Reach For Me - Tending wounds -12
Masterlist
-Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13
Pairing: James Buchanan Barnes/Bucky x You/x reader (afab) no use of y/n
Word count: 5.3k ***PLEASE READ THE TRIGGER WARNINGS***
Synopsis: “It makes Bucky's blood run cold. You had been a target, they'd never meant to kill you. Just maned enough to take easily. They hadn't expected you to fight back.
MINORS and AI dickbags GET OUT. I am not in control of how you interact with my work. My work is not to be used or reused for anything
Rating/Warning: Hurt/comfort, fluff, crying, wounds, blood, broken bones, blood, graphic depictions of wounds and medical aid, swearing, trauma, ptsd, (If I missed anything let me know)
All mistakes, grammar, and plot holes are my own.
Dividers@/cafekitsune
Bucky and Natasha move as quickly as they can. The carrier is firing up as they come, doctors and nurses standing by at the hatch. They help move Steve onto the gurney, his eyes still shut. They begin cutting at the rest of his outfit, Bucky backing away. Sam is further up with people working on him. Bucky asks them to take care of them, but all he gets are solemn nods as Natasha redirects him. Gently guiding him away from his friends.
“You need to be looked at. I will go get the Doc. Rhodey is already on his way back.” She says quietly, as he watches them work on them. How are both of his friends strapped to gurneys on a helicopter? And he was just standing here, unharmed.
Bucky is already shaking his head and walking off the carrier. “Stay with them. Keep me updated. I got to go get her.”
Natasha's lips thin, but she goes back in without argument. The carrier's doors close as he heads back towards the rubble. He can feel every cut, scrape, burn, and bruise. The metal in his arm screeches and clicks as he moves. In the distance, Rhodes was coming back in from dispatching the drones. The drones that no one had known about, intel had been basically useless. Get the hard drive off an old computer in an empty warehouse. In and out.
His teeth grind; now, both his friends had been crushed by a building. You'd been shot, and the hard drive was long gone. Bucky’s first mission with you, and it all went up in an explosion. It was all bullshit. All of it. Someone was going to answer for it.
Coming around the corner, he is surprised to see you sitting on the edge of what is left of the building. Your body is crumpled, barely sitting upright, blood leaking out onto the ground in taps, but you didn't seem to notice. In your hands was one of the drones, a drone that you'd taken out on your own. Fingers running over the top of what looks like a logo. He moves over to you in quick strides, knowing that he needs to get you back to the tower. You needed a doctor, and were probably going to argue about it the whole way. Doctors make the worst patients or some shut shit.
“We got to go,” Bucky says your name, coming to stand near you. “No time to argue.”
Holding up the drone, you point at the logo, it's the Avengers A that's been shattered and has two slash over it forming an X. Bucky takes it and looks at it, not recognizing it.
“What does that mean?” You ask, your eyes are out of focus, skin pale. He could hear how fast your heart was going, breath slow, you were going to crash hard. How had you even made it out of the rubble?
“We'll take it with us, I'll gather up any whole ones,” Rhodey says, having landed beside both of you. He has one of the large drones under his arm, already reaching to get others.
Bucky traces over the symbol. The paint is rough; this was sloppy. “This is the people looking for us.”
You go to stand and nearly hit the dirt. Bucky catches you, holding you up. The heat from your body pushes against his, your trembling as you try to keep your feet under you.
“I am so out of shape,” You laugh, wavering even more. Eyes glaze over as you try and look at him. “Let's get outta here.”
Bucky couldn't agree more. He grabs you and lifts you up with an indignant squawk. Positioning you so that one arm is under your thighs and across your back, to avoid your knee and backpack. You immediately tell him to put you down, despite wrapping your arms around his neck. He just grunts and walks towards the quinjet.
“You're hurt.” You nearly pout; it would be adorable in any other situation. Right now, he just needs you safe. “I am capable of walking.” You protest more, throwing your head back in indignation. “This is embarrassing. Let me go.”
Bucky stops and turns to look at you, a deep sigh coming from his chest, which makes a broken rib twinge. “Please. Let me do this.”
That shuts you up; all the pain is already fading. He can feel his skin knitting back together, bruises fading, bone cracks mending. He would be okay. Steve and Sam would be okay. He just knew that, had to know that, and carrying you in his arms was the glue holding all that hope together.
He gets to the quinjet, walking in and carefully sitting you down at the workbench. With one movement, he turns off all the screens, the way you'd taught him. He peels your med bag off you, digging through it to find what he needs.
“I can-” Bucky holds up a hand to stop you. He was not letting you argue with him, doctor or not; you were a mess. Practically sliding off your chair.
“Can I look at the wound on your left collarbone?” He asks, trying to keep himself level. Seeing you covered in blood makes him want to tear down the world. Instead, he tries to focus on tending to your wounds.
“Yes, you can.” Your voice is small, fingers curled and twisting in your lap like you can't stop yourself from moving.
He carefully pushes your shirt down just enough for him to look at it. Carefully removing the gauze injection, he cleans it, grabs bandages, and covers the entry and exit wound. You barely flinch when he does it. Face slack, breath coming in slow, ragged breaths, adrenaline come down was coming.
“Can I patch your legs?” Bucky asks, your eyes move to him, then down to your legs. Brows furrowing like you didn't remember injuring your legs.
“Oh.” You whisper, fingers running over the torn skin. “Yeah. I don't think my hands are steady enough.”
“I got it. Can I cut the pants?” Bucky asks, worry settling across his chest, the weight pushing into his stomach. There wasn’t time to let it over take him, he needed to take care of you.
“Yep. Gonna be hard to get to them otherwise.” You crack a small grin, waving as Rhodey comes on board, dumping a mostly intact drone and half a dozen parts on the ground. Along with the large one, which has a fist sized hole through its body.
“You both good if we take off? Really don't want to see if anyone else shows.” Rhodey asks, going to sit in the pilot seat. Already starting the lift off procedure, buttons and switches are being flipped.
“Yeah, let's go,” Bucky replies, having already removed the legs of your pants. The wounds on your legs were deep, jagged edges, and still bleeding.
Your right knee was black and purple; it was incredibly swollen and looked uncomfortable. You were staring off towards the back of the jet. He was pretty sure you were trying to hold onto whatever strength you had left. The fear crawling in his neck tingles.
Bucky cleaned each wound as carefully and efficiently as possible. You flinched a few times, but kept still as he put bandages where needed and liquid stitch on those that were deep. Trying to stitch on the jet wasn't ideal, plus he didn’t trust his shaky hands. He double checked that there were no other wounds and made a makeshift knee brace for your leg. A groan left you, your finger clenching and unclenching.
“That one's a bitch.” You mutter, placing one hand over top of the knee gently. “That might need an xray. But I just want my bed.”
Bucky chuckles, removing gloves and dumping everything into the medical waste bin. “When we land, you're getting seen by a doctor.”
You have already slouched into one of the chairs. Trying to curl up in some way. “Says you, that arm sounds like a meat grinder.”
Reaching over, Bucky pops off the arm and chunks it onto the workbench. Rubbing his hand against his shoulder. You were right, his arm hurt like a son of a bitch, the plates were catching and tripping sensors that caused pain to shoot into his neck. The hand had been partially melted by the plasma cutter, and it still tingled like an electrical current. Having it off was the first relief hehad had since the place collapsed.
Digging around, he found a blanket and wrapped you in it. Along with some kind of vitamin water. You thanked him and took a swig with a grimace. Bucky settles beside you, his own blanket over him. One vitamin water down, he grabs another and hands it to you. Your hand finds his, and you squeeze it, eyes closed as you rest against the chair.
The day washes over him, the realization that his best friends were in medical care, nearly dead, hurts. Steve had been one floor down from them. Maybe thirty feet when the bombs had blown. Sam had shielded them both from the explosion, encasing them in his wings. Which had led to him being skewered on his own equipment. You had come running without hesitation, towards danger and hostile drones. Been shot and almost killed. If the shot had been an inch lower, it could have become a sucking chest wound, or worse, hit your heart. He'd seen the indents on your tact-vest, if the gun had been more powerful, you'd be dead.
He squeezes your hand, the emotions a flurry in his mind. When his phone beeped, he dug it out and opened it.
Nat: Steve and Sam are in surgery.
Swallowing, he clicks it off, carefully lifts the armrests, and pulls you fully against his side. He squeezes you close to him, emotions threatening to boil over. You shift slightly, wincing before settling against him with a soft sigh. You move and snuggle close, arm draped over his chest, head pressed under his chin. Bucky never wanted to let you go.
“Will be there in about twenty-five minutes. Try to sleep.” Rhodey says over his shoulder with a knowing nod.
There is a whirlwind of fanfare when Bucky and you land. You protest being looked at before Bucky, but he has you sitting in a wheelchair and being ushered away in moments. Another nurse takes him to a small room, and he is looked over, begrudgingly. There is no sign of damage beside his arm not functioning. The plating over his pectoral muscle and across his shoulder seemed to be intact and undamaged. The arm is something he is positive he can either fix or it can wait until you're up for it.
Quickly, he heads to his room, putting his arm on the stand. Bucky strips out of his gear, checking his phone before having a quick shower.
The shower feels like a betrayal to his friends. Why did he get comforts while everyone was suffering? Gritting, he made it quick and cold.
Shower done, he uses his busted arm, pain and all, to get dressed. He then removes his arm, and slips a hoodie on one-handed. Boots back on and out the door, across the hall to your room. He grabs a reusable bag you kept by the front door and starts filling it. A big fluffy blanket you loved, a pair of oversized pajamas, slippers, tooth brush and toothpaste, and the makeup wipes you always used. Then he raids the kitchen, grabbing the gummies you kept hidden, along with a bag of your favorite chips. A power cord for your phone, the book you'd started, and the water bottle you carried around every day like a stuffy. It was probably over kill, but he wanted you to feel comfortable.
Once Steve and Sam were out, he'd grab some stuff for them to. Being laid up in a medical bay was boring, worse than watching paint dry. Especially for two soldiers who never stopped moving.
Leaving the room he makes a beeline for the elevator and is intercepted by Nat.
“You heading to the med floor?” She asks, sliding in beside him. Natasha looks equally as clean, with a pair of fuzzy pink slippers on. Carrying two bags of stuff, most of which looked like Steve's.
Bucky nods, feeling weird without his arm; it wasn't worth the pain. Being without was not something he was used to, but something he had to deal with for now.
“The shrapnel in Sam didn't damage anything major. Well deadly. One of his lungs was punctured, and he broke a few ribs. But the worst is actually his arm and one of his feet were crushed.” She tells Bucky, adjusting the bag in her hand. For the first time since he'd known her, he could tell she was nervous.
“He almost got killed protecting me, again,” Bucky felt bile rise in his throat, jaw clenching at the thought. “Steve was a level below us.”
Natasha sighs, her posture stiffening.“Steve isn't out of the woods. The doctors we got are the best, and Stark pulled his strings. Between them and the serum, he'll recover.”
“We don't know that yet.” Bucky nearly hisses, the anger sitting in his chest threatening to spill out.
“Buck.” She turns to face him; she doesn't reach to touch him, but her voice softens. “Have hope, even a little. They need that from us.”
Bucky looks away, trying desperately to shift focus. To not break down, he could feel his body trying to shake.
“The symbol we found?” He asks, knowing that Rhodey had already sent the info off to Stark.
“Homegrown group. Called the Enders, or Deathheads. Well organized, well funded, and looking to tear down the Avengers.” She states with an eyeroll, a snort, leaving her like she couldn't believe the stupidity.
“US citizens attacking the people trying to help them?” Bucky asks, matching her snort. Had to be the stupidest thing he'd heard this week.
“From what little we found, they look at the Avengers as a tool of suppression that the government is wielding to control the country,” Natasha grumbles, the elevator doors open. The two were moving out and down the busy hallways.
“So home grown group. Looking at taking us down. How does that relate to Doc?” Bucky wonders out loud, following Nat. Watching the faces of medical staff who won't look at them directly.
“She's got detailed medical knowledge on all of us. If they were looking to develop weapons against us, she would be key.” Natasha points out the obvious answer.
It makes Bucky's blood run cold. You had been a target; they'd never meant to kill you. Just maimed enough to take easily. They hadn't expected you to fight back. Not just fight back, but take out their drones. But now Bucky had their names, and nothing was going to stop him from tearing them apart.
He goes with Natasha to check on Sam and Steve's progress. It made him nauseous to think about, knowing that Steve was getting pieces of metal removed from him. Sam didn't have the serum to fall back on; a crushed foot and broken arm could disable him permanently. The voice that whispered it was all his fault was loud, and getting louder. There were too many what ifs, close calls, and why hadn't he seen it?
Then he was walking into a large observations room. One wall was a entirely plexiglass, another monitors showing what was happening in the room. In the middle was a dozen chairs were residents could sit an observer the surgeries. It was thankfully empty.
On the other side of the plexiglass lay Steve. Surrounded by a dozen or so doctors, nurses, and techs who were moving like one. The sound for the room was turned off, but Bucky could see their lips moving, tools, blood bags, suction, and gauze all moving in silence. He saw three rods on the table, they were blackened at each end, a deep rusty red from the blood. They had done the two in his chest first and were now working on the one in his arm. The monitor is beeping steadily.
A person came out of the room, looking like they had just de-scrubbed.
“The worst is over,” The woman says, standing just inside the doorway. “His body was trying to push the metal out by the time he got here. His system is working fast on healing, but there is a lot of damage done. We won't know how long he will be out. The level of drugs we are using to keep him under is dangerous; it's likely his body will keep him unconscious for a day, maybe two. But we need him to rest for as long as possible, or risk more internal damage.” They take a moment to make sure it sinks in. “It will be another few hours before everything is done. We will keep you both apprised."
“Thank you for the update on Steve. Is Sam recrecovery?” Natasha asks, looking towards a door on the far side of the room.
“I am not aware of his status. If you go to the observatory two down, they will have information.” She replies quickly, before leaving out the door she came out of.
Bucky takes the lead, leaving this room and moving two down. Opening the door, it's clear that Sam is no longer there. Natasha goes out into the hall, Bucky following behind her.
A tall man who looks incredibly disheveled and tired glances up at them.
“Sam is just out of surgery. You need to both,” The doctor looks between Bucky and Natasha. “Need to give him time. His foot will need another surgery or two. His arm is now held together with metal.”
He runs his hands into his hair several times. “He's lucky. Very very lucky.”
The man sighs and walks away. Leaving Bucky and Natasha standing there waiting for direction.
“I am going to go wait for Sam. Your girl is two hallways over, private wing, room 664.” Natasha says, gesturing at a door that leads to the main halls.
Bucky sighs, before the ‘your girl’ hits him in his tired face. “She isn't my girl, ‘Tasha.”
She snorts, arms crossing. “I've never seen you leave a wounded Steve Rogers' side. But you did, for her.”
Bucky groans, rubbing at his face, “Well I don't think she feels the same.”
Natasha starts walking. “Never know unless you ask her, Tin-man.”
Down the hall, Bucky was directed to your room by a Shield agent. Natasha's words echoed in his head.
You were lying on the bed, knee propped up by two pillows. IV in one arm, with a bag of fluids, eyes closed, breath even. He stood there for a moment, listening to the sound of your steady heartbeat. How the medical gown moved against your skin, the gentle taping of the fluids into the IV.
“If you're gonna stare, the least you could do is say hi,” You mumble, one eye opening to look at him.
Bucky huffs and comes into the room. “Thought you were sleeping.”
“I know you can hear my heart and lungs.” You reply dryly, shifting on the bed with a stiff groan.
He moves over helping you adjust the pillows as you scoot over. You finally get comfortable and pat the bed beside you.
“You need to rest,” Bucky comments, grabbing a chair to sit beside you. Placing the bag on the floor, you eyeball it.
“And you don't?” You pester, eyebrows raised accusingly. Patting the bed again, more instantly. “Besides you're one arm down, plenty of room.”
Bucky rolls his eyes, but does as you ask. Dropping the side rail, he unties and kicks his boots off before sliding in beside you. He grabs the blanket and pillow out of the bag. The pillow is tucked underneath your head, and the blanket is draped over you. It's awkward with one less arm, but he makes it work. So that he is lying on his side, facing towards you, legs tucked away from your knee.
"You didn't have to bring this," You say, sleepily as he tucks you in.
He shrugs, shifting more on the bed. "Least I could do."
Watching you for a second, you looked exhausted. You glance over at him, a crooked smile on your face as you watch him back.
“We got a name,” Bucky says softly, scared to break the silence. It felt so fragile to be lying next to you.
“Who?” You ask, your voice just as quiet. Eyes wandering over his face, no longer glazed, but tired.
“Enders. Homegrown terror group. Aiming to take out the Avengers.” He lays the facts out, keeping it simple. Certain that there would be plenty of meetings on this topic.
You groan and rub at your face. “Figures they'd be locals.”
Bucky huffs. You smell of disinfectant and dirt, but he still wants to snuggle closer. Pull you tight against him, tell you that as long as he is alive, you'll be safe.
“How'd you take down the drones?” He asks, instead of doing something he'd regret. No matter what Natasha said.
“The sensors,” A grin stretches across your face, proud of what you have accomplished. “If they go off without my input, they won't register as much. But I can max them out, and they'll take down most small craft.”
“Were you going to tell us they could do that?” He chuckles at how smug you look. Mind boggled by how you had turned a nickel-sized sensor into drone killers.
“I wanted to test them, not like what I did. Before explaining it to you.”
“So, you launched them at drones without any testing?”
“I had done small scale tests with success.”
Bucky rested his head on the mattress. “Not sure if you're insane, or a genius.”
“Both.” You say, pulling the blanket over your shoulders. Staring up at the ceiling. “They were going for you and Sam. I had to try. That and I brought a rifle, I am not your crack shot, but I would have figured it out.”
Bucky shakes his head. He reaches forward with his hand, tucking a stray hair from your face. Your eyes follow his movements.
“Saved us.” Bucky whispers, looking directly at you. You're so close, yet the distance feels like you're miles away. He wants to be closer
You shrug, like it was nothing. Eyes scanning over his face again. “What I signed up for.”
You shift, glancing down at him. He can feel the tension radiating off of you, neither of you moving. He swallows and reaches for you, hand soft as he goes over the top of your stomach. You move slightly as he brings himself closer. His chest pressed against your side, your head tucked under his.
Bucky's eyes close, breath shuddering out of him. If you weren't injured, he'd have squeezed you closer, rolled you on top of him, and never let you go.
“I am still here.” You say, softly, your fingers tracing patterns on his arm. “Steve and Sam will be okay. It's gonna be okay.”
Tears start to fall, and Bucky can't stop them. His chest squeezes as his breath is sucked in. Clinging onto you like you're his only tether to this world. You whisper softly to him. Fingers tracing patterns, gentle and soft over his skin. Telling him to let it out, to hold on, that you got him and you're not letting go. The more you speak, the more he weeps; a dam has broken, and there is nothing holding them back.
Tears for memories he'll never get back, for faces of family erased, the blood on his hands. For Steve, who was iced and stuffed in a suit, trying to do the right thing. For Sam, protecting him despite not being a super-soldier. He cries for Tony, trying his damndest to right his wrong. Nights that never ended, torture that wouldn't stop. Years that were lost to ice and pain. The terrified look on Natasha's face when she saw him, how she curled in on herself when she talked about the red room. All of them were so damaged and destroyed by a world that didn't care.
There is no wailing or sobs, nothing loud. Just hot, wet tears that won't stop. They sting his eyes and make his nose run. Wetting your pillow and the top of your head.
You don't let go, holding onto his arm as you continue to murmur warm words. He can still smell the dust of concrete and disinfectant on your skin and hair. Can hear your heart pumping, strong against your ribs. You're so solid and yet so breakable. Everyone could be ripped away in a moment.
The tears finally stop, and Bucky feels foolish, weak for breaking down. For being the one who couldn't keep it together. When everyone else was injured and he wasn't. He tries to move away, but you hold on to him firmly.
“Don't even think about it. You stubborn asshole.” You mutter, reaching to grab a box of tissues and hand it to him.
Bucky takes several cleaning his face and nose. Leaning back so your head is more level with his. Eyes tired from the endless crying. He couldn't remember the last time he had cried or released any emotion.
Your fingers are warm under his chin as he looks at you. Bucky searches for hesitation, disgust, fear, anything to give him reason to leave. Instead your fingers just brush along his jaw. So warm against stubbled skin, making him want to lean closer.
“Stop,” He breathes, your hand moving away quick enough to burn.
“I am so sorry,” You reply, looking away. Body curling away from him, the way it should be.
Bucky is already moving away when your hand reaches out to touch him softly.
“Don't go,” Bucky can hear the pain in your voice. “You deserve kindness. None of this is your fault.” You don't beg, just asking for him to stay. “I can't do this alone.”
Bucky wants to argue, feels the bite in his throat. A weapon he could use to tear you down, push you away. Maybe enough for you to stay away.
The smallest of voices whispers that you won't stay away. You'll give him space, but keep coming back. Like when you gave him a key to your lab, your room, even to your touch. That no matter how much he hates himself, you won't hate him.
He knows he should leave, that he doesn't deserve you. But the way your eyes shimmer, how you hold him when no one else will touch him. Making him feel human, like maybe he could deserve to be cared for.
Bucky caves, curling back onto the bed. You pull his hand back over your stomach, resting his head on your chest. He feels your fingers thread through his hair. The ache still lingers, but for now, he will take this comfort.
You woke up to an empty hospital bed. James had been beside you most of the night, the two of you curled up under the fuzzy blanket he'd brought for you. The doctors had insisted you stay closed and monitored for at least one night. It was overkill, a fractured kneecap, and one bullet wound didn't seem like much considering your colleagues' fates.
Natasha had stopped by sometime around two am to tell you both that Steve was stable and out of surgery. Sam was also stable and apparently irritated that he couldn’t be moved to his own room. You'd been surprised she hadn't roasted you or James for being snuggled together under the blanket. She almost looked relieved at the sight.
You guessed that James would be with them. Which left you figuring out how to get out of the bed and over to either a wheelchair or a pair of crutches. Putting a lot of weight on your left arm was painful, and your knee was in a brace that meant you couldn't bend it much. You didn't want to call a nurse, but falling on the floor wasn't exactly ideal either.
“I will cuff you to that bed,” A woman’s voice has you looking up. She has on a white coat, a security badge tucked in her pocket, and a tablet in hand. “I know ‘Doctors make the worst patients’ is true, but you’re not getting out of that bed without assistants.”
Sitting back against the pillow, you sigh, “I just want to go see if my friends are okay.”
The doctor says your name, and she comes close enough that you can read her name tag. Dr. Tamalin. You tuck that info away, as you do not recognize her.
Dr. Tamalin says your name and title, “l will have a wheelchair brought in, and crutches. But first, I want to check your vitals and the bullet wound.”
“Do you have clearance to be in here?” James is at the door and to your side in moments, having appeared out of the air. His body is a tightline, eyes dark as he looks the doctor over.
The doctor pauses and hands the tablet to James, showing her clearance. “Mr. Barnes, you can see I have clearance there.” She gestured to the top of the tablet. “I just wanted to have a chat with the Doctor and stop her from making an early escape.”
James hands the tablet back before going out and wheeling a chair in with crutches on it into the room. Then sits beside you, his hand finds yours, his eyes locked on her. You squeeze his hand and let the doctor work.
It took less than fifteen minutes for the doctor to go over everything. You are given strict instructions to put no weight on your knee until you are cleared by a doctor. Also, to limit the use of the crutches for the first week. With that a you are prescribed a heavy dose of antibiotics and painkillers. The wounds on your knees were inflamed, and the bullet hole had torn through muscle, so it was vital that you stopped any infection from setting in.
James watches her leave, the scowl on his face hadn’t left, and he refused to let go of your hand.
“Something is wrong with her,” James grumbles out. He lets go of your hand and stands.
You nod, “Yeah. I’ve never seen her before today.”
James is up, moving the chair closer to you. “Can I help you into the chair?”
“Oh, umm, yeah. I don’t think I am strong enough to lift myself up yet.” The admission hurts; you are going to need someone to help you for at least a few days.
He doesn’t hesitate to lift you up, your arms wrapping around his neck as he carefully sets you into the chair. Then move over to lift the knee support up, resting your leg on it gently. You try not to twinge at the feeling; any movement sends pain into your knee and hip. James grabs the blanket and drapes it over you.
“Alright, let's go pester Sam,” James chuckles, leaning forward and kissing your forehead. The soft press of his lips on your skin, surprising you with how natural it felt. As if he had done it a everyday.
You both freeze for a moment, James having stepped back and is staring at you like you had thrown a grenade at him.
“Shit,” He whispers, his face going pink.
“Wait, don’t-” You try and find words, cause he just did that.
“I–it just-umm.” Bucky tries to find words, his hand running into his hair several times.
“It’s okay.” You finally say, holding your hand out for his. He finally stops and carefully takes yours; you can feel him trembling. “James.” His eyes finally look up at you.
“I didn’t want it to happen like that,” He whispers, eyes locked on yours.
A smile twitches across your face, “Don’t take it back. It’s really okay.’
Chewing on his lips, he nods, but you know there is more on his mind. You lift his hand up to your lips and kiss his knuckles. His eyes watching as you kissed his skin.
“Will this change things?” The way he asks, voice on edge, waiting for the shoe to hit him.
“I think things changed a while ago,” You reply, squeezing his hand softly. “This place isn’t exactly normal.”
He leans forward again and kisses your forehead again. You lean into it, tryingbto savor the moment. “Please don’t tell Sam.”
You cackle, face flushing, as he steps behind you to wheel you out of the room.
Part 13
I LOVE EVERYONE OF YOU
Author note: As always, thank you all for the love and support it means the world to me!
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