archonsanonymous

[archonsanonymous]

hi pisupsala! i really enjoyed going on this journey with you and bucky and our lovely nurse! i love your writing so much and your characterization is so lovely! i love this! <3

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A Lovely View of Heaven, But I'd Rather Be With You

Don’t go where I can’t follow…

John "Bucky" Egan x female!reader

Epilogue for Are You Going My Way? [complete]

Words: 2k | Warnings: mentions of death, grief

Sitting in the diner, you stare at the steaming cup of coffee in front of you. Listlessly, you play with the ring on your finger. Buck is sitting across from you, looking drawn. You know that look — you see it in the mirror every morning. 

“How are the kids?” He finally asks quietly. You shake your head.

“I’m not sure they understand yet,” You force out. “They are still waiting for Daddy to come home.”

The silence stretches.

“I think — I think I’m still waiting for him to come home,” You admit with difficulty, eyes fixed on your wedding band. “Like he’ll walk through the door at any moment,” You shake your head harder like you’re trying to shake off the thought physically, finally looking at Buck. He meets your gaze for a second before looking back at his coffee. He’s suffering. But it’s like a stone is rolling over your soul, forcing the words out.

“It’s been months, Buck. My heart is in my throat in anticipation every time I hear someone at the front door; I dream that I feel the mattress move as he lays down next to me — I can deal with the girls asking where Daddy is,” No, you can’t. “But… it’s those tiny moments of hope that break me.”

“I understand,” Buck is even quieter than he usually is. “I suppose everyone tells you it will get easier.”

You scoff, stirring your coffee a little too forcefully, the metal spoon clumsily clanging against the sides of the cup.

“It won’t.” He sounds uncharacteristically cold. You stop and frown, letting his words sink in. “It just hurts less often.”

Buck takes a sip of his coffee. Your spoon clatters on the table harder than you intended. 

You haven’t seen Buck since the funeral. You weren’t sure what to say to him. He is the only one who could possibly understand, articulate, your loss. But you don’t feel like you should intrude on Buck’s pain with your own because you are keenly aware of how crushing it is. You can see it in his face, the way he looks off to the side in silence, how he avoids your gaze. An odd empty space is left between you, a silence that can’t be filled, a note that doesn’t hit. You are incomplete since Bucky passed, a part of you dying with him. You’re in a permanent state of disrepair. You can see it on Buck’s face. He feels it too. 

Bucky was larger than life, intense, to the point of being overwhelming. The emptiness he left behind echoes all the louder. The night feels all that much colder.

“Can I ask you something?” You purse your lips as you consider your next words. Buck simply nods. You wait for the waitress to pass with the coffee — your cups barely touched. “Do you ever – do you ever think that you’ve missed something in Bucky?”

“How do you mean?”

“In that… did he ever say anything? About feeling sick?” You wring your hands. “Did you ever notice something… about…” You trail off, biting your lip nervously.

“No, he never mentioned anything,” Buck replies after a moment, gazing off through the dirty window like he’s been trying to remember. “But, you knew Bucky as well as I did — he wouldn’t. He would die before admitting anything was ailing him.” 

It’s so dark it makes you chuckle. A wistful smile plays over Buck’s face. You sit in that memory together for a moment, smiling. It’s ridiculous, but you feel like you haven’t smiled in so long; it feels like a relief now. Bucky was splendidly stubborn; you never once heard him complain about pains or aches. And he was healthy — sure, he indulged in alcohol and cigarettes, as did you and everyone else — he never had as much as a cold.

“And if he didn’t tell you, he wouldn’t have told me either,” Buck concludes soberly. 

“Sometimes, I can’t help but wonder,” You start hesitantly before angry words suddenly spill out. “I missed something. Something that I should have seen — should have recognized. Fuck, as his wife, as a nurse. Me. Of all people.” You grapple at the collar of your dress angrily, the mounting guilt leaving you so numb that the fabric cutting into your skin feels strangely grounding. “Bucky didn’t just keel over and die one day; there had to be signs —” 

“Except that he did,” Buck interrupts you firmly, although not unkindly, sitting up a bit more, leaning his elbows on that table as if to steady himself. “You can’t think that way, no matter how tempting it is. You won’t find absolution down that path.” He sighs sadly. “I asked myself the same thing many times — I’ve lost a lot of friends — what if I had, what if I said… but, you know this. It won't change the outcome even if you could find the answer.”

You blink back tears, dropping your hands back on the table gracelessly. Buck reaches out across the table, touching your hand lightly. Seeing Buck makes you feel less alone. But in the same breath, you’re all the more acutely aware of the void Bucky has left behind in both of you. It’s cruel. It’s unfair. 

You still have a whole life to live. And Bucky promised he’d be there. 

***

It’s been a long day. You know that the tiredness you’ve been feeling creeping up your bones is not the kind you can sleep off. It’s been a long life. A hard life at times. The arthritis in your hands has bent your fingers into painful stillness. You walk slowly, unsteady at times, but feel too proud to use a cane. Aches and pains come more often and linger for longer. However, you cannot say that you are unhappy. You've found peace when surrounded by family — your children, grandchildren, and even the first great-grandbaby. 

You never remarried, dedicating yourself to your children and work. You retired a major and spent your twilight years traveling and with friends. The world has changed so quickly and in so many ways. Buck still came to visit. He was the only one who could truly understand. Tragically, you were the only one who could understand his loss. And he had many, too. 

It was a full and fulfilling life, and every regret you had disappeared in the pile of experiences and happy memories. Except Bucky. You only had him so briefly; it was just the blink of an eye in hindsight. 

Of course you remember how stubborn he was, how he could draw the blood from under your nails with a single well-placed verbal jab, how both your tempers flared. He could get so moody, and your bitterness was acerbic at times. But now, you don’t even really remember the reasons why you fought. They seemed so important then. 

But you still feel it in your heart and see it with such clarity: the moments that truly mattered, that stood every test of time. Those early days in that tiny bachelor flat, dancing in the kitchen to the radio, Bucky singing as he shaved in the morning. The soft kisses on his temple as you came home from night shift, the sleepy look of confusion on his face before breaking out a smile as he realized it was you. How he banged your ankle against the doorpost as he carried you over the threshold after you got married – you had tears in your eyes from the pain but couldn’t stop laughing – and you never let him live that down. How you dragged him to bed in that Tokyo hotel, drunk on plum wine, and within a year, your first baby girl was born.

When Bucky would bring you flowers, he made sure he had a single flower for each of the girls. He would stand in the doorway, listening as you read their bedtime story. Theatrically, as only he could do so well, and to the girls’ endless delight, he’d produce a torch from his pocket and check for monsters under the bed.

Soft kisses, wandering hands, sweet little nothings – constantly pushing the envelope in small ways, anything to make your head spin. The smell of his aftershave, leather, and smokey whiskey. 

You had so much, and yet it could never be enough. He gave you a home, your girls; he gave you every part of himself. And nothing, no one, could ever even hope to parallel your love for Bucky. You poured every part of yourself into the life you built together, into him. 

Because somewhere, you knew from the start: nothing would ever feel like that little spark of electricity between you, from every look, every touch, meeting those bright blue eyes across the room for the first time. Some days you felt damned by that. But you’ve come to peace in never feeling it again. No one could love you as well as he did. 

You miss him. Oh, how you missed him. When you finally stopped crying, the grief turned into guilt, and then anger overtook you — how dare he leave you so suddenly? — when that anger dissipated, it left a hole. A wound that would never heal, it just hurt less often. Exactly how Buck told you it would. 

You grew around it; it became a part of you.

Where the reminders of Bucky were once like a stab in the heart, they slowly became a comfort. Reflections of him are everywhere; they always were; you just had to grow to see and accept them. From his letters still on your nightstand to his clothes still in the closet. The ring you never took off and the taste of smokey whiskey. From your youngest daughter's dark curls to your grandson’s piercing blue eyes. 

Bucky wasn’t there to see it as you had wished he’d be, but he was always with you.

It’s spring. The rain is relentlessly beating down on the lawn – you can smell the wet wood, flowers, and mud. The sky is gray, but the colors of the garden are vibrant, alive. Shuffling out of the house, you sit on the rocking chair on the covered porch, a woolen blanket draped over your shoulders. From inside the house, you can hear the children playing, music on the radio, and your eldest daughter singing along. There are voices, the clanging of dishes, feet running over the hardwood floor. The house is full of life, as you had always wished to be.

You feel so content. You feel so tired. Life goes on.

Closing your eyes, rocking in your chair, everything fades into the background but the sound of rain, the wind rustling the leaves, and the smell of petrichor.

As you doze off, you smile as you finally hear it again.

The happy ringing of a bicycle bell.

note: It took me almost a year to finish this, which is funny since it was supposed to be a one-shot. In the year that I worked on this on and off, I got sick and struggled with my mental and physical health, was threatened with getting fired while on sick leave, hired a lawyer to throw the book at my boss, left the toxic job, got therapy, started running again, found a new job and time and energy to write again. 

When I started this, I was actually in a phase of not fully accepting how ill I was, and just kind of kept pushing at it as the wheels were coming off the wagon in just about every aspect of my life. Ironically, it was one of those Mota text memes “turns out the bad vibes I was feeling was actually severe psychological distress” that made me laugh so hard until I completely broke down crying. Full on from cackling to inconsolable bawling. It actually made me realize that… yeah, this wasn’t just a passing mood. Sooo, thanks for helping me accept how ill I was and finally getting help, I guess? I can laugh about how absurd it /all/ was in hindsight (my borderline comically toxic boss, the whole lawyer saga, the self-realization through a meme and trying to explain that to my therapist), and it’s cathartic to finish this story. Because no matter how much I can laugh about it now, it also legit sucked. A lot. 

I love you for sticking with it, and with me, for being patient while I found my way back to doing what I love, and I hope you enjoyed the story 💖

[archonsanonymous]

going to one of those celebratory parties at the base when the 100th boys make it home safe from another mission. you’re gale’s girl and of course had to be at the party to celebrate their success. gale being gale kinda hangs back while everyone else gets drunk and rowdy and has fun, and bucky being bucky has tried over and over to get him to actually join in. that’s not to say gale hasn’t gotten up and danced with you for the songs “boogie woogie bugle boy” and “just one more chance”, but he’s quiet and thoughtful so he just sits and watches mostly. but then frank sinatra’s song “people will say we’re in love comes on and gale is immediately up and guiding you to the dance floor. it’s sweet and slow and gentle and you have your head on his shoulder and he’s got one hand on your waist and the other holding your own hand. and you’re just swaying softly around the other couples. and then gale speaks quietly and with care.

“so whatdya say; you wanna get married?”

and you pause for just a second before looking up at him with a gentle smile and saying “sounds good to me.” and you both return to your positions and keep dancing :(((

:'( oh i will actually start sobbing.

this life is a strange one and the age is peculiar, but you have found tender joy in the flicker of gale's smile. these parties are deliriously fun, but a bittersweet sorrow lingers like wayward ghosts. to celebrate the homecoming of a few serves as a reminder of those who were not as fortunate and it's not lost on you how easily you could lose the man whose fingertips delicately drum against your hip. he is so here, so present it is hard to imagine that ever not being the case because my oh my, how you love him. your sweet gale with the kindest eyes and gentle spirit. your darling gale who asks the question you've wanted to hear since you met and it's then you know that he will always come back to you. gale doesn't make promises he can't keep.

"sounds good to me,"

gale's smile is so serene - so fond - that your heart lurches into your throat. how is it that you found such beauty amid ruin? your mother raised you under the constant reminder that princes were fictitious and that storybook love was unattainable but she had no idea that gale cleven existed. gee, even you have a hard time believing he exists sometimes, but he's there. right there. his solid chest pressed to your ear as he sings ella fitzgerald's words into your hair.

your hand feels so grand in mine, people will say we are in love.

and you are.

[archonsanonymous]

*talking about U.S. military propaganda movies* i need those white boys to kiss

[archonsanonymous]

i loved reading this! this was brilliant! just this week i was rereading the first two fics and waiting for this one to come out!

As I Walk Through The Valley of The Shadow of Death

Or how hell could not keep you away from each other.

John "Bucky" Egan x female!reader

Part 3 of Are You Going My Way?

Words: 10.5k Warnings: war, blood, graphic descriptions of war and wounds, angst, 18+

He didn’t make it back.

The first time you see Bucky’s name on the list of missing, it’s like time freezes. You must have misstepped between dimensions, plummeting from the high heavens into a nightmare.

You blink, and it’s three days later. Your friends look at you, worried, whispering. Another blink and another day has passed. 

Scrubbing the floor, folding sheets, assisting in the OR, night shift, day shifts, breakfast, study, the sun on your face, the raindrops in your hair, dinner with your friends, sleep, wake up, dream, scrubbing the floor again, medication rounds, changing bandages, crying in the shower, lumpy gravy for lunch, disinfecting instruments, again that dirty fucking floor, your fingers pruning from the soapy water, making beds, doing inventory, burning your tongue on hot coffee, ironing your uniform, debriding wounds, whispers of comfort, last rites, writing reports and a letter from home. 

You don’t remember what happened; you’re just there, and it's gone again in the blink of an eye. But when you look up from the crumpled envelope in your hand, nothing has changed except the date on the calendar. 

It’s shocking how quickly daily life around you settles back into the same patterns — new faces replace the old, a new tragedy every day. There are so many to mourn in the Bloody 100th. 

Once, you could shroud the harsh reality of war in a warm light, a semblance of normalcy on the dance floor, drinks with friends, card games, the way your heart beat faster when you looked into his eyes. 

The intensity of being around Bucky, the persistence of his attention, his astounding presence—they fit so perfectly in that puzzle of insanity that you are suddenly and completely lost without him. In the mere hours you had together, over the days and weeks, somewhere between the flirtatious jokes, heated kisses, and sincere confessions, he altered something in you. Drastically. Permanently. 

Nothing was normal, but it was the life you had come to accept, the mission you had chosen. It was a necessary delusion.

But it’s like a power surge popped every rose-colored bulb, and in the half-shadows cast by reality's bleak daylight, there’s nowhere to hide. This is what it always was; you lied just enough to yourself not to have to see it.

The flow of time stabilizes eventually — were days always this long? Did nights drag this much through fitful sleep? There is no news. No news is good news, they whisper, that means there’s still hope. But holding out hope hurts relentlessly. It’s like a stone in your shoe, a paper cut on your finger. You feel it over and over and over, with every breath, and each time, it hurts a little bit more. 

When you look around the dance hall, it could be an evening like any other, but there are no blue eyes to meet yours from across the room. When you walk back to your quarters, you slow your step, listening for the sound of a bicycle bell. It never comes. The hollow feeling remains.

Sip your drink. It doesn’t taste good.  Kick a stone from the path. Smile. Gossip. Read a book. Smokey whiskey doesn’t dull the pain; it just tastes acrid. Work. Work, work, work. Write home. Lie. Lie awake at night. Live your days in a daze. Wait. Keep waiting. 

Never lose hope. 

It’s sometime in the fall, with long gray days and even longer cold nights, when you start your day shift by preparing medication for the doctor’s morning round around the ward. The small, windowless room always smells of a strange mixture of chemicals and chalk emanating from the boxes and bottles stacked floor to ceiling — you always keep the door open to get at least some fresh air in. The stool at the small table is rickety; it’s a little bit too low, forcing you to painfully lean your forearms against the table's edge to keep your balance. 

The sharp rap of knuckles on the door ruses you from the daze of your task. As you stand up, wiping your hands on the skirt of your dress, you expect to see Doctor Stover.

“Major Kidd.” You can’t keep the surprise out of your voice. You have seen him around, of course, but you’ve never spoken. He looks tired, leaning against the doorpost with his shoulder. “What can I do for you?” You add automatically, politely.

Major Kidd doesn’t reply immediately, glancing around the hallway. There’s the soft echo of footsteps, voices carrying from the ward.

“I have news about Major Egan,” He announces with little fanfare. Your mouth is dry instantly, and you involuntarily step back as if to brace yourself for whatever Major Kidd will say next. The stool scrapes over the floor noisily as your left shin connects with it. Your heart is beating so loudly now, making your chest hurt.

“Is he alive?” Your vocal cords strain to get the sound out, but you need to know, to rip the band-aid off. Major Kidd nods affirmatively. You release a breath, exhaling from your soul almost as much as your lungs.

“We received word last night that he’s been taken prisoner and held at Stalag Luft III,” he supplies. You exhale deeply. The heavy weight that suddenly fell from your shoulders is making you lightheaded. Blinking heavily, you try to focus on what Major Kidd is saying—you catch that Buck and several others from Thorpe Abbots are at the same prison.

He’s alive; he’s not alone. 

Thank god.

“I hope you don’t think me presumptuous, Nurse,” Major Kidd glances around the hallway again, more nervously this time. “But Bucky - ehm, Major Egan always spoke fondly of you.”

You’re dying to ask what Bucky said about you, just how fondly he spoke about you, but you press your lips together to keep the words from pouring out. Not the place, not the time and not the person to ask, you remind yourself. 

“Would you write to him?”

You find that you actually appreciate Major Kidd’s no-frills approach. He doesn’t waste words by dancing around the subject.

“It’s -” He hesitates for a few seconds, the tiredness in his face so much more apparent. “These camps are not nice places, as you can imagine, Nurse. A kind word from home can do a lot for a man.”

“Of course,” You croak out as if you haven’t used your voice in years, clearing your throat quickly and conjuring a smile onto your face. “I’d be happy to, Major.”

“The information you’ll need,” Major Kidd nods as he hands you a folded-up piece of paper. “And Nurse, choose your words carefully. Your letters will be read.” His tone is neither threatening nor warning, simply reminding you of wartime procedure. 

“Thank you,” You nod earnestly. “Thank you for thinking of me—err—for Major Egan’s sake. I—I…”

I thought he was dead, and it was crushing me. 

“Thank you for this, Major Kidd.” You conclude calmly, wrangling your emotions to prevent them from spilling out. 

“Thank you, Major Kidd, for what?” Matron’s voice sounds exceptionally shrill as her sour face peeks out from behind Major Kidd. You stumble back again, nearly tripping over the stool. Major Kidd looks like the blood drained from his face as Matron muscles her way into the door opening. You crush the paper in your fist, demurely folding your hands to hide it.

She looks back and forth between you, her eyes so wide they almost bulge out of her skull.

Out of context, the situation looks odd; you have to admit that. Major Kidd has no reason to be in the infirmary, especially in the medicine stockroom. And there’s only you here, which makes it obvious he sought you out.

You know there were plenty of whispers about another Major popping up around you in places he shouldn’t be. Matron never confronted you about it because she didn’t have evidence, but you really don’t need the additional scrutiny.

“Well?” Matron zeroes in on you — of course, she can hardly confront a higher-ranking officer. You press your lips together, feverishly trying to think of an excuse. 

“It’s a private matter, Captain,” Major Kidd speaks up in that same calm, almost dry tone.

“In the infirmary, my nurses don’t have private matters, Major,” Matron retorts — you can hear how much she holds back by how she wrenches out the words. You are really in for it now.

“My private matter.” 

You blink. Major Kidd didn’t have to do that, but you appreciate it nonetheless. The paper crinkles softly in your folded hands. You’re not listening to Matron’s hurried apology, the way Major Kidd waves it away frostily — you can hardly keep the smile off your face at the sudden realization.

Even now, without being here, after all this time —  Bucky is still getting you into trouble. 

And by god, how you’ve missed it.

***

“Egan!” 

In his lethargy, Bucky doesn’t react the first time his name is called. Only when Buck taps his shoulder he finally looks up from his place on the bed. 

“Egan?”

“Here.” 

Unceremoniously, the young man in the too-big overcoat lobs an envelope at Bucky. Bucky plucks it out of the air just by virtue of his reflexes because his brain —which seems to move at the speeds of goddam molasses on a winter day—sure hasn’t caught up on what is happening. 

Hesitantly, he turns the envelope between his cold fingers. Buck cranes his neck to peek at the return address.

“Guess you set it better than you thought.” Buck grins, clapping him on the shoulder. Bucky doesn’t reply, unsure if the envelope in his hands is about to burst into flames, like it’ll go up in smoke before his eyes, and with it, another shred of sanity he’s been clawing onto. 

He carefully peels the envelope open—clearly, he’s not the first one to do so, as the glue barely sticks to the paper. Your careful print fills the pages—two whole pages front and back—and it fills Bucky with a warmth he hasn’t felt in so long. You still thought about him. You cared about him enough to write these pages, even when you hadn’t heard from him in months. 

In exceptionally dark moments, like demons clawing at Bucky, the thought would creep up that everyone had already forgotten him — that only that trail of chaos he left behind was some evidence of his existence. 

His eyes fly over the lines; he rereads the letter two, three times in a row. It’s like a drug, a few minutes where he can forget he’s stuck in a crowded room in a shitty, drafty building, the bleak midwinter in Germany, the hunger and the cold. 

You write openly and unabashedly that you miss him—how you look over your shoulder on the way home because you hope he’ll suddenly appear, search for him in every crowd, and your heart sinks a little when the band plays Blue Skies. You joke about how England has ruined your favorite season. Where the forests of your native Vermont are a sea of warm colors, in England, you’re drowning in monochrome gray. You apologize for copying the results from the World Series games from the newspaper, flippantly claiming you can’t make your roommates sit through another game on the radio (but then admitting you fell asleep during the broadcast). 

You write in the way you speak. When Bucky closes his eyes, he can imagine exactly how you would look telling him all this: the emotions playing out on your face, the laughter in your voice as you joke, the calm steadfastness of your confession. He can see so clearly the way you would roll your eyes at the overwhelming lack of color around you as if it’s an offense aimed at you personally, the way your nose would crinkle at the prospect of sitting through another sports broadcast, or how your tongue would wet your lips as you whisper sweetly to him, your fingers lacing through his, rocking up onto your tiptoes to kiss him.

Of all the things you write about, you never mention any names. You don’t say anything about your work, the 100th, or even mention Thorpe Abbots explicitly. Any and all information you divulge is ultimately useless to anyone but Bucky.

Clever girl.

Bucky’s pencil often hovers over the paper, scratching the surface, but no word has made it to paper so far. He’s never really been at a loss for words, especially around you — if anything, you’ve become quite effective at shutting him up. But now that he desperately wants to tell you something, anything, he has nothing to say.

Bucky was never good at writing letters, considering it a tedious occupation. He never really cared that he wasn’t getting many letters; it saved him the trouble of writing back. And there was always enough distraction locally not to have to care. 

You appear an accomplished writer, effortlessly and genuinely putting everything to paper —he doesn’t even know where to begin. Bucky doesn’t want to talk about his circumstances; he doesn’t want to fill your head with worry as much as he doesn’t want to commit his reality to paper, in some way preserving his darkest times. But just “thank you and I miss you” won’t cut it. Buck, like a good friend, would try to counsel him. 

“Have you considered telling her just that?” Buck is sitting across the table from him with a faint grin on his face, hands deep into his coat pockets, and small puffs of condensation coming out of his mouth as he speaks. “That writing letters is not one of your many apparent talents, but you are grateful for her efforts?”

“I’d like her to write me more,” Bucky grumbles, starting at the empty paper. “Not torpedo the only chance I have at contact with the outside world.”

“Practice makes perfect.” 

“Shut up.”

Buck sits up straighter in his chair, looking at his friend struggling in a way he hasn’t seen before. Bucky is the kind of person who can make everything seem effortless because he is confident enough—some would say arrogant enough—in his innate abilities to pull everything off on the first try. Just that puts him miles ahead of everyone else on a good day because, by the time they catch up with Bucky, he has the experience to back up his boasting. 

So, it’s rare to see him fail at anything. Painfully, Bucky himself is usually the cause of his failures. While others would argue that Bucky hated being Air Exec and that his deliberate sabotage to get rid of the job wasn’t a failure, Buck would disagree. It’s just exactly what he does. Faced with something that he hates and unable to shape reality to his desire through bluster and cleverness, Bucky will sooner self-destruct and take down everything with him than admit defeat.  

The fact that Bucky is agonizing about something as simple as replying to a letter, to Buck, just makes it abundantly clear it’s not about the letter. It’s about you. He doesn’t want to fail you, and it’s paralyzing him into place. Because he might actually irrevocably fuck this up. 

Bucky is his own worst enemy, as well as the only one who can talk himself out of that spiral. But that doesn’t mean he can’t use a push in the right direction.

“She’s put up with you so far, hasn’t she?”

Bucky stares at him with sullen annoyance, tapping the tip of his pencil against the paper in an erratic rhythm. Everyone in the room pretends the best they can that they are not listening in on the conversation. 

“I’m sure she’ll gladly overlook your shoddy penmanship and poor prose as part of your many faults for the joy of receiving word from you in the first place.” Buck chuckles as he gets up from the table, the floorboards creaking under his shifting weight. On his way to the door, he stops next to Bucky. The page before him is littered with messy lines and dots where the pencil's tip has hit the paper in uncertainty and irritation. 

“Just write her what you want to tell her, man.” Buck imparts on him calmly before he saunters out the door. 

***

She is magnificent. 

That pearly smile, those red lips, the carefully tailored dress uniform — with pants! — the shining oak leaves: Major Baker oozes charm. She is the picture-perfect nurse and officer, like she walked right out of a recruitment poster.

She’s not even looking at you as she passes you to the podium, but you pull up the sleeves of your too-large standard-issue cardigan anyway. Nervously, you tuck some stay hairs behind your ear. Being in Major Baker’s vicinity makes you feel like you should be better at… everything. 

The moment she opens her mouth, the room full of chatty, gossiping nurses falls quiet.

“I am here today to talk to you about the 13th Field Hospital and your opportunity to join our outfit,” Major Baker says with a smile. “But let me warn you: the 13th is not for everyone.  Actually, I’ll be honest with you ladies. It’s not for most.” 

You are listening with rapt attention. You heard the Army was building field hospitals for the European theater, but you never really thought much about it. When you told your parents you joined the army as a nurse and were going to be stationed in England, they weren’t happy, to say the least. Up until the moment you were standing at the front door in your uniform, bag packed, your mother tried to convince you to forfeit your deployment. The first time you called home, your mother wouldn’t even come to the phone, leaving your younger sister to relay the latest to the home front. Your father still ends every letter with: Are you ready to come home now?

Major Baker served in the Pacific, following the front as part of an evacuation hospital. She speaks candidly about the harsh conditions, the lack of equipment, the bugs, and the rampant tropical disease. 

“This was the best experience of my life and the worst. I hated it, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.” She’s not smiling when she says it, but you can see the fondness in her eyes, even from your spot in the middle of the room. 

You are not ready to go home. How could you be? The war is nowhere near its end, and you know, you feel it in your bones, you are not done with your part. It’s your duty.

And you couldn’t leave Bucky behind—the thought springs up so raw and quick it almost hurts physically. 

Your hands shook as you received that envelope weeks ago. It was bent, the edges crumpled, and the seal had a muddy streak. The letter was short, barely spanning two paragraphs on the small page, and your heart soared at Bucky referring to you as his beloved Dove. You laughed at his clearly sulky apology for not being much of a writer, but within a few sentences, tears rolled down your face — by the end, you were sobbing.

 Please keep writing me.

In all its simplicity and sincerity, it’s seared into your soul.

“I am not looking for good nurses—I want great, brave nurses.” Major Baker suddenly picks up in volume, like she’s challenging you personally to pay attention to her, to challenge you. Clenching your jaw, you put the bandage back over your heart. 

“I want committed nurses who are not afraid to take a spill in the mud and who won’t lose their heads under pressure. I’m looking for girls who have gotten their hands dirty in triage, the operating room, and emergency response and still look for the next challenge. Combat nursing is that challenge.”

She looks around the room pointedly. You want to shrink away under her scrutinizing gaze, acutely aware of every part of your uniform that’s not strictly complying with regulation. Your wandering thoughts are a mess, and you feel distinctly frumpy compared to Major Baker's flawless appearance and charm.

“If you have the experience, the references, and the attitude, I invite you to apply.” She smiles sweetly again. “And who knows, I might see you on the mainland.”

But you also want to jump out of your seat and hand in your application right now. 

It’s late afternoon, and the fall sun is already dipping behind the horizon when you knock on Doctor Stover’s office door. The distinct smell of his ever-present pipe hangs around the room. 

“I was expecting you,” he jokes when you enter. You try to look innocent, but a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth as you greet him. “And I know what you’re going to ask —sit down, Nurse.”

“And will you, doctor?” The words leave your mouth before you’re even fully seated. 

“The War Department sure trained Baker well,” Doctor Stover grumbles as he leafs through the papers on his desk. “You’re the fifth to come in today.”

You sit up straight, your shoulders relaxed, and your hands neatly folded in your lap. Calm and poised, just like you’ve been trained. 

“You’re the only one who has a real shot at this,” he looks up at you. Even though he’s paying you a compliment, Doctor Stover looks mildly irritated by this.

“Thank you, doctor.” You reply serenely.

“Don’t thank me just yet,” he retorts. Your eyes narrow, and you bite the inside of your cheek to stop the indignation from washing over you—you can’t help it. “You’re the one I’m most worried about precisely because of that.”

“You don’t want me to go.” It’s a sobering statement. You didn’t expect this. You have the experience and the attitude—you just need the reference. 

“I’d be losing one of my best, but I’d rather lose you to another outfit than ship you off home.” He leans back in his chair, puffs of smoke billowing from his pipe. “You, however, must be sure you’re doing this for the right reasons.”

“I wan-” 

“Major Baker has been trained, scripted, to make combat medicine sound like the ultimate challenge of your nursing career. The greatest call you could answer.” Doctor Stover doesn’t even acknowledge that he interrupted you. You’re biting your lip, trying to keep yourself from talking over him. “She fails to mention that once you’re in the field, there’s no way back unless you physically can’t do your job anymore, or you’re dead. I’ve been there, I’ve seen it all. Flying bullets kill nurses the same as soldiers.”

He leans forward. The look of determination on your face hasn’t wavered, but he knows how stubborn you are. Your stubbornness and diligence have served you well so far, making you an excellent nurse. He hopes you are stubborn enough to make it through the hell you’re volunteering for. “The field will grind away at everything that isn’t strong enough, so be very sure about why you’re doing this. For what. For whom.”

You wrinkle your nose as you move back a fraction, offended at the implication, offended that Doctor Stover deduced who’s been on your mind all this time. You tell yourself that wanting to go to mainland Europe has nothing to do with Bucky being there, that volunteering to join the front is not in part because you might find him and bring him back.

Only when the war ends will you be ready to go home.

“I have my reasons clear, Doctor.” You reply evenly, clenching your hands stubbornly.

“Sleep on it.” 

“Doc-”

“That’s an order, nurse.” Doctor Stover waves his hand, dismissing you. He notices your look as you get up, noisily pushing your chair back—the flare in your nostrils, the narrowed eyes, and your mouth set into a stern line. It makes him smile, even though that will anger you further. 

You will need every bit of that anger, every bit of that drive to prove yourself, every sliver of pure pigheaded stubbornness to arm you once you set foot on the European mainland.

Within weeks, you find yourself at the local train station waiting for the train to London. You only have what you can carry in your pack —besides the issued essentials, there is scarily little room for anything else. Just small comforts like an extra pair of socks, mittens, and a notebook for writing letters. There is no great fanfare to your goodbye, Matron—and you wish it had been anyone else, really—hurried you out of the barracks this morning before dropping you off. 

It’s misting, and Matron is hurrying through the polite formalities. You thank her nicely, shake her hand, and nod along. 

“I hope he is worth it,” It’s not kind, erring on the side of snide, but not overt enough to call out. You don’t flinch, simply staring her down. Matron doesn’t say anything else, whether she’s waiting for you to start defending yourself or it’s simply one final jab to let you know that nothing gets past her.

“Maybe he’s not,” you shrug, finally. She raises an eyebrow skeptically. It’ll make no difference.” You don’t really believe those words, but you’ll never give her that satisfaction. Me doing my job will.” 

***

You set foot on the European mainland on June 7th, 1944, disembarking at Omaha Beach with your unit. There is not enough equipment or medicine, not enough people, not enough time. You’ve been stranded with the drab fatigues you’ve been issued, a too-big helmet, and whatever you have in your pack. 

What you don’t realize yet in the chaos and bloodshed of those first days is that it will only get worse. Whenever you think the inferno has finally galvanized you, a new, deeper ring of hell is beckoning you.

Despite the drills, despite all the training, you are ill-equipped. You’ve seen air raids from a distance — but you’ve never experienced how mortars make the ground shake, the wave of sand they kick up, how tanks make your very bones tremble as they bulldozer past you. You’ve seen terrible burns, frozen flesh, torn by bullets, you’ve lost patients on the operating table — but the desperation of men dragging their buddy through the helm grass and sand, screaming, blown apart by mines, sliced to pieces on razor wire, and there is nothing you can do for them. What you have against the pain, you can’t give them because they are beyond saving.

They call it meatball surgery. Quick, hack, stitch, and out. The rate of operations is murderous, the surgeon’s hands shaking from exhaustion, bleary-eyed in the bright operating light, staring at the pooling blood. It makes you sick to your stomach. 

On the first night, huddled in a foxhole with another nurse, watching Allied planes fly over, you try to remember why you signed up for this. You are so scared, you are sure you’ll sleep again. 

You keep writing to Bucky because you promised him that. And for him, you will hold on out of sheer sense of duty and profound stubbornness. Even when there is so much you cannot tell him. You can’t share that you’ve left the 100th or are not even in England anymore — when you write about having the first sip of champagne you’ve had in years, you don’t mention that it was in Paris. You describe the pure joy at having cherries straight from the tree, but you leave out that it was on the side of the road outside Amiens. When you apologize that you haven’t written in a while because you fell ill, you don’t share it’s because you got pneumonia in the harsh Ardennes winter.

The stubborn cough and burn in your lungs linger, and with pain in your heart, you wait for the mail truck to come in, clutching your latest letter to Bucky. You haven’t heard from him since August last year—it’s February. In desperation, before Christmas, you wrote to Doctor Stover to ask if anyone back at the 100th had heard from him. He replied in a short chicken scratch note that there was no change in status. 

Finally, your name is called. Wrapped up in a blanket that made it to you in exchange for some cigarettes, you accept the small stack of letters. Sitting down on a piece of concrete from a partially collapsed house, you close your eyes in silent prayer. Please let one of these be from Bucky.Nothing. It’s the kind of disappointment you cannot take anymore. Every day without word from him, you are forced to accept a little bit more that you are too late: something happened to Bucky, he is wounded, dead, and the enemy is in no particular hurry to report it. And why would they? A ranking officer like Bucky is more valuable as leverage alive than dead, so of course, they would stretch the truth.

A darker thought strikes you. What if he just simply doesn’t want to write you anymore? Bucky is smart. Either he figured out that you’ve been lying — lying by omission is still lying — or he is simply bored, and your letters are just good for kindle.

It would probably hurt less if something happened to him, and it would be easier to accept than his ignoring you.

The blood drains from your face at the realization of what you just wished for — you can feel it draw from your flesh in a hasty retreat. How much of a horrible, selfish, and undeserving person are you turning out to be? You feel lightheaded. Have you been ground down so deeply that only the ugliest parts of you remain?

Bucky would be better off without you.

Bending forward, you put your head between your knees, breathing in short, panicked bursts. The ground is spinning. Has this all been for nothing? When Matron asked if he was worth it, was it really because you were unworthy of him?

Someone is calling your name — but you can only reply with a whimpering sob. You can’t breathe, your lungs are burning — the world around you is swaying so violently now that you drop your letters on the frozen ground, desperately grasping at the jagged stone to stop yourself from pivoting off it. 

Someone touches your shoulder, suddenly grinding everything to a halt. The content of your stomach covers your boots and letters in a vile splatter, the sour smell of the bile mixed in with this morning’s watery porridge making you feel even sicker. You sob pathetically, desperately clawing for breath, and for the first time, you realize something. It hits you so profoundly you feel it in your bones: you want to go home. You want your mom. You want your bed and your own room, your sisters, and your dad. You want the beautiful forests, not a cratered alien landscape that smells like death. You want chocolate milkshakes and coke floats, go dancing on Saturday night. You want socks without holes, feet without blisters, and you don’t want to feel fucking cold all the time.

You want Bucky to kiss you on the forehead and tell you everything will be okay.

Even if you don’t deserve any of it.

Time drags you, kicking and screaming, into spring and with the advancing front into southern Germany. The Lucky 13th has seen it all. You’ve been scared for so long you don’t feel it anymore — you sleep again. Whenever and wherever you can, really. On the back of the truck, the small hard cot when the hospital is in operation, on the side of the road waiting for orders, in a foxhole feeling the ground shake from the mortar fire. 

Getting shut-eye is a luxury, like many things you’ve taken for granted. Warm showers, for one. Thorpe Abbots was far from the comforts you were used to at home, but the field has cured you of any prissiness. Scrubbing in for surgery has sometimes been the only hot water and soap you would touch in days. 

Today is a good day. At least as good as any day in a field hospital can be. Your unit has set up shop in a doctor’s office in a small town south of Nuremberg — you have running water, warm water, real bathrooms, and a kitchen with a stove. You splash water on your face before you start scrubbing in. God, it feels divine. And that stove is going to make you a hot meal, coffee you can burn your tongue on — you can’t wait. 

Casualties tend to come in waves, chaos erupting in seconds, hallways suddenly full of people, screaming, yelling, the ticking clock. Medics are wheeling the patient into your makeshift OR. As they push the curtain away, out of the corner of your eye, you see a flash of blonde hair, a familiar movement. You want to call out when you’re called to attention. Urgent. Heavy casualties. Immediate surgery. 

You forget about it, like you forget a dream after waking up — a glimpse into a crack between the realities of a life that had once been. 

The sun is high in the sky. Yawning, you roll your head, stretching your sore neck muscles. No amount of coffee will keep you awake anymore. The instant mashed potatoes are heavy on your stomach like a weighted blanket, lulling you to sleep. You have seven hours of blissful sleep ahead of you. Blinking against the bright light, your eyes prickling, you see it again.

A misplaced memory, casually walking down the street in front of you.

“Cl- Cleven!” Your voice hikes up in volume between syllables as you pick up speed. “Buck!”

He turns slowly, confusion etched on his face. Buck looks at you like he can’t quite place you here, like you are just as misplaced in his eyes as he is in yours. He looks tired. Worn.

He regards you carefully as you approach. You’re a far cry from the reserved nurse his friend once introduced him to, now dressed in the standard army green field uniform of tough woven cotton, scuffed and washed out in places, timeworn boots, and pants instead of the much more elegant wrap dress nurse uniform you used to wear. He smiles and calls out back to you. You wave at him as you start running. 

You skid to a halt in front of him, beaming. It feels like you should hug him, but you’re not that close. He is Bucky’s friend, and you know him by proxy. He is also a very senior officer to you.

“I’m so glad to see you, Major.” You try to sound respectful, catching your breath, but you can’t keep the smile off your face. If Buck is here, that means… You don’t dare finish that thought. 

“I am surprised to see you, nurse,” He replies, not unkindly. “But glad nonetheless.”

“Are you okay? Is there anything I can do for you?” You rattle off the questions in a frenzy because they’re not the questions you want to ask. Not really. Buck knows the question that is burning on your tongue—it is so apparent in your face—your jaw is tight, the slight frown on your forehead even as you smile—you are physically trying to stop yourself from the words just spilling out of you. You are too polite to let it.

It is strange seeing you here. It doesn’t quite fit. 

“I’m fine. I’ve gotten the all-clear from the doctor,” Buck replies calmly, his tone conversational. “I have a few days of debriefing to go, and then I’m hopefully back on a plane out of here,” he adds with a wistful laugh.

“Back to Thorpe Abbots?”

“Maybe,” He shrugs. “We’ll see where they want me.”

A tense silence falls. You need to ask. Buck doesn’t really want to answer.

“Bucky…” It comes out tinged by uncertainty, and you look scared saying his name. Speaking it will make it real.

Buck shakes his head. Your stomach drops. 

“He — he didn’t make it out with us,” Buck hesitates, trying to come up with a way to explain the horror of leaving his best friend behind. “We cooked up a plan, Bucky, George Neithammer, Aring, and I. We were going to make a run for it in the night. Down the street, over the wall, into the forest. Neithammer and Aring went first; I followed. A guard clocked us before we could make it over the wall.”

You think your heart just stopped beating as Buck draws in a slow breath.

“Bucky drew his attention, stopped him from firing, and gave us a chance. We made it over.” He recounts the events without flourish.

“And Bucky stayed behind,” you whisper—there’s little emotion to your voice; it’s just a statement of fact. You sound so calm, but the way your hands are clenching, and your eyebrows are knitted together in sorrow betrays just how much you are trying to keep it together. 

“He did,” Buck affirms, pain evident in his eyes. He wants to explain and lay out the argument that Bucky knew what he was doing and that it was a testament to him as a man and a leader, but he doesn’t know if he can put it into words. Why him? Why is he standing before you instead of Bucky? 

“That sounds like something he would do.” There is no accusation in your words, but it’s rather a heartfelt affirmation. An understanding between the two of you.

It was a strange infatuation, an altered state of the mind, a disbalance in your brain chemistry brought on by the force of nature that was John Egan. You never gave it a name; it was never really mutually acknowledged how deep it went; there was never time to explore it — you just followed the path, pulled by a string.

You are in love with him. 

It started when you witnessed that the man who drove you to insanity with his overt attentions truly cared for the men under his command, the man who carried the burden of his responsibility sincerely. You know you are in love with the man who can’t resist a joke, thrives on antics that put him in the center of attention, and then selflessly, unquestionably, and without hesitation saves his best friend. 

The realization is freeing; it makes your heart flutter — it fills your stomach with lead. 

“You know what’s funny?” The irony in Buck’s voice seeps in bitterly as he chuckles humorlessly. It’s horrible to admit, and guilt burns in his gut. “Bucky had been the one talking about escaping all this time. I kept pushing back, saying we should ride this out.”

Teardrops drip onto your crumpled collar. You want to say something, but the sound that makes it out of your mouth is somewhere between a laugh and a sob. You clamp a hand over your mouth, screwing your eyes shut, you try to get your breathing under control. Buck reaches out, carefully consoling you, resting his hand on your shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” You whisper, roughly running the sleeve of your jacket over your face, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry too,” Buck admits quietly, hand falling back to his side again. “I didn’t want — it should have turned out like this.”

You vaguely gesture at the crumbling houses around you, ten-ton trucks thundering past, kicking up clouds of dust, rattling the windows. Nothing should have turned out like this. Neither of you should be here. 

“Bucky is going to be okay, isn’t he?” You hate how unsure you sound, traitorous in your lack of faith. 

“If anyone would be, it would be him,” Buck looks sad, but a small, fond smile plays over his face. “Bucky would survive just to spite his captors, just because he can. He will survive because his men still depend on him.”

“And he promised he’d come back,” Melancholy echoes in your voice. It’s sort of a joke, wrapped up in the admission that you couldn’t accept a reality where Bucky wouldn’t make true on his promise.

“He owes us both that, I suppose,” Buck chuckles. You grin. There is a particular mercy in meeting Buck here and now, the only one who understands the emptiness, the cold of the shadow cast by Bucky’s absence. You’ve kept it close to your heart all this time, your little pet pain, carefully shielded from prying eyes and inquisition.  

“I’ll remind him when I find him,” you quip dryly. Buck laughs, momentarily shedding the weariness that had been weighing him down. The sudden levity reminds you of that night at the pub, squabbling over cards, when everything seemed so very normal for a moment.

“I have to admit, I think I had you wrong, nurse,” Buck tells you soberly, although his grin remains. He casually puts his hands in his pockets, stance relaxed. 

“How so?”

“You are just as insane and stubborn as Bucky is,” he states plainly. “You just hide it better.”

You open your mouth to protest. Surely, you are nothing like him. You wish you were. You wish you had that kind of confidence; if only you were that steadfast and always have an answer for everything. Instead, you find yourself increasingly and tragically falling short. 

Buck raises his hand, stopping you as you start spluttering a reply.

“He needs someone like that.”

You purse your lips. It doesn’t feel like your place to correct Buck, who has known Bucky for much longer than you and is possibly just trying to be nice to you. Because whatever, or whomever Bucky needs — it’s not you, you think bitterly. If he did, if he truly did, he would have written. You’ve run out of excuses for him long ago, but you are still too embarrassed to ask if Buck knows why Bucky hasn’t sent you any letters. It feels too intimate, too personal, too raw. 

You are simply too scared to hear the answer.

And ultimately, it doesn’t matter. The fact that you are here anyway, that you are still holding out for a glimmer of hope, that you are still discovering the depth of your feelings for Bucky— well, yes, that is a testament to your apparent insanity and stubbornness. Buck is right about that. The lack of letters broke your heart but never stopped you.

So you just smile, reeling the pain, wrapping it up close to your heart again.

***

Bucky is sitting on a beam wedged in the mud, leaning against the wall of one of the compound's overly full buildings. His eyes are closed, and the sun is on his face. He’s trying to remember how to relax as his crew around him is chatting. They are all waiting. 

It’s been less than 48 hours since the tanks rolled in and the camp was secured — it doesn’t mean anyone gets to leave. Large trucks are thundering into the camp now. Engineers, quickly followed by the supply line with food and water, a detachment of military police, and a whole field hospital — everything is being set up at breakneck speed to get the thousands of POWs processed, checked, and sent back to their units. 

Medics checked in on them, and since none of them is seriously hurt, they’ve been instructed to wait. In short, they’re going to be here for a while.

His thoughts wander, and when he allows them far enough, he can almost feel your hand in his. You are just at his fingertips.

“What about you, Major?” Hambone pipes up.

“What about me?” He replies, eyes still closed.

“What are you looking forward to most when you get out of here?” 

“Many things.” He shrugs. “Decent food, a hot shower, a mattress on my bed, seeing my girl again. In that order, preferably.”

“Are you going back to Thorpe Abbots?” Crank asks.

“That’s where my Dove is.”

“Are you sure?” The way Crank phrases the question doesn’t sound like a joke, but it’s a cruel remark, even for light ribbing. Bucky cracks open an eye, irritated.

“Shut the fuck up, Crank.”

“No, I mean—” he points into the distance. “Isn’t that her?”

Bucky's line of sight follows where Crank is pointing, his heart suddenly thundering in his ears even though it cannot possibly, rationally, be you. It must be someone with a similar stature, just that shade of hair, and an eerily similar side profile to yours.

But it surely cannot be you.

You strain under the man's weight — his leg is in such bad shape he can’t put any weight on it, the wound weeping angrily in sickening shades of green, yellow, and black, which you’ve never seen coming out of a human body. He is fully leaning on you to keep upright, groaning and whimpering in pain. Pulling your mask down over your chin as you gasp for air, you grimace. You try to flag down medics with a stretcher, but everyone is so busy they don’t see you. 

This place is a nightmare. You thought you had seen it all by now, but hell has many steps on its steep descent. Hungry, sick, and injured men stuck in the mud in half-built, half-burnt shelters. There is a stench of sickness and death that hangs around the perimeter of the sickeningly overcrowded camp. You don’t have the beds for the number of terribly wounded, days, weeks, months into suffering — and you don’t have the manpower to do effective triage. It’s monstrous.

“You’re okay,” you assure your patient calmly, fighting to keep your voice even under the physical effort. He looks pale, looking at you with panicked eyes, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. 

“We are going to walk, slowly,” you continue evenly—if you don’t panic, he won’t either. “Then the medics will take over and get you to the doctor.” 

He nods, his breath now coming out in short bursts. “Just focus on this now, okay?” You encourage him as you start moving, every step an awkward hobble, your boots sinking into the mud, the arm around your neck weighing you down. You don’t get very far when someone suddenly appears on the other side of your patient, taking the weight literally off your shoulders. Your face relaxes, and you take a deep breath, now that your lungs aren’t getting crushed anymore. 

Your skin is prickling, like little bursts of static electricity dance over every inch of your body in excitement. 

In foreboding. 

You turn to thank whomever kindly came to help. Your eyes meet the stormy blue for a mere second, knocking the wind out of you, his name dying on your dry lips — but he turns away, not acknowledging you beyond the fleeting look, mouth set in a hard line.

Bucky looks worn. 

He looks angry. 

You avert your gaze, your frozen smile melting into a grimace — that once playful static electricity now feels like a lightning bolt to the heart, stunning you.

“You’re doing great.” You comfort your patient in the kindest tone you can muster under the loom of Bucky’s palpable anger. The smile feels awkward on your face. Still, you are grateful for his help; the muddy path toward the field hospital doesn’t seem that long anymore. It’s what comes after that scares you.

“We’re almost there.” The words of assurance come naturally, despite it leaving you feeling anxious.

Patient finally on a stretcher, your hand is — steady, keep it steady, damnit — as you make notes on the patient's card before smiling as you put it around his neck. He thanks you shakily. He’s going to lose that leg, you think sadly, but you keep a kind smile on your face. If you don’t panic, he won’t. Panic won’t do him any good right now. It sure won’t do anything for you.

Bucky is not standing close; he is just at that awkward distance where it’s clear he’s impatiently waiting for you to be done, and you are expected to follow him. You can feel his eyes boring into your back, but when you glance over your shoulder, he turns his head away from you. It hurts. It’s annoying. 

“The doctor will come look you at you, okay?” You tell your patient kindly. 

He nods, face still etched in terror.

“Deep breaths,” You remind him gently as you get up. Deep breaths, you remind yourself.

The feeling of impending doom is not wholly unfamiliar; it makes you feel like a child about to be scolded. When you were younger, you could always immediately tell if you were going to be in trouble as you walked through the front door. It was something in the air. Heavy, oppressive almost. It was how your mother put down her coffee cup a little too forcefully, and your father peered over the top of his newspaper as you crossed the room. You remember the suffocating feeling of panic, the powerlessness, desperately wishing you could hide while trying to figure out what upset them, what kind of fib your siblings might have told, if your teacher might have called, or if you simply forgot a chore. 

You always tried hard to stay out of trouble so you’d never have to feel like that again.

This feels exactly the same, you think angrily. Nothing — no one — is worth feeling like this for. The thought flashes white-hot through your mind, making you ball your fists in anger at your sides.

You will face this head-on, confidently walking toward Bucky. He’s doing a great job of looking disinterested. It’s infuriating.

When you get close, he grabs you by the upper arm none-too-gently before you can say anything. He is so much taller than you; his grip hitches your entire shoulder up awkwardly. 

You stumble after him as he pulls you away around the building. Sure, you weren’t exactly expecting a heartfelt confession from John Egan. The man barely wrote you. He always demonstrated his affection rather than verbalizing it, except for those rare times, in the heat of the moment, when his sudden candid admissions of vulnerability and tender words touched you where his hands couldn’t. But you also didn’t expect Bucky to grab you like he’s leading you to the gallows. He’s still not looking at you, simply glancing around for a place, somewhere, anywhere, with some privacy. 

“Bucky—” you try gently. He ignores you, pulling you along. People are looking at you now, gawking at the spectacle of the Major hauling a nurse across camp. Under the curious stares, you feel horrendously embarrassed and uncomfortable in your own skin. Gallows actually sound kind of good now; otherwise, sinking into the mud and disappearing would be acceptable, too.

“John!” You dig your heels in forcefully, frowning. He stops, not because you have so much leverage against him, but if he pulls you any harder, the momentum will pivot you off your feet, most likely face-first into the mud. 

The silence is tense. I hope he’s worth it.

“Why are you here?” He bites out, finally looking at you — feet planted, hand at his hip, fingers still tightly wrapped around your arm, towering over you menacingly. You refuse to shrink into yourself under his intense gaze. 

“Why the fuck are you here?” He seethes.

“I’m doing my job,” You reply calmly, nails digging into your palms, pulling yourself up a little higher.

“Your job is at Thorpe Abbots.”

“I asked to be reassigned.” Your lip curls into a snarl, betraying how angry you are getting, but your voice stays even. “I’m with the 13th Field Hospital now.”

“Why?” Bucky hisses at you in disbelief as much as frustration. “Why on earth would you request to be reassigned to the front — to this hell?”

You stare at him. Bucky's angry look and thinly veiled disgust are making you sick to your stomach. The words bubble up so strongly that you think you might yell them at him—that’s what you want to do. But when they finally roll off your tongue, it comes out like an admission of guilt. 

“Because of you,” You swallow heavily, trying to stave off the tears suddenly pooling in your eyes. You don’t want to cry. You hate that Bucky is making you feel like this — so small, like your very presence is offensive to him. It’s so unfair after, well, everything. “Because I wanted to find you and bring you back.”

Before he can react, you jerk your arm from his grasp, taking a step back, desperate to create some space between you. Bucky doesn’t do anything to stop you. 

You dreamed about his touch, you dreamed about this moment, but all you want right now is to get away from this, from him. You can’t look at Bucky right now. You don’t want his hands on you; you want him to stop you from leaving.

Out of all the ways you thought seeing him again would go, you just never thought that… well, he wouldn’t be happy to see you. 

In the end, you could just never conceive of that possibility. 

You could never convince yourself that he might not be worth it.

Blinking rapidly, you shake your head, wrenching your face into a neutral look. “Forget it, Bucky,” It’s taking every ounce of your strength to keep your voice even. You look him right in the eye. He regards you coolly — it’s like a stab in the gut to realize that this is how you’ll remember him. 

“I’m glad to see you — glad to see you’re okay,” You take a shuddering breath, but your voice doesn’t waver, so calm it’s clinical. You blink against the tears pressing at the back of your eyes. “I assume you didn’t get my last letter. I saw Buck a few weeks back near Nuremberg. George Aring was with him. He’s okay and en route to England.” 

He deserves to know his best friend is alive and well—after all, it was Bucky’s self-sacrifice that let them escape. It has nothing to do with you. You’re going for a clean cut: You don’t want to owe him anything, and you don’t want to carry any guilt or have a grudge poison you. 

If only you could school your features as coolly as Bucky does, but the harder you try, the more your face wants to crumple up in misery. 

“I haven’t gotten a single letter from you in over a year.” Bucky scoffs in reply, purposefully not reacting to your news about Buck. He appreciates it, but right now, he doesn’t want to share that sentiment with you — your letters stopped coming when he needed them most, and now you appear with that same lovely and innocent look on your face and every syllable of his name so sweetly on your lips. 

Suddenly seeing you cracks open the lingering hurt, the profound aggrievement, seeping from cuts so deep it’s staining what should be joy.

“Well, I’ve sent plenty of them despite the lack of reply.” You bite out so bitterly that your face suddenly morphs into an intense scowl, melting every trace of sadness away. “Sure you did.” His words are like a knife, and you don’t want to hear the hurt and defensiveness edging out the vulnerability in his tone.

“I guess we’ll never know,” You conclude frostily, rage contorting your features. “My patients need me. Goodbye.” 

Taking a deep breath, you turn. Tears are rolling down your face now, but you refuse to make a single sound, clenching your jaw determinedly. Bucky has no right to your pain and tears; he doesn’t care anyway. 

Clean cut. Walk away. 

Bucky has seen you angry before, annoyed, exasperated. Usually at him even. The range of emotions always plays openly on your face. But the acute hurt, the cold insulted fury, the definiteness of your farewell — it gives him pause. What if he needs you?

You barely reach three steps before Bucky snatches you back, hand firmly on your upper arm again. Stumbling backward, you angrily start pulling away again immediately, trying to wrench yourself from his grip. 

“Please let me go, Major.” Your tone is harsh, louder than it needs to be, but your voice is so thick and cracking that it’s clear you are crying. You try to wipe your face with your sleeve in vain with your free hand, but Bucky easily pulls you back into him, his strong arm wrapping around your shoulders. The knuckles of his other hand skim over your wet cheek in a loving gesture — you jerk your head away like you’ve been burned, evading his touch. Your tears splatter onto the sleeve of his worn leather jacket. 

“Jesus Christ, Dove,” He sounds pained, grappling for words, backtracking hurridly. “I don’t care about the letters, I’m sorry,”

“Let me go,” You whisper sadly, trying to push away again, although there is no real conviction behind your struggle. “Please.”

“After you came all the way here for me?” He tries, attempting playfulness, a careful smile pulling the corner of his mouth, but he just gets an elbow in the stomach in reply. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry -” He groans.

Bucky hesitates. You don’t say anything or move besides the soft tremor in your shoulders as you are obviously still crying quietly — Christ, your muted heartbreak is somehow so much more devastating than if you had screamed at him. A slap across the face would hurt less than this.

“I just — I imagined you’d be safe back in England.” He admits softy. “Out of the rain, out of the cold. It -”

He had thought about it for so many hours, and it kept him company in the deepest, darkest times. Even when the letters stopped coming, the memories were always there.

You on that path from the infirmary at Thorpe Abbots, casually walking ahead of him, the alluring sway of your hips, sweet smile on your lips. The lush trees, the young green grass, and the warm sunlight. Your perfume carrying on the breeze. Bucky kept going. Every step was one closer to you — you would be waiting for him at the end of this path. 

In England. 

He didn’t want you to see him like this, dragged through hell, sweaty, muddy, dirty, hungry. He was going back to England, and he would sweep you off your feet when he looked and felt like himself again. He would never tell you of the night marches, the hunger, the slow creep of insanity of prisonerhood — instead, he would delight in that you never had to suffer like that, revel in that you were untouched by that particular horror. You would remember him how he was, and he could become that again with you.

Bucky feels like the biggest heel in the world right now. While everyone still only dreams of home, you came to him, looking for him. He should be the luckiest man alive—this is the second time you followed him where no one else would go. Letters be damned. Even your patience and forgiveness will have limits; for a terrifying second, Bucky thinks he might have crossed them. 

“It brought me comfort when I had nothing else.” He swallows. All the things he had wanted to write to you kept putting off because he convinced himself it would be easier to tell you, but the words are not coming now. Ironically.

You can hear how he’s trying to steady his breathing. You know he’s sincere. You feel how difficult it is for him. But you know you can’t forgive him just because he’s trying; you can’t amend his anger for him and take on his burden of apologizing. It needs to come from him. You have to be worth at least that for him.

Bucky can hear the tiniest sob escape you—it shakes your body in the most heart-tearing way.

 “And seeing the girl of my dreams appear in my waking nightmare — I panicked.” He adds quietly. “Forgive this poor kriegie, Dove.” 

You can hear the urgency in his voice, and you know your heart isn’t strong enough. You don’t want it to be. You only wanted to see that it meant as much to him as it did to you—that he had been worth it all—that you were worthy just as much. Slowly, you turn, your arms sneaking around his waist, tucking inside his jacket. Bucky finally allows himself to relax, tightening his embrace and resting his forehead in the crook of your neck.  

“Most drops miss,” you utter tearfully, hearing his laughter rumble in his chest. You missed feeling his laugh, the vibrations moving through you. It’s an odd thing to say, but Bucky understands that this is how you forgive him—on your terms.

“I’m glad to see you, Dove. I’ve missed you so much.” His voice sounds raw, and you feel his breath on your neck. 

“Why didn’t you lead with that?” You gently needle him, blinking, hoping your face isn’t as puffy as it feels right now.

“Can a man be worried about his girl?” He croons in your ear.

“No—yes, but…” You stumble, finally looking at him as you wipe your sleeve over your wet cheeks. “I didn’t deserve that.” Your voice is calm as ever, with no tremor, starkly contrasting with your tear-stained face. 

Bucky regards you for a moment. Your eyes are still wet, and he really shouldn’t be thinking how cute that determined frown on your face is. “You didn’t, Dove.” He agrees sincerely. 

“And I’m sorry too,” You continue softly. “I need you -” 

“Tell me how much you need me, Dove,” His urgent whisper cuts you off, mouth tantalizingly close to yours. He doesn’t want to argue — he wants that kiss he’s been dreaming about for over a year. Bucky knows that you want it just as much by the way you rock onto your tiptoes, reaching for him. Your tongue peeks out between your lips for a second, wetting them in anticipation, static suddenly, pleasantly, buzzing through every cell in your body, your hands fist his shirt at his ribs. He arms envelop you against him.

He is so warm. He is so close.

“Because I need you like I need oxygen right now.” He mouths the words against your lips but doesn’t kiss you. Bucky cut off your apology because he doesn’t really need to hear the words. He desperately needs to feel that the spark that once ignited between you, that he’d been so carefully guarding all this time, is still there—that you still feel it, too.

You don’t disappoint—you never could. Hungrily capturing his lips, you pull Bucky into you, and he follows you eagerly. You could be on that path again, bike forgotten in the grass, hiding in the shadows between buildings, sweet wine on your tongue, tangled up in his sheet in the twilight of morning — like time hasn’t passed at all from that last kiss; it was only a blink since you touched him, just fleeting moments from when he felt your skin against his, your soft sighs trilling in his ears. 

It all comes back so overwhelmingly, so wholly; it pushes out the bitterness and balms old wounds. The kiss isn’t tender, but it soothes in its intensity. 

You hear someone calling your name. Involuntarily, you giggle into the kiss, Bucky taking the opportunity to bite down on your bottom lip, drawing the laughter into a delicate moan.

You are going to be in so much trouble.

[archonsanonymous]

it’s my song, buck!

[archonsanonymous]

ur so real for this op (me too 😭🙏)

My two favorite guys

Please let me find someone who looks at me like this like hello 😍

[archonsanonymous]

he’s so babygirl i mean, just look at him

this fierce diva

[archonsanonymous]

OMG!! I LOVED THIS! 🫶🫶

nothing more, nothing less

Kaz Brekker was acquainted with different monsters. Those wrapped in expensive silk and bathed in sickening perfume. Those who spouted beautiful lies, enticing unwitting men into their dens. Those with hands stained crimson, preying on children and fools alike. His reflection on a mirror.

But the green-eyed beast proved to be a terrifying match.

Or, Kaz gets jealous.

✦ kaz brekker x gn!reader | grishaverse

✦ tags: jealous kaz, lieutenant!reader, (kind of?) enemies to lovers, set sometime after the events of crooked kingdom

"Brekker."

"Darling," KAZ drawled without looking up at your arrival, his tone more mocking than affectionate. "You're two bells late. Do you have the—"

A roll of parchment zipped through the air, landing in the middle of his desk with startling accuracy and ruining the neatly arranged blueprints spread atop it.

"I told you to quit calling me that," you muttered darkly. "One of these days, I'll really cut off your tongue."

He huffed, concealing his amusement. He enjoyed calling you all sorts of endearments after discovering how easily they riled you up.

There are times when Kaz allowed himself to feel, to act, like a boy again. Reconcile with a distant past, one that echoed Jordie's voice and carried the smell of fresh grass.

This was one of them. Similar to a child, Kaz reveled in your attention. Regardless if they came as threats, insults, or downright disdain.

He'd swallow a bullet first than ever admit it, though.

"How terrifying," he said, unfazed, and made swift work of straightening out the floor plan you brought him.

Silence fell, interrupted only by the soft shuffling of papers. From the corner of his eye, he noticed you shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

Normally, Kaz would come up with some sort of excuse to make you stay, but it seemed that something was on your mind.

And so, he waited.

You cleared your throat. "Do you need anything else?"

No, but thank you. You did well. Please, get some rest, his thoughts supplied. He ignored them. Instead, he simply settled on, "No."

His movements stilled. The question was unusual, especially coming from you.

"Nothing more, nothing less," you had once told him, seated on the ledge of a stadwatch tower that overlooked Ketterdam's shores. He'd nodded in agreement back then, mesmerized by the early sunlight that caressed your face.

You lived by the old saying for as long as Kaz has known you. After all, when you grew up in the Barrel, you'd learned early on that acting out of the goodness of one's heart only left a person broken. Penniless. Or worse, dead.

As such, you weren't the type to seek additional assignments without an offer beforehand. The fact that you had gone out of your way to ask was... suspicious.

His eyes finally flicked to yours. He could never afford to look at you for too long, as it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to stop once he started.

He cocked his head to the side and searched your gaze. "Why?"

You blinked, clearly caught off guard. He rarely indulged you in idle conversation or pried into your affairs.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Because despite everything you've been through together, this was the nature of your relationship too. Neither of you tried to change it, even after every scar he unraveled and laid at your feet.

Even after numerous nights spent confined in his office, shoulders almost, but never brushing one another as you pored over schemes for hours.

Even after repeatedly saving each other's necks and during the intimate silences that followed when the adrenaline wore off. Moments taut with charged tension, heaving breaths, and unspoken truths.

"I've got plans," you explained rather cryptically.

"Plans? Has someone else hired you for a job? I hope you don't forget that you belong to—"

"No, someone asked me out on a date."

Me, insisted the voice in his head, rich with desperation. You belong to me.

Kaz scoffed in disbelief. "A date? In Ketterdam?"

Fear clawed its way up his throat, determined to make itself known. It warred with another emotion he was too proud to name.

This... feeling was absurd. Sentimental. Kaz was no stranger to loss.

The seas granted Inej her freedom. A new chapter awaited Jesper and Wylan. Nina stumbled upon a second chance at love. Matthias found peace.

Yet, deep down, each farewell left him a little more empty than the last.

You were bound to Ketterdam only by virtue of being the Dreg's sole lieutenant. In truth, nothing else was preventing you from leaving.

Leaving him.

After promoting you, a tiny seed of guilt buried itself in his cold, wretched heart when he realized he held you back. That he never gave you the opportunity to pursue your dreams. Your position forced you to assume several roles, to fill in the shoes the others had given up.

But his greed outweighed his guilt and Kaz was a selfish man indeed.

The mere idea that someone could whisk you away from him brought forth a hateful bitterness from within.

"Where is the unfortunate fellow taking you?" he asked, keeping his voice deceptively calm.

You narrowed your eyes, ignoring the jibe. "It's a quaint little bar called 'none of your business.'"

Nothing more, nothing less. The phrase taunted him now. The green-eyed monster inside him rattled his ribcage ferociously, driving him to boast.

He curled his fingers around the desk's edge tightly. "Funny. I run the entirety of the Barrel, and I don't recall an establishment operating under that name."

"I'll have you know that he actually owns the place he's bringing me to," you snapped defensively.

Good, good. More information.

"And how long have you known each other?"

You shrugged. "A few weeks."

The answer relieved him somewhat. His possessiveness ebbs, its rhythm steady, before it swelled again, rising with the current of his emotions. One should always be more sure of everything. He'd learned that the hard way.

"And he's aware of who you truly are?" Kaz pressed on. "Of what you do?"

There were only a handful of possibilities. The person could have ulterior motives for approaching you. It wasn't unlikely, considering your power was only second to his.

Perhaps it was a spiteful soul he'd wronged, plotting to take advantage of you and get revenge on him.

On the other hand, there was also a chance that they weren't privy to your true identity. He couldn't blame anyone for wanting you but it was common knowledge whispered in the streets that Kaz Brekker was a man unwilling to share.

Anyone who didn't heed that advice and went against it anyway was just recklessly bold. Or stupid. The Barrel never seemed to run out of those.

This time, you broke away from his gaze. "It doesn't matter." You sniffed, feigning indifference.

The person didn't know then, he surmised. You probably met him during one of your undercover assignments, disguised and masquerading around with an alias.

Sensing his disapproval, you attempted to defend your date-to-be by adding, "He's kind. Sweet. Honest."

Everything he was not. The words, sharp as glass, ripped him apart. Crushed him with an overwhelming weight of sorrow.

"It seems naive of you to form an impression of him in such a short amount of time," he said through gritted teeth.

Pretending as if he didn't care should have been easy for him. Right now, all his years of experience in perfecting that charade were useless.

You rolled your eyes. "Not everyone is cynical and distrusting of the world like you. People can be good, Brekker."

And you deserved everything good and more. Better people could love you, he knew.

Someone who would not flinch every time you drew near. Someone who would freely kiss away your every fear.

Kaz had survived gunshots. Knife wounds. Sickness, nightmares, and grief. But the very thought of someone else soaking in your warmth was an ache he could not bear.

He felt the words scorching his tongue, his demons voicing them with unbridled cruelty. "There is a difference between being cautious and acting like a love-sick fool!"

Your eyes widened in shock, hardening in anger a second later; then they softened with disappointment, and all Kaz could see was the reflection of himself, a frenzied animal. A blown fuse. Inhumanely hollow.

He opened his mouth to speak, beg for your forgiveness, but you had already turned and walked away.

"I'll come back when you aren't hissing at me like a wet cat," you said, slamming the door behind you.

Kaz clenched his gloved hands into aching fists and hung his head, trying not to think of how jealous the idea of another man made him.

He wasn't too late. Dealing with his emotions was uncharted territory for him but scheming came as effortlessly as he breathed.

Kaz never lost a fight and he wasn't about to start now. Even if he needed to play dirty. His greed outweighed his guilt and he wasn't called Dirtyhands for nothing.

"Brekker!"

Kaz had just finished speaking with another gang member, Roeder, when he heard the heavy stomp of your footsteps, followed by the frustrated yell of his name. You appeared on the stairway landing soon after, rage thundering in your wake.

"You're dismissed." Kaz waved to Roeder. His eyes shifted to you momentarily and cast Kaz a wary glance. Not wanting to get caught in the crossfire, he scurried off, slipping past the both of you.

Kaz began to ascend the stairs, you trailing behind him. He could sense that you were shooting daggers at the back of his head, probably cursing him out silently.

"You're back early," he finally said once you entered his office. He circled back to the same place you'd left him hours earlier and sat in his chair. "How'd the date go?"

You stormed closer, wedging yourself between him and the desk, stopping him from hiding behind the pretense of work.

"You know exactly how it went," you snarled.

In spite of your anger, you remembered to maintain your distance. Not once have you commented on his aversion to skin-to-skin contact, though he was certain you harbored your own questions.

"I'm afraid I don't, darling." He raised his chin to hold your gaze, his expression carefully blank. A tailored mask. "I wasn't there."

"You had him taken by the Dregs." The hurt on your face was unmistakable, enough for Kaz to feel a tad remorseful.

It was hardly sufficient, though. Screw righteousness, old habits die hard. "Ah, I had no idea he was your date," he lied again.

"Bullshit."

"But, what I do know is that he laundered money from our coffers and forced children into building the same tavern you were just in."

Kaz went over records of the jobs you'd accomplished in the last two months. After connecting the dots, he successfully identified your date and paid Roeder to look into his background. It was pure luck that the man was a merchant who managed to con Kaz's old boss.

Pulling the strings for his capture was practically child's play. Not that he'd ever tell you that.

Your fury dissipated, replaced by defeat that slumped your shoulders. "You were right," you said quietly, avoiding his eye once more. "I'm sorry."

Kaz rose from his chair and stepped forward. Taken by surprise, you backed away instinctively, only to find yourself trapped by the desk now digging into your hip.

"Let me make it up to you," he spoke with an unfamiliar softness. It almost sounded wrong.

You furrowed your brows in confusion. "What?"

"I ruined your evening. I could have ordered the others to seize him after you finished dinner."

But I didn't want him to walk you home. Wrap his coat around your shoulders. Kiss you goodnight at the Slat's doorstep. Kaz would've probably loaded his pistol at the sight. Broken every limb that touched you with his cane.

You snorted. "Okay. Are you going to give me whatever we steal next? Increase my cut?"

"No, although we can discuss it another time. I'm inviting you out on a date."

You blinked once. Twice. Slowly, you said, "Brekker, you ask someone out when you like them."

His lips pulled into the slightest frown, mildly impatient. "I know."

"You don't like me."

"Whoever put that silly idea in your head?"

"You did. You don't like anyone."

"I may not be the best at showing it, but you know that there are exceptions to that rule," he argued. "Especially when it comes to you."

He continued to lean over you, ignoring the pressure of panic beating against the walls of his chest from the proximity.

"You called me an idiot," you countered. You refused to move a muscle, most likely out of consideration for him, but he closed the distance himself.

He dipped his head further. "Again, I never said that."

"Fine," you conceded, sounding fond. "You implied that I was an idiot."

"I'll be kinder from now on," he promised. "I can try to be sweet, if you give me time and chance to learn. And I'm being honest right now."

Nothing he could do would ever atone for his sins. But although he was renowned as the Bastard of the Barrel, he was prepared to do it right by you.

Hesitantly, you raised a hand. Every inch of his flesh wanted to turn itself inside out, but every bone in his body yearned for your touch.

A quivering sigh escaped his throat as you reached for his cheek, your fingers warm and gentle on his skin.

He braced himself for the familiar scent of death. The ocean. He willed himself to focus on the details that made your face. The line of your jaw to your ear. The slope of your nose. The curve of your lips, hanging onto them as if his life depended on it.

It did, in a way.

"Your answer?" he rasped, suppressing a shiver.

You dragged your thumb against his skin in a delicate but paralyzingly manner and whispered, "I accept."

He had never been held with such tenderness before. Your touch made him feel like he was somewhere else, far from the memories that haunted him.

Growing concerned, you attempted to withdraw your hand but Kaz grasped your wrist before you fully could. He steadied himself with your pulse, each beat, each hymn, anchoring him to the present.

He was here. With you. In his office. Nothing in the world could hurt him.

Eventually, he slid his own gloved hand so that your palms pressed together. Your lashes fluttered and you asked, "Is this really happening? Are we really going on a date?"

He hummed in affirmation. "And I'll do it properly."

Seriously, who in their right mind would bring you to that side of Ketterdam? He took the sealed envelope containing your dinner reservation from inside his coat and handed it to you.

"Thank you." Your mouth curved into a shy smile. "And for the record... you don't have to be anything else other than yourself."

"Ruthless, callous, and dishonest cheat?" His voice held a hint of insecurity, betraying his attempted nonchalance. It was a question hauled from the inner depths of his soul, the boy inside him who wondered if he could ever be worthy of love.

"You forgot insufferable," you teased, although your earnest gaze belied the lightness of your tone. He knew you could see right through him. "But, yes. Just you, Kaz. Nothing more. Nothing less."

At that moment, Kaz knew you would be his salvation and destruction. You could shatter his heart and every single piece would still cry out for your name.

He squeezed your hand. Soon, he'll make you, and everyone else in the Barrel, realize that he had no intentions of ever letting you go.

✦ byeol’s notes: new year, new fandom ?!

✦ reblogs and feedback are greatly appreciated! thank you so, so much in advance! <3

[archonsanonymous]

Kaz Brekker and His Stupid Nicknames

In attempts to show you some love, kaz reverts to the most boyish and juvenile confession he can manage: name calling.

Idiot

Kaz has no idea what he’s doing. This feeling that you give him is bad. It’s weakness. So he tries to kill by convincing himself that you are nothing. He calls you idiot or imbecile right and left, hoping his brain will understand that you’re of no use to him.

But that’s not true because he thinks you’re brilliant.

Most commonly he uses it on heists. You save his sorry hide and because the phrase “thank you” does not exist in his vocabulary he simply says

“Try not to die, idiot! Don’t wanna drag your corpse outta here.”

Kaz thinks he’s slick. Hiding his silly little crush like this. He’s being a jerk and belittling you. No one would glance twice because he was just being classic Dirtyhands.

Wrong

Nina notices first. It reminds her of the young grisha boys who don’t know how to flatter a girl so they simply yank on fistfuls of hair or scream obscenities.

She thinks it’s stupidly adorable; making jabs at Kaz that he deflects easily. But she knows. She sees it clear as day.

Pest

Flea is a bit too mean but pest implies enough how irritable you make him. It implies that you’re swarming his thoughts and plaguing his dreams.

“You’re such a pest!”

You’re not. You’re anything but. From your stupid face that makes his heart skip a beat every time he sees you to the stupid things you say the awaken butterflies in his stomach. So irritating. So dumb.

Inej discovers next. She notices how Kaz can’t keep his eyes off of you. She notices how his lips twitch every time he calls you a name, like he meant to say something else entirely. She finally picks up on Nina’s jokes. They whisper to each other when Nina feels his heart beat faster.

Dummy

He’s got it down bad.

This term is affectionate. Less cruel than idiot. More teasing. Kaz knows that you know that he believes you to be fantastic. Why else would he keep you around? Why keep sending you on jobs? Why keep you right by his side at all times?

“Right here next to me, dummy.”

He doesn’t proclaim it so loudly anymore. He doesn’t need all of Ketterdam to think he’s parading around a so called idiot crow. It’s for you and only you.

Which is why the ever observant Wylan Van Eck finds out next. He watches Kaz mumble under his breath when he calls you dummy. It reminds Wylan of how Jesper flirts.

Wylan smiles to himself when he ponders the moments he glimpses. Kaz Brekker, Dirtyhands, a secret softie.

“Don’t want the dummy to get hurt now do we?”

It’s like a romance novel playing out right before Wylan’s eyes. And while he doesn’t make jokes, he chuckles whenever Nina says something witty that makes Kaz’s eye twitch.

Darling

The first time Kaz calls you this it’s a complete accident. He was just minding his own business filling out some paperwork and trying to get you out of his head. You come into his office needing to ask him a few questions about the upcoming heist when

BAM!

“What do you need, darlin’?”

You freeze and moments go by as it sinks in. Kaz is horrified. As it dawns on him his ears and cheeks go cherry red. It was so casual. So easy to say.

You blink at each other and you smile.

“Call people that often?” You’re so bright.

Kaz glowers and lowers his gaze, shaking his head.

“Scram.”

He flicks his hand toward the door and picks his pen back up.

“Not until you answer me.”

So bold of you. Kaz takes a deep breath and rocks back in his chair. This is a weakness. He should stamp it out. But one glance your hopeful face and he’s caving.

“Only you. Now scram, darling!”

This would be when Jesper notices. He overhears Kaz say it just once and that’s all it takes. Kaz calling someone darling. So sweet and sentimental there’s no possible way it’s true.

But when Jesper looks around and Nina and Inej and Wylan giggling and teasing, the pieces fall into place.

Oh

Oh it’s so cute

So fueling to Jesper’s teasing.

Jesper likes to push Kaz by flirting with you. He just wants to watch Kaz marinate in his childish anger and fess up about what’s going on. The only person who doesn’t know is Matthias if Nina hasn’t spoiled it.

Angel

Oh how the hearts swoon. Kaz finally weak in both knees. This name is used whenever you’re about to do something dangerous or during reunions.

Kaz can’t clutch you in his arms like he wants to. Can’t kiss you and drown you in affection like he craves. So he puts it all into one little word and hopes you get it.

“Be safe my angel.” Or “Glad you’re alive, angel.”

He used it pretty sparingly. There’s not many moments where you’re apart anymore so it’s a rare word.

It’s almost a little to cheesy and cliche for him but he uses it regardless because he likes to see you beam.

This is when the team recognizes it as a whole. Including Matthias who was clueless up until he witnessed it first hand.

Dirtyhands soft in the heart.

Last but certainly not least

Honey

This is code for Kaz wanting a domestic moment. Quiet time in the Slat while he helps you clean up after dinner or iron out his button-up shirts.

This is most likely when Kaz would show physical affection.

His gloved hands on your hips as he whispers in your ear,

“Honey, I love you.”

He only says it when he knows no one will hear. It is only for your ears. Only for you to know. Because this word is a dream.

It’s symbolic of the life Kaz wants to give you. Security. Safety. He wants an honest life with you. One you can be proud of. He’d really like to marry you and stay with you forever.

He wraps you in his arms, guarded by the sleeves of his shirt.

It’s hope for the chance at touching without the armor.

He spins you around and kisses your lips. Soft and sweet and slow.

Honey honey honey

It’s his favorite. No other name could compare. Not idiot, not pest, not dummy, not angel or even darling.

Something about the promise of a future warms him and suddenly his weakness doesn’t seem so bad any longer.

Honorable mentions: sweetheart, love, doll, sweet pea, investment

[archonsanonymous]

ok this screams power and authority😳

[archonsanonymous]

𝐆𝐈𝐅𝐓 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐒 𝐁𝐘 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 | Bob Floyd

What can I say? I'm a girl who loves shopping and especially, loves shopping for other people. Buy yourself something nice, darlings!

Most of these gifts are from small artists or Etsy shops because I like to shop small around the holidays. You may be able to find dupes elsewhere. I did include Target and Amazon in this one, but I am not using affiliate links because I'm simply for the besties 😤 Details below!

GIFTS UNDER 20

Bob Fan Club stickers

The Hard Deck print (@themissingmango)

Aviator necklace

Aviator Snoopy & Woodstock Squishmallows

Snoopy PJ pants (I own these lol)

Home on the Range candle (also on Etsy)

GIFTS UNDER 50

Fighting Fifty One shirt

While You Were Sleeping mug

Book by Commodity (Emily Henry namedrops this fragrance in Book Lovers. Smells soooo good!)

Comfort Zone candle

Aviator Snoopy blanket

Thank you for the love on the Hangman guide 🤍 I'll be working on Bradley and Rhett next to come out later in the week or sometime next weekend. Please do comment and reblog!

TAGLIST: @nana-talks @bradshawsbaby @jupitercomet @lewmagoo @attapullman @sometimesanalice @floydsmuse @icezansky @dissonannce @heart-0n-fire @casualhilarity @seresinsbrat @eli2447 @goldenseresinretriever @creatchie8 @briseisgone @theharddeck @sylviebell @thiswaytoinfinity (I added everyone who liked the OG post, but I'm happy to add or remove.)

[archonsanonymous]

How about reader and Buck first meeting after his first mission when she gives him a coffee before he goes into interrogation and its like love at first sight and then he sees her again just before the bike race and he teases her, asking her if she's going to cheer him on or something, just really Buck and reader falling in love

hello, sweetheart! 🥰 thank you for your request, sorry you had to wait so long. I won't ever promise again when I'll post because I don't think I've ever posted when I promised to lmao 😂😭 tomorrow I'm going to see Dune 2 and on Thursday I have uni classes so tbh most likely I'll post something new over the weekend but it is NOT a promise 😂

my inbox is open for blurb/short fic requests for major cleven 🤗

The men would come and go, you tried not to get too used to any of them because a huge majority would not get out of this war alive. You remembered a few important names and faces but you tried not to focus too much on the pilots. You were handing out coffee, giving them warm smiles to cheer them up. It felt more like being an actress than a waitress. However, you didn't complain. These boys needed a warm cup of coffee and a pretty girl's smile more than ever. And they actually deserved it after risking their lives.

Major Gale Cleven had just survived his first mission and he was emotionally numbed after experiencing things that his brain still wasn't able to comprehend. The odd numbness allowed him to function properly but he feared the moment when all those horrors would eventually explode and leave his heart a mess. So far, the adrenaline was slowly leaving his system and he was glad that he survived, being one of the boys waiting in line to get his cup of coffee before going to interrogation.

He extended his arm to take the cup of coffee from some woman's hand and he raised his head to take a look at her. And then he froze for a couple of seconds.

She was a pretty girl, of course. But it wasn't about that. It wasn't about her warm smile nor her eyes that seemed to sparkle. It wasn't about her liptick nor her jacket – tight in all the right places. It was the softness surrounding her like a halo. Something so gentle and sweet about her… contrasting with the horrors he had just witnessed and survived. She was like an angel greeting him back on earth after returning from hell.

"Major…?" you squinted your eyes, trying to make him focus again. "Your coffee, sir," you reminded him and he nodded, a little confused, before taking the cup and walking away.

You would never pay attention to him if he hadn't acted so oddly. Now he was one of the faces you wouldn't forget. And a very handsome face, too.

Whenever the boys would come up with an idea like a bike race, you tried to participate but you couldn't help the menacing feeling that lots of those smiling faces would soon end up shot, blown to pieces or burnt. The sound of their laughter filling the base sounded like an echo of the ghosts-to-be to you and it was making your heart ache each time.

You stood by the wall with your hands clasped behind your back. No one really paid attention to you or noticed you – usually the boys preferred to flirt with those girls who were all over them. They were easier to get and much more available. To save yourself from a heartbreak, you tried not to engage in such activities. It wasn't because you were heartless… quite the opposite. You'd grow attached too quickly.

One man was paying attenton to you, though. Buck was searching for you all over the room and he got sad and disappointed when he couldn't see you next to the laughing and teasing women that were flirting with other pilots. He almost gave up on his search and sighed but then he spotted you by the wall. Once again, he felt like there was a halo around your head as you stood there so shyly and innocently.

"Hello," he approached you and you looked up, surprised that someone actually paid attention to you. Then you smiled weakly at the sight of the odd Major who had been staring at you earlier. "Are you always a wallflower like that, miss?" he asked.

"Usually," you nodded. "Here, I mean, at the base, sir," you added. "I'm trying not to get too attached," you explained and then you went silent as your cheeks heated up. You felt stupid for saying this. "I'm sorry," you whispered.

"Well, I'm not dead yet," he teased with a smirk and it made you feel even worse with yourself.

He was right. You were treating them like walking corpses already. And that was not alright.

"I didn't mean it like that, sir…" you tried to deny.

"It's fine, I understand," he extended his hand. "And stop with the sir. Gale Cleven. Friends call me Buck."

"Hello, Major Cleven," you shook his hand. "My name is (Y/N)."

"(Y/N)," your name sounded so nice when he was the one saying it… "I told you that friends call me Buck," he added.

"Buck…" you repeated and he blushed a little.

He was a handsome and stoic Major but there was something boyish about him, too, that made him adorable at times.

"Will you cheer on me during the race?" he asked, casually.

"Sure, Buck," you chuckled. "But you better win. I don't bet on losers."

"I know you don't," he nodded and you furrowed your brow.

"How so?"

"Well, you don't get to know any of the boys because you know they won't come back, am I right?" he asked, more seriously now, but he still didn't sound like he was thinking of you as of a bad person.

"It's not like that…" you stuttered a little. "It's not because I think of them as losers… I actually care a lot."

"I know, don't worry," he calmed you down and you sighed with relief. "But you said them. Am I not one of the pilots, (Y/N)?"

"Well, I know your name now, Buck," you shrugged your arms. "And as I said, I don't bet on losers. Now you just can't die," you smiled sadly.

"Buck!" Major Egan called for him.

"I have to go…" Buck pointed at his friend. "But hey, what do I get for winning?" he asked you before walking away.

"What about a dance?" you asked, shyly.

"A dance… Sounds alright," he winked at you and left you by the wall, feeling dizzy as your cheeks were burning.

Your knuckles were white from clenching on the railing, looking out for the planes in the sky. You had never done that before and some part of you hated Buck Cleven for making you care.

It was probably because of Janice. Janice had been one of the women working at the base. She had lost the pilot she had been in love during your first week working there. You would never forget what it had done to her. You had watched the whole thing and you had promised yourself to never care the same way Janice had.

But you hadn't loved Major Buck Cleven, you had barely known him. Still, if he died, you'd be devastated. You suddenly realized that you had already broken a promise made to your own self…

"They're back," someone pointed out at the planes.

You waited for them to announce that Buck was there, too. And when they did, you turned around to walk away. You didn't want to grow too attached and to care too much.

Meanwhile, Buck was jumping out of his plane and his eyes were searching for you. And then he spotted you, turning your back and going back inside. He felt a painful stinging in his heart. He hoped you'd greet him. Perhaps he was foolish to expect that. After all, there had been nothing between you two at all…

You were eating dinner alone by the table because you had been late and other girls had already finished their meals. Buck was about to take a seat next to Bucky but then he spotted you sitting alone and he sighed.

"I'll join you later," he patted Bucky's shoulder and took his plate over to your table.

"Hello," he started and you looked up. You sighed at the sight of him.

It wasn't that you didn't like him… You were starting to like him too much. And you didn't want that. Would he ever leave you alone…?

"Hello," you mumbled.

"I don't want to bother you," he started, "but I hoped you'd wait for me earlier that day…"

"I was too busy to go out, sorry," you lied and went back to eating.

"No, you were not. I saw you, actually, but you turned your back around and went back inside," he told you and tilted his head a little, visibly surprised that you lied so casually.

"Well, I saw you were alive. What else was I supposed to do? I went back inside quickly because I had a job to do," you shrugged your arms, quickly working on another lie.

"I'm sorry," Buck stood up and grabbed his plate. You looked up, confused, "I'm sorry, I mean it. I am clearly bothering you, I didn't mean to… I thought of us as friends. I'm sorry," he apologized once more and walked away.

You pretended that it didn't hurt you but you felt heartbroken. You were aware that his behaviour was your fault and he was such a gentleman about it, too… But you still remembered Janice.

You remembered her scratching the walls with her fingernails so hard and so much that her fingers bled. You remembered her screams at night and how most of her hair went grey in two days. You remembered when after a week of despair she suddenly went so quiet and weird… She wouldn't leave her bed, wouldn't eat, wouldn't talk. They took her away to some sort of mental institution, you had been told.

You didn't want to end up like Janice.

You didn't have to actually talk to Buck or spend time with him to fall in love with him, though. You had to admit to yourself – you had failed at your plan to not grow attached.

Major Cleven was all you could think of. When he was up in the air, you were going out of your mind. When you'd find out he was back safely, you felt like the happiest woman on earth. Handing him coffee was your favourite activity and you loved to watch him interact with his friends from afar. You loved how calm and brave he was, how handsome and reliable. Everyone could count on him and the boys clearly looked up to him.

At the same time, you felt awful for the way you had treated him. But every time you tried to walk up to him and talk about it, you were forgetting all the right words. It didn't help that he was avoiding you but every time your eyes accidentally met, he would look down sadly and awkwardly. He had to be hurt as well and you hated yourself for making him feel this way.

And now there was a party for one of the pilot's 25th successful mission. It was your first opportunity to dance ever since the promise you had made to Major Cleven before the bike race. And there he was, dancing with Meatball. It was an adorable sight but in many ways it made you sad, too. If he danced with another woman, it would hurt in a different way – less sad.

You stood up and took a deep breath in before approaching him. You had a sudden outburst of courage after drinking a few coctails and you decided to use it.

"Major Cleven," you started and he turned around with the dog in his arms. He raised his eyebrow at you. "I do believe I owe you a dance."

"Do you? Was I the one to win that race?" he asked. His voice wasn't harsh but it wasn't nice either.

"I don't remember," you admitted.

Buck put the dog back on the floor very carefully and scratched him behind his ear. Then he straightened himself and looked down at you in a way that took your breath away for a second.

"Yes, I do believe you owe me a dance," he extended his hand and you took it with a nod of your head.

The music was slow and in the beginning your dance was a little awkward and very silent. You weren't speaking to each other at all.

"There's been a misunderstanding," you finally spoke up and looked into his beautiful eyes.

"Sh, no need," he shushed you and shook his head. "I'm not that type of man. A woman doesn't have to explain herself when she rejects me."

"But I didn't reject you," you said and you cleared your throat. "I mean, I did. But not because I didn't like you."

"You did that not to get attached. I understand," he nodded. Yet, you felt his hands on your waist bringing you a little closer. "I understand… But I'm not saying it doesn't hurt."

"You see, yes, you're right. I did that not to get too attached but it didn't work. I got attached anyway," you confessed. "And every time you're up in the air, I'm going crazy. And if you don't go back one day, I'm going to die with you just like Janice did."

"Who's Janice?"

"A girl I've once known… Her man was a pilot and he died. Doesn't matter," you shook your head and the music stopped playing in that very moment. You and Buck stopped all the movement as well but you were still held by him and his face was inches away from yours.

When Buck moved his hand away from your waist, you almost felt sad about it. But then he brought it up to caress your cheek and you gave him a longing stare.

"We have a difficult mission tomorrow, I am not going to lie and make promises I cannot keep," he whispered. "Can I kiss you? I can't go down without ever kissing you."

"Yes, you can," you nodded and he closed the remaining distance between you two by joining your lips together. He was soft and gentle and he pulled you even closer as you put your arms on his shoulders and crosed them behind his head. The music started to play again with the next song and the couples around you began to dance again, giggling and looking at you two. You didn't care.

If he was to die tomorrow, you couldn't go on living without knowing how his lips tasted like.

"If I live to see and finish my 25th... Will you go out on a date with me?" he asked after breaking the kiss. You chuckled.

"If you still want me," you teased.

Buck fixed one of your hair strands gently with a soft smile.

"I wouldn't worry about that."

[archonsanonymous]

how could you not immediately fall in love with him

[archonsanonymous]

– who could ever leave me, darling?

[archonsanonymous]

Hot take: Major Harry Crosby from Masters of the Air gives major Bob Floyd vibes 👀

[archonsanonymous]

I can take them (not in a fight)

[archonsanonymous]

I Swear to God that if Lewis James Pullman as Robert " Bob " Floyd is not a part of the Top Gun 3 cast I will riot 🔥🥵