Valkyrie-MP Fanfics

Welcome to the dark corners of my mind aka my fanfics. Cross posting from Ao3 Gryffindor || Cabin 5 || She/Her || Old Enough

[valkyrie-mp]

A Kind Of Mercy(Band of Brothers Fanfic)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/85912051/chapters/227108491

This fanfic is posted on Ao3, but I'm gonna cross post it here, just in case anyones bored =)

Pairing: Ronald Speirs/FemaleOC

As a nurse attached to the 54th Medical Company, First Lieutenant Carter has seen enough of war to know men rarely become legends for clean reasons. Lieutenant Ronald Speirs is no exception. He is dangerous, controlled, and followed everywhere by the kind of rumors no decent man would want attached to his name.

Evy should know better than to be intrigued.

Speirs should know better than to sit down beside a woman who looks him in the eye like she’s already decided he’s only a man.

From Aldbourne to the end of the war, through blood, frost, shellfire, and the long shadow of survival, Evy and Speirs learn that mercy is not always gentle — and love is not always soft.

Triggers: Violence, War, blood and gore, etc.

Aldbourne, England

July 1944

There were always whispers.

There had been whispers before Normandy, whispers during Normandy, and now, back in Aldbourne with the hedgerows behind them and England beneath their boots again, there were whispers still. Evy supposed there always would be. Men came back from war carrying more than mud and blood on their uniforms. They carried stories. Some true. Some polished by fear. Some sharpened by the need to make sense of things no decent mind should have had to witness.

The newest ones were about Lieutenant Ronald Speirs.

Dog Company’s Speirs.

The officer who had supposedly offered German prisoners cigarettes on D-Day before mowing them down where they stood.

She had heard it at the aid station first, passed between nurses attached to Dog Company in voices low enough to pretend at discretion. Then again, from one of her own nurses attached to Easy, who swore she had heard it from a medic, who had heard it from a paratrooper, who had heard it from someone who had been there.

That was always how rumors traveled.

Never directly. Never cleanly.

First Lieutenant Evelyn Carter did not care for rumors.

No.

She cared for facts.

“Did you hear?” Francis “Frankie” DiCosmio leaned forward over the sticky table at the Rose and Crown, her emerald eyes bright with the dangerous sort of interest. The pub was packed wall to wall with men of the 101st, their voices raucous and rough-edged, their laughter too loud in the way laughter became when men were trying to prove they still remembered how to be human.

After D-Day. After Carentan. After all of it, they had earned the noise.

Evy lifted her pint and took a long drink. “About?”

“The officer from Dog,” Rose Hampton said, leaning in from Evy’s other side. Their Georgia peach, as Evy called her, had lowered her drawl into a hush, which only made every word feel more scandalous. “You know. The one who offered those German soldiers cigarettes and then shot them all like dogs.”

Evy set her glass down with care, licking her red-painted lips slowly.

Around them, the pub kept moving: boots scraping floorboards, men calling for another round, someone singing badly near the bar while someone else told him to shut the hell up. But at their little table, the air had gone narrower.

Frankie watched her. “Well?”

“Well, what?” Evy shot her a look.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

"That thing where you look down your nose at gossip," Frankie's Brooklyn accent thickened as she gestured with her unlit cigarette. "Makes me feel cheap." 

Evy snorted, rolling her brown eyes. "If you feel cheap, doll, that's entirely on you." 

Rose gave a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Evelyn, what he did was cold-blooded murder.”

Evy struck a match and leaned over to light Frankie's cigarette for her. “This is war, Rosie, war makes us all murderers." 

The flame caught, brief and gold, illuminating the sharp line of her cheek, the tired hollows beneath her eyes, the faint stain of iodine that still clung stubbornly to one knuckle no matter how hard she had scrubbed. She shook the match out.

Frankie’s expression softened by a fraction. “You think it’s true?”

Evy huffed out a breath and looked past them to the crowded pub.

The men of Easy and Dog and the rest of the airborne were drinking like they could drown Normandy if they swallowed enough beer. Some looked younger than they had any right to. Some looked old already. Some laughed with their whole bodies. Some stared into their cups as if something might crawl out of the foam and name them guilty.

War made liars of men.

It made them witnesses, too.

“I think,” Evy said at last, “that if every man who survived Normandy told the whole truth, no one would sleep again.”

Rose went quiet, her blue eyes gazing at the white foam of her ale slowly dissolving.

Frankie’s gaze flicked over Evy’s shoulder. Evy felt it before she saw him. The subtle thinning of noise. The way men shifted without meaning to. Frankie returned her gaze to the table, drawing on her cigarette. Evy lifted her gaze to Frankie's, resisted the urge to turn around. 

She hated that. Hated the instinct. Hated even more that some part of her already knew who it was.

Frankie muttered, barely moving her mouth, “Speak of the devil.”

"Who?" A new nurse joined them, the young and bright-eyed Maggie Adler, a replacement for one of the nurses killed by artillery. 

"Speirs." Frankie supplied.

"I heard," Maggie tried reaching for Evy's pint and had her hand slapped away. "That he shot one of his men for being drunk." Her shining emerald eyes were wide with fear and disbelief. "Can you believe that?" 

"No," said Evy slowly, and shifted her chair closer to the wall as another nurse pushed through the crowd, dragging a chair behind her. "Better late than never, Dot," she told the matronly nurse. 

"Perconte decided to twist his damn ankle playing basketball," Dorothy Miller said wearily, sitting down, her ample weight settling into the chair. "What're we drinking?" 

"Well, if it ain't my favorite ladies," Buck Compton, blue eyes glinting, planted his hands on the table, grinning handsomely. "What can I get you, ladies, from the bar?" 

"I think we'll all take a fresh round," Rosie beamed at the officer. "You're too kind, Lieutenant."  “Lemonade for Maggie, Buck,” Evy intervened, narrowing her gaze at the young replacement nurse sitting with them.

"Aww, c'mon, Eve," Buck tapped Maggie under the chin with two fingers. "She deserves a beer." 

"Don't push me, Compton." Buck lifted his hands, palms out toward her. "Wouldn't dream of it, Lieutenant, four beers and a lemonade." He smiled down at Maggie.

Evy cleared her throat and cocked her head a little at him, loose brunette strands slipped free from her pins, framing her face with the movement. "Moving," Buck said with his hands up again. 

When he was out of earshot, Maggie sent a withering glare at Evy. "You're worse than a mother hen, Lieutenant Carter." 

“And yet,” Evy said, taking a drink, “you remain alive, sober, and free from making doe eyes at airborne officers. You’re welcome.”

"Speaking of airborne officers," Frankie stubbed out her cigarette. Her eyes followed Speirs as he wove through the mass of soldiers, speaking softly to some as he passed. "Where's he off to?" 

"Who?" Evy moved her gaze from Maggie's mutinous green eyes and landed on a different set of green eyes staring directly at her. 

"Oh shit," Frankie busied herself draining her glass of beer. 

"Lieutenant Carter, right?" Speirs stopped just short of the table, the light from the pub glinting off his dark brown hair. 

Evy shifted back in her chair, a subtle squaring of shoulders, an incline of her chin. “Lieutenant Speirs,” she said, because pretending not to know him would have been childish, and Evy Carter had many flaws, but childishness was not usually one of them.

Speirs' lips quirked a little. "Mind if I sit with you, ladies?" 

Frankie made a soft noise in her throat. "Y'know what, lieutenant, I was just tellin' Evy here that Rosie and I…" she grabbed the southern woman's hand. "Have to, uh, knit…hats…for…" she slowed her speech beneath the unwavering sea green stare. "For the children." She elbowed Rosie.

"The children," Rosie nodded solemnly. "Right." 

Evy watched her two closest friends abandon her immediately. Her brown eyes flicked to Dot and Maggie. "Do you two have to knit hats as well?" 

"Oh no," Maggie beamed at her. "We have plenty of time…"

"To do our rounds at the aid station," Dot finished for the younger, naive woman. "Don't stay out too late, Evelyn," she said with a little wink. Buck met the retreating nurses halfway with glasses, looked over their heads, and said something to them. 

"I'll buy you another," Speirs said as Buck retreated with the nurses and the beer. 

"Seems you've inspired charity work tonight, Speirs."

"I have that effect," he replied dryly and took Frankie's abandoned seat, sliding her empty pint glass away. 

Evy's eyes followed the glass across the table. "Make yourself comfortable."

"Oh, I intend to," Speirs smiled at her, drawing his cigarette case out of his jacket pocket. 

"That wasn't an invitation." 

Speirs settled back into his chair, opened the case, offering her one. "No, but it sounded close enough." He glanced down at the silver case he held open. "Smoke?"

Evy lifted her gaze to his, a slow slide from left to right, and she took a cigarette. His lighter flared to life as she placed the cigarette between her red lips, acutely aware that curious eyes had landed on the pair. 

"You don't scare easily, do you?" Speirs murmured with a little brow twitch and took his own cigarette. 

Evy drew lightly on the cigarette, shifted her gaze to glower at the eyes on them. Immediately, Easy Company's men began looking for something productive to do. "What do I have to be scared of, Speirs?" 

Speirs studied her through the thin ribbon of smoke between them. “Depends who you ask.”

Evy barely cast a glance as a barmaid set down two pints of frothing ale on the table and disappeared just as quickly. "I'm asking you, Sparky." 

For the first time since he sat down, Speirs went still. Not much. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But Evy noticed. She noticed the brief pause of his cigarette halfway to his mouth, the faint narrowing of those sea-green eyes, the almost-smile that did not quite survive becoming one.

Speirs leaned back, cigarette resting between two fingers. “I'll take it as a no,” he said at last. “Not scared of me, exactly.”

Evy took another slow draw, letting the answer sit there between them. “Exactly is doing a lot of work in that sentence.”

For a moment, they just sat in the hum of smoke and noise, two soldiers carved out from the rest. Not smiling, not joking, just holding each other’s gaze like it was a kind of contest neither intended to lose.

"Heard a rumor," Speirs began, tapping his cigarette onto the ashtray that sat in the middle of the table. Evy's lips curved a little. His gaze dipped, and he hated that it did. 

"I've heard a few myself," Evy tapped out her cigarette, leaving it smoldering in the ashtray, and reached for her pint glass. 

"This one was about you," Speirs reached for his pint, set his smoldering cigarette aside. 

Evy twitched her brows. "How unfortunate." She lifted her chin, tilted her head in a regal gesture. 

The corner of Speirs' mouth lifted a little. "Heard you slapped a captain in the aid station." 

Evy sipped her drink, her eyes on his, unwavering. "Punched," she corrected mildly. 

“Punched,” Speirs echoed, his gaze dragging over the lifted angle of her chin. “My mistake.”

“That generally happens when the men tell the stories." 

His eyes lingered on the imperious tilt of her chin, the composed line of her mouth, the way she sat there like the whole pub had been built around her chair. “Careful, Duchess,” he said. “People will start thinking the rumors about you are true.”

Evy's eyes flared a little at the nickname, and she smiled without teeth. "Care to find out?"

"Not particularly."

She huffed out a little laugh that softened her face. "Shall I share the rumor I heard?"

"Oh," Speirs settled back with a little sigh, crossing his legs lazily. "I don't think that's necessary." 

"Shame," Evy sat back in her chair, crossing her legs at the knee, her pint in hand. "I was just starting to enjoy myself." 

"Were you?"

"Try not to look too pleased with yourself, Speirs, it wasn't a compliment." 

The corner of his mouth lifted again, unbidden at her dry voice. He finished his beer, setting his glass down with a soft clink, those eyes never leaving hers. 

Across the room, someone dropped a glass. The pub roared around them, swallowing the sharp break of it almost as soon as it happened. Men laughed. Someone cursed. Buck Compton was at the bar again, talking with his hands, while Rosie and Frankie stood near the door with Dot and Maggie, pretending with heroic lack of success that they were not watching the table.

"Your friends are worried," he stated lightly. 

Evy's gaze flicked toward where Dot, Maggie, Frankie, and Rosie still stood by the door next to Buck, all eyes averted immediately. A muscle feathered in her jaw. "They're not worried, they're bored." 

"They seem fond of you."

Evy's eyes softened a little. "We've been through a lot together," she replied softly, affectionately. "Except Maggie…"

"Part of the replacements?" 

Evy's gaze hardened on him. "Have some decorum, Speirs, good people died."

"And they need to be replaced, Carter, that's the way of it." 

Evy looked at him for a long moment. The warmth that had softened her face only seconds before was gone, shuttered behind something cool and flat and far more familiar to her. Speirs saw it happen. Saw the nurse return before the woman had fully left.

“That may be the way of it,” she said quietly, setting her empty pint down. “But I’d advise against saying it like that in front of the girls who have to wash the blood off their hands.”

Speirs did not look away. “No offense intended.”

“No,” Evy said with slow precision. “That’s usually the trouble.”

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Around them, the pub continued on, loud and careless and alive. Men drank. Men laughed. Men sang badly enough to offend both God and England. But at their little table, the air had changed again. Not narrower this time. Sharper.

Speirs watched her stand. He rose with her, automatic and smooth, the gesture gentlemanly despite the rumors surrounding him.

Evy noticed. She hated that she noticed.

“I should get back,” she said.

“To your rounds?”

“To my replacements,” she replied, and let the word sit between them exactly as heavily as it deserved to.

Something shifted behind his eyes. Not regret. Not quite. Speirs did not seem like a man who handed regret out freely, even when he owned it. But he understood the hit. That would have to do.

“Good night, Lieutenant Carter.”

“Good night, Lieutenant Speirs.”

She stepped past him, leaving the scent of lavender and rosemary mixing with the scent of men and spilled beer.

“Duchess.” The word followed her low and quiet, meant only for her.

Evy stopped with one hand on the back of the empty chair beside her. She didn't turn fully. That would have given him too much, and Evy Carter was not in the habit of giving dangerous men more than they had earned.

She glanced back over her shoulder.

Speirs stood beside the table, the smoke from his new cigarette curling around his face, his expression unreadable in the low pub light.

Her eyes narrowed. “Careful, Sparky,” she said. “Nicknames have a way of sticking.”

His mouth twitched. “That’s what I’m counting on.”

Evy hated that she almost smiled.

Almost.

She left before he could see whether it won.

The moment she reached the door, Frankie seized her by the elbow and hauled her into the cool Aldbourne night with all the subtlety of a kidnapping.

“Well?” Frankie demanded.

Evy blinked at her. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Months ago,” Frankie said with a flip of her hand. “Answer the question.”

Rose crowded in on Evy’s other side, blue eyes bright, looping her arm through Evy's other arm. “What did he say?”

Dot folded her arms against the chill, looking far too pleased for a woman who had claimed to be doing rounds. “More importantly, what did you say?”

Maggie leaned around Dot. “Did he tell you about the prisoners?”

“No,” Evy said, starting down the road toward the aid station, the warm glow of its light, the smoke drifting from the chimney.

Frankie kept pace beside her. “Did you ask?”

“No.”

“Did you want to?”

“I wanted to finish my beer in peace.”

Frankie snorted. “Looked incredibly peaceful….cozy even.”

Evy kept walking, her chin high, the damp night air cool against her cheeks. Behind them, the Rose and Crown glowed warm and gold, its windows crowded with shadows and movement. 

“What did he say to you at the end?” Dot asked.

Evy’s steps faltered.

Frankie stopped dead. “Did he call you something? I'm so sick of these fuckin' men—”

“No, no," Evy reached back and dragged Frankie forward. "It was just a…a nickname." 

“A nickname,” Maggie gasped. “Ronald Speirs? The killer gave you a nickname?”

Evy resumed walking. 

Rose caught Evy’s sleeve, nearly tripping over her own feet. “Evelyn Carter, what did that man call you?”

Evy considered lying.

Unfortunately, Dot was watching her with the patient expression of a woman who had raised younger siblings, managed wounded paratroopers, and once removed a shard of glass from a private’s backside without laughing until afterward.

There would be no escape.

Evy sighed. “Duchess.”

For one blessed second, there was silence.

Then Frankie made a sound so pleased and scandalized that Evy seriously considered leaving her in a ditch.

“Duchess,” Rose breathed, delighted.

Maggie pressed both hands to her mouth.

Dot looked back toward the pub, then at Evy. “Well. That’s new.”

“It’s nothing.”

Frankie looped her arm through Evy’s, grinning like a devil in sensible shoes. “Oh, honey. That was not nothing.”

Evy stopped outside the aid station door and turned on all of them. “Not another word.”

Frankie lifted both hands. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Duchess.”

Evy’s glare could have cut through steel. The nurses scattered inside, laughing.

For a moment, Evy stayed in the doorway, one hand on the frame. Then, despite herself, she looked back. Toward the pub, past the glow and motion and bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, she caught a brief glimpse of Speirs moving through the crowd, and out into the open air of the night, the burning tip of his cigarette the only way she could track his movements into the night. 

She frowned and stepped back into the warmth of the aid station that served as the nurses' quarters, too, and closed the door against the night. Against the man with sea-green eyes. 

[valkyrie-mp]

A Kind Of Mercy (A Band of Brothers Fic)

A Kind Of Mercy (A Band of Brothers Fanfic) Chapter Six: A Kind Of Mercy (45871 words) by Valkyrie_MP Chapters: 12/? Fandom: Band of Brothers (TV 2001) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Ronald Speirs/Original Female Character(s) Characters: Ronald Speirs, Original Female Character(s), Easy Company (Band of Brothers) Additional Tags: enemies? to lovers?, Band Of Brothers - Freeform, Easy Company - Freeform, Romance, Wartime Romance, Women of WW2, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Nurses, Canon-Typical Violence, Historical Inaccuracy, World War II, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Soft Smut Summary: As a nurse attached to the 54th Medical Company, First Lieutenant Evy Carter has seen enough of war to know men rarely become legends for clean reasons. Lieutenant Ronald Speirs is no exception. He is dangerous, controlled, and followed everywhere by the kind of rumors no decent man would want attached to his name. Evy should know better than to be intrigued. Speirs should know better than to sit down beside a woman who looks him in the eye like she’s already decided he’s only a man. From Aldbourne to the end of the war, through blood, frost, shellfire, and the long shadow of survival, Evy and Speirs learn that mercy is not always gentle — and love is not always soft.

Mourmelon-le-Grand, France (late November–December 1944)

Mr. and Mrs. Callahan, It is my duty to inform you that your son, Private Samuel Callahan, was killed in action on 18 November 1944 while serving with this company in Holland.

Speirs stared at the words he had typed on the typewriter in the Company CP, ripped the page free, and crumpled it, tossing it into the wastebasket that was already overflowing. He slid a new piece of paper in and tried again. But he saw Callahan’s face, pale, still. He rose, giving up on it. The mail was delayed anyway. One more day would not change anything. One more day wouldn’t bring Callahan back. Wouldn’t heal Maggie Adler’s broken heart. Wouldn’t change the way that Evy had looked at him.

He stepped outside, sliding his garrison cap onto his clean brown hair. France had brought him replacements, hot meals, hot showers, real beds, and the icy chill of Lieutenant Evelyn Carter’s anger. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and there was the autumn nip in the air that cut through his pressed OD wool service jacket. It should’ve made him happy, or at least less melancholic.

He had been losing men since D-Day. He accepted death. His men accepted death.

But he had looked at Evy, had placed his soldier in her hands, and asked her to keep him alive. He had to know. Had to know if it was the chaos of the field that had caused Callahan’s death or if it was going to happen regardless.

The nurses had commandeered an old schoolhouse to serve as an aid station, and the little stone cottage behind it as their barracks. Speirs headed to the schoolhouse first.

Frankie and Dot were the only ones in the building, crates opened between them, grim expressions already on their faces.

“It’s not looking good,” Frankie said around her cigarette to Dot. “We need supplies, we’re almost outta gauze, morphine is low, plasma is non-existent. Evy is expecting a refit for us though…” Her gaze flicked to the door and the shadow that hovered. “Sir?”

“Where’s Carter?” Speirs didn’t even bother to hide that he was looking for Evy. Frankie hesitated, her dark eyes narrowing slightly at him. The nurses had closed ranks about their leader, it seemed. “Today, DiCosmio.”

“Do you need her for supplies, sir?” Frankie asked sweetly.

Speirs exhaled through his nose. “Never mind, Lieutenant.” He turned on his heel and stepped back into the air. His green eyes scanned the area. He checked the little cottage, nothing. Mess hall, nothing. Growing increasingly frustrated, he drew a cigarette from his pack, lit it with a flick of his lighter, and glowered at nothing in particular.

“That’s a hell of a face, Ron,” Kelleher approached, his aviators shielding his eyes, while he cocked his head at his CO’s expression. Kelleher had been promoted to platoon sergeant during Market Garden, a good fit. “Are we goin’ somewhere?”

“No,” Speirs blew out smoke, offered Kelleher one, knowing full well the man didn’t smoke. Probably why he offered it—he knew he wouldn’t lose one.

Kelleher’s blue eyes slid behind the dark lenses to take in the aid station. “She’s at Company CP.”

“Who?”

“Sir, c’mon,” Kelleher raised a dark brow at his friend. “You two have avoided each other like Samuelson avoids KP.”

Speirs grunted.

Kelleher seemed to decide, wisely, not to push it. “Men are talking about numbers, too.” He went on, drawing out a toothpick to stick between his teeth. “We keep losing men, we’re gonna have to fold into another company.”

“We’ll do what we have to do,” Speirs replied, the cigarette bouncing between his lips as he spoke. The annoyance he felt wasn’t the men talking; men would always talk. It was that she had been in the same building and he had somehow missed it.

Kelleher nodded slowly, his gaze dropping to the gold band on his left hand, the first time he had worn it since D-Day, because he could. He had written his letter home to his wife and his folks and had considered that the day’s accomplishment, but now, seeing his friend’s face, he decided to add one more thing before he turned in for the evening. “She was meeting with Captain Winters and Colonel Sink.”

“About what?”

Kelleher’s lips twitched. “This, that, and the other.”

“Tommy.” Speirs dropped his cigarette and crushed it before he field-stripped it out of habit. “You’re my eyes and ears for a reason.”

“Medical readiness,” Kelleher rolled the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, rolled his shoulders. “And, uh, from what I heard on the way out—believe me, sir, she wasn’t quiet about it. The young nurse she’s got, Mary…”

“Maggie.”

“She’s getting bumped to the rear aid station, so your nurse is down to a team of four.”

“She’s not my nurse, Kelleher.”

Kelleher’s mouth twitched around the toothpick. “No, sir. Course not.” Before Speirs could speak, he went on. “Point is, we’re down a nurse.”

“The nurses weren’t supposed to be this far forward anyway,” Speirs said, and he dug out another cigarette. “Doesn’t change much.”

“So, what are we doing?” Kelleher lifted his sunglasses, finally. “Are we just gonna burn through our nurses until they’re all dead and not replace them?”

“No nurses have died,” Speirs said.

Kelleher looked back toward the schoolhouse. “No, sir. But they’re starting to look like us.” He ran his thumb over his wedding band.

“They can handle it,” Speirs hesitated just for a moment before lighting his cigarette. “Carter chose them for a reason.”

“Carter’s not looking too swell either, sir.”

“She’ll handle it.” ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She was not handling it. Frankie watched warily as Evy shoved crate after crate into the back of a deuce-and-a-half. The woman kept a steady rhythm, no matter how heavy the crate seemed—check off the clipboard, squat, lift, swing, and shove. Her OD field jacket was already dusty at the elbows, the wool of her skirt rumpled from the work, a far cry from the crisp service uniforms most officers still managed in refit. Frankie lit a cigarette. She had offered to help three times. On the third, Evy had snapped at her to sit down and shut up. Betty hovered in the doorway of the aid station next to Rosie, who was worrying her thumb with her teeth.

“Maybe we should go get Captain Winters,” Betty murmured to Rosie. “He has a way of soothing her feathers.”

Rosie made a little noise. “I get the feelin’ that a man is the last thing she wants to see right now.”

“Lieutenant Carter.”

“Oh hell,” muttered Rosie as Speirs walked into view, his service uniform perfectly pressed, brown shoes glinting in the sun from a fresh polish.

“You movin’ the aid station?” He leaned against the side of the deuce’s tailgate as Evy hefted another crate.

“All that is going to the rear aid station,” answered Frankie. She rose from her perch and lowered the sunglasses she wore to flick her eyes over him. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“I’m not here to talk to you, DiCosmio.”

“Lieutenant Carter is otherwise occupied ,as you can see, sir.” Rosie stepped out of the building now, the normally warm Georgia Peach sending out waves of icy fury. “Now the rest of us would be more than happy to assist you.”

Evy couldn’t help the way her lips twitched at her two best pals in this hellhole creating a united front for her. She loaded her final crate and swiped the sleeve of her field jacket across her forehead. “Make it quick, Captain, I’ve got shit to do.”

“Callahan.” Speirs met her eyes, his green ones stony.

Evy’s shoulders squared, and her mouth tightened. She kept her eyes on his. “Take a walk with me, sir.” She didn’t wait for his response; she passed her clipboard to Frankie, who gave her an arch-brow look. She didn’t wait for Speirs and began walking, not surprised when he matched stride in a matter of seconds.

The little stone cottage the nurses had taken had the front door open. Inside, Speirs spotted Dot moving around, packing up a footlocker.

“Miller going somewhere?” Speirs asked with a glance down at Evy.

Evy didn’t answer right away as she led him down a side path that led into the open field. She brushed her fingers along the tips of the long grass that grew. “She’s Maggie’s escort to the rear.” Her voice was low, a little hoarse as if she had been yelling.

Speirs considered for a moment, his eyes tracing over the woodland they walked toward. “Why?”

“Why?” Evy stopped in her tracks, her brows furrowing as she looked at him—at his stupid face, and his stupid medals on his stupid pressed uniform. “Why? Because my youngest nurse is a fucking liability. Because she can’t be on the front with us anymore, because every night she wakes up sobbing for that boy…”

Speirs said nothing.

Evy plowed on. “Because Dot isn’t gonna hold it together up here either, because I have no one, no one, from any fucking company that can handle this.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I can.”

Speirs studied her, his eyes dropping to her mouth briefly, then tracing over her face. “Would he have lived?”

Evy jerked back as if he had slapped her, and she looked away from him, her nostrils flaring. “No.” The word came out raw and broken. Her jaw worked as she stared at the far oak tree. “The round clipped his liver. Doesn’t matter about the second syrette… he was dead the second it happened.”

“You’ve lost men before.” Speirs drew out his cigarettes, pulled one from the pack with his lips. “Why is now any different?”

Evy watched his movements, her eyes cool. “Because most of those men don’t have one of my nurses crying every night because she lost someone she loved.”

Speirs’ lighter sparked to life, and he drew in nicotine, letting it out on a sigh. “You can’t protect them from this.”

“Watch me,” snapped Evy, and spun on her heel to leave. His fingers caught her around the wrist, as quick as a viper’s strike.

Evy’s eyes dropped to his hand, then traveled slowly back to his face.

Speirs released her.

“You’re not handling it.” Speirs’ cigarette bounced between his lips.

“And you are?” She spat out.

“No.”

Her anger deflated at the single word, her brows furrowing as she stared at him.

“I can’t finish the letter,” Speirs took the cigarette out of his mouth, studied it as he blew out smoke.

The nurse said nothing, realization worming its way into her. He hadn’t sought her out to pick a fight; he had wanted the truth.

“What do you want from me, Captain?”

Speirs’ jaw flexed as he considered her. “What do I tell his parents, Carter?”

The wind blew then, a gentle little gust that tugged at the brown strands of hair slipping free of their pins and carried the faint scent of woodsmoke from the village. Evy held his gaze. “That he died as a hero. That he wasn’t alone…”

The wind stirred the long grass between them. Evy watched him take another drag from the cigarette. His eyes stayed fixed somewhere beyond her shoulder, toward nothing at all.

“Maybe that’s not what I’m asking.”

The words were quiet. For a moment, she simply stared at him. Then she understood.

“You want to know if it’s your fault.”

Speirs’ jaw tightened. Neither confirmed nor denied it. Which was answer enough. Evy looked away first, out across the French countryside where a thin line of replacements drilled in the distance and the faint clang of a blacksmith’s hammer echoed from the village.

She took a deep, steadying breath. “The truth is that Samuel Callahan was already dying when they brought him to me. You and your men got him there as fast as anyone could. That matters.”

Speirs didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

“You didn’t kill him, Speirs,” Evy said softly. Her voice caught on his name, the way it always did when the walls slipped.

For the first time since she’d known him, Captain Ronald Speirs looked tired. Not angry. Not dangerous. Not untouchable. Just bone-deep tired.

His eyes dropped to the cigarette burning between his fingers. “I told him I’d get him home.” The confession was so quiet she almost missed it.

Evy felt something in her chest crack. Because suddenly this wasn’t about Callahan. Or Maggie. Or the letter. It was about every promise they’d ever made to dying kids who believed them. And every promise they’d failed to keep.

She stepped half a pace closer, close enough to catch the scent of his soap and tobacco beneath the wool. “You did get him home,” she said quietly. “As much as any of us can out here.”

They stood in silence for a long moment, the autumn sun warming their shoulders despite the nip in the air. Then Speirs straightened, the mask sliding back into place. He gave her one last look, something unreadable, before turning and walking away.

Behind her, Frankie’s voice called out, sharp with concern. “Evy! You comin’ back or what?”

Evy squared her own shoulders, swiped at the wetness gathering in her eyes, and turned back toward her nurses. The crack in her chest still ached, but somehow it felt a little less lonely. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The morning chill clung to the stone walls of the nurses’ cottage like a second skin, the pale French sunlight filtering weakly through the small windows as Evy laced up her field boots with mechanical precision. Sleep had been a fleeting thing, haunted by Callahan’s still face and Speirs’ bone-weary confession in the field the day before, so she’d risen before the others, brewing bitter coffee over the small stove while the distant sounds of replacements drilling carried on the autumn wind. Today was the day: Maggie’s escort to the rear aid station. Dot would escort her, and Evy had already decided she’d go too, if only to ensure the transfer went smoothly and to steal a few hours away from the weight pressing down on all of them here in refit. 

The deuce-and-a-half waited outside, loaded and idling, a reminder that even in this so-called rest, the war kept pulling at the seams. She checked the tailgate one last time, satisfied the deuce and its cargo were secured, she went to retrieve her own vehicle. 

The battalion motor pool was a muddy sprawl of canvas-covered deuces, jeeps, and the occasional half-track, mechanics shouting over the growl of idling engines. Evy strode through it with purpose, her OD wool field jacket buttoned neatly over a fresh khaki shirt, the matching high-waisted trousers tucked into her polished field boots. The wool hugged her hips and legs with every confident step, practical for the long drive ahead yet unmistakably feminine in the sea of rumpled fatigues. 

Her dark hair was pinned up properly beneath her garrison cap, neat victory rolls at the sides, not a strand out of place. A touch of powder softened the shadows under her eyes, but it was the bold red lipstick that turned heads.

A young replacement corporal nearly dropped the fuel can he was hauling, his gaze dragging down the clean lines of her trousers and the sway of her stride before he caught himself, ears burning. In this muddy chaos of olive drab and stubble, Lieutenant Carter looked like a reminder that the world still held color and curves.

Speirs, leaning against a jeep a few yards away while Kelleher argued with the motor sergeant over parts, felt that familiar hook behind his ribs. The red lip flashed as she spoke to the supply lieutenant, her trousers practical yet tailored enough to draw the eye. Field-ready, composed, and dangerously distracting. He crushed his cigarette under his heel before he realized how long he’d been staring.

“Where are you running off to, Carter?” Speirs asked, stepping forward to meet her halfway.

Evy flicked her gaze toward him, keys already in hand. “The rear aid station. Maggie’s transfer.”

Understanding softened the hard lines around his eyes for a brief moment. “Who’re your escorts?”

“Me, myself, and I,” she replied, signing the clipboard with a quick flourish and thanking the NCO.

“Carter.” Speirs’ voice chased after her as she started toward the waiting jeep. “Carter, you can’t go without an escort.”

Evy tossed a baleful expression over her shoulder at him and slid behind the wheel of the jeep, the canvas top folded back despite the chill. The driver’s seat was hard canvas stretched over the fuel tank, the flat steel dashboard a simple cluster of gauges and levers. She twisted the key; the engine coughed to life with its familiar raspy growl.

“It’s not the first time I’ve driven to the rear, Sparky,” she called back. With a quick shift of the floor lever and a press of the accelerator, the jeep lurched forward out of the motor pool, tires splashing through the mud.

Kelleher let out a laugh that quickly turned to a cough when Speirs turned to glower at him. 

The hour drive to the rear gave her time to think as the jeep bounced along the road. Frankie rode beside her, a last-minute addition. Behind them, the deuce rumbled as it carried Maggie, Rosie, and Dot. Betty had said her farewells to both women and remained behind to man the aid station, insisting on it even as tears spilled from her pretty hazel eyes. 

Frankie had been surprisingly quiet during the ride, leaning forward now and then to check a gauge. 

The rear aid station came into sight, a bustling building where nurses wore pinstripes instead of the OD field uniforms her girls wore. Evy rolled the jeep to a stop, and hopped out, arm lifting in greeting as Captain Eileen Gregory, her smile coming easier than it had in months. 

"Let me look at you!" Eileen met Evy halfway, hands outstretched. "Oh, my girl." The officer pulled Evy into a hard hug and squeezed her eyes shut. 

Eileen held the hug a beat longer than regulation probably allowed, her pinstriped uniform crisp against Evy’s dusty field jacket. The scent of lavender water and carbolic soap clung to her, comforting reminders of stateside hospitals and easier days. When she pulled back, Eileen’s hands stayed on Evy’s shoulders, steadying.

“You look like you’ve been carrying the whole 101st on your back, Lieutenant,” Eileen said softly, gray-blue eyes searching Evy’s face. “Come on inside. We'll get Maggie settled.”

Evy managed a tired smile, the red lipstick suddenly feeling like war paint she hadn’t quite earned today. “Dot will be staying as well. She's…she's done ma'am." The words wanted to catch in her throat. "Maggie's, uh, she's got nightmares. Can’t keep food down some mornings. I thought the rear would be better for her. Dot, too.”

Eileen nodded, her expression knowing. She’d seen plenty of those cases. “You did right by them. Some of these girls weren’t built for the line. Doesn’t make them weak…just human.” She glanced past Evy toward the deuce-and-a-half where Dot was guiding a pale Maggie down the steps, Rosie hovering close like a protective shadow. “Let's get all of you inside where it's warmer. Coffee’s hot, and I’ve got real cream, believe it or not.”

Frankie stubbed out her cigarette with the toe of her boot and shot Evy a quick, assessing look—You good?—before nodding. “Don’t mind if I do, Captain.”

As the nurses filed inside, Evy lingered a moment by the jeep, fingers tracing the cold metal of the hood. The drive had given her too much time to replay Speirs’ tired eyes and that raw admission. I told him I’d get him home. She hadn’t expected the crack in his armor. Hadn’t expected how much it would mirror the fissures in her own.

“Evy.” Eileen’s voice pulled her back. The older woman stood in the doorway, arms crossed loosely. “You staying the night, or heading straight back?”

“Straight back,” Evy answered, squaring her shoulders. “Betty’s holding the fort alone, and we’ve got resupply coordination tomorrow. But I’ll take that coffee first.”

Inside the rear aid station, the atmosphere was markedly different: cleaner linens, the low hum of conversation instead of the constant edge of incoming wounded, the faint chime of real silverware somewhere in the mess. Maggie sat on a chair in the corner, Dot perched beside her, speaking in low, soothing tones. The girl looked smaller here, swallowed by the relative safety.

Evy accepted a steaming mug from Eileen, the warmth seeping into her chilled fingers. For a moment, surrounded by the familiar rhythms of nursing, the weight in her chest eased, just a fraction.

But even here, the war pressed in. A runner burst through the door, saluting sloppily. “Captain Gregory, message from Division. Possible movement orders coming down the pipe. Possibly Belgium. Brass is keeping it quiet.”

Eileen’s jaw tightened, but she thanked the man and turned back to Evy. “You hear that? Refit’s never really a refit, is it?”

Evy took a sip of coffee, the bitterness grounding her. “No, ma’am. It never is.” Her mind drifted unbidden to Speirs, standing in that field, cigarette burning low, the autumn sun catching the lines of exhaustion on his face. Whatever came next, she’d face it with her remaining girls.

The next hour was spent settling Dot and Maggie into their new lodging and catching up as much as they could for Eileen and Evy. Alone now in the makeshift living room, Eileen watched Evy over the rim of her mug. 

"What happened out there, Evy?" Eileen asked softly. Evy's whiskey eyes were staring at the red-orange flames dancing in the hearth. "Eve?"

"She fell in love," Evy's voice was soft, monotone. "And he was killed by a sniper." 

"Oh, Jesus." 

"Frankie's carryin' a torch for a paratrooper in Easy, Maggie's beau was in Dog, " the nurse went on. "Dot's husband is MIA, Betty's beau is 82nd with no news." 

"And you?" 

Evy's gaze shifted to Eileen's. "Me?"

"No paratroopers for you? No medical officers? Pilots?" There was a teasing lilt to her voice. "Or is Lieutenant Evelyn Carter content to be alone?" 

Evy's lips twitched, but her mind slipped to Speirs. "Just one officer who's a pain in my ass more times than not." 

Eileen smiled and nodded her head. "You've done well, I hope you realize that…" 

Evy's gaze returned to the fire, staring until her vision blurred. "Have I?" She asked brokenly. 

"Do you know," Eileen leaned forward, elbows on her thighs. "That casualty deaths have dropped by having your team on the front? Dropped enough that battalion wants to create more teams." 

"Don't." Evy turned toward her. "Don't let them. I don't want to see any other girls go through that." 

"Darling," Eileen sighed, leaning back. "You know better than I do that we don't control that." 

Evy huffed out a breath and nodded. "I know." She sniffed a little and finished her coffee. 

"Stay here for the night," Eileen suggested. "It might do you some good." 

"We left Betty on her own," Evy rose, putting her mug on the table between them. "But we'll come back and visit when we can." 

"Captain Fisher is here," Eileen said, setting aside her mug, getting to her feet. "In case you want to say hello to him." Her eyes glinted with barely restrained humor. Evy grinned mischievously, a glimpse of the young nurse whom Eileen had met at Fort Devens. 

"I'm sure he'll remember me every time he walks into a forward aid station," Evy glanced outside at the darkening sky. 

"The deuce is loaded with fresh supplies for you," Eileen said as she walked with her to the door. Frankie was just outside with Rosie. "Anything else you need?" 

Evy snorted softly. "That's a loaded question, ma'am." 

Eileen smiled warmly and briefly cupped Evy's cheek. "You don't have to save all of them, sweetheart. Just keep saving the ones you can." 

Evy's throat felt like barbed wire had wrapped around it. She swallowed hard, her throat bobbing, and nodded. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The circular headlights over the Jeep were followed by the rumble of the deuce as the vehicles crossed the checkpoint back into the Allied Forces' operations area. Speirs had told himself he was conducting a routine check of the area, definitely not waiting for the nurse's return. For Evy's return. But when the hour had passed when she was supposed to be back, he had checked in with Betty, who had no answers. 

Now, though, he let out a little sigh of relief. His sea-green eyes followed the jeep into the motor pool, then the familiar curve of her silhouette that he knew was Evy walking in the light of the moon and stars back toward the little cottage. 

[valkyrie-mp]

A Kind Of Mercy (A Band of Brothers Fanfic) Chapter Five: I Don't Want to Walk Without You A Kind Of Mercy (45871 words) by Valkyrie_MP Chapters: 12/? Fandom: Band of Brothers (TV 2001) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Ronald Speirs/Original Female Character(s) Characters: Ronald Speirs, Original Female Character(s), Easy Company (Band of Brothers) Additional Tags: enemies? to lovers?, Band Of Brothers - Freeform, Easy Company - Freeform, Romance, Wartime Romance, Women of WW2, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Nurses, Canon-Typical Violence, Historical Inaccuracy, World War II, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Soft Smut Summary: As a nurse attached to the 54th Medical Company, First Lieutenant Evy Carter has seen enough of war to know men rarely become legends for clean reasons. Lieutenant Ronald Speirs is no exception. He is dangerous, controlled, and followed everywhere by the kind of rumors no decent man would want attached to his name. Evy should know better than to be intrigued. Speirs should know better than to sit down beside a woman who looks him in the eye like she’s already decided he’s only a man. From Aldbourne to the end of the war, through blood, frost, shellfire, and the long shadow of survival, Evy and Speirs learn that mercy is not always gentle — and love is not always soft.

Mourmelon-le-Grand, France (late November–December 1944)

Mr. and Mrs. Callahan, It is my duty to inform you that your son, Private Samuel Callahan, was killed in action on 18 November 1944 while serving with this company in Holland.

Speirs stared at the words he had typed on the typewriter in the Company CP, ripped the page free, and crumpled it, tossing it into the wastebasket that was already overflowing. He slid a new piece of paper in and tried again. But he saw Callahan’s face, pale, still. He rose, giving up on it. The mail was delayed anyway. One more day would not change anything. One more day wouldn’t bring Callahan back. Wouldn’t heal Maggie Adler’s broken heart. Wouldn’t change the way that Evy had looked at him.

He stepped outside, sliding his garrison cap onto his clean brown hair. France had brought him replacements, hot meals, hot showers, real beds, and the icy chill of Lieutenant Evelyn Carter’s anger. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and there was the autumn nip in the air that cut through his pressed OD wool service jacket. It should’ve made him happy, or at least less melancholic.

He had been losing men since D-Day. He accepted death. His men accepted death.

But he had looked at Evy, had placed his soldier in her hands, and asked her to keep him alive. He had to know. Had to know if it was the chaos of the field that had caused Callahan’s death or if it was going to happen regardless.

The nurses had commandeered an old schoolhouse to serve as an aid station, and the little stone cottage behind it as their barracks. Speirs headed to the schoolhouse first.

Frankie and Dot were the only ones in the building, crates opened between them, grim expressions already on their faces.

“It’s not looking good,” Frankie said around her cigarette to Dot. “We need supplies, we’re almost outta gauze, morphine is low, plasma is non-existent. Evy is expecting a refit for us though…” Her gaze flicked to the door and the shadow that hovered. “Sir?”

“Where’s Carter?” Speirs didn’t even bother to hide that he was looking for Evy. Frankie hesitated, her dark eyes narrowing slightly at him. The nurses had closed ranks about their leader, it seemed. “Today, DiCosmio.”

“Do you need her for supplies, sir?” Frankie asked sweetly.

Speirs exhaled through his nose. “Never mind, Lieutenant.” He turned on his heel and stepped back into the air. His green eyes scanned the area. He checked the little cottage, nothing. Mess hall, nothing. Growing increasingly frustrated, he drew a cigarette from his pack, lit it with a flick of his lighter, and glowered at nothing in particular.

“That’s a hell of a face, Ron,” Kelleher approached, his aviators shielding his eyes, while he cocked his head at his CO’s expression. Kelleher had been promoted to platoon sergeant during Market Garden, a good fit. “Are we goin’ somewhere?”

“No,” Speirs blew out smoke, offered Kelleher one, knowing full well the man didn’t smoke. Probably why he offered it—he knew he wouldn’t lose one.

Kelleher’s blue eyes slid behind the dark lenses to take in the aid station. “She’s at Company CP.”

“Who?”

“Sir, c’mon,” Kelleher raised a dark brow at his friend. “You two have avoided each other like Samuelson avoids KP.”

Speirs grunted.

Kelleher seemed to decide, wisely, not to push it. “Men are talking about numbers, too.” He went on, drawing out a toothpick to stick between his teeth. “We keep losing men, we’re gonna have to fold into another company.”

“We’ll do what we have to do,” Speirs replied, the cigarette bouncing between his lips as he spoke. The annoyance he felt wasn’t the men talking; men would always talk. It was that she had been in the same building and he had somehow missed it.

Kelleher nodded slowly, his gaze dropping to the gold band on his left hand, the first time he had worn it since D-Day, because he could. He had written his letter home to his wife and his folks and had considered that the day’s accomplishment, but now, seeing his friend’s face, he decided to add one more thing before he turned in for the evening. “She was meeting with Captain Winters and Colonel Sink.”

“About what?”

Kelleher’s lips twitched. “This, that, and the other.”

“Tommy.” Speirs dropped his cigarette and crushed it before he field-stripped it out of habit. “You’re my eyes and ears for a reason.”

“Medical readiness,” Kelleher rolled the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, rolled his shoulders. “And, uh, from what I heard on the way out—believe me, sir, she wasn’t quiet about it. The young nurse she’s got, Mary…”

“Maggie.”

“She’s getting bumped to the rear aid station, so your nurse is down to a team of four.”

“She’s not my nurse, Kelleher.”

Kelleher’s mouth twitched around the toothpick. “No, sir. Course not.” Before Speirs could speak, he went on. “Point is, we’re down a nurse.”

“The nurses weren’t supposed to be this far forward anyway,” Speirs said, and he dug out another cigarette. “Doesn’t change much.”

“So, what are we doing?” Kelleher lifted his sunglasses, finally. “Are we just gonna burn through our nurses until they’re all dead and not replace them?”

“No nurses have died,” Speirs said.

Kelleher looked back toward the schoolhouse. “No, sir. But they’re starting to look like us.” He ran his thumb over his wedding band.

“They can handle it,” Speirs hesitated just for a moment before lighting his cigarette. “Carter chose them for a reason.”

“Carter’s not looking too swell either, sir.”

“She’ll handle it.” --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She was not handling it. Frankie watched warily as Evy shoved crate after crate into the back of a deuce-and-a-half. The woman kept a steady rhythm, no matter how heavy the crate seemed—check off the clipboard, squat, lift, swing, and shove. Her OD field jacket was already dusty at the elbows, the wool of her skirt rumpled from the work, a far cry from the crisp service uniforms most officers still managed in refit. Frankie lit a cigarette. She had offered to help three times. On the third, Evy had snapped at her to sit down and shut up. Betty hovered in the doorway of the aid station next to Rosie, who was worrying her thumb with her teeth.

“Maybe we should go get Captain Winters,” Betty murmured to Rosie. “He has a way of soothing her feathers.”

Rosie made a little noise. “I get the feelin’ that a man is the last thing she wants to see right now.”

“Lieutenant Carter.”

“Oh hell,” muttered Rosie as Speirs walked into view, his service uniform perfectly pressed, brown shoes glinting in the sun from a fresh polish.

“You movin’ the aid station?” He leaned against the side of the deuce’s tailgate as Evy hefted another crate.

“All that is going to the rear aid station,” answered Frankie. She rose from her perch and lowered the sunglasses she wore to flick her eyes over him. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“I’m not here to talk to you, DiCosmio.”

“Lieutenant Carter is otherwise occupied ,as you can see, sir.” Rosie stepped out of the building now, the normally warm Georgia Peach sending out waves of icy fury. “Now the rest of us would be more than happy to assist you.”

Evy couldn’t help the way her lips twitched at her two best pals in this hellhole creating a united front for her. She loaded her final crate and swiped the sleeve of her field jacket across her forehead. “Make it quick, Captain, I’ve got shit to do.”

“Callahan.” Speirs met her eyes, his green ones stony.

Evy’s shoulders squared, and her mouth tightened. She kept her eyes on his. “Take a walk with me, sir.” She didn’t wait for his response; she passed her clipboard to Frankie, who gave her an arch-brow look. She didn’t wait for Speirs and began walking, not surprised when he matched stride in a matter of seconds.

The little stone cottage the nurses had taken had the front door open. Inside, Speirs spotted Dot moving around, packing up a footlocker.

“Miller going somewhere?” Speirs asked with a glance down at Evy.

Evy didn’t answer right away as she led him down a side path that led into the open field. She brushed her fingers along the tips of the long grass that grew. “She’s Maggie’s escort to the rear.” Her voice was low, a little hoarse as if she had been yelling.

Speirs considered for a moment, his eyes tracing over the woodland they walked toward. “Why?”

“Why?” Evy stopped in her tracks, her brows furrowing as she looked at him—at his stupid face, and his stupid medals on his stupid pressed uniform. “Why? Because my youngest nurse is a fucking liability. Because she can’t be on the front with us anymore, because every night she wakes up sobbing for that boy…”

Speirs said nothing.

Evy plowed on. “Because Dot isn’t gonna hold it together up here either, because I have no one, no one, from any fucking aid station that can handle this.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I can.”

Speirs studied her, his eyes dropping to her mouth briefly, then tracing over her face. “Would he have lived?”

Evy jerked back as if he had slapped her, and she looked away from him, her nostrils flaring. “No.” The word came out raw and broken. Her jaw worked as she stared at the far oak tree. “The round clipped his liver. Doesn’t matter about the second syrette… he was dead the second it happened.”

“You’ve lost men before.” Speirs drew out his cigarettes, pulled one from the pack with his lips. “Why is now any different?”

Evy watched his movements, her eyes cool. “Because most of those men don’t have one of my nurses crying every night because she lost someone she loved.”

Speirs’ lighter sparked to life, and he drew in nicotine, letting it out on a sigh. “You can’t protect them from this.”

“Watch me,” snapped Evy, and spun on her heel to leave. His fingers caught her around the wrist, as quick as a viper’s strike.

Evy’s eyes dropped to his hand, then traveled slowly back to his face.

Speirs released her.

“You’re not handling it.” Speirs’ cigarette bounced between his lips.

“And you are?” She spat out.

“No.”

Her anger deflated at the single word, her brows furrowing as she stared at him.

“I can’t finish the letter,” Speirs took the cigarette out of his mouth, studied it as he blew out smoke.

The nurse said nothing, realization worming its way into her. He hadn’t sought her out to pick a fight; he had wanted the truth.

“What do you want from me, Captain?”

Speirs’ jaw flexed as he considered her. “What do I tell his parents, Carter?”

The wind blew then, a gentle little gust that tugged at the brown strands of hair slipping free of their pins and carried the faint scent of woodsmoke from the village. Evy held his gaze. “That he died as a hero. That he wasn’t alone…”

The long grass stirred between them. Evy watched him take another drag from the cigarette. His eyes stayed fixed somewhere beyond her shoulder, toward nothing at all.

“Maybe that’s not what I’m asking.”

The words were quiet. For a moment, she simply stared at him. Then she understood.

“You want to know if it’s your fault.”

Speirs’ jaw tightened. Neither confirmed nor denied it. Which was answer enough. Evy looked away first, out across the French countryside where a thin line of replacements drilled in the distance and the faint clang of a blacksmith’s hammer echoed from the village.

She took a deep, steadying breath. “The truth is that Samuel Callahan was already dying when they brought him to me. You and your men got him there as fast as anyone could. That matters.”

Speirs didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

“You didn’t kill him, Speirs,” Evy said softly. Her voice caught on his name, the way it always did when the walls slipped.

For the first time since she’d known him, Captain Ronald Speirs looked tired. Not angry. Not dangerous. Not untouchable. Just bone-deep tired.

His eyes dropped to the cigarette burning between his fingers. “I told him I’d get him home.” The confession was so quiet she almost missed it.

Evy felt something in her chest crack. Because suddenly this wasn’t about Callahan. Or Maggie. Or the letter. It was about every promise they’d ever made to dying kids who believed them. And every promise they’d failed to keep.

She stepped half a pace closer, close enough to catch the scent of his soap and tobacco beneath the wool. “You did get him home,” she said quietly. “As much as any of us can out here.”

They stood in silence for a long moment, the autumn sun warming their shoulders despite the nip in the air. Then Speirs straightened, the mask sliding back into place. He gave her one last look, something unreadable, before turning and walking away.

Behind her, Frankie’s voice called out, sharp with concern. “Evy! You comin’ back or what?”

Evy squared her own shoulders, swiped at the wetness gathering in her eyes, and turned back toward her nurses. The crack in her chest still ached, but somehow it felt a little less lonely. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The morning chill clung to the stone walls of the nurses’ cottage like a second skin, the pale French sunlight filtering weakly through the small windows as Evy laced up her field boots with mechanical precision. Sleep had been a fleeting thing, haunted by Callahan’s still face and Speirs’ bone-weary confession in the field the day before, so she’d risen before the others, brewing bitter coffee over the small stove while the distant sounds of replacements drilling carried on the autumn wind. Today was the day: Maggie’s escort to the rear aid station. Dot would escort her, and Evy had already decided she’d go too, if only to ensure the transfer went smoothly and to steal a few hours away from the weight pressing down on all of them here in refit. 

The deuce-and-a-half waited outside, loaded and idling, a reminder that even in this so-called rest, the war kept pulling at the seams. She checked the tailgate one last time, satisfied the deuce and its cargo were secured, she went to retrieve her own vehicle. 

The battalion motor pool was a muddy sprawl of canvas-covered deuces, jeeps, and the occasional half-track, mechanics shouting over the growl of idling engines. Evy strode through it with purpose, her OD wool field jacket buttoned neatly over a fresh khaki shirt, the matching high-waisted trousers tucked into her polished field boots. The wool hugged her hips and legs with every confident step, practical for the long drive ahead yet unmistakably feminine in the sea of rumpled fatigues. 

Her dark hair was pinned up properly beneath her garrison cap, neat victory rolls at the sides, not a strand out of place. A touch of powder softened the shadows under her eyes, but it was the bold red lipstick that turned heads.

A young replacement corporal nearly dropped the fuel can he was hauling, his gaze dragging down the clean lines of her trousers and the sway of her stride before he caught himself, ears burning. In this muddy chaos of olive drab and stubble, Lieutenant Carter looked like a reminder that the world still held color and curves.

Speirs, leaning against a jeep a few yards away while Kelleher argued with the motor sergeant over parts, felt that familiar hook behind his ribs. The red lip flashed as she spoke to the supply lieutenant, her trousers practical yet tailored enough to draw the eye. Field-ready, composed, and dangerously distracting. He crushed his cigarette under his heel before he realized how long he’d been staring.

“Where are you running off to, Carter?” Speirs asked, stepping forward to meet her halfway.

Evy flicked her gaze toward him, keys already in hand. “The rear aid station. Maggie’s transfer.”

Understanding softened the hard lines around his eyes for a brief moment. “Who’re your escorts?”

“Me, myself, and I,” she replied, signing the clipboard with a quick flourish and thanking the NCO.

“Carter.” Speirs’ voice chased after her as she started toward the waiting jeep. “Carter, you can’t go without an escort.”

Evy tossed a baleful expression over her shoulder at him and slid behind the wheel of the jeep, the canvas top folded back despite the chill. The driver’s seat was hard canvas stretched over the fuel tank, the flat steel dashboard a simple cluster of gauges and levers. She twisted the key; the engine coughed to life with its familiar raspy growl.

“It’s not the first time I’ve driven to the rear, Sparky,” she called back. With a quick shift of the floor lever and a press of the accelerator, the jeep lurched forward out of the motor pool, tires splashing through the mud.

Kelleher let out a laugh that quickly turned to a cough when Speirs turned to glower at him. 

The hour drive to the rear gave her time to think as the jeep bounced along the road. Frankie rode beside her, a last-minute addition. Behind them, the deuce rumbled as it carried Maggie, Rosie, and Dot. Betty had said her farewells to both women and remained behind to man the aid station, insisting on it even as tears spilled from her pretty hazel eyes. 

Frankie had been surprisingly quiet during the ride, leaning forward now and then to check a gauge. 

The rear aid station came into sight, a bustling building where nurses wore pinstripes instead of the OD field uniforms her girls wore. Evy rolled the jeep to a stop, and hopped out, arm lifting in greeting as Captain Eileen Gregory, her smile coming easier than it had in months. 

"Let me look at you!" Eileen met Evy halfway, hands outstretched. "Oh, my girl." The officer pulled Evy into a hard hug and squeezed her eyes shut. 

Eileen held the hug a beat longer than regulation probably allowed, her pinstriped uniform crisp against Evy’s dusty field jacket. The scent of lavender water and carbolic soap clung to her, comforting reminders of stateside hospitals and easier days. When she pulled back, Eileen’s hands stayed on Evy’s shoulders, steadying.

“You look like you’ve been carrying the whole 101st on your back, Lieutenant,” Eileen said softly, gray-blue eyes searching Evy’s face. “Come on inside. We'll get Maggie settled.”

Evy managed a tired smile, the red lipstick suddenly feeling like war paint she hadn’t quite earned today. “Dot will be staying as well. She's…she's done ma'am." The words wanted to catch in her throat. "Maggie's, uh, she's got nightmares. Can’t keep food down some mornings. I thought the rear would be better for her. Dot, too.”

Eileen nodded, her expression knowing. She’d seen plenty of those cases. “You did right by them. Some of these girls weren’t built for the line. Doesn’t make them weak…just human.” She glanced past Evy toward the deuce-and-a-half where Dot was guiding a pale Maggie down the steps, Rosie hovering close like a protective shadow. “Let's get all of you inside where it's warmer. Coffee’s hot, and I’ve got real cream, believe it or not.”

Frankie stubbed out her cigarette with the toe of her boot and shot Evy a quick, assessing look—You good?—before nodding. “Don’t mind if I do, Captain.”

As the nurses filed inside, Evy lingered a moment by the jeep, fingers tracing the cold metal of the hood. The drive had given her too much time to replay Speirs’ tired eyes and that raw admission. I told him I’d get him home. She hadn’t expected the crack in his armor. Hadn’t expected how much it would mirror the fissures in her own.

“Evy.” Eileen’s voice pulled her back. The older woman stood in the doorway, arms crossed loosely. “You staying the night, or heading straight back?”

“Straight back,” Evy answered, squaring her shoulders. “Betty’s holding the fort alone, and we’ve got resupply coordination tomorrow. But I’ll take that coffee first.”

Inside the rear aid station, the atmosphere was markedly different: cleaner linens, the low hum of conversation instead of the constant edge of incoming wounded, the faint chime of real silverware somewhere in the mess. Maggie sat on a chair in the corner, Dot perched beside her, speaking in low, soothing tones. The girl looked smaller here, swallowed by the relative safety.

Evy accepted a steaming mug from Eileen, the warmth seeping into her chilled fingers. For a moment, surrounded by the familiar rhythms of nursing, the weight in her chest eased, just a fraction.

But even here, the war pressed in. A runner burst through the door, saluting sloppily. “Captain Gregory, message from Division. Possible movement orders coming down the pipe. Possibly Belgium. Brass is keeping it quiet.”

Eileen’s jaw tightened, but she thanked the man and turned back to Evy. “You hear that? Refit’s never really a refit, is it?”

Evy took a sip of coffee, the bitterness grounding her. “No, ma’am. It never is.” Her mind drifted unbidden to Speirs, standing in that field, cigarette burning low, the autumn sun catching the lines of exhaustion on his face. Whatever came next, she’d face it with her remaining girls.

The next hour was spent settling Dot and Maggie into their new lodging and catching up as much as they could for Eileen and Evy. Alone now in the makeshift living room, Eileen watched Evy over the rim of her mug. 

"What happened out there, Evy?" Eileen asked softly. Evy's whiskey eyes were staring at the red-orange flames dancing in the hearth. "Eve?"

"She fell in love," Evy's voice was soft, monotone. "And he was killed by a sniper." 

"Oh, Jesus." 

"Frankie's carryin' a torch for a paratrooper in Easy, Maggie's beau was in Dog, " the nurse went on. "Dot's husband is MIA, Betty's beau is 82nd with no news." 

"And you?" 

Evy's gaze shifted to Eileen's. "Me?"

"No paratroopers for you? No medical officers? Pilots?" There was a teasing lilt to her voice. "Or is Lieutenant Evelyn Carter content to be alone?" 

Evy's lips twitched, but her mind slipped to Speirs. "Just one officer who's a pain in my ass more times than not." 

Eileen smiled and nodded her head. "You've done well, I hope you realize that…" 

Evy's gaze returned to the fire, staring until her vision blurred. "Have I?" She asked brokenly. 

"Do you know," Eileen leaned forward, elbows on her thighs. "That casualty deaths have dropped by having your team on the front? Dropped enough that battalion wants to create more teams." 

"Don't." Evy turned toward her. "Don't let them. I don't want to see any other girls go through that." 

"Darling," Eileen sighed, leaning back. "You know better than I do that we don't control that." 

Evy huffed out a breath and nodded. "I know." She sniffed a little and finished her coffee. 

"Stay here for the night," Eileen suggested. "It might do you some good." 

"We left Betty on her own," Evy rose, putting her mug on the table between them. "But we'll come back and visit when we can." 

"Captain Fisher is here," Eileen said, setting aside her mug, getting to her feet. "In case you want to say hello to him." Her eyes glinted with barely restrained humor. Evy grinned mischievously, a glimpse of the young nurse whom Eileen had met at Fort Devens. 

"I'm sure he'll remember me every time he walks into a forward aid station," Evy glanced outside at the darkening sky. 

"The deuce is loaded with fresh supplies for you," Eileen said as she walked with her to the door. Frankie was just outside with Rosie. "Anything else you need?" 

Evy snorted softly. "That's a loaded question, ma'am." 

Eileen smiled warmly and briefly cupped Evy's cheek. "You don't have to save all of them, sweetheart. Just keep saving the ones you can." 

Evy's throat felt like barbed wire had wrapped around it. She swallowed hard, her throat bobbing, and nodded.

The circular headlights over the Jeep were followed by the rumble of the deuce as the vehicles crossed the checkpoint back into the Allied Forces' operations area. Speirs had told himself he was conducting a routine check of the area, definitely not waiting for the nurse's return. For Evy's return. But when the hour had passed when she was supposed to be back, he had checked in with Betty, who had no answers. 

Now, though, he let out a little sigh of relief. His sea-green eyes followed the jeep into the motor pool, then the familiar curve of her silhouette that he knew was Evy walking in the light of the moon and stars back toward the little cottage. 

[valkyrie-mp]

A Kind Of Mercy (A Band of Brothers Fanfic) Chapter Five: I Don't Want to Walk Without You A Kind Of Mercy (45871 words) by Valkyrie_MP Chapters: 10/? Fandom: Band of Brothers (TV 2001) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Ronald Speirs/Original Female Character(s) Characters: Ronald Speirs, Original Female Character(s), Easy Company (Band of Brothers) Additional Tags: enemies? to lovers?, Band Of Brothers - Freeform, Easy Company - Freeform, Romance, Wartime Romance, Women of WW2, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Nurses, Canon-Typical Violence, Historical Inaccuracy, World War II, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Soft Smut Summary: As a nurse attached to the 54th Medical Company, First Lieutenant Evy Carter has seen enough of war to know men rarely become legends for clean reasons. Lieutenant Ronald Speirs is no exception. He is dangerous, controlled, and followed everywhere by the kind of rumors no decent man would want attached to his name. Evy should know better than to be intrigued. Speirs should know better than to sit down beside a woman who looks him in the eye like she’s already decided he’s only a man. From Aldbourne to the end of the war, through blood, frost, shellfire, and the long shadow of survival, Evy and Speirs learn that mercy is not always gentle — and love is not always soft.

The rain had turned into a cold, relentless mist that seeped into the bones and settled on fabric that never seemed to dry. Inside the barn, Evy sat on an overturned ammunition crate in front of the little potbelly stove, inventorying morphine syrettes. But her mind kept drifting. She set another pack aside, staring blankly at the orange and gold flames in the little stove. In her mind’s eye, she was back in the glider — Rosie’s shrieks, the sickening crack of the wing snapping off, Frankie sobbing beside her as the world turned upside down.

“Carter.”

She blinked, turning to look at Speirs, who stood just inside the doorway with an unreadable expression.

“You lost?” she asked dryly.

He didn’t answer right away. His brows knitted together, and he pursed his lips slightly. “Only said your name about five times, Lieutenant.”

Evy rubbed a hand over her face, trying to shake off the memory. “Sorry. I was… somewhere else.”

Speirs stepped further into the barn, water dripping from his helmet and coat onto the stone floor. He looked like he’d just come off patrol—exhausted, soaked, and wired. His sea-green eyes studied her carefully. “Crash?” he asked.

Evy hesitated.

“Won’t make you any less for admitting it, if it is,” Speirs said, setting his helmet down on a crate and running his fingers through his wet hair.

She huffed out a soft breath. “Yeah.”

Speirs stood there awkwardly for a moment. Evy saved them both from the silence. “You want to see Henley?”

“That was part of why I came by,” he replied.

She nodded and stood, brushing off her trousers. “He’s over here.”

They walked the short distance to where Private Henley lay on a cot, his leg heavily bandaged. The young soldier was sleeping fitfully, his face pale but peaceful for the first time in hours. Evy checked his pulse and adjusted the blanket with practiced care.

“He’s doing better than I expected,” she said quietly. “If the weather holds, we can send him back to the rear aid station tomorrow, let him heal up there, or get evac'd to the hospital ship.”

Speirs looked down at his man, jaw tight. “Good.” He didn’t say anything else for a long moment, just stood with his hands loose at his sides, rain still dripping from his uniform.

Evy glanced at him. “You should get dry, Captain. You’ll catch your death standing around like that.”

Speirs gave a short, humorless exhale. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s happened this year.”

The silence stretched again, comfortable in its discomfort. The stove crackled softly. One of the nurses in the loft shifted in her sleep.

“You’ve been having them often?” Speirs asked, voice low. “The memories.”

Evy crossed her arms, staring into the fire. “Often enough.” She paused, then added, “Frankie doesn’t talk about it, but I know she still has nightmares too.”

Speirs nodded slowly. He understood nightmares better than most.

“You did good, getting them out,” he said after a beat.

Evy looked up at him, surprised by the quiet praise. For a moment, their eyes held, his green and intense, hers tired but steady.

“I keep thinking about what would’ve happened if we’d come down a little further east,” she admitted. “We would’ve landed right in the Germans…”

Speirs’ jaw flexed; there was a long beat of silence before he cleared his throat. “I, uh, thought you were dead, Carter. When I saw the blood…” He shook his head once, as if trying to dislodge the image. “Didn’t like it.”

The raw honesty in his voice made her chest tighten.

She considered her answer carefully. “Wasn’t it you who said that in order to fight a war, you have to accept death?”

His eyes shot to hers, hot and hard. “Soldiers dying. Not you.”

Evy’s breath caught. For a moment, she didn’t know what to say. The distinction hung between them, heavier than it should have.

“I’m still here,” she said softly. “We’re still here.”

“Yeah.” His gaze lingered on her face, intense and unblinking.

The air between them felt heavier, charged with everything they weren’t saying. Speirs looked like he wanted to say more, but instead he reached for his helmet. “I should get back,” he said. “Patrol briefing at dawn.”

Evy nodded. “Try to stay dry, Captain.”

Speirs paused at the open barn door, rain already misting around him. He glanced back at her, the lantern light catching in his eyes. “I’ll be seeing you, Carter.”

He stepped out into the night, blending into the shadows.

Evy stood by the stove for a long time after he’d gone, listening to the rain, the echo of his voice still lingering in the quiet barn. Eventually, Maggie came down from the loft to relieve her. The young woman looked older than her twenty-one years now.

How quickly war changes us, Evy thought bitterly as she climbed up into the loft. She crawled over to where Frankie and Rosie lay curled together for warmth. Dot and Betty slept opposite them. Instead of lying down, Evy sat by the low-burning lantern and pulled out paper to draft a letter home.

But how could you put into a letter what it felt like to almost die? How could you write about the weather when you had watched a pilot bleed out so his “precious cargo” — you and your nurses — could survive?

She stared at the blank page until the words blurred. Finally, she set it aside, and exhausted, she snuggled in beside Frankie, burying her face into the other woman's back. 

The blank page rattled loosely as a breeze slipped through a crack in the stone. 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They fell into a routine on the estate, random injuries coming in from patrols gone awry, but for the most part, it was a peaceful few weeks, a strange thing to say during a war. The sun finally broke through after what felt like weeks of relentless rain. It emerged weak and watery, but to the nurses, it felt like a miracle. They dragged overturned crates and empty ammo boxes into a rare patch of pale golden light outside the barn, soaking up every precious ray.

Evy tilted her face toward the sky, eyes closed. The warmth brushed across her skin like a caress she had almost forgotten existed, gentle, almost hesitant after so many days of damp cold. It soaked slowly into her uniform, chasing away the deep chill that had settled into her joints and marrow. The faint scent of wet earth and drying wool rose around her, mingling with the distant smell of woodsmoke from a small fire someone had managed to keep going. For the first time in what felt like forever, her body unclenched. The constant ache in her left arm dulled. Her shoulders dropped. She breathed in deep, tasting clean air instead of mildew and iodine.

For the first time in days, she felt almost human.

Maggie had been humming under her breath that morning, but whether it was the chocolate bar she had somehow acquired or the letter poking out of her back pocket, Evy wasn't sure. And when she had grown curious, the young woman had merely blushed and said 'Oh, it's just Sam.'

Frankie had wandered off with Luz for a “walk,” and Evy had simply slid a knowing look at them over the rim of her battered tin mug of what passed for coffee. Her brown eyes followed them as they strolled down the road, Frankie’s laughter carrying faintly on the breeze.

“Subtle,” Speirs said, coming up on her left side.

“It’s a war, Sparky.” Her sarcastic drawl was customary at this point. “They don’t have time for subtle.”

He made a noise in his throat and looked down at the nurse beside him, lounging on her makeshift furniture, studying her face. “You been sleeping?”

She sniffed. “Mostly,” she admitted. She slid her eyes up toward him. “You?”

His lips twitched. “Between the patrols, the briefings, checking on my platoon, meeting with my NCOs, and trying to find the next pack of Lucky Strikes… yeah,” he met her eyes, “I’ve slept.”

“Captain Speirs,” Rosie sauntered out of the aid station, her Georgia accent thick as honey and twice as sweet. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company this fine afternoon?”

Evy loved Rosie dearly, but it still baffled her how the southern belle managed to look fresh as a daisy even in the middle of a war. Speirs slid the nurse a blank look. Rosie beamed at him, tilting her head just so, lashes fluttering with practiced innocence.

“Lieutenant Hampton,” he said, voice flat and even, the same tone he used when giving patrol orders. “Just checking on supplies.”

Rosie wasn’t deterred in the slightest. “Well, aren’t you just the most thoughtful man. If you ever need anything …anything at all, you know where to find me.”

Speirs gave her a single, slow nod. The kind of nod that said acknowledged and dismissed. His sea-green eyes flicked once to Evy, who was doing a poor job of hiding her amusement behind her tin mug.

“Carter,” he said, ignoring Rosie’s continued batting of eyelashes, “you got any of those sulfa tablets left?”

Evy lowered her mug, lips twitching. “Plenty. I’ll set some aside for your platoon, sir.”

“Appreciate it.” He gave Rosie another polite, utterly uninterested nod. “Lieutenant.” Without another word, he turned and walked away with that long, purposeful stride of his, coat flapping slightly in the breeze.

Rosie watched him go, hands on her hips. “Well, I declare. That man is harder to crack than a Georgia pecan.”

Evy let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “You’re wasting your time, Rosie. Speirs doesn’t flirt. He barely speaks. I don't even think the man blinks half the time.”

Rosie grinned, sly and knowing. “Maybe not with me, sugar. But I saw the way he looked at you just now.”

Evy’s smile faltered. She didn’t answer as she sipped her coffee and scowled at nothing in particular, the weak sunlight suddenly feeling a little too warm on her cheeks. "He wanted supplies for his platoon." 

Rosie ran her tongue over her white teeth and nodded solemnly. "Mhmm, oh yes, that's all." 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The good weather held for exactly twenty-four hours.

Rain dripped down the back of Evy’s neck in icy rivulets, slipping beneath the collar of her uniform and soaking the thin T-shirt underneath as she and Frankie staggered into the aid station with the litter. The weight of the groaning paratrooper made her arms burn, her boots sucking loudly in the mud with every step.

“Fucking snipers,” Evy snarled, shoving wet strands of hair out of her eyes. The metallic scent of blood was already thick in the air. “Rosie, where the hell is that morphine?!”

“Here!” Rosie jogged over, syringe in hand, her usually sweet face pale and strained.

“He’s already had a syrette, Eve,” Frankie said sharply, eyes flicking to the empty tube pinned to the man’s collar. Evy’s jaw tightened, a cold knot of dread forming in her stomach.

“Who brought him in?” Evy asked, her hands already slicing through the soaked uniform top with scissors that felt too small, too slow.

“Captain Speirs,” Betty answered from the side, her voice small and trembling. “I know the soldier… It’s Sam. Sam Callahan. Maggie’s beau.”

Evy’s eyes snapped up. Realization hit like a gut punch. She shared a quick, heavy look with Frankie. “Go get Speirs,” she ordered Betty. “Now.”

Betty hesitated for a split second, eyes wide on Callahan, before bolting into the rain.

The barn exploded into controlled chaos. Lantern light flickered wildly. The sharp smell of iodine mixed with blood and wet wool. Evy worked with grim focus, her fingers slick and red as she clamped a pulsing bleeder. Sam’s breathing was wet and ragged, each inhale a horrible gurgle that made her stomach twist.

“Stay with us, Sam,” she said firmly, voice cutting through the storm. “You hear me? You’ve got people waiting on you.”

Frankie was right beside her, hands pressed hard over the wound, blood seeping between her fingers. Rosie prepared another line of plasma with shaking hands. Dot adjusted the weak lantern overhead, its light casting long, grotesque shadows.

Maggie burst back in with Speirs on her heels. The young nurse stopped dead at the foot of the cot. All the color drained from her face. Her hands flew to her mouth as a broken sound escaped her.

“Sam…?”

Callahan’s eyelids fluttered. His lips were bloodless, rainwater and sweat slicking his dark hair to his forehead. “Hey… Magpie,” he rasped, the words barely audible over the rain hammering the roof.

Maggie let out a small, wounded sob and stepped forward, her fingers sliding into his. “You’re okay,” she whispered, voice cracking. “You’re okay, Sam. Just stay with me. Please.”

Sam tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace. “Liar… You promised me a dance…”

Maggie’s tears spilled over. “You promised me one too. So you damn well better stay alive for it.”

Evy’s hands never stopped moving, digging for fragments while blood pooled warm and sticky around her fingers. The metallic tang filled her nose. Her own pulse thundered in her ears.

She finally looked up at Speirs, voice tight. “When did you give him the morphine?”

The officer hesitated.

Evy’s head snapped up, brown eyes blazing. “Speirs, when did you give Callahan the morphine?”

“I don’t know…” Water dripped off his hair onto the litter. “Maybe ten or fifteen minutes before we got him here. He was screaming. I gave him a syrette so we could move him.”

“Who gave the second syrette?” Dot asked as she removed Sam’s boots.

Speirs looked confused. “What?”

Dot gestured grimly. “There’s a second one pinned to his pant leg…”

"Someone must've given him a second dose…" Speirs replied tersely. 

Evy’s jaw tightened dangerously. “Frankie, hold pressure here. Rosie, get me gauze to pack this.” She looked back at Speirs, voice clipped and furious. “That’s two syrettes, Speirs. He’s small. You can kill him with that much morphine.”

Speirs didn’t flinch, but his mouth pressed into a thin line. “He was going to bleed out in the field if we didn’t move fast.”

“And now I’m trying to keep him alive with a morphine load that could stop his breathing,” Evy shot back, her voice cracking with exhaustion and rage. “Frankie, take over. You—” She pointed at Speirs with a blood-covered hand. “Outside. Now.”

Speirs stepped aside, jaw locked, and followed her out into the pouring rain.

The downpour hit them like a wall. Water streamed off the barn roof in sheets, turning the ground into thick mud. Evy didn’t stop until they were a few yards away, partially sheltered by the overhang but still getting drenched.

She whirled on him, eyes flashing. “Two syrettes, Speirs. Two. On a kid who probably weighs a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet.” Her voice was low but sharp enough to cut. “You don’t just pump morphine into someone because he’s screaming. You tell the medic. You give us a chance to save him instead of fighting what you did to him.”

Speirs stood tall in the rain, water running down his face, expression hard. “He was bleeding out in the middle of a fucking field with Germans shooting at us. I gave him enough to move him. That’s what I had to do.”

“And if he stops breathing because his body can’t handle it?” Evy stepped closer, chin lifted, fury rolling off her in waves. “Then what? You brought him to me half-dead from blood loss and morphine. I’m not a miracle worker, Speirs.”

Speirs’ eyes darkened. He took a step toward her, voice dropping into that dangerous, quiet register. “I’m not asking you to be a miracle worker. I’m asking you to keep him alive after I dragged his ass out of hell." 

The rain hammered down between them. Evy’s chest heaved, her uniform plastered to her skin. Speirs was breathing hard, too, fists clenched at his sides like he was physically restraining himself. For a long, electric moment, they just glared at each other, inches apart, soaked, furious, and burning with everything they’d been holding back for months.

“If he fucking dies, who do you think that comes back on? Not the paratrooper who dragged him off the battlefield, it falls on us, on me!” Evy said, voice shaking with anger and something sharper. "Of all the stupid shit that you could do…"

Speirs stepped even closer, towering over her, rain streaming down his face. “Careful, Carter, you're addressing a superior officer….”

Evy jerked her chin up, lips in a tight line, eyes blazing. “No, merely a higher-ranking one.”

The words hung between them, sharp as a blade. The rain poured down, cold and relentless, but the heat crackling between their bodies made it feel as if steam should be rising off them. Speirs’ gaze dropped to her mouth for a long, heavy second, then slowly dragged back up to her eyes. His jaw flexed. His hand twitched at his side like he wanted to grab her, whether to shake her or pull her closer, he wasn't sure.

Evy didn’t back down. She held his stare, breathing hard, water running down her face and clinging to her lashes. The tension was unbearable — thick, furious, and laced with something far more dangerous than anger. Neither of them moved.

Neither of them looked away.

"Carter, we need you!" Dot's voice echoed from the barn doors. There was no hesitation as Evy turned and sprinted back into the barn, into blood, and the wails of the wounded.  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Private Samuel Callahan died that night, just after 0200, still holding onto his Magpie’s hand.

Evy had known it was coming. She’d seen the signs, the shallow, rattling breaths, the gray pallor creeping across his skin, the way his fingers had gone slack in Maggie’s grip. Still, when his chest stopped rising, the room fell into a horrible, heavy silence; it hit like a fresh wound.

Maggie let out a sound that wasn’t quite human, a raw, keening wail that tore through the barn and lodged itself in Evy’s chest. Dot and Betty moved instantly, wrapping the younger nurse in their arms as she collapsed against Sam’s still form, sobbing so hard her whole body shook.

Evy stood back, blood dried on her hands and forearms, feeling suddenly, bone-deeply exhausted. She wiped her face with the back of her wrist, leaving a smear of someone else’s blood across her cheek where tears had fallen, and swallowed the lump in her throat.

“Frankie,” she said quietly, voice hoarse. “Go find Luz. Make sure he’s alright.”

Frankie hesitated, eyes red-rimmed, but nodded. She squeezed Evy’s shoulder once before slipping out into the rain.

Evy turned to Betty. “Send a runner to Captain Speirs. Tell him Private Callahan didn’t make it. He’ll need to write the letter home.”

Betty’s eyes were wet, but she straightened her shoulders and moved to obey.

Evy stood alone for a long moment in the dim lantern light, staring at the still form on the cot. Another kid gone. Another name for the growing list. She wished, more than anything, for a drink. Something strong enough to burn away the metallic taste of failure in her mouth. She briefly considered tracking down Nixon and stealing some of his godawful Vat 69.

Instead, she stayed.

She helped Dot and Betty gently pry Maggie away from the body, then wrapped the young nurse in a blanket and sat with her while she cried until her voice gave out. Maggie’s sobs eventually faded into exhausted, hiccuping whimpers, her head resting against Evy’s shoulder.

“He promised me a dance,” Maggie whispered brokenly, her voice raw and small. “He promised…”

Evy pressed her cheek to the top of Maggie’s head, eyes stinging with tears she refused to let fall. “I know, sweetheart. I know.”

The barn door creaked open softly. Heavy, deliberate steps cut through the quiet sobbing. Speirs stopped beside the lifeless body on the cot. His green eyes moved from Sam’s still face to Maggie, then finally to Evy.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The only sounds were Maggie’s muffled sobs against Evy’s shoulder and the relentless rain hammering the roof.

Speirs removed his helmet, tucked it beneath his arm, water streaming down his face. His jaw was tight, the muscle jumping. He looked older in the dim lantern light, exhausted, rain-soaked, and carrying the weight of another lost man.

“He was a good kid,” Speirs said quietly, voice rough. “One of the best in D Company.”

Maggie let out a fresh wave of sobs. Evy tightened her arms around her, rocking her gently.

Evy gently passed Maggie into Dot’s waiting arms. The younger nurse clung to the older woman like a lifeline, her sobs finally quieting into exhausted, shuddering breaths. Evy rose slowly, and met Speirs’ stare head-on.

“When we move to refit the regiment,” she said, voice low but edged with steel, she moved to stand closer to Speirs, a conversation meant for officers, “there will be another mandatory buddy aid under fire class. No exceptions. No shortcuts. Every man will learn how to properly mark morphine administration, or I’ll drag them in here myself and make them watch what happens when they don’t.”

Speirs held her gaze without flinching. For a moment, the only sound was the steady drum of water on the roof and Maggie’s quiet, heartbroken breathing.

“Understood,” he said finally. The word was clipped, professional, but his eyes told a different story. They lingered on her face, tracing the blood smeared across her cheek, the exhaustion carved deep into her expression.

He took one small step closer, voice dropping so only she could hear. “You did everything you could, Carter.”

The words were simple. Almost gentle, for him. But they landed like a spark against dry tinder.

Evy’s throat tightened. She wanted to snap at him, to tell him that “everything she could” wasn’t enough tonight. That another boy was dead because decisions made in the chaos of the field had followed him all the way here. Instead, she simply nodded once, jaw locked tight.

Speirs studied her for another long second, something fierce and protective flickering behind his eyes. He gave a short, sharp nod and turned toward the door.

“I’ll write the letter to his parents,” he said over his shoulder. “Get some rest, Carter. That’s an order.”

The barn door creaked shut behind him, leaving only the sound of rain and quiet grief in his wake.

Evy stood there for a long moment, staring at the closed door, the echo of his voice and the weight of his gaze still lingering on her skin like a brand.

She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes and let out a long, shaky breath.

Tomorrow would bring more rain. More patrols. More wounded.

And somehow, they would keep going. They had to keep going. 

[valkyrie-mp]

A Kind Of Mercy (A Band of Brothers Fanfic) Chapter Four

A Kind Of Mercy (45871 words) by Valkyrie_MP Chapters: 10/? Fandom: Band of Brothers (TV 2001) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Ronald Speirs/Original Female Character(s) Characters: Ronald Speirs, Original Female Character(s), Easy Company (Band of Brothers) Additional Tags: enemies? to lovers?, Band Of Brothers - Freeform, Easy Company - Freeform, Romance, Wartime Romance, Women of WW2, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Nurses, Canon-Typical Violence, Historical Inaccuracy, World War II, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Soft Smut Summary: As a nurse attached to the 54th Medical Company, First Lieutenant Evy Carter has seen enough of war to know men rarely become legends for clean reasons. Lieutenant Ronald Speirs is no exception. He is dangerous, controlled, and followed everywhere by the kind of rumors no decent man would want attached to his name. Evy should know better than to be intrigued. Speirs should know better than to sit down beside a woman who looks him in the eye like she’s already decided he’s only a man. From Aldbourne to the end of the war, through blood, frost, shellfire, and the long shadow of survival, Evy and Speirs learn that mercy is not always gentle — and love is not always soft.

Aldbourne, England September 1944

The glider training field looked deceptively peaceful under the blue morning sky. Several large Waco CG-4 gliders sat on the grass like awkward, oversized birds made of wood and canvas. Sergeant Bill Guarnere stood in front of the small group of nurses, hands on his hips, toothpick clenched between his teeth.

“Well, well,” Guarnere said, his Philly accent thick. “If it ain’t Lieutenant Carter and her crew. Never thought I’d see the day you ladies were climbing into these death traps.”

Frankie snorted. “Yeah, well, nobody asked for your opinion, Guarnere.”

He grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “Have I mentioned how much I like ya, ma'am?” His gaze moved across the group: Rosie, Dot, Maggie, and Betty. “These gliders ain’t planes. They’re flying crates. You don’t get a smooth landing. You get a controlled crash. You’ll learn how to brace, how to get out fast, and how to unload your gear even if the damn thing breaks in half. Any questions?”

Maggie raised a shaky hand. “How often do they… not make it?”

Guarnere’s grin faded. “Too damn often. That’s why they’re only sending the tough ones, ain't that right?” His eyes flicked to Evy. “And from what I hear, Sink picked the right lieutenant to lead ‘em.”

Evy gave a short nod, trying to ignore the knot in her stomach.

“Your pilots will be with you from training through the real drop. Get used to their faces now.” He gestured toward the four men off to the side. He jerked a thumb toward two gliders. “First bird: Lieutenant Carter, DiCosmio, and Hampton. Your pilots are Lieutenant Paul Reynolds and Flight Officer Mike Hayes.”

A tall, serious-looking pilot with a mustache gave them a nod. Beside him, a younger man with an easy grin — Hayes — offered a small wave.

“Second bird: Miller, Adler, and Kowalski. You’ve got Lieutenant David Brooks and Flight Officer Steve Callahan.”

Guarnere slapped the side of the nearest glider, the canvas making a hollow thump. “These things don’t glide pretty. They crash. Your job is to survive the landing and get your medical gear out fast. Any questions?”

Frankie muttered under her breath, “Yeah. Where do I file a complaint?”

Evy stood at the front of her group, trying to project calm she didn’t feel. She could feel eyes on her from the edge of the field. Captain Winters and Lieutenant Speirs stood together watching. Speirs had his arms crossed, expression unreadable, but his gaze was locked on her.

Guarnere grinned. “Load up! First group into the bird!”

As Evy climbed into the cramped glider with Frankie and Rosie, the canvas walls creaked ominously around them. The interior smelled of wood, oil, and barely suppressed fear. Lieutenant Reynolds was already in the pilot’s seat.

Flight Officer Hayes turned and gave them a quick, cheerful thumbs-up. “First time?” Hayes asked.

“That obvious?” Frankie shot back, voice tighter than usual.

Evy gripped the edge of the bench as the glider was hooked up to the tow plane. Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was only training. In a few short days, it would be real, and Holland would be waiting.

A wave of nausea rolled through her. Rosie sat across from her, lips pressed into a thin line, blue eyes wide. She looked like she was praying.

The first sharp jerk of the tow rope made the glider lurch forward. Frankie’s hand shot out and grabbed Evy’s, squeezing hard. “Evy?” Her voice trembled.

Evy swallowed down bile. “Yeah, Frankie?”

“If we make it out of this alive,” Frankie said, and turned her head toward her friend, eyes wide with fear and dark humor, “you name your firstborn after me.”

Evy managed a weak laugh. “You do the same.”

“I’ll add to that,” Rosie’s soft Georgia drawl cut in, small and shaky. “If we survive this, I get naming rights on the second one.”

The three of them shared a tense, fleeting laugh, the kind that came more from nerves than actual amusement. It helped, if only for a second.

Then the tow plane roared to life, and the glider lurched forward, picking up speed across the grass.

On the edge of the training field, a few others had joined Winters and Speirs: Lieutenant Harry Welsh, Guarnere and Lieutenant Buck Compton.

“Brave women,” Welsh said quietly, shaking his head. “I don’t envy them one bit.”

Guarnere snorted. “They’ve got more balls than half the replacements we got.”

Speirs didn’t say a word. His eyes stayed fixed on the first glider; his jaw was tight, his arms crossed over his chest so hard his knuckles were pale.

Winters glanced sideways at him. “You’ve been watching her a lot lately, Ron.”

Speirs didn’t deny it. He only offered a low, almost inaudible reply: “She’s going in too far forward, sir.”

Buck shifted beside them. “All of ‘em are. I still don't understand why they need to be so close to us”

No one spoke as the two planes’ engines began to roar louder, and the glider shook and pitched down the uneven terrain.

Inside the glider, the canvas walls vibrated as the tow plane picked up speed. Evy gripped the edge of the bench, heart slamming against her ribs. Frankie’s hand was still clamped around hers, sweaty and tight. Rosie sat across from them, eyes closed, lips moving in silent prayer.

“Hold on tight, ladies,” Reynolds called back from the pilot’s seat. “Here we go.”

The glider lurched forward violently, accelerating faster and faster across the grass. 

Evy’s stomach dropped as the ground fell away beneath them. “Jesus Christ!” The words burst out of her before she could stop them. Rosie shot her a sharp glare. “I’m sorry!”

“Oh God,” Frankie groaned beside her, gripping Evy’s hand hard enough to bruise. “I’m gonna hurl.”

“Don’t you dare vomit in here!” Rosie snapped, looking green herself beneath her helmet.

The glider climbed unsteadily, swaying and bucking in the air like a drunk trying to walk a straight line. Every jolt sent Evy’s stomach lurching. The canvas walls creaked and groaned around them. Wind whistled through tiny gaps in the frame. It felt less like flying and more like being dragged through the sky in a wooden box.

From the cockpit, Flight Officer Hayes laughed. “You’re fine, ladies. Just breathe through it. And get ready.”

“For what?” Evy asked weakly, her knuckles white on the bench.

Hayes grinned over his shoulder. “To glide.”

The tow plane suddenly released them. The nose dipped sharply. For a few terrifying heartbeats, the glider felt like it was falling. Then the wings caught the air, and they leveled out into an eerie, silent glide. All that remained was the wind rushing past the canvas and the creak of wood under strain.

Evy closed her eyes, trying to slow her breathing. This is what it will feel like over Holland, she realized. No engines. Just wind and prayer. And this was without an enemy opening fire at them.

Frankie’s hand was still clamped around hers, sweaty and trembling. “You still with me, Franks?” Evy whispered.

“Barely,” Frankie muttered, and took a deep breath. "If I die in this thing, I’m haunting you first.”

On the ground, the second group of nurses stood watching the first glider climb higher into the sky. Dot’s face was pale but set in grim determination. Maggie looked like she might actually be sick. Betty kept swallowing hard, clutching the strap of her medical bag like a lifeline.

“God help them,” Dot whispered.

Maggie’s voice came out small. “They look so… small up there.”

Nearby, the cluster of paratroopers watched with varying degrees of discomfort. 

Guarnere shifted his weight, toothpick rolling between his teeth. “Never liked watching women do this shit,” he grumbled. “Feels wrong. They should be back patching us up, not riding in those damn coffins.”

Buck nodded, arms crossed. “My sister would kill me if she knew I let nurses go up in those things while we stand here like idiots.”

Welsh exhaled sharply. “They’re tougher than we think.”

Winters remained quiet, but his expression was tight with concern. Speirs stayed completely silent, jaw clenched, eyes never leaving the first glider.

Winters straightened up beside him. “They're going for a landing.”

"Jesus Christ," Guarnere muttered.

Inside the glider, Evy kept her eyes fixed on a spot on the opposite wall, breathing through her nose. “Coming in for landing,” Reynolds called back, voice steady but tight. “Brace yourselves. This might be rough.”

Frankie’s grip on Evy’s hand tightened painfully. “Might be?”

“Head down between your knees, and keep your arms tucked!” Hayes shouted. “Just like Guarnere showed you!”

The ground rushed up fast. The impact was brutal. The glider skidded wildly across the field, bouncing and rattling violently before it finally slowed and stopped.

Evy lifted her head, ears ringing. “Everyone alive?”

Frankie let out a shaky breath. “I think I left my stomach back in the sky.”

Rosie looked like she might actually cry with relief. “We’re down. Sweet Jesus, we’re actually down.”

From the cockpit, Hayes gave a cheerful whistle. “Not bad for your first one, ladies. We only went a little sideways.”

Evy unbuckled with trembling fingers and stood on shaky legs. Her knees felt like rubber. She helped Frankie open the door. The moment it swung wide, Frankie practically threw herself onto the grass.

“Land,” she moaned, pressing her face into the cool earth. “Oh, sweet, beautiful, solid land!”

Evy waited for Rosie to slide out first, then hopped down herself. Her legs felt like jelly. She had to lock her knees to keep from stumbling. The three of them stood there pale and windblown while the second glider began its ascent.

Frankie lifted her head. “Next time I complain about anything, remind me how much worse this is.”

Evy let out a breathless laugh, one hand resting on her still-queasy stomach. Movement caught her eye. Speirs was already walking toward them with long, purposeful strides.

He stopped a few feet away, expression carefully neutral. “Everything intact?” he asked, voice low and even.

Evy looked up at him, still pale. For a split second, something raw flickered in his eyes—concern, maybe relief—before he locked it down.

Frankie lifted her head. “You came all the way over here just to ask that?”

Speirs gave a small shrug. “Safety officer’s job.” His gaze returned to Evy. “You alright, Carter?”

“I’m fine,” she said, voice a little thin. “Just… relearning what solid ground feels like.”

Speirs studied her a beat longer, then gave a short nod. But he didn’t walk away.

Winters approached with a calm smile. “How was it, Carter?”

“Educational, sir. I now understand why they call them flying coffins.” She took the lit cigarette Speirs passed her.

Winters chuckled softly. “Rough landing?”

“Rough is putting it mildly, sir,” Frankie muttered, finally pushing herself up. “I think my soul left my body somewhere over the far end of the field.” She snagged the cigarette from Evy’s hand.

Compton shook his head. “You ladies are tougher than I gave you credit for. I’ve seen grown paratroopers look more green after their first ride.”

Guarnere grinned. “Told you they had balls.”

Evy ran a hand through her wind-tossed hair. “We survived. That’s something.” She glanced back toward the second glider. “Now we get to do it all over again.”

Speirs stayed a few feet away at first, watching her closely. When Evy tried to walk again, her legs still shaky, he stepped in.

“Sit down before you fall down, Carter,” he said, voice low.

She obeyed. The moment she lowered herself back onto the grass, Speirs crouched beside her. Without hesitation, his hand came up to the back of her head—firm but careful. He guided her head gently down between her knees.

“Breathe,” he murmured, close enough that she felt the warmth of his breath against her hair. His palm lingered, thumb brushing lightly against the nape of her neck in a small, soothing motion. “It’ll help with the nausea.”

Evy’s stomach was still flipping, but the touch sent a different kind of flutter through her. His hand was warm and surprisingly gentle. For a man who rarely touched anyone unless necessary, this felt intimate.

She stayed like that for a moment, his hand resting lightly on the back of her neck. “Thanks,” she said quietly.

Frankie, still sprawled nearby, let out a low whistle. “Well, shit. Speirs playing nursemaid now? Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Shut up, Frankie,” Evy muttered, a faint smile in her voice.

Speirs didn’t pull his hand away immediately. When he finally did, his fingers trailed lightly down the back of her neck. He stood, lit another cigarette, and handed it down to her once she lifted her head.

Their eyes met. His intense gaze stayed locked on her. “You good?” he asked, quieter this time.

“Yeah,” she breathed, accepting the cigarette. Their fingers brushed again. “I’m good.”

He gave a short nod but stayed close, cigarette dangling from his lips, watching her with that same sharp, protective intensity, only this time it was unmistakably personal.

The late summer sun had dipped low by the time the nurses made their way back to the village. Every muscle in Evy’s body ached. Her neck and shoulders burned from the repeated jolts, and a deep bruise was already forming across her lower back where the harness had dug in. The others were in similar shape. Frankie walked with a limp, pressing a hand to her hip. Rosie kept rolling her shoulders. Dot winced with every step.

“I feel like I’ve been run over,” Frankie groaned as they reached their billet. “Repeatedly.”

“You’re not wrong,” Evy muttered. She moved carefully, one hand braced against the small of her back.

Inside the cottage, they collapsed onto chairs and beds with tired sighs. Maggie and Betty had already disappeared into their room, claiming they needed to lie flat or die.

A soft knock came at the door. Frankie raised an eyebrow. “If that’s Guarnere here to gloat…”

But it was Speirs.

He stood in the doorway, cap under his arm, expression neutral. His eyes found Evy right away.

“Evening,” he said, voice low. “Heard the last couple runs were rough.”

Frankie smirked. “Rough is an understatement. We’re all walking bruises tonight.”

Speirs gave a short nod, gaze still on Evy. “Carter. Got a minute?”

The other nurses suddenly found reasons to busy themselves. Rosie became very interested in her boots. Frankie muttered something about needing air and hobbled outside with a knowing look.

Evy stood slowly, trying not to wince, and followed him just outside the cottage. The evening air was cool and quiet, the village settling down around them.

“You’re moving stiff,” Speirs said bluntly, keeping a careful distance. “How bad is it?”

“Sore,” she admitted. “Neck, back, hips… everything. Those landings hit harder than I expected. I think we’ll all be feeling it for days.”

He studied her for a long moment, jaw tight. There was part of him that clearly hated this, hated watching her put herself through it. But he didn’t push the argument again.

“You should soak in a hot bath if you can manage one,” he said instead. “And go easy tomorrow. The real run will be the worst.”

Evy gave a tired smile. “Speaking from experience?”

“Something like that.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out his pack of cigarettes, and offered her one. When she took it, their fingers brushed, the same small spark from earlier on the field.

They stood in silence for a minute, smoking. The quiet felt heavy, charged with everything neither of them was saying. Speirs kept his posture straight and professional, but his eyes kept flicking back to the way she favored her side.

“Holland’s going to be a lot rougher than this,” he said finally, voice low. “If you’re already this beat up after training…”

“I know,” she cut in gently. “We'll be fine.”

Speirs exhaled smoke slowly, not arguing. He never did when she set her mind like this. Instead, he just watched her, that intense stare lingering a beat too long.

“You’re tougher than most of the replacements we got,” he said quietly. It wasn’t quite a compliment, but coming from him, it landed like one.

Evy felt warmth creep up her neck despite the soreness. “High praise, Speirs.”

His mouth twitched, the faintest hint of a smirk, before it disappeared. He finished his cigarette and crushed it under his boot. “Get some rest, Duchess. Real rest. Don’t stay up talking all night with DiCosmio.”

"I'll try not to." She said dryly.

He gave her one last long look, something protective and frustrated flickering behind his eyes, then nodded once and turned to leave.

Evy watched him walk back toward the Company billets, shoulders squared, stride purposeful even in the growing dark. She touched the back of her neck absently, remembering his hand there earlier that day. The memory sent a small shiver through her that had nothing to do with the evening chill.

Northwest of Son, Holland – 17 September 1944

Dog Company pushed south through the patchwork fields and hedgerows, moving fast toward the Wilhelmina Canal. Speirs walked point with his platoon, Thompson ready, eyes scanning every wreck and treeline. Gliders littered the landing zone like broken skeletons. Most were empty or already stripped by their crews. Some were still burning.

One Waco was crumpled worse than the others, nose buried in the dirt, one wing snapped backward, tail section almost completely sheared off. Canvas flapped in the breeze. Dark stains marked the grass near the torn fuselage.

Blood.

Speirs raised a fist. His men dropped into cover as he moved forward with two others. The silence around this particular glider felt heavier.

He approached cautiously, boots crunching on splintered wood. Inside the wreck, medical chests lay scattered and broken. Bandages and plasma bottles were strewn across the floorboards. A torn uniform top was caught on a jagged piece of frame, dark red soaked into the fabric. More blood, still relatively fresh, streaked the inside canvas wall.

No bodies. No movement.

Speirs crouched, picking up a crushed morphine syrette. His jaw tightened so hard it ached. He scanned the area again, looking for any sign of survivors, but the only tracks leading away from the wreck were scattered and unclear, some heading south, others disappearing toward a distant hedgerow.

“Sir?” one of his sergeants asked quietly. "Was that our…" He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence.

“Keep moving,” Speirs said, voice flat. “They’re not here.”

He stood slowly, staring at the blood-stained wreck a moment longer. The old protective rage he usually kept locked down rose sharply in his chest. If she was hurt… if she was worse than hurt…

He crushed the thought.

Dog Company moved on toward Son. The bridge was blown before they reached it. The fight continued.

Three days later – On the road south of Eindhoven, 20 September 1944

The column was exhausted, filthy, and running low on everything. After the brutal fighting around Nuenen, Easy Company had linked back up with the rest of the 506th and was pulling back slightly to regroup when the small medical detachment came trudging up from the rear.

Speirs was walking beside his platoon when he saw them.

Evy was in the lead, her uniform torn and caked with dirt. A bandage wrapped her left forearm, and she moved with a clear limp. Frankie walked beside her, helping support Rosie, who had a thick dressing on her head. The rest of the nurses looked just as battered, but they were alive.

Evy’s eyes found him instantly across the moving column. For a long second, they simply stared at each other. Speirs didn’t smile, but the way his shoulders dropped a fraction revealed everything.

She gave him a small, tired nod. He returned it.

Later that evening, once the companies had halted far away outside Eindhoven, Speirs made his way to the makeshift aid station the nurses had set up under a cluster of trees. Evy was finishing a fresh bandage on Rosie’s head by lantern light when he appeared.

“Speirs,” she said quietly.

“Carter.” His voice was low. “I found one of your gliders three days ago.”

Evy paused. “Which one?”

“The one with blood all over it.” His eyes locked on hers. “Was it yours?”

Before she could answer, Rosie spoke up, her Georgia accent soft and weary. “It was ours, sir. We lost both pilots in the crash, God rest their souls.”

Speirs’ jaw tightened. His gaze stayed fixed on Evy, intense and unblinking. He didn’t step closer, not with so many eyes nearby, but the weight of what he’d thought for three days hung between them.

“I thought…” He let the sentence die. He didn’t need to finish it.

Evy gave him a faint, exhausted smile. “Takes more than a crashed glider to kill us, apparently.”

Speirs exhaled through his nose, the closest he ever came to a laugh. “Don’t push your luck, Carter.”

Rosie slid her gaze between the two of them and rose slowly, wincing as she did. “I’ll uh, make the rounds, Evy.” She ran a hand gently down Evy’s arm before vacating the space, giving them a small pocket of privacy.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The lantern light flickered across Speirs’ face, sharpening the hard lines of his jaw. He stood a careful distance away, but his presence felt closer than it should.

“I thought you were dead,” he finally said, voice low and rough. It was the closest he’d ever come to admitting fear.

Evy looked up at him, exhaustion mixing with something warmer in her chest. “We almost were. The glider broke in half on impact. We barely got out before the Germans started sweeping the LZ.”

Speirs’ eyes dropped briefly to the bandage on her forearm, then to the pain she couldn’t quite hide when she shifted her weight. His hand flexed at his side like he wanted to reach out but wouldn’t let himself.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he said quietly. Not an order. Not quite.

Evy gave a tired huff of a laugh. “Neither should you.”

That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, gone as quickly as it appeared. He studied her for another long beat, the kind of look that made the noise of the camp fade into the background.

“Next time you crash,” he said, “try not to leave so much blood behind. Makes it hard to sleep.”

It was as close to “I was worried” as Ronald Speirs was ever going to get.

Evy held his gaze, letting the moment stretch. “I’ll work on that.”

Speirs gave a single nod, then stepped back, putting professional distance between them again as voices carried from nearby. But before he turned to leave, he paused.

“Get some rest, Carter.” His eyes lingered on her one last time. “That’s an order.”

He disappeared into the darkness between the trees, leaving Evy staring after him with a small, complicated smile.

Schoonderlogt Estate, The Island (near Elst), Holland – 5 October 1944

The flat, gray world of the Betuwe stretched out like a soaked sponge between the Waal and the Rhine. Rain fell in a perpetual drizzle that turned every path into mud and every uniform into a second, heavier skin. Schoonderlogt Estate, with its solid stone house and outbuildings, had become a quiet hub for 2nd Battalion. The nurses had claimed a sturdy barn nearby for their forward aid station.

Evy stood just inside the wide doors, arms crossed tightly against the damp chill. Her left forearm still ached from the glider crash, and the constant wet made every bruise feel fresh.

Frankie stepped up beside her. “You’re brooding again.”

Before Evy could reply, boots squelched through the mud. Speirs appeared through the drizzle, coat collar turned up, a small crate tucked under one arm. Rain dripped from the brim of his helmet as his sea-green eyes found her immediately. 

“Carter,” he said by way of greeting, stopping just outside the barn. “Brought extra sulfa and some plasma. Figured you were running low after yesterday’s patrol.”

Evy stepped forward to take the crate. Their fingers brushed. The contact lingered half a second longer than necessary.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “We used most of what we had on those boys from Fox Company.”

Speirs gave a short nod. His gaze moved over her, noting the way she still favored her left side, the fading bruise along her cheekbone. “How’s the arm?”

“Healing. Slowly.” She set the crate down inside the barn. “How’s the knee?”

“Still attached.”

A tired, familiar half-smile tugged at her lips. Her gaze flicked to the new gold bars on his collar. "Captain Speirs…" she tipped her head to the side. "Congrats, Sparky." 

Frankie cleared her throat loudly from deeper in the barn. “I’ll go check inventory with Rosie,” she announced, vanishing with zero subtlety.

Speirs watched her go, then turned back to Evy. The rain drummed steadily on the barn roof.

“You’ve been quiet since we got here,” he said.

“It’s been quiet,” Evy replied. “Almost too quiet.”

Speirs exhaled through his nose. He stepped closer, lowering his voice.“It won’t last.”

She met his eyes steadily. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.” His jaw flexed. “Now you're in the middle of this.”

Evy studied him for a long moment. The concern was there, buried deep, but visible on his stoic face. “I chose this,” she said softly. “Same as you.”

Speirs didn’t argue. Instead, he reached into his coat, pulled out his cigarette case, and offered her one. She took it. He lit it for her, cupping the flame against the drizzle.

“You still running in the mornings?” he asked.

“When the rain lets up enough.” Her mouth curved slightly. “You still watching?”

“Always.”

The word settled heavily between them. Neither looked away.

Frankie’s voice called from inside the barn, breaking the moment. “Lieutenant? We’ve got two more coming in from the dike!”

Speirs stepped back, slipping into professional distance again. “I’ll leave you to it.”

As he turned to go, Evy spoke again. “Speirs.”

He paused.

“Try not to get yourself hurt out there,” she said. “I’d hate to have to patch you up in this weather.”

His mouth twitched, that almost-smile. “No promises, Duchess.”

He disappeared back into the gray drizzle.

Evy stayed in the doorway a moment longer before tossing the cigarette away and heading back to work.

[valkyrie-mp]

A Kind Of Mercy (Chapter Three)

A Kind Of Mercy (45871 words) by Valkyrie_MP Chapters: 10/? Fandom: Band of Brothers (TV 2001) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Ronald Speirs/Original Female Character(s) Characters: Ronald Speirs, Original Female Character(s), Easy Company (Band of Brothers) Additional Tags: enemies? to lovers?, Band Of Brothers - Freeform, Easy Company - Freeform, Romance, Wartime Romance, Women of WW2, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Nurses, Canon-Typical Violence, Historical Inaccuracy, World War II, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Soft Smut Summary: As a nurse attached to the 54th Medical Company, First Lieutenant Evy Carter has seen enough of war to know men rarely become legends for clean reasons. Lieutenant Ronald Speirs is no exception. He is dangerous, controlled, and followed everywhere by the kind of rumors no decent man would want attached to his name. Evy should know better than to be intrigued. Speirs should know better than to sit down beside a woman who looks him in the eye like she’s already decided he’s only a man. From Aldbourne to the end of the war, through blood, frost, shellfire, and the long shadow of survival, Evy and Speirs learn that mercy is not always gentle — and love is not always soft.

Aldbourne, England Late August 1944

The Rose and Crown was too warm, the air too close, but the celebration was in full swing. Soldiers in dress uniforms, civilians in their best clothes, nurses in dresses pulled from the bottoms of their footlockers. They didn’t know that in only a week, everything would change again. For tonight, they had this.

Frankie danced with Luz, eyes shining as he swung her in wild circles, hands tight on her waist, the green of her dress flaring. Evy stood on the sidelines, shoulder against a polished wood beam, a soft smile on her red lips. She had never been much of a joiner. Her glass of beer was half empty.

“Watch it, Yank!” a British soldier shouted as Luz’s spin took out a chair.

Luz winced, then grinned and offered a cocky salute. Frankie threw her head back, laughing. Evy shook her head and took a long sip. Across the room, Babe Heffron arm-wrestled a local farmer while half the company crowded around shouting bets. Malarkey collected money like the fight was already over. Popeye Wynn balanced on a chair, trying to see.

Her gaze drifted across the rest of the 101st. Fox and Dog mixing together. She frowned slightly but kept her thoughts to herself.

Don’t get attached. We might not come home from the next one.

“Is it flat?” a low voice asked behind her. “Or did someone offend you?” Speirs stepped up beside her, smelling of soap and beer. “Though I find the second harder to believe.”

Evy slid him a look. “Careful, Lieutenant. That almost sounded like a joke.”

Speirs took her mostly empty glass and replaced it with his full one. He stood close enough that she could feel his warmth, but he didn’t crowd her. “We wouldn’t want that.”

There had never been any formal truce between them, but she had noticed the pattern — the fresh drinks that appeared at her table, the apple left on her desk, the sandwich when she skipped lunch. She wasn’t blind.

“You don’t dance?” he asked.

Evy turned to look at him. A mistake. In dress uniform, clean-shaven, he looked nothing like the man the rumors described. “Are you asking, or just making conversation?”

His lips twitched. “I bet you have two left feet, Carter.”

Evy huffed a dark laugh. “God, you’re something else, Speirs.”

“Prove me wrong then.”

She stared at him, hating how much she wanted to say yes.

“Unless,” he set his glass down, “you’re afraid of what people will say.”

“Why would I be afraid?”

Speirs smiled faintly and lit a cigarette. His gaze dropped briefly to the black crepe dress and the small gold cross at her throat. “I wonder.”

“You’re staring,” she said.

“Relax, Duchess.” He blew smoke away from her. “You look different out of uniform.” He leaned against the same beam, studying her. “Why don’t you just ask me what you really want to know?”

Evy kept her tone casual. “People are talking.”

“About?”

“D-Day. The POWs.”

Speirs’ eyes met hers, cold and steady. “Are you asking, or agreeing with them?”

That startled a short laugh out of her. “You really don’t care either way, do you?”

“Caring gets you killed.” He offered her the cigarette. “Would you still be standing here if I told you the rumor was true?”

Evy held his gaze. “Maybe I would. Maybe I like knowing who I’m standing with.”

The silence stretched between them. Smoke curled lazily in the low light.

“You’re really not afraid of me,” he said finally.

“Should I be?”

Speirs’ mouth curved slightly. “Depends how much of the gossip you believe.”

“Set the record straight with me, Sparky.”

He studied her for a long moment, then stubbed out the cigarette. “Six. Not twenty.”

Her grip tightened on her glass, but she didn’t look away.

“You think less of me now?” he asked.

“I think you’re honest,” she said quietly. “And I think the men spreading those stories don’t know the difference between a monster and a soldier who did what had to be done.”

Something like approval flickered across his face — faint, but there.

“Careful, Carter,” he murmured, taking the glass from her hand. “Talk like that and people will start telling stories about you, too.”

She gave a short, dry laugh. “They already do.”

“You know what war depends on, Carter?” Speirs shifted even closer to her as the music got louder. “Soldiers.”

“No shit,” she snorted. “Tell me something else.”

“What do all good soldiers learn?”

She pondered for a moment, thinking of all she had seen. “I dunno, Speirs, I’m not a soldier.”

“Don’t give me that,” he said, voice low, his face intense. “I’ve seen you out there. I saw you during Carentan. If we put a rifle in your hands, you would’ve felt the same. How do you push forward?”

“Without remorse,” she said, eyes fixed on a spot on the wall. Detached. “Without mercy.”

Speirs shook his head. “Mercy’s easy.” That caught her attention. He tapped two fingers lightly against her arm. “Acceptance.”

“Acceptance of what?”

“Death.”

“If that’s how we win the war, then why am I here?” She challenged him. “Why have medics and nurses?”

Speirs’ lips quirked. “So the cost can be accounted for.” His sea-green eyes held her unwavering brown ones, searching for a dent in the armor he had caused. Instead, he found understanding.

“Evy!” Frankie swooped in, grabbed both of Evy’s wrists, and hauled her away with a wild smile. “Sorry, sir!”

“Francis!” Evy half-stumbled before catching herself as Frankie spun her in a circle.

“Luz said he loves me.” Frankie squealed quietly, her dark eyes bright and happy.

Speirs watched Carter’s face change from his position on the side of the room. The guarded look disappeared. The nurse disappeared with it. For a moment, she looked younger. Then Frankie dragged her farther into the crowd, and the moment was gone.

Much later, after the celebration wound down, Evy stepped into the cool English night outside the aid station. Aldbourne slept beneath a blanket of stars. Somewhere behind her, men still laughed. Somewhere ahead of them waited another jump. Another battle. The war was still happening.

“Carter,” Captain Eileen Gregory said, popping her head into the supply room where Evy stood on a step stool, shoving a crate back into place with swears that turned the air blue.

“Ma’am?” Evy glanced over her shoulder at the older woman.

“You’re attending a briefing in my stead. Fourteen hundred at Littlecote.” Eileen’s gray-blue eyes moved over Evy’s trousers. “Dress uniform.”

Evy blinked once. “Yes, ma’am.” Her brows furrowed even as Eileen left, and Frankie, who was in the other corner of the room, flicked her brows upward. “What?” Evy said.

“I heard some rumors,” Frankie rose, dusting off her hands. “The next jump.”

Evy nodded. “I thought as much.”

“But for you to go to that briefing instead of the captain…” Frankie pulled her cigarettes out.

“Not in my supply room,” Evy pointed her finger at Frankie and then toward the back door. Together they stepped outside. “Speak.”

“I think you’re in line for a promotion, Eve.”

“Not anytime soon,” replied Evy with a snort. “I think Captain Fisher is still a little too fresh in everyone’s mind.”

“Yeah,” Frankie blew out a stream of smoke. “But it was one hell of a right hook, doll.”

Evy grinned. “It was, wasn’t it?”

Frankie’s grin widened around the cigarette. “Man had it comin’.”

Evy’s smile thinned, though it didn’t disappear entirely. “That is not the official position of the Fifty-Fourth.”

“No, the official position is you struck a superior officer in the aid station.”

“He was interfering with treatment.”

“He was screaming at Rosie.”

Evy’s eyes cooled. “That, too.”

Frankie took another drag. “And now everyone from here to Littlecote knows Evelyn Carter can put a captain on his ass.”

Evy huffed. “I still maintain that he tripped.”

“Into your fist?”

“An unfortunate result,” Evy said, shrugging as if punching a captain had been a clerical error. She glanced at her watch, the small face catching the dull afternoon light. “I’m gonna get washed up and changed.”

“Want me to do your hair?”

Evy looked up. A strand had slipped loose from her pins, sticking damply to her temple. There was dust on one knee of her trousers and a streak of something suspiciously gray along her cuff. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

Frankie gave her a slow look over the glowing tip of her cigarette. “For Littlecote? Everything.”

Evy’s brows lifted. “That’s brave talk from a woman wearing curlers at noon.”

“I am creating glamour under battlefield conditions.”

Evy flicked a dry glance over her: the rag curlers tucked beneath a red scarf, the cigarette balanced between two fingers, the fine white dust clinging to the front of her blouse. “You’re smoking beside a rubbish bin, and you’re covered in dust.”

Frankie spread her hands, cigarette smoke curling lazily around her grin. “And yet, still glamorous.”

Evy couldn't fight the answering grin. “All right, c'mon.”

“Lieutenant,” Captain Dick Winters drew even with her as she entered Littlecote. “Glad you could join us.”

“I’m sorry it wasn’t Captain Gregory,” Evy shifted her clipboard to the other side as they joined the other officers filing into what used to be a study.

Winters gave her a little confused smile. “She didn’t tell you?”

“Sir?”

“You were requested, Carter,” Winters said, moving to the side of the room. Evy followed, her brows furrowed.

“I love when beautiful women get to attend briefings,” Captain Lewis Nixon grinned at her, and she felt her shoulders relax a fraction. “Sure makes my day better. How are ya, Evy?”

“Hanging in there, sir.”

“Lew, or Nix, please,” he offered, extending his silver flask of Vat 69. She shook her head slightly. He took a bracing sip and nodded toward Speirs as he approached. “Ron.”

“Nix.” Speirs swept his gaze over Evy, his brows furrowing just a little. “Lieutenant Carter.”

“Lieutenant Speirs,” Evy tipped her head slightly at his expression. “Problem?”

His lips twitched. “Always.” 

"All right, everyone, let's get started," Colonel Robert Sink said as he stood at the front of the room like a man who had already seen too many briefings and not enough victories. The map behind him was covered in arrows and unit markers stretching across Holland. He didn’t waste time on pleasantries.

“Gentlemen,” Sink began, his Virginia drawl cutting through the room. “Operation Market Garden. In approximately one week, the 101st Airborne Division will drop into Holland with the mission of seizing and holding key bridges along Highway 69. The British 30th Corps will be driving up that same road to link up with us. Speed is everything. If we don’t take those bridges intact, this whole thing falls apart.”

He tapped a pointer against the map. “Easy Company and the rest of the 506th will be responsible for Eindhoven and the bridges north of it. Dog Company will be on your left flank. The Germans are thin on the ground, but they won’t stay that way. Expect counterattacks. Expect confusion. And expect to move fast once your boots hit the ground.”

Sink paused, scanning the room. His eyes landed on Winters. “Captain Winters, we have our representative from the medical attachment.”

Winters straightened slightly. “Yes, sir.” He looked directly at Evy. “Lieutenant Evelyn Carter is here.”

Evy felt every set of eyes in the room shift to her, and her cheeks warmed.

Sink’s brows rose a fraction. “Lieutenant Carter?” He looked her over more carefully. “The same Lieutenant Carter who punched a captain in the aid station?”

A few officers shifted uncomfortably. Nixon hid a grin behind his hand. Speirs remained perfectly still beside her, though she could feel the sudden tension rolling off him.

Evy lifted her chin, meeting Sink’s gaze without flinching. “Yes, sir. That would be me.”

Sink studied her for a long beat, then gave a short, dry chuckle. “Well, hell, Carter. If you’re willing to deck a captain for interfering with your patients, maybe you’ve got the right temperament for what we need.” He tapped the map again. “We’re putting together a small forward aid station that will leapfrog ahead with the first wave. Very forward. You’ll be closer to the line than most regimental aid stations. We need nurses who don’t rattle easy and who can make decisions under fire. Look closely at the nurses in your aid station and get Captain Winters a list by end of day, y’hear?”

Evy’s stomach tightened, her heart hammering hard. “Yes, sir.”

“Captain Gregory recommended you be part of that team. I want six nurses total, including you.”

Evy nodded. “Understood, sir.”

The room moved on to other details, but Evy could still feel Speirs’ eyes on her. When she finally glanced sideways at him, his jaw was set, his sea-green gaze locked forward on the map. He didn’t say a word, but the silence coming from him felt heavier than usual. His fingers flexed once at his side before going still again.

She took notes, absorbed information, and spoke quietly with Winters and Nixon. The briefing began to break up as officers moved toward the map for smaller group discussions. Evy was still processing the words very forward when Colonel Sink stepped away from the front of the room and walked directly toward her.

“Lieutenant Carter,” Sink said, his voice lower now that the formal part was over. Winters and Nixon stayed nearby. “Walk with us a moment.”

Evy fell in step with the three men near the side of the study, her clipboard held tightly against her side.

Sink didn’t waste words. “This forward aid station is going to be different from anything you’ve done before. You and your five nurses won’t be jumping. You’ll be going in by glider with the first lift. Waco gliders. You’ll bring extra medical supplies the paratroopers can’t carry… plasma, surgical kits, litters, the works.”

Evy nodded slowly, though her pulse had kicked up. Gliders. She’d heard the horror stories about them from Sicily and Normandy, the rough landings, the crashes, the splintered wood and canvas.

“Forgive the phrasing, but you’ll get a crash course in the next few days,” Sink continued. “How to brace for landing, how to unload fast, what to do if you come down off-target. Captain Winters will coordinate the attachment with Easy Company. Captain Nixon will make sure you have the latest intel on expected resistance near the landing zones.”

Nixon gave her a small, sympathetic smile. “We’ll do what we can to make sure you don’t eat dirt too hard, Evy.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “We’ll be ready.”

Sink studied her for a beat, then gave a short nod. “Captain Gregory says you’re the one who can keep a cool head when things turn to shit. That’s what I need up there. Not just a nurse, someone who can run a forward station while the fighting’s still hot.”

He clapped Winters on the shoulder once and moved off to speak with another group of officers.

Evy let out a slow breath. Before she could say anything else, she felt that familiar prickle on the back of her neck. She turned her head slightly.

Speirs was still standing a few feet away, half-turned toward the map but clearly close enough to have heard every word. His jaw was tight, his expression carefully blank. His cool green eyes flicked from Sink’s retreating back to her face. For once, he didn’t bother masking the disapproval rolling off him.

Winters noticed too and cleared his throat. “I’ll get the training schedule to you this afternoon, Evy.”

“Thank you, sir,” Evy replied, though her attention stayed partly on Speirs.

Nixon gave her arm a light, friendly pat. “Chin up. You’ll do fine.” He wandered off after Sink, flask already back in his hand.

For a moment, only she and Speirs remained near the edge of the room.

He finally spoke, voice low enough that only she could hear. “Gliders.” The word came out flat. “Forward of forward.”

Evy met his gaze. “Seems that way.”

Speirs’ fingers flexed at his side. He looked like he wanted to say much more, but instead gave one slow shake of his head. “Try not to break your neck before we even hit the ground, Carter.”

Her lips curved in a weak smile. “I’ll do my best not to, Speirs.”

He took a step closer, then stopped himself. “This is a bad idea…”

Evy lifted her chin. “It’s not your decision.”

“No,” he said, studying her for a long moment, those sea-green eyes dark with something unspoken. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

He stepped away from her and strode out of the room without another word.

Evy released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her gaze flicked back to the map on the wall, throat tight. The arrows stretching across Holland suddenly looked a lot longer than they had five minutes ago.

Eileen met her on the road outside the aid station, a look of apology already etched across her weathered face. “Evy.”

“You set me up,” Evy accused without slowing down. “You knew exactly what they were going to ask of us… of me.”

The captain fell into step beside her, sighing heavily. “I recommended you, yes. But I didn’t set you up. Sink asked for my best nurse who could handle pressure and make hard calls under fire. That’s you, whether you like it or not.”

Evy let out a sharp breath, her brown Oxford heels kicking up small clouds of dust on the road. “A forward aid station. Gliders. Six of us right behind the first wave.” She finally stopped and turned to face her superior. “That’s not a normal assignment, ma'am. That’s suicide with some extra steps.”

Eileen’s expression softened, but her voice stayed firm. “I know it’s dangerous. But you’ve got the temperament for it. You proved that when you decked Fisher for interfering with your patients. The men need nurses who won’t freeze when the artillery is falling, and the wounded are coming in faster than we can treat them.”

Evy stared at her for a long moment, jaw tight. Part of her wanted to argue, to say she had nurses to protect, that she wasn’t reckless, but another part, the soldier part Speirs had said she had, understood exactly why Eileen had put her name forward.

She looked away, toward the aid station building. “I still think you could’ve warned me.”

“I could have,” Eileen admitted. “But would you have agreed?”

Evy didn’t answer.

“Choose wisely, Evy,” Eileen cautioned, her voice quieter now. “I won’t be going with you.”

The words landed like a punch to the gut. Evy stared at the older woman, the captain who had been more like a mother to all of them than a commanding officer. The one who had followed them up through Normandy, who had covered for them, who had quietly kept their little group of nurses together through the worst of it.

And now she wasn’t coming.

Evy felt a sharp sting of abandonment she hadn’t expected. Her throat tightened. “You’re really not going?”

Eileen’s weathered face softened with regret. “Sink wants me coordinating the rear aid station. Someone has to keep the main line running.” She reached out and gently squeezed Evy’s arm, the same way she had a hundred times before when one of her nurses was scared or exhausted. “I know it feels like I’m throwing you to the wolves, sweetheart. But you’re ready for this. You’ve been ready.”

Evy looked down at the ground, jaw clenched tight. For a moment, she felt like a little girl again. Like the fresh nurse who had followed Eileen’s skirts for almost two years, clinging to her lead, trusting her to know what to do when everything went to hell. Now she was being asked to step out from behind her and lead without her.

“I’ll pick the strongest ones,” Evy said finally, her voice rough around the edges.

Eileen gave her arm one last squeeze before letting go. “I know you will. Just… bring them all home if you can.”

Evy nodded, her throat burning with words she couldn’t bring herself to say. Don’t leave me with this. Don’t make me do this without you. Instead, she swallowed them down, the familiar sting of abandonment settling heavy in her chest.

Evy stood outside the aid station for a long moment, trying to steady the burn in her throat. The weight of Eileen’s words still pressed against her ribs. Bring them all home if you can. Like it was that simple.

She pushed open the door.

The familiar smells of iodine, soap, and strong coffee greeted her. Frankie was inventorying supplies again, muttering under her breath. Rosie was folding fresh bandages with careful, practiced hands. Dot sat at the small desk writing reports, while Maggie reorganized the plasma crates. In the corner, sorting morphine syrettes, was Lieutenant Beth Kowalski — quiet, steady Betty — who had joined them two weeks after Normandy and still looked at the world like it might be kind if they just worked hard enough. The eight other attached nurses moved around the room.

All of them looked up when Evy entered.

Frankie’s eyes narrowed immediately. “Uh oh. You’ve got that face.”

Evy didn’t waste time. She closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, arms crossed tight over her chest. These were her girls. The ones she’d bled with, cried with, and kept alive through Normandy and Carentan. Frankie, especially, her best friend, her loud-mouthed, loyal shadow since basic training.

“I need volunteers,” she said, voice steadier than she felt. “For a forward aid station. First wave. Gliders. Six nurses total.” She let the words hang in the air. “Including me.”

The room went dead silent.

Rosie’s hands stilled on the bandages. Maggie’s mouth fell open. Dot slowly set down her pen. Frankie stared at her like she’d just suggested they all grow wings and fly to Berlin.

“Gliders,” Frankie repeated flatly. “As in canvas coffins with wings?”

“Yeah,” Evy said. “Sink wants us leapfrogging ahead with the lead companies. Closer to the line than any regimental station has ever been. This… this is new. They’ve never pushed a forward aid station this far this fast before.”

She looked at each of them in turn — her girls, the ones she’d come to think of as family. “I won’t lie… this is going to be ugly. Fast movement, fluid lines, heavy casualties. If you’d rather stay with the rear station under Captain Gregory, that’s fine. No shame in it. No judgments. No one will be court-martialed for staying back.”

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then Frankie let out a harsh breath and stood up. “Well, shit. If you’re going, I’m going. Somebody’s gotta keep your stubborn ass alive.”

Rosie gave a small, nervous laugh but nodded. “I’m in too. Can’t let y’all have all the fun.”

Dot folded her hands in her lap, calm as ever. “I’ve got the most trauma experience. You’ll need me.”

Maggie looked pale but lifted her chin with surprising determination. “I want to go.”

“No,” Evy said immediately, shaking her head. “Not you, Maggie.”

“I’m not a child!” Maggie snapped, eyes flashing.

Evy’s gaze softened, but her voice stayed firm. “You’re my child. And I’m not taking you into a meat grinder if I can help it.”

"You have to let me try," Maggie stepped forward, her face mutinous. "You can't keep protecting me, Evy!" 

Evy stared at her for a long moment, her eyes too bright, her jaw clenching and unclenched before finally, her voice raw. "If it gets too bad, I will send you to the rear. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am." 

Evy’s gaze shifted to Betty, who was still holding a box of syrettes, knuckles white. “Betty?” Evy asked gently.

Lieutenant Beth Kowalski swallowed hard, then gave a small, shaky smile. “If you’ll have me, Lieutenant Carter… I’d like to go.”

Evy studied the five women in front of her — her team, her responsibility — and felt that heavy knot in her stomach tighten even further. 

“Pack light,” she said quietly. “We move out in a few days. Glider training starts in the morning.”

She couldn’t sleep. Of course, she couldn’t sleep. It had been stupid to even try.

Evy walked slowly along the hedgerow, arms wrapped tight around her middle, her steps quiet on the damp grass. The crescent moon offered just enough pale light to keep her from stumbling, while stars scattered across the sky like distant, indifferent witnesses. She had already delivered her list to Captain Winters. He had barely glanced at it, which told her he’d known exactly who she would choose.

“God, I hope I made the right choices,” she murmured to herself.

“God turned his back on this a long time ago.”

Evy startled at the low voice ahead of her. A small orange ember glowed in the darkness — the tip of a cigarette. Speirs stepped out from the shadow of the hedgerow, his silhouette unmistakable even in the dim moonlight.

“You’re about to cross over into an exercise, Carter,” he said, voice low and dry. “Night maneuvers. Fox Company’s out there right now.”

“Of course they are,” Evy scowled and sighed heavily, rubbing her arms against the night chill.

Speirs glanced at his watch, the faint glow of the hands just visible under his cigarette. “It’s 0115. Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” she shot back. “What are you doing out here?”

“Safety officer tonight,” he replied, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. The ember flared brighter for a moment. “Making sure none of those idiots shoot each other in the dark or wander off and get lost. Someone’s gotta keep the body count down during training.”

Evy let out a tired huff of a laugh. “And here I thought you only showed up where the real trouble was.”

Speirs’ mouth twitched, not quite a smile. He studied her for a beat, the cigarette smoke curling lazily between them. “You pick your team yet?” he asked, voice quieter now.

She nodded. “List is already with Sink.”

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just watched her, that steady, unreadable green gaze catching what little moonlight there was. “Gliders,” he finally muttered, almost to himself. He shook his head once. “Bold choice, Carter.”

Evy lifted her chin slightly. “Necessary.”

Speirs flicked ash from his cigarette. “Necessary,” he echoed, like he was tasting the word and didn’t particularly like the flavor. “What would your family think?”

The question caught her off guard. Evy looked away, staring into the dark hedgerow for a beat. She hadn’t let herself think about her family much lately, not her mother back in Maine, not her father, who still wrote her letters asking when she was coming home.

The question landed heavier than she expected. Evy looked out into the darkness, arms still wrapped around herself. “My mother would probably call me a fool,” she said quietly. “She’s German. Met my father in France during the last war. She was a nurse, helping American wounded.” A faint, bitter smile touched her lips. “She always wanted me to do something safer. Teach school. Marry well. Not… this.”

Speirs was quiet for a beat, cigarette smoke drifting between them. “And your father?”

“He’d tell me to do what I have to.” She shrugged one shoulder. “I’ve got an older brother with the 82nd. He’d probably just say ‘don’t die.’”

A pause stretched between them, filled only by the distant sounds of the night exercise. Then he asked, voice casual but deliberate, “You speak German?”

Evy bristled, shoulders tightening. “Is that a problem?”

Speirs studied her through the thin veil of smoke, his expression unreadable. “An asset, Duchess.”

Beyond the hedgerow, whistles cut through the night. The exercise was ending.

“I’ll walk you back,” he said, dropping the subject as cleanly as he’d raised it.

Evy glanced at him, surprised by the offer, but didn’t argue. They fell into step together along the dark path, the only light coming from the thin crescent moon and the occasional flare of his cigarette.

Neither of them spoke for a long stretch. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly, but it was heavy.

“Where are you from?” Evy finally asked.

Speirs looked down at her, the faint glow of his cigarette catching in his eyes. “Boston.”

She let out a small huff of surprise. “No shit?”

“You?”

“Maine.”

They walked a little further in silence. The distant whistles had faded, and the night exercise was winding down. The aid station came into view ahead, its windows glowing faintly.

When they reached the door, Speirs stopped. He looked at her for a long moment, the ember of his cigarette burning low.

“Get some sleep, Carter,” he said quietly. “You’re going to need it.”

Evy nodded, suddenly aware of how close they were standing. “You too, Speirs.”

He didn’t move right away. For half a second, it seemed like he might say something more. Instead, he gave a small nod, turned, and disappeared back into the darkness. Evy watched him go until the glow of his cigarette vanished completely. Then she let out a long, shaky breath and stepped inside the aid station.

Tomorrow, glider training would begin.

And soon after that, Holland.

[valkyrie-mp]

A Kind Of Mercy (Band of Brothers Fanfic) Chapter Two

Pairings: Speirs/FemaleOC

Depictions of war, medical care, swearing, you name it, it's there.

Genre: Slow Burn, Romance, Eventual Smut, Hurt/Angst/Comfort

A/N: I have nothing but the utmost respect for the men of Easy Company, and this work is soley based off of the HBO Miniseries.

As a nurse attached to the 54th Medical Company, First Lieutenant Carter has seen enough of war to know men rarely become legends for clean reasons. Ronald Speirs is no exception. He is dangerous, controlled, and followed everywhere by the kind of rumors no decent man would want attached to his name.

Evy should know better than to be intrigued.

Speirs should know better than to sit down beside a woman who looks him in the eye like she’s already decided he’s only a man.

From Aldbourne to the end of the war, through blood, frost, shellfire, and the long shadow of survival, Evy and Speirs learn that mercy is not always gentle — and love is not always soft.

Chapter Two

Evy had run the green every morning since her first day in Aldbourne. Today was no different, nor would it become different even beneath the unwavering gaze of Lieutenant Speirs.

She spotted him on her final quarter mile, standing with Dog Company while the men ran field exercises and folded the replacements into their ranks. His sea-green eyes passed over her as she came around the bend, and the corner of his mouth tipped up as somethinglike bemusement flickered across his otherwise stony face before he turned his attention back to his men.

And she noted, with a little ripple of pleasure she had no intention of examining, that what had started as whistles and low calls died beneath a single look from him. His gaze locked onto her, and she inclined her chin, not slowing her pace.

She finally slowed to a stop as she reached the nurses' station. Dot and Frankie sat outside on the stone stoop, smoke drifting up from Frankie's cigarette and steam curling into it from Dot's coffee. 

"You look all glowy and happy this morning," commented Frankie with a little gleam in her eyes. "I see Dog Company is on the green." 

"It's called sweat," Evy returned, unimpressed by the implication. "Don't you have inventory to do?"

Frankie grinned, her ebony hair still in rag curlers. "I'll get to it when the workday starts…Duchess." 

Evy's look could have withered flowers. "One more time, Second Lieutenant DiCosmio." 

"Ugh," Frankie dropped her head back dramatically against the stone wall of the house. "I love it when you use my full rank." 

"You'll love it even more when you're cleaning latrines," Evy stepped into the house, breathing out a sigh, the endorphins from the morning exercise already waning. She washed up, pinned her hair back, and fixed her face. By the time she had emerged, the aid station was bustling with activity. 

D-Day and Normandy had not only gutted the airborne. It had carved through the 54th as well, and it became clearer to Evy with every passing hour. She was carrying the job of four nurses now, and her team, Maggie, Dot, Frankie, and Rosie, felt it as well. 

It was just after lunchtime when Frankie shoved a crate away from her that she was inventorying. "I'm sick of this shit," she declared, rising to her feet, patting around her trouser pockets for her cigarettes. 

Evy merely lifted a brow as her best friend stomped past her outside into the air. She slid her gaze over to Dot, who stood with her arms folded, lips in a thin line. "Dorothy?" She prompted.

The matronly woman sighed. "She had it out with Luz this morning while you were transferring patients to the ambulances." 

Evy heaved out a sigh, rocked back onto her heels. "I'll go talk to her." She cast a look toward Maggie. "This is why we don't romance the paratroopers." She told the younger girl and stepped out into the sunshine. Frankie stood off to the side, one arm wrapped tight across her middle as if holding herself together, a lit cigarette in her mouth. 

Evy shut the door behind her, effectively stalling what would have become a gossip mill. Frankie blew out a stream of blue smoke. "I don't need a lecture, Eve." She stated dryly. 

"No?" Evy dug her aviators from her blouse pocket and slipped them on before mimicking Frankie's stance. "We talked about this."

"Oh, I hear ya loud and clear, lieutenant." 

"Don't be a bitch, Franks, it's not becoming." 

Frankie’s mouth twisted around the cigarette. “Well, lucky for me, I wasn’t aimin' to be becoming.”

“No? Just aiming to be difficult?”

“I was aiming to finish inventory before some idiot man made me want to climb out of my own skin.”

Evy’s expression softened by a fraction, though her voice did not. “What did Luz do?”

Frankie looked away across the green, toward the distant cluster of airborne men moving through their drills. “Nothing.”

“Franks.”

“I said nothing.”

Evy ran her tongue over her teeth, wrinkling her nose as she turned her gaze skyward. “And I heard you lie.”

Frankie pulled the cigarette from her mouth and flicked ash hard enough that it scattered against the grass. “He was being George Luz. Loud, stupid, funny enough that people forgive the first two. Same as always.”

“That doesn’t sound like a fight.”

“No?” Frankie laughed once, sharp and humorless. “Well, maybe I’m just tired of being the girl men flirt with when they’re bored and forget about when they’re not.”

Evy said nothing.

That was usually the safest way to let Frankie get to the wound on her own.

Frankie dragged on the cigarette again, then blew the smoke out through her nose. “He kissed me before Normandy.”

There it was.

Evy’s brows lifted slightly behind her aviators.

Frankie pointed the cigarette at her. “Don’t.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You were about to.”

Evy pursed her lips, considered. “I was about to ask if he was any good.”

Despite herself, Frankie choked out a laugh. It broke the tightness in her face for half a second before she smothered it again. “Unfortunately.”

“Ah.”

“Don’t ‘ah’ me.”

“That was a sympathetic ah.”

“That was a smug ah.”

“It was a professional ah.”

Frankie rolled her eyes and leaned her shoulder against the side of the house. “He kissed me before Normandy, like maybe it meant something. Then we came back, and everything’s different, and this morning he’s out there making jokes with me like I’m just another dame...”

Evy followed her gaze to the green. Dog Company moved in the distance. Easy’s men clustered farther off, voices carrying faintly through the warm air.

“And you wanted him to what?” Evy asked.

Frankie’s jaw worked. Evy waited. “I don’t know,” Frankie said finally, quieter now. “Remember, maybe.”

The answer settled between them. Not dramatic. Not foolish. Worse than both. Honest.

Evy took a slow breath. “He probably does.” Frankie scoffed. Evy rolled her eyes and gestured with her hands. “Look, I didn’t say he knew what to do with it.”

“That supposed to make me feel better?”

“No. It’s supposed to keep you from mistaking stupidity for cruelty.”

Frankie looked at her then, eyes narrowed. “You been reading those advice columns from magazines?”

“I’ve been reading men,” Evy returned. “Poorly written, most of them.”

That got another laugh from Frankie, small but real.

Evy moved to stand beside her now, shoulder to shoulder. “You want my advice?”

“No.”

“Too bad. I’m giving it anyway.”

“Naturally.”

Evy bit back a smile, but leaned her shoulder into Frankie's just a little. “Don’t hand George Luz your pride just because he misplaced his nerve.”

Frankie was quiet for a moment, cigarette burning low between her fingers. She glanced sideways at Evy, slyly. “That advice come from experience, Duchess?”

Evy’s head turned slowly. Frankie’s grin returned, weak but wicked.

“There she is,” Evy said softly, affectionately. “I was wondering when the pain in my ass would come back.”

“Never left, Lieutenant.”

“No,” Evy said, and nudged Frankie’s shoulder with her own. “You didn’t.” Her gaze landed on Easy Company being released for the afternoon. "Go inside," she slapped her friend on the back, lightly. "Keep an eye on the place, huh?"

"Where you off to?" Frankie asked as Evy started walking away. 

"Don't worry about it," Evy replied, mimicking Frankie's Brooklyn accent. The strut, the chin up, the wind gusting just enough to blow the errant strands of hair out of her face. "Just gonna go take care of some stuff." 

Frankie sighed. "Yeah, that's what I'm worried about," she muttered. 

Lieutenant Ronald Speirs wasn't one to let women such as the nurses of the 54th cloud his vision, not like some of the men in his company, but when Lieutenant Evy Carter made a beeline toward his company, he straightened, unintentionally. 

"Bet she's gonna go slap another captain," one of his NCOs muttered beside him. 

"Punched," Speirs corrected, his eyes still following Evy as she smiled warmly toward a passing villager who was gathering laundry bags from the barracks. 

"Sir?"

Speirs turned toward Sgt. Thomas "Tommy" Kelleher, with a ghost of a smile. "She punched him, Kelleher, she didn't slap him." 

Kelleher cocked his head a little at Speirs and opened his mouth to reply when Evy's voice rang out. "George Luz! Just the man I wanted to see." 

"I love when you ladies hunt me down like the dog I am." Luz's grin was white, wide, and endearingly cute.

Speirs watched Evy tip her chin in the same imperious way she had to him in the pub the night before. "Walk with me, Luz." 

Kelleher glanced at Speirs, then at Evy and Luz. "Are we shacking up with nurses now?" 

Speirs glanced over and rolled his shoulders. "NCOs," he called out. "Take command of your squads, dismissed for the afternoon." 

Dog Company launched into motion around him, chatter and excited gestures toward the village and the pub. He watched them, but from the corner of his eye, he still tracked the nurse. 

Luz glanced at Evy, his puppy-dog brown eyes worried, before he looked ahead again, the woman beside him silent. Finally, he caved first. "Listen, ma'am, if this is about the penicillin shots that I need, I promise, I swear I'll get it done today."

Evy shot a look at the shorter man. "You're right, you will, but that isn't what this is about." Her eyes drifted toward the green before they made the turn down the main road, and she inclined her chin slightly at Speirs, watching them. 

Luz followed her line of sight, then glanced at Evy. "Y'know Malarkey told me that on D-Day…."

"I already know Luz." 

"How come the nurses get all the gossip first?" Luz asked begrudgingly. 

Evy stopped near the low stone wall lining the road and turned toward him. The sunlight caught on the dark lenses of her aviators, hiding her eyes, which Luz found deeply unfair. He could feel her scrutinizing gaze through them, though. 

"What happened with you and Frankie?" Evy asked finally. 

Luz's good-natured smile slowly dimmed. "Oh, well," he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Y'know how it is, Lieutenant." 

"Enlighten me." 

Luz managed a weak laugh. "Well, I mean, c'mon," he spread his hands before him. "Listen, you nurses are just," he grinned. "Just wow. So I thought y'know, I could die at any moment…" 

Evy tucked her tongue into her cheek and lifted the aviators to sit on top of her hair. "That explains the kiss, but doesn't explain how you've been acting toward her since we've gotten back." 

"I mean, did any of us expect to come back?" Luz smiled weakly beneath the icy gaze. He shifted when she didn't answer. "I don't know, ma'am," he finally admitted with a little sigh. "Frankie's a great dame, but…" 

Evy cocked her head to the side. "But?"

"I dunno what to say to her…I really screwed the pooch on this one." 

"Private Luz," Speirs' voice interrupted them. Evy turned with a scowl. "Lieutenant Carter."

"Lieutenant Speirs," Evy ground out between clenched teeth. "We're having a conversation." 

Speirs flicked his brows. "Are we?" 

Luz flicked his gaze from one to the other. "We are, sir." 

"Don't you have somewhere to be, private?"

"Don't you have your own men to attend to, lieutenant?" Evy inquired airily. 

Speirs' lips curved. "I need medical attention."

Evy huffed out an annoyed breath. "Would it be a lobotomy?" 

Speirs made a sound that might have been a laugh as he drew out his cigarettes, offered one to Luz, who paled, shaking his head, before Speirs lit one for himself. "You qualified?"

"I'm not a doctor," said Evy dryly. "But I'll give it a shot." 

Luz took one slow step backward away from the two officers. "Ma'am, I can come back later for the lecture…"

"Stay," Evy commanded, pointing at the ground, her eyes not wavering from Speirs. 

"Permission to breathe, ma'am?" 

Evy couldn't help the way her lips twitched at Luz's question. "Go away, Luz…"

"Yes, ma'am. Right away, ma'am," Luz saluted them both and hurried off in the direction of the nurses' aid station. 

Evy sighed and turned her undivided attention to Speirs. "What medical attention do you require, Speirs?"

Speirs exhaled smoke to the side and touched two fingers to the healing line near his jaw. "Tore it open." 

Evy reached out before she could think to stop herself, taking his chin between her thumb and forefinger and angling his face so she could see it more clearly, brows furrowed. "What nurse took care of that?"

"Blonde," Speirs replied, forcing himself to breathe as she stepped closer. 

"Helpful," muttered Evy dryly. "What was this from? Shrapnel?"

"Potato masher." 

Evy’s fingers traced the wound, following the trail of shrapnel until it disappeared beneath the collar of his uniform. "How far down does this go?"

Speirs slid a glance at her. “To the collarbone. And my right knee.”

She grunted. "You're lucky you still have your eyes, Sparky." 

"All the better to see you with." 

Evy withdrew her fingers from his jaw. "Maybe you did get blinded then." 

Speirs’ mouth twitched around the cigarette. “That your diagnosis?”

“Preliminary.”

“What’s the treatment?” Speirs spoke around the cigarette in his mouth. 

“Shutting up.” Evy stepped back and pointed toward the aid station. “And letting me fix it.”

"Why not the blonde?"

“Because whoever ‘the blonde’ was,” Evy said, turning away from him, “did a shit job, and I’ll do it right.”

“I could see that about you.”

She glanced back. “That I do a shit job?”

“That you do it right.”

“Careful, Speirs. That almost sounded respectful.”

“Only almost?" He tapped ash from the end of his cigarette. "And here I was aiming for completely." 

Evy's steps hitched, just a moment, just enough for him to notice. "Your aim is off," Evy said at last and pushed the door to the aid station open. "Mags, I need iodine, gauze, and sutures." 

Maggie stared at Speirs for half a second before rushing to do as Evy asked. Speirs cleared his throat and sat on the edge of the cot Evy indicated. He could feel the curious eyes of the other nurses. 

“Put that out.” Evy pushed an ashtray toward him. "I won't have ash in my clean dressings." 

Speirs' sea-green eyes met hers, and he breathed out the last of the smoke, stubbed out the cigarette. "Yes, ma'am." 

Frankie walked in, whistling from what was their supply room. The whistle died as she spotted Speirs and Evy. She pursed her lips, sending a pointed look at Evy. 

"Frankie," Evy began, her tone brooking no argument. "Why don't you and the girls knock off for the day, I'll handle tidying up." 

Frankie's dark eyes shifted to Dot, and one eyebrow twitched. "You sure, Lieutenant?" she asked sweetly. 

"DiCosmio." 

"All right, all right," Frankie made a gesture of shooing toward the other nurses. "You heard the woman, out." 

Evy waited, her expression bored as the nurses scraped, chattered, and slowly filed out. Frankie lingered at the door long enough for Evy to shoot her a glare. Frankie grinned and shut the door with a soft click.

"You know how to clear a room." 

"Take your shirt off, Speirs."

He grinned. It was the first time she had seen him do it fully, and it changed his face so much that she had to blink. "Buy me dinner first, Carter, c'mon." 

Evy's eyes narrowed. "Dinner would require me to like you, Speirs." 

"And you don't?" He shrugged off his shirt while she busied herself prepping iodine-soaked gauze. 

When her fingers pressed directly against the wound on his jaw, the muscles beneath them flexed."I'm not sure yet." She reached to the side and took up a piece of gauze, pressing it to his jaw. 

He watched those chocolate brown eyes travel down his torso, tracing the line of shrapnel. 

"You said your right knee?" She asked him. 

"Do I need to remove my trousers?"

"That won't be necessary, just roll up your pant leg." Evy removed the gauze and moved closer to look at his jaw more closely. He stiffened just slightly. There it was again, the scent of rosemary and lavender that he had smelled on her the night before. "You shouldn't need sutures here," she said half to herself, half to him. "Just stop picking at it."

"I wasn't picking at it," Speirs scowled darkly at her. "You need better bedside manners, y'know that, Carter?"

"At least I don't need a lobotomy," she sat back in her chair. "Pant leg, now." 

Under her gaze, he unbloused his pant leg and rolled it up, barely containing his wince. He slowly removed the dressing that had seen better days. The wound near his knee was uglier than the one at his jaw, puckered and angry at the edges, the skin pulled too tight over swelling. Raw. A little bloody.

Evy’s mouth flattened, and her eyes went hot with anger. “You’ve been running drills on this?”

“Walking, mostly.” 

“That wasn’t my question.”

“Yes.”

Evy sucked in a breath through her teeth as she poked around the wound a little more, shaking her head. "You realize how stupid you are?" She asked heatedly. "This has barely had time to heal; you should've been in a hospital after this. You try to jump out of a plane with this, and you may never walk again." 

Speirs' jaw was clenched tight against the pain, and he barely got out the words. "That's a hell of a way of showing you care, Carter." 

Evy sniffed indignantly and pressed an iodine-soaked piece of gauze to the knee. Speirs inhaled sharply and let out a soft grunt. "Guess you oughta stay off the leg for a day or two." 

"I have men to train."

"And those men need you for whatever we do next," Evy tossed aside the used gauze, reached for fresh, clean gauze, and a roll of bandages. 

Speirs looked at her then. "Is that why you're angry?" 

Evy laid the clean white gauze over his knee, adjusted his leg so it would work better for her, and began to wrap it. "I'm angry because the medic or nurse who tended to you after that botched the job." 

He nodded slowly, tapping his fingers on the edge of the cot. "You're not like the other nurses."

"Yippee." 

“You’re more like the soldiers,” he said after a moment. “Like us.” Her fingers went still on the knot she was making on the bandages. 

"Well, if you're gonna insult me, you might as well leave."

"That wasn't an insult." Speirs bent his knee to test the bandage. "It was an observation." 

Evy’s hand landed on his shin at once, firm enough to stop him. “Knock it off, or I’ll have Sink confine you to quarters.”

He looked at her hand, then at her. “That a threat?”

Evy met his gaze evenly. "A promise." 

For a second, he looked like he might argue, but instead, he left his leg outstretched and rolled his pant leg back down. 

"Elevate it at night," Evy said, cleaning up her station briskly. "Give it at least three days before you fuck it up." 

"Mothers must love you." 

"Mine knows what she created," Evy stood and offered a hand to him. Speirs looked at it.

For a moment, she thought he might refuse out of sheer stubbornness.

Then his hand closed around hers.

Warm.

Callused.

Stronger than it looked.

She hauled him to his feet hard enough that his brows lifted.

“Try not to tear anything else open,” she directed, walking him to the door.

“No promises, Duchess.” He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and walked toward his quarters, whistling a merry tune. 

Evy watched him go, her gaze thoughtful. And not for the first time since hearing the rumor about him, she wondered if it was true. Wondered whether that same man, the one who had just teased her and — dare she say it — flirted, could also be a cold-blooded murderer.

"Well?" Frankie's voice caused Evy to jump a little and scowl at her friend. Behind Frankie stood Rosie, her blue eyes bright and curious. 

"Was that just the worst?" Rosie asked, her southern drawl a little gasp. "Oh, I couldn't imagine." She shuddered exaggeratedly. "Bein' that close to someone like that." 

"Someone like what?" Evy turned shutting the door to the aid station. 

Rosie blinked. “You know.”

“I don’t.”

Frankie’s gaze sharpened on the brunette. Rosie shifted, suddenly less delighted. “Dangerous.”

Evy looked back toward the road where Speirs had disappeared. “They're all dangerous in their own ways.” 

[valkyrie-mp]

Against All Odds Chapter Twelve: What Was I Made For?

Pairings: Bucky BarnesxRipley Todd (Female OC)

Synopsis: It’s been more than 125 days since junior Congressman James “Bucky” Barnes last heard from Ripley Todd. Since Omega’s teammate was murdered. Since the entire team vanished off the grid. Rebuilding his life in Brooklyn wasn’t easy. But when Ripley crashes back into his world—Bucky knows one thing with absolute certainty: Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs. They’ll find their way back to each other.

Tags: Soft Dom Bucky (We're exploring this hard), Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Action, Some Fluff, definitely 18+, eventual happy ending

Warnings: PTSD, Torture, Sexual Content, Swearing, Blood, you name it, it might show up

I used to float, now I just fall down I used to know but I'm not sure now What I was made for What was I made for?

Takin' a drive, I was an ideal Looked so alive, turns out I'm not real Just something you paid for What was I made for?

(C) Billie Eilish

Isolde Markov studied herself in the spotted mirror, comparing one angular side of her face to the other, poking at the deep line between her brows. Overdue for Botox. A tragedy. She finished her makeup, rubbed her lips together, and blew herself a kiss. Stuck in this godforsaken country for a month.

Her contact had warned her. Omega was back on the prowl in the United States, so Viktor Kovač and she had evacuated. They were the last two standing, after all. Of course they were. She preened a little, brushing her blonde hair back into a smooth bun. They were the most intelligent ones, after all.

She wrinkled her nose as she dressed in a sand-colored jilbab, blending in as planned. The last two, she thought, eyeing a purple, no, maybe blue, shawl to match her eyes.

Oleg Novogradov had ended his own life. At least that's what people believed. Kovač knew what he was doing, after all. Hal Levison—that was an easy one. She had facilitated that. The others were just pawns, expendable pieces, not worth the breath Omega would waste on them or the resources. Markov was safe. No one would think to look for her in Africa, of all places.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a thud downstairs. "Fucking animals," she muttered to herself, draped her shawl just so. "Perfection." She murmured to herself in the mirror. "Gregory! Get the car ready!"

Gunfire erupted as she adjusted her shawl, her stomach dropped. The door burst open; Gregory staggered in, blood streaming from his shoulder, a likely stray from his own men. He slammed the door, eyes wild. "We need to get you out," he said breathlessly, clutching his arm. "Now."

"Omega found us?" Markov's voice was soft, almost awestruck.

"No…just her."

Markov swallowed, bile rising into her throat. “We’ll be fine...there’s one of her and eight of us.” -0-0-0-0-0-0-

The two sentries lay bound and unconscious in the courtyard. Ripley dropped the mag from her M4. Her jilbab covered a third guard's body, tossed aside in the heat of battle. She wasn't after Markov's men; she only wanted the woman. She moved inside. If the intel was correct, four more guards remained, then Markov. She stepped on broken glass, the crunch loud in the silence.

"I don't wanna hurt you," Ripley called out, disturbingly calm, swapping to her off-set sight on her M4 as she rounded a corner. "I just want Markov."

A door opened to her left. She fired three quick shots. A scream of pain followed. She moved down the hallway. Satisfied the other rooms were clear, she entered the one with a man bleeding on the floor—the same man who’d opened that door. Blood poured from his side.

She knelt, opened her IFAK, and began to render aid.

“Where is she?” She asked quietly, applying QuickClot to the gunshot wound on his arm.

“Fuck yourself.” The man snarled at her.

Ripley ran her tongue along her teeth, nodding. “You’re never gonna walk outta here alive—” His words were cut short as Ripley’s thumb slipped into one of the bullet holes in his side.

"Where—" she twisted her thumb. His screams filled the silence. "Is—" Deeper. "She?"

“Upstairs!” He wept openly, harsh wracking sobs. “I have a family! Please!”

She thought of Flea, of Omega. Of Bucky.

“So did I,” she whispered, voice flat. She finished patching him up, not meeting his eyes, then swung the stock of her M4 into his temple with clinical precision.

She rose. Her eyes cut to the hallway. Her steps were precise and measured; a lioness stalking the Serengeti. "Little pigs, little pigs, let me in." She brought her M4 to her shoulder. Everything was still. She didn’t feel her wounds. She didn’t know she left a trail of blood behind her.

“Markov!” Her voice was firm as she shouted the name out into the open air of the courtyard. “Come out, come out wherever you are!” She sang it, her mouth coppery with blood. She spat to the side. “I only want you, Markov! Not your pawns!”

She turned, barely in time, before a booted foot met her ribcage, sending her tumbling into a carved wooden lattice. It splintered around her, into her. She screamed in fury, in pain, getting back to her feet.

“Jace, Mason,” the man nodded toward her. “Take care of this loose end.” The two men moved forward, guns drawn. Ripley wiped the blood from her lip with the back of her hand, tasting copper, her pulse a war drum in her throat.

“You got it, Maddox.” Jace stepped forward.

The shots that split the air weren’t from them. Jace ducked, dodging for cover. Mason took a round to his thigh, dropping hard to the ground. “Ripley!” Bennett’s voice boomed from the courtyard—rage, fear, command all braided together.

The chaos of firearms cracking, wood splintering, and glass shattering took over the sounds of Morocco. Ripley dove behind a stone pillar. Chunks landed beside her from stray rounds. She dropped her mag and replaced it. Her eyes zeroed in on the upstairs balcony, at the terrified figure watching it all before sliding back inside.

“Rip!” Bucky’s voice cut through the haze. Blood blinded her vision for a moment, and she wiped it away. Her blood? “Ripley!” A pitch of panic.

Ripley ignored him. She shoved to her feet, slipped on loose rock, rounds pattering the doorframe as she stumbled through.

Wick shouted again, closer now. “Rip!”

She ignored him. She ignored all of them.

She lunged up the steps, her blood smeared on the railing. Each blink blurred her vision, as if the world were underwater. The corridor seemed to warp, edges twisting at the edge of her sight. She reached the landing. The taste of iron in her mouth was overpowering, asserting itself over all her other senses. The muted thud of her heartbeat pulsed in her ears, muffling the world.

“Markov!” she screamed, her voice raw, cracked, and terrifying.

Below, Wick burst into the house. “Ripley, don’t you fucking dare!” His gaze dropped to the trail of blood, smeared where she had stumbled along.

Gregory came barreling out of the room. She charged down the hall like a bull, raising her gun and pulling the trigger, only to feel it jam. She braced herself as the heavier, stronger man collided with her, slamming her into the wall hard enough to crack the clay. She thanked God for her plate carrier.

“I don’t want you!” The bloodied woman bared her teeth at Gregory. “I want her!”

“Then get through me,” Gregory reared his head back to headbutt her, and his hands fell off of her as Bucky’s vibramium hand clamped around his throat, pulling him away from her. Ripley stared at Bucky, chest heaving. Bucky met her gaze, his face thunderous. "Go."

“Don’t kill him,” was the only thing Ripley said before stumbling into the bedroom where Markov stood, chin held high. Bucky’s voice was cursing behind her even as Wick helped him detain Gregory on the floor.

“Ripley, please.....” Markov's voice was silkily smooth.

The soldier kicked her square in the chest, sending Markov crashing into the mirror with a shattering impact. As Markov collided with the glass, Ripley caught a fleeting glimpse of her own fractured reflection—a vision of chaos and ferocity mirrored in the broken shards. Her knife was in her hand before Markov could draw breath. Her vision tunneled, her bloodied hand reached out and hauled Markov up by the jilbab, and with the hilt of the knife, delivered two quick right hooks to the woman's face.

Markov cried out, falling into the wall, her perfect nose now broken. The same hand grabbed her again and shoved her toward a chair. Markov landed on the floor in a heap, tears running down her face, mixing with the blood and snot.

“Ripley, let’s talk, huh? Let’s talk about this,” Markov scooted back, palms smeared blood against the floor, heels slipping as she tried to push herself away. “Ripley, please...we can make a deal. You don’t have to—”

Ripley stalked forward, knife dripping her own blood onto the floor. “You think I want a deal?”

“ I-I can tell you who ordered it,” Markov stammered, chest rising and falling as adrenaline and fear flooded her body. “It wasn’t me. I swear to God. I was following orders—”

“Get up,” Ripley's voice was raspy, low. Markov rose shakily to her feet.

“Look,” Markov ran her hands over her hair, shaking, slipped those hands beneath her robes. “You seem like a sensible woman....normally.”  Ripley’s hand snapped out, grabbing Markov by the jaw, fingers digging into her soft skin. Markov sobbed, snot bubbling at her nose. “Please, please, I have money, connections, I can get you protection—”  

“Don’t lie to me,” Ripley hissed, her face inches from Markov’s. “Who ordered the hit on Omega?” She released Markov, waiting.

“Ripley!” Wick barked, finding her. “Back down, we’ve got the fucking cops coming—” She didn’t so much as flinch.

Markov swallowed hard. “Let’s talk about this civilly,” she said calmly, rationally, as if she were speaking to a terrified horse instead of a blood-covered woman.

"Civilly?" Ripley echoed, her voice raw and hollow. "Civil died with my teammate." She reached out, grabbing Markov's throat, pulling her up, and into the wall. Ripley's grip shook, driven by rage, grief, and exhaustion clashing within her.

Behind Ripley, Bucky's voice was quiet, too quiet. "Ripley... don’t do something you can’t come back from." His grip tightened on his weapon, a muscle jumping in his jaw. His boots were loud in the sudden quiet of the room, Bennett and Wick side by side on one side of her, Bucky moving slowly in her periphery on the other side.

Markov’s gaze flicked to Bucky, recognition landing, and with it a coy realization. “He was going to be next...” Markov forced the words out. Ripley’s eyes narrowed on her. “You think you’ll be able to save him? Like you wanted to save Fleanick? You kill me, and James Barnes will be next….”

Ripley’s fingers loosened around Markov’s throat.  The fear, the grief, cracked through her fury, visible in her eyes. Markov saw it. And a desperate woman will weaponize anything. Her hand darted beneath her robes, fast, practiced.

Wick saw it first. “Rip!”

Markov’s hand exploded upward from the folds of her jilbab, a sliver of steel glinting under the Moroccan sun. A small knife. She plunged it forward in a wild, terrified jab.

It was buried in Ripley’s ribs.

Ripley choked, more out of shock than pain—a wet, punched-out sound.

Markov screeched triumphantly, a feral edge to her hysteria. “You think you can threaten me? You think you terrify me? You’re NOTHING—”

Ripley’s hand snapped out, slamming Markov’s wrist into the wall so hard the knife clattered to the floor. Pain ripped through Ripley’s side, hot and nauseating, but her face changed. The grief vanished. Humanity vanished. Something cold slid into its place.

Ripley head-butted Markov square in the face—bone meeting bone with a sickening, wet crack. Markov screamed, clutching her nose, blood spurting between her fingers. Ripley snatched her by the hair, slammed her face against the shattered mirror, the wall, then the mirror again, each impact brutal and efficient.

“She’s done, Rip!" Bucky’s voice through the red haze around her vision, around the thundering pulse in her ear. She didn’t listen. Drawing her sidearm, she threw Markov to the floor, used the toe of her boot to hold Markov’s arm in place, and aimed.

“Rip,” Wick’s voice, calm, always so calm, she envied him. “Ripley, baby, listen to me, please.” He moved closer, and he saw the tremble of the muzzle aimed at Markov’s forehead, the wobble in Ripley’s lower lip. He looked at Bucky, his expression clear. ' She’s still in there.’ “Hey, we love you, okay, come back to us....we’ll hand her over to the CIA, FBI, the works.”

Bennett licked his dry lips, his eyes darting to the windows as crowds gathered at the commotion that had taken place. “Jesus Christ.” He muttered.

Bucky inched closer, arm outstretched toward her arm. “Sweetheart,” he took a soft breath. “Hey, hey, listen, I’ve been down this road, remember? This won’t make it stop.”

Wick, on her other side, had his hand extended as well. Markov whimpered from the floor.

"She deserves to die." Ripley's voice was hoarse, laden with heartbreak.

“Rip,” Bucky managed to put his fingers on her shoulder; it trembled beneath his touch, the muscle hard and honed. “C’mon. Don't do this. Don't do this to me.”

“A name,” Ripley whispered.

“Markov, she just wants a name,” Bucky spoke now, his fingers sliding over quivering forearm. “Give us a name, and you’ll live.”

Wick stood ready, his hands reaching toward Ripley to intervene.

Markov laughed bitterly at her. “Never.”

The shot echoed in the small room. Bennett lurched forward. The smoking hole an inch above Markov’s head spoke volumes about Ripley's control.

The doctor swallowed, unashamed of the wet puddle she had let go. “Kovač.”

“Full fucking name,” Wick ordered.

“Viktor Kovač.”

Bucky’s fingers finished their path down Ripley’s arm and closed firmly around the rail of her sidearm. He pressed down, not enough to disarm her, just enough to guide the muzzle toward the floor.

“You have a name,” he murmured, close enough that she could feel his breath against her temple. A tether in a stormy ocean.

Ripley blinked. The world swam back into focus, Markov’s sobbing, the taste of blood in her mouth, the pain in her ribs. She turned her head—slow, mechanical—and found Bucky right there. Not afraid of her. Not judging her. Just… there. Watching her the way someone watches a wounded predator, they still refuse to abandon.

“Bennett, cuffs,” Wick ordered, voice steady but tight.

Bucky wrapped both hands around Ripley’s wrists—one warm and calloused, one cold metal—peeling her away from Markov inch by inch. She didn’t fight him, not really. Her fingers slackened around the gun as something inside her eased. She let him move her, the adrenaline drain hitting her like a wave. Bucky took her firearm slowly from her hands, tucking it in his waistband.

Her gaze fell on the shattered mirror, her reflection staring back at her from the broken shards. Bloodied, bruised, wild-eyed, clear tracks where sweat and tears had fallen.

Behind them, Bennett swept past, zip-tying Markov’s trembling wrists. The doctor didn’t fight now. Didn’t bargain. Didn’t plead. She only sobbed, a hysterical, broken sound that filled the corners of the ruined room.

Wick stepped in front of Ripley, hands raised, palms out like he was approaching a spooked horse. “Hey. Hey, Rip,” he said gently. “Look at me, babe.” Her eyes dragged upward, unfocused and empty. “There she is,” Wick breathed, relief flooding his features. “You came back.”

Markov wailed as Bennett hauled her upright.

Ripley didn’t spare her a glance. Her knees buckled. Bucky caught her before she hit the floor, arms banding around her middle as her breath hitched once, sharp, pained, and she sagged against him.

“You’re okay,” he murmured against her hair. “I’ve got you.”

Wick pressed a hand to her face, brushing blood away from her brow with his thumb. “We’re done here,” he said quietly. “It’s over, Rip. You did enough.”

She tried to inhale. The attempt stuttered. Failed. Markov screamed as she was dragged from the room. Bucky supported her down the stairs, Wick retrieved the weapons, and an increasing wail of police sirens signalled urgency as they hurried outside. The shiny CIA badge that Valentina had sent them off with was their ticket out, smooth enough, they hoped. -0-0-0-0-0-0-

The Moroccan hospital wasn’t ideal. Bucky hovered outside the door of Ripley’s room, watching everyone who walked past. Wick sat in a plastic chair, burner phone in hand. He had come back in from outside. Valentina had called. Bennett had returned to their riad, collecting their gear. They would fly back to the States as soon as Ripley was cleared. A safehouse had been arranged for them. Bucky had already called in the favor with a neighbor to check on Alpine. His gaze peered through the window of the door. Ripley was pale beneath the lights above her, her body marred with bruises.

“Did you get checked out?” Bucky asked Wick.

“Yeah,” the ghost operative leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, head tipped back. “Rip took the brunt of it.”

“Yeah, well,” Bucky’s hands clenched at his side. “She’s the one who decided to go into an eight against one situation.”

Wick’s lips curved a little. “It’s okay to be pissed at her, I sure as fuck am.”

“A fucking note on the mirror,” Bucky said under his breath, shaking his head.

“She probably didn’t expect to come back,” Wick opened an eye to look at Bucky, the Winter Soldier, who was still peeking through the window. “Would it help you to know she’s been through worse than an eight against one situation?”

“No.” Bucky moved back as a nurse approached the door. Opening it, she smiled and made the hand signal for ‘okay’. He strode into the room, straight to the bed where Ripley was starting to rise. He put a hand under her elbow, steadying her. “Come on. We’ve got a private jet and a safehouse.”

“Markov?” She asked hoarsely.

“CIA has her,” answered Bucky tersely. He kept his hand on the small of her back as they reunited with Wick, then Bennett, outside beside the shitty VW van.

“Hey sunshine,” Bennett swept his eyes over Ripley. She was covered in dried blood, cuts, and bruises. “You look great.”

“Thanks, Owen,” she replied dryly. “Let’s get the fuck back to America... please.”  

“You got it, boss,” Bennett said quietly, and eased them onto the road to the airport.

Sixteen Hours Later

The safehouse was a log-style home tucked into the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee. They arrived in the golden hour of the evening, fresh snow untouched on the road leading in. Wick let out a low whistle when he parked the truck provided for them at the airport. “It’s like some rich asshole decided to cosplay as a frontier man.” He held out his hand as Ripley slid carefully from the back of the extended cab. She took it, wincing as she got to the ground. “Val said she stocked it, clothes, food, you name it...maybe having the devil on our side isn’t so bad.”

“Better the devil you know,” Ripley muttered, glanced at Bucky as he appeared as a silent shadow at her side. “Bennett, lead on.” She moved slowly, the ache of her own stupidity in her muscles, her bones, the very marrow of her.

“Holy shit, look at that fireplace!” Bennett’s low whistle followed Wick’s excited shout. “Ohhhh, a hot tub too!”

Ripley shook her head a little as she leaned heavily on the railing to get up the stairs. Bucky offered a hand, and she stared at it for a long moment before accepting the help. He had barely spoken to her on the plane, minimal words even for him. The bright glow inside the cabin made her squint and blink rapidly. Bennett was digging around in the fridge, plunking bottles of beer onto the counter. Wick, on the other hand, was trying to light a fire in the stone fireplace—floor-to-ceiling windows facing the mountains, and what would be sunrise the next day.

Bucky dropped his assault pack beside the leather couch, nodding his head slightly as he looked around. “This is nice.”

“Listen to the city boy,” Wick snickered as the flames caught. “This is better than nice, brother, this is fucking awesome.”

“Here, baby girl,” Bennett handed Ripley a bottle of beer. “Go find a nest, get some sleep.” He tapped the neck of his bottle against hers. “We’ll talk tomorrow.” He dropped a kiss on top of her head. Ripley limped down the hallway, peering in the first bedroom. A paper bag sat on the bed, Wick’s name in clear handwriting.

“We’ve got assigned rooms,” she called down the hall, and carried on. She found her room, the master bedroom with its massive windows, corner jacuzzi tub, and fireplace. She stared with a scowl at the two bags on her bed—one for her...one for Bucky.

“Is nothing fucking secret anymore?” She muttered to herself and shut the door. She walked to it, opening her bag. Her scowl deepened as she pulled out a scrap of black lace. “Jesus Christ.” There were outfits for a few days, a pair of pajamas, thank God, and a note from Valentina.  Thought you all could use some nicer clothes. The plane will pick you up at TSY on Monday. Lie low!

"Never thought the CIA would be a good idea," Wick said, poking his head into her room. "But this is pretty nice. Sablepoint could never."

Ripley didn't say anything and handed Wick the note. "Yeah," she muttered finally. "But what will we owe her?"

Wick leaned against the doorframe, glanced at the note, and folded his arms across his chest. "Might I remind you," he began quietly. "That you were the one who wanted the upper hand when it came to Markov, and now Kovač…CIA gives us the upper hand, protection, really bougie safehouses like the one we're standing in." He jerked a shoulder. "So, what, we stay with them for a year maybe, do the Special Activities thing, pay off the debt."

Ripley was about to speak, but her mouth closed as Bucky's shadow crossed over Wick. The Winter Soldier clapped a light hand on Wick's shoulder and slid past him into the room, his blue eyes taking in the bedroom, the bags. His brow furrowed. "The hell is that?"

"Clothes," Ripley answered quietly. "Wick, we'll talk tomorrow."

Wick smiled at her and walked into the room. He hugged her and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I love you, Reaper."

"I love you too, Tracer." She hugged him hard and let go. Bucky stood by the door, muttered his good night to Wick, then shut and locked it. Ripley watched him warily as he crossed the gleaming wood-planked floor. He fiddled with the fireplace, turning it on. He moved into the en suite bathroom, admiring the glass shower. Ripley sighed to herself and rubbed sweaty palms on her pants. She didn't need to be nervous. It was Bucky for Christ's sake.

Bucky turned on the shower, let the water run cold over his hand until it warmed up. "Come shower, Rip, you've got blood all over you."

"Things I bet you never thought you'd say to a woman you're sleeping with," she quipped with a sardonic twist of her mouth. Bucky sent her a baleful look, crossed his arms over his black t-shirt, and leaned back against the bathroom counter. "Are you goin' to give me the silent treatment?"

Bucky rubbed his fingers across his forehead, trying to find the words even as she stripped and climbed into the shower. "You piss me off, y'know that?"

"Since the day I met you," she replied cheerfully, though the tinge of sarcasm bled through.

Bucky licked his lips and studied her form behind the fogged glass of the shower. "D'ya want to walk me through what you were thinkin'?" Ripley washed her hands, scrubbing at the dried blood, wincing as the raw skin met the hot water. "I was thinking about Flea," she said quietly. "And about ending this so that you're safe…"

"That's bullshit and you know it," Bucky replied hotly. "You were thinking about revenge…"

"And so what if I was?"

"'I love you, forgive me'…" Bucky walked to the edge of the shower and opened the door. She scowled at him as the cold air hit her body. "Written on a mirror in a fucking riad in Morocco."

Ripley froze the water cascading over her, washing away the sweat and blood.

"Do you know what it sounded like?" He jabbed a finger at the tiled floor between them. "It didn't sound like a goodbye, Ripley; it sounded like a suicide note. It sounded like you were giving up on everyone, including yourself." His piercing blue gaze held her still, the steam pluming around them. "You've only said that you've loved me once, and it was before you took off for four and a half fucking months. So imagine my surprise…"

"Bucky," Ripley's voice held every warning under the sun in her tone as she turned away from him to finish washing. "If you wanna fight while I'm naked, then get undressed and get in here."

He huffed out a frustrated breath, shaking his head, but he took off his boots, stripped down to bare skin, and walked into the shower, closing the door behind him. Ripley turned toward him, his eyes were on the stitches at her side where Markov's knife had landed its blow. "I need you to stop acting like you're the only one who's hurting over this," Bucky said quietly. "Wick and Bennett weren't hell bent on revenge…"

Ripley swallowed hard, looking away from him, tears bright in her eyes. "We all handle grief differently."

"If you had pulled that trigger today…" Bucky began. She flicked her gaze to his, chin lifting. "I dunno what I would've done, Rip…the logical part of me said walk away…"

"So do it," Ripley whispered brokenly. "Just walk away." Bucky's jaw tightened as she stepped closer to him, tilting her head back slightly to look up at him. "I wouldn't blame you—I wouldn't blame any of you."

He loosed a sigh laden with irritation, worry, and love and tugged her into his arms, holding her head to his shoulder. "You drive me insane." He muttered against her hair. "Tell me."

"Tell you what?" She asked quietly, her stomach clenching because she knew…she knew precisely what he wanted.

"I don't want to read it, I don't want to hear it as you're going off on a suicide mission," his broad calloused palm covered her cheek, cool metal meeting the other side as he tipped her face up to his. "I want to hear it."

"I…"

"Hey Rip, do you wanna—" Wick tried calling through the door.

"Not now, Wickwire!" Bucky shouted back, eyes still on Ripley. "Is anyone dead, dying, or bleeding?"

"Uh…no…" Wick answered, the grin on his face clear in the words.

"Come back later," Ripley interrupted both men. She waited for his footsteps to recede before looking back up at Bucky. "Buck…"

His fingers stroked her cheekbones, thumb brushing against the corner of her eye. "Why is it so hard?"

Ripley scoffed. "When's the last time you said it to someone?"

"Sam."

"A female, romantically?" Ripley’s question sliced right through him.

Bucky blinked, just once, but it was enough. His hand paused mid‑stroke against her cheek. The steam curled around them, thick and heavy, but somehow the air between them felt even thicker.

“A female, romantically,” she repeated, quieter this time. A challenge. A confession. A damn plea.

He huffed a small, humorless laugh. “You know exactly when.”

Ripley’s breath hitched. She did. But she wanted to hear him say it, too.

“Say it,” she murmured.

He tilted his head, water dripping off the ends of his hair, jaw clenched in a way that betrayed something softer underneath. “Last time I said those words to a woman I loved?” He swallowed. “1943, and I'm not sure I actually did love her…not like this.”

Ripley looked away, her eyes flicking to the tile, to the steam, anywhere but him. But his metal hand cupped the back of her neck, guiding her gaze back up.

“My turn,” he murmured. “When’s the last time you said it in a way that wasn’t a death wish?”

She flinched. He stepped closer, chest brushing hers, voice dropping.

“You can spit it out before going dark. Leave it in a note before going into an impossible situation...” His thumb dragged along her jaw. “But standing here, safe, with me? Suddenly, you can’t say a damn word.”

Her throat worked. “This isn’t easy for me.”

“It ain’t easy for me either, sweetheart,” he replied, soft but insistent. “Difference is, I’m standin’ here anyway.”

She closed her eyes, letting the water hit her face, trying to hide the trembling in her chest.

Bucky wasn’t having it. He used his warm hand to gently take her chin, thumb stroking the pulse beating fast beneath her skin.

“Ripley,” he murmured. “I’m not askin’ you for poetry. I’m askin’ you for the truth.”

She opened her eyes. And for the first time since they got back from Morocco, she didn’t look furious or detached or feral. She just looked unprotected.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispered.

“You already fucking did,” he breathed, not cruelly—just honest. “Now tell me why.”

Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

“You think I’m gonna leave?” he asked softly. “You think I’m gonna get tired of you bein’ stubborn and damaged and complicated?” His fingers retraced the stitches, feather‑light. “Rip, I fell in love with every part of you.”

She shook her head, tears rising in her eyes. “You shouldn't—”

“No,” he cut her off firmly. “I’m askin’ for three words. Not a lifetime commitment. Not a fairy tale.” He brushed his forehead against hers. “Just three damn words I know you feel, because you wrote ’em on a goddamn mirror like you weren't going to make it back…and you did.”

She inhaled shakily, the sound catching in her throat. Her hand rose, fingers splaying over his chest like she needed something solid to hold onto before she drowned.

“Rip,” he whispered, thumb brushing away a tear that spilt down her cheek. “Say it when you’re staying, not when you’re leavin’ me.”

Her mouth trembled.

“I…” Her breath faltered. She swallowed and blew out a breath, her stomach quivering.“Bucky.”

He kissed the corner of her mouth—soft, grounding, warm. “I know,” he whispered. “Say it.”

Ripley sucked in a breath, shaky as hell. And very, very quietly—“I love you.”

Bucky’s eyes closed like those three words hit him harder than any bullet ever had. When he opened them again, they were soft in a way he rarely let anyone see. “There she is,” he murmured, voice thick.

She made a slight, broken sound, something between relief and terror. He caught her face in both hands—warm skin, cool metal—and kissed her once, slow and deep, like he needed her to feel every piece of what she’d just said.

When he pulled back, foreheads touching, breath mingling, he whispered: “Say it again...”

She managed a watery laugh, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing her body into his. "I love you, James Buchanan Barnes."

He felt like the wind had been knocked out of him, his smile was slow, and he threaded his fingers into her wet hair, tipping her face up toward him. He stared into her eyes for a long moment, as if seeing every moment that they had ever shared in the whiskey colored depths. "I love you," he whispered hoarsely. A soft sob left her throat mixed with a laugh. "I love you, Ripley Evelyn Todd."

His mouth found hers, his hands pulling her into him. She melted against him, relief flooding through her body. The words were out now, out in the open. She felt like the vice that had been pressing on her heart for almost a year loosened. She closed her eyes, snuggling into his shoulder. For tonight, it would be enough. They would be enough for each other. 

[valkyrie-mp]

Against All Odds

Chapter 11: Control

Pairings: Bucky BarnesxRipley Todd (Female OC)

Synopsis: It’s been more than 125 days since junior Congressman James “Bucky” Barnes last heard from Ripley Todd. Since Omega’s teammate was murdered. Since the entire team vanished off the grid. Rebuilding his life in Brooklyn wasn’t easy. But when Ripley crashes back into his world—Bucky knows one thing with absolute certainty: Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs. They’ll find their way back to each other.

Tags: Soft Dom Bucky (We're exploring this hard), Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Action, Some Fluff, definitely 18+, eventual happy ending

Warnings: PTSD, Torture, Sexual Content, Swearing, Blood, you name it, it might show up

And all the kids cried out "Please, stop, you're scaring me" I can't help this awful energy Goddamn right, you should be scared of me Who is in control?

I paced around for hours on empty I jumped at the slightest of sounds And I couldn't stand the person inside me I turned all the mirrors around

Control (C) Halsey

The heat was oppressive. Bucky could think of nothing else as he watched the crowds surge through the bazaar. He sat behind the wheel of the battered VW van they’d been assigned forty-eight hours ago in Morocco. Frankincense and myrrh drifted from a nearby stall, mixing with sharp spice from a food vendor. The scents should have tempted him, but he hadn’t been hungry since the discussion in his kitchen with Ripley.

His blue eyes tracked her as she crossed the busy road and slipped into an alley. Behind him, Bennett snored in the back of the van while Wick watched the road on the small TV monitor feeds.

"So," Wick broke the silence, cracking into an energy drink. "You guys good?"

"Wick," Bucky muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose in preparation for Ripley's best friend's digging.

"Just askin', man," Wick stretched his arms over his head, cracking his back. "She doesn't look too great."

"No?" Bucky turned in his seat to look at Wick, eyebrows raised. "Could it have something to do with the hundred-and-forty-five-day spree your team spent hunting Flea's killers across half the world?"

Wick snorted. "No, we've done that sort of shit before…and it was actually only one hundred and thirty-ish....we used a safe house after dropping that guy off in PA just to make sure we hadn’t been followed.”

“This is different. It isn’t a mission anymore...” Bucky searched for the right words. He knew the path she was on; he’d walked it himself. Steve had done the same, burning bridges. Sharon Carter had been exiled to Madripoor. He knew the cost of what they were doing. “Wick, she’s killing herself.”

"Yeah," Wick sighed, long and loud, tucking his tongue into his cheek. "She doesn't handle grief well, does she?"

"No shit," Bucky muttered, turning back to the front just in time to see Ripley duck out of the side alley and melt into the crowd. "You really gonna let her go down this road?"

Wick zoomed in on a camera, tracking his best friend on the feed. His hazel eyes stared at the screen, but his mind was elsewhere, remembering Omega at Club Med, belting out 'Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now', team lifts, training together, the nights around the bar. The ache for that normalcy, the raw wound left by Flea's murder, throbbed fresh.

"Wick?" Bucky glanced behind him.

"She's a big girl," Wick's voice was thick; he cleared his throat and sniffed once. His fingers tapped anxiously on the console, a small gesture betraying his otherwise firm claim. There was a moment where he stared off into the distance, as if picturing an alternate reality where all his friends were safe and happy. "She can make her own decisions."

"So you're prepared to bury another friend?"

"No," Wick punched a few keys with more force than necessary. "Rip wants to be cremated."

“When you two are done,” Bennett spoke, his baritone voice low and rough with sleep. “I’ll take the front seat, Buck. You should try to sleep.”

“I can’t believe the two of you,” Bucky muttered, rubbing his hand across his jaw. “That’s your friend...your family.”

“We’ll keep her from going over the edge,” Bennett sat his 6’6 frame up in the cramped space, wincing and rubbing at his lower back.

“Little late for that,” Bucky replied, but he could hear Steve’s voice in his head, steady, patient, the kind of calm he’d never been able to fake. Steve would’ve known what to say to Ripley, or at least wouldn’t have let his own temper get in the way. Bucky got out of the van, slamming the dusty green door behind him with more force than necessary.

He had lost sight of her; his eyes did a quick scan of the bustling crowd. It had been two days since they had lashed out, two days since Valentina’s offer. He regretted it.

Ripley kept pushing everyone away, and he felt a familiar sting. Steve had done something similar, making his own choices, leaving Bucky to deal with the fallout. Maybe he should’ve been used to it by now. He’d learned a lot from Doc Raynor, but helping someone determined to go it alone wasn’t one of them.

He flexed his metal hand, tucked away in a glove. He stared down at it for a long moment. He would lie to himself if he said he wouldn’t get involved if they needed help. For now, he was a passenger, an observer. She had given him that much; she had let him choose to follow them to Africa. He heard the shuffle of bodies in the van behind him as Bennett took the driver's seat.

“We should move further up,” Bennett said through the open window. “She’s been quiet.”

Bucky’s jaw worked, but he pushed off the van, sweat sliding down his back. “Yeah.” He climbed into the passenger seat. “Get us closer.”

The alley was narrow enough that Ripley’s shoulders nearly brushed the clay walls. Heat radiated off them in waves, the faint sweetness of orange blossom drifting from somewhere she couldn’t see.  Her jilbab clung to her spine in the heat, the muted red fabric doing its job—no one gave her a second look as she moved, head dipped, scarf loose around her hair. Just another woman running an errand. Just another shadow.

She paused at the mouth of a smaller, darker passageway. A boy kicked a deflated soccer ball past her without glancing up. Ripley stepped aside, keeping her posture small, soft, unremarkable.

Static answered her at first; she was too deep in the medina for clean comms, but then Wick’s voice flickered through, low and muffled. “You’re close. Check for blue doors. That’s the only landmark the director gave.”

“Half the fuckin’ city uses blue doors,” she muttered, but she moved. Down another alley. Then another. The medina twisted like a maze built on a dare; one wrong turn and even locals got turned around. “Gonna get lost in fuckin’ Africa.”

She rounded a corner and froze. A door, deep cobalt, sun-faded around the edges, sat recessed into the wall.  Her pulse kicked. She stepped closer, adjusting her shawl to hide the angle of her face, pretending interest in the prayer beads hanging from a nearby stall. A vendor snored under the awning, tuned out to the world; the smell of mint and old tobacco pooled around him.

Ripley’s gaze slid back to the door. Movement, just a shadow, shifted behind the lattice panel.

She didn’t react. Didn’t tense. Didn’t breathe too sharply. She just drifted past the stall, hand brushing the wall, fingers finding the faintest groove, fresh scratches near the hinge. Reinforced hinge.

Someone inside expected trouble.

Her jaw tightened. Good. So did she.

She angled her body away, lifting the small silver compact mirror from her bag like she was checking the scarf’s drape, angling it toward the windows of the building. The reflection caught just enough—

A man in Western clothes. Standing guard inside.

She dropped the compact, letting it clatter to the ground, bending to pick it up, giving her one more angle.

Definitely not local. Ripley straightened, her shawl across her face, only the brown of her eyes showing, lined with kohl.

She murmured into the scarf, voice steady, calm, and cold: “I found her door.”

“Got your location marked.” Wick’s voice in her earpiece. “C’mon back, we’ll come up with a plan.”

Ripley stared at the door, the sounds of the market fading away beneath the kick of her pulse. She could handle a guard. Her blood felt hot; it was not from the desert sun. She took a step closer toward the door. She didn't want a plan; her sweat turned cold. She wanted it over. She wanted to see Markov on the ground, wanted her to pay for Flea's death. It was more than just revenge; it was about making things right, about finding some kind of peace for Flea, for herself. It was about proving to herself that she still had control over a world that had become so chaotic and unrecognizable.

"Reaper." Bucky's voice in her ear now, familiar, quiet, firm. Her fists clenched beneath her sleeves. "Come back."

She stared at the door, her chest rising faster than she would've liked. Finally, as if her feet were weighted, she turned away from the door and retraced her steps back into the bazaar. The van met her at the corner, and she climbed in quickly, removing her shawl as soon as the door shut.

“I had her,” Ripley’s voice was hard, barely restrained anger.

“Yeah, and how many guards were in there?” Bucky asked, not looking back at her.

“I saw one.”

“Try eight, Rip,” he passed back the tablet from his lap. “Much as I don’t like Valentina, the drone is an asset, can’t believe I’m gonna say this, but I wish we had Redwing.”

She said nothing, scanning the photo, bodies outlined by heat signatures. Her jaw twitched. She zeroed in on the smaller body compared to the others. By themselves in the eastern room on the second floor. She would’ve had to get through four on the first floor and four on the second. She shoved the tablet onto the seat beside her, letting her head drop back against the side of the van.

Bennett turned on the stool he was on, away from the monitors. Offered her a cold energy drink. She took it, drank deeply. “You’re gonna have to sleep sometime, babes,” He told her softly. She glared at him over the edge of the aluminum can. “Don’t hate the game, hate the body.”

“You need rest.”  Bucky’s voice was matter-of-fact. “We hole up in the riad, make a plan.”

She didn’t answer.

The night air was cooler when Bucky walked out into the riad's courtyard. His boots made a soft sound on the white-and-blue tile work. She sat by the fountain, her head buried into his, her hands, her braid mussed from being under a shawl all day.

He didn’t say anything, just sat down on the stone bench beside her. His thigh close to hers, almost touching, but the warmth of him seeped through the jilbab she still wore.

Ripley breathed deeply. He had showered, and the scent of his soap and sandalwood, the leather of his glove, was familiar, comforting after a day in the bustling market. “I could’ve gotten her.” Her fingers tightened at her hairline; the knot in her throat felt more like self-hatred than grief.

“It would’ve been suicide,” his baritone voice was low, roughened at the edges. “All you had was your sidearm. That’s what? A ten-round magazine?”

“Eleven,” she lifted her head, elbows on her thighs. “I keep one chambered.”

“Of course you do,” Bucky huffed out a little laugh. He turned his head to study her in the light from the moon above them. She looked tired, drained. His hand lifted, as if to brush away the strands of hair from her face, but he let it drop instead. “Wick and Bennett...they’re scared for you, y’know that right?”

They should be," she whispered, her brown eyes lifted to the fountain, watching the stream of water splash into the pool. She was tired, so very tired. Her stomach twisted in a constant knot of anxiety. Some days, she almost believed she could hear Flea's voice, gentle and soft, urging her to let it go, to let him go, saying it’s okay. She claimed, "I’m in control." But her voice held a faltering edge, as if she was trying to convince herself as much as anyone else. "I’ve got this," she added, though she couldn't tell if she truly believed it or was simply clinging to a fragile illusion of control.

Did she? She wondered as Bucky rose with a sigh. Her mouth opened, a soft breath leaving, a silent plea, 'don’t go.' She watched him walk back into the house and licked her lips slowly. How far was she willing to go? She wondered, her eyes moving back to the fountain. How much of herself was she willing to lose to clear the list of names who had wronged Omega?

Wick glanced up from the monitor in the surveillance room they had set up on the second floor. Bucky shed his leather jacket and tossed it on one of the footlockers.

“How is she?” Wick inquired quietly, his fingers tapping against his muscled thigh, a rhythm of anxiety.

Bucky dragged a folding chair beside Wick and dropped into it with a heavy exhale. “You might wanna talk to her.”

“What makes you think I can get through to her?” Wick replied with a sardonic snort. Bucky didn’t say anything, just leaned forward, running his calloused fingers through his hair, before letting his hands dangle between his legs.

That was the thing, Wick realized as they sat in silence: two of the men Ripley loved most couldn’t break through the walls of isolation, hatred, and rage she’d built around herself. All they could do was sit and hope they’d be able to pull her back if it came to that.

Bennett shuffled in, three long-neck beer bottles hooked between his fingers. He handed them out, dragged over a third chair, and sat down hard. “Wick.”

“Yeah?”

“We gotta stop,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He lifted dark eyes to hazel and blue, fixing them with quiet intensity. “All we’re doing is feeding her anger...”

Ripley stopped short in the hallway, hearing the low murmur of voices. Her jaw tightened even as she pressed further into the shadow, ears straining as she tried to hear the soft conversation.

Bucky sighed, rubbing his hand across his forehead. “Until they're gone, Omega is in danger; she’s trying to protect all of you....”

“She’s thinking of herself,” Bennett fired back hotly. “You think this is the first time we’ve been targeted?”

Wick stared down at the beer in his hands. “Yeah, but this time they got one of us...”

Ripley’s throat worked hard to swallow in the hallway, the sharp sting of disgust at herself slicing through the grief. She took a deep breath and held it.  

“So, what do you wanna do?” Bucky asked, his Brooklyn accent thicker than usual. “Tie her to the bed?”

“That’s your job,” muttered Bennett. Bucky snorted softly before Bennett continued. “Let’s just...pull the plug on the op. We’ll use the safehouses until CIA and FBI wrangle up the ones who did this...” He broke off as Ripley passed the doorway. “Going to bed, champ?” He called out.

“You know it,” she called back brightly, and shut the door to the bedroom she and Bucky shared.

“Good, maybe some rest will do her some good,” Wick glanced at Bennett. “You taking surveillance?”

Bennett nodded. “Yeah, I got it till 0200, then Bucky is taking it.” His gaze shifted to the congressman. "Going to bed?"

"Yeah," Bucky rose, finished off his beer. "Wish me luck."

"You'll need it," Wick quipped, and watched the man leave. "Oddly enough, I think they work."

"Trauma bond," Bennett turned his attention back to the feeds, scrolling through to the alley where Markov's hideout was. "Did Rip say what the CIA expects from us?"

"Special Activities," Wick fumbled with a bag of chips, trying to tear them open. "Sounds pretty cool, I talked to Hughes about it, sounds like we're gonna fold into his team."

Bennett didn't say anything for a long moment, his eyes following the movements on the videos. "Rip won't be team lead?"

"I dunno," Wick replied, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. "Would you want her to be? After all this?" He slid his gaze to Bennett's profile, lit by the computer monitors.

"Listen," Bennett turned to glance at his friend. "I'm not saying that she's sane right now—"

"Far from it, actually," muttered Wick.

"She's a solid leader, always has been, that's part of the issue we're facing…" Bennett rubbed his eyes, taking a break from the screens. "She blames herself for Flea."

"She's lost control…" Wick finished his beer, set the empty bottle aside, and shook his head. "Do the ends justify the means?"

"We should've left her and Bucky in New York, you shouldn't have called her."

"And when she eventually found out?" Wick quirked his brow at Bennett. "What then? How were you going to hide that?"

"I dunno, Wick…I…want her to be happy again." Bennett shrugged his broad shoulders. "I want us all to go back to the way it was."

"It will never be what it was," Wick's voice was barely a whisper.

"I know, we'll rebuild…" Bennett nodded slowly. "When she's ready." If he didn't say it, but they both knew it.

The thin mattress sank as Bucky eased onto it. Ripley shifted to give him room. His response was to pull her back toward him, to wrap her in his arms. She stiffened against him, awake now. He pressed his nose into her damp hair, smelling her shampoo, and closed his eyes.

"I don't deserve you being nice," she whispered into the darkness. He stared over her shoulder at the slatted doors covering the door to the small balcony, where moonlight glowed through the slits.

"Y'know," his voice was soft. "I always thought that when it came to you being nice to me." He nuzzled into the back of her neck. "Tables turned, Rip."

"Tables didn't turn," she rolled over in his arms, the pale light lit his face enough for her to see him. Her Bucky, the version he didn't show anyone else. His brow was furrowed, his eyes concerned. "The tables are flipped over." She reached her hand up, brushing her fingertips along the stubble on his cheekbone. "You can't save everyone, Buck."

His eyes flicked to hers. "Rip."

“Don’t try to save me,” she murmured, eyelids heavy, her breath a thin, shaking thing against his collarbone. Her fingers curled lightly on his face before she could stop herself. “I’m not worth it.”

Bucky swallowed hard, his jaw working back and forth beneath her fingers. He could tell by the way her breathing had deepened that she had already fallen asleep. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips to her forehead, sighing through his nose. The helplessness was no stranger to him; how often had he felt like that as the Winter Soldier, forced to carry out missions and then be wiped clean of them? But the road she was going down, he knew it all too well.

She jerked away at the first echoing words of The Adhan; her body was covered in cold sweat, her heart thundering like a herd of galloping horses, from whatever dream she had been having moments before. The sheets beside her were cold; Bucky had eased out of them hours before. She dug trembling fingers into her loosened curls. She swallowed hard and lifted her head, staring at herself in the ornamental leaning mirror across from the bed. She froze, the brows in the mirror furrowed, relaxed, furrowed again. She didn't recognize the person in the glass.

The woman who stared back at her looked drawn, pale, weak. The tank top hung looser than it used to, skipping meals, running on fumes. Her eyes were the worst. Haunted, the eyes of prey, not predator. She took a deep shuddering breath and loosed it, flipping back the thin sheet. She knew what she had to do.

Ripley moved quickly, quietly. She drew on her compression shirt, her cargo pants, and her thigh holster. Her movements were methodical, practiced. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She ignored it. Moving into the bathroom, she brushed her teeth, her hair, and braided it back, just as she did on any other day. She checked her sidearm and slid it home into the holster.

The plate carrier went on second-to-last, a favorite patch of Flea's, front and center below her honey badger. Flea's was simple 'It's fine. This is fine. Everything is fine' with the cartoon dog, sitting while flames engulfed the room. She tapped her fingers on it lightly. It would be fine. After today, it would be fine. She checked her extra mags, put her jilbab on over everything else, and lifted her M4. She adjusted the two-point sling, slid it beneath the folds of cloth, and checked herself in the mirror. It would work, especially that early in the morning.

She sighed softly. She was tired, so fucking tired. Soul-deep exhaustion. It would be easy to turn the cheek, so easy to let the puppeteers behind Flea's murder get away with it. She met her own gaze in the mirror, took the grease pencil from her assault pack on the floor, and jotted a note on the mirror.

I love you. Forgive me.

She wrapped the beige shawl around her head, slid on the sunglasses, and stepped out onto the balcony of the room. She gripped the latticework, lowering herself carefully. Her boots found narrow footholds in the carved wood.

Her stomach leapt into her throat as one of the pieces of timber snapped below her boot. She froze, eyes shooting to the surveillance room where Bucky was taking his shift. She waited with her breath held, nothing.

Ripley let out a little sigh, jumped down the last couple of feet, and landed softly on the tile. She adjusted her garb and moved into the crowd, heading toward the mosque.

“Get up, sunshine,” Wick nudged his shoulder into Ripley’s room, his gaze landed on the empty bed, then flicked to the mirror. His blood ran cold, fear spiking into adrenaline. “No, no, no.” He backed out of the room, his boots pounding hard as he ran to Bennett’s door, shoving it open. “She's gone.”

Bennett's head lifted off the pillow. "Huh?" His brain was still fogged over from sleep. "What? Who?"

Wick frowned at Bennett and turned as Bucky's boots thudded across the boards. "Where is she? What did you do?"

"What d'ya mean, where is she?" Bucky replied, his brows furrowed. "I didn't do anything." He backtracked and looked at their empty room, at the note on the mirror.

"Who?!" Bennett shouted after him.

"Ripley, you fuckin' idiot," Wick called over his shoulder, turning into Ripley's room. He grabbed his gear off the footlocker in one complex, decisive movement. “She’s going after Markov,” Wick said, breathless. “She’s gonna hit the house alone.”

Bucky tore his eyes off the words on the mirror, turning with a look Wick had never seen on him before, colder, and a hell of a lot more human. “We need to find her,” he said, voice low, steady, lethal. "Now." 

[valkyrie-mp]

Against All Odds

Chapter Ten: Love Is A Battlefield

Pairings: Bucky BarnesxRipley Todd (Female OC)

Synopsis: It’s been more than 125 days since junior Congressman James “Bucky” Barnes last heard from Ripley Todd. Since Omega’s teammate was murdered. Since the entire team vanished off the grid. Rebuilding his life in Brooklyn wasn’t easy. But when Ripley crashes back into his world—Bucky knows one thing with absolute certainty: Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs. They’ll find their way back to each other.

Tags: Soft Dom Bucky (We're exploring this hard), Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Action, Some Fluff, definitely 18+, eventual happy ending

Warnings: PTSD, Torture, Sexual Content, Swearing, Blood, you name it, it might show up The almost finished product is on AO3

You're making me go Then making me stay Why do you hurt me so bad? It would help me to know Do I stand in your way Or am I the best thing you've had? Love is a Battlefield (C) Pat Beneath 0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0–0

Ripley felt the tension seep from her muscles as the limo door shut with a gentle thunk, sealing them off from the glittering chaos of the gala and the world beyond. A mix of anticipation and relief coursed through her as she exhaled, her mind replaying the subtle dance of power and diplomacy she had just navigated.

The faint, lingering scent of champagne hung in the air, mingling with the muted bass reverberations from the gala, which still pulsed in the distance. She let her head fall back against the seat. 

"Finally," she muttered, and peeled off her heels, dropping them to the floor, wriggling her toes.

Bucky didn’t say anything. Just looked at her for a long moment. “You were incredible back there,” he said quietly, voice rough around the edges. “And I don’t just mean the dress.”

Ripley arched a brow, half-teasing, half-daring. “You sure? Valez was…interesting to say the least. I thought you were gonna throw hands there for a second.”

He leaned in, slow, brows lifting a little. “You really think I could watch another man put his hands on you and not want to make my position abundantly clear?”

Her smile twisted, sharp, dark, hungry. “You're the one who made it my choice."

He moved closer to her, something predatory in his eyes.

Ripley swallowed hard. "And I wanted to help your cause, which I did by the way, I dunno if you caught that last part…"

"I remember," Bucky said softly, his head cocked as he looked at her. "How drunk are you?"

"Barely a buzz hanging on at this point." She replied, her heart thundering as his fingers ghosted down the column of her throat, her brown eyes nearly black with desire. "You?"

"I can't get drunk, remember?" His mouth traced her jaw. "Ripley."

"If you're asking," she shifted a little toward him, her fingers tugging his bow tie loose. "For permission, you don't have to with me…you know that." She leaned into him, her eyes not leaving his.

He kissed her, hooking a finger beneath her chin to tilt her face up. Every second he had waited felt like a punishment. He let his palm rest flat against her back, steady and reassuring, while his other hand traced slow, teasing circles along her hip before guiding her into his lap.

Her legs straddled him easily, the slit in her dress parting as if it had been made for this. He traced invisible patterns over her thigh, his touch both grounding and electric, thumb sweeping gently along the inside of her knee.

"Let me, just let me," his voice was against her throat, his hands shoving her skirt higher, her fingers fumbling on the buttons of his shirt. They didn't hear the whir of the divider being rolled up to grant them more privacy, or the limo driver sliding in his AirPods and shaking his head.

Bucky fumbled with the zipper of her dress. "Jesus Christ, did we glue it on?" He gasped against the swells of her breasts. She choked out a laugh, her hands on his belt buckle. She felt the zipper on her dress let go. "What the fuck are those…." He stopped dead in his tracks.

Ripley furrowed her brows, looking down between them. "Those are sticky boobs, God, that's so unsexy…"

“Sticky what?” Bucky leaned her back just a fraction to look at her, like he was trying to solve a fucking Rubik’s cube.

“They’re—” Ripley broke into a breathless laugh, rolling her eyes at the situation, "They’re like strapless bra things….I wore them at the wedding. They stick to your boobs, hold them up, make 'em look good.”

Bucky blinked, disoriented by both the concept and the half-dressed woman straddling him. "Does it hurt?" He asked as she gently began to remove one of them. She made a little noise that meant both yes and no.

She folded it like a clamshell and tossed it aside. "Remind me to punch whoever invented those.” He told her and flipped their positions, settling her back against the leather seats, his hands running up her legs.

The limo hit a bump. The sudden jolt caught them off guard. Bucky’s hand slammed against the window beside her head, bracing. Ripley burst out laughing, breathless and exhilarated. "Drive better!" she shouted toward the front, then quickly covered her face as Bucky shook with silent laughter above her.

“Rip, I am begging you not to pick a fight with the driver—” he groaned as she rocked her hips up against him. He growled and tilted her back just enough to kiss down the curve of her throat, her chest, her ribs as he pulled her dress lower, all of it bunching just above her hips.

The limo rolled to a stop, and the sharp rap of knuckles signaled their arrival at the apartment. Ripley looked up at him, unable to hold her snicker. "Shortest drive ever."

"Don't forget your stick-ons," he told her, trying to piece himself back together. "I'll carry you up."

"Why?"

"Too much effort to zip you back in just to unzip it again."

"Congressman Barnes," Ripley tried to look at him sternly. "Are you saying you want me to crawl out of this limo half-naked?" She ignored him and managed to get her dress halfway zipped at least, her sticky boobs shoved into her clutch haphazardly.

"Yeah." He opened the door using his jacket as a curtain until she had tucked everything important into place. He scooped her up, tipped the limo driver with cash and a wicked grin.

He managed to get them into the apartment with little effort. He kicked the door shut, rattling it in its frame, and nearly tripped over Alpine as he pinned Ripley to the wall, tugging at the dress again. "Do you like this dress?" He asked breathlessly. 

"What?"

"Do… never mind," he ripped the bodice of it, buried his face between her breasts, mouth hot and wet.

"It was unzipped!" Ripley argued even as she arched into his mouth.

"Effort," Bucky fixed his mouth back on hers, pushing the ripped, useless fabric to the floor. He spun them off the wall and finally softened the landing onto the bed for her. Free from the confines of the dress, his arms, Ripley's fingers brushed his buttons. Her eyes met his with a gleam. "Don't," he warned softly. "I like this shirt, it goes with the tux."

"I liked that dress."

"I'll buy you all the dresses you could ever want," he said, undoing his shirt himself and tossing it aside, along with the white undershirt. She laughed a little before his mouth was back on her.

He had her pinned beneath him now, skin bared where the dress had been peeled away, her breath warm and uneven against his cheek. His metal hand rested at the small of her back, grounding her, while his other hand skimmed the length of her thigh, pausing at her knee to squeeze gently.

“Open for me,” he said, low, coaxing, but firm. That voice could’ve undone nations. “Wanna see all of you.”

Ripley obeyed without thinking. Her body responded to that tone, authority laced with hunger, the quiet worship of a man obsessed with the woman he was with. She spread her legs, the cool air of the apartment brushing over heated skin, prickling gooseflesh.

“Fuck, look at you…” Bucky’s gaze swept her body, his metal hand trailing fire along her ribs, up between her breasts where his thumb brushed the curve of one, slow, unhurried. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Ripley arched up. “Then show me.”

“Oh, I will.” His voice dropped another octave. He dipped down, kissing the inside of her knee, then higher. The scrape of stubble, the heat of his mouth. “But I’m gonna take my time, doll. You earned that.” He slid one finger along the seam of her, light as a breath, and smiled when her hips jerked. “So fucking wet already. You want my fingers, or my mouth first?”

“Both,” she gasped, eyes dark. “Both is good.” Her voice had pitched a little higher as his tongue followed the finger that had slid along her center.

He didn’t stop when she came, just eased her through it, mouth and fingers working as he memorized every twitch and whimper. And when she was gasping, limp with aftershocks, he rose over her again, beard glistening, pupils blown wide.

“Still with me?” he murmured against her lips.

“Yeah,” she whispered brokenly, blowing out a shaky breath. Her eyes met his, and her lips curved a little. “More.”

“Good girl.”

Ripley groaned—he grinned. He undid his pants, shedding them into a heap and lining up against her, dragging the blunt head of his cock through the slick of her, teasing, just enough to make her moan.

"Rip," he whispered. A man starved for months for the one thing he craved. "Tell me you want this."

"What?" She reached for him, nails dragging down his chest. He moved back a little, gaze reproachful. They locked gazes, chests rising and falling with bated breath. She licked her lips, finally, and said softly. "I want you."

“Yeah,” he breathed as he slid into her, her head falling back with a cry; his lips were on hers. “You’ve got me.” He murmured against her mouth.

He found her hand and wove their fingers together, guiding them up above her head, their palms pressed together as if in a silent vow. He kept her hand there not to hold her down, but to keep her close—each movement deliberate, deep, an unspoken promise in every touch.

His mouth was greedy, loving, claiming every inch of her it touched. The curve of her throat, the swell of her breasts, the underside of her jaw where her pulse leapt with every push of his hips.

“Look at me,” he rasped, voice like gravel, foreheads brushing. “Don’t look away, Ripley."

She looked. And what she saw nearly undid her—Bucky, undone and holding on by his last thread. “You’re mine,” he whispered. “And I’m yours. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she breathed, her throat suddenly tight. “Always.”

His fingers speared into her hair, his mouth on hers in a rough meeting of tongues and teeth and two people who couldn't explain the roiling turmoil inside of them. She barely had time to breathe before he moved again, shifting her hips up higher, sliding deeper, his pace maddeningly slow, like he was drawing it out on purpose.

“Touch me,” she gasped, arching under him. "Bucky." Her hands framed his face, fingers digging into his hair.

“I am touching you,” Bucky said, his voice low and rough in her ear. His metal hand trailed down the side of her face, cool and gentle. “But you want more. Don’t you?” She nodded helplessly, lips parting. He caught her chin between two fingers. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

“I want more,” she whispered. “I want you. I want everything.” The words slipped out during each slap of his hips against hers. Baring her heart and soul to him without even realizing it.

Her name slipped from his lips in every breath, every growl, every groan like it was the only one he’d ever learned to say. When her second orgasm hit, she bit his shoulder hard enough to bruise. He grinned through it, rocked deeper, kissed her temple.

“Bucky—” her voice cracked and caught like breaking glass. She wasn’t crying, but it was close to tears. Too much. Too good. Too safe.

He gathered her into his arms and whispered, “I know.”

He kissed her, slow, lingering, like a promise. He let himself go, burying himself deep with a groan that sounded like her name and a confession in the same breath as he spilled into her. He didn’t look away, her eyes glossy, staring into his as the last of his orgasm wracked his body.

When it was over, he collapsed beside her, his arm draped over her waist, lips brushing the crown of her head as he caught his breath. They lay in silence, the hush broken only by the slow return of their heartbeats and the golden stripes of streetlight on the sheets.

Quietly, Bucky murmured, “I didn’t want the night to end like that.”

Ripley blinked up at the ceiling, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. She made a little bit of an insulted frown. “Like what?” God, don't regret it, please, don't regret this or me.

"I was trying…" Bucky lifted his metal hand, let it drop gently on her hip, and rubbed his thumb in circles.

C'mon, just say it. He thought to himself and closed his eyes for a moment.

He hesitated, then met her gaze. "Trying not to..." His voice caught, but he pressed on. "I can't handle it if you walk away again."

"Bucky…" Her voice was soft. She sniffled, tucked her lips, the words were there, right on the tip of her tongue.

"I know." He said quietly, gathering her into his arms, pretending he didn't feel the tears against his bare skin. "I know."

"I don't think you do," she whispered.

Bucky looked down at her, his eyes tracing over her face. He brushed away her tears with gentle knuckles. "Can I guess?" He asked. She nodded, watching him with weary eyes. "You wanna say something, and the words get caught right in here." He tapped the notch of her collarbone. She nodded. "Same." He smiled a little, pressed his forehead to hers. "We'll figure it out. Try to sleep. You earned it."

She snorted softly. "Thanks."

"Valez was the last senator I needed for a vote for my proposal," Bucky said quietly, his fingers traveling along her side now, circling the tall tale signs of bullet wounds. "You secured that vote tonight." He sighed softly against her hair, his calloused fingers moving through the strands of her hair as he stared up at the ceiling. "Thank you."

"I didn't do anything besides letting the dickbag dance with me," Ripley murmured, staring off into the middle distance. The bedroom walls were bare, no paintings, no photos, easy to leave behind just in case. It twisted her heart a little bit.

You have a home, she thought. Just come to it.

Bucky's lips pressed to the crown of her head. "What're you thinking?"

Ripley sniffed softly. "You don't wanna know," she replied, her voice monotone. Bucky's fingers stilled on her. "I'm not leaving." She added, and sat up slowly, his arms falling off of her. "I'm gonna go shower."

Bucky watched her walk away, brows furrowed a little in thought. Not leaving, he thought, but not staying. -.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.Bzzz.

Ripley blindly patted around the nightstand. No lamp. No clock. No phone. Nothing.

"Fucking bachelors." She muttered and rose unsteadily out of the bed. Bucky rolled over, the thin sheet draped over his hips doing little to conceal him.

"What is it?" he asked, voice husky. She didn't answer him. The phone had begun buzzing again. She dug under his pants, the shirt, the wreckage from the night, of what they had done. She found her clutch and yanked her phone free.

"Yeah?" she said, one hand rubbing her forehead.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" Wick asked irritably, staring at his TV, where Senator Valez spun Ripley around amongst the glitter and glamor of the gala, a news story of all things.

"Wick."

"You just slapped a fucking target on your back," Wick snapped. "Does this look like keeping a fucking low profile to you?"

"Yeah? Well, maybe I'm sick of fuckin' running, Danny. Maybe I want them to come to me this time around."

"And Bucky?" Wick challenged sharply. "You're putting him in harm's way, and for what?"

Across the room, Bucky lay still, his head pillowed on his arms. Hearing every word. His blue eyes tracked her naked form as she turned, digging her fingers into her hair. "I don't know Wick. I don't fucking know."

The silence on the phone was thick for a few beats.

"Bennett and I are coming to you," he finally said, voice hard as a rock. "Phones are already compromised by now. Georgetown too, y'know why?" He waited a beat. "Because that's where a fucking congressman has been staying, Rip."

She swallowed hard. "You were supportive of this a few days ago."

"Yeah, well, that's before Boone showed up bleeding on my goddamn doorstep."

Her spine went rigid. "What?" Her voice hardened. Bucky sat up in bed, leaning forward, brows furrowed, listening harder.

"Don't you get it?" Wick snapped. "They're coming for us. Dump your phone. Get a burner." The line went dead before she could speak.

Slowly, she leaned down, sliding on Bucky’s white dress shirt like armor, crossing her arms over herself in a hug. "You heard."

Bucky ran his tongue over his teeth, jaw tight, and nodded. Inside, a flicker of uncertainty gnawed at him, wondering if he was ready to face whatever decision she might make.

Yet, he forced himself to look steady. "What do you want to do?"

Ripley looked at him finally, her eyes running over him, taking in every detail of him in the dim winter sunlight, his bed ruffled hair, the curve of his muscles. She swallowed hard and sighed. "You already know."

His heart sank, and he shifted forward, as if to reach for her. "Ripley, don't."

"I can't lose you, Bucky." Barely a whisper.  Not like this, not because of me.

"I've already been lost, Rip, for years. I have a choice now," he told her, equally quiet; his gaze didn't waver. She didn't speak. Just walked over to the bed and sat beside him. His arm wrapped around her hips without hesitation. He rested his chin on her shoulder.

Ripley sighed and shook her head, staring at the windows. "Y'know, when a random woman approached me last night and said she could help us avenge Flea, I didn't believe her, but now…"

Bucky pulled away from her. "What? What woman?"

“Some obnoxiously long name.” Ripley jerked her shoulder and rolled her eyes, though a flicker of unease crossed her mind. It was the kind of name that sounded powerful, laden with both allure and danger, and given the circumstances, it felt like a name she should tread carefully around.

“Valentina Allegra de Fontaine?” Bucky's hand curled into a fist at her hip.

Her gaze narrowed at him. "How…"

"Do not take whatever deal she's offering you," Bucky warned her, his voice firm. She scowled at him, her brows drawn together in a hard line. “Don’t Ripley....”

“She said she could help us avenge Flea...” She said quietly. “She's got resources, she said Markov’s name, Bucky, how many fucking people know that name?”

He heard it in her voice, the pain, the ache, the grief. “Baby, I know—” She refused to look at him, and he sighed heavily. “Ripley...I’m not going to tell you what to do...”

“Then don’t.” She stated coldly.

Bucky leaned away from her, hand flexing, glaring at the ceiling. “Have I mentioned how infuriating you are?”

Her lips quirked to the side. “Once or twice.” She looked down at her hands lying on her bare thighs. She could see the calluses from the gym, the invisible blood that stained them from years of army service, from years of special operations.

“I loved him, Buck,” she whispered, her throat tight. “I loved him so fucking much, he was like a little brother to me...”

Bucky didn’t say anything, his glacier blue eyes running over her face. His heart tightened; he hated seeing her in pain. And worse than that, he couldn’t take it from her. He couldn’t remove the grief; he couldn’t fight her battles for her. All he could do was support whatever decision she made.

"Say something," her voice rasped. "Please, Bucky, anything…" She turned her head toward him.

"I dunno what to say, Rip," he admitted, his voice rough and blunt. He lifted his eyes to hers, and she hated herself for what she saw. Disappointment.

She licked her lips and sighed. "We're never gonna be able to get this right, are we?" She whispered.

Bucky rubbed his forehead and gestured with his hand. "What do you want me to say, Rip?" He dropped his hand, let it hit his thigh with a dull slap.  

Her jaw tightened, and she looked away. "Nothing…" She rose and gestured toward her phone. Distancing herself. Closing herself off. "They're on their way here…we'll get out of your way as soon as we can…"

"You're doing a great job at not running," Bucky reached for his sweatpants beside the bed, and tugged them on, rising. "Really great." He left the room, nearly tripping on Alpine. Ripley stared at his back, hands clenched at her side. She had a choice in that moment, and damned if she wasn't choosing him.

"Hey!" She walked out into the living room after him. "I'm not done with you, Barnes."

He glared at her over his bare shoulder as he prepped the coffee maker. "Maybe I was wrong about you, Rip," he said it so casually that she felt like he had punched the air straight from her lungs. "I was waitin' on a different story, I guess."

One where we could be happy.

"One with a happy ending?" Her voice was low, and her throat felt like it had needles inside of it. "One where we're both clean?" Her gaze lifted to his, her brows scrunched together. "One where I don't let rage get the best of me? You didn't think that this would happen when they pushed me to the brink?"

Bucky leaned forward on the counter, his hands spread wide, his lips pressed into a thin line. "You look me in the fuckin' eyes and you tell me that this is the last step you take for avenging Flea." He lifted his stare to hers, searching her face for some semblance of the woman who had whispered that she was his.

"When Markov is gone, what next?" He challenged. "Another name on your list? When is enough, enough?" Her eyes brimmed with tears, and she licked her lips slowly. "Do I have to bury you, too, Rip?" He asked hoarsely, gaze unwavering. "Do I have to stand over your grave with Bennett and Wick?"

She inclined her chin, swallowing hard. "The grave doesn't scare me…"

He scoffed softly and turned his back to her, shaking his head. "Okay." He busied his hands pouring his coffee; he closed his eyes when he felt her move up behind him. "You know how many times I wished you had called so I could say goodbye while you were off playing vigilante?" He asked quietly. "I waited for you."

Ripley's jaw worked back and forth as she tried to find the words, but all she could manage was. "I know." She lifted her hand, fingertips inches from his shoulder, before lowering it, stepping away. "I can't make you understand why I need to do this." She whispered. "And I'm not going to try..."

"Yeah, well," Bucky lifted his gaze to the cupboards. "It was my fault for handing you a heart worth breaking."

The words hit her harder than any strike she’d taken in the field. Ripley recoiled as if he’d actually slapped her. Her breath stuttered out of her chest, sharp and ugly, and for a second she just stood there, bare legs, his dress shirt drowning her frame. “Don’t you dare,” she said quietly.

Bucky didn’t turn. He didn’t need to.

“You think I wanted that?” she rasped. “You think I wake up every morning excited to find new and improved ways to fuck things up between us?”

That made him turn. Slow. Wary. Already regretting what he’d said, but too stubborn and too wounded to take it back.

“Rip—”

“No.” Her voice cracked, but she held her ground. “You wanna make me your villain?” Her voice cracked. "Fine."

His fingers flexed, metal hand opening and closing. “Ripley, what am I supposed to do?” he asked, voice fraying. 

“Buck…” Her voice softened. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“You don’t need to try,” he said, quiet and blunt and devastating. “You've already done it."

Her breath caught. She stepped forward before she could stop herself. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him. Close enough that her fingers almost brushed his arm.

He shook his head, swallowing hard. “Take it from someone who's been where you've been…it won't make you feel better. Killing Markov won't bring Flea back."

He reached for her arm. She stepped back. Not a run. Not an escape. A flinch. He let his hand fall. The tears she had been holding back had started to fall; she didn't know when. She didn't care; she swiped at them.

"I'm calling in some favors," her voice was low and tight. Ghost Lead. Not Ripley. "You'll have a security detail until this is done."

"I don't need it…"

"It's not optional." She lifted her gaze to his. "It's the only thing I can do to make sure you're safe."

“You wanna keep me safe?” He fired back hoarsely. “Then stay.” He kept his eyes locked on hers. “Stay.” He whispered. She tore her gaze away from him at the sound of her phone vibrating again. “Don’t pick it up.” 

She turned it toward him. Unknown Caller

He took it from her and swiped to accept the call on her phone. "Hello?" 

"Congressman Barnes, put Ripley on." 

Bucky's jaw tightened. "Valentina." 

"Now, Congressman, I have some pertinent information for her." Valentina's voice sounded bored. He put her on speakerphone. 

"I'm listening," Ripley said, her body taut. 

"A little birdie told me that Doctor Isolde Markov is visiting a friend in Morocco this week." 

Ripley's gaze jumped to Bucky's. He stood, arms crossed, his face looked as if it were carved out of stone. 

"Another little birdie," Valentina went on. "Also, let me know that your teammates have just landed in New Jersey." 

"What do you want?" Ripley asked finally. 

"Quid pro quo, Ripley. I scratch your back, you scratch mine." 

"I don't want your favors…" the woman spoke quietly. Bucky's hand tightened around his bicep. 

"Join Special Activities, and I will personally deliver Markov with a ribbon around her," Valentina said sweetly. "You want revenge, I need a team that knows what they're doing."

Ripley stared at the countertop, her brows furrowed. "I need time to think." 

"Think away, but your buddies are being followed…pretty sloppily, I might add." 

Ripley growled and walked away from the phone, then back to it, her face a storm of barely concealed rage. "Nothing illegal?"

"Everything by the book." 

"Fine."

"Ripley," Bucky warned. "Think about this." 

"I have," she said quietly. "Get the tail off my team, Miss. De Fontaine," Ripley warned softly. 

"You're gonna make a fantastic asset to Special Activities," Valentina said, her smile audible. "My new little Belgian Malinois. Consider the tail gone. Talk soon, kisses." The line clicked dead. 

Bucky stared at Ripley for a long moment. "I hope you know what you're doin', Rip." 

She offered him a weak smile. "So do I." 

He hesitated, extended his hand toward her. "I'm sorry," he whispered. She stared at his hand and slowly placed her hand in it. 

"I'm sorry, too, Buck." She moved into his arms, closing her eyes. She rubbed her cheek against his bare chest. 

"I'm not givin' up," he murmured against her hair. "Not on us." 

She swallowed hard, the tears falling again quietly landing on his skin. "I can't promise I'll stop at Markov." 

Bucky frowned, but nodded. "I know." He pressed his nose into her hair. "Don't prove me right." He warned her. "I won't ever let you live it down." 

She huffed out a laugh. "You ever been to Morocco?" 

Bucky pulled back a little bit to see if she was being serious. "No…"

"Might wanna tell your handler you'll be out of the country." 

"Rip…"

She offered a weak smile. "You have the choice." 

Bucky nodded, brushed his knuckles across her cheekbone. "I choose you." 

"Even though you don't agree?"

"Even then." He kissed her forehead and prayed that he was wrong. Prayed that revenge wouldn't eat her alive, that there was some part of her not consumed by grief and rage, that he could touch. 

[valkyrie-mp]

Against All Odds

Chapter Nine: The Fall

Pairings: Bucky BarnesxRipley Todd (Female OC)

Synopsis: It’s been more than 125 days since junior Congressman James “Bucky” Barnes last heard from Ripley Todd. Since Omega’s teammate was murdered. Since the entire team vanished off the grid. Rebuilding his life in Brooklyn wasn’t easy. But when Ripley crashes back into his world—Bucky knows one thing with absolute certainty: Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs. They’ll find their way back to each other.

Tags: Soft Dom Bucky (We're exploring this hard), Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Action, Some Fluff, definitely 18+, eventual happy ending

Warnings: PTSD, Torture, Sexual Content, Swearing, Blood, you name it, it might show up

The ride is worth the fall The fall was worth the smiles The smiles were worth the tears Tears were worth the miles Miles were worth the pain Pain was worth it all It's all worth this life, life is worth the ride The ride is worth the fall (Cody Johnson)

“Get up, Rip.” The low voice rumbled in the chest pressed against her back, warm and gravel-edged with sleep. She made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a curse. “C’mon,” he tried again, his arm slung heavy around her waist. “We gotta get on the road.”

“Yup. Okay,” she said, with the conviction of a woman fully committed to not moving. She burrowed deeper under the covers, inching lower—slow, smooth—and dragged half the blanket with her, body gliding down the length of his. Bucky’s breath hitched. Her head was now level with his chest. Her ass pressed squarely into the rigid length of him. 

He pressed a palm flat to her back, firm, nudged. “Ripley.”

“What?” she mumbled, unapologetic as she rolled over, pressing her face into his bare chest.

“You know exactly what.”

A lazy smile ghosted across her lips against his sternum. “Wouldn’t dream of taking advantage of your… vulnerable morning state, sweetheart.”

His eyes dropped shut. “Jesus Christ.” His fists clenched. Her hips shifted, slowly, a long, smooth leg sliding over his leg. Deliberately. He exhaled hard through his nose, jaw clenched. “You’re playing with fire, doll.” She hummed, like she hadn’t heard him at all. “Don’t start something you’re not ready to finish,” he added, voice tight.

Ripley stretched against him, arching back, catlike and smug. “You gonna punish me, Barnes?”

He went still. One beat. Two. Finally, through gritted teeth. “Get. Up.” 

Ripley heaved a dramatic sigh, but flipped the blankets back, and rose, the baggy tee shirt she wore barely grazing mid-thigh. She looked down at him with those sultry brown eyes that seemed to be just from sleep. "Good morning." 

Bucky licked his lips, sighed through his nose. "We leave in forty minutes."

"I can make it in twenty." She walked toward the bathroom, shedding the tee shirt, stark naked as she shut the door behind her. 

"I said take it slow," Bucky told himself as the water turned on. "I'm taking it slow. this is slow—this is…killing me." He ran a palm over his face and got out of bed, tossing his suitcase onto it to begin packing. Alpine trotted in, her purple toy mouse clamped in her teeth, and jumped onto the bed, dropping the mouse into his suitcase. "Your toy can go with us." He told her affectionately, giving her downy head a rub. 

Bucky folded a Henley and added it to the neat stack already in his bag. Alpine butted her head against his forearm like she had opinions about his packing technique.

“I know,” he muttered. “I should bring the black one, not the navy. You’re just like her, you know that?”

Alpine meowed. Definitively.

“She’s got you trained, too,” he said, grinning as he zipped the mesh pocket shut. The little purple mouse was still tucked near the top.

The water shut off down the hall. Bucky went still for a second, hands braced on the bed, his eyes falling shut. He could picture her in there, steam curling around her, towel barely wrapped around her, skin flushed from the heat. 

He pushed off the mattress with a sigh that could’ve doubled as a prayer, snatched up his phone, and left the room before he embarrassed himself in front of the cat. 

She packed all her makeup and hair products, then stood for a moment in the towel in the bedroom, staring around as if an outfit for the gala would magically leap out. "I can always buy something in New York." She told Alpine. She dragged her own suitcase and her packing cubes and began tossing outfits onto the bed. She didn't even know how long to pack for—no, she did. She put her foot down with herself; she would go for the weekend. Four days. 

She got dressed, leggings, a hoodie—travel cozy. "Good enough." She muttered to the cat and herself. She went downstairs, bag in tow, sending it rolling into the kitchen on its own while she went into her closet for the SIG. 

"Really?" Bucky asked from the kitchen, a to-go cup of coffee in hand. "I don't think you'll need that." 

"It's part of my outfit," she replied dryly, and reached into the fridge for a pre-made protein shake. 

"No, eat real food." Bucky offered her a protein bar. 

She wrinkled her nose at him, gestured with her shake. "This is food."

"Baby…no," Bucky shook his head, the endearment slipping out. "We'll get real food on the road."

"You're the one who woke me up at the ass crack of dawn…" She scowled at him, adding her baseball cap and a jacket to her pile. 

"It's a six-hour drive." He reminded her patiently. She glared. "All I'm sayin' is you get pissy when you get hungry…" 

She stared at him for a long moment before turning away to finish gathering her belongings. Her silence was an indication that he was right, and Bucky took a hint of pride in that.

The Bronco rumbled beneath them, cruising north up I-95 under a sky that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be cloudy or clear. The sun broke through in long, slanted shafts, lighting the wet pavement like gold foil, but neither of them commented on it.

Bucky’s hand rested on the wheel, easy but alert, thumb tapping lightly in rhythm with the lo-fi playlist playing low through the speakers. No lyrics, just soft percussion and mellow guitar. Ripley sat in the passenger seat, sunglasses on despite the shifting sun, sipping what was either her second or third gas-station iced tea. 

They’d been on the road nearly two hours before either of them said much.

“You gonna nap or just stare a hole in the glove box?” Bucky asked finally, his voice smooth and quiet, but laced with amusement.

Ripley tipped her head toward him without removing the glasses. “Would you rather I sleep or stay awake and be a second set of eyes?”

Bucky huffed a laugh. “Sweetheart, you snore like a dying chainsaw. But I’d still take that over you trying to win a silent war with the dashboard.”

She gave a half-smile. “I don’t snore.”

He glanced at her. “You absolutely do.”

She didn’t argue again, just took another sip of tea and settled her head against the window.

They passed signs for Philly. Then Trenton. Ripley dozed off somewhere between them. Quiet, chin tucked to the side, arms folded like a bouncer on break. Bucky caught himself looking too long at her legs stretched out as far as they could go. His eyes flicked back to the road.

By the time they hit the Holland Tunnel, she was awake again, reapplying lip balm in the visor mirror and trying not to look anxious.

“You okay?” Bucky asked, flicking the turn signal.

“Yeah.” She didn’t sound convincing. “I just hate tunnels.”

Bucky glanced sideways at her, reading the tension in her jaw. He reached over and brushed the back of his fingers lightly across her knee. “Almost through, baby. You’re alright.”

She didn’t answer. But her hand found his on the console between them a minute later, fingers brushing, lingering. She didn’t grip it. Didn’t make it a thing. But the contact was there.

The city swallowed them whole in a blink, horns, brakes, the shuffle of pedestrians, and too many yellow cabs. It was louder than she remembered. Faster. Bucky navigated like it was muscle memory, guiding the Bronco through downtown like he’d never left it.

He parked a few minutes later, pulling into the spot in front of his brownstone like it had been waiting for them. He killed the engine. They didn’t move for a second.

Ripley unbuckled first and looked over at him. “We made it.”

“We did.”

She opened the door, stepping out into the cold air and stretching her arms high over her head. Bucky grabbed their bags from the back, tossing her the lighter one before slamming the tailgate shut. Ripley grabbed the cat carrier, Alpine yowling pitifully. They climbed the steps in silence. Close, but not touching. Not yet.

Inside, the apartment was warm, clean, quiet, and still holding onto that faint scent of him. Bucky tossed his keys onto the table by the door. He brought the bags to the bedroom, Ripley set the cat free, and then stood in the middle of the living room for a moment, staring out the window at the street below. “So,” she said. “You ready for this gala bullshit?”

Bucky came up behind her, voice soft at her ear. “I’m more ready with you here.” He didn't touch her, but she knew if she leaned back even just a little, he was right there. "I've never brought anyone to them before…it'll be nice to have someone I know." 

She turned to face him, her eyes catching his in the soft light coming through the window. The street noise below barely filtered in. It felt like the whole apartment had paused, waiting for something.

“I promise not to embarrass you too much,” she said, dry as ever. But her voice had gone soft at the edges, like it wasn’t really a joke. Like she was worried that it would happen. 

Bucky looked down at her, just for a second. Just long enough to memorize the way her mouth tugged into that crooked, almost-smile, the one that used to mean trouble, or a dare, or something deeper she didn’t know how to say.

“You never do,” he said quietly.

They stood like that, close, but not touching. One wrong move and they’d fall into each other again. One word, one glance too long.

Ripley let out a breath, one hand brushing her hair behind her ear, suddenly unsure of what to do with it. “So where am I sleeping?” she asked, a little too casually.

Bucky’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Wherever you want, doll.”

Her brow arched, eyes narrowing. “Dangerous answer.”

“Only if you’re scared of the consequences.”

She huffed a laugh. “I’m not.”

He stepped around her before he did something stupid, like close the inch between them. “No sense changing the arrangement we've had going…you'll sleep next to me, same as always,” he said over his shoulder. “And there are takeout menus in the kitchen drawer if you’re hungry.”

She watched him walk away, jaw tight, hands fisted in the sleeves of her hoodie. She wasn’t hungry. Not for food, anyway. 

Brooklyn was cold in that mid-January way that soaked into his bones. He walked two blocks before he realized he hadn’t even picked a direction; he was just moving for the sake of moving. Just trying to bleed off the tension sitting heavy in his chest.

Everywhere he looked, couples. Holding hands, ducking into cafes, laughing. God, was he that fucking cliché now?

It hit him at the corner florist. He doubled back, hand already digging into his jacket pocket for his card. The bell above the door jingled. He stared at the lines of flowers. 

"Do you need help?" The woman behind the counter smiled at him, her gaze curious. He imagined he must've looked frazzled. "Mother, sister, wife?"

"Uhhh," Bucky stared like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Girlfriend? Date?" 

"Yeah….yeah."

"Okay, um, what does she like?" The woman rounded the counter, matronly in her sympathetic gaze. "What is she like?"

"Stubborn," the word left his mouth before he could stop it. The woman laughed a little. "She's strong, gorgeous, funny," Bucky stared off a little as he spoke. "Badass. She's not simple…not basic…" 

The florist was quiet at first, watching him with a practiced kind of patience, until she gently reached for a few stems. “This one,” she said, holding up a sprig of thistle, “is for protection. But it also means resilience. Good for the kind of woman who shows up swinging.”

Bucky swallowed. Nodded once.

“And eucalyptus,” she added, tucking it in next, “is for healing. Soothing. For when you don’t know how to say ‘I hope you find some rest.’” She paused, eyes flicking up to his face. “Am I close?”

He huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.

“And roses,” she murmured, choosing the darkest wine-colored ones, almost black in the center. “Not red — not classic. These are for passion, but not the easy kind. These are complicated.” He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. The florist smiled, soft and knowing. “I’ll add a little something wild. She sounds like the kind of woman who doesn’t like to be boxed in.”

He nodded, one hand still shoved deep in his jacket pocket like he was holding himself together by the seams. She wrapped the bouquet in soft brown paper and tied it off with a dark satin ribbon, and added a vase.

“I hope she knows what she’s got,” the florist said gently, offering it to him.

“She doesn’t,” Bucky said quietly, taking it from her hands. “But I’m trying to show her.”

“It’s a good start, son,” the florist replied with a knowing little smile. “I hope to see you back… women like the one you’re describing….they need softness in their lives. Even if they don’t ask for it.”

He nodded once, slipped her his card, and muttered a quiet thanks. 

Fifteen minutes later, he was standing outside his own apartment door, flowers clutched like contraband, heart thudding like he’d just walked off a battlefield. He took a breath, another, and opened the door.

The soft shuffle of movement met him. Ripley’s head lifted from where she’d been curled on the arm of the couch, hoodie swallowing her whole, one leg bent under her. Her expression was sharp for a split second, muscle memory, then eased when she saw it was just him.

Her eyes dropped to the bouquet in his hands.

“You rob a wedding on the way home?” she asked dryly, though her voice caught somewhere in the middle, like it wasn’t entirely sarcastic.

He stepped inside, gently nudging the door shut behind him with his boot. “No. Just stopped at a florist.”

“For…?” She rose from the couch, crossing to him. 

“You.” He held the bouquet out like it might explode. 

Ripley took them from him, careful not to crush the petals, and set the bouquet on the counter like it was something sacred. She turned, no warning, no smirk, no guard, and wrapped her arms around him.

Bucky froze for half a beat before his hands came up, tentative, then firm around her. He could count on one hand the number of times she had ever initiated contact like that. Her face tucked into his shoulder, warm breath hitting his neck. She held on like she meant it. Like she needed it.

And just for a second, she hated that. Hated how easy it was to fold into him, how natural it felt to be there. Her brain, it screamed too soft, too much, because she knew better. Softness got people killed. Got people burned.

But his arms were around her like a shield, not a trap. And he wasn’t asking for anything.

His arms tightened. One hand found the small of her back, the other slid up into her hair.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she mumbled into his shirt.

“Yeah, I did,” he said quietly, mouth brushing her temple. "You deserve it, Rip."

She exhaled against him, and it damn near buckled his knees. He pulled back just enough to see her face,but not enough to let her go. Her eyes met his, unreadable, wide and dark and a little stormy. Her hands fisted lightly in his shirt.

“Bucky…” she started, voice caught somewhere between a warning and a confession.

“Yeah,” he said, eyes flicking down to her mouth for one devastating second. “I know.”

And for a moment, just a moment, neither of them moved. She leaned her forehead against his collarbone, tucking beneath his chin. "You're too nice for me." 

Bucky huffed out a laugh. "Bringing a woman flowers after a date isn't 'too nice,' Ripley." He paused, trying to find the words. "It's what you do when it matters, and you wanna do it again." 

"It is in my world," she muttered. 

"Next time I'll bring you a box of ammo," he promised lowly. "Get those flowers into the vase." He kissed the top of her head and stepped away from her before he chose to do more. She nodded, not meeting his gaze as she took care of the flowers. He studied her for a long moment. The desire to ask, to know more, was there. They had known each other for—Bucky's eyes widened with realization—a year. 

"What is that face?" Ripley asked him. She had turned toward him, somewhere between his revelation and 'oh shit. 

"What face? There's no face." Bucky shook his head, making a face. 

"There was a face," She narrowed her eyes at him. 

"Sweetheart," Bucky grinned at her. "There was no face." 

"That's called gaslighting," she said, airily brushing past him. "And it's part of narcissistic behavior." 

He watched her go into the bedroom, with a cocked head, an affectionate smile playing on his lips. She was going to be fun to spoil. 

Ripley didn’t do spas.

She did field kits. She did five-minute showers in sand-choked bathrooms. She did bruised knuckles and split lips and another goddamn scar. What she didn’t do was cucumber water and lavender oil, and women in matching scrubs saying things like “square or almond?” as if it mattered.

But here she was. In a robe. In a chair. Submitting her hands, those tools of violence and precision, to a very patient nail tech with perfect eyeliner.

“Square or almond?” the woman asked again gently.

Ripley blinked stupidly. “Uh. Functional?”

The woman just smiled. “We’ll go with squaoval.”

The massage wasn’t better. She lay face down on a heated table while someone with unsettlingly strong thumbs attempted to break up what he politely referred to as “resistance.” Cute word for years of tension layered between scar tissue and muscle.

“You hold a lot of tension in your glutes,” he noted, matter-of-fact. "Shoulders and neck, too." 

“Yeah,” Ripley muttered into the face cradle. “You don't say.”

He laughed. She didn’t. But of all the torture she went through that day, the massage was the best form of it. 

A stylist smoothed her damp hair back into something that would eventually be pinned up, murmuring something about cheekbones and volume. Ripley didn’t catch most of it, she was busy trying not to flinch under the softness. Under the kindness.

Later, standing in front of a full-length mirror in the boutique’s softly lit dressing room, Ripley stared at herself in the black strapless gown. It hugged every curve, the lines clean and unapologetic. She ran a hand slowly down her hip, slowly, reverently.

Don’t you dare cry over a dress just because you feel pretty. 

She thought to herself. 

Back at the apartment, the quiet was almost jarring. Alpine trotted up to greet her, tail high, tiny paws thudding softly against the wood floor. The dress was carefully slung in its garment bag over one shoulder, her nails a neutral, glossy beige, her hair swept up with elegant precision.

She didn’t feel like herself.

She felt… something else. Like maybe she was allowed to be soft. For one night. In this armor shaped like beauty. She didn’t know how to sit with that. She dug into the fridge, rattling around bottles as she searched for a beer. 

"How was the spa?" Bucky asked from the doorway of the bedroom, fixing the cuff on his shirt. She turned the bottle of beer halfway to her lips. 

Her eyes dragged over him, slow, stunned. Bucky stood there in a crisp white shirt, black bow tie, hair swept back in that loose, easy way that always made her suspicious of how little effort it took him to look that good. His cufflinks gleamed. So did his eyes. He was watching her watch him.

Ripley blinked. Tried again. Failed. Her lips parted, beer forgotten in her hand. “…The spa was fine.”

Bucky’s mouth curved into a smile so smug and slow it was practically criminal. “You good?”

“No,” she answered honestly. She gestured at him with her hand. "This is…this is…nice, it's good." 

He stepped into the kitchen, closing the distance like it was nothing. “What is?”

“That.” She waved the bottle at him like a weapon, gesturing vaguely to all of him. “You. In that.”

“You like it?” he asked, playful now, chin dipping slightly to look down at her. 

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re fishing for compliments.”

“And you haven’t given me one yet.”

Ripley crossed her arms. “I said it was good." 

Bucky chuckled, reached around her to get a beer from the fridge, cracking the bottle open and taking a sip. He lingered close, just long enough to make it clear he knew exactly what he was doing to her blood pressure. “I’ll be ready in ten. You need help with your dress?”

“No.” She turned toward the hallway, grabbed the garment bag, and headed down it. “But if I start screaming, it’s because the zipper betrayed me.”

“I’ll come running,” he said, still grinning. 

Ripley flipped him off over her shoulder, but the edges of her mouth betrayed her. There was something soft clawing up inside her chest, and it scared the hell out of her. She didn't scream for help, but she did sheepishly back out of the bedroom, half zipped into her dress. "Bucky."

"I got you," he didn't miss a beat, and crossed to her, tugging the zipper up, his fingers hovered for a moment before tracing a three-inch scar between her shoulder blades. "That's a new one." He murmured. 

She handed him a necklace to attach. "There are a few new ones since the last time we…" 

“Yeah.” His grunt was low, not angry, just tight with things he didn’t say. He worked the clasp carefully, swearing under his breath about how small the damn thing was, and when he finally got it, Ripley turned to face him.

The words died in his throat.

His lips parted like he was going to say something smart, or funny, or easy, but all that came out was breath. His gaze traveled from her collarbone down, slow and respectful, taking in the way the fabric hugged her frame, the curve of her neck, the flicker of nerves in her eyes.

“You look—” his voice caught. He cleared it. Tried again. “You look gorgeous.”

Not pretty. Not good. Not hot. Gorgeous. Like a storm rolling in across open ground. Like something ancient and powerful and not meant for his hands.

Ripley snorted softly, a knee-jerk deflection. “Yeah, okay.”

“I mean it,” he said, more serious now. “Don't get me wrong,” he gave her a lopsided smile. "I've seen you bloodied and bruised, and you look gorgeous then too, but this…" 

She paused something in her stuttering, like maybe she wanted to cry. Instead, she smiled, wide and wicked. “You'd better hope I don’t make you late, Barnes.”

He gave her that slow, smirking once-over again. “I’ve never minded being late for the right reasons.” He shrugged on his jacket. "Limos waiting."

"A limo?"

"Congress." He said wryly and held the door open for her.

The gala sparkled.

That was the only word for it. Light bounced off crystal and glass, laughter chiming like wind through silver chimes. It was the kind of glittering, high-society event that Ripley normally avoided like landmines. But here she was. Wrapped in silk and stepping into a room full of cameras, secrets, and expensive cologne.

She stuck close to Bucky’s side, not quite touching but tethered all the same. He felt it. So did everyone else. Her brown eyes swept the space, calculating. Security detail was easy to clock, earpieces, stiff postures, eyes scanning, not unlike hers.

She caught Bucky watching her with a little smirk as he shrugged out of his coat and passed hers to the attendant. Her clutch landed neatly in his hand. Without missing a beat, he slipped the coat ticket inside and handed it back to her.

“Can you stop eyeballing the security like you’re planning a heist?” he murmured near her ear, voice low and teasing. “Fix your face.”

She wrinkled her nose in exaggerated effort. “How’s that?”

“Better,” he said, lips twitching.

“Wouldn’t wanna disappoint Congressman Barnes,” she whispered back, her smirk sharpening.

“You never disappoint me, Rip—” Bucky’s smile widened with practiced ease, his posture shifting. “Senator Howe!” His hand found the small of her back and, just like that, they stepped into the lion’s den. 

Ripley sipped her champagne as she moved around the outskirts of the crowd. The clink of glass and silver, the swell of classical music, the practiced laughter, it was all so loud. Even the hush between conversations had weight. She scanned the room with casual disinterest, catching every glance that didn’t think it was being watched. Congressmen, CEOs, military brass, legacy families, and their photogenic wives. Predators, all of them. Polished to a shine.

But her gaze always found Bucky.

He moved through the room like he belonged there, and didn’t. That was the thing. He smiled when he was supposed to. Shook hands with the kind of grip that said yes, I could crush yours, but I won’t. He remembered names. Kissed cheeks. Thanked donors. Flattered. Dodged questions like a pro. 

It should’ve fit. But it didn’t.

Not really.

Not when she’d seen him drenched in sweat from a nightmare at three in the morning. Not when she’d watched him stitch her up without flinching. Not when she’d heard him growl her name like it was a prayer and a curse at once. That man, the real one, was steel and shadow and something earned.

This one? This was camouflage. Necessary. For whatever plan he had next. 

Senator Howe was laughing at something Bucky said now. Her ring caught the light like a diamond sniper scope. Ripley clocked the glances the older woman gave him, not quite maternal. Not quite professional. Bucky played it off with charm that was nearly reflexive.

Ripley sipped her drink again and forced her expression into something neutral. Not territorial. Not bitter. Not whatever the hell she was actually feeling.

It wasn’t jealousy. Not exactly. It was the sharp ache of knowing he could survive in this world. Might even thrive. But it would always sand his edges down until nothing real was left.

He looked over his shoulder and caught her eyes, just for a second. That was all she needed. That half-smile was a little crooked. The tiniest raise of one brow. It said I see you. It said don’t go far. It said help.

And then he was pulled away again, handshakes and empty promises.

Ripley turned back to the crowd, eyes narrowing. If she had to stand here and play dress-up, she could at least make herself useful. People talked when they drank. They talked louder when they thought a woman wasn’t listening. And Ripley was very good at not being seen until she wanted to be.

She grabbed another flute of champagne, moving past different clusters. A senator's mistress was pregnant. Someone was changing their minds on a vote. Boring. She was about to head back toward Bucky when a soft voice spoke from behind her by the ungodly giant plant. 

"So," Claire moved forward, stunning in emerald green. "You're who the congressman has been hiding." 

Ripley looked her over, one sweep that took in every detail. She sipped her champagne, hoping the bubbles would take away the bitterness on her tongue. "And you are?"

"Congressman Barnes' aide, and," Claire shrugged a pale, perfectly sculpted shoulder. "Whatever he needs at the moment." 

Ripley's brows rose a little, and she drank again, sighing into her glass. "I'm sure he appreciates your services." She said it dryly, the innuendo heavy.

Claire ran her gaze over Ripley, mouth twitching with something between a smirk and a sneer. “Are you just visiting? He’s very busy…”

Ripley tilted her head, slow and curious. “Is that your polite way of telling me to stay in my lane?”

Claire gave a small, humorless laugh. “I’m just saying politics is…delicate. And James has a lot on his plate. People depend on him. His position is fragile….carefully crafted." 

“Funny,” Ripley said, swirling her champagne, her tone even. “He doesn’t seem all that fragile to me.”

Claire blinked, just once, but it was enough. Ripley smiled, sharp-edged and not the least bit apologetic. “Look,” Claire said, voice softening to something vaguely condescending, “you’re obviously… passionate. But this world? His world? It eats people alive.”

Ripley’s smile widened, baring teeth now. “That supposed to scare me away?”

“I’m just saying,” Claire murmured, stepping closer. “I’ve seen a lot of women come and go in this type of setting.” Her green eyes tracked over Ripley's dress, the visible scars, and wrinkled her pert nose. "You don't fit in here." She said simply. "You have nothing to offer." 

Ripley’s eyes glinted like broken glass. “Then you should know I’m not like a lot of women, I think your college degree should have had some common sense handed out with it.” Claire’s smile faltered, just slightly. Ripley leaned in, voice dropping to a purr. “You work for him, he pays you. I’ve bled for him, and he's bled for me. Know the difference.”

She drained the last of her champagne and placed the empty flute on a passing tray without looking away.

Claire straightened, but the confidence in her posture had lost some of its vigor. “He's moved on from that life," she sidled in front of Ripley, her gaze landing on Bucky, openly admiring. "He doesn't need people like you anymore. He needs someone like me."

“Oh, sweetheart,” Ripley murmured, shifting to stand hipshot. “People like you are the reason people like me exist in this world." 

She angled her eyes down the perfect Pilates body. She felt like a fucking ogre. "You stay inside your pretty little bubble and pretend that bad doesn't exist," Ripley said lowly. "But that's okay, because when the wolves come howling at the door, people like me—people like Bucky—we're the ones who are ready." 

She disappeared into the crowd without waiting for an answer, her hips swaying with deliberate grace, head held high.

Across the room, Bucky looked up, eyes scanning until he found her. She didn’t smile. His gaze flicked to where Claire downed a flute of champagne in one swallow. His mouth tightened. 

The cold air hit her like a reset button.

Ripley stepped onto the marble balcony, the chatter behind her muffled by the thick doors, the stars smeared above the city like frost on glass. She braced her hands on the stone railing, chest tight, the champagne buzz fading fast. Her pulse thudded a little too hard in her ears.

It wasn’t Claire. Not really. Ripley had dealt with sharper claws, more venomous words.

It was what Claire represented. That truth Ripley didn’t want to look at head-on, that she might be the outlier. The misstep. A complication to be managed quietly and politely, until it made more sense to let her go. Because he could belong to this world. Not comfortably. Not permanently. But enough to survive it. Enough to be wanted by people who fit the mold.

She didn’t.

The door creaked open behind her. The soft click of it shutting. Bucky didn’t say anything right away. Just stood behind her, the air stretching between them like a held breath. The soft breeze carried his cologne to her. The only reason she hadn't been poised for a fight. 

“You okay?” he asked finally.

Ripley stared out over the city. “Fine.” She hated the city. 

He moved closer, slow like she might spook. His voice was lower now, gentler. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” she said. Too fast. She hated the way her throat felt tight. “Just needed air.”

“Claire said something.”

Ripley didn’t answer. Her silence was answer enough.

“She overstepped,” he said flatly. “I’ll talk to her.”

“No, you won’t.” Her voice came out quieter than she wanted. “It’s fine.”

Bucky stepped up beside her, shoulder brushing hers. “It’s not.”

Ripley pressed her fingers to the railing. “You can handle her. Handle all of them. You fit here. She would fit better with you.”

He turned to face her, brows drawn. “No, Rip—”

She looked at him then, sharp-edged again but not cruel. Just guarded. “You’re good at it. You belong here with them.”

“I belong with you,” he said, steady. No hesitation.

Something in her stuttered. Then cracked.

“I don’t want to be a thing you outgrow,” she said finally, voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky’s expression broke open like she’d just punched him square in the chest. “Jesus, Ripley.”

“I’m serious," she said with a little huff of bitter laughter. 

“So am I.” He stepped in, closing the distance, voice tight with something that almost sounded like hurt. “You really think I’d let you walk into a room like this, then wonder if you’re enough?”

Her jaw clenched. “Don’t—”

“No,” he said, firmer now. “You don’t get to do that. Not with me. I’ve spent months wishing I’d fought harder for you. Don’t you dare stand here and act like I wouldn’t trade every handshake and headline in there just to wake up next to you and have it mean something.”

She blinked fast. Looked away.

“I know I’ve been dragging my feet since you came back,” he said, voice low and thick now. “But it’s not because I don’t want this. It’s because I do. And it scares the shit out of me.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t trust herself to. He reached out, slow, cupped her face with both hands, tilting her chin up just enough to see her eyes. “You’re not something I survive, Ripley. You’re the reason I want to live—”

She surged forward, kissed him hard, mouth fierce and aching. His hands slid into her hair, steadying, anchoring. It was like a dam that had been cracked open. His tongue slid into her mouth, her hands slid under his tuxedo jacket, seeking the warmth, the hardness of him. 

It was messy. Desperate. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, knuckles white as they dragged him closer. Bucky kissed her like he’d spent months starving for it, because he had. Like she was the only thing in the goddamn world that made sense, because she was.

She broke away first, panting, forehead pressed to his. “We shouldn’t—”

“I don’t care.” His voice was hoarse, almost a growl. “I’ve been careful. Slow. Thoughtful. And I’m done.”

She let out a sound that was part gasp, part laugh, raw, shaken. “We’re in public.”

“No one can see us.” His hands skimmed her ribs, then gripped her waist like he couldn’t decide whether to haul her closer or fall to his knees. “Rip,” he warned, “I’m hanging on by a thread.”

"Fuck, don't I know it," she muttered. 

They didn’t care about the music swelling behind the ballroom doors. Or the sound of someone laughing, too loud and far away. The whole world had narrowed down to breath and heat and the thrum of something inevitable.

She searched his face, eyes dark, cheeks flushed, hair mussed from her hands. He looked a little wild. A little wrecked. Hers. She smoothed his hair back into place, wiped his lips with her thumb where her lip gloss had transferred. 

"I'm going back inside,” she murmured, throat thick. “You give us one more minute out here, and I swear we’ll be on every security camera in the building.”

He didn’t argue. He just watched her, eyes roving her face like a map he never wanted to stop reading.

As she turned to go, he caught her wrist, just for a beat. “This isn't over,” he said, lower now. "This isn't gonna just stop, Rip."

"Are you prepared for that?" She asked him quietly. He pulled her back to him. "Are you prepared for what it entails? The trust, openness—"

"Are you?"

"No," she answered honestly. "But…" 

"Congressman Barnes…." Claire stood framed by the golden light of the ballroom behind her. 

"Of fucking course," Ripley muttered, and drew away from Bucky. "Think on it." She told him softly, and prided herself on not throwing her shoulder into Claire as she passed the woman. 

Claire's gaze flicked to Bucky. "Sorry to interrupt…"

"No, you're not," Bucky said, walking toward her.

She didn’t move out of the way. “Senator Valez wanted to speak with you,” she said smoothly, stepping aside just enough to keep her presence unavoidable. “It’s about the veterans initiative.”

Bucky nodded once, already brushing past, until Claire laid a hand on his chest. He flinched back as if she’d burned him.

"Are you okay?" she asked, voice pitched softer now. Concerned. Practiced.

He looked down at her hand, then up into her eyes. His jaw ticked. Something in his expression sharpened, flattened. "I'm fine," he said finally, the words shaped into a smile that didn’t even pretend to touch his eyes.

Claire blinked, withdrawing her hand. "Do you want me to go find your date?”

Bucky stepped in closer, just enough to make her freeze. His voice dropped low, quiet, cold, deliberate. “I want you,” he said, “to stay the fuck away from her, Claire.”

No raised voice. No heat. Just ice, controlled and cutting. Her mouth parted slightly, shock flickering behind her eyes. But Bucky didn’t give her time to recover. He turned and walked away, already pulling out his phone as he made a beeline toward the senator.

And Claire, for once, had nothing to say.

"Double tequila and soda, with lime," Ripley ordered the drink with an almost bored tone. She dropped cash in the tip jar, thanked God for an open bar. Ripley sipped her tequila soda, ice clinking softly against the glass. The woman beside her, blue streaks in dark hair, draped in elegance and something sharper, gave her a lazy smile.

"Here with someone?" the woman asked, sliding one stool closer. “Date? Plus one? Spouse?”

Ripley didn’t look at her right away. She tilted her glass, took a slow sip, let the pause hang just long enough to be dismissive. “Date,” she said finally.

The woman’s smile widened, catlike. “Congressman Barnes?”

Ripley’s only answer was silence, and that made the woman laugh, a rich, polished sound. “Relax,” she said, amused. “I’m not a reporter. Though the two of you do share the whole ‘person of few words and tightly coiled secrets’ thing.” She extended a jeweled hand. “Contessa Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.”

Ripley turned her head just enough to meet the woman’s eyes. Shook the offered hand briefly, cool, professional. “Ripley.” 

“No last name?” the Contessa teased, sipping her drink.

Ripley smiled, all teeth and grace. “You didn’t ask.”

The Contessa’s eyes gleamed, catlike and calculating. “I like you. I can see why he keeps you close."

Ripley didn’t smile this time. “And you? The Director of the CIA at a charity gala?”

“Well, you do know more than you let on,” Val said, lifting her glass, “I may have seen the guest list. A few names caught my eye.” Her gaze flicked over Ripley’s dress, the practiced kind that could catalog threats and vulnerabilities in a heartbeat. “This look is very femme fatale,” she added lightly. “Tell me, do you miss Sablepoint?”

Ripley’s glass paused halfway to her mouth. “That’s a hell of a name to drop in polite company.”

Valentina smiled like a cat who just heard a mouse squeak. “Polite company’s overrated.” She paused. "Or do I have the wrong Ripley Evelyn Todd? The team leader for Omega under Sablepoint, which is now obviously null and void…"

Ripley’s eyes narrowed. "I don’t recall my file being made public.”

“It’s not,” Val said, casually swirling her drink. “But I collect stories. And yours? Yours reads like a ghost story with teeth.”

Ripley tilted her head, cool again. “Is the CIA still curious about Omega?" 

“Not officially. Off the record, maybe. Something flexible. Off-books. No oversight, high stakes. Just the way you used to like it. My own pet project, OXE. Or Special Activities…”

“And if I say no?”

Val shrugged. “Then you stay here. Drink champagne. Let them dress you up and call you a plus-one. But someone like you? Sooner or later, you’ll want to be dangerous again. When that time comes, I’d like to be your first call.”

Ripley drained the rest of her drink. “If that time comes,” she said coolly, “I’ll already be where you can’t find me.”

Val smiled again, like she loved the challenge. Like Ripley had just made herself even more interesting. “Good girl,” she said, voice like velvet over broken glass. “But remember, if you ever get tired of playing watchdog for the congressman, I’ll have work that actually suits you. On or off the books. Maybe a little you rub my back, and I'll get you the names of the people who killed your teammate…" Ripley's head jerked toward Val. "You can expect my call….” Valentina smiled, all teeth, turned, heels clicking against marble, her silhouette vanishing into the crowd.

Ripley didn’t watch her go. She just reached for another drink and tried not to wonder how long Valentina had been watching and what else she knew.

Bucky shifted automatically as he felt her presence behind him, his hand automatically going to the small of her back as Ripley joined the small circle. He took a glance at her face, frowned a little as her brown eyes tracked a woman across the dance floor. 

"And who is this stunning gal?" Senator Valez extended his tanned hand toward Ripley. Bucky froze as he waited for a brush off, but relaxed when she slid her hand into the senator's, her lips curving to smile warmly when his mouth brushed her knuckles.

"Senator this is my date, Ripley Todd, who," Bucky said with a little nudge at her back. "Could speak best to your question, I think, being a decorated veteran herself." 

Ripley made a soft warning noise in her throat and accepted the flute of champagne the senator snagged off a tray and handed it to her. "Whatever the senator needs," Ripley said sweetly. 

"I was asking Congressman Barnes," Valez began, letting his dark gaze trace over her body, as if she were a mare at auction. "How soldiers fit back into society after everything they see and do. There seems to be an uptick in veteran suicide…" 

Ripley's muscles flexed beneath Bucky's hand, and he immediately regretted offering her opinion. He leaned closer to her, but she shifted forward, brows drawn lower.“They spend all their time training us to lose ourselves,” Ripley said, her voice low but razor sharp. “To become useful. Train us not to feel. Trained to kill. Trained to always put the mission first. Because we're the one percent, right, Senator?”

Valez nodded like he’d read the stat on a brochure, brows furrowed a little. “Only one percent of the nation serves.”

She smiled, cold and tired. “You know what they don’t train you for? How to come back. How to turn it off. How to unlearn being a weapon.” She took a sip of champagne, let the bubbles burn down her throat. “It’s like taking a working dog off the ranch and shoving it into a 300-square-foot apartment and wondering why it tears the walls down.”

The circle around them had gone quiet. Bucky didn’t move, his hand still resting at her lower back, tension in every line of him.

“They train us to run headfirst into fire,” Ripley continued, gaze pinning Valez like a butterfly to glass. “But no one teaches us how to live in peace. They don’t teach you how to sleep in silence without expecting the ceiling to fall in. They don’t teach you how to stop flinching when a car backfires. They sure as hell don’t teach you how to come back into polite society and work a corporate nine-to-five, Monday through Friday job when you were being shot at four weeks ago.”

Valez opened his mouth, then thought better of whatever thought he was about to share.

Ripley’s tone softened just enough to land like a punch. “You want to know how soldiers ‘fit’ into society? We don’t. We adapt. Because survival’s the one thing the military never stops teaching us. We took an oath of enlistment—that oath doesn't end just because we're not on a battlefield anymore…”

She lifted her glass in a small, deliberate toast. Her voice didn’t rise, didn’t need to. “Congressman Barnes is giving us something to adapt into. A place to land that doesn’t require us to bleed, break, or bury ourselves just to prove we still matter.”

The champagne flute caught the chandelier light like a blade.

“He’s building something that doesn’t ask us to die for our country again,” she said, gaze locked on Valez, “just to be a part of it.”

Valez studied her for a long moment, eyes lingering like he was trying to parse what kind of weapon she was. “Congressman,” he said finally, tone smoother than before, “might I steal your date for a dance?”

“That’s up to her, Senator,” Bucky said carefully. 

Ripley didn’t break eye contact with Bucky as she handed him her flute, an unspoken you owe me etched in the set of her jaw. Then she turned to Valez, her smile polite but void of warmth.

“He may,” she said simply, slipping her hand into the senator’s and letting him guide her onto the dance floor like it was a battlefield—and she already knew every exit.

“What state are you from?” she asked, conversational, as his hand settled at her waist.

“Arizona,” he replied with a practiced smile. “And you?”

“Massachusetts,” she said easily. Small talk. Harmless. She could do harmless. Her eyes flicked to his left hand. “No ring.”

“Sharp eyes,” he said, amused. “You either. Congressman Barnes hasn’t realized the kind of catch he’s got?”

She let him spin her, the move elegant and calculated, a smile curling her lips. “No need to rush,” Ripley murmured, letting him pull her back in. “Some things are better slow.”

Senator Valez chuckled, but she felt the shift, the subtle recalibration behind his gaze.

Good. She wanted him slightly off balance.

“We were surprised when he ran,” Valez continued smoothly. Bucky followed from a distance, quiet but ever-watchful, blue eyes trained on her like he was counting her heartbeats. “More surprised when he won.”

“I’ve felt that way about most politicians my whole life,” Ripley replied with a smile, sugar-dipped but sharp. “Present company excluded, of course.”

“Of course,” Valez echoed, his smile deepening as his eyes flicked to her lips, then back to meet her steady brown gaze. “What branch?”

“Army.” She held her poise as he dipped her dramatically, playing it up for the watching crowd, who gasped and applauded as if they’d paid for ringside seats.

Like a fucking circus act, Ripley thought coldly.

“How many tours?”

“Six.”

“Six deployments?” He arched a brow, pulling her in a little closer. “Was it worth it? Now that you’re out?”

She hesitated, but only a breath. The retort burned on her tongue, but she knew the game.“Yeah. I think it was. The ride was worth the fall,” she said, voice clear. “It was worth it to see my country stay safe. I’d do it again. A thousand times over.”

Valez studied her, nodded once. As the last notes of the music faded, he lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist. “The ride was worth the fall,” he echoed.

“Miles were worth the pain,” Ripley replied with a little quirk for her lips, “the pain was worth it all.”

He led her across the floor, handed her back to Bucky with a smile too warm to be entirely innocent. He placed her hand in Bucky’s metal one, clapping the man on the shoulder with the ease of a deal already sealed.

“Arizona,” he said quietly, “is voting yes on your proposal.” Then to Ripley, a kiss on her cheek. “Thanks for the dance,” he whispered and slipped away into the glittering crowd.

Bucky just stared at her. She flicked hers toward him, brows lifted. His hand closed over hers. "Time to go." He told her quietly. 

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

AO3 appreciation post!! reblog if you love archive of our own

[valkyrie-mp]

Against All Odds

Chapter Eight: Tennessee Whiskey

Pairings: Bucky BarnesxRipley Todd (Female OC)

Synopsis: It’s been more than 125 days since junior Congressman James “Bucky” Barnes last heard from Ripley Todd. Since Omega’s teammate was murdered. Since the entire team vanished off the grid. Rebuilding his life in Brooklyn wasn’t easy. But when Ripley crashes back into his world—Bucky knows one thing with absolute certainty: Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs. They’ll find their way back to each other.

Tags: Soft Dom Bucky (We're exploring this), Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Action, Some Fluff, definitely 18+, eventual happy ending, Romance

Warnings: 18+, PTSD, Sexual Content, Swearing, Blood, you name it, it might show up

"But you rescued me from reachin' for the bottom.

And brought me back from being too far gone"

-Chris Stapleton The dining room at 1789 was all quiet elegance and soft shadows, tucked into a Federal-style townhouse that felt like it had secrets older than the city itself. Candlelight flickered in low sconces along cream-paneled walls, casting warm halos against oil paintings in gilded frames—past presidents, fox hunts, a Revolutionary War officer frozen mid-charge.

Dark mahogany chairs scraped politely against polished wood floors, muffled by thick, patterned rugs that dulled the echo of footsteps. Everything smelled faintly of oak, good wine, and butter—old money comfort dressed up as refinement.

White tablecloths stretched taut beneath sparkling crystal and silver, and the waitstaff moved like they’d been choreographed, blending into the ambiance. A piano played softly from a smaller parlor room nearby, jazz, maybe, but slowed down to a hush, just ambiance. Something low and timeless.

The windows were draped in heavy navy velvet, framing a view of cobblestone outside that blurred under the lamplight. It was the kind of place where no one rushed, and nothing felt cheap—not the wine, not the conversation, and definitely not the company you brought. 

Bucky glanced down at Ripley as they were led to their seats. The maitre d hadn't been quiet when he had said Congressman, and Ripley had stiffened beside him. "I wouldn't have said yes," Bucky murmured in her ear as they walked. "If I wasn't ready to deal with the outcome." His hand rested on her lower back, just above her hip, familiar and comforting. The waiter directed them to a table in the back corner, a cozy little half-booth. 

Ripley traced her brown eyes over his face, lingering momentarily on his lips before flicking back to his quietly amused blue gaze. "I guess the gala would've been more shocking than a dinner out in D.C."

"They'll be ready to get a story when the gala comes." 

"Great," she muttered, and smiled as the waiter approached asking about drinks. 

"I'll take an old fashioned please," Bucky studied Ripley across the flicker of flame. She smiled at him slow, as if waiting to see if he would remember her drink. "And a tequila, soda and lime for the lady, Don Julio if you have it." 

The waiter ducked away and Ripley leaned forward slightly. "What's my second drink of choice?" She asked with a little squint. Bucky cocked his head. "It's not a trick question, I don't think you know it." 

"If I had to guess," Bucky said leaning back a little, his fingers playing with the footed water glass. "Not wine, I know you'll drink that, but not when we're out…." He waited as the drinks were sat down until they were alone again. "Liquor?"

"Vodka." 

"Jesus," Bucky rolled his eyes a little, licking his lips in thought. "Martini…but knowing you and your love of salt," She nodded urging him to go on, that he was on the right track.. "Super dirty."

"Filthy," she agreed with a little smirk, taking a sip of her drink. 

Bucky’s mouth parted just slightly, not in surprise, more like reflex. Like her answer had triggered something in his bloodstream. He watched her swallow, watched her tongue catch the rim of the glass, and felt something primal stir low in his gut.

Jesus Christ.

She didn’t even know she was doing it.

Bucky looked away for a beat, cleared his throat, took a slow sip of his Old Fashioned—like it might cool the burn she’d just lit behind his ribs. “I’d say I missed that mouth,” he said finally, voice lower now, rough around the edges. “But that’d be a lie.”

Ripley raised a brow, cocking her head just enough to send her shorter hair skimming to one side. “Because you didn’t?” Her lips tugged into a little bitter smile.

Bucky cut his gaze to hers. “Because I never stopped thinking about it,” he said. “For one hundred and forty-three days, Rip.”

“Are we ready to order?” The waiter’s impeccable timing hit like a sniper shot. Bucky took a deep breath, sat back, and forced a polite smile that barely reached his eyes. 

Ripley didn’t speak. Not right away. She held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary, her expression unreadable—something caught between memory and mourning. Finally, she looked down at the menu. The words blurring.

“I’ll have the filet, medium rare,” she said evenly, folding the menu closed without looking up. “And the gratin, please.”

Bucky cleared his throat again, just once. “Same for me.”

Menus exchanged hands, silverware adjusted, and the waiter disappeared with practiced grace. Ripley took a long sip from her drink, her red lips leaving a print on the glass that shouldn't have looked so good to him. "Say somethin', Rip." Bucky leaned forward, his fingers moving back to fiddling with the tines of his fork. 

"I've already apologized," she said softly, her gaze flicked to his. "What more do you want?" Bucky’s jaw tensed, his thumb brushing a phantom groove along the side of the fork.

“I don’t want an apology,” he said, just above a whisper, like it cost him something. “I want to know why you didn’t trust me enough to stay.”

Ripley blinked. Not because she didn’t expect the blow, but because he’d pulled his punches until now. “I didn’t leave to hurt you.”

“Didn’t stop it from hurting.” He leaned back, like if he stayed too close, he might say something he’d regret—or worse, mean it. His Old Fashioned was nearly gone. The ice clinked when he tilted the glass. “I would’ve followed you to hell, Rip,” he added, quieter now. “But you didn’t give me the choice.” He nodded to the waiter who had come back with new drinks for them. 

Ripley cupped her rocks glass, fingers tracing the ridges embedded in the crystal. "We've established I fucked up," she stated softly. "That I should've given you a choice…"

"I was waiting," He admitted, his brows furrowed a little. "For you to change your mind, for you to call to at least say good bye to…everything." 

Ripley swallowed, her throat already tight enough. She finally lifted her eyes to his, extended her hand palm up on the table. An offering. He place his over it, his fingers tracing the veins on her inside wrist, feeling her pulse skip beneath the pads of his fingers. When she spoke her voice was low, and a little husky. "I will always find my way back to you." 

Bucky let loose a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. He slid his fingers under her hand, brought his mouth to her palm, his breath warm against her skin, his lips softer as he kissed it. Ripley pressed her thighs together beneath the table, her fingers curling just enough to graze his cheekbone. Neither of them moved right away. The hum of low jazz filtered in from the other room, the clink of glasses and quiet laughter just background noise.

Bucky pressed a kiss to her pulse point on her wrist, and moved back. "It's not like you to say sorry," he said quietly.

Ripley smiled, something small and real. The kind that showed in her eyes before her mouth. "Consider yourself blessed."

A second later, their waiter reappeared with practiced discretion, plates balanced expertly in each hand. Bucky didn’t let go of her hand right away. Just shifted his grip, lacing their fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world. "About the gala…."

She withdrew her hand, not abruptly, but with that same grace she always had when she needed to shift the weight of something—emotional or otherwise. Her fingers slid away from his, and she picked up her knife, cutting into the filet with careful, practiced movements. “Go on,” she said, nodding slightly.

Bucky watched her for a beat, waited until she had a bite in her mouth, her eyes still cautiously trained on him. “I need you to be on your best behavior,” he said, tone light but not unserious.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she chewed, unimpressed and suspicious. “Define best behavior,” she muttered after swallowing, stabbing a bite of potato gratin.

“I also,” he added, slicing into his steak with deliberate calm, “need you to use your… skills to find out some information for me.”

“Define skills,” she echoed, a brow arching as she picked at her plate, her voice dry and warning. “Also, I thought the gala was one of your dates I owe you, Barnes. Not a…” She twirled her fork vaguely in the air, the words op and mission clearly flashing behind her eyes, but left unsaid. “Thing.”

“Can’t it be both?” he asked, shrugging.

She pursed her lips and exhaled slowly through her nose. “I suppose…”

Bucky leaned forward, elbows to the edge of the table, voice dropping just enough to meet the intimacy of candlelight. “You can flirt. You can seduce. I know you’re capable.”

Her brow shot up. “Oh, do you now?”

He nodded, a little smug. “Even if you don’t believe it, I’ve seen it firsthand.”

Ripley let out a quiet scoff, sipping her drink, letting the cold hit her tongue while the rest of her simmered. “Who exactly am I flirting or seducing?” she asked, casual and biting at once. “You?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Bucky said, his grin unfurling slow and cocky, “we’re well beyond that stage.”

She made a low noise, almost a laugh, not quite. 

“I need you to schmooze,” he clarified, casually twirling his fork between his fingers. “No specific target. Just circulate. Be charming. Mingle like you're not a walking classified file with a body count.”

“I don’t mingle,” she said pointedly, tilting her head at him. 

“Exactly,” he said with a satisfied nod. “That’s the charm. You lurking in a corner makes people talk. I need those pretty little ears open.”

Ripley rolled her eyes, but a corner of her mouth betrayed her—lifted in a reluctant smirk. “You want recon,” she said flatly. “At a black-tie gala.”

“I want intel,” Bucky corrected, spearing a bite of filet. “You’ll be the best looking bloodhound in the room.”

“Flattery,” she warned, raising her glass, “will only get you so far.”

“Good thing I’ve got a backup plan,” he replied smoothly, clinking his glass lightly against hers. “You in?”

Ripley took a long sip, held his gaze, and set the glass down with a quiet finality. “I'd prefer to be a Belgian Malinois,” she muttered.

His smile twitched, sharp and entertained. “That tracks. Agile, loyal, bites when provoked.”

“I want something in return,” she added a beat later, nudging her plate with the edge of her knife.

Bucky leaned back, giving her a slow once-over, the kind that said he knew when she was playing coy and when she was dead serious. “The wedding with your family from hell was done in full.”

“You really think my family is that bad?” she challenged, tilting her head.

“I mean…” he dragged out the word, grinning, “your sister isn’t great.”

“That’s what they all say.” Ripley stabbed another bite of steak, but the jab was more about Ava than the meat. “Till she hooks her little talons into you.”

“I’d rather have your talons in me,” Bucky said, voice dipping into something slow and unbothered, smooth like bourbon. Then, with the kind of grin that wasn’t helping his case: “Speaking of which…”

Ripley gave him a look. Flat, incredulous, but not entirely unamused. “My sister or the talons?”

He didn’t answer right away, just pushed his empty plate to the side with the kind of casual grace that meant his real focus was on her. “I’ve set up spa appointments for you the day of the gala,” he said, as if continuing the same conversation, tone neutral like it wasn’t a deliberate shift.

Ripley’s brows drew together. “Why the hell would you do that?”

“Because you deserve it,” he said simply. No teasing, no curveball. Just that quiet certainty she’d learned to recognize when he got stubborn about taking care of people, especially her.

The check arrived right on cue, delivered with practiced efficiency. Bucky reached for it automatically, but her hand landed on his with a snap of challenge, eyes narrowing.

“You’re absolutely not buying dinner,” she said firmly, already reaching for her purse with her free hand. “It was my idea, and I chose the place,” she added, rifling for her wallet.

“That’s not….no.” He started dragging the check toward him anyway, her hand still pressing down on his. The tension in the air wasn’t hostile, but it crackled just enough to turn heads if it escalated. "You're not buying dinner, that's not how this works." He said through clenched teeth. 

Ripley leaned in just a hair, dropping her voice like they were negotiating an arms deal. “Don’t make a scene, Barnes.”

He tilted his head. “Don’t test me, Todd. I’ll win.”

“Rock, paper, scissors.”

Bucky recoiled like she’d slapped him. “Absolutely fucking not.” He dragged the bill closer to him. 

“Oh, come on,” she grinned now, smug as hell. “Afraid to lose?” 

He rolled his eyes. "One and done," he told her firmly, and made a fist. Ripley's grin widened. "Rock, paper, scissors, shoot." He chose a rock, she chose scissors. He took the check from her, slid his card into the billfold and held it out as the waiter reemerged. She scowled at him. "Relax, you can buy me a drink and some dessert." He told her.

"Oh?"

"Were you done with the evening?" Bucky arched a brow at that, something sharp and knowing curling at the corner of his mouth. “I was hoping we’d stretch it out a little.”

Ripley leaned back in her seat, legs crossing slowly as she studied him over the rim of her glass. “Stretch it out, huh?” she murmured, letting the implication hang there, just long enough to make him shift in his seat.

He didn’t take the bait, not fully. But his eyes flicked to her mouth again, and that same rough-edged heat returned to his voice. “It’s not often I get your full attention.”

“You always have it,” she said softly..

The weight of that admission landed between them like a dropped pin, quiet, but sharp. She took another sip to cover the sting, glancing away as the waiter returned with the paid bill and a polite nod. Bucky stood first, stepping around to help her out of the booth, his hand steady at her lower back again. 

Outside, the winter air cut cooler than it had before dinner, and she instinctively stepped in closer. He shrugged off his jacket without a word and draped it around her shoulders, his fingers grazing her collarbone in the process.

“I know a place,” she said after a beat, voice softer. “Somewhere we can get that drink. And maybe dessert.”

"Lead the way, maligator." 

He didn't know what he had expected, but a blues bar wasn't top of his list. Ripley turned to smile over her shoulder at him as her hand found his in the darkness of the bar, leading him toward a small table by the dance floor. "Welcome to Dapper Dan's," she said in his ear as they sat. "They do dueling pianos on Saturday nights; tonight it's just the juke box." 

There were still couples on the dance floor, Bucky watched everyone half interested as Ripley ordered them drinks. She shrugged his coat off, the blue ambience lighting catching her collar bone, the curve of breast. Bucky's metal hand flexed involuntarily against the dark wood of their table. The first strains of a bluesy ballad came on, not one he recognized immediately, but Ripley did. She took a big sip of her drink before standing, moving slinkily beside the table, offered Bucky her hand, with a little teasing wiggle of her fingers. He downed his drink in two hard swallows, and followed her out, his eyes glued to the shape of her in the dress.

The bass hit like a heartbeat, low, steady, a pulse beneath the floorboards.

Ripley didn’t tug him out into the center of the floor. No, she brought him just inside the edge of it, where shadows still lingered and the lights softened into deep sapphire hues. She didn’t rush. Just moved. Like smoke. Like a woman who knew the room was watching but only cared about the man in front of her.

Her body turned first, her back to his chest, not grinding, not blatant. Just enough space to keep him guessing. She rolled her shoulders to the rhythm, let her hips sway with practiced ease, and then—without looking back—reached behind to catch his hand, placing it low on her hip. Her head tilted to one side, her temple brushing his jaw.

Bucky stood still for half a beat, his breath stalling as his hand settled where she wanted it. His flesh hand landed on her waist like instinct, holding her there, grounding her or maybe himself.

Ripley moved again. Slow. Measured. Seductive, but not overt. Her hips brushed his, her arm reached back to loop around his neck, and when she looked over her shoulder at him with that quiet smirk that made a man feel like he was drowning.

“You okay, Barnes?” she asked, voice low, nearly lost in the music. “You look like you forgot how to breathe.”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His hand squeezed her hip gently, grounding himself in the heat of her, in the way her body fit so neatly into his without trying. He dipped his head, brushing his mouth just beneath her jaw—where her pulse thrummed steady and sure. Just a breath. Just enough to feel her lean into it.

“We should probably go home,” Bucky murmured against her ear, his voice frayed at the edges, nuzzling into the soft skin just beneath it.

The song faded. Another began.

Otis Redding’s These Arms of Mine melted through the speakers, all honey and ache and promise. Bucky shifted her in his arms, pulling her flush to his chest.

“Rip?”

“Hmmm?” She swayed with him, loose-limbed and quiet, letting him lead. Her eyes flicked up, met his—steady and burning like coals.

“I’m not gonna sleep with you tonight,” he murmured near her ear. His breath was warm. His hand at her lower back didn’t move.

Ripley blinked, the words registering—but she didn’t pull away. “That’s a little insulting,” she replied, soft and sharp all at once. “But I get it.” She lifted one shoulder in a shrug that looked nonchalant, but didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Do you?” he asked, voice low. Less challenge, more concern. Like he wasn’t entirely sure she did. She didn’t answer, not directly. Just let the song carry them the last few bars, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat. When the track changed again, Bucky gently guided her back to their table. She moved without hesitation, reached into her clutch and laid a few bills beside their glasses.

He took his jacket from the back of her chair, held it open. She slipped into it without looking at him, but the brush of his hands at her shoulders—steady, sure, familiar—made her eyes close for just a second. The scent of his cologne settled over her. 

"Let's get outta here."

Ripley just nodded, eyes ahead, but her fingers brushed his briefly as they walked like she needed one last point of contact before the night shifted again.

The drive back to the townhouse was quiet. Not awkward, not heavy. The kind of silence that didn’t beg to be filled. A jazz station murmured low through the speakers, saxophone and soft snare, matching the unspoken weight hanging between them.

Bucky’s hands stayed steady on the wheel, but his eyes kept drifting, sideways, quick glances, catching her in profile as the streetlights painted shadows over her face. Her expression was unreadable. That unreadable Ripley look he’d never fully cracked, not even when she was naked in his bed or bleeding in his arms.

She didn’t speak, but she wasn’t gone, either. One hand rested on her thigh, fingers absently tracing the edge of his jacket cuff. She was wearing him. Wrapped in something that still smelled like him. And it did something to his chest, something he wasn’t ready to name. He parked the Bronco in the garage, opened the door for her, and offered his hand. Her fingers curled into his without hesitation.

The contact was brief, warm palm to warm palm, but something passed between them that hadn’t been spoken back at the bar, or over dinner, or on the dance floor. It wasn’t forgiveness. Not exactly. But it was closer than they’d been in months. Maybe since before she left. Before she’d made the choice for both of them.

The townhouse was dark when they stepped inside, save for the soft glow of the entryway light. Familiar. Still. The hum of the fridge. The faint creak of old hardwood under their steps. His keys hit the bowl near the door, and he watched as she peeled off his jacket slowly, folding it over her arm and then on the back of the bar stool. 

"Is it because I hurt you?" She asked as he prepared to head down the hall toward the staircase. Her soft words halted him in his steps. He turned back to look at her, she was leaning on the kitchen island sliding her high heels off one by one. He moved to her in four quick strides, framing her face between his hands, shaking his head. 

"No, no, Rip, absolutely not," He looked skyward trying to find the words. "I want to—Jesus—do I want to, but I want to give you what we didn't have before." 

"Was there anything wrong with before?" She looked down from his piercing gaze. 

Bucky sighed, his breath ghosting across her forehead, he pressed his nose into the crown of her head. "No," he murmured. "No. How do I explain this?"

"Honestly." 

Bucky licked his lips, tucking his tongue into his cheek. "Okay, I can do that," he nodded slowly, his fingers brushing over her cheekbones. "You deserve more than us just falling into bed together." 

"I don't need romance," she jerked her head up to look at him fiercely. "Don't try to make yourself—"

"I'm not making myself Ripley, I want to." His brows furrowed. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Fix your face." He muttered, and stepped back from her, giving her space. She smoothed her scowl and furrowed eyebrows out. "Better." He nodded. "Now, tomorrow we head to Brooklyn. Day after that is the gala." 

She lifted her chin, angling her head in a regal move. "As you wish Congressman Barnes." 

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Woman." 

"Dibs on the shower."  Ripley disappeared around the corner, and a second later, Bucky heard the water start. 

He leaned on the island, rubbed a hand over his face, and muttered to no one, “Dating apps are probably less complicated.”

[valkyrie-mp]

Against All Odds Chapter Seven: Wicked Game

Pairings: Bucky BarnesxRipley Todd (Female OC)

Synopsis: It’s been more than 125 days since junior Congressman James “Bucky” Barnes last heard from Ripley Todd. Since Omega’s teammate was murdered. Since the entire team vanished off the grid. Rebuilding his life in Brooklyn wasn’t easy. But when Ripley crashes back into his world—Bucky knows one thing with absolute certainty: Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs. They’ll find their way back to each other.

Tags: Soft Dom Bucky (We're exploring this), Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Action, Some Fluff, definitely 18+, eventual happy ending, Romance

Warnings: 18+, PTSD, Sexual Content, Swearing, Blood, you name it, it might show up ------------------------------------------------------------------------- What a wicked game we play, to make me feel this way What a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you What a wicked thing to say, you never felt this way What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you

-Chris Issak

He hadn't meant to sleep in her bed again. But once he’d carried her upstairs—limp from sleep, bone-tired in a way he recognized too well—and Alpine had stubbornly clung to her like a purring burr, it felt ridiculous to leave. Not when she curled unconsciously into his warmth the second he set her down. Not when the house had gone still around them and that awful, aching silence started creeping in.

If he was honest—and that was new, uncomfortable terrain lately—he’d slept better in that bed with her beside him than he had in months. Maybe years.

Which is why it caught him off guard when he jolted awake to find her arm flung across his chest like a shield. His hand shot out by instinct, catching her wrist—not hard, but firm. Her body was tense beside him, twitching, her breath shallow and quick. He sat up halfway, reaching with his other hand until his palm found her forehead—damp with sweat. She thrashed slightly, head turning into the pillow like she was trying to bury herself in it.

“Rip.” The name scraped out of him, low and gravelly, not quite a command, not quite a plea.

His hand pressed against her forehead, steadying her. That simple touch grounded her. Her breathing slowed. Her hand curled against his chest.

“'M good,” she whispered, the word barely audible. “S’okay.”

“Is it?” he asked softly, letting himself sink onto his side to face her, propped on one elbow. His heart was still racing.

Ripley didn’t answer. She sat up instead, slow and quiet, reaching for her phone. He watched her as she squinted at the screen—2:42 a.m. She rubbed a hand down her face, eyes still shadowed with whatever images her mind had conjured.

She didn’t say anything to him, didn’t look back. Just opened the group chat and started typing.

Ripley: Sound off.

The replies came fast—other soldiers in the night with too many memories haunting them.

Wick: You know where I am. Bennett: Gucci. Tango: We’re accounted for on this end. Boone: Nightmare?

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. For a second, Bucky thought she wouldn’t reply. But slowly her thumbs moved as if weighted.

Ripley: Yeah. Love you all.

She set the phone face down on the nightstand. Bucky’s gaze lingered on it as she leaned forward, elbows on her knees. Her eyes were locked on the bathroom, staring.

He followed her gaze—nothing but shadows: the standing tub, the shower glass, the cold tile floor. Nothing threatening. But he knew it wasn’t about what was there. It was about what her brain had filled in when she couldn’t stop it. He recognized that particular stare. Haunted. Tracking ghosts.

“Hey.” His voice was gentler this time. He reached out, fingers brushing the back of her neck where the sweat had cooled her skin. She flinched at the contact—but didn’t pull away.

“Talk to me,” he urged, hand steady.

She didn’t look at him. “How’s the weather? Heard it was gonna be blue skies and sunny this week—”

“Ripley.”

“I’m fine, Buck.” Her voice was tired, not biting. When she turned her head, her chin resting on her shoulder, her expression was neutral—but her eyes were exhausted as she looked at him. “You know how it is.” Her lips moved in a little in what should've been a reassuring smile.

He didn’t answer right away. His hand moved, brushing the damp strands of hair away from the back of her neck. She let him.

“Are you still seeing Raynor?” he asked quietly.

Her nose wrinkled in distaste. “No. You?”

He let a beat pass. “Matter of fact, yeah. Once a month.”

She blinked, mildly surprised. “Didn’t think you were the keep-in-touch type.”

“She grew on me,” Bucky murmured, still absently stroking the nape of her neck. "And you were gone…"

Ripley exhaled through her nose, tired and skeptical. “She's not bad… I guess.”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t argue. Just said, “You don’t have to say anything to me. Not if you don’t want to. But you don’t have to carry it all alone either.”

She turned her head toward him, just enough to see the faint outline of his face. For a long moment, she didn’t say anything. But eventually, she lay back down, curling on her side with her back to him. He stayed sitting for a moment longer before shifting closer, lifting the blanket higher to cover her. Alpine, purring softly from her perch near Ripley’s feet, barely stirred.

He lay down on his side beside her, sighing softly.

“Bucky?” Her voice was soft, thick with silent tears. He inched closer, an invitation. She turned over, burrowed her face into his chest. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

He didn’t answer right away.

There were a hundred ways he could’ve responded—sharp, soft, funny, deflecting, honest. All of them sat heavy on his tongue, none of them feeling right. Her voice had cracked on the word 'sorry,' as if it cost her something to give it. Maybe it did.

So he just wrapped his arm around her instead, pulled her in tighter. Her breath hitched when he did, like she was bracing for something worse, and that killed him more than any apology ever could.

He pressed his cheek to the crown of her head. He tried to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come out. Alpine, as if sensing the struggle, clambered up between them and planted herself squarely between their hips.

Bucky let out a quiet huff of a laugh, stroking Ripley's back in long, steady lines. The kind meant to calm. To reassure. “I got you, Rip,” he murmured, lips brushing her hairline.

She shifted just enough to look up at him. Her eyes found his in the pale wash of moonlight filtering through the window. “I got you too,” she said softly.

And for the first time in weeks, the weight on their shoulders lifted, just a little. .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.—.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.—.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.—.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Five AM came too soon, Bucky tossed his phone across the room the second the alarm went off. Ripley groaned into his chest, where her face was smushed. "Fuck off with your bullshit fucking politics." She moaned into his skin. His arms tightened around her in response. "Don't be late." 

"I'm not gonna be late," he replied roughly. "Can I just enjoy this slice of peace a little longer?" 

She snorted softly, not opening her eyes at all. "I dunno, can you?"

"Maybe if you stop talking for half a second." Bucky's lips curved in a small smile. "Silence is golden."

"Duct tape is silver." 

His chest shook with a quiet laugh. "You're something else, Todd, you know that?" 

"Yeah," she grunted and sighed as she rolled over away from him, stretching her long limbs out. "So I've been told." 

He watched her stretch, spine arching just enough to make his thoughts borderline criminal for five in the morning. She sighed again, flipping the pillow to the cooler side and slinging an arm across her eyes. 

"Why are you so dramatic?" He asked, swinging his legs off the bed.

"You've met my mother and my sister," Ripley answered. 

"Yeah," Bucky muttered, his fingers brushing over the forearm covering her eyes. "Rip?"

"What?" The tone said it all. It's five in the morning, fuck off. 

Bucky hesitated for a moment, his heart thudding too loudly for his own good. “I meant what I said,” he told her softly. “I’ve got you. Whatever you choose to do in the end.”

“I meant what I said, too.” She shifted, moving her arm to look at him. Her eyes were open now, clear in the dim light. “I’m sorry for taking the choice from you. That’s what’s been done to you for ninety years, and I was just one more asshole doing it.”

Bucky sighed, sinking onto the edge of the bed beside her. He reached out because, for some damn reason, he had to touch her more often than not. His fingers brushed her hair back and lingered gently against her cheekbone.

“I understand why you did it,” he said, voice low. “And yeah, I’m pissed. But I get it. Don’t do it again, Rip.”

“I don’t plan to,” she murmured, already burrowing back into the blankets, her voice muffled now by the pillow. “Don’t fuck your tie up today.”

He smiled to himself and got up. Dressed for the day. Managed the tie by himself, better than before. His phone was already going off, buzzing against the floor where he’d thrown it the night before. Claire, of course. He bent down, scooping it up with a sigh.

“If you don’t come answer your phone,” Ripley threatened, her voice muffled beneath the pillow, “I swear to God I’m launching it out the window.”

He glanced over at her, amused. She was still half-buried in blankets, only the top of her head and a wild halo of hair visible. He checked the screen—nothing urgent. Claire could wait.

His eyes lingered on Ripley’s form under the covers. “What’s your plan for today?” he asked, voice softer now.

“Bucky, it’s five-thirty in the morning.” Her head emerged from the depths, eyes narrowed and wild. “This is the second time I’ve managed to sleep for more than four hours at a time in over three months. Don’t ruin it with your early-bird shit.”

He chuckled, the sound low in his chest. “Just asking.”

“Ask again when the sun’s up,” she muttered, already disappearing back beneath the pillow like a grumpy groundhog.

Bucky padded into the bathroom, the quiet hum of the fan breaking the silence as he combed his hair back with practiced ease. Alpine sat like a gargoyle on the counter, tail flicking every time Bucky leaned in. The hot water steamed the mirror slightly, blurring the lines of the man looking back at him—one part soldier, one part statesman, and every inch a man trying to find footing in a life that still didn’t feel like it fit.

His phone buzzed three times in quick succession, where it sat charging again on the windowsill. Claire. He swiped it open with a thumb, scrolling through:

Claire: You’re scheduled to speak third, but if you want to make a splash, I’d recommend bumping up your comments to second. Let me know if you want me to prep a punchier closer… or if you want to go off-script and make C-SPAN sweat.

Heads up: your name came up (positively) in the Veterans Affairs roundtable. I’ll forward the transcript once it’s cleaned. FYI: You’re being floated as a potential subcommittee lead next session. Not official yet, but it’s circulating. You’ll want to consider who you’d like on staff.

Also, we need an answer for the plus one. I'm on standby to charm you all this evening if you need. 😉

Bucky sighed through his nose. He didn't hate Claire. She was efficient, sharp, and even funny when she wanted to be. But that emoji? That was the second time this week. It would have to be a discussion, he decided. 

Bucky glanced at the bed. Ripley was still sprawled under the covers, her hand tucked beneath her cheek.. Her breathing was slow, but not deep enough to be fully asleep. "Hey," he said gently, keeping his voice low. He leaned over, tugging the pillow off her face.

"James Buchanan Barnes." The words hissed out. He grinned. "Why are you—"

"Can't you admit that you missed me, hmm?" He teased. 

She cracked one eye open, but her smile, no matter how small, was warm and directed at him. “Go away. Go do whatever it is you do in the House of Representatives.”

He watched her for another second, like he might say something else—don’t vanish today, text me if you go dark, please show up tonight—but didn’t. Just brushed his knuckles down her arm and stood. “Don’t burn the house down,” he said over his shoulder.

“No promises,” she mumbled.

Downstairs, he tugged on his blazer, straightened the tie again, and hesitated with his hand on the doorknob. His phone buzzed one last time.

Claire: Bring your smile today, Barnes. The cameras love it.

He opened the door with a deep sigh and stepped into the D.C. morning, already bracing for the headlines. .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.—.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.—.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.—.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

While Bucky sat through the first set of meetings—nodding at the right moments, muttering half-hearted agreements, checking his phone more than he should—Ripley sat on the edge of the standalone tub, half-undressed and quiet.

The bathroom was filled with soft morning light, muted through the frosted glass. Her bare thigh stuck slightly to the cool porcelain as she leaned back, checking the fresh line of stitches along her side. They’d held. No sign of infection. But they still tugged when she breathed too deeply, a sharp little reminder that rest wasn’t the same as recovery.

She ran a thumb gently across the outer edge—testing, cataloguing. Not morbid curiosity. Just habit. Alpine perched on the bathroom counter like a silent sentinel, tail tucked around her paws, her pale blue eyes fixed on Ripley with a wide, worried look.

The meow she let out was soft. Concerned.

Ripley looked up at her, then down at the wound again. “Get used to it,” she murmured, half to the cat, half to herself. “This is what I do. For now, at least.”

Her brow creased as the words left her mouth for now. She didn’t like how uncertain that sounded.

She exhaled slowly and stood, reached for the oversized gray t-shirt Bucky had left behind—still carrying a faint trace of his cologne. Her body ached, but it was the good kind of sore. The kind that meant she’d survived.

She glanced at Alpine again, who now blinked at her slowly, unconvinced. Ripley smiled. “Don’t look at me like that. It's gonna be a minute before I take off." 

She dressed in her gym clothes—black leggings, sports bra, a loose tank knotted at the hip—and tugged her hair into a messy bun with a sharp yank that said don’t fuck with me. 

Checked in on the team again, because once wasn’t enough—not when her brain was doing its usual sabotage. The group chat was quiet this time; she didn't expect many of them would be up at 0730, not after the traveling they had done. 

The call from Wick came only a minute after she had sent her text.

“What is your major malfunction?” he said by way of greeting, voice still scratchy with sleep and pissed-off concern.

“I had a shit dream, Wick,” Ripley replied, already barefoot on the cold concrete of the garage as she flicked the lights on and grabbed a resistance band off the pegboard.

“About?” His voice gentled like it always did when she gave even half an inch into her mind. “Rippy?”

She sighed. “What do you think?” There was a pause. She could feel the frown through the phone. “You wanna come over and lift?” she offered, voice wry, like it was the most normal thing in the world to do post-nightmare.

“You took a knife to the side not even two weeks ago, why the fuck are you lifting?” he asked, exasperated. 

“I’ll go light,” she lied, stretching one arm across her chest.

“Define light,” he grumbled. “Please don’t tell me that’s code for 135.”

“Light for me,” she shot back. “Don’t be dramatic.”

Wick groaned. “Where’s Bucky? He could at least talk some sense into you.”

“He’s off schmoozing with politicians,” she muttered, wrapping the band around her hands and giving it a sharp pull. “Looking stupidly good in a suit, y'know, the usual.”

There was a beat of silence on Wick’s end. “…I can be there in fifteen.”

Ripley hung up with Wick and checked her phone. A new message blinked at the top of the screen.

Bucky: Alive?

She smirked faintly. Typical. Direct, and precisely two degrees softer than it would’ve been two months ago. 

Ripley: And kicking. Wick’s gonna come over and lift with me.

The three dots started, disappeared. Started again. She waited.

Bucky: You okay?

Her smirk faded. She stared at the screen, thumbs hovering, not typing. Not yet. Eventually she managed—

Ripley: No. But I will be.

Another pause. Not long.

Bucky: Need me to come back?

She swallowed. Her throat was tight, and she hated that it was.

Ripley: Aren’t you doing important shit?

It was meant to be a joke. It didn’t land that way.

Bucky: Not more important than you.

Ripley stared at that for a long moment, the words glowing back at her like they meant more than they should’ve. Like they meant everything.

Ripley: You know what you could do?

She hit send before she could second-guess it. Then bit her lip so hard it hurt.

“God, don’t be stupid, Rip,” she muttered, glaring at her screen like it might slap her.

Bucky: Name it. Ripley: Take me out tonight.

She inhaled sharply. There it was. Sent. Staring back at her. Her stomach dropped.

“Oh fuck,” she whispered. “No, no, no, no—fuck—” She jabbed at the screen like sheer force would recall the message from the ether. Tried to delete it. Undo it. Anything. “Fuuuuuuck,” she hissed, hurling her phone onto the bench like it had betrayed her personally.

Wick stepped into the garage, gym bag slung over his shoulder. He took one look at her face and raised an eyebrow. “Did you just accidentally launch nukes? What the hell did you do?”

Ripley made a helpless, strangled noise and rubbed both hands over her face. “I think I just asked Bucky on a date?”

“You think?” Wick cocked his head. "Honey, you either did or you didn't; it's pretty straightforward." 

“I—yeah—I panicked and sent it, and now it’s there, and I can’t unsend it, and—” she gestured wildly toward the phone, like it might detonate.

Wick slowly set his bag down, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Wait. Waitwaitwait. You—the Overlord of Tactical Control—spontaneously invited Barnes out for dinner?”

“Yes, Wickwire.”

He blinked, licked his lips. “Didn’t you guys already sleep together?”

“Yes, Wickwire,” she said again, biting out the words like gravel.

“Then why,” he asked, amused now, “is a date the thing that’s melting your brain?”

Ripley ran a hand down her face and groaned. “Because a date is like—hopeful, and hopeful is fucking terrifying.”

"Has he responded?"

"No, which makes it worse…." .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.—.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.—.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.—.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Bucky’s phone buzzed against the conference table just as someone from the Defense Appropriations Committee started droning about logistics funding. He ignored it the first time. The second buzz, though—he felt it in his chest.

Claire’s elbow brushed his. “You okay?” she whispered, leaning in too close. Her perfume was cloyingly sweet, like cotton candy; he didn't realize how used he had gotten to Ripley's, which was citrusy and fresh. 

“Fine,” he murmured, straightening in his seat, the picture of calm. His hand slid under the table, phone in his palm. One glance at the screen, and his composure cracked.

Ripley: Take me out tonight.

He blinked. Once. Twice. The words didn’t change. The world around him faded into bureaucratic white noise—papers shuffling, pens clicking, someone clearing their throat. His heart stuttered in his chest. While he still believed in old-fashioned values, especially after experiencing the new age of dating, he couldn't say he wasn't intrigued by the ice queen asking him to dinner. 

He set the phone face down on the table like it was about to explode and forced a slow breath through his nose.

“Congressman Barnes?” someone called from across the table.

He looked up sharply. “What?”

Claire jumped in. “He agrees with the proposal,” she said smoothly, covering for him.

“Right,” Bucky said, nodding once. “Exactly. That.”

The conversation resumed. He didn’t hear a word. His mind was stuck on the text. He tapped the phone again to make sure he hadn’t imagined it. Nope. Still there. 

He leaned back in his chair, one hand dragging down his face. Cool. Collected. That’s what he was supposed to be. The Winter Soldier who’d faced death a thousand times—completely derailed by one woman with a knack for bad timing and worse self-preservation instincts.

Claire leaned toward him again, smiling sweetly. “You seem distracted, Congressman.”

“Just thinking,” he replied, voice even.

“About?”

He flicked his eyes toward her, brief, unreadable. “Dinner plans.”

She smiled, thinking it was about her. It wasn’t.

Under the table, his thumb hovered over the screen. He typed, deleted, typed again. Finally sent—

Bucky: Name the place.

Locked the phone, shoved it in his jacket, and tried to remember how to breathe. .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.—.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.—.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.—.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

“Oh God. Oh god. Oh god.” Ripley shoved the phone in Wick’s face, pacing behind the bench. “What do I do?”

Wick grunted through his next rep. “Go out with him, you already know what you’re getting on the backend.”

“What do I say?” she hissed, panic rising.

Wick racked the barbell with a clank and shot her a look. “Hey, real question, Rip. In what universe did I become either your gay best friend or a woman?”

“In every universe, Wickwire. Now—”

“Okay, okay,” he raised both hands in mock surrender, smirking as he stood. “Fine.” He swapped places with her, stripping two plates off the bar. “So paint me a picture...what do you actually want with this guy?”

She lay back on the bench with a sigh. “To make sure he survives another seventy years…”

Wick’s smile was small, but warm. “Can I make a suggestion you might actually listen to this time?”

Ripley grunted assent as she pressed the barbell. She hissed out a breath as her stitches pulled. "Drop the weight." She told him. "Take like ten off." 

He did so while continuing to talk. “Let him into our circle,” he said, steadying the bar when it tilted in her hands at his words. “Stop trying to protect him from everything. Let him choose, Rip. No more guarding him from the fire. Let him stand in it with you.”

She racked the bar and sat up, eyeing her waiting phone like it might bite. “So… is that like a yes to dinner….”

Wick groaned and tossed the towel over his shoulder. “God, you’re so fucking dumb sometimes.” He snatched the phone and dropped it in her lap. “At the rate we’re going, Rip, we’re already on somebody’s kill list. So, for the love of all of us still breathing, please just try to live a normal life tonight. Go on a date with the hundred-year-old super soldier. Fuck him senseless. Steal state secrets. I don’t care. Please live for something besides avenging Flea.”

She stared at him for a long moment as if he had slapped her, and swallowed hard. His voice cracked, just a little, as he said, “I loved him too. We all did.”

Her eyes filled with tears so fast she had to look away, throat tight and aching. “He was just a baby, Wick.”

Wick paused, jaw clenching and unclenching. “I know.” His voice was low, steady. He straddled the bench across from her, elbows braced on his knees. “I know, Rip. But we all knew what we were signing up for.”

She didn’t respond—just swiped at her cheek with the back of her wrist.

“We’ve got a good start,” Wick said. “We’re pushing the truth into the light. But it’s a marathon, not a sprint. And the people we’re up against?” He gave a humorless smile. “They’re smarter than us. Richer. Dirtier. We don’t win this by dying for each other. We win it by living for what’s left.”

Ripley sniffled, licking her lips, dry and cracked. “How do we just go back to that when he’s gone?”

Wick exhaled slowly and lifted his hands in a shrug. “I don’t know, babe.” He reached out and smacked the side of her quad. “But y’know what I do know?”

“What?” she mumbled.

“That you’re gonna look damn good in a little black dress on the arm of a century-old assassin.” He grinned, wide and crooked, and rose to his feet. “C’mon. You’re done working out. And you need to answer the poor bastard.”

“What do I even say?”

“You name a damn place for dinner, Ripley. It’s not rocket science. Go to 1789—you like that bougie spot.” He snatched her phone, punched in the passcode, scanned the thread, and rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ, you two are fucking useless when it comes to this.” He tapped the restaurant name into Safari. “Is he in meetings?”

Ripley raised her hand and let it drop limply. “Probably.”

Wick’s grin turned wicked. “You should send me a nude.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I’ll take the picture.”

Ripley stared at him, horrified. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Wick gave her a mock-reproachful look. “Don’t give me that face. I know you’ve sent nudes before.”

“Well yeah, but…” She blinked, tilted her head like she was actually weighing it. “No. No, absolutely not.”

He held up his hands, deadpan. “Just trying to support your love life, babe.”

“By becoming an accomplice in my unsolicited boudoir shoot?”

“Exactly.”

She shoved his shoulder. “Go home, Wickwire.”

He smirked. “You’re welcome.” He studied her for a moment, then pulled her in for a tight hug. “I’m a phone call away, ghost lead. Whatever you need.”

She hugged him back, eyes stinging. Daniel Wickwire—her ride or die for fifteen years. Her brother in arms. Her teammate. Her best friend.

“I need you to stay alive, Danny.”

“I got you, babe.” He kissed her forehead, then stepped away, gym bag slung over his shoulder. “’Cause I got you, babe,” he sang at her, grinning. “C’mon, Rip.”

“No,” she smiled, waving him off.

She watched him climb into the truck and drive off into the bright morning sun, head tilted slightly, her smile lingering soft and fond.

Her phone buzzed. Bucky: 1789? I can't take you back in time, doll. Sorry.  .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Claire flicked her green eyes over Bucky's shoulder as they broke for recess, her lips twitching. "1789? Fancy place."

"Is it?" Bucky did a double-take over his shoulder at her before sliding his phone away. "Like suit and tie or?"

"I mean," Claire smiled affectionately. "I would wear this cute little blue dress I have." She tipped her head to the side, auburn hair moving with the motion. "And some cute heels. You're tall enough, I could do that."

Bucky turned and angled himself slightly away from her, the movement subtle but intentional. "So, no suit?"

"I like my dates to look the part," Claire said with a casual shrug. "All depends on the woman."

He paused, thoughtful. "I don’t know what she would wear for this."

Claire’s expression faltered for half a second, just long enough to register. Then the smile returned, bright and practiced. "Well, whatever it is, I’m sure she’ll look just fine..."

Bucky didn’t respond. His gaze drifted toward the chamber doors, the weight of something unsaid pressing behind his eyes. When he finally moved, it was with purpose, back to his seat, back to his work, back to the reason he was there. 

Claire watched him go, her smile fading just slightly. She tapped a manicured nail against her lips in thought, pulled out her phone, and typed quickly.

Claire: Where’s the congressman been staying? ————————--------------------------------------

“What about this one?” Ripley held up a navy-blue pantsuit to the FaceTime camera. Behind her, the walk-in closet looked like an F5 tornado had hit Nordstrom and lost.

Sarah Wilson stared at her, deadpan. “Are you going to vote on a school budget? What even is that?”

“It’s one of my suits—”

“No, Ripley. No. Jesus, no.” Sarah shoved Sam out of the frame where he’d just popped up, blocking him like a seasoned linebacker.

“What’s that?” Sam’s voice called offscreen.

“She’s showing me outfits,” Sarah replied, still glaring.

“For what?” 

“Dinner,” she added sweetly, her smile all teeth and mischief.

Sam finally reappeared, now holding a beer, squinting at the screen. “Nah, that looks like you got a court appearance or somethin’?”

Ripley huffed. “It’s a power look.”

“It’s a public defender, look,” Sarah countered, disgusted. “What about the dress you wore for Mardi Gras?”

“Which time?”

“You know which time,” Sarah smirked. “The feather boa one.”

Ripley groaned. “It’s probably covered in dust and regret...maybe tequila.”

“Who are you going to dinner with?” Sam leaned in, brow raised.

Ripley hesitated. “Rip,” Sarah drawled, narrowing her eyes. “Show him the damn dress.”

Ripley held up a slinky sheath of black fabric she had unearthed from the very depths of her closet.

Sam blinked. “That’s a skirt.”

“It’s a dress,” Sarah shot back without missing a beat. “She’s going on a date with Bucky,” she added casually.

Sam choked on his beer. “What?!” He spun, grabbing his phone like it personally offended him. “That little shit didn’t tell me he was going on a date with you.” He started typing furiously. “Hold that up again,” Sam ordered, squinting at the screen. 

“Try it on, Rip,” Sarah chimed in, overly sweet. “C’mon, you can’t bring Capitol Barbie to 1789. You gotta bring a Bond girl.”

Ripley groaned. “This is already a mistake.”

Sam glanced up from his phone, smirking. “Too late. He just texted back. He’s panicking.”

Ripley narrowed her eyes. “What’d he say? Why is he panicking? Does he even panic? Does he not wanna go? He doesn't have to go." 

Sarah threw her hands up, as if she were defusing a bomb. “Whoa, whoa, stand down, sugar. You’re spiraling.”

Sam rolled his eyes. "He wants to go, relax." He’s having a fashion-based anxiety attack. It's fine." 

“Now go shave your legs and put on that dress. It’s game time.” Sarah clapped her hands. "Ugh, I wish I were there to help you."

Ripley sighed and turned back to the dress hanging by the mirror. “You’re all deranged.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “But we’re your deranged. Let me know how it goes." He ended the video call. 

Ripley glanced at her phone and saw Bucky's text. 

Bucky: Why would you tell Sam?

Ripley: To be fair, Sarah was helping me pick a dress, and he was around Bucky: He's calling me now.  Ripley: Good luck. 

She let loose a sigh. Shower, hair, makeup. She could do this.

Alpine perched on the corner of the bed like a judgmental little cloud, tail flicking, blue eyes narrowed. Ripley stood in front of the full-length mirror in nothing but a black bra and underwear, holding the dress up to her body like she could will confidence into existence.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered. Alpine meowed pointedly. “That’s rich coming from someone who shits in a box.” Alpine meowed again. Louder. “I know it’s just dinner. I know it’s just Bucky.” Ripley pulled the dress on and started smoothing it down her sides, nodding slowly to her reflection. “Okay…okay…”

The door opened and closed downstairs. She froze. Footsteps, familiar and even, headed up.

"I'm almost dressed!" she called down, yanking the zipper halfway in a panic.

“I’ve seen you naked,” Bucky called back, his voice dry with a hint of a grin as he climbed the stairs.

Ripley scrambled to finish zipping, almost tripped over Alpine, and turned just as he reached the landing. He stopped in the doorway of the bedroom, one hand on the frame. His gaze swept over her—not in a leer, not in hunger—but like she’d just stepped out of a memory he hadn’t dared touch in months.

“Hi,” she said, brushing her hands down her hips, smoothing the skirt.

“Hi,” he said, eyes still tracking her like she might vanish.

Alpine let out a chirp and leapt off the bed, brushing past Bucky’s legs with all the subtlety of a matchmaking gremlin.

Ripley cleared her throat. “I’m almost ready.”

“You look ready to me,” he said, voice low. “I’m gonna—” he motioned vaguely at his suit and tie, the whole congressional getup. “Change out of the bureaucracy.”

He stepped back into the hallway, retreating toward the spare room where all his clothes had begun to accumulate. The door clicked shut behind him. For a second, he just stood there, hand braced on the edge of the dresser, jaw tight. He loosed the breath he’d been holding since she turned from the mirror.

That dress. Her in that dress.

He shook his head once, rolled his shoulders, and started loosening the tie.

“This isn’t a date, she didn't say date,” he reminded himself under his breath, as Alpine sauntered in behind him and hopped up onto the dresser with a soft thump. She blinked at him slowly. “What?” Bucky asked, peeling off his jacket. “I’m not lying. We’re just… two people, having dinner. That happens to be at one of the nicest restaurants in the city…" He changed quickly; he could hear the steady click of her heels going down the stairs. He combed his hair, sprayed on cologne, and tugged at his sports coat. "Good. Great." 

Alpine let out a soft chirp, flicked his tail once, and jumped down with the sort of smug grace that only cats and spies possess. Bucky watched him disappear into the hallway.

“Traitor,” he muttered, smoothing a wrinkle from his jacket. He checked himself in the mirror—again. Adjusted the collar and rolled his shoulders back.

He looked good. He knew he looked good. So why did he feel like he was about to jump out of a plane with no parachute? The sound of heels paused at the bottom of the stairs. Bucky exhaled and stepped out of the room.

Ripley stood in the living room, one hand adjusting an earring, the other nervously fussing with the strap of her little black dress. When she turned and looked up at him—eyes wide, lips slightly parted—Bucky forgot how to swallow.

“Wow,” he said before he could stop himself.

Ripley smiled, her lips a rich red velvet color. “You clean up alright, Barnes.”

He tried to play it cool, but his voice still cracked a little: “You ready?”

She gave him a once-over and breathed deeply. “You wore cologne?”

“You wore heels.”

Ripley smirked. “Touché.”

Bucky reached out, and for a moment it looked like he was going to offer his arm. But instead, he opened the front door for her. “After you.” Alpine meowed from the stairs. “Don’t wait up,” Bucky called. 

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

Reblog if you love “—” and have never used ChatGPT

[valkyrie-mp]

Against All Odds Chapter Six: Cover Me Up

Pairings: Bucky BarnesxRipley Todd (Female OC)

Synopsis: It’s been more than 125 days since junior Congressman James “Bucky” Barnes last heard from Ripley Todd. Since Omega’s teammate was murdered. Since the entire team vanished off the grid. Rebuilding his life in Brooklyn wasn’t easy. But when Ripley crashes back into his world—Bucky knows one thing with absolute certainty: Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs. They’ll find their way back to each other.

Tags: Soft Dom Bucky (We're exploring this hard), Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Action, Some Fluff, definitely 18+, eventual happy ending

Warnings: PTSD, Torture, Sexual Content, Swearing, Blood, you name it, it might show up. -------------------------------------------------------------------------

============================================ "But home was a dream, one that I'd never seen till you came along." Morgan Wallen

============================================

The fire flickered to life, orange and yellow flames dancing across his face. Bucky nudged a log into place, waited for it to catch. The dry pop and hiss of the wood filled the silence. He’d cut the overhead lights. Lit some candles she had kicking around from god knows when. The scent of something woodsy and warm hung in the air.

“Don’t touch,” he warned Alpine as the kitten crept closer toward the hearth, her little body low to the ground like she knew damn well she was pushing it. He pushed the fire screen back into place and rose, stretching his back as he looked around.

He paused, narrowed his eyes. Maybe unintentionally romantic. Too late now.

He heard her on the stairs before he saw her—bare feet on the hardwood, soft padding that made the floor creak just slightly. She stepped into the room, running her fingers through damp hair, her posture loose, comfortable in a way that made his stomach twist.

“I should get the chimney cleaned,” she said with a furrowed brow, glancing toward the fire. “Last time was when we—I moved in.” 

"You cut your hair…" he realized suddenly, watching the curling ends brush her collarbone with a little twist in his stomach. She flicked her gaze over to him, her bare foot rubbing the kitten's belly idly. "When?" 

"Unintentionally," she replied dryly, yanking her foot back before Alpine could sink her claws in. She moved further into the room, noting the candles and appreciating the absence of harsh overhead lights. She took a breath, considered him. "You really wanna know?"

Bucky sniffed softly and guessed, "Someone grabbed it?" She nodded, his stomach twisted hard. "Who?"

"Doesn't matter," Ripley murmured, and lifted her bare shoulders. 

“Food should be here soon,” he told her, a casual, safe topic. She nodded, already turning toward the TV. She grabbed the remote and tuned it right into the Bruins game, as if it were muscle memory. He walked over to the kitchen, into the darkness.

“What’d you do today?” he asked, leaning a little on the kitchen counter.

Ripley looked back over her shoulder as she walked to the fridge. “Bucky, you don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“The ‘how was your day, dear’ thing.” She handed him a fresh beer and retrieved her glass of wine. “We’re not… whatever that is.”

Bucky leaned against the counter, watching her in her flannel pajama pants and that thin—way too thin—tank top. He cocked his head slightly, eyes tracing her without shame. “What if I actually care?”

She gave a small, wry smile. “Do you? Or are you just worried I'll ruin your campaign?”

“I’m always worried about you, Rip,” he said, as if it were a fact, as if she could ask any source and she would receive the same answer. And somehow, that made her believe him even more.

Ripley took a long sip of wine, the words catching in her throat before she pushed them out. “I visited Flea today.”

His beer paused, halfway to his mouth. His expression didn’t falter, but something behind his eyes dimmed—like a candle flickering lower to survive a draft.

“It was a well-attended funeral,” he said softly, his voice gentler than before—the voice he saved for her. Her eyes met his, something flickering there. “I was there,” he added, answering the unspoken. "Sam and Torres, too." 

Her throat tightened. She nodded once. “Thank you.”

“Every time I come to town, I visit him,” Bucky sighed, quiet and unassuming. “It’s the least I can do.” She studied him over the rim of her glass, brows furrowed down. His crystal blue eyes cut to her.

Bucky swallowed. He hadn’t planned on asking, but the opportunity was there. “Did you get the answers you needed?” His fingers peeled at the beer label. “Wherever you were.” 

“Iran,” she replied, and leaned beside him on the island, facing the living room and the TV, close enough that he could smell the jasmine in her body wash. “Austria, Sweden.”

“That’s—“ Bucky turned his head to look at her, thoroughly confused. “None of those places make sense.” 

She snorted softly. “You’re tellin' me.”

“The guy,” Bucky said quietly, “who turned up in Allentown…”

“That was us,” Ripley replied, no hesitation.

He nodded, eyes fixed on the middle distance like he was trying to solve a puzzle he already knew the answer to. She was answering him and really answering him. And he was smart enough not to look a gift horse in the mouth. She shifted—barely—but enough that her shoulder brushed his. A quiet touch. Intentional. The way they always had. A quiet support. 

“Is it over?” he asked, voice so low she had to lean in to catch it.

She licked her lips, swallowed. “Not by a long shot.” Her eyes dropped to her hands. “But all the players are on this side of the Atlantic now. Except for one. But they’re not at the top of my list.”

Bucky turned slightly, bracing one forearm on the counter. “Remember what I said—” his voice was softer now, steady. “This whole revenge thing—”

“I know,” she muttered, almost too quickly. “It’ll burn me alive and take everyone I love with me.” Her gaze met his, fire behind it. “But there’s no corner of this earth I won’t go to for the people I love. You know that.”

“Just don’t burn the world down while you do it, Rip,” he said. “Be subtle. Be smart. If you’re gonna do it, just—”

“Gift wrap them and hand them to the CIA?”

“It’s an option,” he deadpanned, just as the doorbell rang. Their gazes remained locked, and the doorbell rang a second time. 

"Check the door before you open it,” she said softly, already turning away.

He wanted to sneer at her, maybe pull a face behind her back just for the satisfaction—but he couldn’t fault her. Not really. Not with everything they’d seen.

He grabbed his wallet from his jacket and slid out enough cash for dinner plus a tip. Paused at the peephole. Just a sad-looking teenage boy, acne and all, gripping an oversized paper bag like it held national secrets.

He opened the door. Ripley lingered back in the hallway, far enough to be nothing more than a curvy silhouette in the firelight, holding a glass of wine—but apparently still sufficient enough to short-circuit a hormone-drenched teenage brain.

The poor kid’s eyes locked right on her.

Bucky fielded the kid’s stammered greeting with a sympathetic smile and an extra two bucks for the emotional damage. He shut the door behind him, locked it, and turned back with a sigh.

“What?” Ripley asked, already shooting him a scowl, she set her wine glass on the coffee table, and crossed back toward him.

“Is it chilly tonight?” Bucky asked, deadpan, with a deliberate glance at her too-thin white tank top.

“You’ve seen me naked, remember?” she replied coolly, and reached out to take the bag from his hands. Her fingers brushed his—just for a second. “It shouldn’t matter.”

She walked away before he could reply. He stood there for a beat longer, tipping his head back toward the ceiling like maybe—maybe—somewhere in the cosmos, a deity would send him a miracle. Or a backbone made of steel. 

“Here,” Ripley gestured to the coffee table. “We’ll do a living room picnic.”

“Living room picnic,” Bucky repeated, setting down her bottle of wine and another beer for himself.

“Don’t say it like that,” she muttered, already unpacking the bag and tossing a packet of chopsticks at him. He caught them easily. “I bet you don’t even have a fucking kitchen table in New York.”

“I have a stool at the counter,” he said, starting to open containers, divvying up the food like they always had—muscle memory. Like no time had passed at all.

She paused, looked at him with a little smile. “That’s sad, Bucky.”

“New York’s not really home for me anymore,” he admitted, voice softer now.

“Don’t.” She lifted her wine glass like a shield. “Don’t guilt-trip me. I don’t need that tonight. My mom already gave me the deluxe version yesterday—I don't need it from—.”

“From the guy you walked out on?” he said it too evenly, like he’d practiced restraint all afternoon, and it finally cracked.

Her eyes narrowed. “Is this your version of not wanting to fight?”

“Just making conversation.”

“Well,” she scowled darkly at him, “pick another topic.”

The silence that followed wasn’t tense. It was tired. Familiar. Like an old coat with frayed edges, you couldn’t bring yourself to throw it away. She tore open a crab rangoon and offered him half. 

Choose peace. 

That's what he told himself as he took it. They sat side by side, the fire snapping away, the sharp shrkks of hockey skates on TV. And when she dipped her chopsticks into his lo mein for her customary sampling, he didn't argue. Instead, he took a chunk of sesame chicken and sighed contentedly. 

Her bare shoulder brushed his bare tricep, and stayed. He plopped a snap pea onto her container. Her lips twitched. "You need to eat something green." She told him 

"I did, I think there's green onion in the rangoon." Bucky shoved another mouthful of lo mein into his mouth and all but beamed at her 

Soft Bucky 

Ripley's heart seized so hard she could've been having a heart attack, and she wouldn't have cared. 

"So the gala," she began cautiously. 

"In three days," he dropped a piece of broccoli into her container, she sighed, and ate it anyway. "Black tie."

"Of course."

"You'll be the first date I've brought to one of these things, so try not to fight anyone." He placed a chunk of chicken into her container next 

"I know what you're doing," she told him, shifting a little, her arm lying on the couch cushions behind his shoulders as if to hug him. 

He winged his brows up. "Do you?"

"I don't need the extra food, Bucky, I'm fine." She pushed her meal away, content—not stuffed 

"You've lost weight," he muttered quietly. "I don't like it. You were perfect the way you were."

She let out a soft, bitter chuckle. "Been fighting gaining weight my entire life, and all I needed was a 107-year-old man to tell me I was perfect..."

Bucky turned his head to argue with her, but stopped because she was right there facing him, close enough that their breath mingled. "It's your body." He forced the words out, watching her eyes dip to his mouth. "I just want to know it's for the right reason and not you skipping meals—"

Her gaze lifted, steady and because it was concern from him—maybe because it was him in general—she smiled a little as reassuringly as she could. "I always lose weight in the field." She said gently, "I'll be back to normal once life…goes to what it was."

"You think it ever can be what it was?" He asked, taking a sip of his beer. He wasn't sure if he meant them or not.

Ripley's brows furrowed, and she stared into space for a moment. "I don't think we're ever meant to go back to the places we were," she took a long drink of her wine, pursed her lips. "I think we learn from it, and we move to a new foundation with the knowledge we have now."

Bucky nodded slowly, blue eyes tracing over her face. "What book did you read that out of?"

"It was the Hancock Lumber commercial,” she answered wryly, nodding toward the TV. Her gaze flicked down. “And stop feeding Alpine that shit.” She gestured to the meat-on-a-stick he’d been sneaking to the kitten curled in his lap.

Bucky held up his hands, caught in the act. Alpine licked her lips smugly from where she lay belly up in his lap, her little tummy round and full. 

Ripley stood, gathering her leftovers, stacking the containers in that methodical way she always did—like cleaning up gave her a sense of control. She took the silence in the kitchen like a breath—like she needed one. The space, the distance. God, he was too close.

She was turning into a moth. And he was the porch light.

Bucky watched her go.

Watched the sway of her hips in those soft flannel pants. Watched the way her shoulders tensed just slightly—like she was holding her breath and didn’t even know it. Like she’d pressed pause on herself the second she stood up.

He gave her the moment. Let her have it.

He turned to handle the rest—boxed up what was left of dinner, capped the wine. When he was done, he flicked off the kitchen light, the fire throwing shadows up the walls as he made his way back to the couch.

She was curled into the corner like muscle memory—knees tucked, wine glass abandoned on the end table, TV still playing the third period. Her eyes were half-lidded, blinking slowly, the weight of the day pressing down now that she wasn’t moving. Like sitting still was permission to feel tired, finally.

Without a word, he grabbed the throw blanket off the back of the couch, tossed it over her—casually, like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t half because she looked delicious sitting there in that thin tank top, and half because she was definitely cold.

She flinched a little as it landed, blinked up at him, dazed. “I didn’t ask for that.”

“Didn’t have to.” He took the spot beside her, not too close—but not far enough either.

Ripley blinked again. Her head tipped. Just a little further back until it rested against the back cushion, cheek smushed into the blanket he’d just given her.

Nap time. Just like that.

Bucky didn’t say a word. Just looked at her for a long moment—watching the lines of her face ease, her chest rise slow and steady. He let the fire crackle. Let the Bruins game roll on. Let her rest. He pulled out his phone, checking the texts from Claire and responding to Sam. She shifted in her sleep, and he figured she would fall toward the arm of the couch, but instead, she landed on him, gently, as if her body understood to ease into him. 

Alpine jumped up beside Ripley, pawed into the blanket cocoon around the woman, and stared at Bucky with her pretty blue eyes. "I guess I'll stay here for a little bit." He muttered and hesitantly dropped his arm around Ripley's covered form. She let out a deep, from the soul sigh, and snuggled into him. 

"Fuck." He muttered and dropped his head back on the couch cushion. 

[valkyrie-mp]

Against All Odds Chapter Five: Tin Man

Pairings: Bucky BarnesxRipley Todd (Female OC)

Synopsis: It’s been more than 125 days since junior Congressman James “Bucky” Barnes last heard from Ripley Todd. Since Omega’s teammate was murdered. Since the entire team vanished off the grid. Rebuilding his life in Brooklyn wasn’t easy. But when Ripley crashes back into his world—Bucky knows one thing with absolute certainty: Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs. They’ll find their way back to each other.

Tags: Soft Dom Bucky (We're exploring this hard), Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Action, Some Fluff, definitely 18+, eventual happy ending

Warnings: PTSD, Torture, Sexual Content, Swearing, Blood, you name it, it might show up

----------------------------------------------- “You ain't missing nothing 'Cause love is so damn hard…. If you ever felt one breaking, you’d never want a heart.”-Miranda Lambert -----------------------------------------------

Arlington National Cemetery

The cemetery was silent except for the wind. It moved slow through the rows of white stone, catching the edges of flags and the hem of her coat. Ripley stood with her hands buried deep in her pockets, chin tucked into her collar, breath fogging in the cold. Her boots sank slightly into the wet earth.

She hadn’t been here yet. Omega had still been buried in chaos when Flea had been buried. The world had moved on without them.

But she hadn’t.

Now she stood in the late afternoon sun, the city bustling behind her, and stared down at a stone she hated.

Corporal Steven Nicholas Fleanick United States Army Beloved Friend & Brother December 7th 1999–July 10th 2025

Ripley crouched slowly, knees stiff in the cold, and pulled coins from her pocket and set a dime on the top of his headstone beside five others. She could almost guarantee she knew precisely who had left them. Her fingers lingered on the polished stone.

“I miss you,” she said, voice cracking as it hit the open air. “Y’know that?”

She sat cross-legged on the damp grass leaned back against the stone like they used to sit back to back in the field.

“Why didn’t you check your fucking car, Flea?” she asked, louder this time. “You were the gear guy. The checklist guy. You caught everything. So why not that?”

The wind stirred. Her throat tightened.

“You would’ve loved Iran,” she muttered, wiping her face with her sleeve. “We crossed another name off the list. Big one. You should’ve been there.”

She gave a rough laugh, tears still tracking silently. “I even missed you singing Madonna before missions. You know how unhinged that is? You always tortured us with ‘Like a Prayer', and now I’d give anything to hear it again.”

Her voice caught at the end. She didn’t fight it. She went quiet for a while. Just sat there. Breathing. Remembering. Letting it ache.

The silence wasn’t peaceful—it was too full. Too much left. Like the pressure right before a storm.

Eventually her eyes drifted to the base of the stone, where someone had left a bouquet—white carnations, fresh. Tied together with a ribbon. Wick, probably. Or Bennett. She hadn’t asked.

She reached out, brushing her fingers against the edge of the stone.

“I’ll come back next week,” she murmured. “Drag the others, too. We’re going to be home for a while, 'till we figure this shit our."

She pressed a kiss to her gloved fingers and tapped it gently to the engraved name.

“I love you, Fixit.”

The words disappeared into the wind like smoke. The coin glinted faintly in the sunlight.

She played “Like a Prayer” on her phone—low and soft, like a lullaby for the dead. Then, after one more shuddering breath, she stood.

The walk back through Arlington felt longer than it was—her boots quiet against the stones, her hands still stuffed into her pockets. Her phone buzzed as she passed the gates. She pulled it out with stiff fingers.

Bucky Barnes: Gone again? Ripley: Out and about 

As she reached the sidewalk, she texted Wick:

Ripley: You already visit Flea? Wick: No. Tomorrow. Why?

She frowned, stopped walking, turned back toward the headstones, far away now, but she knew exactly what row. 

She texted Bennett.

Ripley: You leave flowers for Flea? Bennett: I left a beer, and a dime, why? Ripley: No reason.

She got into the Bronco and sat for a moment, staring at the cemetery. Someday she would end up there, and she hoped, as she turned the car on, that someone would visit her and play her favorite song.  ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bucky stared down at her response while Alpine wound her way through his legs. So, not gone. He sat with that for a moment, thumb hovering over his screen. What was he supposed to do with that?

“What do you want for dinner?” he asked the kitten. She meowed.

“Chinese does sound good,” he replied.

He glanced at his watch. He’d give her two hours to get home. It was only three o'clock anyway. He showered. Changed into clothes that felt more like him. Put on a movie in the background. He opened the fridge—and stopped short.

Food. Real food. The kind she didn’t buy unless she planned to be around for more than a day. His beer, too. Cold and familiar. He hesitated before reaching for a bottle. Groceries meant longevity. It hit him in the chest—quiet, heavy. She didn’t just stop by. She stocked the fridge. That meant something.

His crystal blue eyes drifted around the kitchen and living room, a new throw blanket, new wall hangings, an empty vase waiting for flowers—his gaze lingered on the half cracked door in the hallway through the archway of the living room. 

“It’s rude to snoop,” he told Alpine. "But we're doing it." The cat blinked slowly up at him. He opened the beer, took a long pull, and walked to the closet with purposeful steps.

He opened the door. Flipped on the light. Jackets, normal enough, but behind and under those. Tough boxes stacked on each other, cardboard boxes of old Army uniforms. 

He pursed his lips and opened the first one that came to hand.

Medals.

His brows furrowed. He crouched down intrigued, setting the beer beside him.

Army Commendation Medal. Army Achievement Medal. A Distinguished Service Cross.

He pulled out his phone to search for their meanings. He recognized them, but not enough to name the deeds done to receive them. 

The more he searched, snapping photos for the search engine to ID, the more his head tipped to the side. These weren't run of the mill medals. They were elite-tier warfighter. That was the kind of record that got people recruited for things she never talked about.

He reached deeper. A Purple Heart.

His fingers stilled. He lifted it out slowly.

Not for the first time, he wondered who Ripley really was.

His thumb brushed over the patches he drew out, Velcro backed. A Ranger tab, other patches that he had no idea what they meant, an infrared USA flag patch—Under those and the medals were photos, printed off on standard photo paper, curling at the edges. 

She looked so damn young. Carefree in her desert fatigues. Always in the center of the group. Wick was in a lot of them—grinning, flipping off the camera, throwing an arm over her shoulder.

He dug deeper.

Photos from childhood. A pigtailed Ripley on a plastic trike, holding a toy phone to her ear, a toothless grin taking up half her face.

He smiled faintly. Shook his head.

Then—at the bottom—a newer photo.

Bucky blinked.

It was them. Haley’s wedding.

She was in that long black dress. Hair curled. Eyes soft and bright. The wedding photographer had caught the moment mid-dance—her hand on his shoulder, her smile tilted up toward him like he was the only man in the room.

And him? Bucky licked his lips and sighed. He looked at her like she was the rarest gemstone in the room—and he hadn’t even known it showed. He stared at it for a long time. Longer than he meant to. "This is gonna hurt." He muttered to himself.

Bucky set aside the photo and looked at the other boxes.

A shadowbox with a folded flag. An old pair of hockey skates—he stared at those a beat longer. Not overly surprised. He knew she loved watching games, always had a comment about the crease or a bad call. But seeing the scuffed boots, worn laces tied together like they’d been tossed over a shoulder once upon a time—that landed differently. 

He dug deeper and scoffed when his hand hit the familiar shape of a paperback. He pulled it free, eyebrows lifting.

The cover was aggressively… passionate. A burly man in a kilt, chest bared to the wind, holding a flushed woman in a half-undone dress like he’d just pulled her out of a bodice-ripping brawl.

The Highlander’s Duchess.

He flipped it open and found an inscription on the inside cover, faded but legible.

Dear Roo,

I saw this and figured it might make you laugh, but maybe on some downtime in Afghanistan you can read it.

I love you from this world into the next.

Mama

December 2012

He stared at it for a second, thumb resting on the page. The spine was wrecked—creased and soft, like it had been read a dozen times, probably more. Dog-eared pages. Notes in the margins. Torn bits of gum wrappers used as bookmarks.

She’d read this on every deployment. Carried it like a tether to home. He exhaled through his nose, smile pulling crooked. “You soft-ass, closet romantic.”

The garage door rattled.

He froze. “Fuck.”

He scrambled up too fast, cracked his head on the low shelf above the boxes, and bit down a swear between clenched teeth. Still rubbing the sore spot, he shoved the book back into the crate and slammed the closet door shut just as Ripley opened the kitchen door from the garage.

He spun around like he hadn’t just been elbows-deep in her entire emotional history. Alpine trotted past his feet with a chirp like a traitor, and he tried very hard to look normal.

Ripley set her bag down. Keys in the dish. Shoes off. Jacket hung on the hook.

He had her routine memorized. Every quiet, practiced move. She didn’t look at him right away—just moved through the house. she glanced up, brown eyes sharp as ever.

“What did you do?” she asked, low and measured.

Bucky froze mid-sip of beer, bottle paused just shy of his lips. His expression was neutral—too neutral. A little too still. Like a guy trying to pass a lie detector test with sheer willpower.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said, calm. Controlled. But his eyes flicked—just once—toward the hall closet. Ripley caught it. Alpine, traitor that she was, meowed once and trotted right over to the closet door like she had evidence to submit.

Ripley didn’t move. Just stared at him. One brow arched.

He took a drink like it might buy him time. “I… fed the cat,” he added.

Alpine sneezed.

Ripley studied him for a long moment, weight shifting onto one hip like she was deciding whether to throw a punch or a lifeline. “I have a question for you,” she said.

“Yes.” No hesitation.

“You don’t even know the question.”

His lips twitched into a near smile. “Still yes.”

She huffed a short breath, almost a laugh, and opened the cupboard. From it, she pulled down a wine glass and the bottle of Riesling she’d picked up on the way home—one of the few things that hadn’t changed. She uncorked it calmly, poured with precision, like she needed the ritual.

“Is it safe to say that we can’t go back to the way things were before—” she swirled the glass, her free hand gesturing vaguely, “—everything went to fucking shit.”

That pulled him forward. Bucky crossed the room slowly, brows furrowed, focused on her like she’d dropped a live grenade and was daring him to pick it up.

“In what sense of ‘the way things were’?” he asked, even doing the air quotes. He was trying to keep it light, but his eyes had already gone serious.

Ripley took a slow sip, held the glass against her chest like a shield. Her fingers curled around the stem. “I hurt you,” she said quietly, the words soaking into the space between them like water into dry earth. “And I will never be able to apologize enough for that.”

That stopped him cold. His shoulders eased down just slightly. The anger—or whatever was left of it—didn’t flare up. It didn’t need to. The pain had already done its work. Bucky tilted his head. His voice, when it came, was careful. Not cold. Just cautious.

“Are you apologizing?” 

Ripley cut her gaze to him, jaw tightening like she was bracing for impact. “I apologize for the way it was done,” she said—steady, but not unfeeling. “But not that I did it. I was trying to protect you.”

Bucky blinked. His jaw ticked—just once—but he didn’t move. “By disappearing?” he asked, voice low, rough around the edges. “By leaving me behind to come up with all sorts of scenarios—all of those were you dead in them, by the way, in case you were curious.”

Her shoulders rose slightly. Not in defense—more like restraint. “I didn’t know how else to keep you safe,” she said. “If they’d known how much you meant to me, they would’ve used it. They were already looking. I needed you far away from all of it.”

He stepped in, slow and deliberate, stopping just short of touching her. “You didn’t give me the choice.”

“And if I had?” she countered, chin lifting. “Would you have stayed away?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked. His eyes searched hers. “Can I be honest, Rip?”

She gave a small, almost bitter smile and gestured with her wine glass. “You can always be honest with me, Bucky.”

He nodded, considering. “You’re shit at apologizing.”

She rolled her eyes, snorted. A humorless smile ghosted across her mouth. “Okay—” she took a long sip of wine, then set the glass aside. “Is that what we’re doing? You wanna fight?”

Bucky rolled his eyes, turned away from her as he dug his fingers angrily into his hair. "Why does everything have to be a fucking fight with you, Ripley? I've got seventy fucking years of it why the fuck would I wanna fight you?"

She shrugged. “Maybe it’ll make you feel better.”

His eyes snapped to hers. “You know what would make me feel better?”

She didn’t blink. “What?”

His voice dropped. Low. Quiet. Measured. “Laying you down on the floor and fucking the fight right out of you.” The words hit the space between them like a slap. Ripley inclined her chin—that regal gesture that always made him want her more. Bucky’s jaw clenched. “But that’s not gonna fix it, is it?” He whispered.

"Can we all," she began slowly. "Just agree that I'm a lost cause and you shouldn't waste your time on someone who's damaged beyond repair."

"If people, you included, had believed that about me I wouldn't be standing here trying to stop you from going down the road you're on. I’m not the enemy, Rip,” Bucky said, his voice low, eyes softening as he stepped closer. He didn’t touch her—that would’ve wrecked them both.

Her eyes welled with tears so fast she had to look at the ceiling. Her throat worked to swallow the lump. “I know.”

“Baby, I don’t think you do,” he whispered.

The word shattered something. That baby—the softness of it. The memory of him whispering it into her shoulder while he fucked her, or before their last goodbye. The first tear slipped, rolling back into her hairline.

“Let’s table this for now—”

Her laugh came short and brusque. “God, that is such a political thing to say.”

His smile cracked wide and real, and he chuckled. “It is, isn’t it?” He nudged her wine glass toward her. “Come on. Let’s order some food, relax—and from here on out—”He did touch her then. Two fingers under her chin, tipping her face toward his, gentle but firm. "It’s not you against everyone else. You’ve got people on your side. Let them be on your side.”

She wrinkled her nose a little, but nodded. It was a start. “Okay,” she murmured, taking her wine glass again.

“Promise?” Bucky lifted his beer, angling it toward her in a half-toast. His voice was quieter now, steadier. “I know you don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he added, thumb tracing the label. “But this one—”

“I promise,” she said, meeting his eyes. Holding. Not flinching. A long breath. “I promise, Bucky.” She tapped her glass gently to his bottle. It clicked soft and sure between them—more vow than toast.

Bucky nodded and slid the paper Chinese menu across the counter like it was muscle memory. “Still sesame chicken, crab rangoons, and egg rolls?” he asked quietly, glancing up at her.

Ripley arched a brow. “Is yours still chicken lo mein, spare ribs, and… mystery meat on a stick?”

Bucky grinned. “I’m almost one hundred percent sure it’s beef on a stick.” 

She smiled into her wine glass. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.” She pushed off the counter. “Grab my card outta my bag—I’m gonna shower.”

He waited until she was halfway down the hallway, her shadow slipping toward the staircase. “Oh—Rip.”

She paused. Turned. One brow lifted in question. Bucky leaned against the counter, phone already in hand. “You remember those dates you owe me from Haley’s wedding?”

“Yeah…?”

“Mayor’s Gala. This Friday.” He smiled, lazy and loaded, dialing before she could argue. “I’m cashing in.”

Ripley blinked, surprised—but didn’t fight it.

“Hi,” Bucky said into the phone, already grinning wider. “I’d like to place an order for delivery—”

Ripley shook her head as she turned away, the hallway light catching the faintest smile tugging at her mouth. “A gala,” she muttered to herself, toeing open the bathroom door. “What the hell am I supposed to wear to a goddamn gala?”

The water hissed on, echoing softly against tile and thought. But even with his parting shot, even with the argument still crackling in the air like static— She stood still for a beat, one hand on the edge of the shower door.

And realized, with an aching tightness in her chest, that maybe—just maybe—she hadn’t ruined her chances with him after all. And she had no idea what to do with that.