#widow reader

[melanchol1cs]

FRUITS OF THE FLESH.

widow!reader x priest!leon

word count: 3.4k summary: a man reaps what he sows. masterlist | taglist | wips

18+ MDNI. catholicism, religious connotations, no specific time frame but i’d like to say victorian era-ish, alot of allusions to the lord or god, reader’s dead husband idk, inner conflict, denial, guilt, leon asking for forgiveness like a hundred times, kissing, oral(r!receiving), fingering, unprotected sex.

a/n: started this like two months ago, just had the motivation to finally finish. i don’t really know how i feel about my writing on this one… i feel like i’ve lost all my skills after not writing for a few weeks

grief is truly a horrible thing. an all-consuming force that threatens to eat you from the inside out.

it’s a shadow that lingers, a specter that moves silently but persistently, weaving itself into the fabric of every moment. it does not announce its presence with fanfare, nor does it depart when you will it to. instead, it creeps, slow and steady, like the cold wind before a storm, pressing against your chest until breathing feels like a sin.

grief is not a feeling; it is a presence. it is a weight, heavy and suffocating, as if drowning in a dark, endless sea. the surface is so far above, unreachable, and the water presses in from all sides, choking the breath from your lungs. there’s simply no escaping it. eve when you close your eyes, hoping for a moment of peace, it finds you there too.

grief is a thief that takes more than just what you’ve lost—it takes time, peace, and clarity. it takes pieces of you.

and ever since your husband’s death, you’ve been trying to pick those pieces back up. but they slip through your fingers like sand, scattering in the wind, impossible to gather in their entirety. every attempt to rebuild feels futile, as though you’re trying to piece together a puzzle with missing parts, the picture never quite forming the way it once did.

the room is relatively empty, save for a few devout attenders who are spread out in their pews. the priest stands on the altar, the candlelight casting a soft glow on his features as he continues the mass. it’s a somewhat traditional ceremony, filled with prayers and rituals that you’d grown accustomed to.

the priest stands before the small congregation, the words of the mass flowing effortlessly from his lips.

you sit near the back, hands folded tightly in your lap. the rhythmic cadence of the priest’s voice, the latin prayers echoing in the cavernous space, should bring you some semblance of peace, but it doesn’t. it feels distant, as though you’re watching the service through a veil, separated from the others.

the priest's voice drones on, a familiar melody that fails to soothe the ragged edges of your heart. you feel like an outsider, a stranger among the devoted faithful. even the rituals that once brought comfort now seem hollow, the prayers falling flat against the weight of your sorrow.

as the mass draws to a close, the priest's eyes meet yours, his gaze piercing and knowing. for a moment, you feel like an animal trapped in his sights, vulnerable and exposed.

the priest's gaze lingers on you a moment longer than necessary as he processes the end of the mass. the small congregation begins to file out of the pew, murmuring gentle blessings and well-wishes to one another. he watches them go, his eyes lingering on each face, before turning to face you once more.

the nave slowly empties, leaving only a handful of devotees behind, including yourself. he remains at the altar, hands folded in quiet contemplation. the soft rustle of the evening breeze carries the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, a melancholy reminder of the passing seasons.

"you stayed behind," leon observes, his voice a gentle whisper.

"is there something on your mind, my child?" he approaches you slowly, his large frame casting a long shadow across the stone floor.

“no, father, everything’s fine," you lie through your teeth, your voice barely a whisper.

"is all well?" there's a pause, and in it, you sense an invitation to share your burdens, to unburden yourself to this man of the cloth. but the words stick in your throat, tangled around the aching void your husband left.

what could you possibly say? what good would it do? the priest's eyes search yours, his face etched with compassion. then, he nods, as if he understands the futility of words.

he accepts your silence, his gaze softening with understanding. in this sacred space, he knows better than to pry, to force confessions or unburdenings. instead, he allows you the solitude you crave, the quiet contemplation you so desperately need.

the silence between you stretches on, a fragile truce that exists solely in this sacred space. it's a comfort, of sorts, to have this shared quiet, a reminder that even in the depths of your grief, there are still moments of solace to be found.

"i'll leave you be for now," leon says eventually, his voice a gentle murmur that breaks the spell.

"thank you, father." he nods, a small, reassuring smile playing on his lips as he takes his leave, the soft rustle of his robes the only sound in the hallowed space.

eventually, you rise, stretching your stiff limbs. the cool stone beneath your feet is a jarring contrast to the warmth of the pew. making your way to the front of the church, you light a candle, your fingers brushing against the smooth glass as you set it upon the altar. the flame flickers to life, casting a warm, golden glow over the surrounding statues.

you linger a moment longer, savoring the peaceful atmosphere, before making your way out.

the church is bathed in an eerie, moonlit glow when you return late that night. the candle you lit earlier still burns, its flame a slowly dying down.

you move with a quiet reverence, your footsteps muffled by the soft carpeting as you make your way to the front row of pews. you've come seeking answers, but none present themselves as you approach the altar. the statue of the crucified christ looms above, his suffering face a poignant reminder of the pain that accompanies loss.

the shadows cast by the statues seem to deepen and twist, taking on a life of their own in the dim light. a shiver runs down your spine, the fine hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. something feels off, a discordant note that you can't quite place.

you pray, hoping it’ll all go away, but unease persists.

it's subtle at first, a whispered thought on the edge of your consciousness. but the longer you have your back turned, the more you feel as if someone is behind you. but you don’t dare look.

not until it speaks.

“what are you doing here, my child?," you hear him say softly, his voice carrying a note of gentle warning. "you shouldn't be here this late."

his words send a chill down your spine, the softness of his tone at odds with the tension emanating from him. you slowly turn around, your heart pounding in your chest. leon stands just behind your seat, his silhouette large and imposing against the blackness outside. his eyes glint in the candlelight, a predatory keenness that makes your blood run cold.

"father," you stammer, trying to keep your voice steady. "i... i just felt the need to pray," he takes a step closer, his footsteps deliberate and heavy.

"at this hour? prayers can wait till morning. you shouldn't be here, not alone, not now.”

“but, why?” you ask, a hint of fear creeping into your voice. “does the church not allow visitors at any time?”

guilt pricks at his heart, a sharp pang of conscience that he's not entirely sure he wants to acknowledge. “no, of course not. the church doors are always open. but this is late, and you're alone... it's just not safe,” his tone is gentle, but there's an undercurrent of something else - a hunger he's trying his damnedest to suppress.

“is that really the reason, father?”

guilt gnaws at him, a growing sense of unease that he can't quite shake. "of course, that's the only reason," he lies, his voice wavering slightly. but the truth lingers in the air, a palpable tension that he can't seem to dissipate.

he takes a step closer, drawn to you like a moth to flame despite his better judgment. "perhaps... perhaps i misjudged. the church's doors are always open, for the faithful and the lost alike," his eyes roam over your face, drinking in the curves of your features, the softness of your skin in the candlelight. “especially to you.”

a low groan escapes him, half-desire, half-anguish. "forgive me, child. i should not be saying these things,”

“no, wait—“ you softly reach for his arm.

he freezes at the touch, his breath catching in his throat as your fingers make contact with his arm. the sensation sends a jolt of electricity through him, his resolve crumbling like sand beneath the tide.

"don't," he whispers, his voice rough with strain. "please, don't." but even as the words leave his lips, he can't bring himself to pull away, to sever the connection between you.

“but i haven’t done anything, father,”

"you've done plenty, my child," he murmurs, his voice thick with a mix of longing and self-loathing. "just by being here, by existing... you've awakened desires i thought long buried." leon's breathing grows ragged, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

he steps closer still, the heat of his body radiating towards you like a physical manifestation of his turmoil. "i am a man, not a saint," his confession hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of his forbidden attraction.

“and…” he shakes his head, a bitter struggle that leaves him weak-kneed and aching. "i should send you home," he murmurs, his hand coming up to cover yours, to hold it in place. "before we both regret this.”

“no, please don’t push me away, father,” you plead.

his eyes flicker closed, as if in supplication to some higher power, as the admission spills from his lips: "i'm sorry, child. so very sorry for what i am about to do.”

his body crowds yours, crushing the air from your lungs with the sheer force of his need. his mouth descends, claiming yours in a bruising kiss that sets your very soul ablaze. the world narrows to the taste of him — smoke, spice, and something uniquely his own.

it's overwhelming, consuming, and yet, somehow, it's the most natural thing in the world.

and when you end up pushed up against his office desk, the wood cold and unforgiving against your back, you know things have gone irrevocably awry. his hands, so recently devoted to guiding prayer, now roam the curves of your body with a reverence bordering on the religious.

your lips part on a gasp, allowing him greater access, and he seizes the invitation with a fervor that leaves you breathless. large hands roam your body, mapping the contours of your frame with a desperation that belies his years of discipline. he breaks the kiss only to trail open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, the rapid beating of your pulse point a siren's call he's powerless to resist.

he's shaking, the tremors starting deep within, spreading outward through his muscles like ripples on a pond's surface.

"forgive me, lord," he whispers to himself, as if seeking divine absolution from the sin that he’s about to commit. but even as the plea leaves his lips, he doesn't let go. instead, he raises your hand to his lips, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your knuckles.

then he's on his knees in front of you, hands grasping at the hem of your dress. the fabric rustles as he pushes it upward, baring your thighs to his hungry gaze. his breath is heavy, face mere inches from your center.

"tell me to stop," he pleads, his voice a ragged whisper. "command me to sin no more, and i will obey.”

for a moment, he teeters on the brink, the line between devotion and lust blurring until it's nearly indistinguishable. "please," leon's eyes lock onto yours, searching for the strength to resist, to obey his vows. but what he finds there is surrender, a silent plea that sends his resolve crumbling like the weakest brick.

"father," you breathe, his name a prayer on your lips.

he closes his eyes, a silent, anguished prayer issuing forth from his lips. his hands tremble as they part your legs wider, stealing a breath from your chest. slowly, reverently, he leans in, finally dragging you underwear down, exposing you to his gaze.

"you are so beautiful,"

his voice cracks on the words, a mixture of awe, reverence, and raw, animal desire. he can't tear his eyes away from your unveiled flesh, drinking in the sight like a man dying of thirst.

"pray with me," he murmurs, his breath hot against your slick folds. "ask for forgiveness, for the sins we are about to commit." even as he speaks, he's dragging his tongue along your inner thigh, the sensation making you gasp and shudder.

"our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,”

his hands roam your hips, gripping the soft flesh as if to steady himself against the waves of his own depravity.

“thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven,"

each curve of your body yields to his touch as his fingertips traced a path of fire across your skin. desperation and control tangled within his gestures, gripping onto the softness beneath his hands as he strives to anchor himself against the tumultuous waves of desire and decadence that threaten to crash over him.

“glory be to the father, and to the son, and to the holy spirit…”

the words are a broken whisper, a plea for mercy that's drowned out by the urgent throb of his own need.

“amen.”

he brings his mouth to you at last, and with a groan of surrender, he begins to eat you out with a hunger that knows no bounds.

he laves at your clit with a fervor that leaves you panting and weak-kneed. you're a mess of whimpers and moans, your hands fisting in his hair as he works you over. leon's grip on your hips tightens, his fingers digging into the flesh as he eats you out with a single-minded determination.

"yes, yes, just like that," you babble, your voice a desperate chant, even as your vision starts to blur at the edges.

one of his hands drifts lower, his fingers seeking out the entrance to your womb. he teases the delicate skin, tracing the outline of your slit before slipping a finger inside. a low groan rumbles in his chest at the slick heat that envelops him, urging him on.he works two fingers in and out of you in a steady rhythm, the lewd squelch of your juices only further fueling his own desire.

"please, father, i need—" the words die on your lips as a particularly intense thrust of his fingers sends you plummeting over the brink.

his eyes blaze with an unholy light as he takes in your ravished expression, his own need reaching a fever pitch. he surges to his feet, shedding his robe and shoving his pants down with a desperate haste. he reaches for you, pulling you forward effortlessly, as if you weigh nothing at all.

he wraps a hand around himself, stroking himself in time with the frantic beat of his heart. "i'm sorry," he whispers, his voice raw with anguish and guilt. "so very sorry."

he hovers over you, his thick length prodding, seeking entrance to the very core of your being. you help guide him in, a hand slowly pushing back on the back if his neck as the thick head of his cock breaching your entrance with a slight burning sensation. he groans, his hips bucking forward as he sheathes himself fully within you.

for a moment, you're both still, letting the intensity of it all wash over you.

and he starts to move forward, inch by inch, the wooden desk creaks in protest beneath you. his eyes squeeze shut as he buries himself to the hilt, your slick walls clenching around him like a vice.

"oh, my lord, forgive me," he breathes, his forehead coming to rest against yours as he struggles to still the tremors that rack his frame. "i am a man undone.”

he starts to move, slowly at first, each thrust a testament to the effort it takes him to resist the primal urge to rut into you like an animal in heat. his hips rise and fall in a deliberate rhythm, each stroke drawing a gasp from your lips.

"you feel so good," he rasps, his breath hot against your skin. he pulls nearly all the way out before plunging back in, the slick glide of his thick length a pleasure unlike anything you've ever known.

sweat drips from his brow as he pounds into you with a fervor that borders on religious ecstasy. each thrust is a prayer, a confession, a plea for absolution. his eyes never leave yours, searching for some glimmer of forgiveness in their depths.

"i'm— i’m close," he warns, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.

your head rolls back, a silent moan escaping your lips as the pleasure mounts. his hands fly to your face, cradling your cheeks as he forces your gaze to meet his.

"please, please, don't look away." he leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a chaste kiss. "i need to see you," he murmurs, his hips stuttering in their relentless rhythm as he fights for control.

he can feel the pressure building, coiling tighter and tighter within him until he's teetering on the precipice. his hands roam your body, kneading and squeezing as if trying to imprint every curve and valley onto his very being.

he's a hairsbreadth from the edge, the tension coiled so tightly within him that he's not sure he can contain it much longer. but for you, he'll try.

he'll endure the sweet agony of restraint. he leans in, his breath mingling with yours as he whispers a final plea.

"dear god, i'm so very sorry." the words are a prayer, a plea for forgiveness not just from the divine, but from you. he knows that what he's doing is wrong, that he's violating the sacred trust that he's been entrusted with as a man of the cloth. but in this moment, caught up in the maelstrom of his own desire, he can't bring himself to care.

he hooks an arm beneath your knees, pulling you higher up on the desk. the new angle allows him to drive even deeper, the head of his cock brushing against that spongy spot that has you seeing stars.

your body responds, arching up to meet him as a keening wail tears from your throat. he watches, entranced, as ecstasy washes over you in waves, your face a mask of rapturous bliss.

you finally feel his heat as it floods your innermost depths just moments later.

he collapses onto you, his weight crushing in its intimacy as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. his heart pounds against your ribcage, a frantic with regret and release.

he stays there, draped over you, his breathing ragged and uneven as he tries to regain some semblance of control. his body is slick with sweat, his muscles trembling with the aftershocks. slowly, he pulls back, his hands still cradling your face as he looks deep into your eyes.

his breath comes in ragged gasps as he struggles to regain some semblance of control, to quiet the chaos that rages within him.

"forgive me," he whispers, the plea hanging heavy in the air between you.

he knows it's not enough. he's broken the trust, violated the sacred vows he's taken. there's no going back from this, no easy path to redemption. the knowledge that he's failed, that he's fallen so very far from the path of righteousness, fills him with a deep, abiding shame. but for now, in this moment, he can only cling to the thin thread of your forgiveness and hope that it's enough.

tags: @crowleyco @withonly-sweetheart @fanilkychae

[writerslittlelibrary]

All assassins need a cat

masterlist

summary: since your rescue from the Red Room you had been living in the tower, and it didn’t take you long to realise that ex-assassins simply need a cat 

pairing: Winterwidow x widow teen reader, Natasha x widow teen reader, Bucky x widow teen reader

warnings: cats

genre: fluff

words: 1602

a/n: I really want a cat, so I figured I'd write something short about it :) 

You do not have my permission to repost, copy or translate my work

 |——————————— ⴵ ———————————|

Living in the Avengers tower had been nothing short of amazing. The people were kind, the food was even better. After living in the Red Room for so long you were overwhelmed with the freedom you were given, and the choices you could make.

You had been in the tower for two months now, and although you liked almost everyone that lived in the tower, you preferred Natasha and Bucky the most. 

They were kind, and because of your shared life experience it was easy to get along with them. They understood you, and there was no pressure in talking to them. You knew that whatever you told them, they would understand. It was comforting. 

However, it didn't take very long before you realised that both Natasha and Bucky owned a cat. 

It happened during a movie night. Natasha and Bucky had sworn to catch you up on all the great movies you missed. While watching the entirety of the Indiana Jones movies, a small, black cat jumped up on the bed, snuggling against Natasha. 

After you asked who the cat was, Natasha explained that she got her after living in the tower for a while. She said it helped her feel better about herself, and her past. 

‘Liho,’ as Natasha told you she was called, took a liking to you rather quickly. It didn't take many movie nights before Liho wasn’t only snuggling on Natasha's lap, but also climbing on yours. 

During breakfast with Natasha and Bucky later that week, you spotted a white cat joining you in the kitchen. It walked up to Bucky and started yelling at him for food. Bucky picked the cat up, snuggling with it for a few seconds before grabbing some food, feeding it. 

“That's Alpine,” Bucky had explained, telling you how he had gotten a cat not long after Natasha did. 

Bucky and Natasha didn't share a floor when they had gotten their cats, but when they moved in together it didn't take long before the cats became friendly with each other. Natasha had told you how you could often find them snuggled up together. 

After meeting both cats, you could often be found cuddling with them. 

When you were sitting in your room, you would leave your door open, allowing the cats to enter whenever they pleased. Often, they would wander into your room, either jumping on your bed or jumping on your lap while you entertained yourself. 

They started following you around the house soon after, always begging for cuddles and kisses. You cheerfully obliged, and it didn't go unmissed by either Bucky or Natasha. 

Natasha had brought up the idea one night, after you had fallen asleep in their room. 

She shared her thoughts with Bucky, discussing how it might be good for you to get a cat of your own. You loved the cats that were already living in the house, and both Natasha and Bucky thought it would be great for you to raise a cat of your own. 

At breakfast a week later Natasha brought it up again.

“How would you feel about getting another cat…?” Natasha asked carefully, bringing up the question casually so as to not make you suspicious. 

“You want another cat?” You asked cheerfully, petting Liho behind her ears as she settled on your lap. 

Natasha nodded. “It might be fun for Liho and Alpine to get another play buddy.”

Bucky nodded along, settling in the seat next to you. 

“Besides, we were thinking, you might like one of your own…” Bucky explained carefully, but your gasp of excitement washed all their worries away. 

“I could get a cat?!” You asked excitedly, watching as Natasha chuckled before nodding. 

“If that’s something that you want,” she explained, sitting into the seat across from you. “I still have the contact information from the same people I bought Liho from. They have another nest and are looking for homes for the kittens,” Natasha told you, biting into her toast.

“We could go have a look if you want,” she finished. 

Another gasp of excitement left your lips. “I could get a kitten? We can go look at kittens?!” you exclaimed happily. 

Natasha and Bucky both nodded, chuckling a bit.

“We can visit today,” Bucky explained. 

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

After finishing your breakfast quickly, you had gotten into the car, heading over to the address that had the kittens. On the way, Natasha told you that the kittens were already old enough to leave the nest, so if there were a kitten that you had a connection with, you would be able to take it home the same day. 

You happily stared out the window, humming along to the song on the radio as your excitement grew. 

Once inside the house, you were practically jumping from excitement, sighing a little when Natasha, Bucky, you, and the other two people sat down at the table to greet each other and catch up. 

Natasha noticed your impatience, grabbing your hand under the table and rubbing soothing circles on it, assuring you that you would get to meet the kittens soon.

After a tedious half hour, the woman finally got up, leading you towards a different room where all the kittens were. 

Once you were finally inside, you gasped in excitement when all the kittens ran towards your legs, playing with your shoelaces.

You went to sit on the ground, smiling as all the kittens started exploring around you, inspecting you. Natasha moved to sit next to you, lifting a kitten into her lap and cuddling with it. 

After playing with the kittens for a little while, you found out that the mother cat was actually one of Liho's siblings, so you would be adopting a cat of Liho’s family. 

You were in the kitten room for about two hours, and you had grown especially close to one little kitten. It was the smallest one, and she was sleepy and shy when you first came in. After about half an hour, she did come over to you, sniffing you for a bit before deciding that you were the perfect place to take a nap. She climbed on your leg and started sleeping. 

“Can we have this one?” you asked Natasha as you carefully petted the young cat's body, allowing her to rest.

“She does really like you,” the woman said, cuddling with the mother cat.

Bucky stood in the corner, observing you and his girlfriend as you had a bonding moment. He loved Natasha more than anything, and you were slowly becoming just as important to him. He loved both of you, and he wanted to give you this moment together. He knew how much it meant to Natasha to be a mother, and he was certain it meant a lot to you as well. 

Natasha nodded excitedly, giving the kitten on your lap a little snuggle.

“I wish we were able to take them all. They are all so cute,” Natasha said as she lifted another kitten from the ground, holding it close to her and giving it some kisses. 

The woman stood up, walking over to Bucky. 

“If you could come with me, I will get you all the medical papers and get everything sorted out.”

Bucky nodded and followed the woman out of the room, leaving you and Natasha to snuggle with the kittens a little longer. 

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

After getting everything sorted you had taken the sleeping kitten into your lap, snuggling with it while you sat on the backseat. 

You were more than happy with your new best friend, and both Natasha and Bucky were more than happy because of the fact you were so happy. You cuddled with the cat a little more before you as well fell asleep.

When you woke up again you were back in the Avengers tower, sleeping on Natasha’s and Bucky's bed while Natasha read a book. 

“Good afternoon my little Malyshka,” she said when she noticed you were awake. She closed her book, setting it aside and brushing some of your hair out of your face. You groaned and blinked a few times before sitting up, noticing the weight that pressed on your legs. Your little kitten was still fast asleep. 

You smiled and reached down to pet her, enjoying the purring she made as she snuggled closer into your hand. 

“Thank you, Natasha,” you said as you looked at her, smiling when she gave you a kiss on your forehead. 

“Anything for you, my little Malyshka,” Natasha said as she cupped your cheeks, giving you another kiss on your nose.

“Leave some snuggles for me,” you heard Bucky say from the door opening, watching as he walked inside and crawled into the bed, on the other side of you. 

You smiled and leaned forward, giving him a little kiss on your cheek. 

Bucky smiled as well. “Thank you little miss,” he said jokingly as he leaned forwards as well, giving you a little kiss on your forehead. 

Your kitten started making some noises, waking up and taking in its surroundings. Once her eyes landed on you, she crawled higher up your legs, settling onto your chest as you leaned against Natasha. It didn't take long before the kitten fell asleep again, enjoying your gentle pets and kisses. 

“Another movie?” Natasha questioned as she observed your state, realising she would not be getting out of the bed for a while.

You nodded happily, snuggling close into her side as she started the movie, stroking your hair. 

“Thank you,” you sighed contently before falling asleep as well, safe in the arms of your found family. 

Permanent tags: @marvelnatasha12346 @lesbionion @nova-kyle @darkstar225 @saraaahsstuff @marvelwomenarehot0 @screechcat @iheartjohansson @tia-thesimp @swaqcenix @karmasgxrl @marvel-lous3000 @n0txn3vee @lorsstar1st

[141wh0re]

A little continuation of this blurb.

It’s a gradual transition. One you don’t even realize is happening before your very eyes.

Small things in your everyday routine begin to change.

What was once morning coffee at the kitchen table, gradually morphed into tea on the patio with the lingering scent of tobacco drifting through the morning air in small clouds.

Then late-night TV, cuddling with the love of your life, turned into reading in comfortable silence on opposite ends of the couch with a content dog snoozing on the cushion between.

“I’ll do it fer ye, bonnie .” Became, “Lemme show ya how, in case I’m not around to do it for ya, doll.”

Celtic matches switched to Manchester United.

Cerulean eyes eventually became a rich, whisky color.

Loud, boisterous laughter replaced with gruff, shy ones.

Sunday mass was changed to lazy mornings, lounging in a big bed with his dog.

Scottish whisky became Kentucky bourbon.

The dark mohawk you used to caress was replaced with a full head of auburn hair.

Where Johnny’s love for you was as open and as free as the sea, Simon’s love for you was deeper than any valley, and stronger than any anchor.

Yet, they made you whole in different times of your life.

And you were thankful to not only experience the love of one soulmate, but two.

[call-of-dookie]

Dear John,

BROKEN THINGS

PART 1 - John Price x Reader

Series Synopsis - Soap is killed in the mission to end Makarov, and in his death the men find out of a 'Secret Wife' Johnny had. While guilt of Soap's death was already eating at Price, the word of a widow strikes him even harder, and so he decided to seek out his wife and pay his dues for his fault in Soap's Death, and admit his guilt in aiding the broken woman before him.

"a break" is what John was told he needed. His job was complete with Makarov, and it left a stain on his heart. It was clear to everyone, laswell, what's left of task force 141, he wasn't handling his fuck up lightly, trudging the halls of base with a contemplating look and a dark aura surrounding him. It was his fault Johnny died. He chose not to kill Makarov when he had the chance, and now? One of his men was dead, one of the best of men at that, and in the sorrows of guilt for being responsible for Soaps death, John found himself slipping away.

He had spread Johnny's ashes in Scotland, the "home of his heart" Johnny claimed, and left his sadness on that bluff. Unfortunately, he has come to find out that sadness and guilt, are two completely different emotions. The silence of the mess hall, the silence of his men, and the Case Filing Meeting cracked his brain into a million shards, each a different emotion but with edges sharp as a blade, and covered in guilt.

"Alright boys, we've done this before, it's no different than any other time. You're each getting case files and filing the events of 'Makarov's Hunt', including Soaps death."

Laswell has been visiting the task force to complete there case filing and here it was. Every detail of the events leading up to, and soaps death itself were to be filed on paper, like taxes no one wants to pay. Details were to be discussed, evaluated, and jotted down for future reference, and to commence the death of 'John Soap MacTavish'.

In the case of a S.A.S. soldier dying, one who has been assigned to a Task Force, his information is purposely scarce. They are not to talk about personal relations, wives, husbands, family and children alike, in an attempt to protect their humanity.

Revealing such truths is forbidden for their family's safety, and their own, but once a soldier dies, it is his captains or subordinates responsibility to open their 'File of Humanity', as they call it, a manila folder containing all the soldier loves.

A tan-yellow folder slides across the table, reaching Price first. At the corner is written in Johnny's scribbly handwriting, "MacTavish Humanity" with a small doodle of a bar of soap sitting next to the ending. The sight of it let's a chuckle huff out of price, which quickly turns to dispair at the realization of what documents he's about to see. If there are any, marriage licenses, birth certificates, a list of living relatives and so much more.

The rest of the team gets a folder, each having an image of Johnny clipped to the left hand corner.

"Well...we all know what is about to happen, and how to handle it, yes? You will open the folder, read his service sheet first and fill out the information on your case filing. Once that commences, we will...discuss his death...personally", Laswell finishes.

So as on cue, the men open their folders to read the one pager of Johnny's enlistment, skills, and service before copying to their sheets.

The scene is painstakingly familiar for Price, deja vu of when Soaps file first came across his desk. He's a brilliant kid , 25 at the time and a specialist in demolitions and sniper, a unit for such a young man. He sports his usual mohawk as he did in that file years ago, and that shit eating grin on his face. Everything is as usual until they reach the bottom of the page. Service Sheets change slightly when added to 'Humanity Folders', now 3 small boxes are added to the bottom of the enlistment column.

Check 'YES' if you have children. [NO]

Check 'YES' if you are married. [YES]

No one has ever seen a man's face turn white that fast, expression dropping and eyes flooding black at the simple word 'yes'.

Check 'YES' if your spouse is living. [YES]

The air grew cold as of every body has read the exact same thing at once. 'Johnny, married?' they were all thinking. Not once had he mentioned this, not once had they seen a ring, but it unfortunately all adds up.

As much as Johnny loved his job, he was always the last to be on base, and the first to leave. Everytime they travelled somewhere outside of the UK he'd buy a small trinket, something without purpose but enough for the boys to notice. Even in Urzikstan the boys had seen him chatting with a small family, a mother and daughter whose father had been forced a slave by Russia during their battle for independence. Shortly after the men saw a small doll, the size of maybe 2 fingers tucked in his pocket, "A gift from the girl, traded her a drawing" he said with a smile. It came to a point that the men we're concerned he was just... touring the 141's battle grounds, but the fact that they had never seen any trinket since he got it starts to add up. Gifts. For a wife, at that.

Everyone's eyes met each other's as Price's theory seemed to be right, they had all read that at the same time. John "Soap" MacTavish died a married man, and instead of delivering their condolences to his wife, they spread his ashes in Scotland.

"Fucking hell" is what breaks the silence, a groan of dispair from Ghost. His eyes met Price picking up on the one dimension of darkness and guilt in his eyes.

"We spread his fucking ashes", Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick adds to the conversation. This one left Price with a hand on his head, tugging at his hair as he breathed shakily, sounding like a death rattle.

Laswell tapped the table lightly, getting John's attention from the other end of the table before their eyes meet.

"We know what we need to do."

[threepandas]

Bad End: Wildfire Widow

"My condolences."

A nice thought. Yet here I stood, as cold and empty as the rain. I was a widow, now, and yet I could not... my mind would not... It did not seem real. Not yet. How could it possibly be? So soon? When it seemed only just the other day, I was nervously getting married. A modest but beautiful dress, made together with my in-laws to be. A humble church. Simple celebrations.

Our whole lives ahead of us.

Andrew was... was no one significant. But he was mine, and I was his. And though he couldn't give me a life of dreams and roses? He loved me earnestly. Picked road side flowers to bring me bits of beauty. Sang silly little songs, to wake me each day. Ate every bite of my, frankly, mediocre cooking, as though it were the greatest meal he'd ever had.

I loved him. I... I truely, actually, l-loved him. H..How can he be gone?

Where is my silly little man? My songbird? My best friend? H-how... WHY-‽ I don't understand. For days now. Since that final, terrible, wheezing breathe. I don't... I can't... Nothing feels real. I don't want it to be real. Please.

Please, Andrew. Darling. D-Don't do this.

The grave does not respond. It can not. Because... he is not there. I know he is not. Nothing but meat and soil remains. Empty shells and emptier houses. Like a punishment from God, for not following along politely. Bowing my head sweetly, and accepting my Fate.

It's my fault. Isn't it? Andrew would still be alive. Happy and in love. Married to some other woman, perhaps. Making her the luckiest wife in the world. Chatting over breakfast and giggling together as they joke their wake to work. She would get to admire his beautiful eyes and riot of freckles. He would write her terrible poetry.

They would be in love.

Alive... and in love.

But I ruined it. B-because I'm selfish. Right? That has to be it. Surely. It must be! B-because what else could it BE? He was healthy! It happened so fast! And now... now he is... is...

Sobs rip their way out of me, uncaring of the witnesses. My legs buckling under the weight of my grief. Who cares? Who CARES? So what if I kneel in the mud? He's gone! My best friend is gone! And it's all my fault! I deserve this! It should be ME!

I already lived once before. This was always borrowed time anyway. If it had to be one of us? It should have been me!

Someone kneels behind me, a shawl draped over my shoulders. An umbrella brought forward to shelter me from the rain. As though I don't wish to drown. Almost everyone else has left, now. But I can't. I just... I just can't. Leave me. Leave me to my grief!

This world was a Story to me. I escaped it. Selfishly thought there would never be a price for that. That quitely bowing out of my antagonists role to live quitely, humbly, with a good man, would never... would never...!

"Shhhhh....shhhhh.... It's okay. It's over now."

Over? Ha ha. How can it BE OVER‽ He's GONE! Another sobs wrenchs free. They seem unending. But oh, that voice. That cool, smooth, aristocratic voice. How is he even HERE‽ When I fled, I all but cut ties with my past. Traveled nearly two countries away. I am no longer the wretched, trouble-making daughter of a well to due man. The infamous leech, clinging to the grand-dukes unfavored first born son.

I am a bookstore owner's widow. Nothing more, nothing less. No royal dramas. No court intrigues. No otome game paths or thousand characters to remember. Why would he even look for me? How could he possibly have the time? With his brother the favorite to inherit and his father a cold hearted bastard. I was little more then arm candy. Vicious and childish arm candy at that.

Remebering, the person I was, before I remembered? I was a terrible, lonely child. And I took it out on everyone around me. I coveted the stars, because everything inside me felt empty. Because my family was cruel. Because the coin brought treachery and gilded chains.

Because I was terribly broken and hateful about it. Greedy for what I could not have.

I was indulged. Enabled. By this man, most of all. It only made me worse.

Of course I left. It was the only way to heal. To grow. And in the end? It made all the difference. Yet... he is here. How? Why‽ What part of that terrible brat of a child did he come for? That horribly broken thing? Our shared history is a shame to me. And it's not as though we were lovers. For all that the world certainly assumed as much. Did he actually consider us frien-?

"I always promised, I would marry you. When I became Grand Duke. Now we finally can."

The words seem to hang in the air like nooses. Full of unseen bodies that swing and creak, like silent horrors in the day's mild wind. Around us, the world was filled with a terrible hush. Rain muffling everything to distant, dull grey. And for a long moment... everything was cool, quite, and far away.

All at once, the world crashed back in. Like a wave crashing back in, after the tide receding before disaster. A tsunami of tiny things.

We were the last two here, I noticed. My in-laws, the neighbors, our... my social circle. All had left to give me privacy to grieve. The rain was cold. So much colder then it had seemed. I hadn't noticed. The wind whistling eerily through the near silent grave yard. As we kneeled at the foot of my husband's grave, the dark earth muddy. He... was he wearing cologne?

Kneeling in a wide open field... I suddenly felt cornered.

That expression. That... that was not the expression of a man who's feeling sorrow for an old friend. Not distant memories and what could have been's. That... that was hunger. A predator's patience. Was...? No. No, it could not have always been there. Right? I would have...

"You shouldn't kneel in the dirt, love. Not for him. He wasn't worth it." He murmured, soft and sweet as a lover. Eyes almost kind. "I'm here now. Here to make everything better, all right? No more worries. No more struggles. All the riches your heart desired. I got them for you. Isn't that nice? Let's go get you warm, hmm?"

I.. God, I wasn't an idiot.

What Did You DO?

You bastard. What did you do to my HUSBAND?! Ignoring the hand, softly held out, as though he had any fucking right, I grabbed the bastard by the front of his jacket. To shake him? Slam him down to punch until my fists break and bleed? I couldn't tell which impulse was stronger. It was like all my howling grief had turned to RAGE. As though my blood had filled with fire. My bones ropes made of live wires.

He has the audacity to smile. Fondly. Even as my white knuckled grip drags roughly at the fine fabric of his clothes, threatening to tear stitches. As I bear my teeth, unhinged like a mad dog. Wild around the eyes. I drag him closer. The bouquet, now made cruel mockery, that he brought, goes tumbling into the mud. Filth that he is, he sucks in a shuddering breath. Leans towards me.

"Ah, my love, you were always so magnificent in anger. You wear it like a queen."

Whispered towards me. Each word made obscene by the waver in his voice. The way he dares to roll it off his tounge! Another man's wife. You sick bastard, I was ANOTHER MAN'S WIFE! But you couldn't have that, could you‽ The shriek that howls free of me would put hawks to shame. I lunge. Hands clawing as I try to claw his fucking eyes out.

Shameless, he dares to have a laugh that is charming. How utterly practiced it must be! Effortlessly, he keeps my hands from his face, as I curse him. Holding my wrists as I struggle to maim. To avenge. Killer. MONSTER! I struggle to rip my hands free, so I can wrap them around his fucking throat!

The world spins. No longer am I pinning my husband's killer. The grey sky distant witness as I thrash like an animal. I have nothing left. NOTHING! He took everything from me! Andrew. My songbird. My everything! I won't let him get away with it. I WON'T. If it's the LAST THING I FUCKING DO. Screaming, thrashing, I try to get him off me. Clawing at the mud I can feel seeping into my back.

"Look at you... so broken." He said softly, like a confession. With an unholy reverence. "We always were so beautifully matched, weren't we? Two perfect little monsters."

His grip tighten. Painful at last. Bones grinding and bruises starting to bloom.

"But then you tried to run away, darling. Why would you do that? Were you scared? Afraid of loving me too much?" Furious at his audacity, I bucked and writhed. Get off. Get OFF! I'LL KILL YOU! "Shhh shhh shhh, it's okay, it's okay. I forgive you. I forgive you. My wildfire. My bride."

In the distance, the day's storm, long building, finally arrived. Thunder rolled as the rain picked up. The air biting.

"I'll take responsibility, of course. Who else could handle you? Knows you as I do?"

"Dont worry darling, my wildfire, my monster~ Ours is a lovestory~♡"

[holylulusworld]

The widow (4)

Summary: You trust no one. Not since they got your husband killed.

Pairing: TFaTW!Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Warnings: mentions death of a loved-one, mentions of s miscarriage (no description), the reader is under protection, bitchy reader, arguments, grumpy Bucky, angst, grief, protective Bucky, nakedness

The widow masterlist

The widow (3)

Bucky knocks before he enters your room. He still doesn’t wait for you to tell him to come in, but you’re getting there.

“Dinner is ready. Nothing special, but it will do.”

“Did you hear anything about the agents?” You are sitting on the bed, cross-legged while staring at old pictures of Ransom and you. “I don’t think they’ll give up so easily.”

Bucky watches you with worry. You closed yourself off once again. For days you barely left your room, coming up with new excuses every day. “Well, they won’t get you.”

“Hmmm…” You don’t look at Bucky when he steps closer to the bed. “One day, they will succeed and kill me too.”

“I guess if you keep on refusing to eat and leave the room, they don’t need to try to kill you.” You grunt at his words. “Get up from the bed, have a shower, and meet me downstairs for dinner. No more excuses.”

“You’re still an ass,” you snap at Bucky. “Don’t think for one second I’ll change my mind about you only because you showed those agents your muscles.”

He snorts. “You better not believe I’ll ever warm up for your bratty ass. Twenty minutes.” Bucky points at the door. “Shower and come downstairs for food.”

He turns on his heels and stomps off. Bucky smirks because you slip out of the bed. If he can make you eat something today, he’s not going to complain.

“What the—?” Bucky gapes as you walk down the stairs. You’re wearing nothing but a smirk. “What are you doing?"

“You told me to have a shower and come downstairs,” you chuckle victoriously. “I did exactly what you told me to do.”

“You know that I didn’t mean for you to come downstairs naked,” he huffs and strips his shirt off to cover your modesty. He shoves the shirt over your head, grunting like the grump he is.

“What? I thought you wanted me to follow your orders,” you smirk when you can see again. “Now, we have a problem.” You point at his bare chest. “You need a shirt for dinner.”

“Do you always have to be a pain in the ass?” Bucky snarls your name and points at the stairs. “Go back upstairs, get dressed, and come back down for dinner, woman.”

You drop your eyes to the scar tissue on his shoulder. Of course, everyone knows how he lost his arm, but seeing it up close makes you realize, he’s been through a lot of shit too.

Bucky follows your eyes, sighing as you look like you’re in pain. “It doesn’t hurt anymore,” he murmurs. “Or I got used to the pain. The arm is a part of me now.”

“It’s not the arm,” your voice softens when you step closer to look at the scar tissue. “It’s the scars.” You cock your head and blink the tears away. “You’re a lone survivor like me. No one left from your old life.”

Bucky wants to say something. He wants to tell you that there is Sam, but the ugly truth is that he feels as lonely as you do. You’re right. No one from his old life is left. Steve took the chance to go back to better times.

Sometimes Bucky asks himself if his friend left because he didn’t come back the way Steve remembered his friend. He’s damaged goods, and he knows it.

“You need to eat something,” Bucky grabs your hand when you try to touch his scars. “Lady, no touching if you’re not going to listen.”

You giggle, for the first time you meet. “Aw, you’re shy. That’s kind of cute. On the other hand, you’re a forties guy.” You lean closer to whisper in his ear. “Did you ever get laid, super-soldier.”

He huffs. “That’s not funny. Go upstairs and get dressed.”

“I knew you were a virgin, Sergeant Barnes,” you giggle before turning on your heels. You strip his shirt off to throw it at him. “You better put your shirt back on, sweet virgin. We don’t want anyone to get handsy…”

After your little banter with Bucky, you eat in silence. He’s an okay cook. The chicken is a little dry, and he used too much salt, but you’re not a picky eater. “What are you and Sam doing if you’re not keeping a widow hostage?”

“Missions,” Bucky grumbles. He’s still fed up with your little stunt early. “We help if we can.”

“Hmm…” You nod thoughtfully. “Why did he give the shield away?” You wince because Bucky slams his metal fist onto the table, making your tables clink. “A sensitive topic?”

“Sam believed he’s not worthy.” He shakes his head. “Sam is a good man. He believed it was the right thing to do and gave it to the Smithsonian.”

“Still, that guy has it now,” you huff. “He’s touching Captain Rogers' shield with his smeary and unworthy hands. I think your friend knew what he was doing when he gave it to Sam. He’s not only a strong man, but has a good heart too. That other guy doesn’t. I can see it in his eyes.”

Bucky smirks. He thought the exact thing about John Walker. The imposer pretending to be Captain America.

“Ransom would’ve told Walker to eat shit,” you grin at Bucky, earning a chuckle from Bucky.

“I’d agree with your husband,” Bucky grunts. “Walker is no good. I can feel it in my guts.”

You cock a brow but say nothing. Sitting there in silence, you try to ignore the fact that you hated your bodyguard not weeks ago. The last thing you need is to focus all of your energy on fighting with Bucky again.

“People believed Ransom was arrogant and selfish, but he wasn’t. Sometimes a pretty façade can hide an ugly character. And sometimes, behind a cocky smile and stunning blue eyes hides a good man.” You smile at the memory of your husband. “No one knew he anonymously donated money. Whenever people were in need, Ransom helped without telling anyone about it.”

Bucky nods before taking another bite of the chicken. “You said that you’ve got no one left, too. Why? What about your parents or siblings?”

“I have no one left,” you say, a pained expression on your face. “Let’s drop the topic.” You rub your itching nose. “What can we do around here but sit around and stare at the walls?”

“We got some books and an old TV. I think there’s a DVD player too.” Bucky points over his shoulder at the TV standing on a sideboard.

“Do we have DVDs too?” You snort when he shakes his head. “Great. I assume we don’t have Pay-tv either.”

“YES! Take that!” You snicker because you just beat Bucky at Monopoly again.

“We didn’t have that game in the forties, and while being brainwashed, I didn’t get the chance to play games.”

You stick your tongue out. “OH, boohoo, poor Bucky baby got booboo,” you imitate his voice. “You’re a sore loser.”

“You’re an awful winner,” he bites back. “Winning at a game your opponent doesn’t know is unfair.”

You look at each other before starting to laugh. Bucky holds his stomach while you slap the table, knocking the game over. “You shouldn’t play with me if you can’t take the heat …”

“Nooo!” You scream at the top of your lungs. Jolting up on the bed, you press one hand to your heart. It’s racing, and you don’t know for a moment if you were dreaming or if Ransom died again.

“Where is—?” Bucky secures his gun, seeing only you in your room. He tugs it away to check on you. “You’re safe, doll.” He murmurs and sits next to you on the bed.

You choke out a sob, realizing it was only a nightmare. Sadly, your husband is still dead, and your baby will never be born. “He’s gone…they are gone,” you whimper. “They took them away from me.”

“I know, doll…I know.” Bucky doesn’t think when he brings you into his arms to let you cry in his chest. At that moment, you’re not the two people who are at each other’s throats most of the time. You’re two lost souls looking for shelter. “I know.”

“Ransom,” you choke out your husband’s name, “he whispered something before he died.” You cry even harder when Bucky wraps his arms tighter around your body.

“What did he say, doll?”

“Agents, death, money,” you sniffle and hide your face in his shoulder. “Love.”

“You believe he wanted to tell you someone paid the agents for his death.” You nod against him. “Do you have more than his last words?”

“I have something better than my word and Ransom’s,” you clear your throat, realizing you’re in Bucky’s arms, and enjoy it. “He told me where he hid everything to bring the people killing him down…”

Part 5

Tags in reblog.

[honeyandbiscuitandtea-cafe]

Love and Deepspace girlies I need some help so I sent a ask to a fanfic blog about the love interests with a mc/reader who was a widow and I remember that they answered my request but I didn't check it out cause I was on hiatus at the time and now I want to check it out but I completely forget the name of the blog who wrote my request so can any of you please help me find it so I can finally read and reblog it

[romanoffshouse]

Bob: Why did the chicken cross the road?

John Walker: I don't know, why?

Bob: To get to the idiots house. Knock, knock?

John Walker: Who's there?

Bob: The chicken

John Walker: Listen you little shit.

Yelena: Whoa, Whoa, calm down.

[caxapthecat]

if u got depression u know the amount of effort it took for him to do those dishes

[waltermis]

I miss them 🥹🥲

[endofthelinegang]

sleepy

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ this is literally just how i believe introducing how someone thinks and interpts a character should be done. so i don't send someone into shock when i write for these characters.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ robert "bob" reynolds x fem! reader, james "bucky" barnes x fem! reader, john "stfu" walker x fem!reader, ava starr x fem! reader, yelena belova x fem! reader.

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  how the thunderbolts act when they are sleepy.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ i never know what to do put here, i guess curse words?

yelena belova does not believe that she is ever tired. black under the eyes, yawning does not qualify at all. but all of that being said this is exactly what happens:

"I am not tired." Both of you sat on the couch. With a smile, you nodded your head and rolled your eyes, taking off the blue hoodie that had been helping keep you warm all evening. The inside was so fluffy that when you put it in the dryer, pieces would float around onto the other laundry for days. It was perfect bait.

"What are you doing?" Yelena was squinting but not daring to move her head down and forward off the back of the couch to face you as it would most certainly make her dizzy and that would make her yawn even more.

"I'm just a little warm." With a small smile, you place the hoodie on your lap and just let it sit as the TV played some reality tv that the two of you had been spending the late evening judging after dinner.

You closed your eyes and pressed your head back to mimic what she was doing. The moment she could sense you not staring at her, she moved and yawned as silently as she possibly could before taking her boots off with her feet. They thudded to the ground as she slowly dragged the clothing you had taken off closer to her until it was no longer sitting on you at all. Rubbing her eyes with all of her makeup still on she wiped her hands off on her pants before adjusting the hoodie to go over her head and onto her body.

"Fine, we can crash on the couch." Secretly, you did not hate crashing on the couch, but letting her believe that and watching her get all excited was just too cute to pass up.

With some quiet humming, you sat forward while she pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and onto the two of you as you stayed sitting up she pulled the hoodie over her head and got ready to lay down.

"Wait. You are not sleeping?" She side eyed you as she held part of the blanket covering her in her hands running her fingers over the plush material.

"No I am, just like this." You propped your feet up on the coffee table and kicked the blanket to cover your socked feet. Putting your head back in place with a nod.

"What? No, that is not comfortable at all." Before she could continue her rant, you lurched in her direction and pulled her down onto your lap, her head resting on your thigh and the length of the couch now hers.

"Goodnight star starfish." You mumbled eyes closed still feeling her tug and pull at your arm and the blanket to get in the optimal sleeping position.

"Starfish?" For a moment, she smiled and thought what a cute nickname, then it hit her, "I DO NOT SLEEP LIKE A STARFISH!"

A moment of silence followed. she had placed your arm so that your hand was touching the opposite side of her jaw. In order to keep this from becoming an entire discussion, you pet her face gently like one would to a baby who was fighting sleep.

"If a starfish loses all its arms, is it just a really confused circle until it grows them back?” Yelena mumbled under her breath as her head finally became heavy against you, and her breathing slowed and deepened. As follows, a leg came off the couch, as did an arm. A starfish.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

bucky barnes will straight up be passing out doing something, he is like all of a sudden on the floor dead asleep, which is great to try and time:

"What? What are you doing?" Slipping the knife from his hand you sat it down on your bedside table with a small clang.

"You're falling asleep with a knife in your hand, or you were anyway." You watched as he sat with his mouth slightly opened looking at you with a deep offense.

"I was not. I was working on something." He tries to reach over you but you put a very gentle hand on his chest.

"Where's the cloth?" You watch as Bucky mumbles and opens his hand to show you nothing. To which he starts fluffing the comforter, hoping that it would float up and he could say he just dropped it. The smell of his cologne wafted in the air, unlike what he was looking for. You laughed at him as he incredibly slowly turned his head to reface you.

"Witch." He glared at you without even having to look, you pulled the cloth from the side of your bed. It dangled in between your fingers as his eyes flickered between you and the damn barely dirty treacherous object.

"Wanna tell me what we were just talking about?" Matching his glare he took in a deep breath that turned into a yawn he tried to hold inside of his mouth.

"It's only nine o'clock." He rubbed his flesh hand over his eyes as he looked over at his old-fashioned alarm clock that you insisted he keep because it was so useful and reliable. Not wanting to possibly be wrong about what was said earlier or what had actually happened.

"So late already, man, I thought it was seven!" You began quickly turning off your lamp and climbing over top of him to turn his off.

"You think I get sleepy at seven?" Bucky's head thudded against his soft pillow as you manhandled him to get him to fully lie down.

"What were we doing at seven?" You placed both hands down on his chest now looking at him as he batted his eyes slowly not even trying to think about what you had just said to him.

"Oh, cmon, I don't need to be tucked in, I'm a grown man." He groaned as you rolled off of him and began bringing the blanket on top of him up to his shoulders.

Bucky let out a puff of air as you trapped him with your body and blankets, basically giving him a go-to-sleep treatment. Truth be told, the second he was warm, he totally passed out flat on his back exactly the way you placed him.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

john walker did not believe in naps or bedtime, let alone possibly resting anywhere that was nice in soft, but even the best need to rest:

"WHAT THE FUCK JOHN!" You jumped back and screamed with your hand clutching at your chest, now looking down at the floor. It was literally four o'clock in the morning, and you had just gotten up to get a damn ice pack for the migraine you had all evening thanks to a storm. But what you had came across was John sitting on a bar stool drinking a cup of coffee in silence.

"What the fuck you." He gestured in your direction, not taking his eyes off of the coffee cup sitting in his hand.

"What are you doing up?" With a roll of your eyes, you walked over to the freezer and slid the door open to grab an ice pack from the deep freeze where you kept the ones you used.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" He scoffed and sipped some more. He had to have been sitting there for quite some time. You noticed the coffee pot was freezing cold, and he was in training clothes. He had been wearing earlier.

"Yes, John, that is typically why someone asks what someone is doing." You wrapped the ice pack in a dish towel before pressing it to your temple and leaning forward on the bar.

"You wouldn't understand." He finally looked up at you, not with his whole head, but just his eyes moved. Circles were incredibly dark, and you knew right then he had not yet even tried to sleep.

"Why did we give you a bedroom if you just weren't planning on ever sleeping?" You joked shaking your head the littlest bit you could manage.

"Hilarious." He picked up the cup with the shakiest hand you've ever seen on someone under ninety. The veins in his hands popped out, and his knuckles were white as he brought the cup up to his mouth.

Fuck me I am going to be nice to Walker

"Hey, can I ask a favor since you're up?" You knew he was going to give you shit and bitch and make jokes about it regardless.

"What do you want?" He was now fully looking at you and you took in a deep breath and puffed it back out through your nose.

"My head is killing me, like seriously killing me, and I would really love to get some sleep. I can't hold this ice pack and sleep at the same time because if I lay it on my pillow, even with it wrapped, it will eventually leak and get my pillow all wet." You tried your best to come up with something stupid that made enough sense for him to fall for.

"You want me to sit and watch you sleep while I hold ice on your head?" He summarized what you had just given him before rolling his eyes and getting up off his stool, "You coming?"

"Tell a girl, Walker, tell a girl." You mumbled as you walked to catch up with him as he made his way towards your bedroom.

He opened the door and let you walk through it before closing it behind himself. You handed him the ice pack and jumped in bed, getting all comfortable and curled up before he took off his shoes and got in bed, sitting on top of the bed.

"You can get under the blanket." Waving a corner of the blanket at him he took it roughly and covered himself up to his torso. Holding the ice pack on your head you switched your lamp off and dozed off. Needless to say Walker followed soon after and the ice pack ended up across your face and onto the floor.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

ava starr is happy to get some rest when she can, in fact finding her asleep is not uncommon when there are days she feels she can just be at peace:

You find her in the hallway, slumped against the wall just outside the room you're sharing.

Not ghosted. Not flickering. Not phasing in and out like she does when she's upset or startled or fighting the hum in her chest.

Just still.

Her legs are pulled up like she sat down with the intent to rest for a second and then forgot how to move again. Her head tips to the side when she notices you, a small, exhausted blink like she’s dragging herself back into her body.

“Ava?”

She doesn’t say anything at first.

Then: “Sorry. I meant to come to bed. I just... stopped.”

You crouch beside her, gentle. “Rough day?”

She huffs out a breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “Rough year. Rough life.”

You don’t push. You just sit, shoulder against the wall, close enough that she can lean in if she wants. You wait.

After a moment, she does. Slowly, her head tilts, coming to rest against your shoulder. She exhales, and it sounds like something deeper than air. Like permission. Like surrender.

“I’m so tired,” she murmurs.

There’s no dramatics in her voice. Just simple truth. She says it like it’s a fact: the sky is blue, water is wet, and I am so tired I could disappear.

You reach over and gently thread your fingers through hers. “Then come to bed.”

“I don’t want to move.” Her voice is smaller now. Not scared, just fragile. “I just want to be... still. For a little while.”

You nod. “Okay. Then we’ll be still.”

So you sit there together, on the floor, in the quiet. Her head against your shoulder. Her hand in yours. The baseboards are cold and the hallway light is too dim, but none of it matters because she’s here and breathing softer now. Less like she’s holding her breath. More like she’s starting to believe she doesn’t have to.

“Do you think it’s stupid,” she whispers, “that I want someone to tell me I can rest?”

You shake your head. “No. I think it’s human.”

She’s quiet again. Then: “Will you say it?”

You squeeze her hand. Thumb brushing her knuckles. The kind of touch you know she can actually feel.

“You’re allowed to rest, Ava.” You feel her lean into you a little more.

Something in her unclenches.

You help her up, slow and easy, no rush. She doesn’t protest when you guide her to bed. She collapses into the mattress like she’s been underwater for years. You settle in beside her. She doesn’t usually like to be held when she’s vulnerable—but tonight, she turns toward you. Finds the crook of your arm. Tucks herself in there like she belongs.

“You’ll stay?” she asks quietly.

“Always.”

She falls asleep with your shirt clutched in one hand and your other arm draped over her back, her breathing finally even. No flickers. No phasing.

Just Ava. Resting.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

bob reynolds was so happy to have a peaceful, safe place to rest that he was happy to use it:

You were fucking exhausted, there was simply no other way to put it. It was a cold and cloudy day that had dragged on; every single hour felt like seven. You had just spent fifteen minutes looking for Robbie when it finally made sense. He’s already in bed, waiting for you, knowing you've had a long day. When you open the door, you see him stretched diagonally across the mattress like he’s trying to occupy every possible dimension of comfort.

One leg hanging off the side. One arm flung dramatically over your pillow. Half the blanket was tangled around his waist, the other half already on the floor. He blinks up at you when you open the door, slow and heavy-lidded like a cat in a sunbeam. His hair is sticking up in five different directions, and there’s a content, sleepy smile tugging at his mouth.

“You look cozy,” you say, amused. Dropping your shoes you had carried in, not wanting to dirty up the floor he had cleaned earlier.

“I am cozy,” he mumbles. “But I’d be cozier if you were here.”

You laugh and climb into bed beside him. He is so warm that you can feel the energy before you even get to touch him. The smell of a slightly salty vanilla was woven into your bed sheets from him lying there. The second you settle under the blanket, Bob instinctively shifts, tucking his head into the crook of your neck, slinging a long arm over your waist like it’s second nature. Which, at this point, it kind of is. His fingers tap at you gently, feeling you breathe.

“Mm. Yep. There it is,” he sighs, already sounding drowsier. “Perfect.”

You run your fingers gently through his soft hair. “Rough day?”

“Not even,” he says. “Just… long. Have you ever gotten that kind of tired where your bones feel floaty?”

You smile. “Only when you talk like that.” His voice sounded deeper and softer than usual like how a cat has a deeper purr when ready for a nap.

“Poetic,” he insists, eyes closed now, voice muffled against your shoulder. “I’m floaty-tired. Just need to melt.”

“You’re halfway there.”

You feel him grin. His hand finds yours under the blankets and laces your fingers together, thumb stroking lazily across your knuckles.

Everything about him in this moment is soft. His body, warm and loose against yours. His breathing slowed to match yours. The weight of his arm, the scratch of his stubble, the little hum he makes when you kiss the top of his head.

“This is my favorite,” he murmurs. “This part. Just you. Just now.”

You press your lips to his hair again. “Mine too.”

And for a few minutes, neither of you says anything.

You just exist there—tangled limbs, warm skin, the quiet comfort of being with someone who doesn’t need anything from you but to be near. Bob’s breath deepens. His grip on your hand loosens just a bit. You think he’s fallen asleep, but then—

“I hope you know I love you,” he whispers, voice thick with sleep.

Your chest tightens, but in the best possible way.

“I know,” you whisper back. “And I love you too.”

And this time, when he melts into sleep, it’s with a smile on his face and your heartbeat under his ear.

[just-aake]

Friends Don't Kiss

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Friends spend time together. They share inside jokes, quiet moments, maybe even late-night movies. And sometimes…they kiss. That’s normal. Right? At least, that’s what Natasha keeps telling herself.

Warnings: fluff, light angst

Words: 4140

“Would you kiss me?”

Steve chokes on his coffee, spluttering mid-sip. He coughs violently, thumping his fist against his chest as he tries to catch his breath.

Across the kitchen, Natasha doesn’t flinch. She stands coolly with a mug in hand, one hip leaning against the compound’s countertop, her expression unreadable.

“You know,” she adds, far too casually, “as a friend.”

Steve finally manages to recover, blinking at her like she’s grown a second head. 

“I’m gonna need a little more context.”

Natasha shrugs, gaze fixed somewhere past him. 

“Just making a point. I’ve kissed you before. We’re still just friends.”

“That was different,” Steve says slowly, carefully, like he’s not entirely sure where this conversation is headed. “We were on the run. It was for a mission.”

“Right,” Natasha nods quickly, seizing on that. “Exactly. So sometimes a kiss doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Steve sets down his coffee, eyebrows furrowing. 

“Did you kiss someone, Nat?”

She scoffs immediately, a sharp breath meant to dismiss the question, but her shoulders stiffen, betraying her.

“No,” she says too quickly, brushing past it. “Why would you ask that?”

Before Steve can press further, the kitchen door slides open.

You step in, pausing just briefly when your eyes meet hers. A flicker of something passes between you—then it’s gone, replaced by your familiar, easy smile.

“Morning,” you say, grabbing an apple from the counter before sliding easily into the space beside her. “You two solving world peace already?”

Natasha’s grip on her mug tightens. Her pulse trips over itself at your closeness, at the casual brush of your shoulder against hers.

“Morning,” she mutters, not quite meeting your eyes.

“You’re up earlier than usual,” Steve returns your greeting while watching both of you now with a curious gaze, noticing the subtle shift in the air. 

You shrug lightly.

“Decided to turn in early last night,” you respond before turning to Natasha. “Sorry, I didn’t see you when you got back, Nat.”

Natasha shakes her head, brushing off the apology.

“It’s fine,” she says simply. 

But it’s not. Not really. She had looked for you last night when she came back from her mission, hoping for your usual smile at the hangar. Instead, FRIDAY informed her you were already asleep. She’d swallowed her disappointment and told herself it didn’t matter.

Natasha takes another sip to keep herself occupied from further conversation. Unfortunately, it seems you have no intention of letting her do that.

“Can I have some?”

Natasha glances at you with a raise of her brow, and you give her a small smile as you nod at the mug in her hand.

“There’s more brewing,” she responds, gesturing to the coffee machine in the corner.

You don’t move her gaze from hers.

“I know,” you grin. “But I want yours.”

Natasha sighs, long-suffering but fond, and hands it over.

You take it with a bright smile in thanks, drinking the last of it with satisfaction.

Natasha watches you as you finish, her lips twitching slightly into the ghost of a smile before she can stop it.

Something about that simple exchange makes the room feel smaller. 

Steve observes you two quietly, picking up on the subtle tension that hums under the surface like a taut wire. You and Natasha have always been close. That’s not new. But something feels different now.

“Well, I’m heading to the training room,” you announce, handing Natasha back the mug and tossing the apple in your hand once before catching it again. “See you two later.”

You’re gone before either of them can respond.

The silence that follows stretches.

Steve leans against the table, watching the doorway you disappeared through before turning his eyes back to Natasha. 

“So,” he says, voice even, “something you’d like to share?”

Natasha scoffs, rolling her eyes as she pivots to rinse out her mug. 

“This has nothing to do with her.”

Her tone is dry and dismissive. But her mind betrays her.

She remembers the way the two of you had been curled up on the couch in the common room just a few nights ago. 

A rare, quiet evening with no missions, no alarms, just shared stories and laughter over absurd field mishaps. Your knees touching hers. Her arm draped along the back of the sofa. 

You leaning closer, head tilted back slightly as you laughed, completely at ease.

Natasha remembers the way her fingers twitched with the urge to touch you. 

How, without quite realizing it, her hand lifted to cup your cheek. 

The moment stretched, her breath caught, and then she leaned in.

The kiss was soft, hesitant in the way that Natasha had not fully comprehended what she had done.

When she does, she goes to pull away when you suddenly kiss her back.

Your hand had come up, anchoring against her shoulder, the other sliding to the back of her neck as you deepened it, slow and sure. 

Then, the elevator chimed.

And the moment shattered.

Instinctively, Natasha pulls back, jumping to her end of the couch by the time the other team members come into the room. 

Next thing she knows, you were swept up by a conversation with Wanda while Natasha sat there frozen, lips parted, heartbeat wild, her hand brushing over her mouth in disbelief. 

The warmth of your kiss still lingering on her skin like a brand.

You never brought it up again.

Neither did she.

And now, days later, she finds herself standing in the kitchen convincing herself that friends kiss sometimes. 

That it doesn’t have to mean anything. That it didn’t mean anything.

“Sure, Nat,” Steve says slowly, watching her a little too closely now. “A kiss doesn’t have to mean anything...”

Natasha relaxes slightly, but before the relief can take hold in her mind, Steve continues nonchalantly.

“…unless you want it to.”

Natasha doesn’t respond. Her jaw sets just slightly as she stares into her empty mug. Then, with a sigh, she curses herself for even asking Steve.

His words just brought up a flurry of new problems for her.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

She did it again.

She’s doing it again.

What started as a simple spar at your request had quickly escalated—one move leading to another, until she had you pinned flat on the mat. Her knees straddled your hips, hands locking your wrists above your head with effortless control.

You were both breathless, sweat-slicked skin flushed from exertion.

Then you smiled up at her, teeth flashing, that same teasing spark in your eyes that always got under her skin, and Natasha couldn’t look away. Couldn’t think past the heat in her chest. Her gaze dropped, lingering on the curve of your parted lips as you panted beneath her.

And before she could stop herself, she leaned in.

The kiss wasn’t hesitant this time. It was hungry, claiming, as if making up for every second she hadn’t let herself think about the feel of your lips since that night on the couch. Her grip loosened, hands sliding from your wrists to your sides, fingertips brushing over the sliver of skin just above your waistband.

Like before, you didn’t pull away.

Instead, your arms curled around her shoulders, pulling her closer with a quiet urgency. 

Her mouth moved against yours again, and again—slow, deliberate, until your breath caught and you exhaled her name in a moan that made something in her pulse stutter.

“Natasha…”

Her name on your lips.

It cracked through the haze like a whip.

And she freezes.

Reality slams back in, fast and merciless. 

Natasha pulls away suddenly, breathing hard as her eyes search yours. Her hands lift, hovering like she wasn’t sure where to place them anymore.

“Shit,” she mutters, shaken. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

You blink at her, dazed and confused, lips still parted.

But before you can say anything, the door slides open.

“Damn,” Sam’s voice calls out as he steps into the training room, towel slung over his shoulder. He pauses at the sight, then lets out a low whistle and smirks.

“Give her a break, Romanoff. She’s already red in the face.”

Natasha straightens back instinctively, only to realize the flush on your face wasn’t from exertion.

You let out a breath of laughter, dragging a hand through your hair. 

“I’m fine,” you say, voice light, easy. “She didn’t do anything wrong.”

Your palm lightly taps Natasha’s thigh—a subtle, casual cue.

She blinks at you, still hovering above, startled by how calmly you are taking all of this. Then she shifts, climbing off with fluid grace, but her mind still reels. 

Why weren’t you reacting differently? Why were you acting like what just happened between you two was normal for friends?

You push yourself to your feet and turn to offer your hand down to her.

Without hesitation, she takes it.

Your grip is warm and steady as you help her up. Before she can say anything, you brush your hand over her shoulder, flicking away the dust from your earlier scuffle. Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, you pat her cheek twice, a gentle, reassuring touch.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you repeat, softer this time.

And then you walk off coolly and composed, leaving her standing there.

Staring.

Processing.

“What the hell…” Natasha mutters under her breath.

Sam moves beside her, picking up a dumbbell nonchalantly like he hadn’t just walked in on something.

“Hey, Sam?” she asks, still staring after you. 

“Yeah?”

“Friends can kiss, right?” she asks. “Like… that’s a normal thing friends do sometimes?”

Sam pauses mid-curl and turns to look at her with a slow grin. 

“What kind of friends you got, Romanoff?” he chuckles. “’Cause I’d love an introduction.”

Natasha doesn’t respond.

Her eyes are still locked on the door you disappeared through, her thoughts a whirlwind of tangled lines she couldn’t figure out how or if she wanted to untangle.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The movie plays on, its flickering light casting soft shadows across the darkened room. But Natasha isn’t watching it.

She’s trying to. Or at least pretending to.

Her eyes are on the screen, but her mind drifts, tangled in thoughts she can’t quite sort through. The question loops endlessly in her head like a broken reel.

Can friends kiss? Should friends kiss? Did it mean anything?

You shift slightly beside her, and the motion draws her out of the haze. Then comes a soft sound—a small yawn, muffled behind your hand. 

Natasha glances down at you.

Your head rests gently against her shoulder, your body curled comfortably into the side of hers. You’ve been like that for most of the movie—close, warm, familiar. Nothing new for the two of you. 

But now, it feels different. Everything feels different.

She tilts her head toward you slightly. 

“We can stop here if you want,” she offers, her voice low. “You’re tired.”

You shake your head with a sleepy smile, eyes barely open. 

“It’s fine. It’s almost finished anyway.”

Natasha studies your face for a moment longer, searching for something beneath your words. Then she relaxes, leaning her head against yours again, letting the rhythm of your breathing soothe her.

But only a few minutes pass before she feels your body grow heavier against her, your breath evening out. She shifts subtly to glance at you, and sure enough, your eyes are closed, mouth slightly parted in sleep.

A quiet exhale escapes her lips.

She lets the laptop finish playing the credits, then carefully reaches over to close it, setting it on the nightstand without disturbing you too much.

As she leans back again, her eyes linger on you, peaceful and completely unaware of the storm still quietly waging inside her.

She hesitates.

You’d probably sleep better in your own bed. Less risk of a sore neck.

“Hey,” she whispers, brushing her fingers lightly against your arm to wake you. “Want me to carry you to your room?”

You stir, eyes fluttering open, still half-lost in sleep. You look up at her, your gaze soft and unguarded.

“Can I sleep here?”

Natasha stills.

The way your face is tilted toward hers makes her heart stutter. You’re so close, lips parted slightly, your breath warm against her cheek.

Her fingers tighten against the sheets.

She should say no. But she doesn’t.

“…Sure,” she says instead, voice barely audible.

You smile in that sleepy, content way that always makes her chest ache, and shift to lie back more fully on the bed, your head finding the pillow beside hers like it’s always belonged there.

Natasha stays seated for a moment, just watching you. Studying the soft lines of your expression. The trust etched so easily into every part of you.

Then your eye cracks open, lazy and amused, and you pat the empty space beside you.

“Come on,” you murmur. “You should sleep too.”

Natasha swallows.

She moves beneath the covers slowly, cautiously, like the sheets might burn her. The moment her weight settles, you immediately scoot closer, nuzzling into the curve of her body with a comfort that’s almost too much.

She freezes.

Her arms hover mid-air, unsure where to land. Her instincts war with her confusion about the situation.

But then you sigh softly, and it eases something in her. She lets her arms wrap around you, tentatively at first, then fully. Her hand rests lightly against your back.

Your body fits against hers like it was always meant to.

Her heart beats too loud. Her thoughts race too fast.

But your breathing, soft and steady, grounds her.

You’re not overthinking this. You’re not avoiding eye contact or spiraling like she is. You’re just there. 

Maybe she is overreacting.

So she presses her lips to the top of your head, just barely a kiss, light and reverent.

And tells herself it’s fine.

That it’s just something friends do.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The corridor outside the tech lab is mostly quiet, the hum of machinery muffled behind glass walls. Natasha had only meant to drop by to check on some routine data upload from her last mission, but she slows as she rounds the corner and catches sight of you through the glass.

You’re leaning against the counter in the lab, your stance relaxed, familiar. A quiet, polite smile plays on your lips as you speak to one of the newer lab techs, who is a little awkward in their stance and clearly trying to flirt.

Natasha pauses at the entrance, something instinctual anchoring her in place. 

“I just figured,” the technician says, nervously fidgeting with their hands, “maybe we could grab a coffee sometime?”

Natasha blinks. Her fingers tighten unconsciously around the datapad in her hand.

You let out a soft chuckle, not unkind. 

“That’s sweet,” you say, your tone warm but edged with gentle finality, “but I’m actually already seeing someone.”

Natasha frowns, her heart skipping heavily.

Since when?

The lab tech falters only slightly, nodding good-naturedly.

“Ah. No worries. It was worth a shot.”

“We could still be friends,” you offer kindly.

They chuckle lightly as they gather their things, nodding in agreement.

“Well, if they mess up,” the tech jokes, “you know where to find me.”

You smile again, a brief lift of your brow.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

They leave, footsteps fading down the hall.

Natasha stays frozen for a beat longer, her brain racing as she tries to understand. A strange, unfamiliar tightness lingers in her chest, something sharp and green and burning low.

Why didn’t you ever tell her you were seeing someone?

The question echoes through her like a bruise, throbbing harder the longer she thinks about it.

A few seconds pass before she finally moves, stepping into view from where she’d been half-hidden around the corner. Her approach is quiet, boots soft on the tile, but you look up at the sound anyway.

“Nat, hey,” you greet, still casual, like you hadn’t just said something that made her stomach drop unexpectedly.

Natasha crosses her arms across her chest.

“Were you ever going to introduce me to them?”

You blink at her, brow furrowing.

“Who?”

“The person you’re seeing.”

There’s a flicker of confusion in your expression, your head tilting slightly as if trying to piece together something obvious that you’ve somehow missed.

“That’d be…difficult,” you answer slowly.

Her heart skips again—this time not from surprise, but from something closer to hurt. 

“Why?” she presses, a little sharper now. “You don’t want them to meet your friends?”

Your mouth parts slightly. You study her, eyes narrowing faintly, not in anger, but in realization. 

“Is that what you are?” you ask quietly. “Just my friend?”

Natasha hesitates. Her arms tighten around herself, defensive.

“I thought I was,” she says with a shrug that tries too hard to be casual.

The silence that follows isn’t long, but it feels like it stretches forever.

You nod slowly, the movement small and almost imperceptible. 

“Right,” you murmur. “My mistake.”

And even though you smile, easy and familiar, there’s a flicker behind it. Something small and wounded that vanishes just as quickly as it appears. Like it costs a little more this time to offer it.

“I thought we were something more.”

Natasha’s lips part in stunned silence.

You shake your head slightly, not in denial, just…regret. 

“I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.”

Before she can find her voice, before she can reach out and ask what you mean—what she means to you—you step past her.

“I’ve got to prep for my mission,” you say quietly. “I’ll see you after, Nat.”

And then you’re gone.

The hallway seems impossibly still.

Natasha doesn’t move.

She just stands there, frozen in place, her eyes still on the space where you’d been just seconds ago.

I thought we were something more.

The words echo in her chest like a hollow ring of glass about to break.

Natasha presses a hand lightly to her sternum, as if she could push the ache away.

But it lingers. Deep and burning.

She knew it.

She knows it now more than ever.

Friends don’t kiss.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The hangar is nearly silent at this hour, long past the time anyone should still be awake.

But Natasha is.

She leans against a metal railing in the far corner of the bay, arms crossed loosely, her mind racing in quiet loops. The empty stretch of concrete around her does little to ease the restless energy in her body. She’s been replaying your last conversation for hours now, trying to decipher what it meant, what you meant.

The distant hum of turbines pulls her attention up.

The Quinjet descends slowly, its engines quieting as it settles onto the landing pad. Her spine straightens involuntarily. She catches herself smoothing her palm against her thigh, like she’s bracing for something.

The ramp lowers with a hiss, and then there you are.

You spot her the moment you step down.

Your steps falter just a bit, surprised but not displeased. Your expression shifts into something soft and unreadable before you offer a faint smile.

“Hey,” you greet lightly. “You’re still up?”

Natasha picks up on the subtle wariness in your voice. Not distrust, just a layer of confusion she knows she put there.

“I wanted to talk,” she says, quieter now, her arms unfolding slightly. “If that’s okay.”

You pause. Then, after a breath, you nod.

“Yeah… we probably should’ve had this talk before I went around thinking we were something other than friends,” you joke, a little self-deprecating, but not cruel.

Natasha winces, her mouth twitching. She knows she earned that.

You exhale and tilt your head toward the hallway. 

“Come on. Let’s talk in my room. I need to get this mission stink off me.”

She follows without hesitation, grateful for the return of your usual teasing tone.

“Yeah, you do,” she quips back.

You gasp in mock offense, throwing a look over your shoulder. 

“Wow. Brutal honesty? No mercy, huh?”

Natasha just smirks. “Would you prefer lies?”

“Only the flattering kind,” you call as you enter your room.

Natasha follows in after you with a small chuckle. She sits at the edge of your bed, hands in her lap, waiting as you disappear into your bathroom. She hears the rush of water from the shower and feels oddly tense like she’s waiting for a mission to start, but this one requires emotional precision she hasn’t quite mastered.

When the bathroom door finally opens, and you emerge, a towel draped around your shoulders, skin still damp and fresh from the steam, Natasha’s thoughts short-circuit for a moment.

Her gaze catches on the curve of your neck, the soft line of your collarbone—

She tears her eyes away, scolding herself silently.

This is exactly how things got so muddled.

You shoot her an amused look as you dry your hair with the towel. 

“You gonna stare all night or talk?”

Natasha clears her throat, suddenly focused on her hands again. 

“Right. Sorry. I just…wanted to ask something.”

You toss the towel aside as you nod.

“Ask away.”

She hesitates. 

“Why…why did you think we were dating?”

You blink, surprised at the question. Then you let out a soft breath and sit beside her on the bed.

“Well,” you begin, voice easy but edged with a thread of honesty, “months ago, you asked me to go to the Avengers Festival with you. We spent the whole day together. Just us.”

“I thought you’d enjoy it,” Natasha replies quietly.

“I did. And I was even more excited when I thought you were asking me out on a date.”

You glance at her, gauging her reaction.

Natasha’s lips press into a thin line. 

“Only it wasn’t… to me.”

“Right,” you say, a hint of disappointment in your tone before you continue with a sigh. “But then you invited me to that new restaurant for dinner the next night.”

“You mentioned it once. I thought you’d want to go.”

“I did mention it. To Wanda. I didn’t expect you to remember something I had said in passing.”

Natasha lowers her gaze. 

“I do,” she murmurs.

You smile faintly. 

“Then came movie nights. Every week. Just us.”

“You hadn’t seen any of the classics. I thought it’d be fun.”

“And it was,” you say before teasingly adding as you lightly nudge her shoulders. “Especially learning you know all the lines.”

There’s a pause. Then your voice softens.

“Then…you kissed me.”

Natasha’s breath catches.

“Twice,” you continue.

Her eyes flick to yours.

“Three times,” you correct with a small smile, “if we’re counting the one where you got nervous and bailed halfway through, settling for the top of my head instead when you thought I was asleep.”

Natasha swallows, stunned into silence.

“Well?” you ask gently. “You gonna explain? Because last time I checked…”

You shift toward her, slow and deliberate.

“…friends don’t kiss.”

She searches for an answer. Any answer. But none of them feel true. Not the ones she told herself, not the ones that let her avoid the real thing.

“These past days I've been trying to convince myself that kissing didn’t have to mean anything,” Natasha admits, voice small. “That I could just…”

She trails off.

“Avoid what you actually felt?” you offer, your tone gentle, not accusatory.

She meets your eyes then, and something in her cracks. 

“Maybe I just didn’t want to admit I wanted something more. Because if I did…and you didn’t…”

“I did,” you interrupt softly.

Your hand lifts to her hair, your fingers brushing a few loose strands back, tucking them gently behind her ear.

“I do.”

Her breath trembles.

You stroke her cheek with your thumb, grounding her.

“No more mixed signals, Nat,” you say with a playful edge, though your eyes are sincere. “You’re gonna have to be more direct, or I’ll start thinking I made it all up.”

She doesn’t hesitate this time. Her hands slide to your waist as she pulls you closer, steady and sure.

“Tomorrow night…will you go out with me?” she murmurs.

You grin, raising a brow.

“On a date?”

She nods, smiling now too.

“On a date.”

You lean your forehead against hers.

“Then I’d love to.”

There’s a beat of stillness, warmth blooming in the quiet between you. Then Natasha’s gaze flicks behind you toward the bed and back at you, one brow rising.

“Can I stay here tonight?”

You raise an amused brow.

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

You smirk playfully.

“Because, in case you’re unsure…” you whisper, tilting your head closer to hers. “…friends don’t typically sleep with each other either.”

Natasha’s eyes sparkle, a soft smile forming on her face.

“Then it’s a good thing,” she says, drawing you in, her voice a low murmur at your lips, “that we’re not just friends anymore.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

a/n: a little something as I procrastinate on my series 😅 thank you for reading!

[natalianovnas]

❛❛ 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒 & 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒 ❛❛

꩜ ۫ . SUMMARY :: natasha romanoff’s two-year-old daughter, nova, is just like her—guarded and slow to trust— but when nova's longtime pediatrician is replaced by the younger, warm-hearted dr. Y/N L/N, gaining nova's trust quicker than any other stranger did, something shifts.

꩜ ۫ . GENRE :: single mom!natasha, pediatrician!reader, non-red room past au. (age is non specified but reader is not past twenty-five)

꩜ ۫ . WARNINGS :: fluff, slow burn(?), strangers to lovers, emotional intimacy & warmth, hurt/comfort, death mention (no need to freak out here, just read), fussy mini-widow.

word count :: 3.2k // masterlist

an ; pleeeaaaseee tell me i haven't been the only one craving for full fluff lately so im serving y'all some. also stan mama nat 100% !

Natasha stood in the middle of her living room, holding one tiny crumpled pair of pastel pink socks. Across from her was her two-year-old daughter sat on the floor in her diaper and nothing else, arms crossed, bottom lip out, expression fierce.

“Don’t want pink,” Nova declared, enunciating each word like a threat.

Natasha exhaled through her nose with all her will patience. “We’ve been through this, milyy. All the purple ones are in the laundry. The pink ones are clean, soft, and objectively non-threatening.” (sweetie)¹

“No!” Nova shouted. “Pink is ugly!” Though, the word sounded more like 'ugwy'.

“You said pink was beautiful yesterday.” Natasha squatted down beside her, her voice still calm — or, well, calm-ish. “You told Steve it was your ‘princess color.’”

Nova looked her straight in the eye. “I changed my mind.”

Natasha pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered something in Russian.

“We’re already fifteen minutes late, malen'kiy, and I will not let a pair of $3 Target socks be the reason we miss your check-up.”

The mini redhead, clearly unfazed by her mother’s internal spiral, picked up a stuffed giraffe and began chewing on one of its ears.

Natasha knew this battle. She knew it oh so well.

She’d fought aliens with less resistance than her daughter gave her over anything remotely involving clothes. But she also knew that at the end of the day, she was a puddle for this kid.

A helpless, hopeless puddle.

“Okay,” The elder sighed, standing up. “No socks. Go rogue. But you have to wear something, baby. Can we at least agree on pants?”

Nova considered this. “Dinosaurs.”

Recently, most things she liked where boy-ish due to constantly being around Nathaniel at the Barton's. He and Nova were bestfriends in the whole universe at this point and wherever Nate went or whatever he did, Nova followed.

Not even half an hour in the car :

“I swear on all that is sacred, Nova Rose Romanoff—if you throw that juice pouch one more time, I am turning this car around.”

A dramatic little sigh came from the backseat.

“No!” Nova shrieked.

“That's your third one,” Natasha muttered through clenched teeth, white-knuckling the steering wheel. “Third. And it’s not even 9 AM. What happened to the child who loved apple juice yesterday?”

“Changed my mind,” Nova declared, legs kicking against her car seat like a storm.

Natasha pinched the bridge of her nose at the red light. “You're two. You don’t have a mind to change.”

But Nova only huffed, her lips put in that usual exaggerated pout with crossed arms that amused the Russian. Nova was a sweetheart but could also be stubborn at times. And she didn't hesitate to be hard headed with her mama just to get the last word.

Oh Natasha cursed at herself from how excited and eager she was about getting a mini version of herself two years ago.

She regretted that now because it just seemed like fighting herself but a younger version.

This was her morning. A typical Wednesday. Natasha Romanoff, former top SHIELD agent and current certified toddler negotiator, on her way to what should’ve been a quick pediatric check-up—Nova had other plans.

“No juice, no socks, no talking,” Nova added firmly from the back. “Only Mama.”

Natasha glanced in the rearview mirror. “I am Mama.”

Mini Widow blinked, “Then just you. No Doctor Lady.”

Natasha frowned. “Since when do you not like Helen?”

“Don’t want.”

“Too bad. You’ve got a check-up.”

Nova crossed her arms. “Nova will bite her.”

“You will not bite your pediatrician. Biting doesn’t earn you candy, volchitsa.”

But Nova wasn't taking the interdiction. They arrived at the clinic a few minutes later — Nova attached at her mom's hip, hands gripping Natasha's shirt sleeve because her tantrums switched to her being clingy now.

The receptionist at the front desk greeted the Russians with a cheerful smile.

“Miss Romanoff, Nova, it's good to see you two again.” Natasha gave a small polite smile in return, only so because she was familiar to that receptionist. “Just a heads-up, Dr. Helen’s on leave for a few months. You’ll be seeing Dr. Y/N L/N today.”

Natasha blinked. “I’m sorry, who?”

“Dr. Y/N. Helen’s niece.”

Natasha’s mind stuttered. Helen had always been steady. Older, gentle, just clinical enough to keep Natasha comfortable. Nova had barely warmed up to her. The idea of a new doctor, without warning, had Natasha’s protective instincts spiking like wildfire.

“Right,” She muttered. “Fine.”

“Romanoff?”

And here appeared someone who was definitely not Dr. Helen L/N like she, nor Nova, expected.

Natasha turned toward the soft voice — and her defenses faltered.

You, younger, fresher-faced, stood in the doorway wearing light blue scrubs covered in little whales, a clipboard in hand and an apologetic smile on your lips.

Despite so, she followed you after you nodded toward the consultation room and made your way back inside, the door left open for them to come in.

The consultation room looked the same as always — seafoam green walls, a faded Captain America poster on one side, a low exam table with crinkly paper.

“Sorry to surprise you,” You said. “Helen let me take over while she’s recovering. You must be Natasha — and this is Nova?”

“She’s...not great with change,” Natasha said, her voice dry.

“She doesn’t have to be,” You replied gently. Then you crouched down. “Hi, Nova. I know I’m not Dr. Helen, but I’m gonna take care of you today. Would it help if I let you pick the color of the stethoscope?”

Nova didn’t speak. She narrowed her eyes and Natasha held her breath.

You pulled a drawer open just enough for a rainbow of stethoscopes to peek out — bright red, yellow, purple, even a glittery one.

“This is a trap,” Nova whispered.

You grinned. “It’s not. But it is sparkly.”

And instead of doing so much as hiding behind her mother's leg or start to pick a tantrum over not wanting to be approached by a stranger, Nova crept forward slowly, like a suspicious cat, catching Natasha off guard. She pointed. “That one.”

“The purple one?” You asked.

Nova nodded.

“Solid choice,” You smiled. “I think purple’s the color of royalty.”

“She is that,” Natasha muttered under her breath.

From that moment on, Nova was suspiciously cooperative — by her standards. She tolerated the stethoscope, allowed you to check her ears (with some bribes). She even answered your questions, one-word at a time and even insisted on holding your hand instead of her mother’s.

However, threw a tantrum when you checked her heartbeat too long.

But you never flinched. You just worked around it, speaking softly, giving her control in little ways.

It worked.

She made you sit against the wall, clumsily dragging the tape along your arm.

Natasha watched it all from the corner. Her expression unreadable — but her eyes didn’t miss a thing.

“She’s spirited,” You said once Nova finally sat still, cheeks flushed from all her fuss and fun.

“That’s a polite way of putting it,” Natasha replied. “Most people call her a gremlin.”

“She’s two,” You stated. “Being a gremlin is part of the job.”

Natasha raised a brow. “You have kids?”

“No. But I’ve been around enough toddlers to know they run the world.”

The Russian’s mouth twitched. Just slightly. It wasn’t a smile — not quite — but it was something close. “Not many people handle her like that.”

“She’s not difficult,” You added honestly. “She just needs to know I'm not faking it.”

That got Natasha’s attention.

Your eyes met hers, and for a second, the air shifted. So you kept going,

“Kids like her? They read people. If I'm not real, they won’t trust me. She trusted me today. Not fully — not yet, at least. But she didn’t bite me.”

“She did threaten to,” Natasha deadpanned.

You chuckled. “Progress.”

Nova suddenly climbed into Natasha’s lap, curling up against her shoulder with an exaggerated yawn. Natasha automatically wrapped an arm around her, pressing a kiss to her unruly curls.

“Tired already?” she murmured.

“I bite you later,” Nova whispered.

Natasha smirked. “Looking forward to it.”

You turned back to them with the updated chart. “She’s doing great. Still on the taller end of the spectrum, but healthy. Oh, and the sparkly band-aids? She can take two.”

Nova perked up immediately.

“Three,” She countered.

You leaned in, voice conspiratorial. “Only if you promise not to bite your mom.”

Nova considered. Then nodded once.

Natasha watched the exchange, something warm blooming behind her ribs. And when you handed Nova the band-aids — purple, sparkly, with tiny bears — she watched her daughter’s face light up, and for the first time all morning, she felt her tension ease.

Natasha looked down at the toddler in her lap. Nova was peeling a band-aid and trying to stick it on Natasha’s cheek.

Nova Romanoff was a different child now. Well—not different. She was still dramatic, stubborn, and suspicious of anyone who came too close to her cereal bowl. But ever since she met you, she had decided that pediatric visits weren’t all that terrible.

Which both impressed and annoyed Natasha.

Impressed, because Nova wasn’t exactly the trusting type.

Annoyed, because—well. Because Natasha wasn’t sure why it annoyed her.

Two weeks after that first visit, Nova skipped into the clinic wearing matching socks (a rare feat) and handed you a crumpled sticker she’d saved from home.

“It’s a giraffe,” She declared. “Because your neck is long.”

Natasha almost choked on her coffee. You just laughed like it was the best compliment you’d gotten all day.

A month later, Nova insisted on drawing you a picture. It featured a vaguely human blob and Natasha didn’t ask questions.

By the third visit, Nova was sitting calmly on the exam table, letting you check her ears while humming some nonsense song she’d made up.

“Do you bribe her?” Natasha asked, narrowing her eyes as Nova happily let you touch her hair (which she never let anyone except her mama do).

You gave her a look. “Just magic,” You replied with a small smile. “The good kind.”

Natasha hated how easily you smiled.

No—she didn’t hate it. She just… noticed it too much for her liking.

She noticed the way you talked to Nova like she was a person, not a checklist, not an obligation.

The way you remembered little things—like that Nova hated cold stethoscopes and loved green lollipops. The way you never looked at Natasha like she was some intimidating figure with a history, but just a mom trying to juggle a complicated toddler and too much coffee.

The crush snuck up on her. Quiet. Persistent. Inconvenient.

She told herself it was just admiration or professional respect.

Hormones, maybe.

But it was a week later when the random run-in happened.

Natasha wasn’t planning on going into the bookstore while it was raining, but Nova had seen a plush unicorn in the window and launched into a full dramatic plea to “rescue it from the loneliness.”

So there they were—Natasha in jeans, a hoodie, and a ball cap pulled low. Nova bouncing beside her with the unicorn clutched tight to her chest.

They were turning down an aisle when the elder redhead heard your voice.

“I know I said one book, but it’s three for two. That’s like financial responsibility, if you think about it.”

You were talking to yourself. Or to your basket. Either way, it made Natasha pause.

You hadn’t seen her yet.

She watched you for a moment longer than she meant to—sleeves pushed to your elbows, your face lit up softly by the overhead light, hair always pulled up in that lazy but somehow flawless ponytail. There was a little crease between your brows as you tried to decide between two picture books.

Nova didn’t hesitate. “DOCTOR GIRAFFE!”

You got startled, almost dropping the books. Then you turned—and grinned.

“Well if it isn’t the Romanoffs,” You spoke up. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Unicorn emergency,” Natasha deadpanned.

You nodded solemnly. “Those are the most serious kinds.”

Nova marched forward. “Look! Her name is Rainbow Power. She needs to read books or she’ll be lonely.”

“Sounds like she’s going to need at least two stories a night,” you said, crouching to eye-level.

Nova lit up like a lantern. “Three.”

“Now you’re just negotiating like your mother.”

Natasha, from behind, cleared her throat. “She gets that from someone else.”

You stood and gave her a knowing look. “Right.”

There was a pause. A quiet, soft moment that neither of you filled immediately.

“I didn’t know you liked this place,” You said after a beat.

Natasha shrugged. “It’s close. And Nova likes the kids’ section.”

You glanced at the overflowing display of picture books and then back at her. “Well, next time you come, let me know. I’m here more often than I’d like to admit.”

Nova tugged on your sleeve. “Can Rainbow Power and I read with you?”

You looked at Natasha.

She blinked. “Oh. I—”

“I mean, only if you don’t mind,” You stated, voice easy. “We could grab the little beanbags in the corner. No pressure.”

Natasha looked at Nova. Then at you.

Then at Nova again, whose face had the kind of hopeful look that could shatter steel.

“…Sure,” Natasha said slowly. “Why not.”

It wasn’t a big deal. Just a few pages read in quiet voices, with Nova nestled between you on one side and Natasha on the other. The sound of the rain outside softened everything.

You let Nova “help” you turn the pages and didn’t correct her when she misspelled an unknown word you read because, yes, the little one picked-up on words and expressions very fast for her age. Natasha noticed the way you smiled, the way you listened. Really listened.

It wasn’t dramatic or heart-pounding. It wasn’t some movie-worthy lightning strike.

But by the time Rainbow Power had been tucked into Nova’s arms and three books had been read twice, Natasha realized something kind of terrifying:

She wanted to see you outside that clinic again. For no medical reason whatsoever.

And for Natasha Romanoff, that was a problem.

Natasha had faced aliens, robots, espionage, and near-death missions.

But nothing —nothing— was as nerve-wracking as standing outside a pediatric clinic with slightly sweaty palms, wondering if she should pretend she just forgot to reschedule a check-up for Nova. Again.

“She’s not even going to be in today,” She muttered to herself, leaning against the wall with her phone out, pretending to scroll. “This is dumb.”

Because ever since the bookstore run-in, Natasha hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you.

It wasn’t just the way you made Nova feel seen and safe. It was the way you talked to her, too. Like she wasn’t broken or sharp-edged. Like you liked her just the way she was, awkward silences and all.

So yeah. Maybe she wanted to see you again. Not as Dr. Y/N. Not as Nova’s pediatrician.

Just you. Y/N.

She exhaled slowly and walked toward the clinic doors before she could talk herself out of it. Again.

You were at the front desk, head tilted toward the receptionist as you scribbled something down. You looked up when you heard the soft chime of the door.

Your smile appeared instantly. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite mother.”

Natasha blinked. “You... say that to all the moms?”

You grinned. “Only the ones who have daughters with opinions about giraffes.”

She didn’t know what to do with that, so she nodded like that meant something.

There was a beat of silence. You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear and leaned slightly on the counter.

“Everything okay with Nova?” You questioned gently.

“Yeah,” Natasha said quickly. “No check-up today.”

You arched a brow. “Then what brings you in?”

Here it was. The moment.

Natasha had practiced this. Sort of. She’d stood in front of the mirror and said ‘Hey, do you wanna grab coffee sometime?’ about six different ways, all of which made her sound like she’d been hit on the head recently.

But now?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing came out.

“Uh...” She started, eyes flicking to the floor, then back to your face.

You waited, patiently soft.

“I was just—nearby. And I remembered that Nova left one of her, um… plushies. Here. Maybe.”

You blinked. “Oh? Which one?”

“Uh. The… purple one?”

You turned to look behind the desk. “Do you mean the sparkly goat that she tried to trade me for three dinosaur stickers?”

“…Possibly.”

You retrieved the plush and set it gently on the counter. “She’s been safe and sound. We gave her honorary staff status.”

Natasha huffed a laugh. “Good. She’s a tough negotiator.”

Another pause.

You tilted your head. “Was that all?”

She had to ask. Now or never.

Natasha cleared her throat. “Actually—there was something else.”

You straightened slightly.

“I was wondering,” She said slowly, cautiously, like the words might turn and bite her, “if… sometime soon… if you wanted to get a coffee.”

You blinked again.

Then smiled.

Natasha panicked. “For Nova. I mean. Obviously.”

Natasha pushed on. “Like—for Nova to be around other adults. Or whatever. She needs social enrichment, and you’re good with her, and you like books, and—coffee—do you like coffee?”

You nodded slowly, huffing a chuckle. “Yeah. I do.”

“Great,” Natasha said, as if she’d just run a marathon. “That’s good.”

There was a moment of silence. Then your lips quirked.

“Natasha,” you said gently. “Are you asking me out?”

Natasha froze.

You watched her, head tilted, kindness glowing in your expression. “Because if you are, you don’t have to make it about Nova. I’d say yes.”

Natasha stared.

“You would?”

You laughed. “Is that surprising?”

“I don’t—usually do this.”

Your voice dropped an octave. “Ask people out?”

“Yeah. Especially not doctors.”

You leaned closer, resting your elbows on the counter. “Especially not ones your daughter wants to share juice boxes with?”

“She never offers juice to no one,” Natasha said solemnly. “Not even her aunt.”

“Wow,” you teased. “I’m honored, then.”

Natasha rubbed the back of her neck. “So... uh. Saturday? Coffee?”

“Saturday,” you confirmed. “Text me?”

She nodded. You handed her the sparkly goat plush and slid a small card with your number across the counter.

“I’ll see you then,” you said, smiling like you already knew it would go well.

Natasha turned to leave, goat in hand, face slightly flushed.

From the car, Nova clapped her hands as soon as Natasha opened the door.

“Did you ask?”

Natasha sighed. “Yes.”

Nova leaned forward with wide, expectant eyes. “Are you gonna kiss her face?”

“Not yet.”

Nova slumped dramatically. “Then what was the point?”

Natasha had changed her shirt three times.

And by changed, she meant stood in front of her mirror and stared at herself in increasingly uncharacteristic sweaters before giving up and putting her black leather jacket over a soft green tee that Nova called “the nice one.”

“You look like a sandwich,” Nova had declared, munching toast in her pajamas. “That’s good.”

“Thanks?” Natasha muttered.

Now she was sitting across from you in a cozy, not-too-loud, not-too-crowded coffee shop tucked beside a bookstore. You were already there when she arrived — somehow both casual and radiant in a dark wool coat and soft scarf. You’d greeted her with that easy smile that made her forget basic words.

She’d brought Nova’s sparkly goat plush in her bag, just in case she needed a conversation starter.

So far, she hadn’t needed it.

“I’m glad you called,” you said, sipping your drink, warm mug between your hands.

Natasha glanced at you. “Yeah. I, uh… I’m glad you said yes.”

You gave her a look that was kind and teasing at once. “I don’t make a habit of saying no to smart women with adorable daughters and terrible flirting skills.”

Natasha huffed. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“You tried to blame your attraction on a plushie.”

“I panicked!”

You grinned, and Natasha couldn’t help but return it. This was easier than she thought it would be. Less terrifying.

You talked. About Nova, about books, about how you once tried to volunteer at a wildlife rescue and got bitten by a duck.

Natasha laughed out loud — not just the quiet breathy laugh she gave people who expected her to be human. A real one.

You looked at her like the sound made your chest warm. And maybe it did.

“I think she likes you,” Natasha said quietly, eventually, her coffee going lukewarm in her hand.

“Nova?”

She nodded.

“She doesn’t like many people.”

Your smile softened. “I noticed. She reminds me of you. The way she watches first, then chooses. The way she doesn’t pretend to like people she doesn’t trust. But once she’s in… she’s in. Loyal. All heart.”

That made something tight and tender twist in Natasha’s chest. She looked down, unsure what to say.

“I like her,” You added gently. “A lot.”

Natasha looked up.

Your expression was soft. Honest.

“I like you, too,” You continued, voice quieter but honest.

And just like that, she wasn’t nervous anymore. She was just—warm. Surprised by how easy it felt to be seen like this. Genuinely.

She opened her mouth to say something — she didn’t know what yet — when your phone buzzed on the table.

You glanced at the screen, the easy light in your face faltering.

Natasha caught it instantly.

“Everything okay?”

You didn’t answer right away.

The phone buzzed again. Same name. You swallowed hard.

“Sorry,” you said under your breath, already reaching for it. “It’s the hospital. Where my aunt—where Helen is.”

Natasha sat straighter. Her voice was steady, low. “You should answer.”

You did.

“Y/N L/N speaking,” you said gently. Then a pause. A longer one.

Natasha couldn’t hear what was said, but she didn’t need to. She saw it in your face — the slow, unraveling expression. The way your hand clutched the phone just a little tighter.

Natasha sat up slightly, noticing the change in your posture — the way your shoulders drew inward, bracing.

Your face froze.

The warmth of the café blurred into the background. Natasha could hear the blood rush behind her own ears as she watched your expression fall.

Your voice cracked, so quiet. “What?”

Another pause.

Then, shakier, “When?”

Your hand, gripping the phone, trembled slightly. Natasha reached out on instinct, her fingers brushing yours across the table — steady, grounding.

You finally nodded, though your eyes were wet. “Okay. Thank you. I’ll… I’ll be there.”

You hung up slowly.

Natasha didn’t pull away. “Y/N?”

Your mouth opened, but no words came. Just a few seconds of shallow breathing. And then, quietly, as if afraid saying it out loud would make it more real:

“It was the doctor...”

Natasha’s chest tightened.

“Helen, She—” You blinked quickly, trying to hold it together. “She passed. A few minutes ago. Complications from the surgery last week. It wasn’t supposed to be—she was recovering—she was—”

“I’m so sorry,” Natasha said softly, voice low, warm.

There was a beat of silence. Then you stood abruptly, grabbing your coat, your phone. “I have to go. I need to—tell my mom. I need to be with her. I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t apologize,” Natasha said, rising with you. “Come on, I’ll drive you.”

You shook your head, head spinning. “No—no, it’s fine, I can—”

“You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

That silenced you.

You nodded, eyes glossy.

“I didn’t—” Your breath hitched. “I wasn’t ready.”

Natasha reached across the table without thinking, hand finding yours.

You didn’t pull away.

“She was stubborn,” you said quietly, blinking fast. “She’d been sick a while. But she kept joking about living to a hundred. I really thought we had more time.”

“I’m sorry,” Natasha said again, and she meant it with everything she had. “I can drop you wherever you need.”

You smiled, shakily. “Thank you.”

She drove you in silence, the kind that wasn’t empty — just soft, full of understanding. When you reached your apartment, she put the car in park and turned toward you.

“I’m here,” she said. “Okay? If you need anything.”

You nodded. “I know.”

A beat of quiet passed.

Then you leaned in and hugged her — not long, not lingering. Just real.

You stared at her, eyes glossy and wide, and then nodded. You exhaled, shaky and heavy.

“Thank you for the coffee.”

“It was a good coffee,” she said, softly.

You gave a tiny nod. “I’m sorry the date ended like this.”

“It didn’t end,” Natasha said gently, watching you. “It just paused.”

You looked at her, startled.

“I’ll wait,” she added. “As long as you need.”

For the first time since the call, something warm flickered in your eyes. You reached out, pressed your hand lightly to her arm.

“Thank you, Nat”

Natasha sat in the car long after you left, staring out the windshield, her heart caught somewhere between grief and something softer.

The funeral was small.

Helen had never wanted something grand. She hated pomp, avoided big parties, and always joked that if more than twenty people cried at her funeral, she’d come back and haunt them out of embarrassment.

Still, when you saw the turnout—old colleagues, a few former patients, your mother with red-rimmed eyes clutching tissues in one hand—you wished she could see it. The quiet reverence. The soft way people spoke her name.

The flowers were lavender, her favorite. The casket simple. She would’ve liked that. No drama. Just love.

You stood at the front with your family, hand squeezing your mother’s as the minister spoke.

But your eyes kept drifting back.

To Natasha.

And Nova.

The redhead sat near the back, dressed in quiet black. Her expression was unreadable to most, but you could tell—there was softness in the way she held Nova close on her lap, fingers gently stroking the girl’s back as she clutched a small bouquet of lavender sprigs in her chubby hands.

Nova had insisted on bringing them. Said they were “for the nice lady who always smelled like books.”

Natasha had tried to explain death to her. The finality of it. But Nova, being Nova, had decided she didn’t like final things.

“She’s just sleeping in the stars now,” she told Natasha with a frown. “We should still bring flowers.”

So they did.

After the service, you moved outside with the others. The overcast sky had held off for most of the morning, but a light mist had begun to fall. It wasn’t cold—just gently mournful, like the weather knew not to shout on a day like this.

Natasha approached as the crowd started to thin.

“Hey,” she said softly.

You turned. The moment your eyes met hers, the grief cracked your composure. You didn’t sob, but you blinked too fast and clutched your arms like they were the only thing keeping you upright.

Natasha didn’t hesitate.

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around you.

You sank into her without thinking. She was solid. Quiet. Steady.

Nova reached up with her little bouquet and pressed it gently to your arm.

Your throat burned as you knelt to her level, taking the lavender with trembling fingers.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” you said, voice breaking.

Nova hugged you, small arms warm around your neck. Natasha watched her daughter with something soft in her eyes, like she couldn’t believe how easily she’d chosen you.

“I don’t want you to be sad,” Nova whispered. “You’re my doctor friend.”

You smiled through the ache. “I’m really lucky to be your doctor friend.”

Natasha gave you time, didn’t push, just stayed by your side as people offered their condolences. She was your anchor without trying to be.

Eventually, when only a few people remained, she touched your shoulder gently.

“Want me to walk you to your car?”

You nodded.

The walk was quiet. She carried Nova, who had started yawning, cheek pressed to her mother’s collarbone.

“I wasn’t sure I should come,” Natasha admitted, keeping her voice low.

You glanced at her.

“I’m glad you did,” you said honestly.

“She meant something to you.”

You nodded. “She raised me. My parents were around but… Helen was constant. She’s why I went into medicine. Why I even thought I could do it.”

Natasha didn’t say anything at first, just listened.

“She must’ve been proud.”

You looked at her.

“She was,” you said. “She told me that. But I don’t think I ever told her how much she meant to me. Not really.”

“She knew,” Natasha said quietly. “Because I see the way Nova looks at you. And the way you look back.” Natasha offered a small smile. “It’s the same way you probably looked at Helen.”

Your eyes filled again. But this time, they didn’t spill. You breathed through it.

“Do you want to come in for a bit?” you asked softly. “Just for tea or something. Nova can nap if she wants.”

Natasha hesitated. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “I’d like the company. And I think Nova wants more cookies.”

Nova stirred on her shoulder at the word cookies but didn’t protest. She just murmured, “Only if she makes the round ones.”

You smiled. “I always make the round ones.

And just like that, you left the funeral behind — not the grief, not the loss, but the moment — stepping slowly toward something that felt a little like healing.

A few weeks after Helen’s funeral.

Grief wasn’t loud. It came in stillness. In the half-sipped tea you forgot on the windowsill. In the voicemail you kept replaying just to hear the voice again. But it didn’t stop life.

You had gone back to work. Your patients needed you. Nova needed you. And — though you never said it aloud — you needed them too.

Especially Nova. And her mother.

It had started with Natasha picking Nova up after a check-up and asking if you wanted to grab lunch — “for Nova,” she’d said, like it wasn’t obvious she needed the pause too.

Then a few shared weekends — trips to the park, early brunches where Nova smeared syrup on both your sleeves. Movie nights with blankets and popcorn and a fussy two-year-old who always ended up asleep in one of your laps.

And slowly, quietly, without much fanfare, you and Natasha just fit.

Not in a whirlwind. Not in a fairytale.

But in the way you leaned toward each other when you laughed.

In how Natasha always texted you when Nova said something funny — she just told a pigeon to “get therapy” because it kept pacing.

In how she learned how you took your latte and always handed it to you without asking.

And in the way your apartment now had Nova’s favorite cup and spoon in the cabinet.

On a quiet Sunday evening, the three of you sat on your couch. Nova was curled between you, cradling a stuffed dinosaur you’d won her at a spring fair. She was almost asleep — half-lidded, thumb in her mouth, one hand tangled in your sweater.

Natasha’s voice was quiet.

“She didn’t used to be like this.”

You looked over.

“She hated new people. Didn’t even let Clint hold her until she was almost two.”

You smiled, brushing a lock of hair from Nova’s cheek. “She’s still selective.”

“Exactly. That’s what gets me.” Natasha tilted her head slightly toward you. “She trusts you. Just clicked with you. It scared me at first.”

You blinked. “Scared you?”

“I’m not used to… things happening easily. Or quickly. Or softly.” Natasha looked down at Nova, then back at you. “You were soft with her. Patient. The kind of love that doesn't ask anything in return.”

Your heart ached in a good way.

“I liked you too before I even realized I did,” she said, almost like a confession. “And then you lost Helen, and you let me be there — even when you didn’t want to talk. That meant something.”

You watched her. “You mean something to me, too.”

Silence settled again, but it was warm.

Nova shifted in her sleep, turning into Natasha’s side with a little sigh. Natasha reached over and gently covered her with a throw blanket.

“She asked me last night if you were family,” Natasha murmured.

Your breath caught.

“And I told her… ‘not yet.’”

You smiled. “What did she say?”

“She said, ‘Then you better ask her fast.’” Natasha looked over at you, the corners of her mouth lifted. “So… I’m asking.”

You tilted your head, heart thudding softly. “Asking what?”

“To be part of your life. For real. Not just parks and tea and polite texts. I don’t want to just orbit around you anymore.”

You studied her — the nervous flicker in her gaze, rare and raw. The honesty. The slight tremble of her fingers as they brushed against yours.

“I don’t want that either,” you whispered.

And then, quietly, with Nova fast asleep between you, Natasha leaned in.

It wasn’t a movie kiss — no swelling music, no dramatic lighting. Just lips that found yours like they’d always known the way. Slow. Sure. Finally.

When you pulled back, Natasha rested her forehead against yours, exhaling something like relief.

Nova stirred.

Natasha blinked down at her, and you both waited — but all she did was mumble, “Can I have pancakes for dinner?”

You both laughed.

“You spoil her,” Natasha said with affection.

“She spoils me,” you replied.

And with Nova snuggled safely between you, the three of you sat in the dim, quiet room.

Not quite perfect. Not quite healed.

But together.

And that was enough.

an : oh, i love nova soo much already :((

[starrbishops]

⟡Risk⟡

(Bob Reynolds x Reader)

Summary: You and Bob have feelings for each other. Which would be great, considering you're best friends; the problem is neither of you thinks the other likes you back. - ao3 version

Word Count: 3.8k

Notes: Set after the events of Thunderbolts*, friends to lovers, fluff, a little hurt/comfort, terrible wingman Walker, Bucky and Alpine (my beloved), New Avengers movie night, discussion of pipe bombs/mail bombs (not plot relevant but stay with me here), first kiss

a/n: It's me again. Thunderbolts fanfiction author starrbishops. And I'm bringing you another cute, fluffy friends to lovers Bob Reynolds Avengers Tower story that is sure to give you a cavity. I give you, Risk (titled after the Gracie Abrams song of similar themes)

At first you think you’re imagining it. 

The fact that Bob always sits next to you on movie nights, smiles whenever you walk in a room. You chalk it up to friendship. After all, you and Bob have grown close ever since the Void incident. You’ve made sure to let him know you’re here for him, no matter what, any time of the day. He’s taken you up on it a couple times, coming by your room in the middle of the night when the thoughts in his head are too loud. You’ve sat with him, held him till it quiets and he could finally sleep.

Watching Bob sleep, you forget he’s the most powerful being on earth. He’s just Bob, snoring quietly, clinging to you like a koala. He looks peaceful, cute even. It’s one of the things you like most about him. And you like just about everything about him.

Because it’s more than just the late night sleepovers and the kind greetings in the morning. You notice Bob pays just a little more attention to the household chores that pertain to you than to anyone else. He’s doing a load of laundry? Yours is the first done, already folded and left on your bed. Meanwhile, he texts Walker to let him know his clothes are in the dryer and to go get them in 30 minutes.

If you’re doing the dishes after dinner one night? He joins you. Sometimes it takes over completely. You insist you’ve got it; he insists he wants to. After a few nights of this, you give up on trying to stop him; you hate the dishes, and besides, he always seems happy to take over for you. In fact, once you start letting him take over, you find him joining you for the most mundane tasks. When you’re putting the dishes away, he’s suddenly there sorting the utensils. When you’re going to the grocery store, he’s the first to volunteer to go with you.

It’s not that you’re mad about it; you love spending time with Bob. He’s more than just the nervous guy from the vault, he’s sweet, funny, considerate. It’s just that the more he does these things, and the more time you spend with him, the more you fall for him.

It’s like everytime he smiles, your heart stops beating for a second. Any time his hand brushes yours, you feel like electricity is running across your skin. Once when he stretched, his sweatshirt rode up just a little, revealing his cut abs and a sharp v-line dipping into his sweatpants. You swear your brain waves turned into static for a minute.

You don’t know what to do. You could just tell him, except you can’t work up the nerve. It’s a little laughable, actually. You, an Avenger, someone who’s killed and fought more people than you can count, can’t tell a guy you like him.

You’re not even sure if Bob himself likes you back. Sure, he does seem to seek you out in every situation, always putting you first on his to-do list, but that could just be him being friendly, right? Why would he like someone like you, of all people? Besides, he’s still struggling with his mental and physical health after the trauma of the Sentry Project. You don’t want to be the thing that curbs his improvement, or makes him worse. Besides, if he doesn’t like you, you risk ruining the entire team dynamic. You’re a ragtag group of weirdos, but you love these weirdos like family, and you wouldn’t risk anything that might destroy your bond. Even if that means dying inside every time Bob sits a little too close to you.

Like now, as the seven of you sit together in the common room, watching some old Russian action movie Alexei picked. Yelena had begged him to choose something normal for once, but he’d insisted it was, in his words, ‘cinematic excellence.’ Honestly, you couldn’t tell if it was good or not, considering it was entirely in Russian with no subtitles. From Bucky’s confused expression and Yelena’s look of embarrassment, it wasn’t very good.

You couldn’t be paying less attention. You were seated on the couch between Bob and Walker, relaxing against the cushions. It’d been a long week for all of you. You’d just gotten back from a mission in South America, and you all needed to take a load off. The minute you walked in, Bob was sitting on the couch, his eyes lighting up at the sight of you. He rushed over, immediately giving you a hug, making your stomach drop. 

“I missed you.” he whispered in your ear, and you felt like your knees were going to give out.

But you survived, and here you sat, just another Friday movie night to make it through without either snapping and kissing Bob senseless or spontaneously combusting.

“This is an…interesting movie.” he muttered into your ear. 

“Interesting is an understatement.” You chuckled as you watched Alexei cheer as one of the bad guys was blown up with comically bad special effects. “At least he’s enjoying it.” You were enjoying it a little too. Not the movie itself, but the fact you got to spend time with Bob. He'd been whispering comments into your ear all night, ranging from jabs at the poor quality of the film to just random tidbits about his day. You smiled at each one of them, just at the sound of his voice in your ear. You’d missed him too, his comforting presence always beside you, his kindness that lifted just a little bit of weight off your shoulders.

Bob yawned a little, his eyes shutting as he tried to stifle it, lest Alexei hear and pause the movie to explain everything he’d missed. “Tired?” you joked, him nodding in response.

“Long day.” he mumbled, leaning back into the cushions. “Did all the laundry from the mission. Yours is in your room. I left your favorite sweater on your dresser.”

You turned to face him. “The blue one? How’d you know?”

He just shrugged. “You always wear it.”

You felt your face go a little hot at that, turning back to the TV screen to hopefully disguise your blush. This was the kind of thing that Bob just did, small acts of kindness that showed that he knew you, more than you’d even realized you let on.

Bob yawned again, this time stretching his arms out. You focused your eyes straight ahead, fearing another brain buffer like the last incident. Unfortunately, you couldn’t escape it; Bob’s lowered arm landed behind you on the sofa, encircling you, with his hand resting on your shoulder.

Did Bob Reynolds really just do the yawn-arm-around-you trick? The man with the power of a thousand suns just used a middle school dating tactic on you. You felt like a teenager on a first date. Your mind raced as you tried to find a plausible explanation for this. It’s not like physical touch is too out there for Bob. You’ve slept by each other’s sides plenty of times. Still, this feels different. Where that was comfort in the face of pain, this is out of nowhere. Bob touches you because he wants to. Your brain felt like putty, melting down in the heat of his touch around your shoulders. 

You chalked up what you did next to your lack of brain function in the moment. You leaned against him, resting your head against his chest. He felt solid beneath you. You forgot sometimes how strong he was, the way the Sentry Project had changed him. It was strange to say, considering you’d never known him before. Bob felt familiar to you, like you’d known him all your life.

You dared to look up at Bob, seeing how his eyes stayed fixed on the TV. The film on the screen lights them up, revealing the blue hues that appear when the light hits them just right. They’re beautiful.

Neither of you says anything for a while. You just sit together, in comfortable silence, watching Alexei excitedly explain the symbolism of the film to Ava, who sits curled up on the floor half-asleep. Yelena and Walker snack on the popcorn bowl between them, while Bucky appears to zone out as he pets Alpine, lying asleep in his lap. At one point, he glances over at you, furrowing his brow as he sees you and Bob. You and Bob are close, everyone knows that. You’ve just never given the impression of being this touchy together. He tilts his head at you, asking What’s going on here? You purse your lips, giving him a confused expression that says I honestly couldn’t tell you.

And the movie’s over, but neither you nor Bob move a muscle. “Good movie, eh?” Alexei asks as the credits roll, looking over at you and Bob across the couch. “You two look, eh…comfortable.”

You don’t know who moves first, you or Bob, but you both spring up, scooting away from each other. You hear Walker grumble something next to you, probably a teasing joke. Thankfully, Yelena takes the heat off you by beginning her critiques of the movie. It’s like every movie night, she turns into a film critic afterwards. 

You glance up at Bob, seeing that he’s just as red as you are. It calms you a little, seeing him in the same boat of embarrassment as you. But it also skyrockets your anxiety, wondering if he regrets it, if he didn’t actually mean anything by it, if you misread the situation. 

After a few minutes, Bob clears his throat. “I’m, uh, gonna head to bed. Long day.” he chuckles, glancing over at you in the process. John agrees with him, the rest of the team saying their goodnights as the two men walk off to the elevator. 

You try to focus on the lively discussion Yelena, Ava and Alxei are currently having about the logistics of planting pipe bombs, but your thoughts are still full of Bob. The way his arm felt around you, the feel of his breath just brushing past the top of your head. You forgot how big he was, sometimes. He could completely envelop you in his arms when he hugged you. Once you’d compared your hands, his being comically larger than yours. It made your mind drift towards dirtier things, imaging Bob in your bed, the way he could use his hands.

You shook yourself out of it as Bucky plopped down next to you, still holding Alpine. He just sits quietly for a moment, before Alpine meows quietly, causing him to clear his throat.

“I-uh, Alpine, would like to know what was going on there with you and Bob.” his voice is just above a whisper, trying to avoid the others jumping in with their opinions.

You shake your head, facing him. “I have no clue. He just did that.”

“He just…laid your head on his chest?”

“Well, I mean…it’s not…I don’t even know.” you flop back, covering your eyes with your hands. “I don’t know what’s happening anymore.”

You feel a sharp prick against your leg, then another. You move your hand to see Alpine crawl into your lap, setting herself up comfortably. You gently pet her soft fur, the monotony calming you.

“She likes you.” Bucky comments, moving his metal arm to stroke her as well. “It’s no wonder Bob does too.”

You pause for a moment, just staring at Bucky.  “I’m old, not stupid. I know what a guy with a crush looks like.”

You go back to petting Alpine, focusing on the rhythm of your hands on her pale fur. “I don’t know about that…”

“Hey.” Bucky looks you right in the eye, hsi metal hand on your shoulder. “You’re a good kid. So’s he. You’d be good together.” he lays back, yawning slightly. “Besides, I’m tired of watching you too dance around each other. You know, if this was the 40’s you’d be engaged at this point.”

You chuckle, even as your thoughts still swirl with worries.

“Bucky!” Alexei interrupts them, “If Winter Soldier was to send pipe bomb through mail, how would he go about it?”

Bucky looks a mix of shocked and disappointed. “I…don’t know how to answer that.”

“I do!” Ava launches into her own argument. You and Bucky just laugh as you watch them fight, your mind moving away from the brown haired boy to the logistics of bribing the USPS to send a bomb for you.

Meanwhile, Bob is starfished out on his bed, staring into his ceiling.

“I don’t think she likes me.”

“Of course she does!” John insists, continuing his pacing at the foot of the bed. “I thought that trick was sure to work.”

“We’re not in middle school, John!” Bob sits up. “It was stupid. And now she probably thinks I'm a weirdo.”

John shrugs. “I don’t know, it seems like she was into it.”

Bob scoffs. “Yeah right. I’m screwed.”

“Hey.” John joins him on the bed, gripping his shoulders, eye contact unwavering. “You can do this. You are going to get the girl, Bob. It may be hard, but love is worth it.”

Bob just stares back at him for a moment, wondering what his life has come to now that the divorced ex Captain America is his wingman.

“Nice pep talk, Walker.” he pulls away, flopping back down, covering his eyes. “I’m doomed.”

“You are not doomed.” he leans over Bob, moving his hands out of his face. “Look, do you believe in love, Bob?”

Bob is quiet. “I believe she’s gonna think we’re in love if you keep doing shit like this. Get off me.” he shoves John aside. “But yeah, sure. Love, and whatever.”

Bob does believe in love, although he’s never really known it properly. An alcoholic dad and a mentally ill mom will do that to you. For years, he thought love was just some lie that people tell to excuse or justify their terrible relationships. He knew now he was wrong. You showed him he was wrong. 

Sure he’s been in relationships before, but nothing serious. Usually just some casual fun that made the highs that the drugs gabe him just that much better. You were the first person who he really felt a connection to, the first person who he wanted something real with. Part of him still worried he wasn’t good enough for you. After all, you were an Avenger, a hero. Hell, you’d saved him twice over on the first day of knowing him. What could he have to offer you? He was a former meth addict slacker from Florida with no future before the Sentry Project. He was trying to be more, to really find himself, build a life with the team. He wanted you in that life. Still, he wondered if he could ever deserve you, if anyone could, for that matter.

“Listen man.” John grabs his shoulder yet again, a sign of what is sure to be a riveting motivational speech. “You and her, you’ve got something special. I can see it. She’s into you, Bob. You just gotta believe in yourself. Make a move!”

Bob just nods, gripping Walker’s shoulder with his opposite arm. “What do you think I’ve been doing all this time?!” he asks frustratedly.

“Okay, doing her chores for her is clearly not enough. I’m gonna be straight with you Bob my boy, she’s a little oblivious.”

Normally he wouldn’t stand for anyone insulting or speaking remotely ill of you, but Walker did have a point. He’d spent the last few months making a conscious effort to pull your attention, going out of his way just to make you smile. Even Walker managed to pick up that he liked you from that. Yet still, you seemed oblivious.

“Maybe it’s not that” he mutters.

“What?” “Maybe she does know, and she just doesn’t like me.”

Walker sighs incredulously. “Bob, c’mon man. It’s not that, I guarantee you-”

“That’s what you said about the last plan! What do you even know about love, Walker? What makes you such an expert?” Walker goes quiet, clenching his jaw. “Fine. you think you’re the expert. Do it yourself.” With that, he stomps off and out of the room, slamming the door as loudly as possible behind him.

Bob just groans, laying back on his bed. He has no chance. What was he even thinking? You’d never like him. What was there to like?

He drifted off into sleep, his head floating with pity and self-loathing.

The two of you don’t talk about movie might. He chalks it up to disinterest. He tries not to hound you for the next few days. Doesn’t bother you when you’re alone in the kitchen, despite how much he wants to help, just to see you smile, hear your laugh.

You and Bucky are sent out soon on a weeks-long mission. Romania, apparently. You’re off the grid, strictly no contact with anyone. It’s torture. At least he could see you before, put a face to the yearning. Now, it just feels like a black hole inside him, swallowing everything up. He can’t sleep. Barely eats. He just thinks about you. Misses you. 

It’s not like you haven’t been on long missions before. That he could deal with. It’s like withdrawal, mixed with regret at how he avoided you prior to your leaving. The memories of you feel so far away now, leaving him with nothing to hold onto.

One night he woke with a start to the sound of knocking on his door. Rubbing his eyes, he read his alarm clock; 3:18 AM. Who the hell was here at this hour? Maybe Walker coming to force him to train early with him in Bucky’s absence, or Alexei with some middle of the night marketing pitch. He was proved wrong, opening the door to find you standing there, out of breath, still in your tactical gear. You’d just gotten home.

“Hey.” you mumble, quiet and breathy. 

“Hey.” he says back, instinctively reaching for you. “You’re home.”

“Yeah.” you affirm, nodding sharply. “Uh, mission was good, went well, I just…” you cover your mouth, stifling a sob.

“Hey.” he immediately puts his arms around you, one hand moving to stroke your hair. “You’re okay. I’m here. I’m here.”

He hears you sniffle a little, before wrapping your arms around his midriff, clinging onto him like a lifeline. He just holds you tight, mumbles reassurances into the crown of your head. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

He forgets all his doubts, all the ways you are infinitely better than him. He sees you hurting, and he can’t have that. It physically pains him, seeing you in tears. Maybe he doesn’t deserve you. Maybe he has nothing to offer you. But he can do this. He can be there for you in the middle of the night, ready to fight off whatever pain plagues you, anything that could harm you. He can hold you, carefully, as if you’re something precious to protect, because you are.

“I-I’m better now.” you mutter, pulling away slightly. Bob releases his grasp, though his hands remain on your waist and head, blue eyes still looking down into yours. “It’s nothing, I’m just, I’m being crazy.”

“You wanna talk about it?” he questions, hand sliding down to cup your cheek. He can feel the skin is slightly wet from tears. He feels a little part of his heart snap in half.

You shake his head, leaning back into him. Just as before , you rest your head on his chest, just breathing in and out, catching your breath. It’s something you do when you return from missions, he’s noticed. Deep, rhythmic breaths as he hugs you, as if you’re reassuring yourself that this is real.

“You wanna lay down?” he asks, feeling you nod your head against him. “Okay.” he mutters, “I got you.” he steps away, taking your hand in his as he walks to the bed, pulling back the blanket for you to climb in.

You rest your head on his shoulder, letting him put his arms around you once more. He could stay like this forever, he thinks. 

“You’re my best friend, y’know”

He perks up at your words, raising his head to look at you. You just stare blankly off into the expanse of his room. “I am?”

You nod. “You are”

He’s not sure how to respond to this. “Thanks?” he settles on after a brief silence.

“And all that time, I kept having these nightmares that-that I’d come back and you’d be gone, or hurt, or you’d hate me, and I just, it drove me crazy, to the point where I’d barely sleep-”

“Hey.” he cuts you off, one hand pulling your chin up to look at him. “I’m not going anywhere. Ever. And I could never, ever hate you.” he rubs one thumb against your cheek softly, repeating himself quietly. “I could never hate you.”

You finally look up at him. It’s not sadness in your eyes, but something else. Longing. He recognizes it, from all the nights he’s spent alone, thinking of you. The days spent watching you idle about the tower, just grateful to be in your presence. It’s something he’s never been on the receiving end of. It’s a little strange. But addictive.

 You both sit in silence for a moment, unsure what to do next. He leans down, a little closer to you. Fuck it, he thinks.

He kisses you.

And it’s everything he’s dreamed; your lips are soft, your hands run through his hair, pulling him in closer. It’s gentle, not rushed. It’s a culmination, but not yet a climax. A confession, finally, out in the open.

When he pulls back, it’s just barely, his face still mere inches from yours. He can feel your breath against his lips as you laugh, just a little.

“I thought I was crazy.” he hears you mumble. He opens his eyes, and you’re smiling. God, how he’s missed that sight. “I thought you were just being really nice to me because we’re friends.”

“Sorta.” he brushes a loose strand of hair from your face. “I did it because I love seeing you happy.” he smiles, small but real. “Like this.”

You just grin, leaning back in to press another quick kiss to his lips. Almost immediately he pulls you back in, this one deeper, passionate. He puts everything into it. All the yearning, the doubt, the love he feels. He pours it into this. Even if he can’t, won’t say it just yet, he gives you this, he gives you himself in this one kiss.

When you finally pull back, this time you’re left breathless, smiling even wider than before. It warms his heart, knowing he did this, because you want him.

“I like you a lot, you know.” you say. He chuckles at the hilarity of the statement at this point.

“I like you too.” he presses a kiss to your forehead. This one is an affirmation, a promise of more to come. “I like you so, so much.”

a/n: I love Bob. I love the idea of Avengers movie night. Been working on various conepts of this one for a while and it's finally come together and I really like it. Part two w/ smut coming soon >:) It ain't much, but it's honest work.

[angel-dust-cb]

it’s literally them…

[haztory]

bias.

masterlist | part two

— jack abbot x fellow f!reader; attending/fellow dynamic, age-gap (unspecified but assumption is reader is late 20s and up while jack is mid-40s), heavy plot, slow-burn, angst, character harassment (from an original male character), mentions of grief, mentions of jack's late wife, mentions of racism against staff, sexual content (mild), mentions of death, protective jack abbot, medical inaccuracies, mentions of needles, these two taking care of each other without realizing, ohio slander (srry!)

— word count: 11k

— summary: A week on the floor with Dr. Jack Abbot. Or: The multiple shifts in which Dr. Abbot's bias towards you shows.

SHIFT ONE, Sun-Mon, 4:15 AM:

“Did you tell Reno you were going to shove your foot up his ass?”

You pause your charting at the rolling cart outside of North 12 and look over your shoulder. 

Jack stands behind you, arms crossed, with a raised brow and his lips pulled thin. Not sternly— you're familiar with what that looks like, have been on the receiving end of that a few times. This is a tempered concern, one he pushes down lest he get too involved.

“Yep.” You answer, simply. You return to your charting, fingers clacking loudly on the keyboard as the truth buoys in the air. 

He huffs a breath, heavy. An attempt to roll out the strife that comes with the burden of being an attending. “You trying to make my Monday shitty?”

“Trying to keep you on your toes, old man.” You return.

He steps in beside you, leaning his good shoulder against the wall as he faces you. He keeps his gaze beyond you, scanning the movements of the ER.

“You wanna tell me why?”

“I don’t think you want to know.”

“I don’t.” He agrees. 

“So, why are you asking?”

“Morbid curiosity.” He admits, dryly. Hazel eyes fall to you, swimming with a suppressed amusement that only a poet could accurately describe. “And he wants me to write you up.”

A sigh escaped your mouth, heavy and inconvenienced. You turn to him. “He told Anna Maria to spend less time speaking ‘her language’ and more time speaking ‘ours’ so she could fulfill his orders.”

His lips flick downward, heat infusing with the twitch. “You see it?”

“No. Caught her in the stairwell crying and she told me. Apparently, he’s been picking at her all night. I wouldn’t be surprised if she wasn’t the first one he said this to. So, I told him if I ever see him speaking like that to one of my nurses I’d take him to the parking lot and shove my foot up his ass.”

Jack nods. It’s weighty and slow as he digests your words, but there is otherwise no conflict on his face. The heat from before extinguishing. No shade change, no visible opinion. Resolute, resound, completely normal, when he says, without much effect, “Okay.”

The typical smart quip dry remark remains nowhere to be found.

He steps away from you and walks the short distance to the front desk and settles behind it. You watch him quietly, clueless as he grabs a post-it note from behind the desk and a pen from the cupholder and begins writing something. Completely unable to read the man.

“Okay?” You probe, drawing closer to him. 

“I believe you.” He says. 

A beat passes, filled with the low hum of the moving ER and the faint sound of his pen scratching on the paper. He puts the pen back into the cup holder then folds the paper up, tucking it into the breast pocket of his scrubs. It’s a simple thing yet the charged silence makes it feel like a great epic.

The fated paper written on account of your words. His face makes no betrayal of its contents. Even in your own obvious glance down to the paper then to his eyes, he makes no movement to provide clarity.

“I’m not apologizing.” You say after a minute. 

“I didn’t ask you to.” Jack tilts his head to the side. “Would’ve done the same damn thing.”

Silence stretches, long and heavy as your eyes hold on his.

“I don’t like him.” You explain, as if that could help anything. Jack nods and this time you understand it to be one of agreement. 

There’s no doubt of the new transfer’s value as a knowledgeable doctor, just as there is no doubt that PTMC needs another night shift doctor on the rotations. But within those resounding truths comes another of equal importance.

Dr. Maxwell Reno, the new fellow on the floor transferred from Cleveland three months ago, is a dick.

“Neither do I. But I don’t like anybody.” A flicker of understanding sparks in his eyes. “I’d pay good money to see you take him in the parking lot, though.”

A smile finally breaks onto your face. “Give me Friday off and I’ll do it right here.”

“Yeah, and get stuck with paperwork? Try again, city girl.”

“Worth a shot.” You shrug and he shakes his head. Only a slight downturned smile gracing his face..

A steadied quiet fills the space. The ER only slightly awake tonight with the small troubles. A young boy who had fallen off his bunk bed, a teenager on fluids from a stress induced migraine, and some other small plights that have trickled onto the floor. It’s hardly ever like this, the forbidden “quiet”. Usually a storm falls in shortly after but tonight, the quiet has been just that. Quiet.  

There’s a slight wariness in everyone, the other shoe dangling from the ceiling that everyone keeps glancing to. Waiting for it to teeter, maybe even thud violently against the floor. And yet, nothing. For once, it’s a nice thing to wade into, because it leads to moments like this. Pleasant exchanges and generous smiles from the man usually averse to those.

“I can tell Anna Maria to come talk to you.” You supply, only to make his life easier. 

He shrugs, considering it. “Sure, only if she wants to. But you handled it. Should be fine.”

“You gonna do it?”

“Write you up?” He asks. You nod.

He walks around the front desk, his slow gait bringing him before you. “Do I look like a school principal?”

“Grey hair had me convinced.”

He glares. The edge of your grin cracks wider. “I can’t professionally condone fellow-on-fellow crime—”

“—You have got to stop hanging with Shen—” 

“—but you’re my only brawler on the floor and we’re running low on those. So no.”

“Brawler? It was one time!”

“You tackling that 37-year-old meth addict is a fan favorite.”

“Is that why you’re keeping me around?”

“It’s not because of your suturing, I can tell you that.” He leans comfortably against the desk, and for all the quiet murmurs that have gone around about Jack and his hard sarcasm and no-bullshit attitude, he is wildly comfortable in this moment. Eased, despite the constant glancing at the other shoe. Joking, at your expense. As he settles into an easy tease and his body relaxes, you find that you don’t mind him poking at you all that much. Not if it gets him like this.

You raise a brow at the mention. “Didn’t realize you all were thinking about it that much.”

“Every night before bed. Your screams help me sleep.”

You hit his arm playfully. “You’re so morbid.”

“Wait ‘til you see what I use to meditate.” 

You feel, then, the tingling sensation of an audience on you. Glancing up, you see the quick scurrying of some nurses pretending to be occupied. The whites of their eyes seen at the very last second, just as they pull their stares away from the quiet moment. 

“You should get out of here before the peanut gallery starts accusing you of bias.” There’s a thrum of dismay that pulses through you at the suggestion. The feeling of a good moment ending that you unknowingly try to cling on to. You stampen it out before the possibility of it shows on your face. 

“Bias? Of what? I don’t like you that much.” The tone is dry, wholly Jack, and yet his eyes make home to a low burning whim of trouble like it always belonged there. “If anyone says anything, I’ll just take it from the expert and shove my foot up their ass.” 

He taps his hand on your desk, a finalizing drum before he departs. 

“Hopefully the metal one.” You call after his retreating figure.

“You know it.” He says without looking back.

The sound of your laugh resounds through the halls.

SHIFT TWO, Mon-Tues, 9:17 PM:

Meredith Sakman, a 67-year old woman who fell off her kitchen chair as she was trying to clean her kitchen light, sits before you in the examination room as you suture the superficial laceration sustained to the right side of her head.

Her hands, wrinkled with age and wisdom, fiddle with each other incessantly. Passing from twiddling with her wedding ring to drumming on her thighs as you weave thread through skin.

Sensing her discomfort, you fill the space. “So, Mrs. Sakman—how long have you been married?”

She seems startled out of the fog of her head, ”Oh, uh, 42 years.”

“Wow. Congratulations.” You hum, sincerely. “What’s the secret?”

“I don’t know. All these years and he’s still the person I look for when I walk into a room.”

“Must be an outstanding man.”

“When he wants to be. He’s a little bit of a grouch, but he makes me laugh.” She laughs, and the wistfulness of her voice grounds the room. You smile inadvertently at the details of her love.

 “Are you dating anyone?” She asks curiously, just as your forceps tie one end of the suture.

“Uh, no. I am not.” Saying it isn’t a confession of fault. It’s fact. 

The priority has always been your career. School first to get you to the good job that can get you to the rest of your life. You weren’t made for much of the troublesome youth, a fortunate detail your parents never took for granted. Smart head on your shoulders that got you the New York residency for three years, that led you to pursue the Pittsburgh EM fellowship—year one of two already knocked off your belt. 

Dating—as desirous as it could be on the lonely nights—didn’t fit much into that picture. The type of men that were interested in dating you didn’t fit into that picture. 

“Well that’s odd.” Mrs. Sakman heaves, truly stunned by your admission. “You’re a beautiful young woman. And a doctor. They should be rushing to snatch you up.”

“Well, you know. Guys my age tend to find that intimidating and often can’t measure up.” You explain simply and the older woman scoffs. 

“You need an older man.” She smiles knowingly. “One who knows a couple of things and can be your match. I’ve had my fair share of them and they were quite the memories.”

You don’t settle too long on her words, no matter how much you agree with them. Have always been told that you needed someone mature, like you. 

You move on. “I bet you were a hot gun back in the day.”

“Still am, sweetheart.” She giggles. “You know, my son is single.”

You give her a deadpan stare from above, halting the thread of your needle to meet her gaze. 

“Mrs. Sakman—“ You scold and she holds her hands up in defense.

“He’s a very smart man! Has his own accounting firm, very sweet and I’m not saying that because he’s my son. He’s 40 and you’d make a good match. And with that face of yours, you’d give me beautiful grand babies.”

You laugh, tying up the final knot in the suture and setting the forceps on the cart beside you. The excess thread is cut off with your scissors. “Unfortunately, I’m not in the habit of dating anyone related to my patients.”

“Then I’d like to see another doctor, please. So that way I’m not your patient.”

You shake your head with a smile. “You are a trip, Mrs. Sakman.”

The exam room settles into a comfortable silence, filled with the overheard sounds of the life of the ER around you. The small chatter in the curtained room beside you, the hum of machines, the occasional shout or laugh from the nurses desk. 

Just as you finish up your dutiful matters to her laceration, slipping the gloves off and directing your attention to her to explain proper suture care—

—she’s calling out to someone over your shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir! Can you be my doctor?”

Turning around, you see Jack is caught mid-stride walking past your room. His face scrunches in concern. 

“Everything alright?”

“Mrs. Sakman—“ You begin hastily, mortification burning through you as he steps into the enclosed space. 

Mrs. Sakman, in her rosy glory, plows on. Meeting the man with an effervescent grin that gives no cause for caution. “Oh yes, your doctor here is lovely and has taken such good care of me, but I’d like you to be my doctor.”

A brow raises, his eyes flicking to yours for explanation. 

You flounder for a moment, your mouth opening and closing repeatedly. The chagrin you feel is red hot and there is little hope that it doesn’t reflect obviously in your face.

“Dr. Abbot—” You sigh, begrudgingly, fingers at your forehead as you try to rub the embarrassment away, “Mrs. Sakman is trying to set me up with her son but as I said, I do not date relatives of my patients.”

“Ah.” He takes the information in stride, nodding his head with latent interest. Cool, calm, and collected while you fluster over the discussion of your dating life.“You trying to take one of my doctors from me, Mrs. Sakman?”

“If you’ll let me.” She smiles

“You don’t have to put your son through that torture. Order me a pastrami deli sandwich and I’ll give her to you for free.” Jack tilts his head to the side, grabbing a pair of gloves from the wall. He pointedly ignores the loud offended gasp you emit. 

“Let’s take a look at you.” Sliding the gloves on and stepping up beside the older woman, he begins a gentle survey of the laceration. Fingers slightly touching the wound, turning his head this way and that in review. 

“Sutures look good. CT clean?”

“Not even a hairline fracture.” You present, “She’ll be tired, maybe a bit dizzy, but otherwise she’s good. Anticoagulants have been prescribed along with tylenol for the next couple of days. Gonna keep her for another hour for observation before discharge with a wonderful guide on how to clean her sutures.”

“Good.” Jack nods. “Well, unfortunately, Mrs. Sakman, there’s not much more for me to do that your current doctor hasn’t. So you will have to stay in her care.”

“You can’t make an exception for a poor woman?” She sweetens. 

“Your flirtations won’t work on me, young lady.” He issues, low and exceptionally playful.

Mrs. Sakman giggles akin to a teenage girl, her face turning rosy as she waves Jack away. 

“Besides—” Hie head gestures to you as he speaks to Mrs. Sakman, “—we call this one Rambo behind her back. We give her up, we gotta spend more money on security and that’ll come out of my paycheck.” 

Jack takes off his gloves and tosses them into the bin, giving you a long, knowing look. Mirthful and wry, it holds against your dry, scolding one. Waiting for you to make a rebuttal, calculating the moves and ways it would come out of your mouth for him to counter. You anticipate it, depriving him of the reaction that he’s looking for despite the way his eyes dig into yours, searching for it. Looking like he couldn’t stop looking for it, like it would make his whole night if you just caved.

You stick your tongue in your cheek and he watches, fixated—the ghost of amusement casting over his face as he sidesteps you by the curtain’s opening. 

Your eyes trail after him, doing so well in withholding until he tilts his head at you. Beckoning. Your lips quirk upward then, and it’s all he needs.  

He breaks the prolonged charge with a sweet goodbye to your patient. “Have a good night, Mrs. Sakman.” Then, to you, he innocently says. “Holler if you need me.”

And then he’s gone, leaving from whence he came. The crater of his weighty presence settles in the room. 

You turn to Mrs. Sakman, with a shake of your head and an exasperated smile on your face. “And that is why you don’t want Dr. Abbot as your doctor.”

“Is he seeing anyone?” She laughs. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a daughter you want to set up, too.” You admonish.

“No. But you should pursue that one. That look, I’ve seen that before.”

It’s a splash of cold water over the heat that was simmering within you. At the embarrassment, at his teasing. A voiced thought that has no place for existence in this room—in this department, in this moment, in your life.

(A voiced thought that has infiltrated your own a time or two. That has wiggled its titillating fingers into the wayward dream, made a mountain out of a molehill, leaving your chest heaving, your thighs clenching, and the thought of Jack Abbot vivid on your mind.)

You push on, clearing your throat and detouring before your embarrassment escalates to humiliation. “Alright, Mrs. Sakman. I’m going to print out a guide for you that tells you how to take care of your sutures.” 

“I’m serious. Rules be damned, life’s too short. And he’s too handsome.” She insists just as you mean to step out of the exam room. You see only sincerity and genuity in her features. “I can see you with someone like him.”

Your mouth opens to find a response only to be met with the drying of your tongue. Words suddenly hard to connect, meaning difficult to find. 

Finally, with little resolve and even less polish, you mutter, “Be back soon.”

SHIFT THREE, Tues-Wed, 12:05 AM

“Hey! You think you can take my shift, sunshine?”

Ellis’ voice stops you from your walk from the bathroom and into the break room where she and Hilly gaze curiously back at you. The resident and the nurse are two of your favorites on the night shift, stopping for them is akin to stopping for air. 

“Rambo, brawler, sunshine. I’m getting all the nicknames this week.” You lean against the doorframe, peering at the two women who smile easily at you. “When?”

“Next Tuesday.”

“Can’t. I’ll be on vacation.” You tell her with pity. 

“Oh shit.” Her voice is light despite the disappointment. A welcome refresh on the night shift. “Where you going?”

“Florida.” The excitement is barely contained in your words. The prospect of a long vacation—away from the noise, away from the stress, away from disinfectant and in the sun—is a long overdue one. That excitement is shattered upon Hilly and Parker’s audible groan of disgust. Your mouth drops in shock as you defend. “I’m visiting my sister!”

“Don’t get eaten by a gator.” Hilly mumbles.

“Or a disney adult.” Parker pokes and you roll your eyes.

“I will be at the beach, thank you very much. A whole week with a piña colada in my hand and a tiny bikini on.”

Parker stands from her seat at the break table and fills up her thermos from a water bottle in the fridge. “If you come back with sun poisoning, I’m gonna laugh.”

“I’m a pro at tanning.” You insist. 

She raises a brow. “Even with a tiny bikini on?”

“Especially with a tiny bikini on.” You assert. 

She shrugs with a smile. “We’ll see.” 

“Talk to Abbot.” You tell her, returning back to the topic, “He might cover it.”

It’s almost comical the way Parker and Hilly’s faces scrunch in unanimous uncertainty. 

“Not today.” Ellis says. 

“It’s one of those days.” Hilly supplements. You nod in understanding, not entirely faulting the reasoning. Warnings were issued throughout the crew the minute the shift started. Steer clear. Dr. Abbot woke up on the wrong side of the bed today. 

Or maybe he didn’t sleep at all.

“Unless you wanna ask him for me?” Ellis counters, curiously.

Your brows furrow. “Why me?”

“Because you would get a much different answer than I would get.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” You insist, off put by the implication that you have any kind of weight to you in respect to Jack. Jack doesn’t lean on anything, for anyone. He doesn’t waver, he doesn’t reconsider. He’s a straight shooter, calling things like he sees it, having answers before the situation even arises.

If anything, your familiarity and comfortability with him makes you more prone to being at the short end of his sticks. Voluntold for things less than appealing—like picking up more shifts, by his steadfast hand.

“He’d say the same thing to me that he would to you.”

Hilly and Parker, in another feat of supernatural alignment, look at one another. A silent discussion translated in the look before they return to you.

“Sure.” Hilly nods. 

“Whatever you say.” Ellis supports. Your guffaw is met with Hilly’s boisterous giggles. 

That is, until her laughter is unceremoniously shot dead. An arrow to the heart, a quick and frigid silence encompassing the room. A glance at her reveals widened eyes fixated on something over your shoulder. 

The man in question stands behind you, lips in a thin line as his gaze bounces between the three of you. 

“Are we a hospital or a talk show, now?”

The two women quickly make their excuses, shuffling out of the room in a speed remarkably unlike either of them.

“Nope, on the way out now—”

“—I just remembered I’m so busy—”

Leaving only the two of you to occupy the break room. You half expect him to throw a comment out to you, expelling you back to the trenches of the ER but he doesn’t. He steps into the room with a low mutter. Unintelligible and gruff, resounding of the ire that has become him since the night started. 

The smell of his aftershave wafts past you. A cool mist twined with a musk. Inexplicably, him. Resonant of the stoic confidence that emanates off of him. Resounding man.

He’s tense as he approaches the counter, pulling a mug out of the cupboard and flicking on the coffee machine. It’s visible in the way he carries himself. The stance of a soldier back on war grounds, eyes skirting, glancing over his shoulder, listening for something. Not the sound of an incoming ambulance, not the sound of an intern struggling during a procedure. Something almost quiet, imperceptible. Known only to him, familiar to the memories that live in the lines of his face. A call with no name. 

A call that will bring back all that he’s lost. 

“Ellis needs her shift covered next Tuesday.” You toss the test balloon out, wondering if it’s enough of that kind of day for him to shoot it down with a precise blow dart or if there’s enough gentility in him to at least let it float by. 

“Sounds like an Ellis problem.” He mumbles.

“Just throwing it out there. In case you happen to have a solution.”

He looks over his shoulder, his eyes clearly bounce between yours, digging for a moment, before he turns his attention back to the coffee machine. 

“I’ll see.”

Floating by, it is.

“Everything good?” You ask his turned figure. Stepping further into the minefield, seeing what lands, which foot you place will step on the mine. “You’ve been working all week.” 

He snorts, but there’s no humor to be found. “So have you.”

“Yeah, but I’m off for a week starting Saturday. When are you off?”

”Saturday.”

A quiet hangs in the air, filled with your expectancy. ”…that’s it?”

“And Monday.”

“You need more than that.” 

One shoulder raises in a shrug. The smell of ground coffee fills the air as the pot bubbles to toil with the brew. Nothing particularly interesting and yet his attention is fixated. “Not dead yet.”

You hum, suspicious enough. “Rough night?” 

“What makes you say that?” 

The edge to his tone, that’s identical to the edge in his posture, that’s exactly like the edge in his attitude. Any and all of the above.

“You’re wired, today.” 

The observation isn’t groundbreaking. It doesn’t shatter windows, or break the sound barrier. It is a recognized truth that sits in the air with little disruption. He says nothing. Only pours the pot of black coffee into his mug. 

He’s not wearing his ring. 

The black one that has stayed permanently fixed on his left hand, third finger. 

There’s only been a handful of shifts in your year at PTMC that you’ve seen him without it—and they all felt like this. Rough. Tense. Like someone is one misstep away from receiving the glare that maims the career.  

It’s not a secret that Dr. Abbot lost his wife to cancer a few years after he was medically discharged from the Army. Just the mythology that lingers in the air like antiseptic. It’s easy to piece together that the days of his rigidity happen to coincide with whether or not his ring is on. 

And maybe that’s why you’ve been able to gravitate towards him. Not out of pity, but understanding. Respect. Admiration. Anyone with two eyes can tell that Jack carries himself with a significant weight—a testament to the life he’s lived, all that he has learned and lost. It’s a quiet confidence, an assumed burden that shows in his gait. A shining light that draws the helpless to him.

It’s hard to not be drawn to someone like him. 

So, you try. Out of some loose notion of affinity, respect, out of some desire to give back, you push where you know you probably shouldn’t. 

“You know…if you ever want to talk— about life, your day, what you ate this morning, something stupid you saw—” Your voice falters, hesitant for a moment before you find your steel commitment and push. “—grief. You can always talk to me. I’m here. At work. Out of work.”

His body goes still. Rigid. And stupidly, you wonder if this was the call he was listening for.  

“I won’t pretend to know. But, I can listen. If you want me to. Just ask.”

You don’t think he’ll ever take you up on it. In fact, it’s laughable to think that your attending—the man leagues above you in experience, and knowledge, and wisdom, would willingly stoop down to his fellow’s standing and talk about his feelings. Men like him compartmentalize. It’s what makes him an excellent doctor. The immovable rock under the beating current of the river. The beacon in a rushing trauma room.

But a foolish part of you tries because… well, because you want to. 

Because it’s Jack, at the end of the day. Battlin’ Jack with the edge in his eyes and the razor on his tongue. The first one you look for in a busy operating room, the last one you spot as you're packing up for the night.

Hazel eyes turn over his shoulder and find their spot on you with immediate precision. Boring a hole into you. Analyzing, configuring, understanding. He stares at you, in a charged stillness, almost like he were doing all three things at once and coming up empty on whatever he was trying to find.  

“…Sure.” 

You understand in the hesitancy that there is something hidden that he’s not wanting to share. You try to reason that his answer, as vague as vague comes, is a good thing, if only to save yourself from the disappointment of realizing that your attempt for connection has met a stoned wall. His words ring of finality, his signal to end the conversation. 

It’s here where the berth between you two feels so enormous, the difference in your stages of life. Not in the quips of the shifts, not in the jests of your being his junior and your teases of his age. Not when you’re beside him manning a procedure and working in tandem with the makings of a well-oiled machine as though you were always meant to work with him. But here, where you catch Jack in the hush and see glimpses of the man under the doctor is where the reminder is so pointed.

Signed, sealed, and delivered with red tape in your line of sight. Caution, written in his crow’s feet. Tread lightly, in the wrinkle of his smile lines. Warnings you should heed.

And yet, keep pushing, echoes in the beat of your heart. 

You nod, a small, resigned smile crossing your face. Leaving well enough alone. 

“Okay.” Tapping a hand against the doorway, you begin to take your leave from the room.

“Oh!” You stop yourself, turning back to him only to find that his eyes are still trained on you. “Uh, your patient in fourteen said he was experiencing a burning sensation in his penis when I walked by.”

“He’s in for heartburn from eating a shit ton of takis.” He says, diffident. 

“Guess he didn’t lick all the dust off his fingers.” You shrug. 

“Sounds like it.”

You take your leave and in the wake of your absence, Jack takes a harrowing breath.

His therapist’s voice lingers in his head. 

Doesn’t have to be the whole fleet. Doesn’t have to be announced. Just one is enough. Just a status update is all they need. All you need.

And maybe it's because he knows the sincerity behind your words, the invitation doesn’t feel like a hanging noose like it usually does. The prospect of talking about it—giving the status update—is akin to a standing death sentence for a man like him. Giving the unnamed a name, voicing it into existence, giving it the power to consume. 

He’s getting better at it. Giving the small doses in the official setting, where it's him, four beige walls, and a man with a PhD. Taking it outside of there, though, is still the battling challenge.

But—when you say it, when you offer—  

He pushes past it, doesn’t try to think too hard about it. Stocks it up on a shelf out of reach. Something to handle later, to forget about when he remembers to toss it out. Or, if the mood catches him just right in the safety of Dr. Mott’s office, he’ll bring it up. Discuss what it means, what he should do about it.

He doesn’t know. Only knows that a door has been left ajar, breadcrumbs of care and comfort leading a trail through and to you. Cracked open by your gentle hand.

Only knows that in the dormant hold of a wounded man and the slow becoming of a new one that he’s pushing himself to, Jack finds himself feeling the faint pang of hunger for something other than self-inflicted guilt and shame.

He eyes the breadcrumbs you left behind. Wondering, deep in the recesses of his conflicted mind, how they would taste.

He chugs his coffee, burns the taste buds on the tip of his tongue. Hopes that it erodes the want right where it began, cripples the potential to even try.

(It doesn’t.)

Thurs-Fri, 11:35 PM:

Jack is two forearms deep in the cracked thoracic cavity of an intubated 46-year old woman performing an EDT when the doors to Trauma One open. 

“Dr. Abbot, can I speak to you?” Dr. Reno, communal night shift’s bane of existence and general nuisance, shouts into the operating room. 

Jack has no more of an issue with the man than he does with anyone from Ohio—a general sense of pity coupled with a scrutinized squint of the eyes at some unsavory opinions that tend to come from the Buckeyes, particularly when the Steelers are playing—but the general opinion of the team’s feelings are not lost on him. 

He’s heard the whispers, seen the way the crowd parts like the Red Sea when the man is around. Jack keeps his head down, for the most part. He’s not Robby. Aside from the general check-in and check-out, he doesn’t want to manage people. Personalities exist, but they don’t matter in the heat of the moment. He leaves them be, pointedly making quirks and general tendencies a side effect of the job. Pointedly makes it not his business.

Until it is.

“Don’t know if you have eyes, Reno, but I’m kind of busy.” Jack responds, quick and cool, before turning his attention to Ellis’s intubation, “Drop the left lung and pump another three CC’s. Pericardium is getting cut.”

“Find me after.” Reno says briskly, the doors shutting loudly. 

Something vile and uncouth springs to his mind, annoyance cutting through Jack like a stabbing knife at the summoning. Something inappropriate, unprofessional, mildly threatening on a good day. Its sentiment is met in equal parts with Ellis’ mumble of “dick” which only makes Jack feel slightly better. 

Scissors cut through the thin wall of the heart’s membrane and quickly spot the torn ventricle that’s spouting blood profusely. 

“Found our geyser.” Plugging the hole shut with his finger into the rupture, he looks over to Walsh. “Ready to stop twiddling your thumbs, Dr. Walsh?”

“About time.” She rebuts, moving in beside him and beginning the suturing of the heart. 

Then a moment later, as her forceps pull thread through delicate tissue, she says, “You should handle that.”

He doesn’t need clarification to know what she means. “And you should handle this.”

“I’m doing my job.” She pushes. “Do yours.”

12:05 AM

“I’m concerned about your other fellow.”

If time could be rewound, he’d go back to this morning and let the phone ring into oblivion. Ignore the call asking him to come in tonight and spend the rest of his day watching the Pirates play the Yankees. Would rather watch his team get their asses handed to them than have this conversation—knowing where it’s going, knowing who it's about. The regret of his decisions only grates him further.

Dr. Abbot doesn’t find Dr. Reno. Dr. Reno finds Dr. Abbot—contrary to the directive that interrupted the procedure in South-13.

Just as he’s stepping out of the OR and chucking his bloodied gloves into the trash bin, Maxwell is on him without preamble. That stabbing feeling—the unabated annoyance— creeps up his neck like a fucking burn. So much so that Jack has to roll it out before even looking at the new fellow. 

His eyes flick to the man, deeply unimpressed at how dogged the man appears to be. He continues his path towards the workstation. Dr. Reno follows after him, quick on his heels. 

“Her charts and prescriptions are suspect.”

“What, is there not enough work, man? You’re reading other doctors’ charting notes?”

“She and I have disagreed too often about standards of care.”

“Then leave it as a disagreement and move on.”

“Just—” Dr. Reno grabs onto Jack’s arm, halting him in place. It earns the man a putrid glare, Jack’s eyes boring into the hand that lingers on his bicep until Dr. Reno takes the hint and quickly removes it. “—look at it, Dr. Abbot. I’m concerned.”

Reno holds out a folder, one that Jack fights the urge to grab and chuck across the ER. There are no niceties when Jack takes it, his ire blatant as he yanks the folder from the man’s hand. 

Your name is the first thing he sees on the document. A usual tender, easing thing within him that Jack refuses to draw attention to—the sight of your name below his on the schedule set for the same shift, the pop-up notification of your name in the work group chat whenever you send a text. Something he would continue to dutifully ignore were it not for the fact that the notes labeled as “suspect” are notes you’ve made on a patient dated a week and a half ago. 

He scans the timeline, red quickly filling his vision. Steel becomes him the minute his gaze flicks up to Reno, finding the man looking back at him expectantly.

“This is your smoking gun? Really?” Reno nods, emphatically. Jack grits his teeth. “Get back to work, Maxwell.”

“The patient was coughing up blood and complained of chest pain. CT confirmed it was a pulmonary embolism which should’ve resulted in a cardiac catheterization.” Reno insists, bulldozing past the point of professional restraint.

“Not if it wasn’t severe enough.”

“It was enough for the patient to be transferred for admission and OR to take care of it. This is a clear case of delay in proper care.”

“You’re upset that one of our doctors isn’t trigger happy with a knife? That she—” Jack looks to the chart record again, spotting a note that makes him more irritated, “That she correctly prescribed and provided anticoagulants that reduced patient discomfort and clearly instructed the patient to follow up with their PCP the next day.”

“And him being on the schedule for the upstairs OR today?”

“A week and a half after the patient’s visit to the ER. Clearly not admitted through us and yet treated in our hospital. Wonder what that could mean.” Jack bites sarcastically. “Oh yeah, that the patient followed up with their PCP and it was decided to remove the clot.”

“Dr. Abbot—“

“Stop following up on other doctors' charts. Focus on your patients. And don’t bother me with this shit again unless it's serious.” The folder is shoved unceremoniously into Reno’s chest. “Whatever beef you got against her, don’t bring it to my floor.”

It’s when Jack is halfway down the hall that another remark is called out.

“I didn’t realize you were so biased.” 

His leg aches in the socket of his prosthetic, a sign of his lowering threshold. The pulse of blood felt worse in the stub more than anywhere else. Turning, his eyes narrow.

“Excuse me?”

”You should’ve written her up. You know you should’ve.” Reno explains as Jack steps—stalks—closer. “It was a threat against another doctor. Management won’t be happy that you’ve overlooked it.”

Abbot stands before him, his chin tilting up just as his jaw clenches. “I didn’t overlook anything. I’m well aware of what happened and I’m choosing to handle it differently.” 

“You handled it wrong.”

Jack's eyes narrow. A long steadied exhale is released, like a bull catching sight of the red. “You caught me on a good day. Take a walk, Dr. Reno. If you can’t be a team player and get your shit on straight, then consider this permission to get out of the ER for the night. Your choice.”

“You can’t—“

“Make. Your choice. Before I make it for you.” 

12:17 AM

You’re on the back of a motorcycle with the wind in your hair when a phone call interrupts. Opening your eyes is like pulling yourself out of tar, but the caller ID does the hard work of taking you out of the depths of your REM cycle.

“Hello?” You ask, voice groggy and tired. 

“Sorry to be calling you so late. I know it’s your day off.” Hilly’s voice sounds on the other end of the phone. “Any chance you can come in and work an 8-hour?”

“Why? What’s going on?” You’re already sitting up in your bed, the decision to head into work practically made. 

“Reno had to head out for an emergency. We’re short one.” 

“Oh shit.” You mutter. You raise the heel of your palm to rub into your eye. “I didn’t realize I was next on the rotation.”

“You aren’t. Dr. Abbot asked for you.”

If the decision wasn’t made before, it was made now. “I’ll be there in thirty.”

“You’re the best.” Over the line, you hear from a familiar but faint voice in the background, “She coming in?”

“Yes!” Hilly calls, before turning her attention to you. “Dr. Abbot gave a thumbs up, but it was a grateful one. I can tell.”

12:52 PM

“What took you so long?” Jack calls over his shoulder, seemingly already knowing you’ve entered the ER without even glancing backward. 

You watch as the back of his head tilts up to the status board, then back down to his notes. You saddle up beside him, placing your bag onto the nurses desk for shoving into a locker later and lean against the workstation. 

“Yankees beat Pirates ten to four. I should be out on the town. You’re lucky I’m here at all.” You push back and he tuts, annoyed. Whether at you or the game, you’re unsure, but it brings a smile to your face. 

You peer into his notes. If he minds, he makes no visible sign of it.

“I’m delighted, truly. Nothing screams lucky more than watching the unit crash and burn while we wait for you to grace us with your presence.” He retorts, but there’s no venom to his bite. 

“You’re smart, Dr. Abbot. You can handle it.”

”Yeah? Then what do we pay you for?”

“PTMC needed the city flair.” You smile widely at him. 

“The shitty one?”

“The New York state of mind. The wins and all. You’ll understand when the Pirates finally fix their offense in the outfield.” 

“Don’t forget the stellar humility.” He hums, noncommittal. “And leave the Buccos out of this.”

You tilt your head at him. “You don’t like me because I’m humble.”

“Like implies affection.” He replies, easily. “Tolerate is more accurate, city girl.”

“Whatever you say, old man.” You sigh. “I get to leave early tomorrow though, right?”

“Extortion.”

“Tit for tat.” 

An announcement rings over the intercom. An inbound GSW, four minutes out. The room turns then, those settling in the front half of the floor preparing in an orchestrated chaos for the arrival. Jack grabs a pair of gloves from the box affixed to the wall, tossing them over to you before grabbing and slipping on his own. Jack finally looks over to you, his eyes doing a quick once over of you before he settles back on your face—readied, but easy. 

Seamless and still anticipation constructing your features, determination filtering in through the artful weave of your calmness. You stand sliding gloves onto your hands welcoming the impending disaster like it were an old friend.

If there were nerves to be had on you, he couldn’t find them. 

It only compounds the ridiculousness of Reno from earlier. Only furthers Jack’s unwavering lack of doubt when it comes to you. You stand awaiting the incoming trauma like you hadn’t just woken up half an hour ago, like you’ve been standing beside Jack the entire night when it should be Reno, and relief hits him like a truck. 

A semi that’s caught him like a deer in the headlights, loosens the strain that’s fixed permanently in the column of his neck, makes the ache in his shoulder pointedly less. One held breath away from feeling. 

“Thanks for coming in.” He says, suddenly serious. 

Thanks for coming when I asked, he means.

It startles you, the turn. The unexpected stoop into sincerity. Eyes bounce between his, unaware of where it comes from. He stares back, unabashed with the earnest yet otherwise unreadable. 

Nonetheless, you take what he gives you. 

“Yeah. Of course.” There is equal genuinity in your voice. You nod your head, softly. “Anything you need.” 

He nods, once. Then turns to watch the loading bay doors. “Make me proud tonight and I’ll think about Friday.”

“Getting soft on me, Dr. Abbot.” You tease, but it holds no real feet to fire. It’s not ribbing, nor is it a condemnation. Just an observation that sits between you two like a shared secret.  

“Yeah, well.” Jack shakes his head, but there’s no concealing the way his lips twitch upward. You both decide to leave well enough alone.

Turning in time with him, you pull on his surgical gown and tie it at the back. He ties your own, his hand lingering on your back when he finishes.

SHIFT FOUR, Friday-Sat, 8:47 AM:

You don’t get to leave early. 

You take a sip from the porcelain mug of lukewarm coffee you’ve taken from the breakroom and continue your endless stare into the slow revival of the world. 

The dark of the sky begins to dilute with the morning rise, the cold breeze of the spring air a welcomed remedy to your flustered skin. The benches at the park beside the hospital are uncomfortable, pointedly so. The longer you sit, the further the aches in your back that made their wonderful appearance halfway through your shift demand your attention—but this is what you need. 

A tether to reality, a removal from the endless spirals of a hurried mind. A way for your feet to finally settle on the firm, stable ground. No running, no long stretches of standing, no burning in the flex of your calves. Just dirty sneakers on the gravel, feeling some semblance of stillness even as life begins to slowly wake up around you. Hands feeling the fading warmth of the drink you hold tightly.

Birds chirp melodically as streaks of orange break up the sky. Your chest starts to feel like it isn’t on the brink of collapse from the erratic beat of your heart. You can finally breathe. 

The new day, in. The old one, out. 

“It’s not the worst of vices to have, but a sixth cup of coffee is pretty drastic. Even for my standards.”

It’s rather difficult to align your inner chakras when Jack’s voice grows closer to you.

The heavy sigh you exhale conveys exactly how you feel about it. “I’m not in the mood, Jack.”

“First name, huh?” The sound of his voice is another stabbed knife into the pantheon of wounds that decorate you today. 

“Off the clock. Formalities be damned.” You return, annoyed.

He steps in beside you, his steadied gait and imposing figure filling your periphery. A vision cladded in black scrubs that you refuse to look at. He makes no further movement, surveying you with a neutral look on his face. Not a new thing from him, and certainly not for the first time it’s happened tonight. 

Jack has a staring problem. Always watching, hawk eyes knowing things before they reach his ears. A dutiful sentinel on the floor and the subject of the running joke you have with a few of the nurses about the amount of eyes he has on the back of his head. Lisa and Hilly think there’s at least four, one for each cardinal direction. You’ve got money on the table that there’s eight pairs, minimum.

It’s his job as attending to be tuned in to everything that happens on his shift but it’s uncanny the way he notices everything. 

(“Military.” Ellis had said simply, eyes focused on charting. 

“X-ray vision.” Shen chirped with a shrug and a sip of his iced coffee. You nodded in agreement.)

It’s not a hunch, or a theory, or a girlish fantasy to say that all eight pairs of Jack’s eyes were on you tonight. He appeared out of thin air when things went sideways on your cases. Seemingly easy patients turning chaotic within the blink of an eye and each time, he was there. Beating Ellis and Shen to the punch, pulling gloves over his hands and giving his assessment in steady confidence and simple authority as he fell into step beside you.

Assisting you with perfect timing the first two times your patients coded, leading the procedures for the next one, and taking over completely on the final one. 

With his backpack slung over his shoulder and his hand shoved in the pants of his scrubs, Jack does as he’s done all night long and stares at you. Deeply, intently, unnervingly. His face betraying no tangible thought as he keeps you within his line of sight. 

And just as you’ve done all night, you keep your gaze in front of you. Fixated on the park before you.

There’s no telling if he watches out of concern for your wellbeing or others. Determining if you were a complex puzzle needing to be solved or maybe a potential bomb needing to be diffused. 

He’s got a morbid connection to the latter. All the more reason for him to stay away. 

In standard Jack fashion, he doesn’t. 

“That bad, then.” His words are light, almost blasé. It fuels a fire that you were unsuccessfully trying to stampen out. 

You scoff. “Yeah. Pretty fucking bad.”

He moves, then. Shrugging his backpack off, he places it beside the bench and sits next to you. Close, too close. Out in the open and away from the confines of sterile white walls and yet you still feel like you’re cornered. Drowning in the nearness of him, in the substantial feel of his presence.

He takes a breath before finally saying, quietly, like a man trying to tame an angered animal, “It wasn’t personal—”

“Felt personal.” You bite back, bitterly.

“You were clouded.”

Finally, your head snaps to him. Disbelief furrows in your brows. “That’s bullshit.”  

Your heated and sharpened fury meets his stoic and anchored one, looking at him for the first time since you were pushed aside in trauma three. No betrayal of guilt resides in the lines of his face, only true honesty and sincerity. 

It only makes you angrier.

“You undermined me in the middle of a procedure. In front of interns, in front of residents. This isn’t my first time around the block, Jack. It was a resection. I can do those in my sleep and you know that. This was no different.” Your head shakes incredulously, the frustration surging forward with little reservation. And while the anger is there, simmering deep in every crevice of your words, pinching your lips and narrowing your eyes, the hurt bleeds through, try as you might to hold it back. 

“You might as well have just told the whole team you think I don’t know what I’m doing. That would’ve been infinitely better than telling me to step aside.”

The corner of Jack’s lips flick downward, a sign you’ve come to understand as his clear disagreement. They purse forward as he thinks for a second. Registering the extent of your words.  

He leans his elbows on his knees. Thinking for another moment, until he says, “This isn’t New York.”

Your head pulls back in offense. “What the hell does that mean?” 

“It means you’re not alone in a department doing drastic shit by yourself because you have to, anymore. You’re here, we’re a team and in case you forgot, you’re my senior fellow. My responsibility. And I’m not going to let you drown.” 

“I-I wasn’t drowning. I had cases, they got resolved and I moved onto the next one—”

“You had four codes today.” He interrupts. “You don’t just move on from that.” 

Your breath hitches. It’s the actualization of the heavy weight, the one that’s been sitting on your chest all night. Constricting your breath, keeping your feet moving, and hands fidgeting. Somewhere in between keeping your head down and switching from one patient to the next, it hadn’t registered that he would have tucked the information away as something other than a performance metric.

A stupid notion, one clearly without any semblance of thought, because it’s Jack. 

(The Jack you’ve had all week, the one who teases as a means to compliment, who has quietly deferred to you when questions arose during procedures, who has given approving looks from the doorway over the course of the week. Jack that has brought you coffee on random occasions when the lulls have kicked in, in the mug he knows belongs to you, the one you sip at now. Jack who knows you’ve entered a room before a word comes out of your mouth. 

Jack, who is both a breath of fresh air and the halting cause of your own when the hazel of his eyes fall on yours from across a hectic room. Concern etched in the irises, a quiet check-in, a quick review of your status, before moving on to the next thing.

Jack, Jack, Jack—whose name fits too well in your mouth, that you’re too keen to speak out loud just because you want to.)

He says the truth simply. Without blame, unlike the raging guilt that courses through you. Without lecture. Words uttered incredibly soft for a man forged from fire and brimstone. 

“None of them were easy and none of them were your fault. Just really bad fuckin’ luck that they landed on you. It’s enough to weigh on anyone.” 

“My day had nothing to do with that procedure. I’ve been through worse, I can handle it.” You lie, stubbornly.

“It had everything to do with it.” He continues, holding your gaze dutifully. As though he could stare his truth into you—make you physically see his meaning. “I saw that look in your eye. You were gonna hack at that man’s body if it meant a single chance of survival.”

“Because there was a chance, Jack. If you had just let me—“

“Sepsis from secondary peritonitis. The bowel was necrotic. There wasn’t.”

“Then let me find that out! You push Shen, you push Ellis, I’ve seen you push Mohan. I get one bad day and I’m treated with baby gloves? I get kicked off a procedure? I’m a fellow, Jack. I should’ve been allowed to do my job.”

“I push when there is something to learn. He was gone the minute he rolled in through those doors. There was nothing to learn in that.”

“So I get punished for wanting to try?”

“I stepped in because you weren’t doing it for the betterment of the patient, you were doing it for yourself.” 

He renders you speechless. Your face falls from tense anger to a shattered hurt. You fall against the backing of the bench with defeat. The throat tightens in that familiar way that it’s been doing all shift. Your eyes start to sting with the swell of tears that you try to swallow down, force away before they threaten to spill. 

Still, Jack watches. Assessing, preparing, readying himself for the fall that he’d seen coming from the beginning. 

“This isn’t a question about what you can do.” He says quietly, a whisper in the wind. A reassurance uttered in the safe space between you, broken only by your shuddering breaths. “You’ve been off kilter on me since you got that little girl. I get it. No one blames you for that. You went into this one hoping you could get a save after the ones you lost. And if you want to pretend there was a chance, fine. You can sleep knowing that I made the call on this one. That this falls on me. Not you.”

And you’re smart enough to read between those lines. 

It was never about competence. It was a staged intervention. Jack’s way to release some of the pressure off of the cooking chamber that has been you all day. To place part of your burden on his shoulders.

Making sure that the four codes you were responsible for tonight didn’t turn to five.

The heat of your bruised ego simmers low, water poured onto the embers and leaving a smoking ash of your tender and fragile heart. Heavy with the stress of today, fraying from the guilt that eats at you. You turn to him, your eyes red-rimmed and burning with unshed tears that only inch forward the minute you meet his gaze. 

His focus on you isn’t intimidating. It’s a familiar shroud of comfort, a soft place to land. He listens, watches, waits. Beckoning you into him, wanting you to let go. 

“It was just like New York again, Jack. It felt like everyone I touched died.” Your voice breaks at the admission. “I can handle it, you know, when it’s bad. It sucks, but I can put it away and keep going. But today it was—these were simple ones.”

Your breath catches when you feel him move closer to you, his thigh intentionally pressing into yours. Another tether to the ground. 

You rub your hands against your face roughly. “Like what— what do you mean I lost an eight-year old to pneumonia? That’s routine, we go through that all the time. I did a year in peds for fuck’s sake. I had her— for a second I had her.”

An incredulous laugh tumbles out of your mouth. Absurdity is hardly a humorous thing and yet, it escapes with the fall of a tear that you quickly wipe away. “Then it was the dad with the DVT who just dropped on me. He was ready to be discharged. I was on him for two hours and nothing.”

“Then the car accident came in and I—I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t shake them from me. It was just one after another. And I tried but…just wasn’t good enough.”

He interrupts quickly, leaning in close to you. His voice fusing with a well-meaning reprimand, “Don’t do that. That doesn’t do anyone any good.” 

You sigh, tearfully and look to him. He’s close, close enough in your space where his shoulder is touching yours and you see how the lines on his face deepen with his intentful stare into you. It only capitulates the need to fall. 

“I know Reno’s been looking at my charts. And I know he brought it up to you.” You tell him. The careful composition of the man made of stone fractures, then. Surprised, aggrieved, almost furious. “And I guess—I don’t know. When you told me to step aside, it felt like you were believing him a little bit.”

The speed in which he dissuades the thought is comforting. “That wasn’t what that was. That’s not why I took you out.”

“I know.” And you do. But it still felt like it. 

Jack shakes his head, drilling truth into you with an emphasis that could hardly be missed. Needing you to understand exactly what he meant. “Whatever Reno thinks about you, fuckin’ forget about it. It doesn’t matter—”

“I don’t care what he thinks. He’s an idiot. And he’s from Ohio.” You scoff. “I care what you think.”

It’s his turn to be rendered silent. Not out of shock or stupor—but at the need to hold back everything that creeps up in that moment. Tiny gospels that bang against the caverns of a hollowed heart, carved empty from the brutal grip of a world that has taken too much. Truths that beg to be let out. The unnamed that claws up the soft tissue of his throat that begs to be given a name, to be heard. 

The truth is that you had been thorough all night, fast on your feet, a helping hand where needed. A forceful hurricane blazing through the trauma bay with a proficiency that justified your standing as a fellow. And Jack had an eye on you all night not because you were cracking but because he had to make sure you were still standing. Still breathing. Not as part of his job but because—

He needed to. 

And the minute he saw the slight waver, saw the way it was beginning to seep into you, he became a man of two minds. No longer able to compartmentalize. His eyes focused on the patients in front of him, his ears attuned to the sound of your voice on the other side of the room. Listening to the rises and falls like a hymn, reverent in his pious focus.

How his only way to fix all that was wrong for you was to be involved himself—handle it himself. Wedge into the web of you that’s been stretched thin and mend the cracks, bring you back to steady and safe ground. 

Bring you back to him. 

He doesn’t say any of that. Restrains the flooding thoughts with a wrangled rope and ties it hard enough to cut circulation. Ties the yearning before it makes an ample fool out of everything. 

Instead, he goes for the standard. The known truth, the easy one that lives beneath the dry teases and offhand remarks. 

“If it matters that much, you knocked it out of the fuckin’ park today. You touched more patients today than anyone else on the floor, gave excellent care in the chaos. You did damn good, today.”

Your nod is empty, tired. Dry of any attempt at human dignity. And it humors you that just a few days ago you were the one offering him comfort. 

“How’d you know how many I was on?” You ask after a moment. 

“…I was keeping count.”

“Really?”

”You drink more when you’re stressed. Like caffeine will make you focus harder.” He huffs at the surprised look on your face. “Told you. You’re my responsibility.”

“MD, therapist, dietician, and babysitter.” The laugh that comes out of you is wet. You sniffle. “Sucks to be you.”

“Most days, but not today.” You huff out a laugh and his smile slants. He flicks his head to the side. “C’mon. You need to sleep. Florida’s calling your name, God knows why.”

He stands with a grunt, working out a knot in his neck before turning and holding a hand out to you. You take it, allowing him to lift you from the bench with your own pained sigh. 

You rub at the ache on your back. “I’ll try but I’m five coffees deep—“

“—six.” He corrects.

“Six.” You repeat, feeling gently warmed at his record keeping. “Don’t think my buzz is going to let me sleep. Try to get some shut eye for me, though.”

“Don’t waste your wish on me. I don’t sleep much.”

“Do—do you wanna get some breakfast, then? I just—” The words come out before you have much cognizance to reel them in. Exhaustion and guilt and all of its disarming siblings pushing the request out. “I’m not ready to go home yet.”

Just as they hit the air, you realize how silly it is. You don’t expect him to take you up on it—too aware of the gap, the existing berth that lives loudly in between you two. 

“Yeah. Of course.” He interrupts. Says it as sure as the air he breathes. Says it without hesitation and even less reservation. As if you couldn’t have asked anything more obvious. 

“Anything you need.”

And in your colored shock, in the repeat of the words that were once aimed at him, here—that’s when you see it. Or rather, feel it. The charge, the shift, the inkling of something else.  

Something beyond your attending. Beyond the stature of the leader who knows everything, who can impart wisdom just as much as he could take it away. Beyond the monolith who pushes you to be better, that draws the lines firmly in the sand of duty and obligation, of giving it your all and knowing when to let it go. 

There, in the softness of his hazel eyes settling on yours and the small tilt of the corner of his lips pulling upward, is a man. A gentle one, with something soft wedged in the center of his steel chest that he’s torn down a wall and unlocked just to show you. 

Only you.

Something on the precipice of becoming sweet, almost ripe for picking. 

Something you don’t know the name to, yet, but can feel deep in parts previously unknown to you that you desperately want to learn more of as the sun rises on the two of you. 

SHIFT ONE, Tues-Wed, 6:48 PM

“Look at what the cat dragged in.” Dana’s smile bleeds into her voice as you step onto the floor. “Smelling of coconut and looking sunkissed.”

The familiar smell of sterile sanitizer and disinfectant is a welcome one. The pat of your sneakers on the tile floor is a familiar anthem as you enter the ER. 

You hold your hands out and bow to your awaiting crowd, “In the very flesh.”

“Surprised you don’t have a flower in your hair.” She teases, her smile growing warmer as you draw in closer.

"Thought about it but I figured that’d be bragging.”

“Indeed it would.” Dana busies herself with the final details in preparation of handoff. You come up to the desk, leaning your elbows against the surface. A quiet moment before your shift starts. “You get to stay at the beach?”

You hum, pleased. “All week. In the tiniest bikini known to man.”

“Atta girl.” She smiles.

“There’s sunshine.” Ellis calls from down the hall, and you see her approach the workstation looking like she’s already gotten a head start on her rounds. “Welcome back. How’re the nieces?”

“Too stinking cute. I got some photos you’re gonna die for.” You sigh, wistfully. “I missed them.”

“Not gonna leave us for Florida now, are you?”

“Ask me at the end of my shift.”

“Nah, she won’t.” Dana coos, wrapping her arms around your shoulders and giving your arm a loving rub. “Pittsburgh won’t force our sunshine out just yet.”

“Abbot would put a stop to that before it even started.” Ellis jests, and you raise a brow.

“What?” You ask. 

Dana ignores you, directing her stare to Ellis. “Maybe even get some people written up.”

“Maybe even put some people in a disciplinary hearing.” Ellis returns.

Your eyes bounce between the two. “Okay, what the hell don’t I know?”

“Nothin’.” Ellis smiles, turning on her heel. 

Dana pats your arm, lovingly. “Happy to have you back, sweetie.”

7:47 PM

“Hilly, I’m going to put in an order for an EKG for Mr. Breyer. You mind making sure that he’s bumped up on that one?” You tell the nurse as you both exit the exam room.

“Can do!” She chirps. 

“Oh! And—“ She turns on her heel at your call, looking at you curiously. “Did something happen while I was gone?”

Her brows furrow. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something with Abbot.” Understanding floods her face.  

“What have you heard?” She asks, voice dipping low.

”Just a comment. Something about a disciplinary hearing.”

”Oh my god, I can’t believe no one’s told you.” She crowds near you, excitement radiating off of her. “Not confirmed, but heavily suspected because Anna Maria heard it from Jesse who heard it from Perlah who saw Dr. Robby and Dr. Abbot talking about it. But— Dr. Abbot got Reno suspended.”

“What?” Shock raises your volume, which Hilly quickly shushes you. You lower your voice in apology, “For what?”

“Harassment. Unprofessional conduct.”

“Against who?” You ask, already suspecting the answer.

“Four people. Three nurses—” 

“Three!” You gasp. You had only known about the one incident, heard some things about from the others. But the extent remained only in what you saw in the stairwell with Anna Maria.

“All Latino. They all went to Dr. Abbot. Apparently he was keeping notes on certain racist comments made.” Your mind flickers to the image of the note he tucked into his breast pocket, and its unsurprising then that he would’ve known about it all along. 

Eight pairs of eyes always watching.

“And the fourth?” You ask, curiously.

Hilly’s eyes seem to gleam brighter when she says, “You.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. Dr. Abbot raised it up to Dr. Robby who raised it up to Gloria and so on.” 

“Harassment against me?” You ask again, unbelieving.

“Yeah. Something about sabotaging your performance. Depending on the source, some say he talked about some of the comments he’s heard Reno say to you or the arguments he would start in the operating rooms.  But everyone agrees—” 

Hilly pauses for a moment—whether for dramatic effect or to convey the extent of the magnitude of her next. Either way, you remain fixated on her. Waiting, watching for her. 

“—they’ve never seen Dr. Abbot angry like that.”

9:51 PM

You don’t get the chance to talk to him—officially. 

Only make him out in the background of the hectic shift, see him at the bedside of an incoming trauma before rushing into an OR, stepping in beside him and slipping the gown on to assist. 

There’s the sly comment about your absence—Hope you didn’t forget how to do your job, city girl. 

One you meet in equal time—Watch and learn, old man. 

Sly smiles exchanged, the meeting of tender glances, the return of the familiar. Into the feeling. 

He catches you at the rolling cart outside of North 12 again. A moment finally spared in the frenzy of the night that he willingly decides to lean into. He puts his good shoulder against the wall, surveying you with a steadied eye. 

“How you feeling?” He asks, but you can make in the tone that something belies the words. A veiled test, the subtle making of your person upon return to work. A gauge of what you’ve heard. 

You meet his test balloon with an easy smile. Happy, content. 

“Good.” You say to him, true and meaningful, “How are you?”

He watches for a moment before nodding, satisfied. “Good.”

There’s not much to say about what may or may not have happened while you were gone. At least nothing you trust to not lay waste to the goodness of the moment. There’s nothing to explain or be explained. 

You know why he did it. He knows you know why he did it. You both decide to leave well enough alone. Trusting each other like second nature. 

A beat passes. “D’you relax? Take photos?” 

You nod, emphatically. “Yeah. I gotta show you the ones I got from this alligator farm we took my nieces to. You’d get a kick out of it.”

“So long as you skip over the bikini ones.” A smile etches on his face. Loose and light, the same familiar song and dance. 

“C’mon. You don’t even want to take a peek?”

“Not unless you want to keep me up at night.” He raises a brow. “You can keep your Florida sunburns to yourself.”

“Well, just picture my screams, then. That always puts you to bed, right?”

“Not this time, it won’t.”

You take it to mean that the image of your body will scar your attending, which forces a scoff out of your mouth. Rolling your head to him, you intend to make faux hurt known. But, in meeting his gaze, you see something else entirely. 

A toiling knowing that runs the quip on your tongue dry. It’s that something from before, tainted with a depth that you haven’t seen from him. 

The air heats slowly, flint to stone igniting the mutuality of piqued interest. 

For a second you realize that maybe, the heavy gap that you’ve always figured lies between you two wasn’t so hefty from the extent of the said differences in life and experiences—but heavy for another reason altogether. For all the things left unsaid.

It brings an image to your mind—one that has entered into the realm of consciousness on nights where alcohol has made you too loose and latent desires infiltrate the privacy of sleep. 

An image of you and him.

Rough, calloused hands running over flustered skin. Tugging shirts off, stripping pants down, pulling panties to the side to take a peek. The heat of his breath fanning over the side of your neck, the pads of his fingers swiping through the wet. Circling, playing, a tease whispered in a husky tone just before he—

Your breath shudders. 

“Welcome back.” Jack says lowly, turning on his heel and trekking down the hall. 

a/n: of course it would be a a traumatized forty-nine year old man that would break my eight month hiatus. my first dip into this man, and i want more

let me know your thoughts!