AN: First fanfic on tumblr! This has literally been sitting in my google docs for the past year lmao. It's kinda inspired by Bomi Nkomo De by Kojo Antwi (iykyk). Special thanks to @buckybarnesfic for beta-ing! Divider by @saradika-graphics. Hope you enjoy reading!!
Mornings with Bucky were soft.
Few and far between, punctuated by late nights spent reaching for his warmth, only to be met with cold sheets. It had struck you early on in your love that he would never be entirely yours, not while duty called his name. And part of you loved him all the more for it. The other part craved his presence like a drug.
So yes, mornings with Bucky were soft, spent lazily basking in the light of his sleepy smile while his fingers traced the curves of your body, committing every dip and swell to memory.
You had asked him once, between gentle kisses, if he knew what he did to you, how a simple glance from him could leave you breathless, even after all these years. He chuckled, mumbling against your lips.
“Now you know how I felt the second I saw you.”
Your connection with Bucky had grown from the moment you had locked eyes, slowly forged in the moments between missions and projects. A smile here, a glance there, all coming down to this; to a sunrise spent with your leg slotted between his and his hand resting gently on your hip, lost in each other’s gaze.
You smiled, nuzzling into the crook of his neck.
“Always the charmer, hm?”
You could feel him smile against your skin as he held you closer, his mouth coming down to press a kiss to your shoulder.
“Only for you, doll. Only for you.”
You could have sworn that the sun rose a little higher.
He shifted, moving so that his body eclipsed yours, the tip of his nose brushing your own. With the light caressing the panes of his face as your hands longed to, you could have sworn he was a dream. He was, in a way. Your dream. It was cheesy and cliché and you wouldn't imagine telling anyone but him, but in this moment, it was the truth, plain and simple.
He hummed, fingertips ghosting over your cheeks. “What’s going on in that head of yours, sweetness?”
It was him, of course. Nothing but him. How could you think of anything else when he was right there, those eyes of his drawing you into his orbit. You told him so, leaning up to meet his lips with your own. His hand found the nape of your neck, pulling you closer, deeper. A groan left him when you pulled away, your eyes meeting.
“I love you.”
You told him so quite often, knowing that some part of him didn't quite believe that such a thing was possible. But it was much more than that. Loving Bucky came like a gale in a heatwave, easy and strong, in a way that stole your breath and soothed your soul. It was a personal mission of yours, to ensure that he always knew that he was cherished, and extremely so.
His grin turned saccharine when the words left your lips, a soft glow rising to his face.
“One more?”
As if you wouldn't say it a thousand times over. As many times as he needed you to.
“I love you, Bucky Barnes” Your eyes met his once again, your own smile growing as you lightly tapped his nose with a finger. Even with your playful spin, the words held a certain gravitas, a weight that held the two of you in the moment.
His gaze softened, the light of the early morning illuminating his features just so, the warmth of him against you sending something gentle and fuzzy through your veins.
His head met your chest, and the weight of him settled into your bones as your fingers slipped into his hair, nails rubbing lightly against his scalp. He let out a contented sigh, his lips grazing over your sternum.
“I love you, doll. So much.”
You pressed a kiss to the crown of his head in response, breathing him in. There would be another threat, of course. Something that demanded his presence for the greater good. But for now, with the two of you tangled together, all languid movement and soft touches, he was yours. And you were his.
And that is all you could ever ask of him. To keep returning to you, steadfast as the rising of the sun.
Currently thinking about Jason Todd who needs that reassurance but doesn't know how to ask for it. Instead, he lays his head on your chest and hums softly while you run your hands through his hair. He holds you that way for hours, like he's trying to convince himself you aren't going to disappear.
hot take: the patriarchy is so inherent to society that most of the x f!reader fanfiction written for older male characters (joel miller, bullseye, soldier boy, etc) is written by women with internalized misogyny so deep-seated, they’d rather make the reader half the man’s age and fetishize the age gap, instead of aging the reader up for something more sensible and balanced. it just goes to show how men will always be praised for aging, whereas women will be demonized for it, even in the world of fanfiction. even on paper, we exist solely to fulfill fantasies and meet standards that were forced upon us.
edit: y’all need to stop haggling me in the comments idgaf about your age play and freudian relationships... you guys have boiled this post down to controversial age gaps, when it’s about women aging being demonized while men aging is celebrated. date who you want! goon to who you want! i don’t care!
summary; the whole batfam knew you and jason were dating before you guys did
masterlist
Dick notices you and Jason first because of course he would. Hes known you and Jason the longest. Unfortunately. It starts when he catches Jason laughing at something you said. A real laugh not a smirk or a huff. Dick freezes in the hallway.
Jason notices him "What?” he snaps immediately.
“You just—” Dick gestures vaguely. “You laughed.”
“So?” Jason squints “I have laughed before.”
“Not like that.”
Jason walks away and Dick stands there, deeply convinced he has witnessed the beginning of a romance arc. After that, it escalates in his head. Jason waiting for you after patrol? Romantic. Jason sharing food with you? Devotion. Jason silently adjusting your jacket when it slips off your shoulder? Marriage.
By the time Dick tells anyone, he is already planning the wedding seating chart.
Tim doesn’t “assume” so much as “calculate.”
He compiles the data.
You and Jason:
Appear in the same room within 0.8 seconds of each other.
Show mutual emotional regulation only when together.
Have engaged in at least 14 known acts of “protective standing-too-close-to-each-other-in-a-fight.”
Tim closes his laptop slowly “…they’re dating.”
Steph looks over his shoulder “They said they aren’t.”
“That’s what people who are dating but haven’t defined it say.”
Steph raises an eyebrow “Or people who are not dating.”
Tim doesn’t respond. He’s already lost interest in her incorrect opinion.
Damian reaches his conclusion within 48 hours of observing you. He watches Jason give you his jacket after you shiver. He watches you clean blood off Jason’s knuckles without hesitation. He watches Jason allow you to do it without threatening anyone.
Damian is disgusted “This is courtship,” he declares.
Jason nearly drops a blade “What did you just say?”
“You are engaging in a relationship.”
“We are NOT—”
Damian continues “You hover near each other in combat. You guard one another’s blind spots. You share food. You tolerate physical proximity. Even Grayson has noticed.”
Jason turns slowly toward Dick “You said something?”
Dick, from across the room, immediately says “Nope!”
Damian, smug: “You are partners.”
Jason storms out of the room. Damian considers this confirmation.
Bruce arrives at the conclusion gradually, which is unusual for him, because he is usually wrong about emotional things for at least a year.
He notices Jason texting more often, and acting less explosively, Jason checking exits when you enter rooms. And worst of all, Jason soften when you speak to him.
Bruce has seen many versions of Jason Todd and that one is not casual.
One night in the kitchen, Bruce says carefully mentions it to him “You care about Reader.”
Jason freezes mid-step “No.”
Bruce waits. Then, Jason sighs like he’s been personally victimized. “…fine. Yeah.”
Bruce nods once “Understood.”
Jason squints “Understood what?”
Bruce simply says “Nothing.”
Jason leaves very confused and slightly annoyed.
Steph usually talks and Cass usually observes, and somehow together they are always right. Cass is the first to notice Jason softening around you.
“You know he does the thing,” she says
You look up. “What thing?”
Cass mimics Jason slightly tilting his head toward you when you walk into a room.
They don’t argue after that. They just agree silently that it’s inevitable. When Jason and you both deny it later, Steph just says “Sure.”
Cass just looks at him like she already knows.
Duke is newer to the chaos, but even he picks it up fast. He walks into the manor kitchen and sees you sitting on the counter while Jason stand between your knees as he fixes somethingfor you.
Jason is focused. You’re watching him. Neither of you notice Duke enter. He slowly closes the fridge and makes his way into the living room.
“…are they dating?” he asks.
From the couch, Tim without looking up “Not officially.”
Duke stares “They look like they’ve been dating for a year.”
Steph calls our as she walks by the doorway “We know.”
Cass nods once.
Duke just shrugs “Cool. Makes sense.”
After that, he just refers to you as Jason’s partner without hesitation.
Jason hears it once and says, “We are NOT—”
“Okay.”
Duke continues anyway and Jason quickly gives up.
It happens in the living room. Jason looks like he’s bracing for impact. You’re leaning against the counter. The entire family is present in various states of awareness.
Jason exhales.
“We’re dating.”
Silence. Then;
Dick: “Yeah, obviously.”
Tim: “Already logged.”
Steph: “Called it.”
Cass just smiles faintly.
Duke: “Wait, you weren’t already?”
Jason turns slowly “What do you mean ‘weren’t already’?”
Duke shrugs “You act like you are.”
Jason groans.
Bruce calmly sets his mug down “We all already knew.”
Jason points at him “Not helping.”
Steph leans toward Cass “He looks offended.”
Cass nods “He is.”
Jason turns to you with an exasperated look and you let out a small laugh. He then stares at the ceiling like he’s considering retirement from the entire family. “…I hate all of you.”
Dick beams “You love us!”
Jason, immediatel says “No.”
But he’s already reaching for your hand under the counter anyway, which is all the confirmation anyone ever needed.
Summary: You and Jason are discussing new hobbies you might enjoy, but he gets distracted by the thought of you hurting while he’s not around.
Warnings/Word Count: fluff, brief angst, mentions of blood and injuries, quick allusion to nudity, protective softie Jason, book violence. unknown word count.
A/N: I am a nerd!Jason apologist (+ gamer and biker. I contain multitudes.). If there’s any interest, I’d gladly have this pairing make an appearance every week of batboy summer!
Part of fmq batboy summer ‘26
Masterlist | DC Masterlist | Req. Info | Taglist
You’re-mid sentence when Jason throws something. Pausing, you listen to the echoing thud followed by a quiet slap as whatever it is hits the floor.
“Casualty or friendly fire?” you inquire, pulling dinner from the oven.
“This book has a movie cover,” Jason answers. He steps into view, pinching the book between his fingers as he moves toward the garbage can. “That’s sacrilegious.”
Nodding, you set your oven mitts aside and take the offending material from him.
“It’s Pride and Prejudice,” you realize. “With the 2005 poster. Aren’t you the same guy who told me Kiera Knightley and Matthew McFadyen were hot enough to inspire a generation of readers to lean into their Austen-ian desires?”
“I said something along those lines,” Jason admits softly, “only as endorsement for the movie. If they’re going to put people on the covers, they could just as easily put me and you on it. A movie poster is nothing more than a cheap scheme to make people buy both the book and the movie.”
“Me and you?” you repeat with a smile. “Think we’re as hot as Kiera and Matthew?”
“Hotter,” he corrects decidedly. “One of us at least.”
“Then pose with Kiera,” you scoff playfully. “What are we doing with the book? You’ve been wanting to learn bookbinding.”
“Uh, no. You have been wanting to learn bookbinding. Or wanting me to learn it for you.” He raises a hand when you open your mouth and adds, “I have approximately seventy reels from you in my DMs that support my case.”
“Point stands.”
Jason exhales, taking the book from you as he nods. He tosses it over his shoulder and pulls you against his chest when you utter a disappointed noise.
“We can order the stuff to try tomorrow,” he offers, hugging you tightly. “But the cover is going in the trash tonight.”
“Deal. Now wash your hands; dinner’s ready.”
Jason pulls away from you slowly, letting his hands drag across your waist until he’s at the sink. He watches you move in his periphery, smiling to himself when your tongue peeks past your lips as you gather the necessary silverware.
Jason grunts when he bends to retrieve the book from the floor. He rips the cover off cleanly, scowling at it as he opens the trash can. Before he can drop it in, his attention is stolen by something already in the trash.
“Jay?” you call, noticing his stiff posture and focus in the trash can. “You alright? Planning a speech on the capitalistic driver behind movie covers?”
“There’s blood,” Jason whispers. The cover creases in his hand as his hands curl into fists.
“Oh. Yeah. I cut myself earlier, but I’m all good now,” you assure him.
But Jason doesn’t look away from the reddened towel. He blinks quickly, like he’s willing it to disappear.
“I’ll take the bag out,” you offer, closer to him now. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left it visible like that.”
“‘M not scared of blood,” Jason grumbles.
“I know. But you’ve been through so much, seen so much. I should be sensitive to-”
Jason drops the cover and captures your wrist when you reach for the trash bag. He finally lifts his eyes to look at you.
“Where?” he asks.
Tapping your forearm, you point to the bandage. “It’s just a scratch,” you murmur. “I’m fine.”
“Was I here?” he checks, brushing a calloused finger over your arm and smiling when you shiver.
“Yes,” you admit.
“You should have told me.”
“Jay,” you sigh.
“I don’t care if it was just a scratch. If you so much as stub your toe, I want to know.”
“And if I’m clumsy and run into something every five minutes?”
Jason lifts his other hand to your face, holding you carefully. “Then tell me.”
“Why?”
“Because I care,” he confesses. “And I need to know you’re safe. Maybe… Maybe I need to know that you know I’m here for you, too.”
Smiling, you nod against his hand. “I promise I’ll try to remember to tell you.”
“My independent girl,” he mumbles before kissing you.
“Dinner,” you remind him when he pushes you against the counter.
Jason steps back with a sigh, then moves to the stove to put the food on plates.
“Does it hurt?” he checks.
“Only if you want to kiss it better,” you joke. “The movie cover hurt worse.”
“Want to watch that binding tutorial you found?”
“Yes!” you agree excitedly. “And maybe when we order everything, we can get fabric samples too!”
Jason sets his plate aside, turns, and grasps your shoulders. “Baby,” he sighs, shaking his head. “We’re not doing a… what’s it called? A color analysis?”
“But Steph got one and she said it was so fun,” you argue. “You don’t want me to have fun?”
“Steph got hers done by a professional on her trip to South Korea. We’re not paying for fabric samples so I can tell you that you look good in everything. If you actually want one, just ask Bruce to get you one. He will.”
“What if I want your input?”
“I just told you. You look good in everything. Better if the clothes are mine.” He smiles and leans closer to whisper, “Or when you aren’t wearing any-”
“Dinner!” you remember, ducking your chin. “And that tutorial. Maybe Fellowship of the Ring after?”
“I don’t know,” Jason muses, carrying your plates to the couch. “I think you sold me on the fabric thing.”
Groaning, you fall against his shoulder. He pinches the sweatshirt you’re wearing but chooses to kiss your head rather than comment on the fact that it’s his.
“Fellowship of the Ring sounds good,” he agrees. “As does using Bruce’s credit card for the craft supplies.”
“You’re too good to me,” you sigh.
“And you’re hotter than Kiera Knightley.”
You smile, then remember, “I fell down the stairs at the manor this morning. Since you wanted to know.”
“Maybe we should try a hobby that doesn’t involve so many tools then,” Jason suggests.
You kiss his cheek and point out, “Or maybe you could help me.”
He starts the video, stealing glances at you throughout dinner and well into the night. Maybe the two of you should be on the cover of a romance novel.
hiii what do u think is the most pet nickname used by each dc man (like bruce, dick, hal, roy etc)
BRUCE WAYNE -- "sweetheart"
def would be one of the main nicknames he'd call you. he's seen how love is expressed thru his parents and i would def see thomas call martha that. i think it would be even more meaningful to him if you two were married, calling you "sweetheart" softly with a voice reserved for you and only you: a contrast to the brooding voice he'd put on as batman or the fake charisma cocky voice he'd put on as "brucie" wayne
CLARK KENT -- "honey"
NO EXPLANATION NEEDED!!! like bruce, clark also saw how love was expressed thru his parents, jonathan and martha. i can def def DEF see his kansas accent slip a little bit whenever he'd call you "honey" (or any other nickname that's similar or cheesy in that lovestruck way lol) with that cheerful tone that never fails to brighten up ur entire day, no matter how bad of a day you've had
HAL JORDAN -- "angel"
okay this one i lowkey dont have much of an explanation for. it just sort of fits him right ifykwim, esp since he's always been portrayed as a charismatic and confident man. ntm he's was also part of the air force a long time ago (idk how thats relevant help) idk why but the idea of hal jordan calling you "angel" with that playful tone and his signature grin just fits more right than goldilocks and the three bears
JASON TODD -- "baby"
you're gonna have to give him grace when it comes to pet names LMAO. unlike others, he didn't have a good example of a healthy relationship during his childhood, hence why he often struggled with relationships. but with you, he was gentle-- almost scared-- to hold you in his hands, afraid that his blood stained hands would leave marks on you too. but as time passes by, you'd get used to jason calling you "baby", trying to sound casual but not hiding the fondness
help these were the ones that came in my mind and im lowkey too tired and drained to add more characters 😔 also bye i just realized how i use like the same five pet names for every character (tell me you've never been in a relationship without telling me you've never been in a relationship)
cw: reader wears makeup, fluffy with a capital f, very short
Jason Todd loves to watch you when you do your makeup. He’s in absolute awe with your precision and skill.
He also loves asking you questions every time.
“how’d you do that?” He asks when you apply your eyeliner. “It matches your other eye perfectly.”
you roll your eyes playfully. “Shut up, it does not. They look like inbred cousins and they’re supposed to look like twins.”
he gave you a kiss on the cheek. “You need to stop criticizing yourself.”
he’s also terrified of your eyelash curler. Jason Todd has faced countless criminals and villains, and even death, but watching you use an eyelash curler makes him shiver.
“How does that not rip out your eyelashes?!”
“Lots of practice. Also you don’t pull on it. You keep it in the same spot at all times.”
He watches you in awe every morning as you get ready for work. Of course he thinks you’re gorgeous without makeup, but he knows you enjoy doing it.
“You know you don’t need makeup, right? You’re gorgeous with and without it,” he tells you almost every morning.
“I know,” you reply, your confidence has always amazed him, “but it’s fun. It’s like I’m painting a portrait of myself.”
He gives you kisses after you finish every step. And once you’ve finished your whole routine and you’re about to walk through the door, he stops you for a minute just to murmur “my pretty girl” and give you a kiss.
okay, it’s more like ten kisses but who’s keeping track?
a/n: if you like this please like, reblog, comment, and check out my other works!!
‣ jason is the type to act annoyed when you steal his hoodies, but secretly loves seeing you wear them. every single time he catches you walking around in one of his oversized sweatshirts, he'll roll his eyes and tell you that you have your own clothes. the thing is, he never actually asks for them back. in fact, he'll intentionally leave his favorite hoodies draped over chairs or hanging by the door because he knows you'll take them. if you ever return one, he'll probably stare at it for a second and ask why you aren't wearing it anymore.
‣ he leaves his books everywhere. you swear he owns multiple bookshelves, but somehow every surface in the apartment ends up covered in novels. there'll be one on the kitchen counter, three on the coffee table, and another balanced on the arm of the couch. sometimes you'll pick one up to move it and find little sticky notes that have scribbled writing fall out of them. jason claims he's organized because he "knows where everything is," but you'll never understand how he manages to locate a specific book among the chaos.
‣ grocery shopping with him is dangerous. you'll enter the store with a perfectly reasonable shopping list and leave wondering how the bill doubled. jason somehow sneaks random snacks into the cart whenever you're distracted. you'll be comparing pasta brands, then look down and discover three different types of cookies and enough cereal to survive an apocalypse. the worst part is that he always acts innocent when you call him out, even though he's absolutely guilty.
‣ he loves cooking for you. jason genuinely enjoys being in the kitchen, especially when he's making something he knows you'll love. if you've had a bad day, he'll quietly start cooking before you even have a chance to complain about it. the apartment fills with the smell of your favorite meal, and suddenly the day feels a little less awful. he'll act like it's no big deal, but he pays attention to every little thing you like and remembers it.
‣ movie nights are mandatory. jason will complain endlessly if you choose a romantic movie, claiming they're all predictable. then he'll proceed to watch the entire thing while providing commentary on every scene. he gets weirdly invested in side characters and starts making predictions about the plot halfway through. if he's right, he'll spend the rest of the night bragging about it. if he's wrong, he'll insist the writers changed the ending just to spite him.
‣ jason pretends he doesn't like cuddling. if anyone asked him, he'd probably deny being affectionate at all. yet somehow every movie night ends with him stretched across half your body. he'll start by sitting on the opposite side of the couch, then gradually move closer until you're practically trapped beneath him. once he's comfortable, he's not moving for anything. at that point, you've basically become his personal pillow.
‣ he remembers tiny details about you. jason notices things most people overlook and stores them away without saying anything. he remembers your coffee order, your favorite candy, and which songs you always replay in the car. weeks later, he'll casually show up with your favorite drink and act like it's nothing special. meanwhile, you're standing there wondering how he remembered something you mentioned once three months ago. he'll never admit how much attention he pays to you.
‣ arguments never last long. jason can absolutely be stubborn when he's upset. he'll cross his arms, glare at the wall, and insist he's fine when he's clearly not. but no matter how irritated he is, he hates sleeping while things are unresolved between you. eventually he'll wander into the room and sit beside you in silence for a minute before quietly asking, "you still mad?"
‣ the apartment is filled with little signs of him caring. your phone charger mysteriously gets replaced before you even realize the old one is broken. your favorite snacks somehow appear in the pantry whenever you run out. the blanket you always steal is folded neatly on the couch after he notices you left it somewhere else. jason isn't always great at expressing his feelings out loud, so he shows them through actions instead. the apartment becomes full of tiny reminders that he's always thinking about you.
‣ he absolutely loves when you read while he's reading. some of his favorite moments are the quiet ones where neither of you says much. you'll be curled up together on the couch, each lost in your own book for hours. every once in a while he'll read a line he likes and slide the book over for you to see. there's no pressure to fill the silence because being together is enough. to jason, those peaceful moments feel just as meaningful as any big romantic gesture.
After decades of war, Bucky finally finds some peace — until a broken kid who mirrors his past forces him to consider forgiving himself enough to start living.
▸ PAIRING & WC: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader — 3.8K
▸ WARNINGS: Insecurities, Bucky is grappling with forgiving himself, some mentions of canon-typical violence, comics!bucky so different technically from mcu!bucky
▸ A/N: wrote this when i was getting into reading comics and read the winter soldier (2018), highly recommend even if it's different from mcu bucky! anyways i loved seeing bucky in his big brother/parental role but also reckoning with the concept of forgiveness and second chances, and ended up with this idea. a lil different but hope you enjoy!
When Bucky defected from HYDRA, he never thought he would ever build himself another home. He could’ve gone back with Steve and stayed in New York. He could’ve stopped in his parents’ hometown in Romania to lay low. Hell, he could’ve landed himself in a cozy prison cell on an isolated island if the government didn’t pardon him for all his crimes as the Winter Soldier.
Instead, Bucky chose to go home. Back to where it all started. Shelbyville, Indiana.
After his parents passed, the deed to the home passed on to him. If he were to decide between a shoebox in the big city or a not-so-little house on the prairie, it’s a no-brainer. After years of war, or at least that’s all he remembers, it’s nice to be somewhere quiet where he starts his morning with birdsongs and the sounds of life.
There’s also you. You’re the cherry on top of his much-needed sundae. You — his neighbor who spends your days toiling away at your farm, helping out with markets in town, running community fairs. An all-around girl-next-door.
He had been worried about what people might think about him moving in here. After all, his case had been highly publicized. But this little town had welcomed him with open arms. They remembered his parents and made space for Bucky to slip right back in.
You had been a big help in his transition into the town. Showing him around town, inviting him to dinners with your friends, and even doing weekly movie nights with him. With you, Bucky finds parts of himself that he may have lost. You look at him with faith. You don’t see what he sees when he looks in the mirror.
Not an ex-assassin. Not some hundred-year-old grump. Just Bucky.
Now, life should be all fine and dandy, right? Right. Except, Bucky has been thrown another curveball that he isn’t quite sure how to manage.
When he pledged to use his powers for the greater good, he knew he wanted to focus his efforts on giving people a second chance. These are powers that he never asked for, but are ones he still has all the same. As they say, with great power comes great responsibility.
Trading one massive organization for another, Bucky decided to join SHIELD — or at least do some contract work for them. He only takes on jobs that give people an opportunity to make amends. To make right all the wrongs as best they can. Think of it as a product of his guilty conscience.
In this line of work, he never expected to stumble into the path of RJ Boyle.
Well, stumble is an understatement. RJ had been sent to commit cold-blooded murder against him, vibranium sword in hand to take out Bucky’s own arm. The kid was lethal, trained to be the near-perfect child soldier. He was arrogant and mouthy — and a little bit broken.
This kid is just that. A kid. A kid born into unfortunate circumstances. A kid whose weaknesses, whose vulnerability, had been used against him. Bucky knows more than anyone how HYDRA works; they break you down to build you back up, mold you into whoever they want you to be.
It’s like looking at a reflection of himself. Younger. Angrier.
It’s why Bucky decided to take him home — to his home. Show him a slice of the peace that he has managed to create since he left. Show him what his life could be outside of HYDRA. No longer does he need to follow orders to survive. He could just live.
But it’s hard to teach someone how to live when he himself is not yet familiar with the concept. He still has one foot in the real world and the other in the past. Shelbyville has become his safe haven, but parts of it still feel foreign to him. It’s like he’s playing house in a place that is not his. A story that doesn’t belong him, that is being narrated by someone else. A puppeteer from high above.
RJ probably feels the same way, especially since Bucky uprooted him from the only thing he knows. Every time he thinks about this, that vein in his head pulses for attention.
“You need to cut yourself some slack,” you smile at him, setting the coffee cup on the table.
Bucky presses his fingers against his forehead, hoping that some of the pressure would ease his throbbing mind. He offers a grateful smile in return as he tips the cup back to his lips. “Thank you, needed this,” he murmurs.
“Well, you do only come to me when you need coffee and eggs,” you say with a smirk, leaning back against your kitchen counter as your eyes sparkle at Bucky at your dining table.
His heart slams against his ribcage, a common response to the way you curl your lips so easily at him. Part of him deep inside screams that he wants more than coffee and eggs, an internal voice begging to be declared out loud. He wants mornings and evenings with you. He wants to wake up with your face nuzzled up against his chest or the whiff of your lavender shampoo lulling him to sleep. But he doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants just yet. Not when it’s something that’s for him and only for him.
Oblivious to his mental turmoil, you continue, “How’s the kid doing?”
When he took him in, he thought RJ would be thankful, that he would want this as much as Bucky had. But he knows better than anyone that you can’t just transition someone from a life built on pure survival and instinct and battle scars into a suburban, fictitious fairytale without consequences.
For the first time in a while, Bucky has to admit that he is at a loss. He is dealing with a trained child assassin who is clearly traumatized from decades of having his brain torn apart, washed, rinsed, and repeated. Trained to do what he was told to do to stay alive.
It also doesn’t help that the kid is a teenager, which means he is dealing with a severe case of age-appropriate rebellion.
Doc Sampson, Bucky’s godsend of a therapist, is still working with him but obviously doctor-patient confidentiality prevents him from actually sharing anything meaningful. Bucky is constantly tempted to break into the office and steal the files, but he thinks that may be crossing some ethical and personal lines.
“I…” he pauses, “I don’t know.” His answer is honest, desperate even. “Never raised a kid before. He’s not my biggest fan, which isn’t surprising since he did try to kill me. Failed, but tried nonetheless.”
“You’re a first-time parent. He’s a kid with a temper. Give yourself some grace. It’ll take him a bit to warm up. Going from back-to-back wars and missions to a quiet farmhouse with sheep bleating in your backyard is a big change.”
Bucky understands that. The lack of stimulation and noise out here is something he had to get used to. His fingers are always itching to do something — anything. He wants to throw the white noise machine that Sharon had gifted him as a joke out the window.
“Raising goats is easier than this.”
You laugh and the sound is sugar in his veins. He’s an addict and he’s not even sure he wants to quit. “Not as expensive too, but also presumably less rewarding. RJ seems like a good kid, I wouldn’t stress too much. He’ll come around.”
He wonders how you could say that so easily. Confidence laced into your syllables when you’ve barely met the kid. The only time RJ said more than a word to you was the first time you came over, saw him on the couch, looked at Bucky, and said, “I didn’t know you had a brother.”
RJ was quick to point out, “He’s not my brother!”
Ouch.
“You’ve got a lot of faith in people,” Bucky mutters under his breath.
“Never had a reason not to,” you shrug. “Life gave me good people. It brought me you, didn’t it?”
A blush is quick to furiously sprawl across his face, burning the skin with the heat of a thousand blazing suns. His lips unconsciously stretch into a ridiculously wide grin and he has to hide his childish delight behind the mask of his mug. Part of him knows that you like to tease him, say sweet nothings to see him squirm. Even now, he can see that devious little twinkle in his eye. Still, he can’t help but drink your compliments in like a man starved for affection — which he is.
“Don’t get shy on me, soldier,” you grin at him again, eyes cataloging his face to identify what shade of scarlet he has turned into this time.
It’s almost shameful how obvious he is with his crush. He might as well be writing your name on the margins and praying that you would say yes to sitting with him at lunchtime. Before he got turned into the Winter Soldier, before he replaced an arm with a hunk of metal, Bucky liked to think he was better with women. He was suave. He was charming. He always knew the right things to say.
With you, he is in a perpetual state of being tongue-tied and carrying the perfect color of sunburnt. He is the epitome of constant embarrassment.
He didn’t think it could get worse — he’s heard enough of Sharon’s not yet, Barnes? and Tony’s wow, you’re embarrassingly slow for a super soldier — but even RJ, who has been here all of five minutes, has caught on.
The two of them are on a quick rendezvous to extract a former HYDRA scientist and relocate him into Sharon’s very safe hands. Right before they left, you had leaned against his doorframe, having visited to drop off some eggs.
“Dinner tonight?” You ask. “I can whip up some food for you and RJ if you aren’t back too late.”
Bucky should be focused on preparing for his mission. He’s mentally calculating the travel time while also counting the number of lashes in your eyes. You’re an incredibly delicious distraction in your dirt-covered overalls.
He can only dumbly respond with, “Hm?”
“I said I’ll get kidnapped by aliens before you come back.”
Jerking up from looking at his gear, he cocks a brow at you. “Uh, dinner, right? You said dinner.”
“Yes, soldier.”
Bucky clears his throat, feeling that familiar weight of gratitude sit on his chest. “Dinner sounds good. You don’t have to, though. We’ll probably be back late.”
“I can put something in your fridge.”
“You really don’t have to do that. We’ll raincheck it.”
“Always too busy for me, sarge.”
Bucky freezes, eyes darting up to meet yours. Are you saying— no, it can’t be right? You have so many friends. You probably have suitors lined up at your door, he should know this since he’s always checking on your front porch.
But there’s no way that you would be flirting with him. Not seriously at least. “I’m not… too busy.”
You only hum, arms crossed over your chest. “Good luck. Be safe.”
He hates these moments the most. Leaving you behind. You’re not even his and he dreads the idea of saying goodbye to you before he jets off to his next mission. He never knows if this will be the last time he’ll see you, if he’ll get picked off without ever telling you how he feels about you.
But then there is that niggling reminder that nudges the back of his brain, the one that drops a heaviness on his chest that makes the words on his tongue taste like lead. So he doesn’t say it.
So he does what he always does. He murmurs his thanks before he slips onto his bike with RJ on his back. As he drives away, he watches your shrinking silhouette from his rearview mirror until you’re a speck in the distance.
Now, he and RJ are both on the lookout in this cabin.
“Dude, you’re so lame.”
“What?” Bucky frowns, still frowning out into the woods as his most recent target packs up his bag. When RJ doesn’t respond, Bucky reluctantly drags his eyes away to focus on the kid next to him. “What are you talking about? Also, did you really just call me dude?”
“You’re sitting here mooning over a woman who lives right down the street from you. You spend every second of free time you have with her and you still can’t ask her out?”
The kid may as well have struck him with a bullet, a clean shot straight through his chest. Bucky knows he isn’t exactly subtle about his affections, but he didn’t think he was that obvious either. At least, not to a point where even a moody, indifferent teenager would realize that he’s been secretly pining over his neighbor for the better part of his time here.
“It’s not that simple, alright. Focus on the mission,” he grumbles, redirecting his gaze back into the quiet woods. He should concentrate on keeping the man safe, keeping RJ safe.
Except, now he’s thinking about you and what you’re doing, so he isn’t exactly functioning at a hundred percent.
“I’m just saying, it’s kind of pathetic to see you like this. I thought the Winter Soldier was supposed to be formidable.”
Bucky releases another grunt as he waves the kid away. “I don’t go by that moniker anymore.”
“Can’t erase your past, dude. So what’s the hold up?”
The answer sits on the tip of his tongue. The words, the truth, are there. But it’s not one he is fully ready to reckon with yet. It’s not a problem with a solution, not an easy one at least. Not one that may even come in his lifetime.
Saying it out loud would be admitting defeat. It’s a confession that he would never even say to a priest, let alone the kid next to him. It is a surrender he isn’t ready to commit to, especially when it means giving you up. It means being selfless one more time.
When the two of them return home, exhaustion sitting heavy on his shoulders, Bucky instinctively goes to the fridge first. He already knows what he’s going to see there, but the anticipation still has his blood thrumming in his veins. The cool air greets him before he is met with the sight of tupperwares stacked on the glass shelves. Inside, he spots his favorite dishes in a true farm-to-table experience.
It’s a sight he welcomes and appreciates whenever he goes on these late-night extractions. It only took one comment from him about how he’s terrible with maintaining his schedule for you to step up and take the mantle.
It is in this moment of weakness, when his heart feels more tender in his chest, that he lets the admission slip.
At first, it is only to the silence of his home. But Bucky’s no longer alone.
His words are barely above a whisper, as if he is praying that the chilly night air would swallow them up and whisk them away. “I’ve done a lot of things. Things I’m not proud of. Things that I probably can never forgive myself for. While I’ve been working on atoning for my sins, it’s my burden to bear. I don’t want her to shoulder that with me.”
The fridge closes with a quiet thump as desolation swiftly sinks into his bones, like the swipe of a blade across his artery. The good doctor has always told him that it’s normal to carry the guilt, but that he shouldn’t let it linger. However, when his entire life has been riddled with a darkness that breeds that conscience unconsciously, Bucky has never learned any different.
What he doesn’t expect is for RJ to say, “You’re a fucking hypocrite.”
His brows instantly furrow as he turns to look at the kid.
RJ rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his body as he glares at Bucky. His gaze is a mix of irritation and fury, tinged with a disappointment that hits harder than anything else. “You’re the one who told me that you knew what it’s like to have your life stolen from you, that you knew what it’s like to take it back. You told me that I wasn’t alone, that I didn’t have to be. But you can’t even practice what you preach, so how am I supposed to trust you?”
It’s ice cold in his veins. Like he’s been struck by lightning. Bucky knows he’s right, he’s always known it deep down. The demons that live in his mind will persist, but they shouldn’t stop him from trying to get some semblance of normalcy in his life. To find love and happiness again. It had been a dream once upon a time — the house with the white picket fence and children running across the lawn — but that dream has changed.
The vision has morphed into a life that combines his past, present, and future. A life of protecting those who need it most, a life of living in the peace of his current existence, and a life of pursuing this lifelong fantasy to turn it into a reality.
And all he has to do is take the first step forward. He has to gather the courage and stuff down pieces of his bitter guilt one at a time until he can live with himself again. Until he can forgive himself and realize that he deserves it.
Deserves better things. Deserves you.
RJ won’t believe that redemption is possible unless Bucky believes in it himself. So he swallows thickly, resolve hardening in his veins. “Alright then, watch me.”
The kid gives him a questioning look, following hot on his trail as Bucky marches out the door into the midnight that blankets his lawn. Your place is right next door, visible enough from his porch where RJ stands with a flickering light. Alpine curls around the kid’s legs curiously.
His fist lifts and he moves on habit alone. He knocks on your door three times as he always does.
When you open the door, clearly half awake and rubbing the sleep from your eyes, he stills. “Buck?” Your voice is a little raspy, the way it is in the morning when Bucky comes a few minutes too early. “What’s going on?”
“Shit, sorry, did I wake you up?”
Maybe he should’ve thought this through. He doesn’t even know what time it is. He probably looks like an asshole banging on your door at this forsaken hour. He’s also a mess. He smells like sweat, dirt, and gasoline. Adrenaline pumps through him faster than those hours earlier under the threat of enemy fire.
What he should’ve done was shower, sleep, buy some fresh flowers from the farmer’s market, then ask you out at a normal hour. Like a normal person.
But when he glances at his house again, RJ waiting expectantly with that damned cocky eyebrow raised, he knows he can’t back down now.
You yawn and stretch, a sliver of skin exposing as your shirt lifts. Bucky swallows. He needs to keep it together. “I fell asleep on the couch so I needed to get up to move to my bed anyway. What’s up?”
Don’t think about you in bed. Do not. He is not a child, he has self-control. Or so he likes to think. But then he sees the poutiness of your lips and Bucky has to subtly pinch himself to stop himself from kissing you.
Because that would be crazy.
Right?
Once again, the words fall off somewhere in their journey from his heart to his mouth. His heart stutters against his ribs, flesh pulsing against his bones. His eyes dart around in search of comfort.
And they land on you with your kind eyes and your bare feet. They land on RJ who stands there slightly doubtful, slightly hopeful. They land on Alpine who still regards him with cool affection, but a year of trust. They land on his home, this land, and the stretch of space between all of the things that formulate his life today. The redemption he is working towards. The peace etched onto every surface. The work in progress that persists.
And he braves himself.
With a deep breath, he smiles gently at you. “I was wondering if you wanted to go out with me.”
Your lips quirk up as you slump against the doorway, tilting your head in that way that makes him want to kiss you senseless. “Came over at midnight to get a booty call? Bold even for you, Barnes.”
Bucky chokes on nothing. Absolutely nothing. Panic flares at his chest over how his actions look. Of course, you’d think he’s being a complete and utter fool. A dog that his parents would be ashamed of. “No, not a— definitely not. Not that I wouldn’t appreciate that, but I figured I should take you out to dinner first. I want to take you out to dinner first. That Italian place down Second Street, the one with the green logo with the ravio that you like. I thought—”
A warm hand settles on his arm. “I’d love to,” you interrupt softly, “tonight at seven?”
He clears his throat, nodding his head a little too eagerly. “Yes, I can pick you up.” Which sounds dumb in hindsight because he lives right down the street.
“On that death trap?” You eye his bike warily. “Absolutely not. I’ll meet you there.”
“No, I’ll get a car. I’ll borrow someone’s.”
You snort softly, lips twitching with a smile. “How about I pick you up in my car? Don’t need a knight picking me up on his white steed.”
Bucky tinges pink again. Good thing it’s dark out. “Sounds good.”
“See you tomorrow night, sarge.” Your voice is still gentle, kind. Then you look over his shoulder and wave at the sight behind him. “Night, RJ! Alpine!”
He watches from his periphery as RJ gives a small wave back. For the first time in a very long time, his chest feels lighter — not in a way that it is empty, but that it is alive with hope. When he catches the shit-eating grin on RJ’s face and Alpine’s look of I-told-you-so, that voice inside his head quiets.
Perhaps redemption is not his acts of heroism to compensate for the guilt that plagues his every slumber. Perhaps redemption comes in the unsaid forgiveness, the acts of kindness, and the optimism for something more. It starts with coffee and eggs and a promise of dinner at seven.
As he stands on that porch, Bucky finally lets himself believe it, even a little — that he’s home, that he’s healing, and that this time, he might just deserve it.
+ sam: thank you for reading if you've made it this far!! see below for one of the scenes that inspired this fic! obviously not fully canon compliant but yknow it's the vibes
Summary: The social season begins with the promise of the same old rituals: candlelit balls, measured conversation, and carefully arranged marriages. However, everything changes with the arrival of Dr. Barnes. Reserved, extraordinarily wealthy, and unnaturally handsome, the mysterious doctor immediately captivates London society. His impeccable bearing, sharp intellect, and vast knowledge have earned him a place among the elite, as well as the absolute trust of the Earl of Albemarle, who invites him into the most exclusive salons and introduces him as an irreproachable gentleman. For you, the daughter of a marquis, raised under the weight of duty and expectations, Dr. Barnes is a temptation you must never allow yourself. He does not belong to your world... and yet, he seems to understand you like no one else. But the love that begins to blossom between you is not only inappropriate: it is dangerous and impossible. For Dr. Barnes harbors an ancient and dark secret, one that dooms any hope of a shared future.
Tags: MDNI, +18, strangers to lovers, slow burn, mutual longing, attempt at a gothic romance, set during the Regency period (yeah, this is like Bridgerton x Twilight), Bucky is a vampire, Bucky is a doctor, vampire abilities (Dreamwalker and typical vampire abilities), age difference (again, Bucky is a vampire), discrimination for not belonging to the nobility, reader is 20 years old, reader is the daughter of a marquis, arranged marriages, machism of the period, limitations of women of the period, age differences in marriages, reader with her own desires, panic attacks, reader's mother is dead, very complicated relationship between reader and her father, possible historical errors, possible grammatical errors since English is not my native language.
The morning of your presentation dawned gray.
Not with a dramatic storm or a sky heavy with lightning, but with that particular kind of London sky covered in pale clouds that seemed to drain the color from everything they touched. The light was dull, almost sickly, filtering weakly through the clouds as though even the sun had decided to watch the day from a distance.
For you, there was no color at all.
There was no excitement.
No anticipation.
Only that persistent feeling of loss and emptiness settling heavily in your chest.
It was the beginning of a future that filled you with no hope.
It was the beginning of a life you did not want to live.
The night before, you had wished for rain.
Not a light drizzle, but a relentless storm that would turn the streets into rivers of mud and force everyone to remain inside their homes. You had imagined your father staring out the window in disgust, refusing to risk his reputation — and your white dress — in such dreadful weather.
But the sky had decided to remain merely overcast. Now, as the carriage moved slowly through an endless line of elegant vehicles outside the palace, your hands rested perfectly upon your lap.
Still.
Calm.
Every finger placed exactly where it ought to be.
You looked every bit the proper and elegant young lady.
Your governess would have been proud.
Your father also seemed satisfied… in part. Only in part, because he would never be completely satisfied when it came to you.
From the seat across from you, he watched with that same evaluating gaze he always used whenever something belonged to his reputation. Your dress was impeccable. Your posture correct. Your hair perfectly arranged.
Soft.
Delicate.
Modest.
Everything a marquis’s daughter was meant to be.
And yet he still disliked you.
Especially your expression.
Too serious.
Too empty.
Too much like mourning — though he would never admit such a thing and would always cling to the belief that it was merely rebellion.
Leah, seated beside you, remained silent. Her hands rested together on her skirt, her gaze lowered to a nonexistent point inside the carriage. You did not need to look at her to know what she was thinking. She understood far too well what this day meant to you.
At last, the carriage came to a stop.
Through the window, you could see other young women stepping down: white dresses, long gloves, delicate feathers adorning carefully crafted hairstyles.
All molded from the same pattern in which they had been raised.
Perfect young ladies, prepared to be… chosen.
A footman opened the door.
Your father descended first, immaculate in his dark suit and wearing the stern expression reserved for official occasions. Then he offered you his hand.
“Remember what is expected of you.” He said quietly as he helped you down.
It was not advice. It was a warning.
The interior of the palace was even more imposing than the exterior façade.
The marble floors gleamed like mirrors beneath the chandelier light. Uniformed servants guided families through the vast corridors while a constant murmur of elegant voices filled the air.
Perfume, feathers, and nerves floated everywhere.
The debutantes waited in an antechamber.
As you entered, the sound of conversation softened, becoming more nervous.
Some young women discreetly practiced their curtsies. Others adjusted details of their gowns or hairstyles. A few whispered among themselves, trying to guess who would become the queen’s favorite that season.
Your father was immediately absorbed into conversation with other nobles.
For the first time in weeks, you felt the urge to cry. Panic began to slip slowly through your body like ice beneath your skin. A chill formed in your abdomen. Your breathing, already restricted by the corset compressing your waist to impossibility, became uneven — too fast and too shallow. You could even feel your breakfast slowly rising in your throat.
The murmur of the room began to fade around you, as though the world were being covered in cotton. Your vision narrowed. Your hands started to grow cold.
The only thing that managed to pull you from the beginning of that storm was Leah’s voice… and her warm hand resting against your forearm.
“Breathe.” She whispered.
“I am breathing.”
“Not enough.”
A young woman beside you let out a trembling sigh, born from a fear entirely different from yours.
“They say the queen knows immediately who will be a success during the season and who will become a spinster.”
Another replied:
“My cousin fainted during her presentation.”
Leah shot you an amused glance, trying to anchor you back to reality.
“Do not do that.”
You managed something resembling a laugh.
“I was not planning to, but it is a good idea.”
A royal butler then entered the room. His face was stern, and the countless wrinkles around his eyes made it obvious how many generations of debutantes he had watched pass through that chamber.
He probably also knows who will be a success and who will become a spinster, you thought.
“The young ladies will be called in order.” He announced firmly.
The murmur died almost instantly, and you would have wagered that some debutantes and their mothers had stopped breathing entirely from nerves.
One by one, names began to be called.
Each debutante crossed the double doors into the grand hall where the queen awaited, ready to examine each of them from head to toe. After several minutes they would return — some radiant, certain they had pleased the queen or buoyed by a kind remark from her, while others came back pale as paper or with tears already slipping down their cheeks.
Your turn arrived sooner than you expected.
“The daughter of the Marquess of Blackthorne, accompanied by the Right Honorable Lady Blackthorne.”
You exhaled slowly as the white doors opened before you.
For one second, your heart stopped beating.
Your mind disconnected.
It was as though a part of you had shut down… simply to get through that moment as quickly as possible.
Your face remained perfectly composed, wearing the flawless smile expected of you.
Hundreds of eyes turned toward you the instant you entered. Nobles lined both sides of the hall watched with restrained interest while the soft music of a small string ensemble filled the space.
At the far end of the hall, upon a small platform, sat the queen.
Majestic.
Dressed in shimmering silks and jewels that captured the light of the room. Her posture was flawless, her expression impossible to read.
You walked down the center of the hall.
Every step was measured and graceful.
Your white gown glided softly across the polished floor while its train was carried by a page and Leah walked several steps behind you.
When you finally reached the throne, you stopped, holding your breath once more, and performed a deep, perfect curtsy full of respect while keeping your gaze lowered to the floor.
The silence lasted only a moment.
Then the queen spoke your name, her voice curiously warm.
“We have heard that your debut has been highly anticipated.”
You carefully lifted your gaze, feeling the knot in your stomach tighten beneath such unexpected attention from the queen.
That attention could only mean one thing.
More eyes upon you.
More suitors.
More expectations.
“It is an honor to stand before Your Majesty.”
The queen observed you for several seconds that seemed to stretch far longer than they should have.
Her eyes were sharp, far too perceptive, as though she were seeing something beyond your dress, your posture, or your surname. Then, a small smile appeared on her lips.
Under different circumstances, it would have filled you with pride, but now it only made you feel as though your ruin was drawing near.
“A young lady with… interesting poise.”
The comment stirred a faint murmur among the nearby nobles.
The queen lifted her hand slightly.
“Enjoy the season.”
It was a dismissal.
You curtsied once more before carefully stepping back.
When you turned to leave the hall, you felt the weight of all those male gazes upon you again.
Evaluating.
Calculating.
Imagining possible futures.
The doors opened once more to let you pass.
And you walked down the corridor far too quickly, feeling as though your heart were trying to escape your chest while the air around you once again became scarce.
Leah’s voice reached you from behind, distant and muffled, though in reality she was only a few steps away, trying to catch up to you as quickly as your gown and slippers allowed.
The only thing you wanted was to flee in the carriage and never leave the house again.
☆
Sitting before the mirror, all you could see was your reflection being carefully prepared by the maids. Being painted to appear softer and sweeter, your hair arranged meticulously into an elegant updo that made you look more refined.
Your gown — chosen by your father, of course — was made of ivory silk with delicate embroidery that captured the candlelight. It had been designed to make you appear exactly as society wished to see you: a young lady ready to be taken as a wife, nothing more.
The ball held by the new Earls of Albemarle terrified you. Though you were not the girl for whom the queen had risen from her seat to lift her chin and proudly declare her perfect, you had still received praise that, while small, carried significance within the marriage market.
The soft sound of your bedroom door opening pulled you from your thoughts for a moment, directing your attention toward Leah’s reflection as she entered carrying a flat square box of red velvet in her hands.
The maid, who had just finished placing a delicate tiara upon your head, stepped back to allow you to rise.
Leah looked you over from head to toe, releasing a restrained sigh as a faint smile appeared on her lips. A smile that said you looked beautiful, while also mourning the fact that you were about to enter a world you never wished to belong to.
“Your father said you were to wear this for your first ball.” She said as she handed the velvet box to the maid.
The moment the flat box was opened before you, your breath caught as you recognized the diamond necklace and earrings that had been gifted by the queen generations ago. The same necklace your mother had worn in that portrait hanging in your father’s study. The same necklace worn by so many women in your family.
Leah carefully lifted the necklace and fastened it around your neck, and the moment the clasp clicked shut behind you, you felt the weight of it — not merely the jewelry itself, but the weight of your father’s message.
Your life would be the same as your mother’s.
The earrings were placed into your hands, and with trembling fingers you slowly put them on one by one.
“I know this isn't what you want... But the queen's kindness might turn out to be a blessing in disguise; it might make it easier for you to meet someone nice... or at least tolerable. There are men like Lord Albryon who travel so much that he only sees his wife once a year.”
You exhaled as you slowly closed your eyes in bitterness upon hearing Leah try to find something positive in all of this, even after your father had already shown you the portraits of the bachelors whose attention you might accept.
“Please do not do that.” You whispered.
She merely nodded, pressing her lips into a soft smile as she rested a hand upon your shoulder.
You looked at yourself one final time in the mirror, mentally preparing yourself for the night ahead.
☆
The ball hosted by the new Earls of Albemarle proved even grander than Leah had hinted earlier that afternoon in Richard’s room.
From the moment your carriage stopped before the family’s London residence, you understood that the evening would not be an ordinary social gathering. The façade of the palace was illuminated by dozens of lamps whose golden reflections spilled across the polished stone steps while elegant carriages arrived one after another.
Uniformed servants helped ladies descend, gathering velvet cloaks and embroidered coats while gentlemen adjusted their gloves.
Your father stepped down first. Then he extended his hand toward you without even looking at you.
“Remember what you were taught.” He said quietly while helping you descend.
You did not ask what he meant.
You already knew perfectly well.
Smile.
Be charming.
Be flattering.
Do not argue.
Do not speak about books.
Do not mention your desires.
And, above all else, allow the proper men to give you their attention.
You walked arm in arm with your father, with Leah at his other side, forming a perfectly calculated image of familial harmony, though the reality was another story entirely.
You struggled to control your racing breath, to quiet the anxious pounding of your heart, while every step upon the polished stone felt like an inevitable march toward a fate you had always wished to avoid — a path drawn by others, one that left no room for detours, for dreams, or for choice.
You came back to yourself when a male voice addressed you.
“Welcome, Lord and Lady Blackthorne.”
The man before you was tall, impeccably poised, and possessed a beauty that was difficult to ignore. His blond hair caught the glow of the lamps, and his attire — elegant without descending into excess — spoke of wealth… but also of restraint.
Holding onto his arm stood a red-haired woman.
Her deep green silk gown flowed gracefully around her slender figure, accentuating an almost hypnotic beauty. Her perfectly composed face alone would have been enough to captivate any ballroom from the instant she stepped inside.
But it was not only her beauty. It was something more.
Both of them shared a presence… unlike anyone else’s.
A stillness too perfect.
An elegance almost unnatural.
A subtle coldness that contrasted with the smiles they offered.
And, without knowing exactly why, a faint chill ran down your spine.
“I am Steve, the new Earl of Albemarle, and this is my wife, Natasha, the Countess. It is an honor to receive you.” He said, offering a slight bow alongside his wife.
You and Leah performed elegant, perfectly executed curtsies. Your father, meanwhile, merely inclined his head slightly.
You knew that precise gesture very well. Carefully measured, it was enough to acknowledge their position… but not deep enough to grant true respect.
After all, in his mind, a marquess should never bow more than necessary before people of lesser birth.
“The pleasure is ours.” He replied firmly, keeping his chin lifted.
You did not need to think very hard to know what he was thinking. He was evaluating them with his gaze, just as he had done with other nobles before. No doubt comparing them to the former earls, already passing judgment in his mind upon the ball they had organized. To him, nothing ever rose to his standards.
You shifted your gaze toward the countess just in time to notice the slight arch of her brow as she observed your father, almost as though she had read every one of his thoughts about them.
For a moment, the air seemed to tighten.
Then a small smile, too subtle to be entirely polite, appeared upon her red lips.
“I do hope the ball proves to be…” She paused briefly, as though choosing her words with care. “to your standards, Lord Blackthorne.”
Her voice was soft, flawless, yet there was something else beneath the tone. Something barely perceptible that was not submission. Perhaps challenge — elegant and perfectly mannered, yet unmistakable all the same.
It felt as though someone had suddenly spoken in a language you also understood, and at last the faintest trace of a genuine smile appeared upon your lips, one the countess immediately noticed.
Your father’s expression hardened almost imperceptibly as he held Lady Albemarle’s gaze for one second longer before a smile bordering on condescension appeared.
“I have no doubt that it will be, lady.”
☆
When you finally crossed the threshold into the main ballroom, the murmur of elegant conversation and the sound of string music enveloped you immediately, like a tide both gentle… and inescapable.
The ballroom was immense.
Crystal chandeliers descended from the high ceiling, multiplying the light into shimmering reflections that slid across the polished floor where the first couples were already turning gracefully to the rhythm of a perfectly executed waltz. The walls, covered in mirrors and gilded panels, reflected a world in constant motion: fans opening and closing, practiced smiles, gowns in shades of ivory, pale rose, and soft blue that seemed to float rather than walk.
The air was heavy with perfume, candle wax, and sweet wine.
Your father wasted no time greeting acquaintances, dragging both you and Leah through the ballroom as though you were part of his carefully orchestrated presentation.
“My daughter.” He would say. “Her first ball of the season.”
And every time he did, a new pair of eyes settled upon you.
The gentlemen did not take long to begin writing their names upon your dance card, regardless of title or family. After all, you could not refuse those your father deemed unsuitable, because rejecting one meant rejecting them all.
The first dance was with the second son of a baron. A young man with proper manners and a discreet presence. His steps were precise, almost mechanical, and his conversation remained limited to only what was strictly necessary. There was no interest in his gaze, not even true expectation, merely obligation.
Somehow, that relieved you, giving you the impression that, much like yourself, he had been pushed into that place by duties that did not entirely belong to him.
“Thank you for the dance.” He said when the music ended, offering an impeccable bow.
“And thank you.” You replied.
The second dance was with a viscount, a man several years older than you and surrounded by unconfirmed rumors of bastard children with maids and prostitutes. His smile was far too confident, far too familiar for someone who barely knew you.
You barely spoke during the dance, unwilling to give him reason to mistake courtesy for interest.
“I have heard you enjoy horseback riding.” He said while spinning you effortlessly across the floor. “Perhaps you would care to accompany me tomorrow. We might… become better acquainted.”
His fingers tightened slightly at your waist, his thumb brushing against the fabric of your gown, hoping to provoke a blush or a shiver from you, but nothing happened.
“I used to,” You replied softly. “But I stopped after suffering a fall in the countryside.”
You lied without hesitation.
He did not appear convinced, almost offended even, but he did not press further.
The third gentleman… no. The third man was undoubtedly one of those your father wished to court you.
The Duke of Rosevale.
He was easily twice your age. A few streaks of gray showed within his beard and at his temples, though they did nothing to soften the rigidity of his expression or the severity of his bearing. He danced with perfect precision, without a single mistake… and without a single emotion.
“How many children do you wish to have?” He asked bluntly.
The world seemed to tilt slightly beneath your feet. For a moment, you feared losing your balance in the middle of the ballroom and becoming the evening’s most humiliating spectacle.
You were not prepared for that. Not for something so direct.
Your mind filled with possibilities, each one equally bitter.
To tell the truth, that you wanted no children.
To lie and offer an acceptable number.
To simply adapt yourself to whatever he desired.
“I wish to have four.” He continued before you could answer. “It is important that my future wife share that expectation.”
Your jaw tightened for the briefest instant before you managed to compose yourself again and you smiled exactly as much as was proper, fully aware of your father’s gaze upon you.
“Four sounds… appropriate.”
The following gentlemen were similar in essence. Only the titles and names changed. All of them fulfilling the duty society had dictated for them. All of them watching, analyzing, and evaluating the young women from head to toe. All searching within them for something that fit their predefined idea of a wife and the future mother of their children.
None of them seemed interested in anything else.
Not in thoughts or desires.
Not in anything that could not be measured through virtue, beauty, or convenience.
As you turned once more in the arms of the ninth gentleman, your gaze drifted across the ballroom and recognized several faces. Faces of young ladies who, like you, were being observed and classified. And yet, you knew who they truly were.
Bella Crane, whose kindness knew no limits, always finding ways to help those no one else bothered to notice.
Sarah Astor, whose voice could reach notes so pure they seemed impossible, as though they did not entirely belong to this world.
Hanna Bellerose, capable of mastering any instrument, transforming every sound into something alive, something that made people feel.
Elizabeth Hawthorne, with a library that astonished you and an intellect capable of leaving anyone speechless.
All extraordinary women — women who, if given the opportunity and the desire, could have become far more than wives, far more than mothers. Yet there they were. Turning, smiling, and waiting to be chosen by men who, in many cases, did not amount to even half of what they were.
The injustice of it tightened painfully around your chest.
You left the dance floor the moment your final dance ended, offering the closest thing to a polite excuse you could manage. You could feel your emotions gathering dangerously behind your eyes, threatening to spill into tears you could not afford.
Not there.
Not in front of everyone.
You had barely taken a few steps when you felt Leah’s gentle hand wrap around your arm.
“Do you remember the mysterious doctor?” She whispered with contained excitement. “Lady Albemarle introduced him! He is… fascinating. He has incredible stories. I am certain you would love listening to him.”
You felt the slight tug at your arm, her intention to guide you back toward the center of the ballroom, toward constant observation.
But you stopped.
“I am sorry, Leah…” Your voice emerged tighter than intended, caught in the knot lodged within your throat. “I need some air. Afterward… you may introduce me to him.”
Leah studied you for only a second longer, and that was enough for her to notice your shining eyes. She released your arm, though not before giving it a soft, almost comforting squeeze.
“Go.” She said.
And you did not hesitate.
You made your way through the guests, maintaining the polite smile etiquette demanded while your insides quietly unraveled. You did not stop until you found one of the open balconies tucked away from the noise.
The London night greeted you with a cool breeze that sharply contrasted with the suffocating warmth of the ballroom. The garden stretched before you, bathed in silver moonlight. Pale gravel paths wound between perfectly trimmed hedges, while the shadows of the trees stretched across the grass like whispers.
The distant echo of music and the murmur of the wind were your only companions.
Yet you still could not breathe properly. It felt as though your lungs had shrunk to the size of grapes, your bones were made of glass, and the weight of the necklace was breaking them one by one.
You placed your hands upon the cold stone railing and closed your eyes, holding back the tears you had managed to suppress throughout the night. Desperation was beginning to consume you, and one of your hands was already moving toward the necklace around your throat, ready to tear it away, when a voice made you stop.
“The first ball of the season is usually… overwhelming.”
The male voice came from your left. It was not loud, but there was something strangely soft and familiar about it that kept you from startling despite never having heard his footsteps approach.
You slowly opened your eyes, searching for the man.
He stood leaning one hip against the railing at a respectful distance. Shadows still concealed part of his figure, but you could distinguish the essentials: tall, broad-shouldered, dressed entirely in black, elegant… effortlessly so, without the unnecessary extravagance of the nobles inside the ballroom.
His voice was unfamiliar to you, and his accent made it clear he did not belong to London.
And then, the threads connected.
The doctor.
For one second, neither of you spoke or moved. Not until he stepped slightly forward and the chandelier light filtering through the open doors reached him, revealing his face.
He was younger than you had imagined and… far too handsome. His beauty was different, yet strangely similar to that of the earls. Too perfect, almost to the point of seeming unnatural.
His dark hair fell in deliberately careless strands across his forehead. His lips, softly curved, hinted at an expression that never fully revealed itself.
And his eyes… his eyes were the first thing that truly captured your attention.
Not because they were an especially striking shade of blue, but because they seemed to observe the world with an intensity that was far too calm and far too aware. As though he were accustomed to seeing things others did not. As though he carried all the knowledge in the world within him.
“Forgive me.” You finally said, recovering control of your voice. “I did not realize the balcony was occupied.”
“It was not.” He replied. “I arrived only a moment ago.
There was something curious about the way he spoke. Proper, certainly, but lacking the polished rhythm of London aristocracy.
“Then I suppose we both had the same idea.”
The gentleman’s faint smile deepened slightly, and you were already preparing to excuse yourself and return to the ballroom.
“To escape.”
The certainty with which he said the word caught you off guard and halted your plans.
“Take a breath.” You corrected diplomatically.
“Oh, of course.” He replied, his smile widening further.
Silence settled between you once again, allowing the music from the ballroom to drift through the open doors. You glanced back inside, thinking that with the beginning of another waltz, your father would soon begin searching for you once he realized you were no longer dancing with a gentleman.
When you finally dared to look at him again, you discovered he was still watching you. Not in the shameless manner some men had during the dances, but with something more curious. As though he were trying to understand you.
“Your first ball?”
You sighed softly while something resembling a defeated smile appeared upon your lips.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Only a little.”
He did not seem to be mocking you with the comment, merely observing.
“Allow me to guess.” He continued gently. “You have spent the last several hours being introduced to gentlemen and dancing endlessly while they speak about their estates or their excellent reputations.”
A quiet laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it.
“Are you a fortune teller, doctor?”
“No, merely a good observer.” He said with a smile, briefly turning toward the ballroom. “Though I believe you may be one. How did you know I am a doctor?”
“You do not belong here.” You answered honestly. “And you have become quite the subject of conversation.”
A faint curve appeared upon his lips.
“I am afraid that is true.”
For some reason, the air upon the balcony seemed to have grown colder. Or perhaps it was simply you.
“I have heard… interesting things.” You added. “That you saved the earl and his wife.”
“Yes. I…” He paused, as though the word weighed heavily upon him. “saved them.”
You noticed it, though you did not know what to say in response, allowing another silence to settle between you. But for the first time since arriving at the ball, you no longer felt the need to leave now that you had finally found someone… interesting.
“We have not properly introduced ourselves.” He said at last. “James Buchanan Barnes.” He inclined his head slightly. “And you? Who is the lady escaping from her first ball?”
You offered a graceful curtsy and were about to give your name when footsteps interrupted you.
“Oh.”
It was Leah’s voice, surprised to find you standing beside Doctor Barnes.
“I did not expect to find you here, doctor.” Leah said as she approached your side.
“I needed some fresh air.” He replied naturally. “I am not accustomed to events such as this.”
Leah nodded before turning toward you.
“Your father is looking for you. He wishes to introduce you to Lord Willowmere for your final dance.”
The name fell like stone, and the calm you had found shattered immediately.
Lord Willowmere. A man your father’s age. With a dukedom.
The mere thought that he wished to pair you with that man — even if only for a dance — made your stomach twist.
“Forgive me, Lady Blackthorne.” Barnes interrupted gently. “But I have already requested the young lady’s final dance.”
Your eyes widened slightly at hearing James tell such a lie, but one glance into his eyes was enough to understand that he was helping you avoid dancing with an unwanted suitor.
“It is true.” You added quickly. “We were just about to go inside and write it upon my dance card.”
Leah stared at you.
You knew she was hesitating because of the negative opinion your father would undoubtedly have on the matter, believing it entirely improper for a young lady such as yourself to dance with a man who did not belong to high society — or even to London.
At last, she nodded softly.
“I shall inform your father.”
The tension upon your shoulders vanished at those words, and you were finally able to breathe again.
Leah began returning toward the ballroom, though not before casting one final curious glance over her shoulder.
When you were alone once more, Barnes stepped toward you and extended his arm in a clear invitation.
“We should return inside.” He said with a faint smile. “I would hate to miss our dance.”
You hesitated for only a second before accepting.
Your hand rested upon his arm, and a shiver ran through you at the contact. It felt different. Colder… yet firm and real.
☆
You reentered the ballroom accompanied by him, and that did not go unnoticed.
The conversations did not stop entirely, but some shifted direction. Glances began sliding toward the two of you — curious and evaluating, some barely concealed behind delicately raised feathered fans.
You walked with your back straight, maintaining the composure that had been drilled into you for years, while he guided you toward the dance floor with a natural ease that did not quite belong within that environment.
Your hand tensed slightly, clutching the fabric of his coat for the briefest moment as the first murmurs began to grow louder.
No matter what they said, you already knew what your father would see.
An insult.
Poor judgment.
Defiance.
And yet, none of that made you stop.
When you reached the dance floor, you stood facing one another, mirroring the position of the other couples awaiting the start of the music.
Everything appeared normal, except for him.
You noticed the way his gaze moved carefully through the room, not admiring the decorations or watching the ladies, but studying the gentlemen. Their posture. The distance between their hands.
As though he were learning… or remembering.
“Do you know how to dance, doctor?” You asked quietly, softly enough that only he could hear.
His eyes returned to you almost immediately, and then he smiled. There was something unexpected within that smile. A trace of embarrassment that did not quite fit with his calm and confident demeanor.
“I have not danced since 1683…” He murmured. “So I suppose I am somewhat out of practice.”
The comment was so absurd that, for a moment, you felt laughter rise within your throat, though you restrained it. Only the faintest curve touched your lips.
“Then I shall have to guide you.”
His hand settled at your waist while the other held yours. And once more, that shiver traveled down your spine because of the unnatural coldness of his hands, even through your gloves and the silk of your gown. It was far too distinct to ignore. Constant and unchanging, as though warmth simply did not belong to him.
The music began, and the first step was slow and measured. He hesitated for only an instant before moving with you.
He did not move with the effortless ease of the other gentlemen, but neither was he clumsy.
It was as though he were learning in real time and yet executing every motion with unsettling precision.
The waltz enveloped you just as it did every other couple, but for you it was different because you were not being evaluated. You were not being observed as a possibility. There were no expectations and no calculations, only presence.
“You do not seem uncomfortable.” He commented after several moments. “I thought you disliked dancing.”
“Compared to the rest of the evening… this is a relief.”
“I am glad to be an improvement.”
Your gaze drifted briefly toward the other guests, and upon noticing your father’s figure, you quickly looked back at James. And then you realized something.
He was not looking at your neckline, nor your hands, nor your posture. He was looking directly into your eyes, as though everything else were irrelevant.
“You do not belong here.” You said without thinking.
“I do not.” He replied simply. “London is rather… rigid compared to what I am accustomed to.”
Curiosity stirred within you with almost reckless speed.
“And what are you accustomed to, doctor?” You asked as he spun you gently.
“Freedom.” He said. “Moving without every action being observed… or judged. Crossing cities without announcing my name. Learning without anyone expecting anything of me.”
His voice was not nostalgic.
It was simply… truthful.
“The world is vast.” He continued. “Far more vast than people here imagine. There are places where medicine is not learned from books, but from the hands of elders, from herbs and roots. Places where languages change every few miles… and customs as well.”
You looked at him carefully.
There was something in the way he spoke. It was not the shallow fascination of other gentlemen who boasted about traveling and wasting fortunes on jewels or women. Doctor Barnes spoke with lived knowledge.
“Have you never left London?”
You shook your head softly before he spun you once more.
“And do you wish to?”
The question was gentle, but direct.
“More than anything.”
The words left your lips before you could stop them, and for the first time that entire evening, you did not regret speaking a genuine desire aloud.
His thumb moved slightly against your gloved hand. A minimal gesture that did not go unnoticed.
“If you had the opportunity...” He asked after a moment of silence. “Would you leave?”
Your entire world seemed to narrow to that question.
To that instant.
Remaining silent felt like accepting the fate imposed upon you, and that was something impossible.
“Yes.”
His lips curved faintly, though it was not a full smile. There was something else within it… something melancholic.
“Then London would never know what it lost.”
Your breath caught for a second.
You knew those words should have made you uncomfortable, that you should have begun placing distance between the two of you, yet you did not.
The waltz began nearing its end. You felt it in the rhythm, in the way the couples slowly began to slow, in how reality itself started returning.
“Doctor…” You murmured, uncertain of what you had intended to say.
“James.”
You blinked in confusion, tilting your head slightly.
“Excuse me?”
“Call me James.”
That was not appropriate.
It was not proper.
It was not prudent.
You parted your lips softly, ready to explain that such familiarity was improper after only a single dance, that a gentleman should never ask such a thing of a lady, but the words died in your throat when you noticed something strange.
His steel-blue eyes had darkened.
Not dark blue, nor a shadow cast by the lighting, but black — the kind of black you had seen only in polished obsidian.
“Your eyes…” You whispered almost breathlessly, your eyes widening in bewilderment.
For the first time, James completely lost his composure.
You saw the sudden tension in his jaw, the rigidity of his shoulders, and the way his fingers pulled away from yours almost violently, as though touching you burned him.
The final chord of the waltz echoed through the ballroom, and he stepped back immediately.
“Thank you for the dance.” He said in a low, hurried voice utterly unlike the calm control he had carried before.
You stood frozen for a second, still stunned by the change in his eyes. Your immediate instinct was to follow him and ask what had happened, but a rough hand seized your forearm harshly.
“We are leaving.” Your father said sharply. “Now.”
You barely turned your head toward him, and it was easy to see how fury hardened every line of his aged face.
He gave you no time to answer before dragging you away from the dance floor, forcing you to move through guests, decorated tables, and musicians who continued playing for the remaining couples.
And even beneath your father’s iron grip, you looked back, just in time to catch sight of James disappearing into the shadows of one of the corridors.
☆
“Do you realize what you have done?” Your father’s voice cut through the interior of the carriage like a whip. “You danced with the most unsuitable man in the room. You displayed yourself like a foolish girl and made a mockery of me.”
You sighed silently while staring out at the deserted storefronts, dark alleyways, and the soft glow of the lanterns illuminating the road home.
“People will start talking tomorrow morning.” Your father continued through clenched teeth. “A doctor? What were you thinking?”
Your hands tightened once more around the fabric of your skirt, swallowing the urge to rebel because with James, it had not seemed necessary to measure every word before speaking it. Perhaps because he was a man who seemed destined to leave at any moment, or because he simply could never be considered a real possibility.
So you remained silent, clinging to the hope that the quiet would allow you to think about James and the strange, unsettling transformation of his eyes.
It could not have been merely the lighting.
Was it an illness?
Some strange condition?
Why had he reacted that way?
And why had the earls seemed so alarmed?
Your breathing slowed as you remembered something else: the cold.
His hands had been freezing even inside the warm ballroom, colder than the winter air at Blackthorne Hall. Colder than the snow gathering upon the windows of the countryside estate.
That cold… It twisted your stomach because you had felt it once before. Many years ago, when you touched your mother’s hand during her wake.
A shiver ran down your spine.
That realization should have terrified you enough to stay away from him or forget Doctor Barnes immediately, yet you felt no fear.
Only a deep and dangerous curiosity.
“I forbid you from going near that man again.” Your father declared at last. “Did you hear me?”
☆
Once again, you sat before the mirror of your vanity, watching your reflection while the maid carefully removed the small pins holding your hairstyle in place. One by one, the strands began slipping over your shoulders until they fell in soft waves down your back.
The heavy, elaborate updo slowly disappeared, just like the mask you had worn throughout the entire evening.
Your face was already free of the makeup the maids had spent hours applying before the ball. No powder, no color upon your lips, no artificial blush painted across your cheeks. At last, it felt as though your skin could breathe again.
And yet, the pressure in your chest remained there as your father’s voice carried through the walls. You could not distinguish every word clearly, but the tone alone was enough to reveal his fury.
You thought of Leah.
Guilt settled over you immediately with crushing weight.
Leah had been the least responsible for the entire situation, and yet she was likely enduring the anger truly meant for you.
The maid removed the final pin from your hair before placing it upon the silver tray beside the rest of the jewelry.
“Did you enjoy yourself tonight, miss?” She asked softly, perhaps searching for conversation or simply trying to ease the heavy silence filling the room.
You did not answer immediately.
Your gaze remained fixed upon the mirror as you mentally revisited the evening — the graceless nobles, the endless hours upon the dance floor that had felt like torture, the life within society that you did not want — yet James’s image entered your thoughts uninvited.
You could not deny that, within this disastrous night, you had at least managed to find one interesting man among nobles who possessed nothing remarkable beyond their place within the hierarchy.
“I suppose… a little.” You answered at last.
The maid smiled faintly as she stepped closer to remove the diamond necklace from your throat.
The moment the clasp released, a sigh escaped you before you even realized you had been holding it. The tension gathered within your shoulders eased slightly.
Your hands immediately rose to your earrings, removing them one by one before placing them carefully inside the small velvet box.
You stood so the maid could help remove your gown. Her fingers began loosening the ribbons along your back while the fabric slowly slid down your body until it pooled around your feet in a circle of silk and embroidery.
Then you heard footsteps approaching, and from the sound of the slippers alone you knew it was Leah.
When she entered, the maid had only just begun undoing the laces of your corset.
There was something unsettling upon Leah’s face.
“Anne, I shall help the young lady. You may leave.”
The maid immediately stopped what she was doing, offered a small curtsy, and quietly made her way toward the door.
Leah stepped behind you and began loosening the corset ribbons with slow, precise movements.
“I am truly sorry.” You said at last, unable to continue bearing the weight of your guilt. “I never meant to cause problems between you and my father.”
She merely released a tired sigh while slowly loosening the garment that had been constricting your waist mercilessly.
“There are always problems with your father.” She replied calmly as she continued undoing the knot. “And honestly… I do not mind that you avoided dancing with a man like Lord Willowmere.”
A bitter feeling crossed your chest at the thought of the old duke.
“Then I do not understand why you seem this way.”
Leah finished loosening the corset and carefully removed it before gently turning you around to face her.
The moment your eyes met hers, you saw concern… and something close to fear.
“But why dance with Doctor Barnes?” She murmured in disbelief.
“He only helped me.” You answered naturally.
Leah stared at you for a moment as though unsure how to respond.
“Or perhaps he was taking advantage of the situation.”
Confusion settled across your face.
“Taking advantage? Leah, he was kind to me.”
“That does not mean you should trust him.”
Her tone was not severe. It was… cautious. As though she were trying to warn you about something she did not quite know how to explain.
“At the ball, you told me I should meet him.” You reminded her. “That he was interesting. That he had fascinating stories.”
“And he does.” She admitted quickly. “But that does not change the fact that no one truly knows him… or what his intentions were when he approached you.”
The room fell silent for several seconds, and with every passing moment you could tell Leah was struggling to say what she truly wanted.
“Leah, the fact that I accepted a dance from him does not mean I am enchanted by him.” You said softly, trying to calm whatever fears she seemed to harbor.
☆
The ballroom was packed with people, though none of them seemed truly clear to your eyes. Their faces blurred like watercolor smudges painted with a brush that was too wet every time you tried to focus on them, turning into faceless figures shrouded in silk, jewels, and dark suits.
The candles suspended from enormous golden chandeliers cast a strangely warm light—too golden, too soft—as if the entire room were shrouded in a dreamlike veil.
The guests’ voices reached you distorted, transformed into distant murmurs and incomprehensible echoes, even when some passed mere inches from your body. There was laughter, clinking glasses, and entire conversations unfolding around you, but they sounded muffled, as if you were listening to them from underwater.
The only thing that remained clear was the music.
The sound of the waltz floated flawlessly amid the blurred chaos of the room, every note of the violin and every chord of the piano resonating with unsettling precision within your chest. It was an elegant, melancholic melody that seemed to guide your steps even without you realizing it. And although the place was completely unfamiliar to you—even though you were certain you had never set foot in that hall in your entire life—fear never truly set in. There was unease, yes. A strange sense of unreality that slowly churned your stomach. But not fear.
You walked cautiously through the gaps left by the people as they laughed and drank around you. The women held fans decorated with lace and sparkling stones; the men raised crystal glasses filled with dark wine as they chatted near the marble columns. With every step, the polished floor reflected the candlelight as if it were liquid water. Your fingers absentmindedly brushed against one of the long tables laden with fruit, desserts, and silver dishes as you tried in vain to recognize something in that place.
Then you saw it.
A huge wall mirror stood between two columns, so tall it almost touched the ceiling. The golden frame was carved with exquisite details: intertwined leaves, blooming flowers, and angelic figures that seemed to watch you from the aged wood. You stopped in front of it and held your breath for a moment.
The young woman reflected there was you… and yet, at the same time, she wasn’t.
The dress you were wearing was completely different from any of the others you owned. The red fabric draped over your body like a cascade of dark wine, shimmering in the warm light of the ballroom. It was a deep, intense red—exactly the color you had always loved, yet one your father strictly forbade, considering it vulgar and unbecoming for a young lady. The long sleeves gently hugged your arms, while the black and gold embroidery snaked across the silk, forming patterns that looked as if they were handmade. Even the tiny stones sewn near the bodice sparkled discreetly with every breath you took.
Slowly, you raised a hand to brush the fabric near your waist, watching, fascinated, as it shone in the light.
For a moment, you forgot how strange the place felt. You stood there watching your reflection as if you were looking at someone else. There was something different about you besides the dress. Something in your posture, in the way you held your gaze, in the sparkle in your eyes.
You forced yourself to look away and pick up your pace.
Your footsteps echoed softly on the floor as you walked through the hall, taking in the enormous paintings hanging on the walls. Portraits of faceless men dressed in military uniforms. Pale-skinned women adorned with antique jewelry. Snowy landscapes under gray skies.
None of them looked familiar to you and then your shoulder bumped into someone. The impact was slight, but enough to make you take a step back.
“I’m so sorry…” You said immediately as you looked up.
The man turned toward you.
And for the first time since you arrived at that place, you saw a face that was completely clear. Your breath caught in your throat.
Dr. Barnes.
There was no mist obscuring his features, nor shadows distorting him. His blue eyes were perfectly defined under the golden light of the room, and his expression bore the same serene calm you knew so well. Dark hair fell slightly over his forehead, and he wore an elegant black suit with silver accents that looked as if it had been plucked from another era.
“Doctor Barnes…” You whispered, unable to hide the surprise in your voice.
He tilted his head slightly, and a small smile appeared on his lips.
“Miss.” His voice sounded soft, calm, dangerously familiar in the midst of that place. “I thought I told you you could call me James.”
You blinked several times, trying to shake off the daze that had enveloped you. Your throat suddenly felt dry.
“It’s not right to call him that…” You replied in a low voice, glancing around discreetly as if you expected someone to be watching them.
But no one seemed to be paying them any attention.
The blurry figures continued laughing, dancing, and chatting among themselves. It was as if the two of you were isolated from the rest of the room, trapped inside a silent bubble.
James kept watching you with that strange calmness.
“And who exactly would come to correct you?” He asked softly.
You frowned slightly.
“Someone might hear us.”
“No one here will care.”
His answer came immediately, firm, almost certain.
And it seemed true.
Your fingers tightened slightly on the fabric of your dress as you looked around again. The confusion inside you kept growing. Everything was too strange. Too real to be a dream and too impossible to be anything else.
Finally, you looked at him again.
“What is this place?” You asked at last, unable to bear the uncertainty any longer.
Your eyes scanned the room again, searching for any familiar detail: a familiar door, a recognizable face, something that would help you understand where you were. But you found nothing.
James looked around the room too, though unlike you, he didn’t seem confused. There was an unsettling calm in his expression, as if he already knew the answer long before you’d even asked the question.
“I don’t know.” He replied calmly.
Your brow furrowed immediately, for you were sure he had the answer.
There was a brief silence.
The music continued to play in the distance as he held your gaze.
Your eyes swept once more across the enormous candlelit hall, the antique gowns, the uniforms adorned with medals, and the golden ornaments covering every corner. You began to notice details you had previously overlooked: the men wore styles and fabrics far too old-fashioned to belong to your era, and the women wore jewelry that looked like relics impossible to find today.
Your breathing slowed slightly.
“That’s not possible…” You finally murmured.
James tilted his head slightly, watching you with such calm attention that it was starting to make you nervous.
“It doesn’t seem like it, I know.”
“No, Doctor Barnes, I’m serious.” You shook your head gently as you took a step toward him. “This has to be some kind of hallucination.”
The theory sounded ridiculous even to you, since the details were too real, and you didn’t even remember having a fever that would cause hallucinations.
He let out a small, barely audible laugh, more like an amused sigh than a real chuckle.
You opened your mouth, ready to keep talking, but you couldn’t think of anything else to say. Your gaze returned to the ballroom just as a couple glided past you, dancing slowly to the rhythm of the waltz. Their movements were elegant, perfectly synchronized, but their faces remained blurry smudges, unable to take shape. It was like watching shadows playing the roles of real people.
You shuddered.
“You seem to understand perfectly what’s happening.” You murmured.
The music continued to fill the ballroom as some guests began moving toward the center to dance. The sound of the instruments seemed deeper now, enveloping, almost hypnotic.
“Perhaps I understand it a little better than you do.” He replied.
“Then explain it to me.”
James glanced down briefly at your dress before returning his gaze to your eyes.
“It’s a dream.”
The word hung between you, and yet nothing really felt like one.
James took a step closer to you, close enough for you to catch the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the chill of the night air that seemed to cling to him.
His proximity made your heart stumble uncomfortably in your chest. You looked down for just a moment but didn’t look away.
“If this is a dream of mine, I can’t think of any reason why you’d be here.”
The corners of his lips turned up in a faint smile that betrayed the fact that he had been expecting you to mention his presence in your dream.
“Oh, there certainly is.” He said in a soft voice.
James leaned slightly toward one of the nearby tables and took a glass of wine between his gloved fingers. The thick, red liquid swirled slowly inside the glass as he swirled it gently.
Your eyes remained fixed on the glass as he brought it slightly closer to his face, inhaling the aroma with an almost hypnotic slowness that was only broken when he looked up at you.
“You owe me something.”
You frowned immediately.
“Me?”
A small smile appeared on his face as he noticed your confusion.
“Your name,” He said, then took a sip.
The memory of the dance came flooding back to you.
That moment on the balcony.
Her question.
Your lips parting to answer, until Leah interrupted.
“You couldn’t tell me that night,” He continued. “And I must admit, I hate unfinished conversations.”
Your breathing slowed.
“So this strange dream exists solely because you want to know my name?”
This time he did smile.
And it was a soft, small, barely crooked smile, as if you’d hit the mark.
“It’s your dream,” He replied in a relaxed, almost playful tone. “So I must assume your conscience weighs heavily on you for not having told me on that balcony.”
You looked at him in surprise for a few seconds until a soft, amused snort escaped your lips—almost like a laugh—at his eloquent and clever reply.
James seemed to freeze for just a second upon hearing it. As if he hadn’t expected that sound, nor expected to like it all that much.
“That was terribly arrogant, Doctor.”
“James.” He corrected gently.
The gesture caused a strange warmth in your chest.
“And that doesn’t really answer my question either.”
“What question?”
“Why you’re here.”
He tilted his head slightly, watching you with that unbearable intensity that seemed to disarm you little by little.
“Maybe because you wanted to see me.”
Your heart skipped a beat.
“That’s absurd.” You said quickly.
“Is it?”
His voice dropped slightly, growing softer amid the music in the hall.
“Maybe I’m here because you’ve been thinking about me.”
The comment caught you completely off guard. Your eyes widened slightly as heat rose to your cheeks.
“That’s not…”
You didn’t dare deny it because it was true.
You’d been thinking about him the whole way back.
About his impossible eyes.
About his icy hands.
About the abrupt way he’d pulled away from you.
And he seemed to realize exactly the moment you understood that. The barely visible satisfaction in his eyes made you frown.
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself.” You murmured.
“I’m trying, but you’re making it hard for me.”
You laughed softly again, shaking your head slightly.
All of this felt dangerously normal.
Not the strange room.
Not the blurry figures.
Not the impossible dream.
But him.
Talking to James felt natural in a way that was starting to unsettle you more than anything else, even if it was just a dream, because you weren’t carefully choosing every word or trying to seem appropriate.
You were simply… yourself.
“I have to admit something.” He said after a few seconds.
“What is it?”
Her eyes briefly drifted down to the red dress before meeting yours again.
“This color suits you better than the pastel shades worn by London ladies.”
You blinked in surprise and then looked down at the dress on your body. That deep red you could never wear out because it was too flashy.
“My father would say it looks like the dress of a woman… of dubious reputation.”
James held your gaze for a few more seconds.
“I still think you look good in that dress.”
The air seemed to thicken between you, and it happened again. That strange sensation, as if something invisible tightened every time he looked at you for too long.
Your heart began to beat faster, and your hands clenched the hem of your dress.
“You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why?” He asked, tilting his head.
“Because you don’t know me.”
James’s expression barely changed, as if the melancholy that always followed him returned to his eyes with a painful gentleness.
“I think I know you better than you imagine.”
His reply made the heat drain from your body all at once, because it didn’t sound like his usual playful banter. It sounded sad—deeply sad. And the way he said it… God… It was just one sentence, and yet it felt far too intimate.
You looked away before he could notice the effect it had on you and tried to focus on something else, but that was when you noticed something strange.
The room was emptier—not completely, but several of the blurry figures had vanished. The couples were dancing more slowly now, as if they were tired, as if the dream were slowly beginning to crumble around you.
“James…” You murmured his name for the first time.
The deep sadness faded little by little from his gaze as he followed yours, observing the same changes you did.
“There isn’t much time left…” He looked back at you. “Her name. Tell me.”
The violin notes stretched out unnaturally, the lights in the hall flickered, and the blurry figures began to stop one by one.
Your lips trembled slightly from the unease caused by the strange scene, but you managed to whisper his name.
James smiled gently and murmured your name as if he were simply testing how it sounded in his own voice. He spoke it so calmly that it felt like a caress.
The mirrors exploded first, cracking from end to end before shattering like ice under invisible pressure, without making a sound. The lights went out violently, and the floor beneath your feet began to crack as the motionless figures in the room dissolved into dark shadows.
And despite all the chaos, you felt no fear as you noticed the calm way James was looking at you.
The entire room shattered like glass around you.
☆
You opened your eyes with a start.
Your breathing was slightly ragged as the sheets were tangled around your legs and your heart was still pounding against your ribs. For a few seconds, you didn’t realize where you were. Your eyes scanned the room, still expecting to find golden lights, broken mirrors, or shadows covering the walls; but there was nothing, just your room.
Your thick curtains remained closed, and only a small strip of morning light filtered through them, casting a pale line on the floor. The air smelled faintly of lavender and wood, just like every morning.
You slowly looked down at your body.
You were still wearing the same nightgown you’d gone to bed in the night before. Your hands trembled slightly as you clutched the sheets.
It had been a dream, and yet… It had felt all too real.
The unease clung to your chest like a shadow that was hard to shake off. You could recall every detail with sickening clarity: the sound of the music, the feel of the red silk brushing against your skin… and especially James’s voice saying your name.
It wasn’t like other dreams.
Those usually faded away as soon as you woke up, turning into blurry fragments impossible to piece back together. But this one remained intact inside your head, as clear as a real memory.
You sat up slowly in bed, bringing a hand to your forehead as you tried to gather your thoughts.
A soft knock on the door interrupted your thoughts before you could sink deeper into them
The door opened shortly after, and the maid entered the room carrying several folded fabrics in her arms. As soon as she looked up at you, her expression showed obvious surprise.
“Good morning, miss.” She said softly. “I thought you were still asleep.”
You blinked several times before reacting.
“Good morning…”
The maid moved quickly through the room and opened the heavy curtains. Sunlight flooded the room all at once, forcing you to squint slightly. The sky was just beginning to lighten, casting a bluish and golden glow over the outside world.
It was earlier than usual.
The maid continued working with quiet agility. She placed a pair of slippers carefully next to your bed and then went to the wardrobe to fetch a soft blue dress. The fabric fell elegantly through her hands as she spread it out on the mattress.
Your gaze remained fixed on the dress for a few seconds.
Blue.
Always blue, cream, or white.
Appropriate colors. Decent. Proper.
Nothing like red.
“Your father asked me to help you get ready early for when your suitors arrive.” The maid explained as she smoothed out the dress’s sleeves. “The bath is ready for you.”
The words hit you like a bucket of cold water.
Reality came crashing back all at once.
The duties. The expectations. The rules you had to follow as a young lady of high society. The carefully arranged visits. The polite smiles. The empty conversations. The men chosen for convenience and title.
Your chest suddenly felt heavy.
You slowly lowered your gaze to the crumpled sheets between your fingers while the maid continued to get everything ready around you.
And as absurd as it was, a part of you wished to return to the dream.
To that impossible place where no one expected anything of you, where you could wear red, and where James pronounced your name as if it truly meant something.
SUMMARY: After a bad breakup, you find yourself moving into an apartment loft with three unknown men. You didn’t expect them to become such an important part of your life… or the way you would feel for the one with the dreamiest set of brown eyes you’ve ever seen.
-or-
The New Girl AU
TAGS: 18+ MDNI, eventual SMUT, no use of y/n, roommates, angst and tension, forced proximity, strangers to friends to lovers, jealousy, idiots in love, falling in love, slow burn
AN: HAPPY FRANKIE FRIDAY !! A new fic for my golden boy Frankie! I really wanted to write a sitcom-kinda vibe fic with shorter chapters and plenty of silliness. Since I love this stupid friend group so much, I decided to go with a "new girl" AU where all the guys get to be important. I’ll be borrowing some plotlines from the show because… well, I can :) I also love the idea of this being an open, community fic, so please don’t hesitate to drop ideas, prompts, or anything you’d like to see! It would genuinely make my day. Hope you enjoy!!
Here on AO3 | Wc : 4k
Chapter 1: No money, no prospect
Ever since the first time you watched Pride and Prejudice, you believed that one day you would live a love like Elizabeth Bennet’s. A once-in-a-lifetime kind of romance. The kind where the heart leaves you no other choice because you have found the one. Someone who would make you feel the way Elizabeth felt toward her infuriating, magnificent Mr Darcy: the yearning, the tension, the slow-burning love that could make you braver, sharper, better.
But you didn’t end up with a beautiful, yearning lover.
You ended up with an ugly, cheating bastard.
There is something profoundly unsettling about the realisation that you are less Elizabeth Bennet and far more Charlotte Lucas. Because here you are, twenty-seven, with far less money than you thought you’d have by now, and even fewer prospects. A burden to your parents? Almost certainly. A quiet embarrassment? Undeniably so. You had to move back into their house after your fiancé decided his coworker was worth more than your five-year relationship. After you were forced to leave the apartment you shared because it became far too expensive for one broken heart and one income. So yes, you are quite frightened of your current situation.
At this point, if you’re being honest, you would absolutely consider Mr Collins, provided he came bearing stability and a tolerable income. Fuck your pride and fuck Darcy and all the impossible expectations that man planted in your heart.
“If any young men come for Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am quite at leisure,” says Mr Bennet, laughing softly on your screen.
Every time the line comes, despite knowing the film by heart, you feel the sting of tears gathering behind your eyes. You blink them away quickly, unsure whether it’s Donald Sutherland’s tender performance as Mr Bennet or the sheer weight of your current life pressing down on your chest. Probably both.
So fuck your fiancé—ex-fiancé—for tainting this too! For somehow managing to ruin the one movie that was meant to always be safe and comforting. Of course, the asshole would find a way to take even that from you. Your heart, your time, your trust, and now your favourite romance? How dare he?! You close your laptop with more force than you should.
“Fuck him,” you spat, immediately wincing as you remember how thin the walls are in this house.
You slip off your headphones and hold still, listening for any sign that your parents might be awake. The silence remains. You sigh, both in relief and annoyance. How pitiful it feels to sit frozen in place, afraid your parents might barge in and scold you for being up late, as if you were still sixteen instead of twenty-seven. Not that you aren’t grateful. You truly are. After all, they let you move back home without hesitation after you found your fiancé balls-deep in someone else in your bed. But it’s been two weeks, and already you can feel your patience thinning. You love them, your relationship with them is more than okay, but you know you won’t, can’t, survive much more of their overbearing concern. They mean well, of course. But if they ask you to “talk about what happened” one more time, you might actually commit a crime.
Against whom remains to be decided.
That’s why you turn back to your phone, scrolling through apartment-hunting websites, refreshing listings again and again. You’re desperate to find something you could move into as soon as possible. Someplace you can call home again. But every price feels like a personal insult, towering well above your salary.
Fuck living in a big city. Fuck inflation. Fuck capitalism.
And above everything else, fuck him.
You miss your place. You miss the coffee shop down the street where they knew your name and your order without asking. The park just five minutes away, where people walk their ugly dogs with too much pride. You even miss the loud-ass neighbours and their kids who never stopped running at every hour of the day (and night). It wasn’t perfect. It was cramped and noisy, but it was yours.
You wipe at the tears that are trying to come back. You are so tired of crying, you feel like that's all you have done for the past two weeks. You settle back against your pillows, just about ready to give up for the night, unsuccessful in your search once again, when a new listing appears. You almost scroll past it, sleep calling to you, but the photos catch your eye immediately. What looks like the living room is flooded with light, thanks to wide windows that seem to drink in the day. The kitchen is fully equipped with more appliances than you could ever need. It’s nothing like the single-room shoeboxes you’ve been doom-scrolling through all evening, those places that resemble prison cells more than homes. You click to see more.
SEEKING ROOMMATE – Furnished room in a 4BR flat near the city center. Shared kitchen and bath. Available immediately.
Uh. The location is even better for your job than your precious old apartment, and miraculously, the rent actually falls within your budget. The place looks clean, and the more photos you scroll through, the nicer it seems. The room itself is bright, with windows and simple but functional furniture. Not having to buy anything new would make the move infinitely easier.
In a better world, you would have wanted your own place. But this isn’t that world, and at this point, you’re getting desperate. You haven’t had a roommate since college (your garbage ex doesn’t count), and this would be a big change. Three other roommates would mean a serious adjustment. Still, you hear your dad snoring through the wall and imagine your mother, tomorrow morning, casually mentioning her friend’s son again. The one she’s sure would “change your mind”. Or worse, managing a backhanded compliment about your outfit choice before coffee.
Well. Desperate times call for desperate measures. You respond to the listing before you can talk yourself out of it.
Hi! I would be interested in the room. Would it be possible to come visit? Have a great day.
You fall asleep not long after. A restless kind of sleep you’ve grown used to since your heart broke.
When you wake up, you’re surprised to see a reply already waiting for you. Sent at exactly 6:00 a.m. So early, you briefly wonder if it’s automated. You brace yourself for rejection, for the polite sorry, the room has already been taken that you’ve grown used to those past days.
You open the message as you walk downstairs.
Hello. I am available this afternoon. Would that work for you?
It only takes stepping into the kitchen, where your parents are already at the table, mid-breakfast, to decide for you. Before even a hello or asking about how you slept, your mother immediately comments on the late hour, even though it's barely after nine and you don’t work until later that night. It's easy for you to reply that yes, it would absolutely work for you.
The response comes almost immediately: a time, then an address.
It’s mid-afternoon when you park your car at the address you were given. You climb out of your loyal but beat-down car and glance around, pleasantly surprised. The neighbourhood is quiet but alive, with small shops lining the street, and what looks like a park just down the block if you ever decide to become a morning-walk kind of person. Which, admittedly, feels unlikely. You know there are a few nice restaurants nearby that you’ve tried with friends before, and that familiarity brings a small sense of comfort.
You’re a little early, so you send a quick text to say you’ve arrived and lean against your car while you wait. The building itself is modern enough, softened by old brick that gives it a certain charm. You watch the passersby drift past, lost in their own afternoons.
Less than a minute later, the front door opens.
The man who steps out is tall, with short blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard to match. Well dressed too. Handsome, you think with a small smile. He pauses, scanning the street, until his eyes land on you.
“Hi,” he says as he walks over. “You’re here about the room, right?”
You nod, introducing yourself as he offers his hand. Big hands, you notice as you shake it—softer than you would have expected.
“It’s nice to meet you.” He gives you a polite smile and holds the door to the building open, letting you go first. “I’m William, but everyone calls me Will.”
He’s older than you anticipated for someone living with roommates. Mid-thirties, maybe. You’d expected someone closer to your age, or even younger. You don’t mind, if anything, you’re a little relieved that you won’t be the oldest one here.
“The apartment’s on the third floor,” Will explains once you’re in the lobby, pressing the button for the elevator. You try not to get excited at the thought of having one. No more dragging yourself up multiple flights of stairs after a long day. “I’m guessing that was your car outside,” he adds. “There’s an underground garage for residents if you need it.”
“With designated parking?” you ask as you step into the elevator.
For a brief second, you hesitate at being in a small, enclosed space with a stranger, but Will seems respectful, his attention steady on your face as he talks to you. You remember that you shared your location with your friend Cate before coming, and the tension eases as the doors slide shut.
“Yes. There are multiple spots for the apartment. You’d have your own.”
“Oh. Wow.” You nod, genuinely impressed. Private parking is practically a myth these days. Not having to pay for it feels like a small miracle. “That would be great, actually.”
The elevator doors open on the third floor. The hallway is quiet, with only two doors facing each other. Will walks to the one on the left, 3B, and opens it, stepping aside.
“After you.”
You thank him politely as you step inside.
Immediately, you’re greeted by the living room you noticed in the listing, and it is even better in person. Sunlight pours in through the wide windows, bathing the space in a warm, inviting glow. The place is clean, but lived in. Near the door, a small cluster of jackets hangs on wall hooks, with a scattering of shoes neatly lined beneath them. A few plants are tucked into corners and windowsills, leaves catching the light, softening the space. Two couches face a TV mounted on the wall; beneath it sits a gaming console and an impressive collection of DVDs. You resist the urge to get closer and go through it. A large wooden dining table dominates one side of the room, easily big enough to host lively dinner parties, and just beyond it is an open kitchen.
The entire place feels warm. Homey. You can picture yourself here: friends crowded around the table, drinks in hand, laughing.
“This is a really nice place,” you say, unable to keep it to yourself.
Will smiles more openly. “Thanks. Do you cook?”
You nod and can’t help letting out a low, appreciative whistle as he leads you farther into the kitchen. It’s spacious, with generous counter space and even more appliances than you noticed in the photos. This isn’t the chaotic mess you expected from shared living, but you remind yourself that it’s not a student flat held together by takeout boxes, but a space clearly shaped by functioning adults with taste.
“Oh wow,” you murmur, fingers tracing the smooth surface of the center island. “This is such a great kitchen. Is one of you a chef or something?”
“No, not really.” You see Will scratch the back of his neck, his smile turning almost sheepish. “I just… really like to cook. A lot.”
You laugh softly. “I bet. This kitchen is beautiful.”
His smile widens. He gestures toward the largest fridge you’ve ever seen. “We all use the same fridge, but we don’t usually eat together much. Everyone handles their own groceries. We just split the cost of necessities.”
You hum in agreement. It makes sense. Then you turn back to him, leaning lightly against the kitchen island.
“So… when you say we,” you ask, “who are the other roommates?”
Will mirrors you, resting against the counter across from you. “The other two are my little brother and one of our best friends.”
“Oh.” You hesitate. “So… all guys?”
You can’t quite hide the flicker of disappointment. You’d been hoping for at least one other woman; partly because it would have made you feel safer, and partly because some quiet part of you is yearning for a new girlfriend to hang out with.
“Yes.” Will’s tone stays open, unguarded. “Would you be comfortable with that?”
You consider lying. You don’t. “I’m not going to lie…living with three random men isn’t exactly my ideal situation.”
You half-expect the familiar defensiveness you know too well. The not all men. The eye-roll. The lecture about your generation not trusting men and everything else. Instead, Will simply nods, thoughtful.
“I understand,” he says. “If you’re interested in the room, I can give you any information that might help you feel safer. Whatever you need.”
The offer catches you off guard. You find yourself wondering why he’d bother. The place is clearly a catch—the rent, the location, the apartment itself. He must have plenty of inquiries. Plenty of people who would say yes without hesitation, without question. Why go through the trouble?
“Thank you,” you reply, not bothering to hide your surprise.
He smiles, easy and sincere. You find you like his smile, how genuine it feels. “Of course. Would you like me to show you the rest of the apartment?”
He leads you back toward the entryway and opens the first door. A small, clean, basic restroom.
“There’s another toilet in the bathroom,” Will explains as he moves to the next door and opens it for you.
The bathroom is larger than you expected. An elegant Italian-style shower takes up one side, sleek and modern, and a double sink stretches along the opposite wall. There’s plenty of closet space, too. Once again, you’re surprised by how neat everything is. Every product is lined up, towels folded with precision. Even the mirror is spotless. Not exactly what you would have imagined from three men sharing a bathroom. Do they have a cleaning service or something?
“How do you guys manage with just one bathroom?” you ask. “I imagine it can get… complicated sometimes.”
“Honestly? Not really.” Will pauses, then adds, “The three of us are former military.” He watches your reaction as the information lands, in case it might cause some kind of discomfort. It doesn't. “We’re used to quick showers. Well, most of us.” A hint of amusement creeps into his voice. “My brother does have a habit of stealing all the hot water, but don’t worry about him.”
You chuckle. Back in the hallway, Will gestures to the closed doors lining the wall.
“This one’s mine,” he says, pointing without opening it. Then the door across from it. “That’s my brother’s.”
Then, he gestures to the one next to it, the one closest to the end of the hall.
“And this would be yours.”
This time, he opens it.
The room has a large window, not unlike the ones in the living room, flooding the space with sunlight, a desk under it. A queen-sized bed sits neatly in the middle. Will gestures invitingly when you approach the closet, and you take the hint, sliding the door open. It isn’t a walk-in, but it’s more than big enough for everything you own.
You turn back to the room, letting your eyes roam. You can see it already: a bookshelf over there, framed photos on the walls, trinkets scattered across surfaces. It could be cosy and nice. It could be yours.
You glance back at Will, who stands relaxed in the doorway, watching you with patience. Crossing your arms, you stand into the center of the room. “So,” you say, “what’s the catch?”
“The catch?” he repeats, tilting his head to the side a little.
“Yeah. I mean—this place is great.” You gesture vaguely around you. “Like, TV-show-apartment great. It’s pretty. It’s clean. Not to be mean, but I'm used to guys being way messier. Like, a lot more. Did you guys deep-clean just for visits?”
“Of course not,” he replies simply, and there’s something almost offended in the way he says it.
“That’s exactly my point,” you continue, far too serious. “It’s suspicious. The rent is more than reasonable for this kind of place and this neighbourhood. So there has to be a catch. Are you a serial killer? Is the apartment haunted? Was this room used to shoot porn? Is that why it’s so cheap?”
Will blinks. Then he laughs, half confused, half amused, clearly not expecting that particular line of questioning.
“I mean,” you add, pleased by his reaction, “this room is genuinely beautiful. Why aren’t you guys living in this one? Did someone die in here?”
“This is actually the smallest bedroom,” he says, and you stare at him, searching his face for irony. There isn’t any. You picture the other rooms, suddenly and wistfully, if this is the smallest one. “And this room is empty because our friend who lived here just moved in with his girlfriend. Promise, this room is as normal as they come.”
“Damn,” you breathe. “Okay. Well… this place is great.”
“I take it you’re interested?” he asks as you both step back into the hallway.
“I’d be a fool not to be,” you reply. You give the room one last look as you walk away, already imagining, already planning. Yours.
There’s one final door across the hall from what could become your room, the final one he hasn’t mentioned yet.
“And I’m guessing this is your friend’s room?” you say, gesturing toward it.
Right on cue, as if staged, the door swings open. You startle, heart jumping. Next to you, Will flinches slightly, clearly also surprised.
“For God’s sake, Lucila, I’m not your fucking dog!” The voice is deep and loud. Angry. The man it belongs to has his phone wedged between his shoulder and ear as he fumbles through his pockets. A cap pulled low blocks his face from view. “I know, I—listen—Lucila, just listen for once.”
Will turns fully toward him, crossing his arms before his chest. The movement catches the man’s attention, and he finally looks up at his friend, surprised. And then he notices you.
He straightens slightly. You notice his size immediately, almost as tall as Will, you’d say, but broader. Dark strands of hair slip out from beneath his cap, and when his eyes meet yours, they’re an unmistakable brown. For a second, neither of you looks away.
Then he takes you in quickly, as if checking whether he is supposed to recognise you. You take the opportunity to do the same—his angular features, the facial hair and the rough line of stubble along his jaw, the aquiline nose. When you look back up, he is back to looking right at you.
The silence stretches for a second, two maybe. It feels longer. He looks like he’s about to say something, but the voice on the other end of the call cuts through it.
“Yes, I’m still here. I’m coming. I said I’m coming,” he snaps, his tone turning cold as he steps past you and Will.
He throws the two of you one last glance before leaving, the front door slamming shut behind him.
You stare at the door, bewildered. No hello. No nod. No acknowledgement at all for someone who might end up living with him.
Rude.
Will looks just as stunned as you feel, maybe even a little horrified by his friend’s behaviour. He turns toward you, embarrassment written plainly across his face, and opens his mouth to say something—
When the front door swings open again.
“Damn!” a new voice announces cheerfully. “Fish has a broom shoved up his ass today. Ran into him in the hallway, and the man is in a mooooood.” The last word drags out lazily as the speaker steps inside.
You turn to look at the new man, hoping you won’t get whiplash from snapping your attention back and forth so much. As if height were a requirement to live here, you’re now staring at yet another tall man, possibly the tallest one yet.
But it isn’t his size that makes your eyes widen. It’s the blood. A lot of it. Smeared across his face. Fresh enough that your brain short-circuits for a second.
What the actual fuck?
Behind you, Will lets out a long, weary sigh. “Come on, Ben. Couldn’t you have cleaned yourself up first?”
Ben—apparently—doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest by his brother’s tone. His attention snaps to you the moment he notices you standing there in the hallway. He doesn’t bother hiding the way his eyes travel over you, slow and unapologetic, from head to toe.
His smile widens when he’s done.
“You didn’t tell me we had company,” he says, grinning as he keeps looking at you.
Normally, you’d be annoyed by the blatant once-over. Right now, you’re too distracted by the blood. You’re still trying to decide whether this is an ambulance situation. Or a cop situation.
“I did,” Will mutters, exasperated. “This morning. Twice. I told you someone was coming to see the room.”
“Did you?” Ben lifts a hand in your direction, flashing a bright smile. If you weren’t so thrown by the situation, you might notice how much he resembles his brother. Little brother, clearly. “Hey. I’m Ben, but you can call me Bennie. Nice to meet you.”
You would shake it if his hand weren’t just as covered in blood as his face.
“You’re bleeding,” you finally manage to say. It’s the only thing your brain can focus on, as if this hasn’t occurred to anyone else in the room.
Up close, you can see the damage more clearly: a small gash above his eyebrow, a split lip already swelling. Bloodied knuckles. He doesn’t look bothered. Will doesn’t look worried either, which somehow makes it worse.
“You should see the other guy,” Ben jokes lightly.
You don’t laugh. You hear Will sigh again next to you.
“Let me take a shower,” The younger man adds, shamelessly, already moving past you. “And maybe we can get to know each other after.” He winks— fucking winks—as if this is a perfectly normal Tuesday, then disappears into the bathroom. Moments later, you hear him singing, carefree and off-key.
So…That’s the catch. The roommates.
You turn slowly toward Will. He has one hand over his face now, eyes closed, the posture of a man exhausted.
“Thank you for taking the time to show me around,” you say as politely as you can.
Will inhales deeply, then opens his eyes and offers you a small, apologetic smile. “I promise they aren’t always like that.” Whatever he sees on your face tells him enough. He gestures toward the door. “Let me walk you out.”
“It’s okay,” you reply, almost feeling bad for the man who was nice and kind to you. “I can find my way. I think you have… other things to deal with.” You glance toward the bathroom, where Ben is still singing without a care in the world.
Will sighs once more, defeated, but opens the door for you anyway. “You know how to reach me if you change your mind.”
You don’t think you will.
“Thanks,” You tell him instead. It's too bad, you think you would have gone along with him. “Have a great day.”
And with that, you step back into the hallway, certain of one thing: You are not that desperate.
The drive back to your parents’ house is heavy with crushed hope. You liked the damn place. Goddamn it. Why did those men have to be rude, unhinged, weirdos? Now you understand why Will is the one who shows the apartment. He seems like a normal, even genuinely nice human being, clearly assigned as the group’s public-facing representative. Goodbye beautiful kitchen, and goodbye elevator. Goodbye free parking. Oh god, free parking. Life is unfair.
As you park in the driveway of your childhood home, you groan at the thought of starting over. Back to square one. Scrolling through listings again, you already know won’t come close to what you just saw. Nothing that good ever does.
The front door closes behind you, and you head toward the living room, desperate to collapse onto the couch and let the TV numb you for a while. Perhaps order in and rot and drown in self-pity for the rest of the night. You push the door open and—
“Oh my God!”
You’re not the only one screaming.
Your parents scramble apart in a blur of limbs and panic. Your mother reacts first, diving to grab a blanket and cover everything—far too late, but points for effort. You know what you just saw will haunt you for the rest of your life. You spin around instantly, already regretting every decision that led you here.
“Nope. Nope. Nope,” you chant, fleeing up the stairs toward your childhood bedroom like your life depends on it.
Behind you, your mother shouts, “We thought you’d be gone longer!”
“You thought wrong!”
You slam the door shut and lean against it, breathless from taking the stairs two at a time, fighting the wave of nausea threatening to take you out at the knees. How dare your parents have sex in the living room, on your favourite couch? Oh my god, you will never be able to sit on it ever again.
The realisation hits you then and there: you cannot stay here any longer.
You’re actually that desperate.
Before you can overthink it, you pull your phone from your pocket and type:
Hey Will. If the room is still available, I’ll take it. How soon can I move in?
❣ Please tell me what you thought! Leave a comment, a reblog, or even an ask! It would mean a lot :) If you want to be tagged, please let me know! ❣
Warnings: Mild Violence. Maybe I'll add more in the future.
Summary: A knight from another century crashes -literally- into a florist’s life and turns her world upside down.
Word Count: 4.2k
note: This is a silly time-travel story written purely for entertainment and to get out of my author's block. I won't be diving into complex timeline theories here. Let's not overthink the logistics and just enjoy the ride(?)
The tournament grounds were quieter now.
The crowd that had packed the stands since dawn -merchants, nobility, smallfolk who'd bartered half a week's wages for a decent vantage point- had dissolved into the taverns and banquet halls of the city, chasing warm ale and the joy of retelling someone else's violence over a good meal.
The field itself was a ruin of churned mud and discarded favor ribbons, the occasional lost boot. Someone's gauntlet, bended and forgotten near a fence post. The detritus of spectacle.
Sir James Buchanan Barnes walked through it like a man who wanted very much to be somewhere else.
He was limping. A gift from the third bout, when Sir Aldric Thornwall had gotten a lucky angle with his shield and introduced it firmly to Bucky's ribs.
The impact had knocked the air from his lungs with an audible crack that he'd felt more than heard. He'd finished the match anyway. He'd finished all of them. He'd placed second, which in any reasonable accounting of the day should have felt like something.
It didn't feel like much of anything.
Just the persistent throb beneath his ribs with every breath. Just the weight of mail he hadn't bothered to shed yet, still bearing the afternoon's sweat and dust.
The banquet, he thought, scowling.
Lord Castellan Morrow had made it clear, through three separate messengers, that his presence was expected at the celebration feast. That the competitors were guests of honor. That it would reflect poorly on a man of his standing to absent himself.
Bucky's standing, such as it was, had survived worse reflections.
So he just kept walking.
The city proper closed around him as he left the tournament grounds. Cobblestones replacing mud, the noise changing from open-air echo to the compressed warmth of torchlit streets.
Wintermouth at night had a specific smell: woodsmoke and river damp. He knew these streets well enough to navigate them half-asleep, which was approximately his current condition.
A pair of knights from the eastern circuit fell into step beside him for a while, their breath wine-sweet and celebratory, clapping him on the shoulder with the camaraderie of men who hadn't taken a shield to the ribs. He felt the impact reverberate down through the bruise, sharp enough that his vision whited at the edges.
"Hell of a final bout, Barnes."
"Could've taken him," the other offered generously. "Aldric fights dirty."
"Aldric fights to win," he said, which was the only response that was both true and didn't require him to have feelings about it. His voice came out rough, abraded by thirst and the dust he'd swallowed every time he'd hit the ground.
They took the hint, or something close enough to it, and peeled off toward the sound of music spilling from an open tavern door, lute strings and off-key singing and the particular roar of men determined to enjoy themselves.
The next interruption came two streets later, in the form of two scarcely clothed women leaning against the warm stone of a bakehouse wall, still radiating the day's stored heat.
Their exposed skin gleamed amber in the torchlight, deliberate and inviting. They tracked him with the experience of people who had learned to read a man's evening prospects at a glance.
"Sir Knight," one called, with a smile that had worked on better men than him. Her voice was honey-slow, practiced. "Shame to spend a victory night alone."
"First runner-up," he said, without stopping. The mail clinked with each step, a sound he'd long stopped hearing.
"Close enough."
It wasn't, but he didn't have the energy to explain the difference. He kept walking.
The maester caught him at the corner of Chandler's Row. Plump, earnest, clutching a satchel of medicines with both hands as it might escape. His robes were too clean, his face unlined. Fresh from the Citadel, probably. Still believed healing mattered more than politics.
"Sir Barnes." He was slightly out of breath, which suggested he'd been following for a while, trying to work up the nerve to address him. "Lord Castellan Morrow sends his regards and requests that you allow me to examine your injuries before the feast-"
"I'm not going to the feast."
A pause. The maester's throat worked. "He anticipated you might say that. He asked me to convey that your attendance is-"
"How's your handwriting?" Bucky interrupted.
The man blinked. "My- adequate, ser. Why?"
"Good." Bucky stopped walking, turned just enough to face him properly. Watched the maester straighten reflexively under the attention. "Here's what happened: you found me three streets back, examined me thoroughly despite my objections, and determined I've got at least two cracked ribs and a possible concussion. You ordered me to bed with strict instructions not to drink, feast, or make any sudden movements for the next three days."
He held the maester's wide-eyed stare. "Your professional opinion is that my attendance at tonight's festivities would be, and I'm quoting you here, 'medically inadvisable and potentially dangerous to Sir Barnes's recovery.'"
The maester's mouth opened. Closed. His gaze flickered down to Bucky's left side, where he'd been favoring it, where the mail sat wrong.
"You..." The man's voice was uncertain. "You do likely have cracked ribs, ser."
"There you go. Not even a lie." Bucky's smile was brief and sharp. "You write that up for your Lord, attach your seal to it, and you've done your duty. He gets his excuse in writing, you get to have actually helped someone today, and I get to go home. Everyone wins."
He could see the man working through it, the truth of the injury versus the falseness of the examination, the political cover versus the medical accuracy.
"I... suppose that would be acceptable," the maester said slowly. Then, with a hint of spine Bucky hadn't expected: "But you should let me examine you properly. Cracked ribs can shift, puncture-"
"I've had worse."
"That's not the reassurance you think it is, ser."
Despite everything -the ache and the exhaustion- Bucky felt something in his chest. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.
"Tomorrow," he offered, and meant it more than he'd meant most things today. "You can poke at me all you want tomorrow."
The maester nodded, satisfied or at least willing to accept the compromise. "I'll have the letter sent within the hour."
"Appreciated."
----
His lodgings were modest by deliberate choice. A single room above a cooper's workshop on the quieter end of the merchant quarter, rented by the week during tournament season. No servants' quarters. No one to report his comings and goings to anyone who might have opinions about them.
This had its advantages.
He catalogued the disadvantages the moment he stepped inside and faced the cold hearth, his breath still misting in the chill air.
Right.
He set the heavy tournament satchel down with a dull thump, rolled his left shoulder experimentally -the socket grinding in a way that spoke of old breaks poorly healed- and decided that feeling was overrated.
The fire wasn't going to light itself. The armor wasn't going to unlace itself. The evening was shaping up to be a prolonged exercise in doing everything the hard way, which was, at this point, so consistent as to be almost comforting.
Almost.
He got the fire started on the third attempt. The tinder was damp, -because of course it was- and then stood in its growing warmth and began the specific misery of removing plate armor without assistance.
The tabard first, then the gorget, useful as it was, he hated the damn thing; removing it felt like relief. Then the pauldrons, working the straps with fingers that were more cooperative on the right side than the left.
The scarring along his left forearm pulled when he reached a certain angle, the old tissue going taut. It always did. He'd stopped noticing it the way you stopped noticing a crack in a familiar wall; it was simply part of the room now.
The breastplate hit the floor with a sound like an argument ending, the impact reverberating through the floorboards.
There.
What remained was a man in a sweat-dampened gambeson with a bruised ribcage, a mild headache, and absolutely no interest in examining either. The padded underarmor clung to him, cold now that the mail was gone, the fabric stiff with salt and exertion.
He took off the gambeson and dragged the wooden chest from his satchel, the one the tournament steward had pressed into his hands with excessive ceremony, and set it beside the fire. The brass fittings caught the light, over-polished. Performative.
The lock was simple. Inside: coin, as expected. A satisfying weight of silver stacked in neat columns, some gold beneath. He'd need it. The estate his father had left him was four walls and a burned-out shell, courtesy of the same people who took him hostage and left their mark on his arm.
Rebuilding wasn't cheap. Timber, thatch, labor, it all required the kind of funds you didn't earn through valor or skill, just the slow accumulation of tournament prizes and some service contracts.
Glory didn't buy roofing.
He picked up a brooch set with garnets -gaudy, impractical, the kind of thing you pinned to a cloak if you wanted to be robbed- and looked at it for a moment. The stones were decent quality, at least. It would fetch a reasonable price from the right jeweler.
He set it aside with the others. A necklace of amber. A pair of silver clasps. All destined for the same fate: the jeweler's scale, melted down or pried out and reset for someone who actually wanted them.
He had no use for adornments. He wasn’t fond of them, as most of the nobility, and also, he had no one to give them to.
The war had seen to that.
He reached back into the chest, fingers brushing past velvet pouches, and found something else.
A ring. Silver, heavier than it looked. He drew it out into the firelight and turned it between his fingers. The stone was a ruby, deep red, cut into the shape of a star.
He stared at it.
Red stars on grey and black.
His colors.
He turned it slowly, watching firelight slide across the facets. The star was crude, the points uneven, the kind of work you got from a jeweler with more ambition than skill. It was, objectively, the ugliest ring he had ever seen. Garish. The sort of thing a merchant's son wore to his first banquet, desperate to prove he belonged.
Bucky, who wore his father's signet ring only on scarce occasions because selling it felt wrong, even if the man was never a paragon of paternal love, felt the particular pull of a terrible idea.
Just to see if it fits.
It was small for his right hand, so he tried the left, mostly out of stubbornness… and it slid on. The fit was perfect. Uncannily so, as though it had been sized for exactly this finger, accounting for the slight deviation where the bone had set wrong.
The ruby flared.
Not like firelight reflecting, but light from within, red and sharp and pointed, like something had woken up inside the stone and found him looking.
The ring burned. Seared against his skin, hot enough that he felt it in his teeth, a bright line of pain circling his finger.
What-
He grabbed for it with his right hand, trying to twist it off, but his fingers passed through something that wasn't air and wasn't quite resistance.
The room tilted.
No. The room disappeared.
The fire went first, snuffed like a candle, leaving no smoke, no ember-glow. Then the chest, the coins. The ceiling with its water-stained beams. The floor beneath his feet.
All of it went, between one breath and the next, and what replaced it was falling.
His stomach lurched, and the burning in his finger became the only solid thing in a world that had stopped being solid.
He tried to breathe and couldn't find air.
The darkness swallowed him whole and the last thing he registered, distant, wrong, was the smell of plants and humidity.
Then nothing.
----
She stood on the sidewalk in front of The Sweet Briar with her hand buried to the wrist in her purse, fingers closing around lipstick, a crumpled handkerchief, what felt like a receipt that she really ought to throw away, and absolutely nothing key-shaped.
The morning was grey and cool for early spring, the kind of damp that sank into your coat and stayed there. The street was quiet, too early yet for the lunch crowd, the shops on either side still dark. A truck rumbled past, leaving the smell of diesel and wet pavement in its wake.
Just when she thought she might have actually forgotten the keys -left them on the kitchen counter next to the bread box, maybe, or in yesterday's coat pocket- her fingers finally closed around the key ring at the very bottom of the purse, underneath everything else, because of course they were.
The lock stuck.
She jiggled it once, patiently, the same way she had jiggled this exact lock approximately four hundred times and had not yet called the locksmith, because she only ever remembered the lock was broken when she was standing directly in front of it, key in hand, and by the time she got inside she'd forgotten again.
The metal resisted, then gave with a sound like a small complaint. She pushed inside.
The front of the shop was an obstacle course.
Mr. Thomson from the supply house had delivered very late yesterday afternoon, because apparently a union picket line two blocks east had backed up half the city's delivery routes. By closing time, she didn’t have the energy to do anything about the results: buckets of early flowers stacked three deep against the counter, their blooms still tight-furled and smelling faintly of earth.
Two flats of fern she hadn't priced yet, the fronds already drooping from a day out of soil. A box of wire and ribbon spools that had no business being in the middle of the floor but was there anyway, and somewhere underneath all of it, allegedly, the new ceramic pots she'd ordered in February and assumed were lost.
She picked her way through it with careful steps, her heels clicking against the wood floor, and made it to the back without incident.
The stockroom was small and currently in a state that she chose to call organized chaos and not a problem she had to solve today.
More deliveries back here too: boxes stacked along the left wall, the worktable barely visible under brown paper wrapping and tissue. The air smelled like potting soil and the green, living scent of the spider plants hanging near the window, their runners brushing the top of a stack of terra cotta. She reached up and pulled the cord on the single overhead bulb.
The light swung once, twice, and settled.
She saw the legs first.
Long legs, stretched across the floor between a toppled flat of begonias and the base of the shelving unit, attached to a man who was very much present and very much not conscious, sprawled at an angle that suggested he had not chosen to be on the floor so much as arrived there.
Her breath stopped.
For one crystalline second, her brain refused to process what she was seeing -legs, boots, a body where no body should be- and then her heart kicked hard against her chest.
There was a man. In her stockroom. On the floor.
He'd taken out a good portion of the new stock on his way down. The begonias were scattered, soil spilled across the floorboards in dark trails. A ceramic pot in sage green -the one she'd specifically ordered and waited two months for- was in three neat pieces beside his left arm. The pothos she'd been propagating had been knocked from its perch; the vines lay crushed beneath his shoulder.
She stood very still for a moment, one hand still on the light cord, the other pressed flat against her chest where her heart was trying to break through.
He wasn't moving.
His chest was -she watched for a second, barely breathing herself- yes, his chest was moving. Shallow, but steady.
So. Not dead.
She still hadn't decided if that was good or bad.
Her gaze darted to the back door: still closed, the bolt still thrown from the inside. The window was latched. No broken glass. No signs of forced entry.
So how-?
Her hand moved without conscious thought, reaching back toward the worktable, fingers closing around the wooden handle of a trowel. Not much of a weapon, but the edge was solid steel, the point designed for breaking hard soil. It would do.
She took a step closer, the trowel held low at her side, ready to strike.
His clothing was strange. The shirt was wrong, off-white and loose, the kind of fabric that looked hand-woven, rough in a way she couldn’t describe. The collar was laced instead of buttoned, the ties loose and askew.
The trousers were the same, tucked into boots that had absolutely no business existing in 1955: tall, dark leather, worn in the way that took years and hard use, not a factory.
Over all of it, a belt of heavy leather, studded and wide. And attached to it, running down each thigh -she tilted her head slightly- what appeared to be straps, buckled and reinforced, holding padded cushioned sheaths flat against his legs.
Like something out of a medieval fair, except those fairs didn't come through this city, and even if they did, the participants didn't break into a flower shop in full costume and collapse on the begonias.
She took another step closer, careful to avoid the broken ceramic.
His face was-
Well.
A face that had seen better days was her first thought, and her second was that even roughed up as he was, it was a remarkable face to have stumbled into her stockroom.
Strong jaw, straight nose, the kind of bone structure you saw in magazine advertisements for razors or cologne, the ones that made you look twice even when you weren't in the market.
A bruise was already darkening along his left cheekbone, deep purple spreading toward his temple. There was a cut above his brow that had bled and dried, the blood a rust-brown line trailing toward his hairline.
The beard was a few days past deliberate.
And the hair -she paused on that- dark brown, long enough to brush his shoulders, pushed back from his face and thoroughly disordered, tangled with mud and sweat.
It was long for a man. Longer than any man she'd seen outside of a history book or painting.
She straightened up slowly, the trowel still in her hand.
Alright, she thought, forcing her breathing to steady. Think.
Option one: he was a vagrant who'd somehow gotten through a locked door -the damn lock, God help her- and passed out on her stock.
Possible. Unlikely, given the boots alone probably cost more than her monthly rent, but possible.
Option two: he was a veteran. There were men, she knew -the whole city knew, even if nobody said it plainly- who hadn't come back from the war quite right in the head.
Shell-shock, they'd called it in the first war. Combat fatigue now, as if giving it a softer name made it easier to carry.
Except that didn't explain the kind of clothes.
Option three: he'd gotten blind drunk somewhere in the vicinity, wandered in through a door she knew she'd locked, and the outfit was theatrical. A costume. There was a theatre district six blocks south. Strange things happened near the theatre districts. Actors were weird.
Except that the door had been locked. And bolted.
She looked down at him again.
At the slow rise and fall of his chest. At the ring on his left hand, silver with a red stone that caught the light strangely, still faintly warm-looking even in the dim stockroom.
At the begonias, crushed beyond saving.
The telephone was on the opposite wall. She edged past him, keeping the trowel between them out of some vague instinct that felt less vague with every step. Her heel caught on a scatter of soil, and she steadied herself against the doorframe, not taking her eyes off him.
He still wasn't moving.
She picked up the receiver with her free hand, the trowel still raised in the other, and dialed zero, the rotary clicking back into place.
The line hummed and returned a busy signal.
Dammit.
She clicked the hook and tried again, her gaze locked on the sprawled figure.
Busy. Again. It was a challenge to get to an operator these last few weeks. It was the third time this month she needed to make a call, and the lines were occupied.
She leaned her hip against the wall and tried a fourth time, watching him over her shoulder out of an abundance of caution that was starting to feel less abundant and more barely sufficient.
Okay. If she could just get through to the operator, get a squad car over here -or an ambulance, depending on what exactly was wrong with him- she could have this sorted before her first customer arrived at nine. It was a reasonable plan. It was perfectly reasonable-
The fifth attempt produced a busy signal and also, from somewhere behind her, a sound. The distinct scrape of ceramic against concrete, and then a longer drag, like weight shifting.
Her breath caught.
She turned around slowly, the receiver still pressed to her ear, the busy signal droning against her brain.
He was sitting up, propped on one hand with the other braced against the shelving unit, head bowed forward like it weighed too much to lift. The dark hair fell across his face in tangled strands. His shoulders rose and fell with breaths that looked like they hurt.
She didn't move. Her fingers tightened around the trowel handle until the wood bit into her palm.
For a moment he just sat there, motionless except for the breathing. Then his head lifted slowly, and he blinked at the stockroom with the heavy, confused expression of a man whose surroundings were not what he'd been expecting.
His gaze tracked left: shelves, boxes, the window with its spider plants. Right: more shelves, the worktable, the spilled soil.
Then his eyes found her.
A nice pair of steel blue eyes.
That was the completely irrelevant thing her brain produced, and she hated that it did, because those steel blue eyes were currently fixed on her with a frown that was more baffled than threatening, but he was large.
She could see that now, even sitting down he had the kind of shoulders that spoke of labor or violence or both- and he was between her and the back door, and she did not know him, and she was alone, and-
Her mind didn't finish the thought. She crossed the distance between them in three steps, raised the spade, and swung.
She didn't account for his reflexes.
One moment she was bringing the flat of the blade down toward his head, and the next, her wrist was caught mid-arc in a grip like iron, the world tilted sideways, and she was on her back on the stockroom floor with approximately two hundred twenty pounds of confused stranger pinning her there.
The impact knocked the air from her lungs. Her shoulders hit concrete, her head just barely missing the leg of the worktable. The trowel clattered away, skittering across the floor into the scattered soil.
He'd moved fast. Too fast for someone who'd been unconscious thirty seconds ago. Too fast for someone who'd struggled to sit up.
His hand was still locked around her wrist, holding it flat against the floor above her head. His other forearm was braced beside her shoulder. His knee was between hers, his weight distributed in a way that kept her pinned without crushing her, like this was something he'd done before. Many times before, in fact.
When she pulled at her wrist -once, testing, her breath coming in sharp gasps- he simply held it, not tightening, not letting go, like the question of her leaving hadn't seriously occurred to him as a variable.
Her heart was hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat, behind her eyes. She could smell him: leather and sweat and something else, something like smoke and metal and old wool.
She could count his eyelashes.
The blue eyes she'd noticed before were a lot more striking at this distance, and a lot less groggy. Whatever fog had been in them when he'd first sat up had burned off fast into something sharp and assessing.
He was looking at her the way she imagined soldiers looked at enemies in the dark. His chest rose and fell against hers with each breath. She could feel the heat of him through her blouse, through his strange linen shirt.
Get off get off get off-
She opened her mouth to scream, to say something, to demand he let her go-
And then he lowered his face toward hers by one deliberate inch, eyes narrowing and demanded, low and very even:
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: James Oliver lays out his strategy to Joel.
Warnings: 18+only due to eventual explicit smut. Also references death and grieving.
A/N: We’re getting closer….😛
Masterlist
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James retires to your old room shortly after a very fine supper of roasted spring lamb, during which he charms Sarah with stories about a cat his elderly aunt kept in New Orleans that wore a small velvet collar and could open doors. He bows to you, thanks Maria warmly for the meal in his elegant Spanish, and retreats with the easy, unhurried tread of a man who’s concluded his day's business to his complete satisfaction.
“Please go home,” you tell Maria once everything has been cleared away and she nods gratefully, hanging her apron up by the door and heading outside to meet Tomás. You wave them both away knowing that you’re more than capable of providing what the house, and your guest needs, moving forwards.
You don’t retire for another three hours.
Instead, you sit at Joel's desk in the parlour with a single lamp burning low beside you, ostensibly reviewing all the papers, but in truth doing nothing more than staring at the brass fittings of the inkwell and replaying every word of James’s surgical interrogation in your head.
The intimacies. The barn. The night before the arrest. The third option.
We resolve the matter at its source.
When you finally climb into bed, you lie there, staring at the ceiling, and think about the precise, infinitely complicated question of whether you wish to be consummated under the auspices of a bond posted by an attorney.
You don’t know the answer.
You know that you love Joel with an intensity that makes your hands shake when you think about him too long. You know that the memory of his hands and mouth mapping the curves of your body before his arrest is a sense memory so vivid and so frequently revisited that you sometimes have to pause and draw breath because the heat of it suddenly overwhelms you. You know that had it not been for Samuel’s illness, and then your own, the question would no long be relevant, because the consummation would have long since been sealed.
You know that you want your husband in a way that completely shocks the spinster you once were, and that this want has only grown more urgent and more specific since the iron door of the Sheriff's office slammed shut behind him.
But to do it like this, with a lawyer's pencil hovering somewhere in the background and a bond filed in a Sheriff's office all so that you can swear on a Bible that your marriage is real as proof at a circuit trial…
It makes something deep inside your chest curl up tight, like a fist.
You don’t want the pressure, or the expectation. You want it to happen in a natural way – two people choosing, deciding – not because one might hang, or face a lifetime in prison, if it doesn’t.
You’re still thinking about it when the dawn light begins to creep through the curtains. Dragging yourself from your bed, you wash quickly then dress smartly in grey cotton with black piping at the cuffs and collar, your hair pinned in a tight coil at the nape of your neck. You look at yourself in the mirror for a long moment and decide you look exactly as you wish to look.
You look like a woman conducting the business of her family, not like a woman who’s spent the night turning over the question of whether to sleep with her own husband under the strategic guidance of a lawyer she met yesterday.
After breakfast, and once Tomás has collected Sarah, the drive to town is made in James’s hired brougham. He sits across from you on the soft leather bench, dressed in a beautifully tailored dove-grey suit with a deep navy cravat, his hat resting on his knee and his notebook tucked under his arm. He doesn’t speak for the first several miles, rather simply gazes out the small window at the rolling Texas landscape, his profile turned away from you, allowing you the dignity of your own composure.
"Mr Oliver," you say finally, as the outskirts of Sawyer's Creek come into view on the horizon.
"Yes?”
"Have you considered, sir, that my husband may not... may not be agreeable to the strategy you propose?"
He turns his head and looks at you, his eyes warm with a kind of dry, considered amusement.
"Mrs Miller," he says gently, "I’ve considered very little else since I drafted the bond paperwork last evening. I assume that this will form the substance of our conversation with your husband this morning. I don’t propose to ambush him, you understand. I propose to lay the strategy before him exactly as I laid it before you, to answer his questions with the same frankness, and to give him the same opportunity to refuse that I gave you. He is my client, ma'am, not my pawn. I don’t intend to move him about the board without his consent."
"Thank you."
"You’re most welcome.” He looks back out the window. "I should add, however, that his likely initial response is one I’ve already privately predicted to myself, and have prepared for. He will not, I think, take the proposal well at first hearing. Men of his particular character very rarely do. We must allow him the room to be properly outraged before we allow him the room to be properly persuaded."
"I don’t want to persuade him to anything he doesn’t want, Mr Oliver"
"Of course not, I wouldn’t dream of suggesting otherwise. I propose only to inform. The persuading, if there is any to be done, is entirely a matter between yourself and your husband. I shall absent myself at the appropriate moment."
The brougham rolls into the Street a few minutes later. The town is already at its mid-morning bustle, but you notice at once that the energy on the boardwalks has shifted in your absence. Heads turn, conversations stop and a pair of women outside the milliner's shop nudge each other and whisper behind their hands as the polished black carriage rolls past. The story of your encounter with Reverend Sawyer has, as you had hoped, become the only story in town.
The brougham comes to a stop outside the Sheriff's office. James steps down first, offers you his hand, and helps you to the dusty street. Then he tucks your hand into the crook of his arm and guides you up the wooden steps.
Sheriff Hayes looks up from his desk as the door opens, his eyes widening by perhaps a quarter of an inch when he registers the cut of James’s suit and the easy, aristocratic poise of his entry.
"Mrs Miller,” he greets you, rising slowly. “Sir."
"Sheriff Hayes," you say calmly. "This is Mr James Oliver of Oliver, Gerard, and Beaumont, attorneys at law of Galveston. He’s agreed to represent my husband in the matter of the upcoming proceedings."
"Sheriff,” James extends his hand courteously. "Mrs Miller tells me you have been a model of professional courtesy throughout this most regrettable matter. I thank you for it, sir."
Hayes shakes the offered hand looking faintly stunned.
"Well, uh…Joel Miller's a good man, sir. I'll be glad to see him out of that cell, if you can manage it."
"We shall see what can be managed, Sheriff. For the moment, Mrs Miller and I require a private consultation with Mr Miller. Have you a room suitable for the purpose? The cell itself is, I understand from Mrs Miller's description, somewhat inhospitable to the careful review of legal documents."
Hayes hesitates for only a moment, then nods firmly. “You can use my office here. I'll bring Joel through directly, but I’ll have to stand outside the door, you understand.”
“Please.” Hayes gestures to his desk and James nods before sitting down into the recently vacated chair with you taking one opposite.
He sets his notebook precisely in the centre of the desk, aligns the pencil beside it, and folds his hands on top. He looks perfectly composed, perfectly patient, perfectly prepared to argue a complex matter of common-law marriage doctrine in a country sheriff's office without breaking a sweat.
You, on the other hand, can’t seem to stop the butterflies from swirling in your stomach.
The door behind suddenly opens and Joel walks in, your breath catching when you see him.
Hayes has clearly taken some pains since your last visit. Joel’s been given the opportunity to wash, his hair damp and combed back roughly from his forehead, his beard trimmed back to how it looks normally. He’s been allowed to change his clothes, and he somehow seems both larger and gaunter than when you last saw him through the iron bars, the hollows beneath his eyes more deeply shadowed.
His eyes find yours instantly and the relief that breaks across his face is so complete and so undisguised that it takes every shred of your composure not to leap up from the chair and throw yourself into his arms.
James rises smoothly to his feet and extends his hand as Hayes mutters something indecipherable and slips out of the office door.
"Mr Miller, sir. I’m James Oliver, of Galveston. I’ve been retained as your counsel of record, and I’ve already had the considerable pleasure of an extensive consultation with your wife. I have the honour, sir, to inform you that you are now represented by, if you will forgive the immodesty, the finest trial attorney west of the Mississippi River and we shall have you free of this absurdity very soon.”
Joel looks at the offered hand, at the immaculate suit, then he reaches out and returns the handshake.
"Thank you, sir."
"The honour is entirely mine. Please, sit down.”
Joel sits down beside you, his eyes drifting over your face with an intensity that’s almost physical and reaches for your hand, his warm fingers enveloping yours. “You look better, darlin’.”
"I am better," you reply as firmly as you can.
James clears his throat very politely.
"Mr Miller, with your indulgence, sir, I shall now lay before you, as concisely as possible, the substance of the case as I understand it, the prosecution's likely line of attack, the defensive strategy I propose, and the specific legal mechanisms by which I intend to effect that strategy. The matter is somewhat urgent, sir, as the judge will be arriving before the end of the month and certain preparatory actions must be taken without delay. I shall require your active consent to several proposals. May I proceed?"
"Uh…sure,” Joel replies, glancing quickly at you and then back again.
For the next thirty-five minutes, James lays out the case with the same precise, surgical clarity he used with you the day before. He summarises the evidence on both sides and the political situation in town following your encounter with Reverend Sawyer on the boardwalk. He lays out the doctrine of defence of conjugal estate and the precedents along with the prosecution's likely counter arguments.
You watch Joel listen intently, shifting occasionally in the chair and nodding where it seems appropriate.
Then James arrives at the matter of consummation, and you watch the precise instant when he understands where the lawyer is going. You watch the small, tight muscle that jumps in his jaw and the deep flush that begins to climb very slowly up the back of his neck, just above the open collar of his shirt, and which creeps upward into the hollows beneath his ears.
James doesn’t look at Joel while he speaks. He keeps his eyes fixed on his open notebook as he explains the legal doctrine and the prosecution's likely line of inquiry. He tells Joel that you’ve been entirely forthright with him about the current state of the marital relations, that no judgment whatsoever attaches to that fact, and that the defence have three options for handling it, of which he favours the third.
He explains the legal mechanism of the consultation bond and that with appropriate surety and his personal guarantee, the Sheriff can temporarily release Joel into James’s custody for purposes of trial preparation for a period of up to forty-eight hours. He explains that no witness is required to verify the specific use of those hours, only that the prisoner be returned at the appointed time. He explains that this will, in his professional judgment, render the prosecution's line of inquiry as to the legal status of the marriage entirely moot.
He sets down his pencil, closes his notebook and finally looks at Joel.
"Mr Miller, I have laid before you the strategy I believe most likely to secure your acquittal. I shall not pretend that it is not a strategy of considerable personal intrusion because it is and I do not propose it lightly. I propose it because, in my professional judgment, it is the cleanest and most decisive defence available to us, and because your wife has authorised me to lay it before you for your consideration. The decision, sir, is entirely yours."
Joel doesn’t move, his eyes fixed on a small knot in the wood about six inches in front of him. The deep flush at the back of his neck has spread now, climbing into his cheeks above the beard, mottling the rugged tan of his face with patches of hot, embarrassed red.
He doesn’t look at you, or the lawyer, though his hand remains firmly around yours.
"Mr Oliver," he says finally. "I appreciate the trouble you've gone to and what you’ve said here today. But you’re sittin’ in my Sheriff's office tellin’ me that the way out of this cage is for me to take my wife to bed under a writ of paper."
"Mr Miller, I…"
"I ain’t finished, sir."
James closes his mouth.
"My wife," he says, very quietly, "has been my wife for almost six months now and she’s the most decent person I’ve met in longer than I care to remember. And she has been kind enough to put up with a marriage to a man who hasn’t done right by her in the way that... in the way that a husband should. I should’ve bedded her that first night and I didn’t. She knows why and she understands it.”
He squeezes your hand.
“But that is between her and me. It ain’t between her and me and the Sheriff and you and a circuit judge. It is between her and me, sir."
The last word comes out hard, almost a growl, and you see James’s fingers tighten very slightly against the edge of his notebook.
You sit very still in your chair and don’t breathe as you feel the hot, stinging pressure of tears rising behind your eyes, furiously, absolutely refusing to allow them to fall. You stare at the side of Joel's face, at the deep red flush across his cheekbones, and you understand with a sick, sinking lurch in your stomach that he’s not refusing the consummation, but rather the audience. He’s refusing the violation of the small, private, infinitely careful thing the two of you have built together. He’s refusing to have it weighed and measured and entered as evidence in a courtroom.
You understand it absolutely, and yet, beneath the understanding, there’s another, smaller, more painful voice whispering in the back of your mind that asks whether perhaps, despite all he’s said and done, he simply doesn’t want you in that way.
You don’t allow your face to move, but you feel the small, tight muscle in your own jaw lock, the hot pressure climb higher behind your eyes, and you slide your hand back to your own lap.
Across the table, James registers the change in you with the speed of a man flicking a card across a green baize table. His eyes dart to your face for less than half a second, then snap back to Joel.
"Mr Miller," he says quietly, "I take your point entirely. I shall give you and Mrs Miller some privacy in which to discuss the matter between yourselves. I shall step outside into this glorious morning and inquire as to whether the Sheriff might be able to procure some coffee. I shall return shortly and should you wish to dismiss the proposal entirely, sir, I will receive the dismissal without argument, and we shall pursue an alternative defensive strategy."
He stands up smoothly, picks up his notebook and pencil, tucks them under his arm, nods once and then crosses to the door, pulling it shut behind him with a soft, deliberate click.
For perhaps ten seconds, neither you nor Joel move. Somewhere outside the door, you can hear the low murmur of James’s voice politely inquiring after the Sheriff's coffee mingled with the day-to-day workings of Sawyer’s Creek.
Joel keeps staring at the knot in the wood as you draw in a small, careful breath.
You mean to keep your voice perfectly level, to be the woman of steel who stood in Doc Cooper’s office and threatened to bankrupt the county, and the woman who had eviscerated Reverend Sawyer on the boardwalk in front of half the town.
You mean to be that woman, but what comes out of your mouth, instead, is a small, thin, betrayed whisper.
"You don’t want me."
Joel's head snaps up, the deep flush across his cheeks turning, in an instant, from embarrassed red to a stark, drained white. His eyes fly to your face with a force that almost rocks you backward in the chair, his hands raising up in a single sharp, helpless gesture.
"Darlin’…"
"It’s alright, Joel," you say, hearing your voice shake over the words. "I understand. Perhaps…perhaps time in a cell has given you the opportunity to think and perhaps you’ve decided that…”
He leaps from his chair, surges forward and then he’s on his knees beside you, his hands seizing yours where they sit clenched in your lap.
“Look at me,” he demands, his face inches from yours. “Darlin’, look at me.”
You slowly raise your eyes.
"Do not ever, ever say those words to me again. Do you understand me? Do not ever in your life say those words to me again."
"Joel…"
"There has not been a single hour these last months that I haven’t wanted you. I’ve wanted you sittin’ at the breakfast table and when you bend over Sarah's reading book at night and when you walk across the yard and when you’ve been sick and when you’ve been well and I…”
He breaks off, his body shaking.
“You have to know that I couldn’t have touched you the way I did in the barn if I didn’t want you. Nor would I have been so goddamn foolishly jealous of Samuel Thorne if I hadn’t thought he was tryin’ to take what’s mine. Darlin’ I…we…” he swallows. “I couldn’t have loved you the way I did that night if I didn’t want you. Hell, if things had been different…”
"Joel," you whisper.
"You ain’t been undesired, darlin’, you’ve been worshipped. There’s a difference. I didn’t want your first time to be when some stranger was lyin’ sick down the hall, or when you yourself weren’t fully healed and…and in the barn…” he lets out a ragged breath. “Well, that wouldn’t have been right neither, and maybe we oughta be thankin’ Tomás for interruptin’ us like he did.”
The hot pressure behind your eyes finally breaks and you feel the first tear spill over your lashes and slide down your cheek, hot and silent.
"Then why…when Mr Oliver said…"
"Because I don’t want it like this neither," he grounds out, his thumbs stroking frantically across the backs of your hands, his eyes misting. “Not on a goddamn writ. Not under a bond. Not for evidence to try and satisfy other people. We’ve been buildin’ somethin’ between us that is so careful and so quiet and so utterly ours that I’d rather chew off my own hand than have it dragged into a courtroom and weighed as a strategic asset. Do you understand me, darlin’? Do you understand what I’m tryin’ to say?"
"I understand.”
"Do you?"
"Yes, Joel. I understand, I do."
His shoulders sag and he leans forward, pressing his forehead against your clenched hands where they rest in your lap, his hair brushing your wrists. You feel the small, fine tremor that runs through his frame and watch, dizzily, as your own tears drip down onto the back of his head. You feel your hands unclench beneath his and turn over, palm up, your fingers threading into his beard, thumbs pressing gently against the rough plane of his cheekbones.
"Joel," you say quietly. "My darling, look at me."
He raises his head.
"You are the most caring, generous man I’ve ever known, and I don’t know why I said...” you shake your head. “You’re right about Mr Oliver’s proposal. I had the same response when he laid it before me yesterday afternoon. You’re right and I’ll tell him that we decline the third option, and we’ll find another way. I still haven’t given up on Doc Cooper and the town council and…”
"I didn’t say I declined the third option, darlin’."
You stare at him. “I…”
"I said not like this. I didn’t say not at all."
"Joel…"
"Lemme finish."
He shifts on his knees, drags a hand across his face, then he takes yours back, turns it over and presses his thumb into the soft centre of your palm, slowly, deliberately.
"I’ve been sittin’ in a brick box for over a week thinkin’ ‘bout you. Just about you, nothin’ else. There is nothin’ else to think about in this place, darlin’. I’ve thought about the night before I was arrested more times than I care to admit to a man of God or a lawyer. I’ve thought about it until I’ve very nearly worn the memory smooth. And what I’ve been thinkin’, darlin’, in the small hours of the night is that I might hang without ever havin’ known what it is to love my own wife properly and I can’t allow that. Do you understand what I’m tellin' you?"
"I think so.”
"So when that lawyer comes in here and tells me that he can have me released for forty-eight hours under a consultation bond, and that the bond will hold up before a circuit judge, and that the only condition is that I'm returned to this cell at the appointed hour... when he tells me that, darlin’, what my mouth says is not like this, and what my mouth means is that I will not have it weighed in a courtroom. But underneath what my mouth says, darlin’, there is another thing my mouth wants to say, and what that other thing wants to say is yes."
You go very still. "Yes?"
"Yes." His eyes don’t waver. "If you’ll have me on the condition that no piece of what passes between us is ever entered into evidence. If you’ll have me on the condition that the bond is the law's business and what happens at the ranch is ours and ours alone, and the lawyer can argue the rest of the case on his own pretty wits without our help, then yes, I’ll walk out of this Sheriff's office and not waste a single one of those forty-eight hours."
You look at him for a long moment, kneeling at your feet on the dusty floor, his hands wrapped around yours, his eyes burning with a banked, hungry fire that has nothing to do with strategy and nothing to do with consummation evidence and everything to do, simply, with the man you’ve married who wants you.
You lean forward in the chair, take his face in your hands and press your forehead against his.
"Then yes, Joel," you whisper. "On those conditions, yes."
His shoulders sag again, but this time from a long, slow exhalation of profound, weary relief, as though something he’s been carrying for a great deal longer than a week has at last been set down on the floor between you.
You sit there with your foreheads pressed together for a long, quiet moment, listening to the slow, even sound of his breathing. You feel the rough scratch of his beard against your cheekbone, the warm pressure of his hands on yours and the steady, deep, drumbeat rhythm of his pulse where your fingertips rest against his throat.
"You’d better call your lawyer back in here,” he says finally. “We got a bond to sign."
You laugh, small and watery and slightly broken, but it’s a laugh that feels like the first sip of cool spring water at the end of a very long, very dry road.
When James comes back into the office, he doesn’t look at your damp lashes or the faint pink at the rim of Joel's eyes. He simply resumes his chair, opens his notebook and lifts his pencil.
"So, have we arrived at a determination?"
Joel clears his throat. "We have, sir, but I have a question first.”
“Of course, ask away.”
“Does my wife have to take the stand? I mean, is there any way, if this thing goes to trial, that we can avoid that happenin’?”
James blinks. “Unfortunately not. If we’re forced into a trial, your wife will be a very important witness and given how articulate she is, I would be remiss not to use her.”
“Joel?” You look over at him. “I can do it.”
He pauses for a long moment, his gaze fixed on an indeterminate spot, then blinks twice and nods. “Then we'll take the option you suggest, sir – with conditions."
“Name them."
"First, what happens at the ranch over those forty-eight hours is the ranch's business. Not yours or the Sheriff's or the judge's. You won’t ask either of us about it. You won’t ask anyone else who knows us about the state of our marriage. If the prosecution puts that question to my wife on the stand, she’ll answer it truthfully and with dignity, and that’ll be the end of it. I expect you to intervene if any questions are asked tryin’ to probe into the nature of timin’ or method or the like. We ain’t manufacturin’ evidence, sir, we’re conductin’ a private marriage. Are we clear?"
"Entirely clear,” James nods, his pencil moving over the page.
"Second, I’ll not give the Sheriff a single cause to regret signing the paper for this bond, so I gotta be returned here on time."
"Noted."
"Third." Joel pauses, his hand reaching for yours again. "My wife sets the pace of every moment of those forty-eight hours. If she changes her mind about anythin’, the bond still stands and I still return on time. Are we clear on that too, sir?"
"Crystal clear, Mr Miller."
James sets down his pencil and looks across the table at the two of you for a long, considered moment.
“The bond paperwork has already been prepared and all it requires are the appropriate signatures. I believe you shall both be on your way back to the ranch within the hour."
“What about you?” You frown. “Don’t you have to come with us?”
“Mr Miller is being released into my custody, yes,” James nods, “but I have some business that I need to attend to in Sawyer’s Creek and therefore it would seem more appropriate for me to remain here in town until that business has concluded. You’re welcome to the brougham, of course.”
You glance at Joel. “But…”
“I am liable for what happens whilst Mr Miller is under bond, but that doesn’t mean he has to be in my sight at all times. Obviously, were you to flee the state, there would be ramifications for me, but you’re not planning to do that, Mr Miller, are you?”
The pause before Joel answers is longer than you would have considered appropriate, but just as you open your mouth to gently nudge him into responding, his grip tightens around your hand.
“No sir, I am not.”
“Good,” James smiles. “Well, let’s get you out of here.”
in honor of mando and grogu coming out soon: what are your favorite din djarin fics??
hiiii nonnie friend!! 👋🏼 thank you for this ask, I’m soooo in love with our fave beskar clad space dad and his green little baby!! there are so many good fics about din around and I’m always in awe of the talented writers who share their work with us. here’s a random selection of some of my faves:
🌌 Stars fading by the talented @bergamote-catsandbooks
🌌 Touchstone by the talented @sawymredfox
🌌 It’s getting tight by the talented @queenofslowburn
🌌 The Long Way Round by the talented @din-cognito
🌌 locked out of heaven by the talented @quinnnfabrgay
🌌 Sight Unseen by the talented @reedispunk
🌌 Brown Eyes by the talented @thedivinereverie
🌌 long gone and found (two parts of the same story) and Meet the Teacher by the talented @burntheedges
🌌 Surgar, Spice and, Starlight by the talented @lamentationsofalonelypotato (link to first part of the series)
🌌 Best Kept Secret by the talented @lincolndjarin (link to first part of the series)
this list is by no means exhaustive and please feel free to drop your fic recs in the comments too!! 💫
