, causing the paper to crease upwards in submission at his grip.
"Yeah, Ghost?" You turn around, your body language evident that you are all ears for what he has to say next.
Ghost had to collect himself before bringing this up. He knows this hormone is a normal thing in males, but why is his so abnormally high? He clears his throat before speaking up, "My testosterone," he pans the packet to face you now, "the lab says it's quite high. That's not normal."
"For you, it is."
The man's eyes squinted behind the mask.
"What? It says 'above normal' right..." he points to the row with a gloved finger, "there. What do you mean for me it's normal?"
You walk closer to him, gently taking the packet out of his tight grip. You turn around and sit next to him, and because of the height difference, Ghost noticed the way your shoulder grazed his bicep.
"It's normal for you because of your muscle mass, sir." You point to his muscle mass percentage. "More muscle means more testosterone in the body. Testosterone helps to support your body in maintaining the amount of muscle you have. If you had a man's average amount of testosterone, you wouldn't be built like a tank."
Ghost snickers at the last remark. "I'm a tank now, Doc?"
"Have you seen yourself, sir?" You scoff. You point to his weight on the paper, "Your muscle mass is also why you're technically obese. You're 6'4 and 250 pounds. But nothing to be worried about. You have more muscle than fat, and muscle weighs more. So I can assure you, you're perfectly healthy."
Ghost at the moment thought the way you nerded out on all of these medical technicalities was quite hot. You were smart, he always knew that. But it was something about the way you were talking in person about all this health and medical stuff that got to him. It didn't help either that you looked even more professional with a white lab coat and scrubs on. You adjusted the glasses on your nose while you looked down at his labs and Ghost swore he felt six inches of some of his muscle and fat twitch.
"Perfectly healthy, Doc?" He repeats your words.
"Perfectly." You skim over the paper once more. "If anything, you have the highest muscle mass and testosterone in the task force."
Ghost felt his pride swell at that statement. Not only did you say he was perfectly healthy, but you basically just called him the most ripped out of all the guys?
"I'm trying to be modest abou' this whole thing you know. You're not helping." He replies sarcastically and you giggled, throwing your head back a little. "I'm serious."
"Well you can thank your hard work on missions and the extra hours at the gym." You nudged his arm with your shoulder, causing Ghost to tense at the sudden contact but he surely didn't mind. The cute little medic that works for the task force just touched him, how could he possibly complain about that?
After that encounter, Simon took no time in bragging about his "abnormally high" testosterone and "obese" weight to the group chat that consisted of him, Price, Gaz, and Johnny.
He sent a picture of his labs with the message: "Not only did Ms. Medic tell me I'm built like a tank but told me I'm more of a man than you all can ever be ;)."
Johnny replied with, "You mean "the missus"?"
Gaz replied with, "You better snag her before I do, Simon. I didn't see a ring on her finger last visit."
Price replied with, "It's only because of my age, you know. If I were in my prime I would have more testosterone and muscle mass than all of you combined."
Honorably discharged disabled Simon, who swears he is perfectly fine and capable of doing everything himself. But it doesn’t really matter what he thinks says because Price sees differently. He sees the way Simon’s hands shake and how he’s started fidgeting when he’s never done that in the past, he can see Simon’s right side, the side that was crushed under rubble during an attack, he sees it shake and almost falter every time Simon puts even a little bit to much weight on it, but what worry’s Price the most is when Simon zones out and stops paying attention to his surroundings or whatever he’s doing. Not to mention now Simon has to go back and live in civilization, when all he’s known is military life since he was still a teen.
So although Simon claims he’s fine, Price gets him live-in-help, you. You’ve been with him the past week and although he rarely talks you’ve learned a few things. The blinds always need to be fully open unless he’s sleeping, he needs to be able to see what’s happening but it’ll keep him up when he’s trying to sleep, so they close at night. He gets very tense when he can’t see your hands, it hurts you a little to know he doesn’t trust you but you understand. He can't cook at all, unless you prepare food for him he’ll only eat a prepackaged dinner nothing else, of course that isn't healthy so you've started fixing him both breakfast and lunch which he accepts with a grunt but he doesn’t eat till you’ve started. He never takes off his mask around you unless he's eating and even still only up to his nose. Lastly you've noticed something always sparked in his eyes when you called him Simon, you haven't been able to figure out what it is so instead of risking offending him or something, you've stuck to calling him Ghost.
Price chose you for two reasons, you were quite, something he thought Simon would like, he was very wrong. It’s probably the oddest thing about him, he doesn’t like when you're super quiet you've learned it cause he doesn’t know where you are or what you’re planning the other reason is Price hired you is because you were a military nurse for quite a bit so you would always be there for Simon. This was something Simon actually did like it meant he didn’t have to leave his flat just to see a doctor, what he didn’t think about though was the cut and bruise on his face that he would have to remove his balaclava for.
“Okay Ghost” you paused not sure how he would react to having to take his mask off “I-i need you to remove your mask for me please” almost immediately he grunted out a why “because you have a cut and bruise on your face and I need to make sure it’s healing properly” Simon stilled completely for a few seconds before he slowly pulled the balaclava completely off. You took a second looking over his entire face before you brought your hand up inspecting the area “your bruise is completely gone” you whispered slightly surprised it had only been a week, you went to write it down but the moment your hand left his face he spoke up “it’s still ere, jus can’t see it” carefully your brought you hand back to his face to carefully push on his check “does that hurt” “bit” was all he grunted out, you hummed to yourself as you removed your hand and started writing, but had you been looking at him you would have seen the almost pout gracing his face.
Once you finally looked back up, placing your hand on his face “okay let’s finish this quickly” you say looking over his scar “I know I’m not that pretty but you ain’t gotta rush” he said in the quietest voice. You looked up into his eyes quickly only to find them looking back at you with what you could only describe as curiosity mixed with need “Gh-Simon that’s not what I meant, your very beautiful I just thought you wouldn't want me touching or looking at your face any more since you always hide it behind that mask” he never replied to you, just kept staring with that look in his eyes. Finally you peeled your eyes away, finished writing whatever you needed to in your book then you got up and walked away “I’m gonna fix us some lunch, okay Simon?” you called from in the kitchen already, and that’s when Simon managed to place the feeling he had been having every time he saw you. He liked you, he had a crush, a crush! “Simon?” You called again “yeah okay” he called back, he wasn’t gonna fuck this up, not when he thinks he might have found a new purpose in life.
summary - robby can't get enough of you, jack's old war buddy and former army medic.
a/n - i took this request and ran with it. i’m in complete denial about ep 13 so no one bring it up. army medic!reader. jealousy. hope y’all like it! and i might be persuaded to do a spicy part 2 if anyone requests it, to celebrate hitting 1000 followers! (i literally can't believe it, tysm)
xoxoxo take my affection!!!
---
You had a sensitive nose.
It was a weird, seemingly innocuous fact, but one that became clear after five minutes of working with you. It wasn’t easy to work in a place so often disgusting as the ED when smells hit you with the force of a brick wall. You could tell if tissue was dying before the bandage was removed. You could smell an infection on a sample a mile away. Your ability to suss out C. diff allowed you to go running in the opposite direction at a whiff.
You had learned to hide your reactions well in front of patients, but to those well known, the slight scrunch of your nares, or flinch of your face away from the source, was very telling, and very common. After all, the ER was filled with strong smells, the majority of which would send anyone reeling. Who could blame you?
It wasn’t as though you allowed it to impact your job. Medicine wasn’t easy for anyone; it was hard on your body, your mind, your patience. You found a way to cope and you moved on. For you? You controlled what you could to make up for what you couldn’t.
It was this philosophy that got you through the war, as a field medic, through med school, through each day as an attending, carrying the weight of memories. It shows up in different ways, as simple as choosing hours, choosing clothes, keeping a clean apartment. Picking perfume was a favorite of yours, for obvious reasons.
Body wash, body scrubs, deodorant, perfume, body mist, moisturizer, they all complimented each other. Your cabinets were stacked with products, each set picked strategically based on the day's activity. Lazy days got fresh tones of citrus, cucumber, and white rose. If you were going out, it was sandalwood and vetiver. Your classic scent, however, was an easy, floral, lily of the valley, amber. You wore it to work each day, carried the lotion with you, had a backup spray in your locker.
If you couldn’t avoid the pungent stench of emergency medicine, you could at least surround yourself in a sphere of sweet heaven.
It was the first thing Robby ever noticed about you when you met.
You were an old war buddy of Jack’s from Afghanistan. After an honorable discharge, you had been working as chief attending in Boston. When PTMC had an opening they desperately needed filled, Jack reached out to you. You, who coincidentally enough, had been looking for a reason to follow your sister and her family down to Pennsylvania. So you agreed.
And Robby would be forever thankful to the stars for making it work that way.
He had been reluctant to the idea of a new team member in the first place, then to find out they’d be on the day shift, competing for control? He was less than excited the day marked for your arrival. He came in that morning with a permanent frown pulling his face down, speaking in single syllables and hunched over his coffee.
“Oh, Jesus, look at you,” Dana said, peering at him over her glasses as he groaned into the steaming mug. “What the hell is this? Is it that hard to play nice?”
“Yes,” he said, taking a hefty sip.
Dana rolled her eyes.
“Well, we need her, so put on your big boy pants and fix your face,” said Dana through clenched teeth. “Here they come.”
Robby opted to glower at his tablet rather than turn and be faced with whatever hell he’d be forced to grapple with for the foreseeable future. A Type A control freak, maybe, or a sarcastic asshole like Abbot, interested in nothing but swapping war stories. Or even a PR dream, Robinavitch nightmare with a TV news smile and toxic positivity. He shuddered to think.
“And this is Dana, the charge nurse,” he heard Abbot say, followed by Dana’s greeting. “She’s the boss.”
“Good to meet you,” said your voice, friendly, but calm. “And who’s this? The famous Robby?”
He was steeling himself to plaster on a halfway acceptable grimace and army crawl through some polite smalltalk. He took a deep breath, but before he could so much as turn an eye in your direction, he was overtaken by a sudden wave of… what could he call it. Peace? It seemed a bit dramatic for some perfume, but something about it settled in his chest, delicate and calm, like your voice.
It was like stepping into a meadow, on a breezy summer night, with a clear creek and just a hint of milkweed on the wind.
“That’s the man,” said Abbot, when Robby had been silent for a bit too long. “Second in command, bit of a bitch, but you’ll warm up.”
“Hey,” said Robby eventually, taking your outstretched hand. Soft. “I’m Robby.”
When he finally looked into your face, it was just as sweet as the air around you. You were smirking, eyes alight, one brow slightly arched like you were amused. He suddenly realized he’d been shaking your hand for about a minute, and dropped it like it burned.
“Right, we’d established that,” you said with a chuckle. “You can call me Halo, everyone does. Jack’s told me about you.”
Robby’s eyes slid to Jack, who was watching him shrewdly.
“Has he?” Robby’s heart suddenly seemed very loud.
“Oh, sure,” you said, smirking. “But you know how he likes to dramatize things. I’ll see for myself how much of it is true.”
Robby couldn’t seem to muster a response, so Abbot ushered you away to continue the tour. As you turned to follow, your hair swished and coated him in another wash of flowery aroma.
Robby wished he could say that that was that. He asked you out, you said yes, and you’d been madly in love ever since. But it didn’t quite work out that way.
For the first couple shifts, Robby really struggled around you. It was hard to keep his mind straight, taken up in your dreamy aura. More than once, Dana had to verbally snap him back into things. Once, it was you who brought him back down to earth. The memory of that always helped him regain his bearings.
It wasn’t hard to get along with you. You reminded him a bit of Santos, or what he hoped she’d be in the future. Less of the bite, but all of the wry, good natured wit. The more he got to know you and your story, the more sense your quirks made. Why wouldn’t you want to feel clean, having spent so many years bogged down in the field, under a tonne of equipment, festering in camps with teams of people just as sweaty and dirty as you. Why wouldn’t you want something nice under your nose, after living in the hot, metallic, rotting malodor of death and fear.
Your experience under pressure was clear in the way you practiced, quick on your feet, undeterred and creative. Thinking outside the box was second nature to you, it had to be, with unimaginable constraints placed on you in the throes of battle.
The first night you, Robby, and Abbot all had off, you found yourselves at JJ’s, a go to spot for drinks. Abbot treated you to a couple beers and you caught up. Robby stayed quiet most of the night, watching you interact, and trying to tame the ugly feeling bubbling in his stomach each time you touched Jack like it was the easiest thing in the world.
“So then cheater here used my glasses to see my hand —”
“I did not!” said Abbot indignantly. “You are such a sore loser!”
“How else could you possibly have known?” you sassed.
“Maybe because I can read you like a book,” sniped Abbot with a grin. “You have a tell.”
You turned to Robby, who was still trying to get over the image of you with reading glasses, and pointed a thumb at Jack like can you believe this guy?
“Jack and this tell, everybody,” you scoffed. “If I have such an obvious one, tell me what it is.”
“No, then you’ll stop doing it!” he laughed.
“Oh, because you know that if you can’t cheat, you’d never beat me in poker,” you sing-songed.
“Knowing your opponent is not cheating, it is skill,” he said. “I know you too well.”
Robby tended to agree. He cleared his throat to get you to break eye contact, deep, emotional eye contact, he thought. He cast his mind about for anything he could use to interject.
“So, Halo,” he said. “Why? What’s the story?”
“Saving grace,” said Abbot like it was obvious.
“Because when you're half dead on a battlefield? Anyone besides the enemy looks like an angel,” you said, taking a hefty swig from your bottle. “It could have been worse. A guy in my crew was dubbed ‘Dyson’ after a particularly… intimate scene was discovered with one.”
You and Jack both snickered like school children. Robby couldn’t help but join, and he also couldn’t help it if maybe his gaze lingered on your laugh lines by your shining eyes. He had to clear his throat again, looking anywhere but at you.
“So did Abbot have a nickname?”
Immediately, your lips curled into a devilish grin, and Jack’s eyes turned pleading as they snapped to you. You placed your finger tips together and brought them to your mouth, eyes narrowing and full of mirth. Jack shook his head.
“Don’t do it,” he said. “Halo, please. Don’t do it.”
Robby straightened in his chair, staring eagerly between the two of you.
“What is it?” he asked. “Oh my god, what? Is it worse than Dyson?”
You didn’t say anything, just kept your eye contact with Jack as you finished off your beer. You stood, expression smug, and picked up your purse.
“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” you said evenly. “If there’s a finger of Pappy Van Winkle on the table when I get back, then I might keep your secret. At least fifteen year, Jackie Boy.”
You sauntered off to the bathroom. Robby only watched your hips sway in your jeans for a second before he turned back to his friend. Your earthy, out of work scent lingered in the air and made his heart feel fuzzy.
“Fifteen years,” Jack was muttering. “Bougie ass…”
Robby waited for a faux-disgruntled Jack to order the drink before taking a deep breath. He glanced once more around the bar to make sure you weren’t on your way back, then forced some words out.
“Halo’s great,” he said, watching Jack closely.
“Isn’t she?” said Jack, still smiling a bit. “Riot. Could run circles around either of us any day.”
“Yeah, I’m figuring that out pretty quick,” said Robby, huffing a half laugh.
Abbot eyed him.
“Is that why you’ve been all quiet and weird tonight?” he asked. “You’re letting your ego get in the way of things?”
Robby jolted up.
“No, no! God, no,” he said urgently. “I’m honored to be working alongside her. And I haven’t been quiet and weird all night!”
“Oh, Brother, yes you have,” said Abbot bluntly.
Fuck, thought Robby.
“It wasn’t my intention to come off that way,” he said earnestly. “I just didn’t want to get in the way of your guys’... bonding. Reconnecting.”
He tried not to sound too bitter about it. Jack shrugged.
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” he said, nodding as a waitress handed him your drink. “She lives here now. We’ll get plenty of time to reminisce. I’d like you two to get along.”
He sent Robby a patronizing look, and Robby bristled slightly.
“I do like her,” he said. “I like her a lot. She’s probably one of the most competent people I’ve ever worked with. Certainly makes better company than you, but I guess the bar is pretty low there.”
Jack clucked his tongue at his old friend’s jab. Robby swallowed, trying to get back on track. There was something he needed an answer for, something that had been eating at him since you started the week prior.
“But you two,” he said, gesturing between Abbot and your empty chair. “You… you’re close, huh?”
“Of course,” he said. “She’s my oldest friend in the world. Served with her when we were both rookies. I owe her my life ten times over. She introduced me to the love of my life.”
Robby nodded, fiddling with his watch. Would that make you the most or least likely person for Jack to move on with? Surely, if you were close with Jack’s late wife, you’d have been grieving along with him? Seeking comfort, late nights together…
“So, you two…” he trailed off. “You don’t… you never —”
Jack’s brow fell into an exasperated expression.
“Are you trying to ask if we’ve ever hooked up?” he said dryly.
Robby just shrugged, taking a long sip. Jack rolled his eyes.
“No, never,” he said solidly. “Not even when we were stranded alone in the middle of buttfuck nowhere.”
The tight feeling in Robby’s chest loosened, but didn’t release. Ignoring the fact that Jack was very obviously over and done with this conversation, he pushed further.
“But like… in the future…?”
Jack let out a long suffering sigh, rubbing a hand over his eyes, and fixed Robby with a hard stare.
“Okay, fine,” he said. “She’s a great woman, and I think we could have been great together, in another life, but it wasn’t in the cards for us. It never will be. If you want to make a move, don’t let me get in the way, but can I give you some advice?”
Deciding it would be useless to deny, Robby nodded.
“Sure.”
“Don’t. Do it,” said Abbot resolutely. “It would not end well, and I need you guys to have a good working relationship.”
“Oh, I —” Robby started awkwardly. “I wouldn’t want to hurt her, or anything, I mean I know I can be —”
He was cut off by Jack’s hearty cackling, tongue in cheek.
“I know you wouldn’t hurt her,” he said. “You could try, but I don’t think you’d be successful. But Brother? She would chew you up and spit you out.”
Robby placed his now empty glass on the table and crossed his arms. He wanted to ask what exactly Jack was insinuating, but he never got the chance — you arrived back at the table that moment and indulged in your bourbon, none the wiser.
Robby spent the whole rest of the night thinking over Jack’s words, and you. Just you, all of you. He figured it would be creepy to ask where you bought your shampoo, but he longed to be near you. And as time went on and you became friends, he had to realize that he didn’t just like bergamot or peonies; no, he liked what followed. Those tones in the aseptic hospital air meant you were near, and you were causing feelings he hadn’t felt in quite some time.
So he told himself that Jack’s warnings didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to be scared off by some mysteriously vague cautionary advice.
But the weeks turned into months, turned into almost a whole year, and he still didn’t say anything. Perhaps it was Jack’s words, his own commitment issues, or even the nagging feeling of something between you, regardless of reassurances. He let himself rest in some odd limbo, between respectful colleague, close friend, and hopelessly, pathetically in love with you loser. You wrapped yourself around his heart in a tight little ball, dormant, for the most part, but never gone.
If someone walked by with a fresh bouquet of flowers, he was whipping around looking for you, and sinking in disappointment when he realized you were nowhere to be found. If he went on a date, he found anyone’s laugh sounded cold and shrill compared to your familiar pitch.
Eventually, he stopped dating altogether, didn’t even go out to find warm bodies on tough nights. He wasn’t lovesick, didn’t go all starry eyed around you anymore, but he’d settled into you. The thought of you, indelible.
And your sweet, sweet aroma, a welcome break from the puke, shit, guts, and betadine that normally made up the air. So comforting, he could have picked out all the tones of you in his sleep.
So when your normal was suddenly different, it was no surprise he was quick to notice.
He walked into the breakroom one early morning, saw you standing by the coffee pot, and expected your usual greeting. He got the tired smile, got the scratchy “morning”, but… it was too sweet. Too woody. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew it wasn’t lily of the valley.
He stopped short, cocked his head, and couldn’t seem to stop the question from tumbling off his lips. Nevermind that it was weird, inappropriate, and again, pathetic. What kind of creep had smelled a person so much, they could tell the second they changed perfumes?
Alas, Robby seemed to have temporarily converted back to early days: acting a complete fool when it came to you.
“You got a new perfume?”
You looked up from your phone, brows furrowed. Robby flushed instantly, and attempted lame damage control. He turned away from you to pour himself a cup of cold coffee, loathing himself.
“I mean, did — did you? I thought maybe… you had mentioned…” he trailed off, unable to conjure a single plausible excuse.
He couldn’t bear to meet your eyes just yet. He took extra time to add a mountain of cream and sugar, despite his strong preference and habit for straight black. It didn’t matter. He barely tasted it.
“I did,” you said simply. You didn’t sound disgusted, or scared, so he allowed himself to relax just a smidgen. “Fleurs de cerisier.”
Cherry blossoms.
“Nice,” he said.
“Yeah,” you nodded, still tapping away on your phone. “Jack got it for me.”
Robby’s hand jerked, sending the remainder of a sugar packet scattered across the counter. He hastily wiped the grains into the sink before you could see.
Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe he liked you too much and it was clouding his judgement. But what kind of a friend — what kind of male friend, in a deep, emotionally rich friendship — got their female friends perfume? That’s a boyfriend gift. That’s a husband gift. That’s not a friend gift.
He coughed, scratching the back of his neck.
“Huh,” he choked out. “Birthday?”
“Nah, just a thank you,” you said. “Remember last week when Milo got onto the counter and ate an entire Costco rotisserie chicken, and Jack had to take him to the vet and stay with him while he puked up all the bones?” Robby nodded. “Well, I pulled a double to cover him. I cancelled plans with Dana and Cassie to cover a night shift. So he was pretty much obligated to get me a present.”
Robby chuckled weakly.
Later that day, he snuck into the bathroom between patients, locked himself in a stall, and googled the perfume. It wasn’t a crazy price, but it wasn’t anything to scoff at, either. Especially if it really was just a “thank you” gift from a friend.
As per his style, Robby agonized over his invented woes and worries for the rest of the shift. Did you tell Abbot specifically what you wanted? Or did Abbot surprise you? Had he done this before?
He watched you closely as you worked, forming a plan. If Jack was lying to him, maybe you would tell the truth. You were unfailingly honest, blunt, really, and he doubted you’d spare him if he asked you up front. So, when the clock struck seven, and then about an hour of charting went by and you were finally packing up, he approached you.
“Hey,” he said, as you closed your locker.
“Hi,” you said back, swinging your bag over your shoulder. “Finally ready to talk about whatever had you staring at me all day?”
He opened his mouth, all words shot from his brain. You stared at him, expectant but utterly unworried, while he jibbered like a fish out of water. He was supposed to ask you about Jack. About your relationship. He had thought the words over. But when he finally forced sound from his throat, it wasn’t at all what he intended.
“Do you wanna grab dinner with me sometime?”
Finally, a flicker of surprise flashed across your face. Whatever you had expected, it wasn’t that. To be fair, he hadn’t either. He waited with baited breath as you looked deep in thought.
He tried to reassure you, as the seconds ticked on, backpedal or downplay. He opened his mouth again, but said, “As a date.”
Yeah, dipshit, I think she got that.
You squinted at him for a while, like you were x-raying him. Honestly, he wouldn’t have been entirely surprised if you had picked up that skill somewhere along your career.
“Okay,” you said eventually.
He faltered.
“Okay,” he parroted. “Okay. Alright. Dinner.”
“Dinner,” you said, getting that practiced, mirthful glint, tug of the lips. “I’ll call you.”
“Yup, good,” he said, feeling a little dazed. How did a conversation about another guy turn into a dinner date? “Can I walk you to your car?”
He fell into step beside you for the short distance from the heavy door to your jeep. You unlocked it, dropped your things on the passenger side, and then turned back to Robby. Robby, who’d been watching your easy motions in a trance, snapped back into focus. You were definitely smirking now, as you leaned up close to his face. He did his best not to break eye contact.
“You noticed my perfume,” you said, and he flushed deep magenta for the second time that day. “You were jealous, huh?”
You laughed at his flustered silence.
“Jack told me you thought we were dating.”
“Did he?” said Robby through gritted teeth, already planning the ass beating Abbot was about to receive.
You hummed. Abbot was again wiped from Robby’s mind, as you raised your hands and slowly stroked the sides of his face, running a thumb over his chin. As you pressed yourself closer to him, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to pick Abbot’s face out of a lineup. The scent of cherry blossom enveloped him as you did, and it occurred to him that he really didn’t give a shit who gave it to you, or why, or if you ever wore it again, as long as you stayed in his arms.
“He mentioned something about you asking me out, but I figured I’d wait,” you said quietly. “Let the chips fall where they may. I can’t believe fucking perfume broke you, and not the dress I wore to Princess’s birthday.”
God, that dress. The curves, the leg, the exposed skin. He’d spent the whole night in the corner, boiling, and avoiding you. He’d needed a long shower after that.
You let your arms fall around his shoulders. He shivered as you toyed with his hair, gazing up at him like you knew all his secrets, and he didn’t mind one bit.
“That — that dress was…” he stammered, eyes flicking between your eyes and your lips. “I can’t even begin to describe what that dress was.”
“I’ll wear it on our date,” you whispered, inching ever closer. “And maybe you could describe what it did to you.”
His hands spasmed over your hips, pulling you even tighter against his. Even if you did chew him up and spit him out, as he was warned, he’d let you. A million times over, he’d let you.
Your lips had barely brushed his, when a voice spoke up from behind.
“You know this is hospital property,” said Jack, watching, unimpressed, with his arms crossed. “And I’m pretty sure HR would have a field day if they saw this.”
Robby quickly pulled away from you, but you locked onto his arms and held him tight, merely smirking at Jack’s words.
“What, are you gonna rat us out?” you dared.
“Only if I have to see much more of this,” said Jack, shaking his head and turning towards the double doors. “Get a room, for Christ's sake.”
“Oh, we’re planning on it,” you said, smirking. “I’ll give you all the details, Firecrotch.”
The men really had a knack for getting injured juuust enough to have to go back to the infirmary with you after missions. You, of course, knew what they were really doing. Not like they were subtle anyway, you'd be getting grabbed at and pulled into laps on the rides back to base. Sometimes they wouldn't even wait, fucking you right in the back of the humvee or the chopper.
Gaz was probably definitely the most impatient. Nearly every time he got "hurt", he'd shove you down onto his cock and let the movements of the vehicle do the work until you both came. Then he'd keep you there and rub circles around your clit until your hips were jerking against his hand, all the way back to base. Then he'd do it all over again in the exam room.
Price, on the other hand, had you getting impatient. He'd wait until you were alone in a room and make you straddle his thigh, guiding you hips back and forth slowly while he kissed you sloppily. As soon as you started mewling that you were close, he would stop all movement until you were done whining. He'd do that repeatedly until you were begging him on the verge of tears and then he would lay you down on the table and roll his hips into you and make you cum just as many times as he edged you.
Simon was a little mean with it, making you give him a full checkup while shoving his fingers into you at the same time. He'd ask you to tell him everything you were doing and if you stuttered or messed up, he would curl his fingers just right and fuck them into you harder as "punishment". Then he'd consider the checkup done once you came over his palm. But he couldn't be done until he took you out to the alley and placed a lit cigarette between your lips for you to blow the smoke in his face as he fucked you against the brick.
As for Johnny, the greedy son of a bitch requested several follow ups because he was "just so injured". You had half the mind to turn down his requests but you couldn’t when your walls were molding to his cock perfectly. The way he bent you over and tangled his fingers in your hair to hold your head down as his balls slapped your clit with each thrust was mind numbing. Then he’d say he was feeling much better only to come back not even two days later with some new complaint.
❝ Don't you feel like crying? Well, here I am, baby.
Come on, cry to me. ❞
You stopped him before he could say it. It took a bleeding heart to shout it for you.
— pairing: Kyle Garrick × fem!medic!Reader
— cw: 18+ | friends to lovers; mutual pining; angst; hurt/comfort; graphic depictions of battlefield medicine/injuries; smut; fluff; wc: 6k
author's note: Inspired by "Cry to Me" by Solomon Burke (and that one scene in Dirty Dancing…)
You meet Kyle Garrick on one of the worst days of his life.
That's an exaggeration—he'd tell you so himself later, with that easy grin and a dismissive wave—but in the moment, lying on a stretcher with a piece of shrapnel the size of a two-pence coin lodged in his left shoulder and a look on his face like he's more annoyed than injured, it certainly seems like a contender.
"Don't move," you tell him, snapping on a fresh pair of gloves as the medivac shudders and banks.
"Wasn't planning on it," he replies through gritted teeth, and then, because apparently, he's incapable of not being charming even while slowly bleeding out.
"You always this bossy, or am I special?"
"Just for the ones who are too stupid to duck."
He laughs a short, startled bark that immediately turns into a groan when the movement jostles his shoulder too much, so you press your palm flat against his chest and push him back down firmly.
"Don't bloody move, Sergeant."
He groans in pain and obeys. "Yes, ma'am."
Then his eyes find yours; warm, hazelnut brown, and sharp with pain but alert, and he holds your gaze for a beat longer than necessary until you look away first.
And you start working on his wound, cleaning it with a gentleness that you usually have no time to spare.
That's how it starts.
The friendship builds the way military friendships do, namely in proximity and repetition, in shared meals and overlapping schedules and the intimacy of being two people who exist in the same small ecosystem of a forward operating base.
You're not 141—not technically.
You're attached to the medical unit that supports their operations, one of a handful of combat medics who rotate through depending on the mission profile. But somehow, Kyle Garrick's name keeps appearing on the ops you're assigned to, and somehow, he keeps finding his way to your table in the mess until the space next to you becomes his space without anyone deciding it should be.
He brings you tea. Not regularly or performatively, but on the mornings after bad nights, the kind where you've been elbow-deep in someone's chest cavity for hours and the adrenaline crash leaves you hollowed out and shaking at four a.m. And he doesn't say anything about it. Just appears with two mugs, sits down, and talks about something mundane like football scores, a podcast he's been listening to, and the ongoing sad saga of Soap trying to grow a moustache, until the tremor in your hands eases and you can hold the mug without spilling.
You learn Kyle in fragments.
He's from London—Battersea, specifically, which he brings up with a particular local pride. That he reads more than anyone else on the team and never talks about it unless you ask, and that he can cook, properly cook, not just the sad bachelor reheating that passes for cuisine among most of the men on base. And that he calls his mum every Sunday without fail, even from a FOB in the middle of nowhere, even if the connection is shit and they spend half the call saying, “You're breaking up,” at each other.
However, the fact that he looks at you differently than he looks at anyone else, that he keeps to himself.
But you notice it anyway, the way you notice a change in a patient's vitals before any machine can tell you—gradually, then all at once.
How his eyes track you across a room; how his voice shifts when he talks to you—softer, lower, a register reserved exclusively for your frequency, and the way his hand lands on the small of your back when you're walking through a crowded corridor and stays there a beat too long, warm through your shirt. And neither of you mentions it.
Then again, you don't mention a lot of things.
The rule is established on a Tuesday night in a shipping container that serves as a break room, four months into whatever this is.
You're sitting on the floor with your back against a supply crate, sharing a bag of crisps and a companionable silence. Kyle is beside you; close enough that his shoulder presses against yours and you can feel the warmth radiating off his body while you're watching him read something on his phone.
The blue light catches the profile of his face, and the thought that surfaces in your chest is so sudden and so clear that it knocks the breath out of you momentarily.
I could love you so easily it terrifies me.
Kyle looks up, catches your expression, and whatever you let slip onto your face in that unguarded second makes something in his eyes shift and crack open. He turns towards you, and you can practically see the words forming on his lips, can feel the entire trajectory of what's about to happen.
"Don't."
He stops, closes his mouth. Your heart stutters.
"Don't say it, Kyle."
Silence follows. Not uncomfortable or confused. Kyle knows exactly what you're asking. His jaw works, his eyes search your face, and you watch him weigh the cost of obedience against the cost of defiance.
"Why?" he asks eventually.
Because if you say it, I'll have to fucking feel it and it will distract me and I can't fucking allow that. I can't do my fucking job if I'm worrying about whether you're coming back to me. Because I've watched women lose men in this line of work and I've seen what it fucking does to them and I can't. I fucking can't, Kyle.
Your face stays neutral and then you don't say any of that; you merely look at him, and despite your charade, he reads it on your face the way he is trained to read hidden clues.
"Okay," he breathes and his shoulders slump some, but you have to ignore it.
And that's it. Okay.
He goes back to his phone. His shoulder stays pressed against yours. The bag of crisps sits between you, and after a minute, his hand dips in and retrieves one, and the crunch of it in the silence is so absurdly normal that you almost laugh.
Kyle never says it.
He doesn't need to, because it's in every cup of tea, every quiet walk, every time his eyes find you across a crowded room and stay. It's said in the space he keeps beside him that is always yours; in the way he says your name and makes it sound like the answer to a question he's been carrying for years.
Kyle looks at you like you're the sun, and he never says a word, and you keep pretending you’re not the one burning.
The op goes sideways at 0344 hrs, and you're not even supposed to be this close to the action.
The medical station is set up two hundred metres back from the primary assault position, behind a concrete barrier wall that provides decent cover and a clear line to the extraction point.
You've done this before—dozens of times, probably more. All the waiting, the radio chatter, the controlled calm of a medical team standing by while operators do what operators do.
Then the radio crackles with a voice you don't recognise, young and tight with panic, calling for a medic, and you're moving before the call sign finishes.
The rookie's name is Leon. Lance Corporal. Twenty-two, maybe twenty-three; you don't ask, because asking how old they are makes it worse when it goes bad. He's lying on his side behind a low wall, and there's blood—too much blood, dark and arterial, soaking through his fatigues and pooling beneath him on the packed dirt.
You drop to your knees beside him, and your hands are already moving; pulling your gloves on and shears out, eyes flickering and assessing while your voice does the thing it always does, shifting into that calm, steady register that has nothing to do with how you feel and everything to do with what he needs.
"Leon, I'm here. You're alright. I've got you."
"Hey—h-hey, Doc—" He's talking. Talking is good. It means conscious, means his airway is free, and that means precious time. His voice is thin and reedy, in shock, but he's trying to grin, and the sight of it—this young man, someone’s boy, grinning up at you with blood on his teeth—makes something behind your sternum compress.
"Y're pretty," he slurs. "Has anyone—has anyone told y-you that?"
You pull your gloves on, snapping them in place. "Save it, Casanova. I need you to stay still."
"'M just saying—" He coughs, winces, keeps going because they always keep going. "If I'd known the medic was this fit,” he tries to lift his hand to gesture, but drops it with a guttural groan, “I would've—would've gotten shot sooner."
"Hilarious. Now don't move."
You're cutting his fatigues open, working fast, locating the source of the bleeding. Lower abdomen, right side, bad but not the worst you've seen. And when his hand suddenly does come up, it’s to catch your wrist in a weak grip.
He’s trembling, but insistent.
"C-careful," he sputters, and his eyes, so wide and glassy, scared beneath the bravado, flicker down to his chest. "Careful with—be careful with my heart."
You pause to look at him.
His hand releases your wrist and pats clumsily at his breast until it finds his chest pocket, just above the body armour line, and you can see the edge of it poking out. A photograph. A Polaroid, slightly bent and stained, tucked against his chest like a talisman.
"My girl," he mumbles, and his grin softens into something private and unbearably young. "That's—that's m-my girl in there. Don't let it—Don't get blood on it, aye? She'll—she'll kill me—"
Your hands don't stop. They never truly stop. You reach into his pocket with two fingers, extract the Polaroid, and tuck it safely into your own vest without looking at it, because if you look at it, you'll see a face, and if you see a face, you'll think about someone waiting at home for a phone call, and if you think about that it will stay with you.
"Safe with me," you assure him, and your voice doesn't waver, because it can't.
"Cheers, Doc." His eyes are drifting. "You're—You're proper lovely, y’know that? My mum would—my mum—"
"Stay with me, Corporal. Eyes open. On me."
You work efficiently; packing the wound, applying pressure, calling for the stretcher team, and relaying vitals in the clipped shorthand of someone who has done this too many times. All while Leon keeps talking about his girlfriend, his mum, and the puppy he's going to get when he's out, and you let him, because the talking means he's alive and the noise means you don't have to think.
You hand him off to the stretcher team eleven minutes after you reached him. He'll live. The wound is ugly but the bleed is controlled and he'll make it to the surgical team and he'll live, and you stand up and your gloves are soaked and there's blood on your knees and the Polaroid is still in your vest pocket, pressed against your chest.
Be careful with my heart.
You walk behind the barrier wall. You make it four steps before your legs give out.
It's not the blood. You can handle the blood. It's not the fear, you manage the fear, that's the job.
It's the fucking Polaroid.
It's this kid—this stupid, brave, terrified kid—lying in the dirt with his insides trying to escape and his only concern being a photograph of a girl who's probably sitting in a flat somewhere right now, watching telly, not knowing, not feeling it yet, the way she will when the call comes, the way she'll carry it for the rest of her life even though he'll live, because now she'll know how close she came to a world without him in it.
And you think about Kyle.
The looks you share and rules you’ve set; the metaphorical photograph you've been carrying in your own chest pocket.
What if it was him on that stretcher? What if it was his blood on your gloves?
What if the last thing he said to you was your name and he never got to say the rest because you told him not to?
Your breath hitches while your vision blurs. And your hands, usually so steady and reliable, are trembling so badly you must press them flat against the concrete wall to keep them still.
"Hey."
You flinch at Kyle's sudden voice behind you. He must have come to find you first after falling back with his comrades. Always seeking you out, even in the middle of a warzone.
You hear his boots on the gravel, the careful approach, and you know without turning around that his face will be open and concerned, and you cannot look at it right now.
"Don't."
The word comes out sharp, like a warning shot fired from a position that's already been overrun.
His footsteps stop.
"Don't—come closer. Don't—I'm fine, Kyle, I'm—"
Your voice breaks on his name, shatters like glass in your mouth, and the silence that follows is awful and filled with everything you've been refusing to say for months.
Kyle doesn't come closer, but he doesn't leave, either. You can hear his long exhale as he waits at a distance of three feet behind you.
And you press your forehead against the concrete wall, not crying but swallowing against the lump in your throat, because if you start you know you won't be able to stop.
Instead, you breathe, counting, pulling yourself together because this is hardly the place. And then you straighten up, strip off your soiled gloves, stuff them in the waste bag at your hip, and walk past him without meeting his eyes.
"I'm fine," you say again.
Kyle doesn't answer, but you feel his gaze on your back all the way to the medical station, infuriatingly warm and steady.
Two days later, they’re stateside again.
It's half-nine in the evening and Kyle is sitting on his sofa in his flat, wearing grey joggers and a t-shirt, not doing any of the things he normally does to decompress after deployment. He's just sitting, one arm along the back of the sofa, staring at nothing, turning a thought repeatedly in his head like a stone in his palm.
The radio is on. It's always on nowadays. The flat is too quiet without it, the silence too close to the kind of silence you sit in on a rooftop at two a.m. waiting for a target to emerge. It’s set on some station that plays a mix of old soul and R&B that he doesn't actively listen to but lets wash over him like white noise.
His phone buzzes with a message from Soap.
kid's stable. docs say full recovery. told him you said cheers.
And Kyle types back: Good. Thanks.
Three dots. Soap is typing. Kyle watches them pulse.
you alright mate?
Yeah. Why?
didnt seem alright on the flight back. neither did she.
Kyle stares at the screen while the cursor keeps blinking in the empty reply field.
whats going on between you 2?
He could answer that, type the ugly truth, and tell his best mate that he loves her and she won't let him say it and two days ago she nearly broke in front of him and he had to stand there and watch, but the words look kind of wrong on a screen. Impersonal. They look wrong everywhere Kyle has come to realize lately. They've been sitting inside his chest for so long they've calcified, become part of the architecture, load-bearing walls he can't remove without the whole structure coming down.
Nothing, he replies and sets the phone face-down on the cushion beside him.
And it's so far from nothing that the word feels like a lie in a foreign language, technically incorrect but functionally necessary.
He thinks about the wall, and you pressed against it; your forehead bowed against concrete, your hands shaking for the first time since he's known you. You looked like a woman who was coming apart at the seams, and something is burning behind his chest to know why, because it’s not about that young soldier. Partially, maybe.
And then Kyle ponders about the fact that you walked past him afterwards and said, “I'm fine,” in a voice that was the exact opposite of fine, and he let you go, because that's the deal. That's the bloody rule. You drew the line months ago, he is staying behind it like an obedient little soldier, and he watched you walk away and he didn’t follow.
And he's so fucking tired of not following, but it seems to be the only way to even keep you around.
Kyle drops his head back against the sofa and closes his eyes. The radio murmurs something slow and warm into the dim flat, and the candle on the coffee table that you gifted him some time ago flickers in the draft from the cracked window.
He should sleep, eat something, and call his mum, who will hear it in his voice immediately and ask what's wrong and he'll say nothing again, and she won't believe him, but she'll let it go.
Instead, he sits in the semi-dark and the candlelight and the quiet music and he thinks about you, the way he's been thinking about you for too damn long. Since that day he found himself with a bullet hole on a stretcher, looking up at you for the first time like he was seeing an angel.
His phone buzzes again, but he doesn’t check it.
A few seconds later, there is a knock at his front door. Soft, almost reserved, like the person isn’t sure if they want the door to be opened.
Kyle's eyes open and his heart does something hopeful before he gets up and crosses the flat, floorboards warm under his bare feet. And when he reaches for the door handle, unlocking and opening the door, you’re suddenly standing on his doorstep, looking like you haven't slept.
You're in civvies, hair undone in a way he's rarely seen with shadows under your eyes and a tightness around your mouth that he recognises as the last line of defence before something collapses entirely.
Your head tips back to meet his gaze and his eyes lock on yours while the radio plays softly behind him, and the candlelight throws warm amber across the hallway, and the summer air drifts through the cracked window carrying the smell of cut grass and distant rain.
"I don't know how to do this," you admit suddenly, and your voice is so small that he barely recognizes it from the usual commanding and steady tone you use in the field.
And Kyle doesn't speak, because he doesn’t trust himself not to break this fragile moment, so he holds your gaze for one long, careful moment, and steps aside to give you the option.
The door opens wider. The warmth of his flat presses out towards you; cedar candle, the low murmur of the radio, the quiet of a space that belongs to someone who keeps it tidy because chaos fills enough of his life elsewhere, and you look at the open doorway, then back at him, standing beside it, ever the patient friend who says nothing because you told him to.
You walk inside, passing him tentatively.
The flat is warmer than the night outside, dimmer. The overhead light is off; just the candle on the coffee table and another on the kitchen counter, casting everything in a soft, amber glow that smooths the edges of the furniture and catches in Kyle's eyes when he turns to face you.
"Tea?" he asks, already moving towards the kitchen, because this is what he does. This is the language he speaks when words aren't enough. Acts of quiet service, offered without ceremony.
"I don't want tea."
He stops; his back is to you, and you can see the line of his shoulders through his t-shirt, the tension he's holding there carefully the way he holds everything, and he turns around slowly.
"Okay," he says. "What do you want then?"
The question is simple and open, contains no pressure and no presumption, and it nearly undoes you on the spot, because Kyle Garrick has been asking you this question in a hundred different ways for over a year and this is the first time you're going to answer it honestly.
"I don't want to talk about what happened."
"Alright."
"I don't want to," you inhale, make a vague gesture which makes it clear that you’re currently just winging it like he is, "debrief, or process, or—"
Kyle nods, his brows set in focus. "Alright."
"I want—" Your voice catches as you look at him properly, standing in his kitchen in joggers and bare feet, candlelight warm on his skin, watching you with those steady brown eyes that have never, looked at you with anything less than complete, unwavering attention, and the thing inside you that's been holding, holding, holding for months finally gives.
Your shoulders sag as you deflate in surrender. "Kyle… I want you."
Those words fall into the space between you, and the radio fills the silence that follows—some song fading out, a beat of static, and then the opening notes of something slow and aching, a voice you recognise, deep and rich and full of longing.
…When your baby leaves you all alone…
Kyle's expression doesn't change; doesn't light up in triumph or crack into relief. He just looks at you, and his eyes are so warm, so full, that you understand, suddenly, what it must have cost him—all those months of silence, of holding the shape of this feeling without being allowed to name it.
…And nobody calls you on the phone…
You cross the kitchen towards him, drawn in like a magnet who has finally been let go, until you're standing close enough to feel the heat radiating off his chest and see the way his breathing has changed to something deeper and deliberately controlled.
Your hands come up slowly, like you're approaching an animal that might startle, except the only thing that might startle here is you. Your fingers brush the sides of his neck, trail up to his stubbled jaw, and your arms loop loosely around his neck, your wrists crossing behind his head.
…Don't you feel like crying? Well, here I am, baby…
Kyle's hands find your waist; tentative like a question at first, and then settling, his palms warm and solid against the fabric of your jumper, thumbs pressing gently against your ribs.
You sway together. It's not a dance, not really—there's no rhythm to it, no form, just two bodies finding each other in a dim kitchen and moving because standing still feels impossible. Then his forehead tips down to meet yours, and your noses brush, and you breathe the same air, and the song washes over both of you like warm water.
…Come on, cry to me…
"Be careful with my heart," you whisper.
His hands tighten on your waist, a fractional compression, like a held breath.
"Always," he replies, and his voice is rough and low, barely more than an exhale, and he means it the way he means everything he was allowed to say to you—completely, without reservation and caveat.
You allow yourself to kiss him.
And it's not the desperate, hungry collision you expected—not the dam breaking and the flood taking you both. It's slow, careful. His lips meet yours softly, like he's memorising the shape of you in case you change your mind again, and then his hand slides up from your waist to the side of your neck, his thumb against your jaw, tilting your head just slightly, and he deepens it; more present and intentional. The kind of kiss that tells you he has been thinking about exactly this for a very long time and he isn’t going to rush a single second of it.
You melt into him. Your fingers brush over the short hair at the back of his head and his arm wraps around your lower back, pulling you flush against him, and the sound he makes vibrates against your lips and settles somewhere deep in your chest.
"Kyle—"
"I know, babygirl." His mouth moves to your jaw, your neck, pressing slow, open kisses against the skin there. "I know."
He doesn't say the thing he wasn’t allowed to say before. Even now, even with your body finally pressed against his like this, he doesn't say it yet, because you told him not to, and he's a man who keeps his word, even when keeping it is killing him inside.
"You can say it," you whisper against his temple frantically as if you might be running out of time now. "Kyle. You can say it."
He pulls back, studies you, and the expression on his face, the sheer, unbearable relief of someone who's been holding a breath for over a year, makes your eyes sting.
But Kyle doesn't say it with words.
He says it by lifting you with his hands under your thighs and carrying you down the short hallway to his bedroom, where the window is cracked open and the cream curtains shift in the warm summer breeze and the sheets on his bed are clean, cool, and tucked into the corners with military precision like everything else in his flat.
He lays you down like you're precious; someone he's been trusted with and intends to deserve.
"Tell me if it's too much," he murmurs, kneeling over you, and his hands are trembling as he reaches for the hem of your jumper.
You blink up at him, heart fluttering with sweet anticipation. "It's not too much."
And his eyes soften at your reaction when he notices your pulse thudding in your neck. "Tell me anyway."
He pulls the jumper over your head slowly, his eyes travel over you, drinking you in, and the weight of his attention is heavier and warmer than any touch.
"You're—" he starts, stops and shakes his head like he cannot quite fathom what he is seeing, and a breath that might be a laugh escapes him. "Christ."
"Eloquent."
"Shut up." He's smiling now, that private, soft smile that he only ever gives to you, and he dips his head and presses his mouth to the hollow of your throat while you arch into it, your hands gripping his broad shoulders.
He undresses you slowly, treating every piece of clothing removed with the same care, the same deliberate attention; his mouth following his hands, pressing kisses to your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, the inside of your wrist. When he pulls his own shirt over his head, you reach for him immediately, clammy palms flat against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath heated skin.
"Kyle." Your voice is barely there. "Please."
He settles between your thighs, and the solid weight of him makes something deep and yearning in your chest crack open and spill over at last.
His mouth finds yours again, slow and thorough and devastating; his tongue sliding against yours as his hand trails down between your bodies, his fingers brushing against your cotton panties where you're already wet and wanting, and the sound you make into his mouth is small and desperate, and nothing like the woman who holds men together on battlefields.
"I've got you," he murmurs, and his fingers move over the damp fabric; slow circles, gentle pressure, learning you slowly until your back arches and your face is hot.
Then his fingers hook under the edge of your waistband to slide your panties off and leave you bare.
When your legs part wider for him, Kyle nuzzles the crease at the apex of your thigh, inhaling your scent deeply while a shudder ripples through his body.
"You smell incredible," he groans shamelessly, and before you can get flustered, his tongue flicks out to taste your swollen clit and the keen you let out makes him curse again. "Fuck. And you taste even better."
Your eyes roll back when Kyle starts licking you in earnest; sucking your clit between his supple lips, flickering his tongue against the sensitive pearl and slipping one, then two fingers inside until your hips buck and you come beneath his tongue with a moan that dissolves into a drawn-out sigh.
"Kyle," you mewl needily, and he understands immediately.
The aching and yearning, and the knowledge that you’re finally allowed to get and take what you have been craving for so long. It’s as exhilarating as it is dizzying.
He presses the softest kiss to the tuft of hair on your mound before crawling up your body with a look of purest devotion and hunger in his eyes that causes your breath to stutter.
You sit up to help him slide his joggers off, and when you realize that he was going commando all this time, your lashes flutter at the sight of his cock. Long, uncut, and thick, slightly curved upward, a vein throbbing along the underside of his shaft, with velvety skin and his fat tip flushed mauve.
"Bloody hell, Kyle."
He ducks his head, looking sheepish. "What?"
Reaching out, you grasp his length carefully, keeping one hand on his hip, and give him a few slow strokes that make his defined abs clench and his head tip back with a hiss.
A clear pearl of precum beads at the slit and your mouth waters.
"You’re so beautiful," you whisper in awe, thumb swiping over his tip reverently.
Now he is the one getting flustered, and the only thing keeping him from coming undone then and there is taking over control again.
"Not nearly as beautiful as you, love," he murmurs, pushing you back onto the mattress.
You make a choked sound and hide your face in one of his pillows, but he pulls it away and the smile he flashes then, boyish and delighted, sears itself into your memory.
Kyle caresses your waist and feels the goosebumps pebbled on your skin, and when he squeezes a pillow under your lower back, you lift your hips for him. His cock twitches, a drop of pre dribbles onto your thigh.
"Can I? I’m clean." His chest is heaving, his pupils blown as he drinks you in underneath him; all lax, beautiful and trembling while he rubs his thumb over your puffy folds, spreading them to see your pretty, wet hole.
You nod jaggedly, spreading your legs for him, heels digging into the mattress.
"I need words, love," he tells you, rubbing your clit maddeningly slow and watching your pussy clench around nothing. "Fuck, babygirl."
"Yes, Kyle! Fuck, please—" Your voice pitches and cracks, body wound tight, and when he kneels between your thighs, gripping his cock at the root, he finally pushes inside you, and the world stops spinning.
He does it slow, agonisingly and exquisitely so; working all eight inches into your needy cunt with one hand braced next to your head, the other holding your thigh while his forehead presses against yours; his breath ragged against your mouth, lips brushing yours in a barely there kiss.
The feeling of him is overwhelming at first; the stretch and the fullness, and the rightness of it all. And your hands grip his back, fingers flexing against the muscles, while your legs go slack for him, inviting him deeper, because close isn’t close enough now.
"Fuck—" The word punches out of him, bitten off and breathless, and his hips still for a moment, cock buried deep, his whole body taut with the effort of not moving. "You feel—God—"
"Move," you whisper. "Please move."
Always obeying you, he moves. Long, slow strokes that drag the curve of his cock against every nerve ending, his hips rolling into yours with an unhurried rhythm that matches the pace of the song still drifting faintly from the kitchen. His hand cradles the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, and he watches your face with an expression that is so open and so tender that you have to close your eyes against it.
"No," he says softly. "Look at me."
You open your eyes. His face is still close, and you observe how his lips part with each thrust, and his brow furrows with both concentration and restraint, his eyes bright and dark and full of everything he's never said.
"Yes," he breathes, "just like that."
You come apart again; still not the shattering, violent kind of orgasm, but the kind that builds like a tide, rising and cresting until your body tightens around him in long, rolling waves as his name falls from your lips like a plea or confession, like the answer to a question you've been afraid to ask.
"That's it," he murmurs, his pace never faltering, carrying you through it with the same steadiness he has been carrying everything so far. "That's it, baby. I've got you. 'M, fuck, right here."
Then his eyes flutter shut when his own release follows yours as you squeeze and convulse around his cock mercilessly. A shudder that starts in his spine and rolls through his entire body, his hips pressing deep, breath hitching as he bites his bottom lip and buries his face in the curve of your neck with a groan so raw that you nearly come again.
He stays nestled inside you, shifts his weight to keep from crushing your body into the mattress, even while his own body is quaking with the onslaught of oxytocin; mouth against your shoulder, hand still in your hair, heartbeat pounding against your chest.
The breeze moves through the curtains. The flat smells like cedar candle and summer air and him. The scent you've been breathing in for over a year and pretending it didn't make you feel safe.
"I love you," he says and it sounds like a breath of relief.
Not triumphant but truth. Stated plainly, simply, the way you state a fact—the sky is up, the ground is down. I love you.
A tear slips from the corner of your eye and runs down your temple, disappearing into your hair. Then another and another. Quiet, soundless tears that come from somewhere so deep you didn't know it existed until you were guts deep in a young soldier, saving his life while he spoke about his love waiting back home.
Kyle lifts his head and sees the tears. And he doesn't panic, he simply brushes his thumb across your temple, catching the wetness, and presses his lips to the damp trail it leaves behind.
"I know," he whispers. "It’s been a lot. For both of us."
You close your eyes and let it come. The crying you've been holding in your chest like a clenched fist for months—years, maybe, longer than Kyle, longer than the rule, all the way back to the first time you knelt in the dirt beside a bleeding stranger and realised that this was your life now, and it would cost you, and you would pay the price and pay it and pay it and never let anyone see the bill.
Kyle holds you through it.
…Here I am, baby. Come on, cry to me….
Eventually, the tears slow and your breath evens. His hand moves over your hair in long, rhythmic strokes, and the radio in the kitchen has gone soft—a late-night DJ speaking in a low murmur between songs—and the candle has burned down to a warm glow.
"Stay. Here… with me."
It’s an offer, the same way everything he's ever given you has been an offer. Open-handed and without strings; yours if you want it, though you know he would crumble if you’d decline.
You press your face into his neck and breathe him in.
Idea: Reader is a medic and isn’t usually in the field, but she’s on a mission and she steps into a bullet to shield Bucky. Once she’s healed, he thanks her for saving him and punishes her for scaring him simultaneously 🥵 -⚓️
You’re not supposed to be here.
You’re the team’s medic. You patch them up. You scold them for reopening stitches. You sit in the jet with your kit open and your hands steady while they bleed. You’re not the one who runs toward gunfire.
But tonight the mission went sideways. An extra pair of hands was needed. Someone to move fast, triage in the field. So you went.
Bucky had hated it from the second you buckled in.
“Stay behind me,” he’d said, voice clipped and cold, the Winter Soldier bleeding through in that way that meant he was worried. “You don’t take point. You don’t go off alone.”
“I know how to follow orders, Sergeant,” you’d shot back, rolling your eyes, but your pulse had fluttered anyway at the intensity in his gaze.
You follow him now through the shattered hallway of the warehouse, boots crunching over broken glass. Gunfire echoes. Your heart is pounding so loud you barely hear the shout before it happens.
“Buck!”
You don’t think.
You just see it.
The muzzle flash. The line of sight. The way his focus is elsewhere—on the man charging from the left.
And you step.
The impact is a violent punch to your side. It knocks the air from your lungs, white-hot pain blooming through your ribs. You hit the ground hard, ears ringing.
For a second there’s nothing.
Then there’s Bucky.
“NO!”
The roar tears out of him, primal and furious. He’s on you in an instant, metal hand clamping over your wound to stem the blood while his flesh hand cups your face.
“Stay with me. Stay with me, doll.” His voice is wrecked, shaking. “What the hell did you do?”
You try to laugh. It comes out wet and weak. “Just… doing my job.”
His eyes flash with something wild.
He finishes the fight in under thirty seconds.
You’re dimly aware of being lifted, of the familiar rhythm of his breathing as he carries you. Of the frantic pressure of his palm against your side.
---
When you wake up, it’s in the med bay.
The lights are softer. Your side aches in a dull, throbbing way instead of the sharp agony from before. You glance down and see fresh bandaging, clean and neat.
You’re alive.
There’s a heavy presence in the room.
Bucky.
He’s sitting in the chair beside your bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed. He hasn’t shaved. His jaw is tight, eyes shadowed.
He looks up the second you move.
Relief floods his face so fast it almost hurts to see it. He’s at your side in a heartbeat.
“Hey,” he breathes, fingers brushing your cheek. “Hey, sweetheart.”
“I’ve had worse,” you mumble, trying to lighten it.
His jaw clenches.
“Don’t.”
There’s a warning in his tone that makes your stomach flip.
“You stepped into a bullet,” he says quietly. Too quietly. “For me.”
You swallow. “It was a clean shot. Through and through. I knew—”
“You knew?” His metal hand slams down on the bed rail with a clang. Not hard enough to hurt you. Just enough to make the point. “You knew?”
His eyes are blazing now. Not anger at you—fear. Rage at the idea of losing you.
“I turned around and you were on the floor,” he grits out. “You don’t get to do that to me.”
Your breath catches.
“I couldn’t let you get hit.”
“I can take it,” he snaps. “I heal fast. I’ve taken worse than that. You don’t throw yourself in front of a gun for me.”
Silence stretches between you.
Then softer, hoarse: “You scared me.”
That does it. That’s what breaks you.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
His expression shifts. The fury doesn’t vanish—it just changes shape. Darkens.
He stands slowly, looming over you. Even careful of your injury, he’s imposing. Intimidating.
“You think being sorry is enough?” he murmurs.
Your pulse stutters.
“You disobeyed a direct order.”
Your mouth opens to argue—then shuts when he leans in, bracing his hands on either side of your hips. Careful not to touch your bandages. His face is inches from yours.
“I watched you bleed,” he says. “I thought—” He swallows hard. “I thought I was losing you.”
Your throat tightens.
“I couldn’t lose you either,” you whisper back.
His gaze darkens further.
“That’s not how this works.”
Before you can process it, he slides one arm beneath your thighs, the other around your back—mindful of the wound—and lifts you from the bed.
“Bucky—”
“You’re cleared for light movement,” he says evenly. “So you’re coming with me.”
He carries you to your shared quarters.
The door shuts with a decisive click.
He sets you down gently on the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of you instead of towering now. His hands slide up your thighs, slow and deliberate.
“I am grateful,” he says, voice low and controlled. “You saved my life.”
His thumb brushes the inside of your knee, making you shiver.
“But you don’t get to decide your life is worth less than mine.”
Your breath goes shallow.
“I don’t think that.”
“You acted like it.”
He stands again, pulling his shirt off in one smooth motion. Tossing it aside. His body is all tension and muscle and barely contained emotion.
“You’re going to learn something,” he continues, stepping between your legs. “You are not expendable.”
His fingers tip your chin up.
“You belong to me. And I protect what’s mine.”
Heat coils low in your stomach despite the ache in your side.
“Buck…”
He kisses you then.
The feel of his lips is desperate. Fierce. His hand tangles in your hair while the other braces carefully at your waist, avoiding the bandages but holding you firm. Like he needs to feel you solid beneath him.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.
“I should be thanking you,” he murmurs.
“You are,” you breathe.
His lips curve faintly.
“Oh, I am.”
He guides you back onto the mattress slowly. His touch is careful around your injury—but everywhere else, it’s deliberate.
“You don’t get to scare me like that and walk away unpunished,” he whispers against your neck.
A shiver runs through you.
“And you don’t get to forget how much you mean to me.”
His mouth trails lower, teeth grazing your collarbone, his metal hand sliding up to pin your wrists gently above your head—not restraining you harshly, just enough to remind you of his strength.
“Next time,” he murmurs against your skin, “you stay behind me.”
His lips brush yours again, slower now. Possessive. Controlled.
“And if you ever put yourself in front of a bullet for me again,” he adds softly, voice thick with promise, “I’ll make sure you can’t walk for a week.”
Your breath hitches.
“Yes, Sergeant.”
He groans low at that.
Then he makes sure to show you how furious, and grateful, he truly is.
