fairydustttx

[fairydustttx]

Futile Devices. Pt 2.

“I do love you, I do love you”

A/N: We are back with part 2, I really don’t know how to feel about it but we move. I also really need to stop writing about this man it’s becoming a serious issue.

Warnings: Implied smut? Not proofread.

Wc: 2943

Summary: You and Bob spend Christmas together for the sake of your kids, only to realize the love between you never truly faded.

PART ONE

The holidays had always been a delicate dance.

Since the separation, you'd alternated Christmas mornings — one parent got Christmas Eve and the other came over in the afternoon for Christmas Day. It had worked.

You'd preferred Christmas Day because the kids loved waking up in their own beds, racing down the stairs to stockings and twinkling lights and that cinnamon roll smell that meant Christmas was finally, finally here.

But mostly, you did it because tradition made the ache manageable. Ritual gave the loneliness a container. You could focus on timers and frosting and battery packs instead of who wasn't sleeping next to you anymore.

This year wasn't supposed to feel different, but somehow, it did.

Renee was six now, all sparkly pajamas and a crown of tinsel that she had insisted on wearing. Eli—eight going on eighty—was currently lecturing her on wrapping paper conservation.

You were still in your favorite oversized navy sweatshirt—Bob's old squadron one, cracked letters and all. Thick mismatched socks. Leggings. Hair tied back.

You weren't expecting Bob to show up early. Clearly.

You heard the knock, then the familiar creak of the front door opening before you could even get to it. No one else ever came in like that anymore—like it was still his house, like the air still remembered him.

"I brought backup," Bob called, stepping inside with his arms full—pie tin, grocery bag, and a thermos you'd recognize anywhere. The one from his deployment days, dented near the base, still covered in that faded "Property of Lt. R. Floyd" sticker Eli had once tried to peel off.

He looked—God. Good. His khaki coat was half unzipped, revealing a deep green sweater beneath it, snug over broad shoulders, sleeves rolled once at the forearms. Dark jeans. Boots. Hair slightly mussed from the cold. Clean-shaven, except for the hint of scruff he never fully lost this time of year.

The kids screamed his name and went barreling toward him, nearly knocking the bag out of his hands. Renee launched herself at his legs, clinging tight like a koala in her glittery reindeer slippers. Eli was already mid-interrogation about whether there were "reinforcement gifts" in the car.

You met him in the doorway, trying not to smile.

"You're early."

Bob gave a shrug and a soft smile, eyes soft behind his glasses. "Didn't want to miss the good part."

His gaze swept over the living room—the torn wrapping paper, the blinking lights, the stuffed stockings collapsed by the hearth. The half-eaten cookie still on the Santa plate. He took it all in with that quiet kind of reverence he always had for these moments. For you.

"Besides," he added, "you always panic about the ham."

You gave him a look, dry as salt. "That panic is actually sacred."

He smirked, stepping out of his boots with practiced ease. "Still using the pop-up thermometer?"

"Some of us trust science, Robert."

"You mean boxed wine and hope?"

You fought a grin, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you anyway.

Bob laughed—soft and easy—and it settled something in your chest, like the room had finally balanced out. He hadn't been here long, and already he was fitting into the seams again. Like he'd never stopped knowing exactly where the measuring cups lived or which of the kids' stockings always tipped over.

He nodded his head toward the hallway. "I left a few things in the car."

You raised an eyebrow. "You already gave them presents yesterday."

Bob gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Those were Christmas Eve presents. These are Christmas morning presents. Totally different category."

Before you could argue, the kids were already halfway into their boots, yelling about mystery bags and 'Daddy brought more stuff!' as they tumbled out the front door with Bob trailing behind.

He came back in a moment later, cheeks pinker from the cold, holding a cardboard box full of neatly wrapped packages and a soft canvas bag you recognized from his last base housing assignment. He set them down near the tree with a small, almost sheepish smile.

"Didn't want to haul everything yesterday," he said. "Besides—this way, I get to see them open them."

And something in your chest clenched at that.

Because yeah—he wasn't yours anymore, not in the official sense. But he was still theirs. Still the man who triple-checked the gift receipts and wrapped everything in the exact same snowman paper each year because Eli once said it was lucky.

"Okay, okay," you said, stepping aside as the kids charged at the tree for the second time that day. "Let's keep the carnage to a dull roar."

Renee dove into the pile with unfiltered glee, shrieking as she unwrapped a glittery unicorn hoodie and a Barbie with purple hair. Eli opened his with more ceremony—quietly reverent as he peeled back the paper to find a new model fighter jet kit and a thick Star Wars encyclopedia he'd already started flipping through before the wrapping even hit the floor.

Bob sat back on his heels, watching them. Just watching. Like he was memorizing it.

"Thank you!" Renee yelled, launching herself into his lap without warning. "I love her!"

"She has wings," Bob whispered conspiratorially, brushing a tinsel strand from her forehead. "They light up if you press her necklace."

Renee gasped like this was the greatest secret ever told.

Eli wandered over next, his book still clutched to his chest. "You remembered I wanted the updated edition."

"Of course I did," Bob said. "Told you I've got a good memory."

You stood there, just watching the three of them on the living room rug. The way Renee leaned into him without hesitation. The way Eli's brow furrowed as Bob showed him a secret panel on the model box. The way Bob looked like he'd exhaled for the first time in weeks.

The kids drifted back to playing, and somehow you ended up side by side in the kitchen. Like muscle memory. You handed him a knife without asking. He preheated the oven like it was still his job to know where everything lived.

"It smells like Christmas in here," Bob said, not quite looking at you.

"Is that some kind of compliment?"

"It's the highest praise I can give."

You gave a snort and stirred the glaze for the ham. His shoulder brushed yours when he reached across the counter, and it was so easy, so painfully familiar, that your hands trembled just slightly.

The memories snuck in when you weren't watching.

You standing right here, five years ago, your back against the counter while he kissed the cinnamon sugar off your fingers. The two of you slow dancing in socks while the roast burned in the oven. Eli asleep in his high chair, Renee curled against his chest on the couch.

You shook the memory off and reached for the dish towel. But Bob was looking at you now, like he had seen the memory, too.

"We were good at this," he said softly.

You didn't answer. You couldn't.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎���━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Renee had wrapped the cat in a scarf and was currently attempting to feed it a single green bean.

Eli appeared in the doorway like he'd just witnessed a crime. "Dad. Renee's feeding Jupiter vegetables again."

Bob was already moving. "Renee! Baby—no, we talked about this. Jupiter's a carnivore. He doesn't do vegetables."

"I think he wants to try!" she yelled back from the living room.

"He absolutely does not," Bob called, swooping in just in time to save the cat from a second helping. Jupiter shot out from under the scarf and bolted behind the couch, tail puffed up. "Buddy's got trauma now."

You laughed under your breath from the kitchen as Bob gently pried a second green bean out of Renee's hand. "You're gonna owe him therapy treats for a month."

"I was sharing," Renee muttered, crossing her arms.

"And he appreciates the gesture," Bob said solemnly. "But next time, maybe just pet him."

The moment passed in that warm, chaotic way holiday mornings always do, and soon everyone drifted upstairs to change for dinner. Bob stayed downstairs, helping you with last-minute prep, stealing spoonfuls of mashed potatoes and pretending to be sneaky about it.

By the time you returned from upstairs, the table was mostly set. Eli was arranging the silverware with surgical focus, and Bob was lighting the candles. You caught the way his eyes flicked up when you entered—and lingered.

You cleared your throat and walked past him to grab the cranberry sauce.

The house smelled like rosemary and brown sugar, like potatoes crisping in the oven and cinnamon clinging to the corners of the air. The playlist Bob had made years ago—back when things were still whole—cycled through quietly in the background. You'd forgotten it was still saved, but Eli had found it while setting the table and declared it "nostalgic."

You didn't have the heart to change it.

Dinner was loud and sticky and golden.

Renee spilled cranberry sauce on her dress within ten minutes, then cried when you tried to blot it out, convinced the stain meant Christmas was "ruined." Bob distracted her with a dramatic turkey carving, wielding the knife like he was performing for royalty. She was giggling within seconds, mouth full of mash, asking for "extra crispy skin, please."

Eli insisted on a toast before anyone could touch the food. He stood on his chair, raised his glass of milk solemnly, and said, "To teamwork. And traditions. And also maple syrup on ham, which I think is actually very smart."

"To teamwork," you echoed, trying not to get misty-eyed.

Bob clinked your glass under the table. Just a small gesture. Familiar.

They asked him to tell the story about the year Santa tripped over the heater and left boot prints in the hallway. He made the same face he always did—mock outrage at being exposed—and then told it better than he ever had before. They both nearly fell out of their seats from laughing.

You stole glances at Bob in the warm candlelight, this softer version of him with his sleeves rolled up and his voice low as he coached Eli through the potato refill rotation. He passed you the gravy without being asked. Took the last crescent roll and split it in half to share.

It all felt normal. Real. Like breathing again after holding your lungs still for months.

And you could feel the way his gaze lingered on you across the table. Not intrusive. Just steady. Noticing.

Like maybe he was remembering too.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Once the kids were bathed and thoroughly passed out with Renee curled up with Jupiter in her new hoodie and Eli face-down in his new book, you padded down the stairs and found Bob still there.

Not just lingering. Staying.

You gave Bob a questioning look, arms crossed loosely.

He met it head-on. "I figured I could help clean up."

It wasn't really about dishes anymore.

You nodded, wordless.

Together, you picked up stray bits of wrapping paper and ribbon. Restacked the boxes. Doused the candles. You handed him a folded blanket, and he set it on the couch without saying anything. You could hear the soft clicks of the heating system and the last faint notes of the holiday playlist still playing in the background.

When you turned, he was already watching you.

Same way he had that morning. That same soft, searching look.

"I missed today," he said quietly. "I missed this. All of it."

You swallowed. "You had yesterday."

"I mean more than that."

Bob stepped closer. Not enough to crowd you. Just enough to warm the air between you.

"I know I broke things," he sighed. "Not just the marriage. The ease. The trust. Us. I didn't fight the way I should have. I didn't show up when you needed me."

You blinked hard, not trusting your voice.

"But I never stopped loving you," he said. "And if you gave me one more chance—if there's even a part of you that still wants this—then I swear I'll never stop showing up again."

Silence settled in the room, heavy and full.

And then, so softly you barely recognized it as your own voice, you whispered: "I never stopped loving you either."

Bob’s breath caught and you stepped into him.

His arms opened before you even reached them. You buried your face in his shoulder, and he wrapped you in the kind of embrace that used to say I've got you. I'm not going anywhere.

He still smelled like that same woodsy soap. Still held you like muscle memory.

You looked up and he kissed you.

Not careful. Not platonic. But slow. Deep. Like someone remembering what it felt like to taste hope.

Your hands curled into the fabric of his shirt. His slid down your back, anchoring. Familiar.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, your forehead leaned against his.

"This doesn't fix everything," you murmured.

"No," he said. "But it's a damn good start."

And you let his kiss you again.

Slow, searching, then deeper. One hand sliding into your hair, the other anchoring at your lower back. You opened under him like you'd never been apart—like your body remembered every beat of him, every quiet gasp, every place he used to touch like a prayer.

Your hands tugged at his shirt. His breath stuttered when your lips moved to his neck.

"Bedroom?" he murmured.

You shook your head. "Here."

He kissed you again, rougher this time, and you gasped into his mouth. The edge of the kitchen counter hit your back as he pressed closer. His hands slid under your sweatshirt—his old squadron sweatshirt—and the heat of his palms made your knees buckle.

Clothes disappeared in quiet urgency. No frenzy. Just intention. Just years of memory and longing finally given room to breathe.

He murmured your name like it was holy, lips at your collarbone, your throat, your chest. You moaned his—soft and sure—as you pulled him in.

There was no rush. No distraction. Just the rhythm of two people remembering exactly how they fit. You wrapped your legs around him. He buried his face in your shoulder. He moved like someone who meant it. Like he was home.

You came apart with his name on your lips.

He followed, shaking, whispering thank you into your skin.

Afterward, he held you in the hush. His thumb traced the inside of your wrist. You curled into his chest like you'd never left it. Like you'd never stopped wanting this.

"I was scared," you whispered. "I didn't want to want this again unless I could trust it."

"Then let me prove it," he said.

And you believed him.

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The snow had mostly melted by now—just a few stubborn patches left clinging to the corners of the yard, shaded by the old maple tree. The air smelled like thawing earth and something sweeter, like the world was stretching awake again after a long, heavy sleep.

You stood at the kitchen sink, rinsing the last of the breakfast dishes, watching Renee and Eli out the window as they jumped between muddy patches of grass and leftover snow, shrieking about some made-up game with a tennis ball and two sticks. Renee had one glove on and Eli's old beanie pulled halfway down her face.

You heard the door open behind you. Keys dropped in the bowl. A soft thunk of boots being pulled off.

"Hey," Bob's voice came, warm and familiar.

You turned just as he crossed the tile, kissed your cheek, in that easy, familiar way he'd rediscovered—like it had never left his muscle memory. His hand brushed yours out of habit.

"How was the base?" you asked, voice low.

"Briefing ran long," he answered running his fingers over your knuckles. "But I told them I had lunch plans with someone really important."

You smiled into your coffee. "Well she better be hot."

Bob leaned in, voice low and brushing the shell of your ear. "Unreasonably."

It had been three months since Christmas.

Three months of finding rhythm again. Of co-parenting turning into late dinners, shared groceries, sleepovers that stopped needing excuses. Of slow, intentional rebuilding. Not rushing, not labeling—just choosing each other again, every single day.

The kids had taken it in stride. Eli announced the news in class by declaring, "My parents are back in love now, but don't worry, they still argue about groceries." Renee begged Bob if he could build her a treehouse "now that he lives here."

Sometimes had slowly turned into most times.

And you were still figuring it all out but it felt good. It felt steady.

After lunch—grilled cheese and tomato soup that Bob claimed was "a tactical necessity"—he kissed your forehead and headed upstairs to help Eli with his science project.

You stayed at the table, coffee going cold beside you, watching the way the afternoon light softened every edge of the room.

This house. These kids. This man.

You never imagined coming back to each other this way. But maybe that's what made it stick—no big declarations, no fireworks. Just something gentle, rebuilt from the ground up. Real, and earned, and yours.

When Bob came back down later, tucking a pencil behind his ear, you caught him looking at you like he'd never stopped.

"What?" you asked, smirking.

"Nothing," he sighed with a small smile. "Just... happy."

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers together across the counter.

"Me too."

Tags: @yagurlannastasia @theoraekenslover

[fairydustttx]

Futile Devices. Pt 1.

Bob Floyd x reader

“And I would say I love you but saying it out loud is hard, so I won’t say it at all”

Warnings: None

Wc: 2876

Summary: After a quiet separation, you and your ex husband co-parent your two young kids—with steady teamwork and unresolved feelings. As your lives continue to intertwine, moments of tenderness blur the line between past love and something that still might be.

PART TWO

Bob had never been the type to leave anything half-done—except, maybe, you.

It wasn't because he wanted to hurt you. That was never his way. Bob had always been steady, the kind of person you could lean on when the world felt uncertain. His presence was a quiet kind of safety, the anchor you didn't always realize you needed until it was missing. That's what made everything falling apart so much harder—the ground had shifted beneath you, and you hadn't seen it coming.

You'd been together for almost eight years, married for five. Renee was just learning to walk when the first cracks began to appear, subtle at first, like faint hairline fractures in glass. There wasn't one big fight or explosive moment that ended things—no betrayal or shouting match to mark a clear breaking point. Instead, it was more like water seeping into the foundation of your life, quiet and persistent, eroding the connection little by little until it wasn't strong enough to hold.

Bob’s deployments were long, stretched out like endless tunnels you had to navigate alone. The days blurred into nights, and the nights into days again, and you were left juggling two young children, a household, and your own fraying nerves.

The weight of solo parenting pressed on your shoulders harder than either of you admitted aloud. When Bob returned, you thought things would fall back into place, but readjusting wasn't a gentle reunion—it was a storm you weathered in silence. You were tired, bone-deep tired. He was exhausted in a way that left him distant. And between the two of you, small moments slipped away, unnoticed but accumulating, until even the strongest love risked drowning beneath the pressure.

The choice to separate was a quiet one, made without blame or bitterness. Sad, yes, but practical and necessary. You remember the nights spent sitting on opposite ends of the couch, the soft glow of the lamp casting long shadows across the room. Renee, just a tiny thing, curled up asleep on your chest, her breathing slow and steady. Eli, still small, nestled under Bob's arm, his fingers curling against the fabric of Bob's shirt. In those moments, words felt heavy, but you talked through everything: custody arrangements, holidays split between houses, what to do with the family home. You promised each other—no matter what happened—you'd keep the friendship intact for the sake of the kids.

And you did. That part became sacred, a vow neither of you broke. Bob moved to an apartment just a few blocks away—close enough for Eli to walk over once he was old enough. You saw each other almost every day, brought together by the endless responsibilities of parenting. School drop-offs became routine, doctor's appointments a shared checklist, last-minute runs for forgotten glue sticks or poster boards inevitable. You built a new rhythm—softer, less electric than before, but still threaded with teamwork and care.

But sometimes—just sometimes—it caught you completely off guard. The way Bob's hand would brush stray strands of your hair away from your face when you were deep in conversation, so gentle and absentminded it felt like a memory you hadn't realized you were still holding onto. The way his eyes would find yours across a crowded room or during a chaotic parent-teacher meeting, like he was searching for something only you could give him.

It was that in-between space that hurt the most—the place where you weren't quite married, but not quite just friends either.

And you weren't the only one who felt it.

One night, over drinks with Phoenix, your best friend and confidante, the subject came up. Phoenix, always sharp and unfiltered, shook her head with a smirk. "I swear to God, Bob's still in love with you."

You blinked at her, the words tasting strange and unsettling in your mouth. "He has a weird way of showing it," you muttered, swirling your glass.

Phoenix shrugged, her eyes serious beneath the laughter. "Yeah, well. Bob's never been good at doing things the easy way."

Her words echoed in your mind long after the night ended. Maybe that was the truth all along—love wasn't simple, especially not the kind you shared. It was messy, tangled, and full of contradictions. But it was there. Always there.

                   ⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It was Family Literacy Night at the kids’ school where you worked. You stood near the corner of your classroom, surrounded by the comforting clutter that made this place feel like home. The soft hum of excited children and parents filled the air, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional excited shout from down the hall. The faint scent of fresh crayons mingled with the warm, sugary aroma of cookies someone had thoughtfully dropped off on the windowsill.

You wore your favorite cardigan, the one knit in muted shades of forest green and soft cream that seemed to catch the light just right. It was oversized enough to wrap you like a gentle hug on days when the world felt a bit heavier. Beneath it, a simple cream blouse peeked out, delicate lace trimming the collar, adding just a touch of softness to your otherwise practical outfit. Your dark jeans fit comfortably, worn at the knees and softened from years of crouching down to read stories or tie shoelaces. On your feet were familiar well-worn leather ankle boots, scuffed but dependable—like you.

You reached out, gently smoothing a crayon drawing taped to the bulletin board, its edges curled and a little faded from sun exposure. It was a picture of a fierce T. rex, drawn by Eli last year—he had been so proud of every jagged tooth and tiny claw.

The classroom was bright and colourful, but the corners were always your favourite. The reading nook was draped with soft fairy lights, casting a warm, golden glow over the mismatched beanbags and towering shelves overflowing with books in every genre and size. Today, the beanbags were arranged in a semi-circle, ready to welcome eager young readers for storytime. You made one last adjustment, nudging a pillow into place, before straightening the "Reading Corner" sign that had been decorated with glitter and stickers by your students.

Just as you bent to pick up a stray pencil from the floor, a voice interrupted you—familiar, warm, and just a little teasing.

"Ms. Y/L/N?" Bob called out, his tone light and amused as he stepped into the room. "I heard there was a very strict reading specialist roaming the halls. Didn't want to get in trouble."

You looked up and smiled, amused despite yourself. "She's terrifying," you replied, rolling your eyes with a small laugh. "Better watch your step."

Bob was dressed casually in a soft navy pullover that stretched comfortably over his broad shoulders, and dark jeans that fit just right—practical but sharp. His glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, giving him a look of easy focus that always made your heart skip.

He was holding Renee on his hip, whose dark curls bounced as she wriggled excitedly, clutching a glue stick in one hand like a prized treasure. Eli stood at his side, already clutching a book and ready to dive into his reading.

Renee, with her boundless energy and endless questions, was a whirlwind of color and noise. At nearly five, she was already mastering the art of negotiation—whether it was convincing Bob to let her wear a princess dress to the grocery store or persuading you to read just one more bedtime story. Her laughter was infectious, but so was her stubborn streak, which meant Bob and you often found yourselves teaming up to navigate the toddler tornado with a mix of patience and exasperation.

Eli, in contrast, was your thoughtful little scholar. Seven years old and endlessly curious, he devoured books like they were treasures and could spend hours sprawled on the living room floor, nose buried in a story. He adored his sister fiercely, protective in a way that sometimes surprised you, but he also craved routine and consistency—something you both worked hard to provide, especially given the upheaval of your separation.

Eli's face lit up when he saw you. "I've been practicing this book for a whole week," he announced proudly, voice full of determination. "No stumbles, even on the big words."

You crouched to his level, your cardigan falling gently around you like a protective shawl. "That's amazing, Eli. You're a star," you told him, your voice soft and encouraging. "Go grab a pillow in the corner and I'll meet you there in a second, okay?"

Bob lingered by your desk as the kids scurried off, eyes taking in the little ecosystem you'd created. His fingers brushed a paper chain made of brightly colored construction paper, dangling from the whiteboard. Each link was carefully decorated with the students' names and little doodles.

"You've made this feel like magic," he said quietly, his voice a little awed. "No wonder they love it here."

You leaned against your desk, folding your arms lightly beneath the sleeves of your cardigan, feeling the familiar warmth of the wool against your skin. "Well," you said with a small smile, "I do get paid in crayon portraits and unsolicited dinosaur facts, so..."

Bob laughed softly, a sound that always made your chest tighten in that familiar way. "This is your world," he said. "And you're so good in it."

You felt your throat catch, the compliment slipping beneath your defenses like a secret you weren't ready to speak aloud.

You looked down at the worn wood of your desk, the faint scratches and ink stains telling stories of years spent here. "You say things like that, Bob, and it makes me forget we're not still—" You stopped yourself, swallowing the words you couldn't quite say.

He took a step closer, just close enough that you could see the soft crease by his eyes and the way the light caught the subtle few silver threads in his hair. He didn't reach out, but the space between you seemed to shrink anyway.

"I don't say those things to make it harder," he said. "I say them because they're true."

Your heart skipped a beat.

Before you could say anything else, Renee tugged at his sleeve, the glue stick still clutched tight in her tiny hand. "Daddy, come help glue googly eyes on the caterpillar poems!"

Bob chuckled, utterly helpless. "Duty calls," he said, scooping her up again.

You watched him walk away, your heart aching in a way that felt both heavy and hopeful all at once.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The school had emptied out slowly, the way places do when laughter fades and paper crafts have been tucked into backpacks. You'd spent the last half hour gathering stray scissors, erasing the whiteboard, and waving goodbye to your students and their families as they trickled out into the twilight.

You hadn't expected Bob to stay. But he had.

Now the sky was dusky blue, the parking lot quiet except for the distant hum of traffic and the rhythmic click of the janitor locking up the far wing. Renee and Eli were buckled into Bob's back seat, dozing with the telltale exhaustion of kids who'd run on both sugar and excitement for two straight hours.

You stepped outside just as he was closing the back door to his truck.

He looked up when he heard you.

"Hey," he said, softer now, like the hush of evening had settled something in both of you.

"Hey," you echoed, tucking your hands into your cardigan pockets.

You stopped beside him, shoulder to shoulder but not touching—the kind of closeness that said you could, if you wanted to.

Bob leaned back against the truck, arms crossed loosely, like he wasn't quite sure what to do with them. You noticed a dab of glitter still stuck near his collarbone, catching the porch light.

You nudged him gently. "You've got sparkles, Lieutenant."

He smiled—tired, genuine. "Hazard of being a girl dad."

You were quiet for a moment.

"You didn't have to stay tonight," you said eventually. "I know you had a long shift. You could've dropped them off and headed out."

Bob didn't look at you right away. His eyes lingered on the faint glow of your classroom window, then flicked back down to the ground between his boots.

"I wanted to," he said. "Didn't want to miss it."

You nodded slowly, digging the toe of your shoe into the gravel. "They loved having you here. You make everything feel like a big deal to them."

He gave a quiet laugh. "That's because it is. You should've seen Renee working that glue stick like her future depended on it."

"She gets that from you," you said without thinking. And then: "The... seriousness. The care."

Bob tilted his head, smiling, and it was the kind of smile that made your heart ache because it wasn't meant to do damage—but it did, anyway.

"That's funny," he said. "I always thought she got that from you."

A silence stretched between you, not awkward but full. There were so many things unsaid in it. Too many.

And finally, maybe because the night was soft and the parking lot was quiet and you were both just tired enough to be honest, you asked:

"Why didn't we work out?"

Bob's breath hitched almost imperceptibly, like he hadn't expected the question—but he didn't flinch. He turned, leaning back against the truck again, looking at you fully now.

"I think," he said carefully, "we got so good at being parents... we stopped figuring out how to be people, too."

You blinked.

"That's... pretty accurate."

He nodded once. "We were always on. Always tag-teaming—diapers, feedings, naps, school schedules. And you—you were teaching through all of it. Taking care of other people's kids all day, then coming home and taking care of ours. I don't think either of us ever figured out how to take care of each other in the middle of it."

You leaned your shoulder into the side of the truck, suddenly exhausted in a way that felt deeper than your bones.

"It wasn't bad," you murmured. "It just got quiet."

Bob's voice was soft, like he was remembering it too. "Too quiet."

You let that settle. Because it was true. You hadn't blown up. You hadn't imploded. You'd just... slowed down until you weren't moving forward anymore.

And yet—he was still here. Still showing up. Still brushing glitter from your shoulder without being asked. Still looking at you like maybe he didn't know how to stop.

"You know," you said gently, "you give me mixed signals all the time."

Bob looked surprised. "I do?"

You gave him a look. "Bob. You kissed me on the cheek last week because I 'looked nice in that cardigan.' You bring me coffee before conferences. You remember what time I take my lunch. You—"

"I know," he interrupted softly.

You stopped, caught off guard by the admission.

"I know I do," he said again. "I'm sorry."

You didn't answer right away. Just looked at him, arms still folded, heart still doing that quiet, traitorous ache.

"Why?" you asked.

Bob opened his hands, a little shrug. "Because I don't know how to say, 'I miss you' without it feeling like we're breaking everything we built. Because I don't want to hurt you—or them. But mostly... because sometimes, it feels like I'm still holding on to the best parts of us, and I don't know how to let go."

You swallowed, because you knew exactly what he meant. You felt it, too.

The silence that came next was less heavy, more full of possibility.

And maybe that was enough for tonight.

You smiled—just a little.

“I was thinking… I don’t know if you’ve got plans this weekend, but—”

“Oh no,” you cut in playfully. “Is this where you ask me to babysit our kids?”

Bob laughed, eyes crinkling. “Tempting. But no. I was thinking—there’s this fall festival thing. The one with the pumpkin catapult?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Eli will explode with joy.”

“And I thought maybe we could go… together. As a family.”

It was a simple suggestion. Sweet, even. Something you’d done before. But there was something in the way he said it—soft, careful, almost hopeful.

You nodded, slowly. “Yeah. That sounds nice.”

Bob smiled. “Cool. I’ll text you the details.”

As he turned to go, he paused and looked back. “You’ve got paint on your cheek.”

You reached up, already knowing he’d beat you to it. Sure enough, he leaned in, thumb brushing just beneath your cheekbone, the same way he used to when you were half-asleep on the couch and pretending you weren’t leaning into his touch.

“Got it,” he said, voice a little quieter.

"Come on," you said with a small smile. "Let's get these two home. They'll be asking for bedtime stories soon."

Bob grinned. "Lead the way."

And with that, you stepped away from the truck together, the past folded between you like a half-finished story waiting for its next chapter.

[fairydustttx]

LEWIS PULLMAN as BEN MEARS in 'SALEM'S LOT (2024) | dir. Gary Dauberman

[fairydustttx]

Juna.

Bob Floyd x reader

“It’s when you talk it’s enough that I feel it on my skin, breathe it in”

Warnings: None just people in love to the point that it may be borderline cringe.

Wc: 1668

Summary: Spending a day with Bob’s close-knit team brings new laughs, gentle teasing, and moments of closeness that reveal just how strong your bond really is—both in front of others and when it’s just the two of you.

You weren’t exactly nervous, but meeting a group of elite naval aviators made your stomach twist like you’d shown up to class without your homework. These were Bob’s people—his second family—and until today, you’d mostly been a whispered name and his screensaver.

Now, here you were, stepping onto the warm sand like it was some informal Top Gun trial, your sandals sinking into the grains with each step.

Bob squeezed your hand as you left the boardwalk and walked onto the beach, where the Pacific stretched out behind volleyball nets, coolers, and weathered lawn chairs. The breeze tugged at your denim shorts, carrying salt, charcoal, and sunscreen scents. His hand was steady and reassuring in yours, grounding.

“You okay?” he asked softly, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His faded Navy T-shirt clung just enough to show the slope of his shoulders, sleeves rolled up casually. He looked calm and easy, like the beach was his natural habitat.

You gave him a crooked smile. “I just don’t want to say something dumb and have them quote it back to me forever.”

Bob chuckled quietly. “You’ll be fine. They’re gonna like you. Honestly, I’m just scared they’ll like you more than me.”

That made you smile, and just like that, the nerves eased. He always did that—made everything feel lighter just by being near.

The group was scattered across the sand. A few were playing volleyball with fierce competitiveness only jet pilots could muster. Others lounged on towels, beers in hand, laughing loud enough to carry over the breeze.

As you approached, the conversation dipped for a moment—just long enough for you to notice—then picked back up with new energy.

“Holy hell,” said a man you recognized immediately from Bob’s stories. Hangman. Jake Seresin. Grinning like the world was his stage, tank top barely hiding his ego—or his arms. “You’re actually real? I thought Bob made you up.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Would it make you feel better if I said I thought you were the imaginary one?”

There was a heartbeat of stunned silence. Then Phoenix snorted into her drink, and the group cracked up.

“Oh, I like you already,” Phoenix said, stepping forward for a firm handshake. Athletic shorts, a white crop top, and mirrored aviators that matched her smirk. “Bob’s been trying to keep you a secret.”

Bob rolled his eyes and gently pressed a hand to the small of your back. “I wasn’t keeping you a secret. I was just trying not to scare you off.”

“That’s fair,” said Rooster, tall and easygoing, handing you a soda with a small smile. “Don’t worry—only half of them are insufferable.”

You leaned into Bob instinctively. “So far, so good.”

The tension slipped off you like a hoodie in the sun. These people weren’t just his teammates—they were sarcastic, warm, and weirdly welcoming. Soon, you found yourself barefoot in the sand, sitting on a beach blanket next to Bob, watching Phoenix and Coyote argue about volleyball hand signals.

Bob didn’t take his hand off you for more than a few minutes at a time. It wasn’t possessive, just grounding. His fingertips brushed your knee while he talked. His hand rested on your thigh, his pinky touching yours. At one point, he rested his chin on your shoulder and hummed something low and goofy in your ear, just to make you laugh.

You were halfway through a story about a disastrous karaoke night when you caught him watching you like he already knew the punchline.

“What?” you asked, nudging his leg.

He blinked, smiling softly. “Nothing. Just… I like seeing you here.”

Your heart melted a little. “I like being here.”

Hours passed in a golden haze. Someone set up a speaker, and Fleetwood Mac mixed with classic rock filtered through the air like a memory. The sun softened, shadows stretching across the sand. Everyone loosened into that late-afternoon rhythm—sweaty from volleyball, full from burgers, sun-kissed and sprawling.

At one point, Bob stood and took your hand. “Walk with me?”

You glanced up, drink halfway done. “No more games?”

He chuckled. “Tempting. But I want you all to myself for a minute.”

You let him lead you away from the noise, down a stretch of beach lined with seafoam and shells. The wind played with your hair as you kicked off your sandals and let the waves lick your ankles.

He stopped once you were far enough that the music was just a hum.

Turning to you, he cupped your face gently, thumb brushing your cheekbone. His other hand slipped around your waist, pulling you close like it was second nature.

“Thank you for coming.”

You tilted your head, the breeze lifting the hem of your white button-up open over your swimsuit. “Are you kidding? I think I just got offered an honorary call sign.”

Bob smiled softly, the kind he only gave when it was just the two of you. “I like having you in my world. It feels better when you’re in it.”

You stepped closer, palms resting on his chest. “I like being in it,” you said, kissing him slow, savoring the way he sighed into it. “Especially if it means you get all clingy and sentimental.”

Bob groaned, forehead falling to yours. “Don’t make me regret being sincere.”

“Too late.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, hands curling around your waist. The salt air, the warmth of his mouth, the thrum of his heart—it all felt like a secret you got to keep just a little longer.

When you pulled apart, his smile turned sly. “You know, I could fake a twisted ankle or something. Get us out of the rest of the night.”

You raised a brow. “You planning to seduce me in the name of patriotism, Lieutenant?”

“Absolutely. It’s practically a duty.”

You laughed, hooking your arm around his. “Let’s get back before Hangman crowns himself King of Beach Day.”

He kissed your temple. “You mean again.”

Back with the group, the sun dipped low, casting molten gold over everything. The ocean shimmered like a postcard, and the fire pit crackled with soft orange flames. The beach was littered with half-finished drinks, sandy towels, and laughter that hadn’t stopped since you arrived.

They welcomed you like you’d always been there, like you belonged. The ease wrapped around you like a second skin.

Hangman, never missing a spotlight, flopped next to you. “Alright, mystery girlfriend, it’s my sacred duty to teach you trash talk. Like—‘Hey Bob, nice glasses. What 70s professor did you steal those from?’ See? Sharp. Devastating.”

You blinked. “But… I like his glasses.”

Hangman recoiled like you’d wounded him. “You poor, poor, misguided soul.”

Bob said nothing. He just leaned forward from behind you, hooking an arm around your waist and pulling you back onto his lap like it was the most natural thing. You settled easily, his arms wrapping around you, his chest a steady, warm wall at your back.

It caught everyone a little off guard—Bob, of all people, being so openly affectionate. Not clingy, not over the top. Just quiet, constant contact, like he couldn't help it.

Hangman raised a brow at Phoenix. Phoenix just smiled into her drink and murmured, “Look at our Bob, getting soft.”

But none of them minded. In fact, they loved it for him.

“She doesn’t need trash talk lessons,” he said, nose brushing your hair. “She’s already perfect.”

That earned him groans—and a sand toss from Phoenix.

But he didn’t care.

He held you tighter, chin on your shoulder, unwilling to share even a little.

Honestly, you didn’t want him to.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

On the walk home, your hand stayed tucked in Bob’s like it belonged there. The sky had faded to deep indigo, stars blinking to life above the soft hum of ocean and quiet streets.

Bob walked beside you in the comfortable silence you’d come to love—unhurried, easy, a rare moment when the world asked nothing.

His other hand swung at his side, curls messy from the beach wind, skin glowing in soft streetlight.

You glanced over. He was already looking at you, eyes crinkling at the corners, that quiet smile—the one just for you. Full of something deeper. The kind that said, you’re it without a word.

“You still worried about saying something dumb?” he asked, voice low and warm.

You shook your head, bumping his shoulder. “Nah. I think I won.”

Bob’s smile widened, voice soft. “You did. You always do.”

No smugness. Just quiet truth, like he couldn’t believe his luck—like every second with you was magic.

You stopped walking, tugging his hand to slow him. He turned, brow raised.

You said nothing. Just stepped close, arms around his waist, cheek to his chest.

His arms came around you, strong and sure, holding you like you were everything. You felt his steady heartbeat beneath your cheek—real—and the way he kissed your head like reflex made your chest ache.

“Thanks for bringing me today,” you murmured, quiet but certain.

He rested chin on your head. “Thank you for coming once again.”

“I think they liked me.”

“They did.” He pulled back, brushing thumb along your cheek. “But I like you more.”

You rolled your eyes, soft laugh, heart fluttering again. “You sap.”

He grinned. “Guilty.”

There was a pause—no silence, just a moment suspended, neither wanting to break it.

And in that pause, you realized:

It wasn’t just that you believed him when he said you always won.

With him, it never felt like a competition.

Just two people—whole and wildly different—who somehow fit anyway.

So you kissed him. Not to prove anything. Not to say thank you.

Just because you could.

And as the breeze curled around your ankles and stars turned overhead, he kissed you back like the world could stop and he’d still have everything he needed.



[fairydustttx]

summary — Rafe gets clingy when he's sleepy

warning — nothing just rafe being cute and clingy

a/n — we love clingy rafe

A gentle hum from the nearby refrigerator was the only sound breaking the quiet. Rafe, usually a whirlwind of energy, was draped across the sofa, eyelids fluttering. He'd been battling sleep for the last hour, claiming he wasn't tired, but his increasingly slurred words and tendency to lean into anyone nearby told a different story.

"Just five more minutes," he mumbled, we been watching the office his blue eyes fluttering his head lolling onto your shoulder. His grip tightened on your arm, like a sleepy octopus. You chuckled, stroking his hair. It was a familiar ritual. Whenever Rafe got truly exhausted, he transformed from independent adventurer to an adorable, clingy koala.

You tried to subtly shift, hoping to encourage him towards his bed, but he just burrowed deeper, letting out a soft sigh of contentment. His breath was warm against your neck. "Comfy," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

"I know, Rafe," you whispered back, "but maybe your bed would be even comfier?"

He groaned, a low, rumbling sound. "Too far."

You smiled. It was impossible to be annoyed. This clingy version of Rafe was undeniably cute. He was usually so outgoing and self-assured, so seeing him like this, vulnerable and affectionate, was a rare and precious treat.

Eventually, with a bit of gentle coaxing and a promise of extra cuddles, you managed to get him to his feet. He stumbled a bit, leaning heavily on you as you guided him towards his room. Every step was punctuated by a sleepy lean, a hand reaching out to hold onto your shirt, or a soft bump of his head against your arm.

Once he was finally tucked into bed, he didn't let go of your hand. His eyes, though heavy-lidded, still held a hint of his usual playful spark. "Stay?" he whispered, his thumb idly tracing patterns on your skin.

You squeezed his hand. "Always."

He smiled, a truly sleepy, relaxed smile, and then, finally, his eyes drifted shut. His grip on your hand remained firm, a sweet, tangible sign of his tired affection. You stayed there for a long time, watching him sleep, knowing that in the morning, he would deny it

🏷, @starrii-sturns @spencerreid66 @spencerreid66 @vxncevis

[fairydustttx]

images are not mine! icons are from pinterest :)

[fairydustttx]

Omgomgomg hiiii! can I please req Bob reynolds x reader (fem if thats okay) where Sentry falls before bob if thats okay?

I LOVED this request! Thank you so much for sending it to me <3 I hope you like how I wrote this idea

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

You’d always been kind to Bob. That’s where it started. Not with declarations or romance, but with you bringing him coffee during early mornings at the Tower, remembering how he liked it—two sugars, light cream. With you making space for him on missions, never treating him like a weapon, but like a person. That rarest of things. Sentry noticed.

Not Bob. Sentry.

The glowing man with golden eyes who flew ahead of the team, who faced gods and monsters like they were made of paper. He saw the way you spoke to Bob, not with fear or awe, but warmth. Softness. Sentry didn't understand it at first; they never received this treatment before, but he knew he wanted more of it. More of you.

The first time Sentry saw you for himself you were laughing. Not the kind of laugh meant for someone else’s benefit. Not polite. Not strained. It was real—loud, full, your head thrown back, the corners of your eyes creased with joy.

It was something Bob flinched from in the past. But Sentry? Sentry leaned closer. She sounds like sunlight, he thought.

Sometimes, when Bob would retreat inward, when his self-doubt pressed in like the darkness of the Void…Sentry would come forward. To protect him but also to see you…you’re starting to become the main reason. 

“I like your hair like that,” he said once—Sentry, not Bob—hovering just outside your window in the dusk, glowing faintly. “It looks… brave.” You smiled. “That’s a strange compliment.”  “I mean it.” He hesitated, then asked something Bob never could. “Can I sit with you a while?”

You nodded. That night, he said nothing else. Just sat beside you on the rooftop, watching the stars, bathed in quiet gold. You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t probe. You didn’t call him by the names others whispered with fear or reverence. You just sat with him. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

He visited more after that. Late nights. Rooftop talks. Quiet confessions. His voice, usually so commanding, softened around you. Like your presence gave him permission to be fragile. “Sometimes I think I’m not real,” he said one night, golden aura flickering like a dying star.

“You feel real,” you whispered, brushing your fingers over his. “To me, you’re real.” And that was the first time he ever considered choosing to be more than just power. 

It took Bob longer to realize it. He thought it was the Sentry who was drawn to you, that golden half of himself—stronger, bolder, unafraid. Bob told himself that he wasn’t worthy of you. That Sentry could love, and he could only watch. But love doesn’t stay where it isn’t returned. And you never smiled at the Sentry quite the way you smiled at Bob. Not when he made terrible jokes in the kitchen at 2 a.m., or when he forgot how to tie his tie before a briefing and you patiently helped him. Not when he was anxious and hiding it badly, and you leaned into him just enough to say “I’m here.”

Sentry might have spoken first.  But it was Bob you were falling for. You had been falling for Bob the whole time. It just took him a while to catch up to the part of himself that already had.

Bob sat on your porch steps one quiet evening, fingers twisting nervously in his lap. “I think…” he started. “I think he fell in love with you before I did.” You smiled, soft and knowing. “I think you were always a part of that love for me. You just didn’t know how to let yourself feel it.” His shoulders dropped. Relief. Maybe something close to peace. And when you kissed him, there was no Sentry. No golden light. No legend. No god.

Just Bob. And this time, he let himself stay.

Thank you so much for reading my work! As always if you like my work, please let me know! Reblogging, commenting, and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work, and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Requests are open <3

Tagging: @msfirth

@my-name-is-baby

@metalarmsandmanbuns

@live-love-be-unique

@disillusioniary

@you-bloody-shank

@sarcazzzum

@itsjustisa

@qardasngan

[fairydustttx]

Drugs N Hella Melodies.

Pt 1.

“Not to be conceited, I’m not one to brag. But I’m the girl you needed that you never had”

A/N: Is this clichè? Maybe.

Warnings: Angst & language. Not proofread but what’s new innit.

Wc: 2525

Summary: Forced into a fake marriage with Bucky Barnes—your former partner turned enemy—you confront a tangled past filled with betrayal and bitter resentment. In a world of lies and cold politics, the line between hate and something more dangerously close begins to blur.

The cold walls of your cell blurred past as two guards flanked you on either side, their grips firm but not brutal. You didn't resist — not yet. Resistance meant a swift end to any bargaining power you had left. Instead, you walked, every step echoing with the weight of whatever trap had just snapped shut around you.

You were dressed in a standard issue prison jumpsuit—crisp, institutional gray that hangs over your frame, its fabric rough against your skin. The sleeves are rolled up just below your elbows, revealing scars and faint bruises like secret maps of battles fought and survived. Your boots, scuffed and heavy, thud softly against the cold concrete floor, grounding you in the moment.

A thin chain necklace, the only thing you managed to hold onto, glints faintly in the harsh fluorescent light. Your hair is pulled back out of your face but with dozens of tight rebellious curls escaping, framing a jaw set in stubborn resolve.

You look nothing like someone who's here to beg or plead. You look like someone who's ready to burn it all down.

You knew the routine. You'd been in worse spots, but this one was new.

You recognized the subtle hum of surveillance, the faint red glow of security cameras tracking your every move. You hated being watched, hated the feeling of invisible eyes dissecting your every breath.

The guards pushed open a heavy metal door, revealing a room stark in its clinical design. No windows. Just cold gray walls, harsh overhead lights, and a table bolted to the floor.

You don't expect him to be the one waiting for you.

Not here. Not like this.

Not in a suit that fits too well — black on black, crisp lapels, polished shoes that click like punctuation against grey tile.

His left arm — the metal one — rested casually at his side, the sleek silver fingers just barely visible beneath the crisp cuff of his tailored jacket. The cold gleam of the metal contrasted sharply with the soft fabric, a quiet reminder of the battles he'd survived and the man he'd become.

His once short hair was now slightly grown out again, slicked back like some smug, state-funded marionette. The kind of man who sells promises with a smile and knives behind his teeth.

Bucky doesn't even look up when you enter. He waves the guards away with the flick of his hand and turns another page in the manila file resting on his lap. The way someone might read a manual on how to disassemble a bomb — detached, efficient, uninterested in the carnage.

You don't speak at first. You want him to look. You want to see the flicker of recognition. Regret. Something. He doesn't.

Your arms cross and you cock your head. "What, no handcuffs? No waterboarding? This the polite version of a shakedown?"

He lifts his gaze — slow, heavy — and when his eyes meet yours, they don't even flinch. Don't soften. Don't do a goddamn thing except strip you down molecule by molecule.

"You'd prefer a cell to what I'm offering," he says flatly.

He closes the file with a quiet snap and sets it on the table between you. Next to it: a thick envelope. Sealed. Weighted.

You don't move and just glare at it like it might explode.

"You were never this subtle," you mutter. Bucky's eyes, sharp and cold, flicked briefly to the security camera in the corner, then back to you.

"I thought you were dead," he replies, voice like ice cracking underfoot.

You smirk without humor. "That was the idea."

He shrugs. "Didn't work."

"You always were bad at letting things go."

That gets him. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. Something uglier.

"It's your file," he continues like you never even spoke. "Everything you've touched. Everything you've burned down."

"Wow I'm flattered." Your voice doesn't shake, but you can feel the burn behind your ribs. "Do they mention the time I took out a warlord with a hairpin and half a shot of tequila?"

"They mention that you don't take orders well. That you disappear when people get too close. And that you've killed seventeen confirmed targets since going off-grid."

"Nineteen," you correct him. "But who's counting."

Bucky's lip curls. "Of course you kept count."

You glance at the envelope again. "So this is what now — blackmail?"

"No," he says. "This is a job."

"You're not my handler."

"No," he agrees with you. "I'm the one who has to clean up after you."

That lands like a slap. You lean forward, resting your palms on the edge of the table.

"You've got a hell of a nerve showing up in a suit and pretending you're any better than me."

"I'm not better than you," Bucky says, with a shrug. "I'm just smarter than you. I never let the job get personal."

Your laugh is sharp and small. "Right. Because you walked out of Paris with clean hands and a clear conscience."

That place name sours the air between you. Paris.

The city you nearly bled out in. The mission you both destroyed. The kiss that still lives behind your teeth like a wound.

His jaw tightens, but he doesn't answer.

"You left me there," you spit. "You disappeared. You buried me."

"You burned the whole op to the ground because you couldn't follow a simple order."

"I improvised."

"You killed the wrong man."

"I killed the right man the wrong way. There's a difference."

He doesn't respond but just watches you like he's waiting for something. For you to run. Or break. Or beg.

You do none of those things.

Instead, he leans back in his chair, slow and deliberate, the way a snake might recoil before it strikes.

"I need a wife."

You blink. Laugh once — bitter, breathless. "You always had a god complex. Now you've got delusions of domesticity, too?"

He doesn't rise to the bait. "I'm undercover. Congressman Barnes. Newly elected. Recently married. Red-blooded, flag-waving, public-digestible patriot."

You roll your eyes, you already hate him. "You're disgusting."

"And you're perfect," he counters, his tone maddeningly calm. "You lie better than anyone I've ever met. You clean up nice. You've got no moral compass, no loyalties, and no one who is stupid enough to miss you."

You narrow your eyes. "Well except you, apparently."

That smile again. Tight. Cold. "Don't flatter yourself. This isn't personal."

"It's always personal with us."

He stands and steps into your space — closer than you want, close enough to smell the cologne on his skin. It's sterile. Expensive. The kind of thing someone wears when they want to smell like power, not people.

"You want freedom?" he says. "This is it. Play the role. Smile for the cameras. Stab whoever I point at."

"And when the op's over?"

"Then you disappear again. With a new name and a clean slate."

"And if I say no?"

He smiles — slow, deliberate, wolfish. "Then I turn in the file and let whoever I want decide what to do with it and you."

You hold his gaze and neither of you flinch.

"You always were a fucking bastard," you whisper.

He tosses a small black box onto the table. It slides toward you like a threat.

You open it without thinking. Inside: a platinum wedding ring. Clean. Gleaming. Cold.

It catches the light the same way his prosthetic used to when it curled around your throat.

You glance up.

"I don't wear jewelry."

"You'll wear this," he says, already turning toward the door. "The ceremony is Thursday. Rehearsal dinner's tomorrow."

You blink. "Wait, there's a ceremony? As in—like, guests?"

"Public eyes. Cameras. The whole theater. We're selling a lie, remember?"

He pauses at the door, hand on the knob. Doesn't look back.

"Oh, and one more thing," he says, voice flat. "Try to smile more. The public like it when the wife looks happy."

The door slams behind him before you can speak.

You're left in the silence — cold, fluorescent, sterile — staring down at the ring like it might bite you.

It doesn't. But you kind of wish it would.

                  ⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The hall is hushed under an illusion of elegance. Crystal chandeliers dangle like frozen stars. Pale ivory drapes frame the windows, though there's no view worth glancing at. Guests murmur in the hushed tones of privilege—sipped champagne, practiced smiles, whispers of delicate alliances morphing into leverage. A single aisle ripples between velvet chairs; it feels like a runway meant for grave displays.

You stand at the end of the aisle. The dress is delicate, almost disarmingly so. It's the closest thing to innocence anyone will ever dress you in.

A soft ivory silk that skims over your curves like water, catching the light with a quiet sheen. The neckline is subtle — sweetheart, romantic — with thin straps that bare your shoulders and taper into an open back. No embellishments, no armor. Just fluid grace, understated and clean. You almost feel like someone else in it.

Your makeup is gentle, barely there. Dewy skin, a flush of pink on your cheeks, lashes brushed just enough to make your eyes look wide and soft. Your hair is pulled back into a low romantic twist that exposes your neck and the slope of your collarbone. You look regal and untouchable. You look like a bride. You're meant to.

Your breath catches when the orchestra's first note floats through the hall. It's soft, tentative, a string quartet treating ceremony like a betrayal. You plant your feet, chin lifted too high. Your chest feels hollow—but god, your cheeks are burning. This is play. This is theater. This is less about vows than it is about a performance for cameras and suits.

Down the aisle, Bucky appears—dark and deliberate, in a tux that makes him look carved from shadows. He walks with confident pace. His posture is rigid, shoulders squared. His face is locked in that same expression he's worn since Paris—controlled, unreadable.

You lock eyes for a moment: hatred riding on thin blades beneath steady gazes.

You've memorized what he looks like when he's suppressing every war inside him. Cold, calculating. Unbreakable.

But here, in this hushed room full of silent witnesses, there's something else flickering behind his eyes. Not attention. Recognition. Something like sorrow.

He reaches you and stands beside you, arms at his sides. Too close to be distant. Not close enough to be real.

Your fingers itch—not for contact. For escape.

The officiant speaks in polished cadence. Her words float over the scene.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today..."

The words feel like acid. You breathe careful. Chants, incantations of convenience under gilded light.

He clears his throat at the table in front of the officiant—the table holding two simple velvet ring boxes identical to the one he threw at you.

You shift, aware of your own rented heels, the weight of borrowed promises on your finger. Cameras hidden in the backs of plants, on top of columns. Watchful eyes. Evaluative eyes. Eyes he doesn't want to let slip.

"By the authority... do you, James Buchanan Barnes..."

You hold his gaze and your heart will not stop hammering. Under the lemonade lights and quiet buzz of microphones, "James Buchanan Barnes" is someone you once kissed—someone you once hurt. Someone you loved badly enough to kill for.

"...take this woman..."

Your name escapes him like a lie he's practiced a thousand times, each repetition dulling the edges.

"...to be your lawful wife... for the purpose of public and political necessity?"

His lips tighten imperceptibly. He blinks. Hesitates. The kind of hesitation that speaks more than words—but not— There's no pause. Just a swallowing of breath and—

"I do."

Your chest seizes. Only for a second. You should speak next: your vow. But your voice stays lodged in your throat. Throat burned clean. Instead, your jaw clenches, throat swallows—before you force air through—

"I do."

The officiant nods with a slight smile. You both touch rings into each other's hands. His hand is too steady. You swallow the urge to flinch at him feeling your pulse.

Bucky fits the ring gently on your finger. Not loving. Precisely measured. Weapons-grade control.

When he draws back, his lips curve into expressionless neutrality.

"...you may seal the ceremony with a kiss."

You can feel his breath catch. You want to swallow him whole—or shove him off the stage.

He leans forward. Hesitates for a heartbeat too long. Every eye is on you. The flash of cameras pulsing like distant explosions.

You don't move your hands. You refuse to close your fist.

His lips land on yours—a brush, a blur. Not desire. Not disgust. Just flat. Empty.

But somehow, you feel the electricity behind it—like you're the spark, and he's the gun.

When he pulls away, the world exhales. You taste metal behind your teeth.

Your mouth is dry but you manage a slow nod.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the officiant says, "I present to you... Congressman James Buchanan Barnes and his wife."

Applause rings like gavel strikes. A staccato rhythm of compliance.

You step forward into the world they've built for you—side by side, just close enough to claim respectability.

The guests rise to greet you. Champagne refills in shifting crystal. Flashes pop again. You're on a stage now. Camera lights bounce across your satin. You're the actress. The gambler. The truth they demand.

Bucky's hand on your waist is not warmth—it's the clasp that keeps you in the scene. His thumb presses lightly behind your back. Almost comforting. Then it moves. Withdraws. Control.

He steps aside as your closest contact hands you a glass. The bubbly slides over your tongue—warm. An insult.

You hold it level. Smile. Eyes forward.

They make speeches. To your new "marital unity." To national security. To trust. To strength in partnership.

You do not laugh. You can't bring yourself to.

Your body feels sharp, aching from containing yourself. Every muscle says run. But the cameras need you. The mission needs you. Damned if you move.

You notice Bucky catch your gaze once—corner of his eye, tightening something in his jaw. Guilt. Regret. He looks away quickly, like the sun is behind you.

When the speeches finish, you're shepherded down a side corridor. Warm air flecks into cool air. Valets shuffle you into a black sedan.

Bucky emerges from the hall moments later—tux still pristine. He stands before the car, looking at you. Not with pity. Something more confusing.

The engine hums and his reflection catches in the tinted glass.

Your voice is low but fierce when you speak.

"Don't think this means anything."

He meets your eyes. His calm voice is soft, numb.

"I never did."

You snort, slammed by the unexpected ache in your chest. Your dress suddenly feels heavier and the ring feels like it's slicing your finger every time you move.

Bucky holds your gaze longer. Then he steps away—back into the crowd. Blends in. Disappears. Like he always does.

[fairydustttx]

Black Sheep

Summary : The Winter Soldier fell in love with his doctor. Bucky Barnes remembers.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x doctor!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Protective!Bucky, slow-burn, trauma bonding, whump, bit of fluff and a lot of angst, violence, mentions of death, medical trauma, human experimentation, psychological manipulation, emotional and physical abuse, attempted and threatened sexual assault, isolation. Protective!Bucky, slow-burn emotional bonding, and angst. Reader discretion is strongly advised, especially for survivors of sexual violence or abuse. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 9.2k 

Requested by : Anon! Based on this request

Note : If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

When you took the job, you didn’t ask too many questions

The recruiter approached you late—long after you’d sent out resumes, long after your student loan grace period had dried up and your dreams of a hospital residency were smothered under interest rates and rejection emails. They found you exactly when they knew you’d be desperate. 

The offer came in a nondescript envelope. No return address and company name. Just a number to call, and a time limit.

It sounded too good to be true. It offered full medical license activation and triple the usual pay. Off-books, but government-sanctioned, they claimed. You’d be working with elite personnel in a high-clearance, undisclosed location. It was a matter of national security, they said. 

When you made contact, they brought you to a warehouse and made you read non-disclosure agreements—dozens of them. They didn’t let you take them home to review. You signed everything in a windowless room with a clock that ticked too fast, and signed up to the project.

Your official title was “Classified field medic for enhanced personnel. Clearance Level 6 required.” It sounded impressive, official. You told your parents it was part of a DOD black ops program and that you weren’t allowed to say more.

You were happy you could finally help— 

 they had far too much medical debt to ever dig their way out.

And… They were proud.

If only they knew.

You were told you’d be assigned to “classified subjects.”

When they finally gave you the details of the work, you noticed the facility wasn’t listed on any public records. The address they gave you wasn’t on any GPS. The car that picked you up had no license plates. You were blindfolded before arriving.

You should have run then. But you didn’t, because they paid in advance.

You paid off your loans in one go and gave the rest to your family, promising you’d be earning more over the next couple of years. 

The facility you were assigned to didn’t have windows. The lights never changed. Days bled into each other until even your internal clock began to fail you. The air was too clean, the silence too dense—like the walls were swallowing sound. They injected you with yellow liquid when you arrived, and you weren't allowed to ask for details. Cameras were in the corners, always watching. 

You weren’t allowed to ask names. You weren’t given files.

You weren’t allowed your phone. No clocks. No outside contact unless you had prior clearance.

They never called it a hospital, because it wasn’t.

It was a slab of steel buried deep underground in Siberia, and you worked under it like a cog in the coldest machine you’d ever known. The men you reported to didn’t wear name tags or rank insignias. They all looked the same— pale-faced, dressed in black. You didn’t know their names, and you have never heard them use yours, either.

At first, you told yourself it was temporary. Just for a year. Just until you paid off your loans. Just until you figured out where you really belonged.

But then you saw the red flags. You folded them neatly and tucked them away with your conscience.

See, they knew the kind of people to look for— desperate ones. They recruit smart people who were overworked, drowning in debt or grief or fear. The ones who couldn’t afford to ask where the money came from. 

And by the time you realised who you were really working for, it was too late. Because no one leaves that facility unless it was in a body bag. 

Hydra was predatory like that.

—

You had been patching up STRIKE team operatives for almost a year. You were good—efficient, clean, and silent. You didn’t pry, and what made you valuable.

You never asked where the injuries came from. Bullet wounds, knife gashes, torn ligaments, crushed bones—you treated them all. You developed antiseptics that worked faster than standard-issue cream and learned how to seal a shrapnel wound in under ten minutes. You fixed what needed fixing, and you didn’t get in the way of the mission.

One morning, you were pulled from your bed at 0400 hours without an explanation. Two men in black shook you awake by the arm and took you to an elevator that descended farther than you knew the facility even went. There was a change in the air the deeper you went—thicker, colder. Like the walls were full of ghosts.

They didn’t tell you what your new assignment was, not until you stepped into the white-lit room and saw him.

He was on a reinforced chair, with blood crusted over his ribs and soaked through his cargo pants. The metal arm was twitching with little sparks, the seams dripping oil and blood in equal parts. His right eye was swollen shut and his lip was split.

And still— he didn’t look away.

You’d heard whispers about him before— the Asset.

They called him It.

Not a name. Not a person. A living weapon— built, not born.

You expected more people guarding the cell, but the only other man in the room was his handler— Colonel Vasily Karpov. You’d met men like him before, but none who looked so openly afraid of the thing they commanded.

"The previous doctor had been terminated due to noncompliance,” Karpov said, which was Hydra-speak for the Asset snapped his spine in two like a breadstick.

Your mouth went dry. "And I’m next in line?"

“You’re competent,” he said. “And replaceable.”

He walked out before you could respond.

The door shut behind him with a final hiss, like a coffin sealing.

And then there was just you— and him.

You took a step closer. He tracked your movement with his blue, calculating eyes. You could tell he didn’t know what you were—but knew how to kill you if you got close.

You didn’t speak at first. You just moved slowly, methodically. 

Eventually, you became brave enough to clean the blood. You assessed the damage. His injuries were extensive— fractured ribs, dislocated shoulder, deep lacerations across his abdomen. Most people would’ve gone into shock hours ago.

But he sat there, still breathing like a machine.

He didn’t flinch when you treated him.

Not even when you pulled a broken tooth from the inside of his right bicep.

He winced, though, when you put a hand on his shoulder to soothe him. And later, when your gloved hand rested gently on his chest, while rubbing small circles to calm him down, his eyes flicked to your face.

It was the first time he looked at you. 

Afterward, you logged the treatment. You followed the protocol. You filed the injury report.

In the official files, they referred to him as an it. But in your private notes, you called him he.

—

Over the next year or so, you were his doctor. 

And apparently, you were the only doctor who survived more than eight months.

You’d fix up his ribs when they were fractured. You cleaned bullet wounds from his side, his shoulder, the meat of his thigh. You iced swollen knuckles and stitched torn flesh, always so amazed how quickly his body healed. 

But still, they used him until he broke. They froze him from time to time, but after he was out, they dragged him back and told him to put the pieces together.

You worked in silence. He sat in silence.

Most days, his eyes were washed-out and programmed.

But sometimes, during the worst of the injuries—when your hands pressed into open wounds, when you whispered sorry— his eyebrows softened.

At this point, you had memorised his injuries, and the places his enemies targeted again and again. You started pre-packing supplies before he even arrived. 

The handlers noticed.

You began modifying your ointments—adding subtle numbing agents, to match his supersoldier metabolism. 

You weren’t supposed to. They wanted him in pain. 

But you did it anyway.

Once, they brought him in half-conscious, his metal arm sparking at the joint, blood soaked through the tactical gear. There was a knife wound under his ribs— and it was too deep. 

He grunted when you pressed gauze to it.

It was not a reaction to pain. It was a warning. His eyes met yours, and they were clearer than usual— as if he was fighting something.

And then, for the first time, you realised: He knew what was happening to him.

Maybe not always. Maybe not fully.

But there was a man inside the machine, and today was awake just long enough to hate it.

That night, they froze him and drilled the trigger words into his brain again. 

—

Tonight, he came back worse than usual.

Bruised. Bloodied. Shot in seven different places. His face was partially swollen, split lip crusted with dried blood, a jagged tear across his side soaking his uniform black-red. His metal arm twitched violently, fingers clenching and unclenching with a mechanical rhythm— as if the programming inside him was short-circuiting.

He was strapped into the chair again, the restraints digging into his wrists deep enough to turn the skin purple. Four guards had hauled him in like he was an animal— one of them nursing a broken arm. 

They left you alone with him and chuckled, “good luck.” 

The Asset’s head was bowed low, hair falling like a curtain over his eyes. The tension in his shoulders was wrong. Too rigid, too coiled, like a wire stretched too tight and ready to snap.

You stepped closer, and he jerked suddenly against the restraints—and his metal hand nearly caught your arm.

You froze.

In your peripheral vision, the guards laughed behind the glass.

He didn’t look at you.

He was breathing hard and shaking violently, as if was trying to stay in his body.

You looked at the camera in the corner, swallowing back a panic and anger.

“I can’t treat him like this,” you said. If he didn’t calm down enough for you to stitch him up soon, he was going to bleed out.

Your voice was sharper than you meant it to be. It was… unprofessional. 

A few seconds passed before the speaker crackled.

“That’s too bad,” said Karpov’s cold, detached voice. “It is your job.”

You stared at the glass behind which they watched— always watched.

Then you turned back to him.

You tried, as always, to be gentle. To be careful. You knelt to clean the gash under his ribs. You threaded your needle, soaked the wound with antiseptic.

But his body thrashed again.

You dropped the needle.

His metal arm lunged forward, nearly catching your throat before the restraints snapped him back into place.

He didn’t mean to, you reminded yourself.

But the part of him that killed without asking questions was surfacing, and you were too close.

Your hands shook.

He turned his head away from you as if ashamed. Or furious. 

Fuck.

You were losing him.

So you did the only irrational, human thing that came to mind.

You… sang.

“Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool…”

Your voice cracked on the first line. It had been years— you hadn’t sung it since you were small— curled up on your mother’s lap while she ran her fingers through your hair and kept the nightmares away.

You saw his breathing slow down, just slightly. 

“Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full…”

He…  didn’t flinch again.

You kept singing while you threaded the needle and stitched the worst of the gash along his side. His trembling eased.

You spoke without really meaning to, your voice almost a whisper.

“My mother used to sing it to me,” you lulled. “I only realised later what it meant,” you continued. “‘One for the master, one for the dame…’”

You wiped sweat from your forehead, working on a deeper wound now.

“Servitude, right? ‘One for the little boy who lived down the lane.’ Maybe lullabies sung to entertain children. Maybe they’re for making people… obedient,”

You paused, still stitching, thankful he calmed down. 

“Because I think…,” you said, tilting your head as you managed to fish a bullet out of his side. “Obedience it taught. Not born.”

And then, like the thought slipped out of your mouth without permission, “Were you taught well?”

You didn’t expect a response. 

But this time, his head turned and he looked at you.

His voice came out rough, underused, gravel dragged across rusted metal. But these sounds were not growled nor screamed.

“It was the only thing I remember learning,” he whispered. 

You froze.

It was the first time you had ever heard him speak.

The needle slipped from your hand, fell into the tray with a clink. You were stunned. 

Through all that, he watched you. 

You knelt beside him, picked up the needle again with shaking hands.

His eyes followed you as you resumed treating him. He was silent the rest of the session. 

But something had changed.

—

The first time he leaned into your touch was a couple of months later. 

You were bandaging a wound just beneath his collarbone in tight, methodical loops when your fingers brushed the skin of his neck. He let out a deep breath and tilted his head just slightly toward your hand.

He… made a conscious choice. 

You didn’t say anything, and neither did he. But your hands lingered a little longer than usual.

Sometimes, when he was lucid, he’d look at your hands while you worked— following their motion like they were the only real thing in the room. You weren’t sure what he was seeing. 

Then… you started narrating aloud. It was partly for him, partly for you. “This’ll sting a little,” you’d say, cleaning a wound.

“Pressure here—sorry, hold on…”

He never answered at first. 

Then one day, he did.

You were stitching a deep tear in his thigh when your thread caught. “Sorry,” you said under your breath.

“You always say that.”

You looked up, needle halfway through the thread. “Say what?”

“‘Sorry,’” he managed, “it’s not your fault.”

“Sorry,” you mentioned sheepishly. “I’ll stop saying it.”

Then, you resumed your work.

The next time he came in, he was limping badly, and for once, the restraints weren’t used. Maybe they knew he couldn’t stand. Maybe they didn’t care if he bled out.

And he didn’t even make it to the chair. He sat on the floor instead.

When you knelt beside him, your knees touching his, he didn’t pull away. He let you cut the fabric from yet another ruined suit— fifth one this month— or year? You have long lost track of time in this Siberian bunker. 

Still, he let you clean the blood from his temple.

“Don’t they ever give you a break?” you asked, not expecting an answer.

“No,” he said simply. 

You frowned. 

Still, your hands were steady.

You started humming when he came in—low, quiet melodies under your breath. Sometimes lullabies. Sometimes nothing at all—just sounds, like a lifeline tossed into water. He never asked you to stop.

One night, after they’d brought him in burned—his arm singed, the edge of his jaw blistered—you held an ice pack against his skin and whispered, “You shouldn’t be alive after half of this.”

He didn’t speak for a long time. Then, after careful consideration, he said, “Sometimes I think I’m not.”

Eventually, he started helping you—lifting an arm for treatment, shifting his weight when he knew it would help you work faster. He never said much. Never more than a sentence or two. But the words, when they came, were clear. 

“Thank you.”

“Be careful.”

One night, he asked for your name.

You told him. But when you asked him what his was, he only said, “I don’t know.”

But for the first time in a very long time, The Asset smiled. 

Because it was the first time anyone ever cared to ask.

—

When he wasn’t in cryofreeze, they kept him in a reinforced room that wasn’t technically a cell, but wasn’t anything else either. It had a cot, a chair, and a toilet.

You called it the holding room.

They called it the kennel.

You’d come in for treatment checks once or twice a week between missions— tended his joints, monitored the fluid viscosity in his metal arm, checked for infection. 

But the guards watched him too. Always. From the control room, behind the glass, hands on the mic.

They joked about him.

At first, it was petty things— how much blood he could lose before he passed out, how many bones had healed crooked.

But it got worse.

Much worse.

They joked about his body when he was in heat. How he “rutted in his sleep sometimes.” How they’d seen the security feed catch him grinding against the mattress, the cot, the restraints, whatever he could in his animal state after missions.

“He’s always desperate after a kill,” one of them said once, laughing. “Bet he doesn’t even know what he’s doing. Fucking the pillow like a mutt.”

You had frozen when you heard it. But today—today, it went further.

“Bets?” one of them said. “Ten rubles on the mattress tonight. Twenty on the wall.”

All three of the guards stationed to watch that night laughed. 

“Stop,” you said, through gritted teeth. “What you’re doing is disgusting. Watching him like that—mocking him— when his agency’s being taken from him? He’s a fucking person and you need to grow up.”

What followed was the longest ten seconds of silence in your life. 

And then one of them leaned forward in his chair and sneered. “If you think he’s a person, why don’t you go in there?”

You blinked. “What?"

“Go on,” The other guard grinned and got up from his seat. “If you think he’s man and not machine, let’s test it.”

You stepped back, realising what their plan was. “Don’t touch me.”

“Too late.”

Their hands grabbed your arms.

You fought—kicked, screamed, bit one of them hard enough to draw blood—but there were three of them, and you were half their size. One of them slammed your head into the wall hard enough to daze you. 

You didn’t know where the pain began — your scalp where they’d yanked your hair? The side of your jaw where a fist had struck you clean across the face? 

Still, you fought. You slammed your elbow into one guard’s windpipe hard enough to make him choke. You thrashed and tried everything, but they were stronger. 

And they enjoyed it.

You’d never seen teeth like that — bared in joy at suffering. One of them— Maksimov had blood on his knuckles and another— Yuri had both hands up your shirt before you bit him hard enough to draw blood.

You screamed, “He—we— a person!” not knowing whether you meant yourself or the Winter Soldier.

But they didn’t care.

One of them tore at the buttons of your shirt while another held your arms behind you. The fabric split as your bra snapped and air hit your chest and you curled inward, shaking, humiliated, trying to hide your body with trembling hands.

“He’ll definitely go for her pussy,” one of them muttered like it was a bet at a bar.

“I’d go for the ass first,” another chuckled. “Tighter.”

Then came the worst line.

“I bet the dumb beast doesn’t know the difference and finish in her mouth in under three minutes.”

The laughter didn’t stop.

Your legs gave out once they dragged you through the hallway to the lower levels. You stumbled, bleeding from your lip, your breasts half-exposed, nails broken from the fight. They hauled you back up and slammed your back into the steel door before keying it open.

You saw the inside of the room for only a second before they shoved you in and locked the door behind you with a clang.

“Have fun, soldat!” A guard, Anton, said.

You fell, and started trembling.

Everything hurt.

And then you looked up.

He was there.

The Asset — him. The Winter Soldier.

He was standing in the center of the room. He wasn’t strapped down this time, his long hair damp and clinging to his cheeks. His chest was bare, streaked with drying blood and oil. His eyes locked onto you the moment you hit the floor.

You froze.

Your arms flew across your body, trying to cover yourself as you backed yourself into the wall.  You curled in on yourself, heart hammering so loud it drowned out the rush of blood in your ears.

He’ll fuck you, they had said. He’ll take the choice away from you. He’ll use you as a way to satisfy himself.

You believed it for a second.

You’d seen what he could do — seen the machine they’d made him into. You’d see the bloodlust in his eyes when he came back from missions. 

You were terrified.

You curled tighter.

He took one step forward.

And… stopped.

You took a chance and looked at your face.

He wasn’t looking at your chest. He wasn’t leering. His pupils weren’t blown wide with mindless hunger. He wasn’t hard, or panting, or unchained from reality.

He was staring at your injuries.

At the torn fabric, at the swelling in your cheek. The handprint rising red on your arm. And the grip marks on your breaks. The blood at your lip. His brow furrowed.

And his whole body… melted.

The heat was gone, almost instantly. 

Slowly, he lowered himself to one knee.

“Who…” he rasped, “did this to you?”

His voice was hoarse, barely there. But there was no mistaking the rage that had formed underneath it — nothing like the lust the guards had imagined.

He handed you his only blanket, and you clutched it. He let you wrap yourself in it, and when you couldn’t stand, he helped you sit up, not touching your skin unless he had to.

“Maksimov, Yuri, and Anton,” you whispered, lip trembling.

His teeth clenched.

He reached out slowly — slow enough that you could move away, slow enough that you knew it wasn’t force — and brushed the blanket more tightly around your shoulders, like he was covering you from the world, from the camera, from the three guards he knew were watching.  

You were still crying. You didn’t realise it until his human thumb brushed away a tear from your cheek.

He didn’t say anything for a while.

He just sat there, at your level, holding the blanket closed with one hand, eyes locked on yours. Not on your body. Not on your skin. 

You folded into his chest, not because he demanded it, but because it was safe. 

He wrapped his arms around you like he’d never learned how to hold a person without breaking them. And still — he didn’t break you.

He just held you, shivering, until your breathing slowed.

And in the silence, you heard the quietest thing of all. “I won’t hurt you.”

Once again, The Asset had made a choice. 

A human one.

—

Hours passed.

The two of you stayed curled together on the concrete. You had stopped crying eventually, but your body still trembled now and then— from shock, from adrenaline.

You still felt his arm around your shoulders—gentle, not possessive.

The guards who had been watching were probably bored. You thought maybe—maybe—you’d be left alone. Maybe they’d gotten the message. Maybe they wouldn’t push again.

You were proven wrong when the heavy steel door hissed open.

You barely had time to pull the blanket tighter.

The same three guards entered and they were prepared. They carried sleek, matte black rifles. Loaded, to deal with The Asset should he go rogue. 

And then you heard the voice.

“Что с тобой, солдат?” — What the fuck is wrong with you, Soldat?

Yuri stepped forward, gun dangling casually in his hands, eyes not even on The Asset— but on you.

“Мы дали тебе дырку, и ты даже не воспользовался ею?” — We gave you a hole and you didn’t even use it?

You flinched so hard your head hit the metal wall behind you.

The Asset stood up and stepped directly in front of you, body between yours and theirs, fists clenched. He was…shielding you.

The guards exchanged glances, laughing now. One of them cocked his gun and slung it over his shoulder like a prop in a theatre.

“Ладно. Тогда мы сами её трахнем,” —Fine. Then we’ll use her ourselves. Maksimov said, smiling.

And then Yuri moved fast. He reached out and grabbed your ankle, hard, yanking you out of the blanket.

You screamed.

And The Asset snapped.

No hesitation, No programming.

Just rage.

The Asset’s metal fist punched Yuri square in the chest and launched him into the far wall. The impact was loud enough that you heard a crack—maybe the wall, but most likely Yuri’s spine.

Before anyone else could react, he twisted and ripped the rifle from Anton’s hands. Without really aiming, he pulled the trigger and shot Maksimov in the throat.

Blood sprayed the walls, and Maksimov gurgled once before slumping to the ground.

Anton raised his hands to surrender.

Too late.

Bucky pivoted, metal arm slamming the barrel of the rifle into Anton’s face with brutal force, then fired— one shot, clean through the eye.

He dropped the gun.

It clattered to the floor, ringing louder than the gunshots had.

He turned back toward you, his shoulders rising and falling with every breath.

He knelt. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

You blinked, still clutching the blanket, hands shaking.

—

Within minutes of the bodies hitting the ground, you heard the sound of heavy boots walking in.

Karpov entered the cell like he owned the air in it.

He didn’t look at you.

He didn’t look at the corpses.

He only looked at The Asset who was still crouched in front of you, body curled like a shield.

Karpov simply pressed a switch on a small black device he held in his gloved hand.

There was a crack of electricity, and The Asset screamed.

You jolted, reaching for him—but it was no use.

His body seized up as the taser pulse ran through his spine, his metal arm locking tight against the floor, 

He didn’t resist. He didn’t even try.

When he collapsed unconscious beside the cot, Karpov turned to you without missing a beat.

“Come.”

You shook your head. “He—he was protecting me—he saved me—”

“You’ll have time for your little report later,” he snapped, throwing you some clothes to put on. “For now, come.”

—

The interrogation room was cold. 

Karpov stood across the table from you, arms folded.

“You will explain,” he said coldly.

Your eyebrows furrowed, still half in shock. “Explain what?”

He tilted his head. “You calmed him down.”

Your mouth opened, then shut.

"You do understand," he said in his frigid Russian-laced English, “that he should have either killed you, or fucked you.”

You froze.

He watched your reaction like a scalpel watches skin.

“That’s what the programming was designed to do,” he continued. “You are aware of his conditioning, yes?”

You nodded slowly, not trusting your voice.

“Then you know what heat was for.”

You have heard of why it was drilled in his brain— but you didn’t answer.

Karpov did not wait for permission to continue.

“It was an instinct trigger. Embedded in his biological and neural mapping through synthetic hormonal injections and psychosexual conditioning. During these ‘heat’ cycles, he was supposed to be motivated—” He paused, eyes narrow, “—it was supposed to encourage mating.”

Your throat closed. Did he really not care about the dead guards? Was the project really his main concern?

“The Soldier’s DNA is nearly perfect.” he said, as if it was. “Hydra wanted progeny. Super soldiers born, not built.”

He leaned in then, elbows on the table, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth.

“But every woman they introduced… didn’t survive long enough to be useful. He tore through them out of instinct. So the project was abandoned years ago. The heat was too unstable, and he had no control.” He sat down across from you. “Until you.”

Your stomach lurched.

“You,” Karpov said slowly, “calmed him down.”

“I—I didn’t do anything,” you whispered. 

“You must have!” he snapped. 

You flinched. 

“I’ve studied his tapes for years! I've watched him crush skulls with his bare hands, tear out throats. Rip people in half when the words are spoken. But you—” Karpov stood, circling the table again. “—you knelt half-naked in front of him while he was in heat—and instead of fucking you to death, he held you.”

“I don’t know,” you said hoarsely. 

Karpov stared at you for a long moment, then sighed. He picked up the file from the table and turned to leave.

At the door, without turning back, he said, “You’re being reassigned.”

—

When you went back to your quarters. Your bunk was gone.

Your locker was cleared and stuffed neatly into a duffel bag. 

On the floor was a folded piece of paper.

REASSIGNED TO: THE KENNEL Effective Immediately. Observation: Subject Winter Soldier Objective: Behavioral stabilization Note: Subject's physiological response indicates reduced volatility in your presence. Further utility assessment pending.

You sank onto the cot.

Now, to Hydra, you weren’t just a doctor. You were a leash.

—

The cot wasn’t meant for two.

It was military-issue— narrow, hard-edged, bolted to the floor like everything else in the kennel. At first, you didn’t even sit on it when he was there. You’d sleep on the floor with your back to the cold steel wall, too awkward to mention what happened that day. The blanket was wrapped tight, pretending it wasn’t humiliating, pretending you weren’t always cold.

At first, he’d just watch, afraid of crossing a line— especially after what had happened to you. 

Then, after a week, he motioned for you to sit beside him on the cot when you changed bandages or administered injections.

Then, a month in, after a mission where he came back with his knuckles broken and a gunshot wound near his ribs, you were too exhausted to curl back up on the floor. You’d been crying silently that night, your hands trembling as you stitched him, your eyes stinging, wondering where everything had gone wrong. 

When you’d finished, he looked at you. “…You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

Your eyes flicked up.

“What?”

He shifted to make room. One side of the cot opened up to you.

You hesitated. Then nodded.

That night, you lay stiff as a board beside him, back to back, flinching to touch. You barely slept, afraid to breathe too loud.

But the next night, when you came back from the showers and the lights dimmed for sleep, he scooted over before you even asked.

By the second month, your backs were pressed together at night. 

By the third, you’d curl inward, and he’d curl, too. One of your legs would brush his. Your forehead might graze his chest. His arm, the flesh one, sometimes draped around your side in the middle of sleep and didn’t pull away when you shifted closer.

—

When his heat cycles came—and they always came—you prepared.

You stayed calm and gave him space. 

You… would sing to him. Lullabies, mostly— songs meant for children too small to understand how cruel the world could be.

He never moved toward you during those nights. He never touched you without invitation. He’d sit on the cot, the muscles in his neck pulled tight.

Sometimes he’d whisper things to himself, half-delirious.

"No. Not her. Not her."

—

When he was frozen, you stayed in the kennel alone.

You didn’t think you’d miss him, but you did.

You’d find yourself sitting on the floor beside his cot, staring at the sealed cryo-chamber, singing to yourself just to fill the space.

And when they unfroze and reset him, you were still his doctor.

You still iced his knuckles. You still placed his dislocated shoulder back. You still pulled bullets from his flesh and closed the wounds with care no one else gave him.

But after the first few months, he started looking at you differently.

Like he knew you. Even after resets. Even after ice.

—

One day, after a mission that had stretched on far longer than any of the others—he came back. He was quiet when he entered. He did not say a word. 

But after two hours of working on his wound, he whispered, “Bucky.”

You tilted your head, confused. You weren’t sure you’d heard right. 

Then he said it again, firmer this time. “My name is Bucky.”

What?

Your mouth opened slowly, your breath finally catching up. 

He… remembered?

“…Okay, Bucky,” you said, voice quieter than you meant it to be— because anything louder might shatter whatever this was—perhaps a glimpse of the man buried beneath all the programming and pain. “Can you please lift your arm for me?”

He did.

And for the first time, he looked… not just present. Not just there.

He looked real.

—

You were still asleep when the cold hands tore the blanket from your body.

Two Hydra agents stormed into the kennel, and before you could even sit up, they had you by the hair, dragging you off the cot like a rag doll.

Bucky shifted awake next to you, but the third guard tased him before he could fully even register what was happening.

“What—what are you doing—?!”

They didn’t answer. They just manhandled you down the corridor, your bare feet scraping along concrete, your heart still stuck between dreams and dread.

In the interrogation room, one of them shoved you into the metal chair so hard the back of your skull smacked against steel. A hand grabbed your chin, wrenching your face toward him. The other paced behind, a cattle prod crackling ominously in his grip.

You recognised the person in front of you as Karpov. “What did he tell you?”

You blinked. Your ears rang. You were still half-asleep, disoriented. 

Then you realised: 

Oh. 

Someone saw the footage.

Someone saw what happened last night. Someone heard Bucky say his name.

Your mouth opened, before shutting again. You weren’t even sure what to say. He didn’t tell you anything else, but if you said so, would they even believe you?

But Karpov demanded more.

“Did he say his designation?”

“Did he say anything else? Was there a code?”

“What did he tell you, girl?”

The prod surged forward with a snap of electricity, kissing your side. You screamed—more from shock than pain—but the heat seared like fire across your ribs. You convulsed in the chair, gasping, trying to curl away, but the restraints held you firm.

And then—through your haze—you saw a flicker in the hall.

You heard a grunt. A thud.

And suddenly—he was there.

The Winter Soldier. No—Bucky.

His body still shook from the effects of the tasers, but his eyes were burning. 

One of the agents turned in time to catch a brutal kick to the gut that sent him sprawling. The other barely got a hand to his weapon before Bucky lunged, using the full weight of his body to knock him back. You saw blood and heard bone crack.

In seconds, it was over. Even Karpov was hauled away to safety. 

Bucky was at your side, kneeling, his trembling fingers working clumsily at the restraints. 

“Bucky—” your voice cracked. “You’re hurt—your face—”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes didn’t meet yours.

The cuffs snapped off.

You sagged forward, into his arms before you even realised you were doing it. You felt the thrum of his chest, the rise and fall of ragged breathing. 

He cupped your face with his human hand, and for a second you thought he might kiss you — but no. He pulled back.

Because he knew if he did, he wouldn’t have the strength to lose you.

“You need to go.”

You froze. “What?”

“There’s a tunnel—service corridor—they don’t watch it after hours. It connects to the south barracks. You can get outside the perimeter.”

“Bucky—no,” you said through gritted teeth, “I’m not leaving you.”

He clenched his teeth. 

“You have to,” he said. “I can’t protect you here.”

“I don’t care—”

“I do.”

That stopped you cold.

His voice cracked on those words. He looked away, just for a second, as if ashamed of how much he meant them. “I— I’m starting to know things I shouldn’t,” he said softly. “I need you to go. If I don’t… if I’m not… If they wiped me…”

You shook your head. “Don’t.”

“I need you to promise me,” he said, almost begging now. “Don’t come back for me.”

“I—please—”

His lips brushed your forehead, right before he shoved you gently but firmly toward the hall.

“Go.”

So you did.

—

Thirty Years Later.

The world had changed. 

Until yesterday, James Buchanan Barnes was a congressman. He didn’t go looking for redemption anymore. And he certainly didn’t go looking for you.

What would be the point?

You were probably… what? In your sixties? Seventies? If you’d survived at all— and Hydra said you hadn’t, that they’d caught you in one of the tunnels and killed you— he could only hope you’d built a life—married someone kind, had children, found a place where the past couldn’t follow you. If you had managed to find peace, he wasn’t going to rip it open like an old scar just to ask, Do you remember me?

So he never tried.

But he never loved again either.

Because even if he never said it out loud, Bucky Barnes had once loved you in a place where love wasn't supposed to exist. 

He still did.

That kind of love didn’t fade. It just lay quiet beneath the skin, like a healed-over wound that never quite stopped aching.

It wasn’t something he talked about. Not to Sam. Not to Steve, before he left. 

Until...

—

New York. Post-Void.

The sky was still clearing after the void had swallowed New York City whole

The Thunderbolts were scattered across the debris-littered street, dragging survivors from the wreckage after Valentina smirked smugly from successfully introducing them to the world as the New Avengers.

Bucky was scanning for movement in the fallen concrete.

That’s when he heard it.

It was faint, like madness like a lullaby from another life.

“Baa baa, black sheep… have you any wool…”

His whole body went still. 

He whipped around, scanning the dust and rubble, and—

There.

You were kneeling beside a crying girl on a broken stoop, blood smeared down her shin, and she had a sprained ankle— maybe. Nothing fatal—but you held her like she was made of glass, one hand gently pressing a bandage against her knee, the other stroking her curls as you sang.

And you… you hadn’t changed.

There was not a wrinkle on your skin, not a gray hair on your head. You didn’t look a day older than the last time he saw you, thirty years ago.

He was so stunned, he forgot how to breathe. 

“You know her?” Yelena asked, stepping beside him, flicking blood from her forehead.

“Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full.”

You calmed the little girl down when she started sobbing, making sure you were gentle with her injuries. 

Bucky didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

His lips parted like he might say yes, but no sound came out. 

“One for the master, one for the dame,” you sang as the girl sniffled, “and one for the little boy who lives down the lane.”

It was like his lungs had forgotten air. His heart beat painfully inside his ribs—too much, too fast, too sudden.

And then—

You looked up.

Saw him.

And smiled.

—

You walked over to him like you were in a dream—like every step was an act of defiance to everything that had broken you, bent you, tried to erase you. 

He was now sitting on the ground, legs sprawled like they couldn’t quite hold him up anymore. Blood streaked across his jaw, already drying in cracked lines. His chest rose and fell like he’d just come back from drowning.

Your boots crunched over broken glass and gravel as you closed in. You didn’t speak at first. You didn’t know if he could handle words yet—not until your presence fully registered. 

You crouched down, and he flinched when you touched his face—not because it hurt, but because he didn’t trust that any of this was real.

“You’re hurt,” you finally said. “Let me help.”

You pulled out the antiseptic, your hands shaking slightly. You dabbed the cotton gently along the edges of a deep cut above his brow. The moment the liquid touched skin, he shuddered.

And then he started shaking.

The tremble that began in his hands and spread to his shoulders, his chest, his teeth. His mouth parted like he wanted to speak, to ask something, but the words got lost 

Tears welled in his eyes before he could stop them. His breath hitched before the first choked sob, clawing its way up his throat.

And maybe it had been.

Because it wasn’t just about seeing you. It was about seeing you alive.

Alive.

Not a hallucination. Not a memory. Not like he saw you, in the void. 

Alive. With breath in your lungs and heat in your veins and the same look in your eyes that once held him when he was in pain. 

His lips moved—silent at first. Then the words came out shaky. “Do you… remember me?”

You froze for half a second, eyes softening in a way that shattered him all over again.

“Of course I do,” you whispered, brushing a stray hair away from his forehead. “I could never forget the love of my life.”

Was that what he was to you?

After all this time, he still meant the same thing that you did to him? 

He turned his face away like it might somehow spare him some tears, but it didn’t. The sob that followed ripped from the deepest part of his heart, almost primitive. Not the kind you cry when you’re sad, but the kind you cry when you realise your heart’s still beating after being convinced it was gone.

He collapsed into himself, shoulders hitching, breath stuttering out in ragged gasps. His metal hand clawed blindly at the ground like he needed something solid to hold onto before he slipped under.

You didn’t say anything else. You just moved closer, wrapping an arm gently around his shoulders, resting your forehead to his temple as he wept.

Yelena had wandered off a while ago—probably in search of someone else to pester— most likely her father. 

She hadn’t even looked back. She probably knew that this moment didn’t belong to her.

It belonged to him. And you.

He tried to say something else—an apology, maybe, or a confession—but all that came out was, “I—I…” he swallowed, “I— I…”

“Bucky…” You hushed him gently, thumb brushing the tears from his cheek. “We’ll talk somewhere private, yeah?”

He barely nodded. 

Because right now, language was too small a thing. All he could do was hold onto you. And all his mind could think was the way your hand fit in his like it always had.

—

You walked ahead of him, leading him down the cracked sidewalk with a hand hovering just near his arm in case he stumbled again.

He hadn’t stopped shaking.

Every so often, Bucky would glance sideways at you—like if he looked away for too long, you might vanish. His eyes were still red, his fists clenched like it hurt to hold himself together. Still, he followed.

It wasn’t far—just a few blocks. Somewhere between tourist traps and bodegas. 

The sign above the trauma clinic was clean and professional. Your name etched in utilitarian serif, easily overlooked.

You didn’t take him through the front. Instead, you circled to the alley behind the building and paused before a rusted steel door that looked like it hadn’t been used in years. But then—you looked directly at a small, seamless panel embedded beside the frame.

A red light swept across your retina, and when it recognised you— the lock hissed open with a pneumatic sigh.

“Come on,” you murmured as the door swung inward.

You descended a narrow staircase, the lights flickering on ahead of you one by one—clean, white fluorescence bathing the walls. At the bottom, it opened into a wide, reinforced corridor. 

And then you turned the final corner.

Oh.

That was all his mind could manage.

This was not a secret lab. Not some grim Hydra hellhole or impersonal bunker. 

No. This place was…

It was your life. A shrine. A sanctum buried beneath the city.

It was a sterile medical bay with sleek counters, an exam table and chair, sealed cabinets filled with trauma kits and gauze and every instrument a trauma doctor could need—but the walls told a different story.

To his right: a newspaper framed in glass. “Harlem Disaster Narrowly Avoided: Doctor Treats Over Fifty Civilians After Abomination Rampage.” Your name was in the byline. There was even a photo—blurry, taken on someone’s flip phone, of you, sleeves rolled up, arms smeared with blood as you performed a field tourniquet on a screaming man.

Then, “Unsung Hero of New York: Trauma Doctor Saves Dozens in Battle of Midtown.”

He kept turning. The memorabilia… evolved.

A cracked Daredevil helmet, dark red and scuffed.

A display case holding a single 9mm bullet, etched with the faint white skull of the Punisher— etched on it. 

A shattered web cartridge, unmistakably Spidey’s, with a bit of dried synthetic fluid still crusted at the nozzle.

Even a shelf with a glittery Ms. Marvel Funko Pop, clearly out of place, sitting cheerfully among medical books and gauze rolls.

Bucky’s voice, when it came, was nothing more than a breath. “What is this?”

You stepped beside him, your fingers trailing the little bobblehead. “Gifts from… friends.”

He turned to you. “Friends?”

You gave him a tired smile and joked, “Is it so unbelievable for me to have friends, Bucky?”

He blinked, startled by the levity. You gently nudged him to sit on the exam table, and he obeyed without protest as you cleaned his wounds. 

“I just…” he said, voice thin. “I don’t know how you’re still alive. Or how you still look so…” His eyes lingered. “…young.”

You didn't meet his gaze. “Thank Hydra.”

Bucky swallowed, but you continued. 

“When I got recruited, they injected me with something— they said it was just a stimulant— to keep me going longer, help me work longer hours.”

He went still.

“Later, I learned that it was something called the Infinity Formula. Not exactly a Super Soldier Serum, but it… slowed my aging significantly. I guess they didn't want to have to train more people.”

You kept working on the cuts on his face. 

“When you got me out… I didn’t know how to be in the world anymore. So I built this practice. I wanted to be… useful”

Your fingers paused briefly, then continued.

“But then, vigilantes started showing up. People who couldn’t go to hospitals— people who were bleeding, hunted, scared. It was a small community, so word spread.”

Bucky winced as you moved on to the next cut.

“I patched them up.” You nodded toward the artifacts on the walls. “No questions. Just… tried to keep them breathing long enough to get back out there. It became my life.”

Every artifact had a story, and you were the invisible thread stitching it together.

“A couple months ago, Fisk outlawed masked vigilantes and made everything worse. Not a lot come round anymore, but I still help. How could I not?” You looked up at him.“They show up half-dead, still trying to save people. They just need someone to believe they’re worth saving too.”

Bucky's hands curled into trembling fists at his sides.

You pulled the final stitch and wrapped the wound. “There,” you whispered. “You’re good.”

But Bucky didn’t move. He was staring again. Not at the artifacts, not at the walls. But… at you.

“You…” His voice cracked. “You never stopped.”

There was no more Hydra. No more handlers. No more needles.

And yet you continued doing what you do best. 

Back then, he'd thought he'd imagined it. That flicker of you— the only good thing in that place built to destroy anything good.

But now…

Now, here you were. Standing in front of him. Still real. Still breathing. Still looking at him like he was a man, not a weapon.

His voice, when it came, was hoarse and hesitant, like it hurt to say.

“Can I…?”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He looked at you, struggling to find his voice. “Can I touch you?”

You didn’t move for a heartbeat. But then you nodded.

And that was all he needed.

He pulled you ever closer, barely daring to breathe. He lifted his metal arm so gently, like you might vanish if he pressed too hard— he cupped your cheek.

His thumb brushed along your skin, just once.

It was real. 

His other hand followed, cradling your face between his palms. His calloused fingers trembled against you, his lips parting. A man who had faced death a thousand times over… and was now utterly undone by the fact that you were standing in front of him, alive.

Bucky pressed his forehead against yours, and the first sob slipped out of him like a wound opening in real time. His whole body curled inward, as if trying to shield you and collapse into you at the same time.

Your hands came up slowly, mirroring his motion like magnets finding their way to each other after centuries apart, holding him just as gently. “I missed you, Bucky.”

His eyes, that haunted blue, searched your face. “Why didn’t you come for me?” he asked, pain buried deep in his voice. You must’ve seen him in the news— during the Sokovia Accords, the ordeal with the Flag Smashers, or when he became a congressman. You simply have had to have seen him.

You swallowed hard, blinking away the sudden sting in your eyes. “I didn’t think…,” you admitted, “I didn’t think you’d remember me.”

His brows furrowed. “Of course I remembered you,” he said, a little broken, a little desperate. His thumb moved again, tracing circles against your skin. “But Hydra told me you were dead— I never believed them. But after everything, I thought maybe you’d moved on. That you were gone for good, one way or another.”

Tears welled in your eyes now, hot and brimming over, and you let them fall. “After what we’ve been through?” you asked, your voice trembling as a sad smile curled your lips. “How could I ever move on from you?”

He let out a sharp breath, like your words were a punch to the chest. Gently, as if giving you the chance to pull away,  he pulled you closer — chest to chest, heart to heart — until he helped you up and you were straddling his lap, your hands finding a perch on his shoulders, his arms caging you in like you were the most precious thing he’d ever held.

His forehead rested against yours again, breaths mingling, warm and shallow. 

“God, Bucky…After all this time,” you whispered in amazement, “what are we?”

He didn’t answer right away. 

Then, finally, with certainty, he said, “A choice.”

Your breath hitched.

“A choice,” he repeated, eyes locked with yours, his grip tightening slightly on your hips. “The first real choice I made after having my mind taken from me. The first person I cared for that were not orders, not missions.”

Oh.

You let your fingers trail up into his hair, letting yourself touch him like you’d dreamed about for so long. He leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat.

You swallowed again, sighed when he leaned into your touch. 

“I…” you started, but  pulled back just slightly so you could see his face, your eyes meeting his. “Can I kiss you?”

He looked at you like you were the only person in the world that made any sense.

He could only nod. 

And you kissed him.

It was cautious at first, tentative, like a secret being unravelled — but the second he hummed, the world disappeared. His hand slid to the back of your neck, the other anchoring you to him as he kissed you like he’d been holding his breath for years. You melted into him, your mouths moving together like you’d done this a thousand times in your dreams.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead pressed to his again, both of you smiling like teenagers.

You let out a small laugh, “I’ve always wondered what your lips tasted like.”

He chuckled too, that low, boyish sound you hadn’t heard… ever. “Yeah?” he asked, fingers still tracing lazy lines along your spine. “Was it everything you imagined?”

You grinned, eyes still closed. “Better.”

He kissed your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth and whispered, “I missed you, too.”

—

You and Bucky had taken it slow.

After those first intense days together, you both decided to learn about each other outside of Hydra. Just to see who you were now. 

You went on actual dates— coffee that turned into late dinners, morning hikes, lazy afternoons in museums, cooking together and arguing over whether pineapple belonged on pizza. 

Turns out, outside the cold walls of bunkers and laboratories and hidden bases, you and Bucky were more compatible than you'd even dared hope. He liked vinyl records and peaceful mornings. You liked stargazing and stealing his sweaters. You both loved old noir films, loved sushi, and had developed a strangely passionate shared hobby for urban beekeeping.

You laughed more. He smiled more. It was like discovering each other for the first time all over again.

You’d kept your medical practice open, still offering your services to non-traditional patients. But when the Watchtower was done and the New Avengers moved in, they asked you to help the team.

Your official title was Medical Liaison and Trauma Consultant, but mostly you patched up a rotating cast of stubborn supersoldiers and spies who swore they “healed fast” and then passed out on your med bay floor.

But today, the med bay was calm — just a light checkup for Alexei, a bruised rib for Yelena, and a lot of banter.

Everyone knew you and Bucky were dating, but no one had the guts (or stupidity) to ask questions. 

Until now.

You were cleaning up your tray of instruments when Bob leaned back in his chair and asked casually, “So… how did you guys meet again?”

You paused.

Bucky, seated on the edge of the exam table with his shirt half-buttoned, glanced at you.

“Oh, you know,” you blinked, “Mutual enemies.”

There was a beat of silence.

“What does that even mean?” Walker asked, clearly disappointed. 

You smiled sweetly. “It means you don’t want to know.”

Yelena squinted at you from the other bed. “It means the real story is either classified or deeply traumatic.”

“Or both,” Alexei said.

You laughed — a little too brightly for the topic — and handed Yelena her discharge form. “Exactly. Now who’s next for bloodwork?”

Bucky slid off the table, kissing your cheek quickly as he passed. Ava rolled her eyes so hard you could practically hear it.

Mutual enemies? Yeah, right. 

The more accurate term would be: the best thing Hydra never meant to happen. 

– end.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault @average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @boy--wonder--187 @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life @rIphunter

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst @wingstoyourdreams @lori19

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23 @fan4astic

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt @softpia 

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125 @buckybarneswife125

@imaginecrushes @phoenixes-and-wizards @rowanthomasknapp @daystarpoet @thefandomplace

@biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @herejustforbuckybarnes @kitasownworld @shortandb1tchy @roxyym

@badl4nder

[fairydustttx]

Diamond Boy (DTM).

Bob Floyd x reader

“I need poolside, you’ve been on my mind. Wonder if you’re all mine, why do it matter anyway”

A/N: I guess you can call this the alternate ending to M2M or it could just be a standalone? idk? enjoy :)

Warnings: Idiots in love & language. Not proofread in the SLIGHTEST.

Wc: 5163

Summary: Bob Floyd was never supposed to be anything more than your platonic soulmate—the one person who always had your back, who knew your every secret, your silences, your heartbeat. But soon everything starts to shift.

PART ONE

The first time you realised you may be in love with Bob Floyd—it wasn't romantic, not even in the slightest.

Bob had a head cold, the bad kind. The kind that knocked the wind out of him, made his voice rasp and his usually calm energy dulled at the edges.

You came over with chicken soup. You'd made it the night before, and let it simmer on the stove while you half-watched a show you weren't even following. You didn't know why you did it because it wasn't like he even asked.

When you had let yourself into his place, Bob was curled up on the couch under a fluffy blanket with little airplanes on it. He'd insisted once it was ironic—"pilot humor"—but you knew he liked how soft it was.

His hair was a mess. Glasses smudged. Nose pink. Totally miserable. Still, he sat up quickly when he saw you, blinking like you were a mirage.

"You're not dying, Bob," you told him, setting the soup down. "But you do sound like you swallowed a garbage disposal."

Bob smiled only barely. "You're so sweet."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart flipped like it had missed a step.

He dozed off halfway through the movie you put on but you didn't leave. You just stretched out beside him, your socked feet tucked under his blanket, your book open in your lap.

At one point, he shifted in his sleep and laid his head on your thigh. You froze, pulse stuttering, but you didn't move and just watched him take shallow breaths.

Something settled in your chest, a kind of knowing because you didn't want to be anywhere else.

The sound of him snoring softly, the weight of him trusting you, the feel of his fingers brushing yours even in sleep—it made you ache in a way you hadn't let yourself name.

You reached down and brushed his hair back from his forehead. Just once. Just gently and he didn't stir. And that was it.

Not a confession. Not even a conscious thought. Just this low, quiet hum of—Oh.

I love him.

You buried it after that. You told yourself it was nothing. That it was warmth, not love. Comfort, not longing.

But unfortunately for you it stuck. The way his glasses always slid down his nose when he got really excited talking about something. The way he saved you the last bite of dessert without making it obvious. The way his face softened when he looked at you, like you were something steady in his world, not the other way around.

You were his best friend, and it scared the hell out of you how badly you wanted to be more.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The first time Bob realised he was in love with you, it also wasn't dramatic. There was no lightning bolt, no swelling music, no sudden clarity like the books or movies promised. It didn't hit him all at once. It was much quieter than that.

You were sitting on the floor of his kitchen like you owned it, barefoot, in sweatpants and a faded T-shirt you'd most definitely stolen from him months ago. It was three in the morning, and you were eating cold spaghetti out of Tupperware like it was a five-star meal.

Bob had just gotten back from a week-long stint out of state, exhausted, cranky, jet-lagged. His apartment, which you stayed at from time to time, smelled faintly like the apple-scented candle you always lit when he was gone.

You looked up at him mid-bite and said, through a mouthful of noodles, "Don't judge me. I waited, like, five hours for you to get back before I cracked."

Then you grinned. Sleepy, messy, warm.

Bob stared at you for a second too long. Long enough that you paused, furrowing your brow like you weren't sure if you'd done something wrong.

That was it. That was the moment.

Because it hit him—hard and slow, like gravity sneaking up behind him that he'd never felt more at home than right then, in that tiny fluorescent-lit kitchen with leftover pasta and you.

Not in his childhood home. Not at the Academy. Not in the cockpit. Just here with you.

In a marinara sauce stained T-shirt, and your foot nudging his ankle like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He didn't say anything. He physically couldn't.

The truth sat heavy in his chest like a secret he wasn't ready to name. Instead he just smiled back small, quiet and reached for a fork.

You passed him the container without a word, scooting over a little to make room. The pair of you ate in silence, side by side on the linoleum floor.

When you fell asleep against his shoulder, he didn't dare move an inch. He stayed awake another two hours, wondering how long he'd be able to keep pretending this wasn't the most terrifying and beautiful thing that had ever happened to him.

Bob didn't realize it then, but that night completely ruined him for anyone else.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It all started falling apart on a Friday night in late November. The kind of night you'd normally spend on Bob's couch, stealing the last slice of pie and watching documentaries you'd pretend to care about just to hear him talk about them afterward.

Instead, you're at a bar uptown, perched on a stool beside Phoenix, who's half-responsible for the situation you're now in. The place is nice enough—exposed brick, moody lighting, a menu that includes things like "artisanal aioli." You're overdressed while also quite underwhelmed.

"Look, it's just one drink," she says. "If you hate it, we fake a family emergency and bail."

"Are you my family in this emergency?"

"I've got a whole fake dog-surgery story ready."

You're mid-laugh when they all arrive. Bob and James. And Bob's date.

James is... good-looking, to say the least. Polished. His smile is easy and direct. He reaches for your hand like it's the most natural thing in the world and says your name with real warmth. He smells like cedar and something expensive.

Bob is wearing a button-down you've seen more than a dozen times and jeans that fit too well. His smile is polite. His date, a girl with a sharp jawline and louder laugh, clings to his arm like she's auditioning for something.

You all sit, and it goes... fine.

James is charming. Steady. Confident. Attentive. Bob is extremely quiet, which is odd even for him. His date checks her phone five times before the appetizers arrive and you don't entirely blame her. You catch Bob looking at you once—maybe twice—but he doesn't say much more than he has to.

By dessert, Phoenix has caught your eye from across the room where she is on the lookout and raised a brow. You don't know what it means.

That night, after James walks you to your car and promises to call (and he does, two days later), you get a text from Bob.

You stare at it for a long time before responding to which you got no reply.

But see the thing about James is... he's so uncomplicated.

He always listens. He always shows up. He brings you lunch on base when you're swamped and remembers how you take your coffee by the third time.

You like him. You're not quite dating—not officially it seems to be heading there, very slowly. He makes it feel so so easy.

Which is why it feels like a betrayal, weeks later, when you find yourself sitting next to Bob again, back at the hangar, eating your pasta in silence, your knees not quite touching.

"Are you seeing him again tonight?" Bob asks, not looking up from his sandwich to which you hum absently in response.

"Cool." he answers quickly.

It's really not cool but you both pretended it was.

Bob, for his part, had made some sort of an effort. At least, that's what Phoenix told you as the pair of you jogged in rhythm, boots crunching lightly against the gravel path as you worked through the warm-up circuit Maverick had laid out for the team.

You pulled in a slow breath, matching Phoenix's pace without needing to speak until she did.

"Bob's trying," she said casually, like she was commenting on the weather.

You blinked. "What?"

"Dating again. Well, he's trying to at least." Her voice was calm but edged with something else—something careful.

"Yeah," you said. "I set him up with two girls I went to high school with, I was telling you about."

Phoenix turned her head sharply, brows raised. "Wait seriously?"

You gave a tight shrug, your face remaining neutral. Well neutral-ish. "I figured he needed a push and he wasn't doing it on his own."

Phoenix was quiet for a few beats, her steps in sync with yours on the gravel.

"That's... actually pretty selfless of you," she said eventually.

"I didn't do it to be selfless," you replied, a little too quickly. "I just thought it would help."

Truth was, it had been your idea. A few well-timed nudges. A casual mention of a friend from medical. A passing introduction at a post-flight dinner. You told yourself it was just being supportive. Helpful. The kind of thing a best friend would do. Right?

It's just that it didn't make it easier to hear he had actually followed through.

Phoenix looked at you sideways. "You know it's been three dates in the last few weeks. Maybe four. A few of them were blind. One was that ensign from logistics. Remember her?"

You knew her pretty well, the one with the dimpled smile and polished flight boots. Killer backhand at volleyball.

You knew Phoenix was just trying to keep up to date considering Bob had went mute on you but it still hurt to hear nonetheless.

"Good," you answered, sharp and quiet. "He deserves to be happy."

"Mmhmm," Phoenix murmured. "Except he will not stop looking at you."

Your throat went tight. You slowed your pace just slightly, long enough for her to notice. Phoenix didn't press but she never had to. She just kept running beside you like she was offering you a lifeline, not a lecture.

You turned a corner near the edge of the tarmac where the rest of the team had started filtering in. Maverick was already yelling instructions, gesturing at the pull-up bars and the hurdles like he hadn't already woken at least half the base with the sound of his whistle.

Bob was there—leaning slightly against the back end, water bottle in hand. His gaze wasn't obvious, but it wasn't hidden either.

And when you glanced his way, just for a second, he didn't look away. It was soft. Barely a blink but it hit like turbulence.

"Ladies," Maverick called, cutting through the moment like a blade. "This isn't social hour."

You and Phoenix straightened instinctively, shoulders snapping in sync.

From a few feet away, Hangman barked a laugh, stretching with dramatic flair. "Aw, c'mon. They're just talking about their crushes." He waggled his eyebrows like a cartoon villain.

"Get on with your push-ups, Hangman," Phoenix shot back, and you could practically feel the eye roll in her voice.

As you ducked your head and moved toward the warm-up zone, you glanced back one more time. Bob was still watching and this time, he did look away just not fast enough.

You didn't say much else after that—not until the training was over and the sky had brightened. But Phoenix's words stayed with you, echoing louder than Maverick's whistle ever could.

And for the first time, you wondered if you were the one still standing still.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Bob doesn't text back as fast as he used to anymore. You don't always invite him to game nights. When he sits next to you, it's careful now. Distant in a way.

The ache of it settles somewhere deep in your ribs, the way a bruise blooms hours after the hit. You don't talk about it, of course. That's the thing about you and Bob—you've always known when to give each other space. This though feels different. So much different. It feels like drifting. Like something you didn't think could ever slip is suddenly slipping through your fingers.

Things were really weird between the two of you, by the time your brother Zion’s wedding to his childhood sweetheart Aniyah came around. The reception was set in the kind of picturesque vineyard that looked like it was made for sunset photos and nervous toasts. Rows of fairy lights stretched from oak trees to tent poles, casting everything in a honey-gold haze. Laughter drifted on the breeze and clinking glasses echoed off wine barrels.

Aniyah wasn’t just your new sister-in-law—she’d been part of your family for years in every way that counted. Before she married your brother, she and Zion had been inseparable friends since childhood. Zion, your only sibling, had always been the steady presence in your life, the one you could count on through every messy moment, every laugh, and every heartbreak.

Now, seeing Aniyah glowing as the bride, it wasn’t just happiness for your brother’s new wife—it was relief that the people who mattered most to you were finally building something solid together.

You were sitting in a pale yellow bridesmaid dress at a round table with white linens, laughing politely at something James just said. You desperately needed a date and he was more than happy to. He was handsome in a crisp navy suit, tie in a perfect knot, posture relaxed. He fitted in well here. He said the right things, shook the right hands, looked great in photos.

But not Bob. You found yourself thinking that for the fourth time in ten minutes.

James' hand loosely rested on the small of your back, while Bob sat two tables away, in a suit that doesn't quite sit right on his shoulders and a tightness in his jaw you know too well.

You hadn't been surprised when you saw Bob’s name on the guest list. Your brother had always liked Bob. Everyone did. He was supposed to be your date.

Still, it hadn't stopped your stomach from flipping when he walked in and scanned the crowd, his gaze catching on you before he dropped it just as fast.

James was pulled away and for a moment you're left standing alone beneath the canopy of string lights.

Bob is behind you. You know it before you turn. You always know.

You glance over your shoulder. He's standing just a few feet back, near the bar, his hands in his pockets, looking at you the way he used to—like he's not sure if he's allowed to anymore. He's wearing a dark gray suit that fits better than any of his uniforms. The collar's a little rumpled, his tie slightly crooked like he fidgeted with it in the car, maybe halfway to talking himself out of coming.

You take a slow breath, and set your glass down. "Hi."

"Hey," he says, and his voice is quieter than you remember. Like the edges have been worn down from use.

"You clean up well," you add, trying for lightness.

He offers a small smile, the kind that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You look beautiful."

The words knock the air from your chest a little. "Thank you."

You both look away at the same time and a silence stretches between you, familiar and full.

"So you brought James," Bob says finally. Not accusing. Not anything, really. Just stating a fact he probably wishes wasn't one.

"I did."

"He seems..." Bob pauses, like he's trying to pick the right word. "Pretty solid."

You almost laugh. "He is."

Another silence. This one sharper.

You glance at him. "I wasn't trying to... I didn't bring him to make you feel—"

"You didn't have to," he says, and for the first time there's something real in his voice. Something raw. "It still does."

The music shifts in the background—slower now, something with strings and a heartbeat rhythm.

"He's not you," you say quietly, before you can stop yourself. "But maybe that's the point."

Bob looks at you then, really looks at you, and his mouth parts slightly like he's going to speak, like he might say all the things he never said—but James is walking back through the crowd, cutting between you.

Bob noticed him first. "I should let you get back," he said quickly.

You didn't want him to go but you don't stop him.

He turned to leave, and something in you broke loose.

"Bob."

He stopped in his tracks.

You lowered your voice, for just him to hear. "You used to tell me everything. And now I don't even know if you're okay half the time."

He didn't turn around. "I'm not."

The confession hangs between you. Bob walked away into the mingling crowd, until you lost sight of him behind someone's navy tux jacket.

James reached your side, handing you a glass. "You alright?"

You nod, quickly forming a lie. "Yeah. Just I was thinking."

Your eyes are still searched for Bob in the crowd, even though you knew he wouldn't be looking back.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The music had mellowed, soft strings weaving through the gentle clink of champagne flutes and tired laughter. A few candles had burned low, flickering in their glass holders, and the night air had cooled just enough to make the edges of your dress suddenly feel too thin.

It had been a beautiful day—Zion grinning like a right fool at the altar, your mother crying so hard she kept forgetting to blot her mascara and your father proudly pulling you into a side hug every chance he got.

James had called a car home an hour earlier. He had kissed your cheek. Told you he'd had fun. He hadn't pressed for more, and you'd been grateful for that.

You were sitting near the edge of the reception tent, a jacket on, heels off, knees pulled up delicately on the bench as you swirled the last of your wine. Aniyah—your new sister-in-law—had found you first, tulle skirts bunched in her fists as she sank down beside you with a conspiratorial grin.

"You okay?" she asked, slightly out of breath from dancing, her dark curls starting to loosen from the pins.

"Yeah," you said, giving her a tired smile. "Just I’m catching my breath."

She nudged your shoulder. "You've been amazing today. I know weddings are chaotic, but thank you for helping with everything."

"Of course," you said, and meant it. Then your voice softened, words catching just slightly on the lump forming in your throat. "I'm just so glad you're part of our family now. You've always felt like you were... but now it's official."

Aniyah's eyes shimmered a little, lips parting as her smile faltered into something more tender.

"And for the record," you added, squeezing her hand gently, "you are the most beautiful bride I've ever seen."

Her face crumpled in the best way, and she let out a watery laugh as she leaned her head against your shoulder for a second. "Don't make me cry again. I'm already so dehydrated."

You both laughed, quiet and close.

You sat like that for a few moments, just breathing in the tail end of the night, the two of you tucked away at the edge of the celebration.

Aniyah straightened up slightly and turned to look at you, more serious now. "You know you should probably talk to him."

Your face scrunched up in confusion. "Who?"

She gave you a pointed look. "Come on."

You glanced down at your wine, then past her shoulder—just for a second, just toward where Bob stood in the distance under a strand of lights, talking to one of your distant cousins.

"I don't know," you said quietly. You’d caught Bob’s gaze during the toasts, during the slow dances, during dinner when your niece begged him to twirl her on the dance floor. He’d smiled, sure, but it never quite reached his eyes. Every time he’d looked at you, it felt like something caved in your ribs.

"I do," Aniyah said. "You've been trying to pretend like it doesn't matter, but it does. He matters. And this thing between you—it's been hanging there for too way too long. Whatever it is, you've gotta face it."

You sighed, pressing your lips together.

Aniyah gave your hand one last squeeze. "Set it straight, okay? Whatever that means to you."

Zion appeared, and the moment shifted, but the weight of her words stayed with you.

His tie was loosened, dress shirt wrinkled, looking blissfully happy and only mildly buzzed.

"There you are," he said with a grin, leaning over to kiss your temple. "You know you're allowed to dance at my wedding, right?"

“I danced."

"Yeah, once," he said, deadpan.

You held up your glass. "As you can see I'm making up for it."

He smirked, giving your knee a fond squeeze. "You're the best. You know that?"

"Don't get all sentimental on me now. You're married now and now you're someone else's problem."

Zion laughed and leaned down to whisper something to his new bride that made her blush and swat at him with her bouquet. You looked at them—ridiculously in love, soft in all the ways you remembered your parents being once. It made something in your chest flutter.

Your gaze slipped beyond them to across the yard, where Bob stood under a strand of lights. He caught your eye first, brow lifting subtly before he made his way to your direction.

You felt the shift before he even moved toward you. Like a tide coming in. Like something you didn't know if you wanted to fight or surrender to.

You murmured a quick excuse to Zion and Aniyah, gave them a last squeeze, and slipped off the bench. The night spun just slightly as you stood.

"Hey," came Bob's voice, soft behind you.

You turned, already bracing yourself. The look on his face unraveled something sharp and aching in your chest.

"I didn’t think you'd still be here."

Bob's voice came out rough. "Yeah well I almost left."

You glanced at him over your shoulder. His tie was undone. Jacket slung over one arm. He looked tired and beautiful in that unguarded way you'd only seen a handful of times—after long flights, after hard losses, after quiet talks in the dark when the world felt too big.

"Then why didn't you?"

He let out a breath. "Because I couldn't."

He stepped closer, settling a few feet away like he wasn't sure if he was welcome—but had to try anyway.

"It's so fucking weird," you said softly as the pair of you walked in step away from anyone’s eye view. The air smells like roses and distant champagne. The stars are showing off tonight, stretching wide and clear. "How you can be surrounded by people who love you and still feel... alone."

He slowly nodded. "Yeah. I felt that too tonight."

There was a long pause filled only by the wind brushing through the trees.

"I really wanted to hate him, you know," he said suddenly. "James."

You looked at him, brows drawn.

Bob's voice stayed low. "I watched him touch you and laugh with you, and I told myself I didn't have a right to care. That we were just friends. That I should be happy you found someone who's good to you."

You didn't say anything. You couldn’t. Not yet.

He continued. "But it felt like losing you. And I hated it."

Bob looked at the ground, eyes distant. "I haven't really been honest with you. Not for a long time. And I thought I could just keep doing it—keep pretending I was fine, keep sitting across from you at dinner while you smiled at someone else."

"Why didn't you say anything?" you asked, your voice thin.

"Because I was scared. Because I thought if I told you what I felt, I'd lose you for good."

You looked at him now and your heart stuttered.

"I've been in love with you," he said, quiet but certain. "Since before I even knew what to do with it. Since you started showing up for me in every way that mattered. Since I realized no one else ever made me feel the way you do just by being there."

You sucked in a breath, tears stinging at the edges of your eyes. "You really waited until after I brought someone else to a wedding?"

Bob let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh. "I know. I'm the worst."

You shook your head. "You're not. You're just—"

"Late?" he offered, his voice breaking a little.

You blinked hard, then nodded. "Yeah."

He just looked at you like he was memorizing the shape of your face in this moment, in case it was the last time you'd let him be this close.

"I know I don't deserve it," he said. "But I needed to say it. I love you. I'm in love with you. And I will be, whether or not you ever look at me the same way again."

You stared at him, breath caught, heart hammering.

And finally, you asked the question that had been burning in your chest all night.

"Why now?"

His answer was immediate. "Because I realized something even worse than the idea of losing you."

Your eyes narrowed, fully cautious.

"It's the idea of letting someone else end up with the life I should've been brave enough to build with you."

Your breath caught.

"I'd rather you hate me for being too late than never tell you at all."

His face was flushed with sincerity, eyes full of so much longing it bordered on ache.

“I told you I loved you,” he said, more quietly now. “And I meant it.”

You shook your head slowly, pain blooming in your voice. “Bob, this isn’t just about feelings. You had months. I gave you space. I gave you everything I had, and you kept choosing silence.”

He flinched like the truth stung, and you didn’t look away.

“It’s not fair to show up now,” you say. “After all this.”

“I know,” he said again. “But I’m done pretending. I’m done watching you try to fit with people who don’t see you the way I do.”

You blinked hard. “You think you see me?”

“I do,” he said, stepping in close now. “I see the way you always cut your food into tiny bites when you’re anxious. I see the way you drink iced tea even when it’s cold out because it reminds you of your grandma. I see the way your whole face lights up when Zion makes the most stupid and unfunny joke because you love watching him be happy.”

Tears spilled before you could stop them.

“I see how hard you try to carry everything alone. I see how much it cost you to stay my friend when I was too much of a coward to be more.”

You exhaled, shaky. “You think saying all of that fixes it?”

“No,” he answered. “But I couldn’t let you leave tonight without knowing.”

Your fingers curled tighter around the straps of your heels You felt like if you let go of anything, you would shatter.

“And what now?” you whispered. “You say you love me, and I’m just supposed to forgive the last few months like it didn’t break me?”

Bob’s face fell, and for a moment he didn’t speak.

“No. You don’t have to forgive me. I just wanted you to know I never stopped loving you.”

That undoes you. Completely.

You stepped closer, dropping your heels and Bob didn't move.

You reached up and placed a hand on his chest, right over the steady beat of his heart, and he exhaled like the air had been stuck in his lungs for days.

"I don't hate you," you breathed out.

His eyes closed, shoulders sagging.

"But I don't know what to do with this."

He nodded, still quiet. "Then just do whatever you need. I'll wait."

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you grabbed his shirt and pulled him in.

The kiss landed hot and aching—months of quiet pain poured into one reckless, desperate moment. He groaned against your mouth, hands finding your waist like instinct, gripping like he was afraid you'd vanish again.

His body pressed into yours too perfectly, heat blooming between you like a match struck too fast.

His hands slipped beneath your jacket, palms callused and warm against your skin. You gasped into the kiss when his mouth moved to your jaw, your neck.

"Bob," you whispered—and the sound of his name, that soft ache in your voice, made him shudder.

"I've wanted this," he breathed, mouth brushing your ear, "since the day I met you."

His hands moved like he was learning you by heart. Every line, every breath, every hesitation.

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "This isn't just heat, right?"

He shook his head, forehead resting against yours. "This is everything."

"Then love me right this time."

"I will," he whispered, holding you close. "I swear I will."

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

You were halfway to the parking lot, your heels dangling from your fingertips and the ache in your chest finally beginning to loosen, when Bob spoke again.

"You know," he said, walking beside you now, hands in his pockets, "confessing my feelings at your brother's wedding might be the most inappropriate thing I've ever done."

You glanced at him, and then laughed—raw and real. "You think? You could've at least waited until I was less emotionally wrung out and slightly less wine-adjacent."

He smiled, tentative. "I didn't exactly time it well."

You nudged his shoulder. "At least it wasn't a proposal. That would've been a whole lot worse."

You expected him to laugh or maybe roll his eyes. Say something about not being that unhinged.

But he didn't. He just looked at you.

Not like he was planning something—not now, that would be insane. But it was like he'd imagined it. Like the idea didn't scare him the way it once did. Like maybe one day, that future wasn't off the table.

You blinked slowly. "Bob."

He shrugged, lips twitching. "Just saying. It could've been worse."

You looked away, heart stammering, your mouth twisting into something halfway between a smile and a sigh.

Bob didn't say anything else but he didn't have to.

His hand brushed yours as you walked, barely there.

And for the first time in a long time, the silence between you felt like a promise.

[fairydustttx]

LOVE ISLAND 7.02, "Episode 2"

[fairydustttx]

Like Hell You Are

Pairing: Dean x you // Established relationship

Summary: Anger talks loud; regret whispers after. Some words land harder than fists—and you wish you could take them back the second they hit.

Warnings: Angst, emotional conflict, raised voices, hurtful language, mention of John Winchester (negative), temporary relationship tension, guilt, apology/make-up, soft intimacy

The motel room door slammed behind you, your boots hitting the cheap carpet in quick strides as you dropped your duffel with a thud.

Dean was already standing there, arms crossed, jaw tight. “You’re not coming on the next hunt.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Oh, great. Here we go. Should I sit down for this speech or is it gonna be the same greatest hits? Too dangerous, you’re too close to it, let big bad Dean take care of everything—”

“Damn right it’s too dangerous!” he snapped, stepping closer. “You were almost torn apart last time, and you think I’m just gonna sit back and let you go charging in again?”

You scoffed, brushing past him. “Thanks for the lecture, Dad.”

“Don’t—” His voice dropped into that low, warning register. “Don’t pull that crap with me. I’m serious. You’re staying out of this one.”

“Oh, I’m staying out of it? Wow. That’s cute. Let me guess, you gonna chain me to the bed next? Or just drag me back here by my hair when I disobey your oh-so-important orders?”

He stared at you, nostrils flaring. “This isn’t a joke.”

You met his gaze, your voice laced in venom and hurt. “No, it’s not. But you don’t get to decide what I do. You don’t own me.”

“You think this is about owning you?” he barked, pacing now, hands clenching at his sides. “You think I wanna control you? I’m trying to keep you alive, for god’s sake!”

“And what, you’re the only one allowed to put your life on the line?” You folded your arms, chin up. “Sorry if I don’t wanna sit on the sidelines while you get torn up again. Sorry if I actually give a damn.”

He stalked toward you then, furious. “You’re not going.”

You didn’t back down. “Like hell I’m not.”

“Like hell you are!”

The words echoed between the two of you, the tension so thick it nearly buzzed in the air.

You looked at him, breathing hard.

He took a step forward, voice dropping an octave. “You’re not going. That’s an order.”

Your jaw clenched. You stared at him like he’d just slapped you.

“Oh,” you said with a humorless laugh. “An order? Really? Wow. You even hear yourself right now?”

“I’m serious,” he said again, quieter but firmer. “I can’t—I won’t let you walk into something like that. End of story.”

Something in you snapped.

“Right. Of course not. God forbid I make a decision without your stamp of approval,” you said, voice sharp. “Sound familiar?”

Dean’s brow furrowed, confused for half a second before you dropped the line.

“Well, congratulations. You’re just like your father.”

The silence that followed was like the world tipping off its axis.

Dean’s expression didn’t shift right away, but you saw it. That flicker. That punch to the gut you’d just delivered.

And your heart dropped into your stomach.

“Dean…” you said softly, the sarcasm stripped clean from your voice.

He blinked, jaw ticking, eyes suddenly not quite meeting yours.

“No,” you breathed, stepping closer. “No, baby, I didn’t mean that.”

He swallowed hard, and the way he looked at you then—like he’d been blindsided—cut deeper than any scream could’ve.

“I’m sorry.” You reached for him, hands cupping his face. “Dean. I didn’t mean it. That was low. That was—God, I’m so sorry.”

His eyes closed as your thumbs brushed over the stubble on his cheeks. “I just… I was scared,” you whispered. “You say I almost got torn apart? I watched it happen to you. I felt it. And I hate being left behind just as much as you hate the idea of me getting hurt.”

His hands slowly came to rest over yours, cradling your wrists. “I didn’t mean to come down on you like that,” he rasped. “It’s not an order. I just… when it comes to you, I lose my grip. You get hurt and I—I can’t breathe.”

You stepped even closer, foreheads brushing, your voice cracking. “I’m not trying to be reckless. But I’m not a liability either. I’m with you, not beneath you.”

“I know,” he murmured. “I know, sweetheart.”

You kissed him then—soft, aching, like it was the only way to say everything neither of you had words for. His hands settled around your waist, and you let your fingers thread into his hair, holding his face as if anchoring both of you.

When the kiss broke, you stayed close, his breath mingling with yours.

“You’re not him,” you whispered. “Not even close.”

He nodded, just once, before pressing another kiss to your lips.

“I don’t care what happens out there,” you whispered against his mouth. “We don’t go in divided.”

He pressed his lips to yours again. “Together,” he murmured. “Always.”

[fairydustttx]

cowboy like me | r. reynolds

a/n: guess who's back. haha. sorry i said i was on hiatus and then wrote this. i saw thunderbolts and made it everyone else's problem so here is a fuck of a long fic. i dont know i just wanted to put all my ideas in one so there is a lot going on in this one but yeah. uhm. no real smut because i didn't wanna write because they fuck a lottt also the entire concept is based off this one screenshot i have and i do not know where i got it (it was from some sort of meme) but yeah! warnings: SELF HARM!! no really super serious descriptions but the reader is mentally ill and so is bob and reader does hurt herself at some point and bob wraps them. lots of talks of addiction and alcoholism and sobriety. lots of kissing and allusions to sex and teasing and everyone (bob and reader) is mentally ill and, yeah. sentry and void have a conversation with bob in his brain. also book club. word count: 9.4k summary: you get a text from an old friend and think.. you could do worse than a book club.. with some benefits. pairing: bob reynolds x sober!reader now playing: cowboy like me - taylor swift "now you hang from my lips/like the gardens of babylon/with your boots beneath my bed/forever is the sweetest con."

The first text comes at 5:43 on a Tuesday.

‘do you wanna start fucking again like maybe once a week?’

You must’ve sat, staring at your phone for twenty minutes. Who the fuck..?

The second text comes at 6:32.

‘it can be like a little book club, we can read the same book and discuss’

Book club..?

You ask yourself if this is some sort of joke, and another text shows up three minutes later--

‘i also have a real bed now.’

And then you remember this meth head you used to sleep with, some Florida guy who was always taking odd jobs to fuel his addiction—Cashier, house sitter, alligator hunter, amusement park mascot.. until he got fired, which always seemed inevitable.

You suppose you have no room to judge. You had only been in Jacksonville after your last friend in New York told you no more, that they wouldn’t watch you destroy yourself. But you didn’t need them to, you never needed an audience to fuel the urge to rip every little bit of your soul apart.

You had taken a job working at a Dunkin Donuts that was right next to a liquor store. It seemed as if the universe had given you a sign. You could retire here. Nothing but part time shifts, a bottle of vodka, and a shitty room for rent from the kinkiest 72-year-old lesbian you had ever met.. You had a little bit of respect for her, a sort of ‘good for her’ attitude.

And then, you met Bob.

You met Bob at a dealer’s house.

Romantic, right?

Bob was about to take his first hit in six or seven hours, and you sat uncomfortably scrunched against the couch, trying not to think about how many fucked up things had happened there.

And he sat on the other side of the couch, Bob sat, flicking his lighter on and off while he waited.

..The girl you were with was currently.. paying for the coke she wanted. You were never a fan of drugs, alcohol was your one and only, your soulmate—you could never cheat on her. But this girl promised to buy shots at the next bar. And now you had to listen to her ‘pay’ her dealer—and you presumed Bob’s dealer in the other room.

“Hey.” He speaks first.

You give him a side glance.

“Hey.”

“Waiting for.. stuff?”

“Just waiting for my friend.”

“Oh. Cool.”

A beat.

“What’s your—“

“Alcohol.”

“Oh. Cool. Mine’s meth.”

“Great.”

A beat.

“I need a fuckin’ hit man, I don’t know what’s taking her so long to fucking pay—”

God, you wanted a drink in that moment.

“So, he’s your dealer?”

“Yeah. And my roommate. My rooms the one down the hall.”

“Cool.”

Another beat.

You began tapping your foot against the carpet.

“Oh my god, it doesn’t take that long to—”

“It fucking takes a minute, relax,” You scoffed.

“Not this long.” You caught the unspoken words.

And then, almost in sync, you looked at each other, fully turning your heads to really see what one another looks like. Your eyes flickered up and down his features. Drunk as you were, you knew you could do much worse than this guy.

But before you could say anything, he spoke again,

“Wanna see my room?”

Your ‘friend’ didn’t really seem to be finishing up her transaction anytime soon. Plus, it.. had been a while.

“Sure.” You said, and you followed Bob two steps behind on the way down to his bedroom. When he opened the door, you know deep down sober you would be mortified—well, only if the sex was bad.

His room was small, clothes laid about in various piles across the room—a few lighters, a coin or two next to the odd chip bag.. and in the corner of his room, a twin sized mattress laid on the floor, black sheets and a red blanket, one that had been clearly loved.. and a very old pillow.

You just stared until Bob grabbed your wrist, pulling you along to the bed. He sat on the bed first, tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, and gently prompted you to ‘c’mere.’ As you sat on his lap, you realized that this guy was cute enough for this to become a regular thing.

Your lips locked with his, slowly pulling him in with slow, gentle kisses as if the two of you weren’t giving plenty of time for the moment to be interrupted by the end of the transaction in the other room.

And then, your hands traced up from his shoulders, past his neck and ears, curls wrapping around your fingers.

As if you couldn’t help yourself, you found yourself gently tugging at his hair, listening as he let out this soft moan, and you couldn’t deny—you could totally get used to this. 

And after, when you laid back on his stupid twin sized mattress without a bedframe, your finger stayed twirled in his curls. Then, when he heard the other bedroom door open, he pulled on his boxers and got up, grabbing a sweatshirt as he headed to the door. He glanced back to you to ask,

“’m going to take a hit, want anything?”

“Something to drink?”

“I’ll get you a beer.” He had offered, and you found yourself smiling.

So, you came back. Again. And again. And again. And again. And then you got sober. Or at least, that’s the version you’d give your therapist when you next spoke.

When you got sober, you had gone from a smartphone to a flip phone, deleting and blocking many of the numbers from your party days.. until you had gotten to Bob. All you did was delete his contact from your phone—he still had your number if he wanted to reach out.

But he hadn’t. Not for the past nineteen months, and you’ll be honest—Month eight was such a big month for you (being able to babysit your niece by yourself for the first time, saving up for your own apartment, no roommates or family, and enrolling in a night class or two), so you had forgotten the meth head who purred when you played with his hair.

And yet..

You felt this.. tug. At something.

You found yourself responding—

“hey, i’ve been sober for nineteen months. not interested if ur still using.”

Your texting habits reflected your archaic tech.

But you meant it—Bob was.. well, you didn’t like to think about the things you felt for him, but it was enough to make you bury it as deep down as you could.

“me too”

And then, seven minutes later,

“therapy too lol.”

You glance at the time. You think about your favorite bar’s bottomless margaritas on Tuesdays, and you realize it has been a while.. it was typical for people not to date within a year of sobriety. But it had been nineteen months..

And this wasn’t a date.

It was book club..

“what do u want to read?”

You toss the flip phone on your bed and walk over to the shelf in the corner of your room. You inspect the spines of the few books you have and realize they’re not book club material.

You pick your phone back up to read the text—

“great gatsby? i never read it in school”

Neither had you. Maybe you had been assigned it once upon a time.

“okay. next thursday enough time?”

You were serious about the book club aspect of this. You know two things—

One, no mater how he answers, you’ll have to talk this over with your therapist. Maybe even your sister. You barely ever take risks, not since getting sober, and this risk scares the shit out of you..

Two—You are almost giddy at the idea of tugging at Bob’s hair. You’ve been alone for too long, but you can’t seem to trust yourself enough to download a dating app and hook up with strangers (you theorize you could become as addicted to hookups as you were to alcohol) and the idea of getting into a serious relationship makes you feel sick.. so maybe this is a good compromise.

You glance at the phone in your hand and see one more text--

“sure :)”

So, you send him an address to a coffee shop near your apartment. He asks you if three works. You say yes.

When you tell your therapist about it the next day, this huge smile grows on her face as you tell her about your dilemma—to be or not to be, to go or not to go, to fuck Bob or not to fuck Bob.

You debate this back and forth, and your therapist eventually tells you—

“As your therapist, I shouldn’t and couldn’t push you to do this. Read the book. Go to coffee. At the very least, you’ll get some closure. Or.. you could have an outlet. Remember your boundaries, and don’t pursue anything you aren’t comfortable doing. Ask him questions about his sobriety if it’s important for you to know to feel comfortable. Think about it, and we can talk about it next week before you go.”

And that was pretty good advice. You contemplated it, back and forth, bouncing a mental tennis ball off a mental wall in an imaginary room. Sometimes, there are bottles of booze in the imaginary room, and other times, Bob sits in the corner. Quietly watching you ‘throw the ball.” Somedays it’s just you and the tennis ball.

You’re very normal.

When you told your sister, she just laughed.

“So, at what point did you start seriously considering this?”

“..When I realized he had an actual bed now.”

And that’s all you can respond, because you can’t explain how curious you are. He was a meth head named Bob who had no bed frame, and yet.. you want him. After nineteen months, you think about the way he focused his attention to you in between sips, in between hits, in between fucks.

How his hand rested on your side, how those stormy eyes studied yours as you talked, asking questions about your delusional rambles—

“Right, but what does that mean?” He had asked one night.

“What does what mean?”

“What the fuck does it mean that I ‘am’ the.. hanging gardens of Babylon?” You had rolled your eyes, and the pads of your fingertips against his lips.

“They were a uh,” Your eyes flicker up and down his face. “These.. gardens. City of Babylon, a long long time ago-- They were supposed to so beautiful but there’s no archeological proof they ever existed, except they’re mentioned in poetry, so.. They may or may not be real and we’ll never know. You remind me of them.”

Bob just stared at you for a long time. He didn’t say anything but the way his eyes fixated on you made you alive.. And maybe more alive than the booze, and that thought petrified you because up until that point, drinking was your life. So, you ignored it. What else were you supposed to do?

When you’re done with therapy for the day, you go to the closest bookstore. You pick up the cheapest paperback you can find of Gatsby and then, your eye wanders, as it always done in a bookstore. You spot a book on The Seven Ancient Wonders of the world.. And you decide to buy it when you see the large chapter on The Hanging Gardens of Babylon.

///

The week passes quickly because you find yourself filling any free time you have with reading, underlining and circling quotes and words that F Scott Fitzgerald decided were good enough to convey his themes.

You barely register that it’s Thursday morning when it comes because all you want to do is reread your favorite parts over and over again while you get ready for the day. Before you know it, it’s.. time for book club.

You decide to get there ten minutes before three, hoping you’ll be able to grab a drink and relax before Bob shows up. The bell on the door of the café rings when you walk in, and there are a couple of patrons..

But you find yourself stopping in your tracks when you see a familiar face in the corner, a book on the table, as his finger traces a pattern on the cover.. absently. Like he’s somewhere else.

And then his head picks up, and he notices you. Neither of you say anything, neither of you smile.

In an instant, you’re not sure if you can do this, if—

“Decaf red velvet latte with whipped cream and cinnamon for Bob?” The barista calls, and he stands and approaches the counter, mumbling a thanks to the barista. When he glances down and notices your name scribbled on the side of a cup marked ‘half n half’ and ‘two splenda’, he picks it up and turns, handing you the cup.

“Hi.” He says, and you find yourself reaching out to take the cup, as if you just saw Bob yesterday.

“Hey.” You exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Wordlessly, the two of you sit at the table.

And there is quiet.

Until, Bob asks,

“So.. how have you been?”

“..Fine.”

“..Cool.” You remember this awkward feeling. Like right before the first time, you slept together. “Thanks for meeting with me.” He breathes after a moment, and you nod.

“Yeah.” You breathe, and then he asks,

“You’ve been sober since the last time we—”

“What did you think about the book?” You ask, reaching to take a sip of your coffee. Bob nods, taking the hint.

“I.. liked it.” He says, “It was a good first book for this. I liked that.. that Nick reflects on his life through these other characters and realizes what he does, or doesn’t, want.. How about you?” He asks.

“I liked it too,” and you find yourself wanting to just ramble about your analysis but you bite your tongue. “I think Daisy is a fascinating character too, especially in the way she seems so trapped in her situation. Like being with Gatsby is the only way she can feel alive or free or something.”

Bob considers this for a second.

“Yeah,” He starts, “But she’s.. a rich woman. She’s inherently part of the system that you claim traps her and is actively benefiting from her wealth.”

Wait.. was your awkward meth head situationship kinda.. smart?

You adjust from your rigid position and lean into the conversation a bit.

“Well, Why can’t it be both?” You wonder, “She can benefit from these systems and be miserable in them—she’s miserable, maybe because she’s benefiting from it, and her wealth doesn’t negate the abuse and strain on her marriage.” You say and go to take another sip of your coffee.

Bob is quiet.

Then, he says—

“Yeah. I think you’re right.”  He smiles a little, and you feel your heart in your throat. “So do you think the green light was actually supposed to be as important as pop culture makes it seem, or was that just..”

“I think it is as important as we’re led to believe, because it’s a symbol of what things could be.” And then, before Bob can say something that would lead you to change your mind, you say, “Yeah, I stayed sober since the last time we talked.. When did you quit?”

He inhales and then closes his mouth, and you watch as he holds his breath, noting that his mouth is sort of puffed like a chipmunk. When he exhales, he responds,

“Right after that, I guess. I joined this.. medical.. study and quit to do that.. Then, I guess I just.. stayed sober.” He says, and you laugh, so with a bit of a smile, he asks, “What’s so funny?”

“You make it sound so easy.”

Then, Bob starts to laugh too.

“Do I?” He leans forward like he’s about to tell you a secret, and he says softly, “Because some days I feel like I’m drowning and maybe meth would be the key to being able to breath again..”

“So, what do you do when you feel like that?” You ask softly, not because you’re looking for an answer but because you need to know if sobriety is as big for him as it is for you.

Bob gestures to the table.

“This. Sugar, reading—” He cuts himself off like there’s something else when he meets your eyeline. “Do you want to go to your place or mine?”

And there’s no hesitation when you answer,

“Mine.”

///

Bob spends a long time studying the details on your shelves. He notices the pictures of a seven-year-old he doesn’t recognize and you, the small lego structures in between them, and he finds a small jar next to your TV with little chips in them.

“Do you want anything to drink?” He hears you ask.

“No, thanks.” He calls back, and you appear in the doorway.

“Too much sugar in that latte you had?” You tease, and in that way you love, he just stares at you for a long time, in that way that makes your heartbeat too fast.

“Can’t help it,” he says, “No meth means lots and lots of sugar.”

“Right,” You nod.

Your fingers itch by your side, and you decide—Fuck it. You’re not getting any younger, any more sober. So you go over to him. Like a scared deer, Bob just stares at you, while you try to not scare him off. Your hand ever so gently reaches up to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear.

Then, he shakes his head a bit.

“I haven’t done anything with anyone in a while.”

“Yeah, me neither.” Then, because you think you’ll tell him to leave and never come back if you don’t, you lean forward and kiss him, and as if that is how he gets air when he feels like he’s drowning, his hands are on your side, slowly stepping so that you’re backing up towards your bedroom.

Then, you pull away,

“Bob,” You start, “I’m not really looking for a serious relationship right now,” You start, and his lips begin to leave sloppy kisses, first along your cheek, then your jaw, then your neck.

“Mhm,” is all he responds with.

“I’m being serious,” You sigh as he continues to step forward, pushing you back towards the bedroom, his mouth hot on your skin. “I’m still working on getting my shit together,” You continue.

“I get it,” he says, his voice gentle.

“Do you?” You ask, but he can hear the smile in your voice. “Because it seems like you’re trying to sleep with me—”

“No, No,” He shakes his head a bit, “I’m not going to sleep with you, silly girl,” He hums, and you never want this moment ends, “I’m going to fuck you.” He says gently. It makes you laugh, and he chuckles too.

You decide to take the initiative and slip your shirt off-- Then, he takes off the sweater he’s wearing, and you have to take a second. You really look at him and begin to smile.

His stomach is rounder than it was nineteen months ago when you last met. He’s.. thicker. His rips aren’t poking out of his stomach. No, thicker isn’t the right word.. He looks.. healthier.

And that is hot.

“What?” he asks, “What is it?” he wonders, and you just shake your head.

“Nothing. You were saying something about fucking me?” You wonder, and he nods.

“Right, right.” He says softly, grabbing your face and bringing you in for another kiss. Your hands trail up his neck and find his hair as he slowly sinks down, so he’s kneeling between your legs.

Your hands find his hair, and in between kisses, you gently tug on his hair, and just completely melt when you hear a soft moan leave his lips..

And old habits die hard.

So, you do it again.

///

You lay on your stomach, your face smooshed against the pillow you have your arms around. Bob is sitting up in bed, and you find yourself looking at him for a long while.

“So, What are you doing for work now that you’re sober and in New York?” You ask.

Bob plays with your sheets.

“Uh,” He lets out a soft half chuckle. “..You know the uh.. New Avengers?”

“Vaguely.” You shrug. You don’t really have the time to keep up with that sort of thing, between your job, between babysitting your niece, between being sober.. And it’s not like you have social media, so.. yeah. Vaguely.

“..That.”

“That what?” You ask, furrowing your eyebrows.

“That’s what I’m doing now.”

“Bob, I’m not following.”

His finger begins to run down your arm.

“I guess I.. sort of count.. as a.. New Avenger.”

“…What?”

“I need you to stop asking me that,” He sighed. “Do you remember the uhm.. medical study thing?”

“Yeah.”

“Something they did.. it changed me.. A serum.”

“So you’re like, some sort of superhero or something?” You wonder, and you say it like it’s funny. Bob looks uncomfortable—much more than he usually does.

“..No. I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.” He says. “I’m dangerous, I.. Do you remember last year when the.. the Void attacked New York? Right around the time that the New Avengers got announced?” He asks.

You pause.

“I mean, yeah, but I was in Jersey at the time, at a wedding.” Your first since getting sober. It was a rough weekend.

“Yeah, that was me.”

“..What was you?”

Bob wishes he could sink into your mattress and never show his face again.

“The void.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I’m not allowed to go on missions or.. get into any emotionally challenging situations..” he sighs. “Because I.. I can barely keep him.. or even the.. Sentry at bay.. I’m working on it.” He finally looks at you. “Which is why I don’t want a serious relationship either.” He says. “We.. we could just be friends.”

“Friends who fuck.”

“Book club with Benefits?”

You smile.

“Friends who discuss literature and also fuck.”

Bob rolls his eyes a bit, his lips pursing into a reluctant smile.

“Book club with benefits.” His pointer finger starts at the top of your back and travels down your spine, “Lots.. and lots.. of benefits.”

And if you could focus on anything other than how good that felt, you might’ve noticed the flicker of gold in his eyes.

///

“Decaf Caramel Frappuccino with extra caramel and whipped cream, and a medium hot coffee with half n half and two Splenda for Bob?” The barista calls, and you step forward to grab your drinks.

You hand Bob his glorified milkshake and sit at the same table you sat at last week.

“So,” You start, “Lord of the flies.”

“Yeah,” He breathes, “I.. I didn’t really like this one.” He shrugs.

“I think the concept is interesting enough.” You respond, “And it’s interesting that the group is only made up of privileged little British white boys. The horrors they put each other through might never have happened if they had been a group of schoolgirls, or if they had faced any hardship before this.” You shrug back, taking a sip of your coffee.

Bob nods as he studies the atmosphere of the café.

“Hey, do you wanna split a slice of cake or pie or something?” He asks, and you find yourself giggling.

“You’re ridiculous.” You scoff. Bob huffs.

“You’re boring.” He accuses and you just laugh more.

“I am not boring, I’m consistent.” It makes Bob shake his head.

“Coconut cream pie?” And the way he makes those puppy eyes makes you sigh.

“Fine. But you’re one piece of pie away from me accusing you of being addicted to that in place of Meth.”

“You wouldn’t.” He smirks, like he knows you better than you know yourself.

“Sure I would.” You shrug, “I’m just a concerned friend, Robby.” You smile, and then you watch as Bob gets up to get a slice of pie, ruffling your hair as he passes you.

///

“And then I said to him, I say, ‘If you want to hire spider-man to try and do your bidding, be my guess, but I—”

Bob is biting his tongue as he listens to everyone talk. He’s sitting on a chair at the kitchen island, watching as John moved around the kitchen, preparing dinner. He’s been staring at the same page of The Outsiders for ten minutes, just thinking.

Bucky is complaining about Sam, and before anyone can respond with anything, Bob clears his throat and puts his book down.

“Can I ask you guys something?” he wonders, and everyone’s head immediately turns to him. He barely talks in these group settings, so Yelena, who sits by his side, nods.

“Sure, what’s up?” She asks.

“..I need.. advice. I need to get a birthday gift for.. a friend of mine.” is how he starts.

“Not anyone in this room, right?” John asks, and everyone, including Bob, just looks at him.

“No. I know you think I’m socially inept, but I know not to ask what I should get someone while they’re in the room.” He huffs.

“Alright, who’s the gift for?” Bucky asks.

Bob wants to tell them all about you—your quirks, your laugh, the way your brain works, the way you feel wrapped around his—

But he hesitates.

“Just.. a friend.” He breathes. “From.. Book club.”

“Book club?” Ava answers, and already it feels like a mistake to have asked them but they’re his only friends besides you.

“Yeah, we.. choose a book to read every week and we meet up for coffee every week to talk about it.”

Yelena glances down to the book on the counter.

“Book club..” She nods, “And how long have you known this friend?”

“…It’s complicated.” He breathes.

“And do you hangout outside of book club?” John asks.

Bob’s cheeks flush.

“Sort of.”

“What does that even mean?” Ava asks, and he shrugs.

“We.. do some other stuff. I don’t know, she—”

“Oh, she?” Alexei finally pipes up, letting out a gruff laugh. “So you like her?”

“It’s just difficult to explain!” He snaps, and everyone pauses when the lights flicker. For a moment, no one says anything.

Then, Bucky huffs,

“So just try.” He gently prods. Bob hesitates.

“She’s.. I do like her. We started book club last month, but.. We met before.. Y’know.” He gestures around, “We..” his cheeks are red as tomatoes now. “When we’re done with coffee and talking about books, we.. we go back to her place, and we..”

Immediately everyone either groans or laughs. Bob feels like he might die on the spot.

“That is so weird,” Yelena laughs, and Bob groans as he covers his face with his hands, shaking his head.

“Never should’ve told you guys.”

“Okay, okay,” Bucky says after a moment. “You knew this girl before the Sentry project?”

“Yeah. We both were.. were addicts in Florida. We started hooking up, and I knew from before I went to Malaysia that she was moving back to New York, so I looked her up and—and you all said I needed to get a hobby!” He offered.

“We meant like,” Ava shrugs, “Knitting or—”

“Book club?” Yelena smiles. Bob bites the inside of his cheek.

“So, what should I get her for her birthday?"

“Well, what kind of message do you want to send?” John asks. “That you want to be more than.. whatever it is that—”

“..Book club with benefits.”

Everyone looks at him.

“What?”

“..That’s what we call it.”

“Oh, my god,” Yelena and Ava are giggling now.

“Okay. What kind of message do you want to send?” John asks again, and Bob hesitates.

“..That I care about her, that..” he shakes his head, “that.. I’m sorry for..” he picks his head up and notices everyone staring at him. He can hear the Void laughing at him in the back of his head.

“For..?” Bucky offers gently and Bob shakes his head. And then, he begins to tell his teammates about the last time he saw you.

///

Nineteen Months Ago

You and Bob had been sleeping together for months. Hanging out in between fucks and hits—or drinks. He had burrowed his way into your heart and taken up this big chunk of it, replacing booze in your late-night fantasies.

When he wasn’t extremely high, and you weren’t extremely drunk, you found yourself falling for him. The attention he showed you had been it’s own high, and you had let yourself become addicted to someone who you would never have a normal life with.

But he was there, waiting for you with a shot after every shift. You often helped him light up. The two of you encouraged each other’s destructive behaviors. Became each other’s self-destructive behaviors. Like the mentally ill addicts you were.

Your sister had flown down to Florida to see you.

You hadn’t asked her to. You knew she wouldn’t approve of this.. lifestyle. And at first, you wished she had never come to see you, because you did not want to stop drinking.. and then she wore you down. Your big sister always knew how to get you to do whatever she wanted.

So, the night before she was scheduled to fly back to New York, you went to see Bob. His roommate let you in, and you found him high and on his bed.

“Robby,” you said as you walk in. He smiled twenty seconds later when he registered your presence.

“I love it when you call me that.” He spoke.

You smiled weakly. You took a seat on his mattress.

“I have to talk to you.” You had said. He sat up, leaning forwards.

“Mm, All you do is talk to me,” he said slowly, and his hand grabbing yours. “Come kiss me instead—” His lips catch yours, in a soft, sweet kiss. He pulled away, and you whispered,

“Robby, please.”

And only then had he registered an important detail.

“You don’t taste like booze.”

You always tasted like booze.

“Yeah,” you nodded, “that’s why I wanted to talk to you—”

“No,” he said softly, “No, don’t—”

“Tomorrow, I’m flying to New York with my sister. I’m going to rehab.”

He shook his head, sighing.

“What.. what changed your mind?” He asked, and you shrug.

“My niece. My sister told me that.. she’s sick of having to talk about me like I’m dead. That she wants to know me. She’s six. Her names Ella.” A smile tugged at your lips. “She does dance. And she.. she loves to read, my sister said.. It reminded her of me.” Then, you shook your head, tears brimming your eyes. “I want to be in her life. I want to taste my mom’s cooking again. I.. I want to get better.” You cleared your throat.

“I’m going to Malaysia tomorrow.” Bob said, and your eyebrows furrowed.

“What?”

“I got fired from my job, so they gave me my last paycheck.. So I spent it on a plane ticket. I’m going to Malaysia with.. thirty bucks in my pocket. Maybe I’ll find the answers. Or, at least more drugs..” He shrugged. “Come with me.” He had offered.

You just shook your head.

“No.”

“No?” He scoffed, “What do you mean no?”

“No. I won’t go to Malaysia. I’m going torehab..” You started, and you inhaled before you asked, “And you should come with me.” You offered.

Bob let out a humorless chuckle.

“You..” He shook his head. “You’re just like everyone else.” He sighed, and you shook your head.

“Robby,” You whispered. “Please come with me. Get clean. Be.. be with me.” You said quietly, and when you leaned in to kiss him, he tilts his head away from you.

Oh.

“You should go.” He huffs. “I need to pack.”

You nod.

“You’re right. I should go.”

You stand, and make your way to the door, wiping your tears as you go.

Bob doesn’t say anything.

You stopped in the doorway, turning around to look at your sweet boy with no bed frame one last time.

“I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for.”

And then, as if you weren’t soul crushingly and devastatingly in love with him, you left. And you hadn’t seen him again. Not until you started book club.

///

“Decaf vanilla bean macchiato with whipped cream and cinnamon and a medium hot coffee with half n half and two Splenda for Bob?” Bob grabs the drinks today, and when he sits across from you, you start—

“So. Frankenstein?”

Bob sighs.

“I liked that it’s the first ever sci-fi novel, and it was written by a young woman. It’s interesting.” He shrugs.

“Yeah.” You nod, and you open your mouth to say something but Bob beats you to it,

“I mean, I don’t.. I don’t know. Victor is just.. so stupid but also so.. self-centered. He’s— He’s the one who created the monster, why can’t he take accountability for it? Why is the monster doomed to always.. be a product of his creator?” He sounds frustrated, so you gently shrug.

“It is bullshit. But I think the person aspect of him, the human aspects of the monster are all him.  The best parts of him comes from the work he does on himself.” You shrug, and Bob knows this conversation has strayed from Frankenstein. Kind of.

“Yeah.” He sighs softly.

A beat.

“And I agree.” You shrug, “Victor is a fucking idiot.”

Bob just smiles, and then asks,

“Wanna split a chocolate chip muffin with me?”

///

Bob calls you on a Saturday afternoon between book club meetups.

“Hey,” You say into the phone, “Everything okay?” You usually don’t talk except for your weekly meetups.

“Yeah,” He says into the phone.

“Okay.” You smile. “Do you.. need so—”

“Come over.” He gently requests, “I- I mean, You don’t.. you don’t have to, I was just wondering if you wanted to—I guess..” He breathes.

“Robby, it’s not even Thursday.” You tease.

“I don’t.. care,” He breathes.

“I..” You start, “Would.. really love to, but I gotta do laundry.”

“Do your laundry here.” He offers.

“Bob.”

“What?” he whines, “I..I just need.. to see you.”

You bite your tongue, but it would be nice to see him. To see his new, full bed. And you know that if he has a washer and dryer, it would make laundry a lot less frustrating than doing it in the laundry mat down the road from your apartment.

“Okay,” You sigh. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” You promise.

Bob meets you in the lobby of New Avengers tower, watching as you walk in, holding a bag of laundry as you make your way to him.

“This place is crazy,” You tell him, and Bob just smiles awkwardly.

“It’s.. just a tower.”

“Yeah, but like.. It’s definitely not just—” You cut yourself off when you realize how out of his element Bob looks. “Where’s this awesome new bed I hear so much about?” You ask, and it seems like it’s enough for him to relax.

“Come on, I’ll show you upstairs.” You follow him into the elevator, and when the doors close, he says, “So.. You’ll.. probably meet the team, or at least some of them.”

“Oh, I get to meet—” You clear your throat and wipe the smirk off your face. “That’ll be nice.”

Bob just looks at you for a moment.

“They’re.. kind of.. intense.” He breathes.

“Bob, we were addicts in Jacksonville, I can handle a couple of.. teammates.” You shrug.

Bob gives you an awkward smile.

“Yeah, sure.” He sighs. The doors open, and you follow Bob out, looking around the apartment. Like he’s looking around for trouble.

“Bob, seriously I—”

“Heads up!”

You and Bob duck at the same time when a football comes flying towards your head.

“Sorry,” a voice says, and you see.. The US Agent and The Red Guardian, coming to retrieve their ball.

“Ah, Bob,” The Red Guardian says, “Who is your girlfriend?” He smiles. Your cheeks flush.

“Uh, She’s.. just my friend. Who happens to be a girl.” He says.

“Right, right.” He nods.

“We’re in a book club together,” you start and both men start laughing while Bob looks intensely embarrassed.

“Oh,” One laughs, “You’re the book club girl.. I’m John. This is Alexei, are you staying for dinner?” He asks.

You glance to Bob, who looks back to you.

“Uh,” He shrugs, “I don’t.. maybe.” He breathes.

“Maybe isn’t—”

“Too late, we’re doing laundry, Bye!” Bob says, grabbing your hand and pulling you along. You just smile and bite back a comment about how jealous he seems.

“They seem nice.”

“They aren’t.” He grumbled, and you just laugh.

When you’re done putting on your laundry, Bob takes you to his room, and you can’t help the smile that stretches across your room. It’s a little messy, but there are books here and there, cozy blankets, warm lighting, and.. no meth. No booze.

You jump onto Bob’s bed, stretching out with a soft laugh, this stupidly large grin on your face.

“Oh, My Robby situationship has a real bed now, how divine,” You hum, and Bob just stands in the doorway with a soft smile on his face.

“I missed you.” he says softly, and you shake your head.

“Well, I’m here now,” You offer. He scoffs and walks over to the bed, finding his place on top of you as you lay back.

“Not really good enough for me,” He confesses.

“Needy Robby.” You jest, but before you can tease him further, he kisses you.

Your fingers find his hair in familiar movements, and Bob deepens the kiss further, his tongue slipping past your lips. His fingers dip under the shirt you’re wearing, and a soft shiver runs down your spine as he scratches up your sides, and when you moan in response, it seems to make him more confident in his movements.

Your fingers curl around his hair, tugging just barely on his hair. In between kisses, you mumble,

“Need you,” And he just catches your lip in his teeth, tugs a bit, and goes back to kissing you. And kissing you, and kissing you—

Until you hear the shatter of a glass on the nightstand. Both you and Bob pull away and your heads turn to look at the pile of glass and the water dripping off the nightstand.

“Did you..”

Bob’s face flushes.

“I-I didn’t mean to, I just—”

There’s a brief knock on the door, and then it opens, and a short blonde woman walks in.

“Bob, is everything okay, because—Woah,” She stops, noticing the compromising position the two of you are in, just as Bob takes his hand out of your shirt. “Oh, this is what happens at book club, huh—”

“Yelena!” Bob snaps, his cheeks red with embarrassment. Your eyebrows furrow when you see his eyes flicker gold.

“I was just trying to make sure you’re okay! The lights were flickering..”

Bob groans and rolls off of you.

You just smile awkwardly to Yelena.

“He’s fine, we were just..” You shrug. “Uh..” You chuckle awkwardly.

“Right, just.. Tell him to relax whenever he comes back down to earth,” She says, and then steps forward and holds out her hand, “I’m Yelena, it’s nice to—”

“Okay,” Bob stands suddenly, walking towards Yelena, “I’ll see you at dinner, okay?” He says, and she just smirks.

“Have fun at uh.. Book Club.” She says, turning to leave. Bob closes the door behind her and then glances back to you, and then groans, covering his face with his hands.

“Bob,” You grin, a soft laugh lacing your words, “Baby, it’s really not that bad.”

He looks at you when you call him that.

“It’s not..?”

“No.” You smile. “Come back to bed..” And then, you try, “Please, baby?”

Bob moves like lightning to kiss you again. It’s actually impressive. Not as impressive as breaking the glass or turning off the lights because he was just too.. needy. But, his speed is pretty impressive.

///

“Decaf pumpkin spice chai with extra cinnamon and a medium hot coffee with half n half and two Splenda for Bob?” You take the drinks from the barista, and slide into the seat across from Bob, glancing over to him.

“So,” You start, “1984.” You sip your coffee.

Bob gestures to you.

“Go for it.” He smiles gently.

You begin to talk about the political implications of the novel..

And Bob becomes slowly lost in thought. It starts out simple enough.

He notices how gorgeous your hair looks. You’re always so pretty.

We could take such good care of her, a voice says in the back of his head, She should know everything we could offer her.

Or..

No, Bob thinks. It’s bad enough that the ‘Sentry’ wants a piece of you, he wouldn’t be able to stand it if he entertained any thought of letting the Void out.. especially if he wanted to get anywhere near you.

Why not?, the voice asks, you could help.. We could help. She wouldn’t have to worry about her sobriety or any of her silly thoughts.

He’s right, The Sentry agrees, and Bob feels like he might be sick, How could you even know what she wants if you haven’t asked?

Because, Bob thinks, you don’t even want him. Why would you want either of these—

Because I’m better than a God, The first voice tells him, And he’s..

Everything you aren’t.

Exactly.

Shut up, Bob thinks, She wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t at least a little bit into me.. right?

You’re so naïve, Bobby, He could hear the Void mocking him, and it was even worse when Sentry cut in—

She could get a fuck from anywhere, and let’s face it, you’re not particularly tal—

“Let’s go back to your place,” He says suddenly, cutting your rambles off.

“Everything okay?” You ask, watching as he stands, grabbing his jacket.

“Uh.. Yeah.” He smiles awkwardly, “I’m just..” He shrugs, “In a.. a giving mood.” His cheeks flush when he says it, and the tips of your ears go red when you realize what he’s saying.

“Okay,” you nod, “No, like—pastry or brownie or—”

Bob clears his throat and inhales like he doesn’t want to regret what he’s about to say,

“I’ll have something sweet real soon,” He says. Your ears get redder.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

You stand up and take the last sip of your coffee.

“Okay.” You say, throwing out the cup on your way out the door.

“Okay.” Bob smiles, following you to your apartment.

///

“Decaf caramel dolce Frappuccino with cinnamon and extra whipped cream and a medium hot coffee with half n half and two Splenda for Bob?” Bob takes the drink from the Barista and slides into his usual spot.

He hands you his drink, and then you start,

“I cannot believe she married Rochester!” you whine, tossing the book down on the table. Jane Eyre was the book selection for this week—well, two weeks, it took you guys some time to get through it.

“Yeah,” Bob breathes, shaking his head, “I.. I mean—”

“Do not defend the man who kept his mentally ill wife locked in an attic and got with a nineteen-year-old,” You start, and Bob smiles a bit. He stares at you for a long moment and then you ask, “What’s wrong?”

“Uh, no-nothing.” He shakes his head. “I was just..” He shrugged, then he clears his throat, “She got a family, right?” You sigh.

“Yeah, she did.”

“And yeah, it would’ve been.. nice for her to end up with someone her age, but..” he shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s really good for her.” You just look at him. “Or maybe he died tragically young and left her his money.” You smile then.

And after a moment, you say,

“I guess everyone deserves a second chance, right?” You wonder, and he nods.

“Yeah.”

Bob feels like he can’t breathe.

You notice he looks it too.

“Wanna split a brownie?” You ask, and Bob smiles.

“Yeah.”

  ///

1:32 A.M.

You’re not sure if this counts as relapsing. You twist your phone in your hands and try to focus on breathing. In and out and—who should you call?

Your therapist? Your sister? What would you even say? ‘Sorry, I know you’re usually worried about me drinking but I just couldn't fight off the compulsions or the depression tonight, so can I come over so I don’t do what I just did again?’

You open your stupid fucking flip phone and dial Bob’s number.

“Hey, everything okay?” You note the lack of sleep from his voice. He must’ve already been up.

You inhale to try and answer, but you hesitate. You don’t want to start crying.

“Can I come over?” Is all you can say.

“Sure,” he answers immediately. “Do you want me to pick you up?”

You do. You want to see him as quickly as possible, but.. you have this insane thought that you don’t deserve the comfort, that you must wait to see him.

“I’ll walk,” And if Bob notices the distant tone, he doesn’t say anything.

“Okay. I’ll see you in ten, I’ll meet you in the lobby.” He says gently, and you nod, even though he can’t see you.

“Okay.”

You get up from your place on the bathroom floor, but you don’t hang up, so after a moment, his voice comes through the other end of the phone,

“Everything okay?” And you wish he would stop asking it.

“Mhm,” Is all you manage as you get your shoes on. You make your way down the stairs, the phone pressed against your ear.

Maybe he knows something is wrong, so he asks,

“Have you started reading The Hunger Games yet?” He asks. It was for ‘book club’ this week, and he just needs to hear you talk so he knows you’re still there.

“Yeah,” You breath as you walk down the stairs, the movement down the stairs more instinctual and second nature than conscious movement, like your brain is fixated on the fact that if you can get to Bob, you’ll be safe—safe from what, you do not know.

“What did you think?” He asks, as he slips on his own slippers, trying to think of anything else he can ask.

And in your daze, in your foggy brain that you try to stumble your way through, as you walk down the streets of New York, the cold air sending goosebumps up your arms, the breeze even stinging the fresh cuts on your arms. A group of girls about your age come down the street past you, drunk and giggling and you think about how alone you feel.

Your feet stop in front of a bar, and you take a moment to just stare at the neon sign, thinking about how easy it would be to get a drink. Another breeze plucks you out of your spiral. You wish you had brought a sweater or something.

Your head turns and you can see the ‘new’ Avengers tower just a few blocks away. So, you keep walking. You can make it there. Bob is waiting for you in the lobby.

“I like that the first thing we learn about Katniss is that she loves someone,” you say, walking towards the tower now. Your hands are beginning to shake. “We don’t know anything about her, her name, her place in the world, or even anything about the world.. we just know that she loves someone.” And when you say ‘someone’, your voice cracks. You can see the doors of the tower now.

“Yeah,” he says on the other end of the phone, and as you get closer you see him there, a small smile on his face as he stands there, and it registers in your brain that he is smiling as he’s talking to you. It registers, just barely. “Sometimes I.. I can’t believe how smart you are.” He says, and it makes you feel almost.. anxious. Like he’s lying.

You hang up as you walk through the doors, and Bob’s shy, isolated smile falls when he sees you. When he sees your arms.

“Holy fuck,” is what he says, and that does not make you feel better.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your tears now falling freely, and not because you’re sad, but because you’re ashamed, and because you feel bad that Bob has to deal with this and because..

This definitely counts as a violation of your ‘book club with benefits’ agreements.

“It’s okay,” he starts, “it’s alright, we can handle this,” He says, but you hear the shakiness in his voice. You know he’s pushing through his own terror in this moment.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, taking a step back from him, but he shakes his head as you continue, “I.. I shouldn’t have come here,” And you go to turn but you feel Bob’s hand grab yours.

“Yes, you should have.” He says, “Because if it were me and I didn’t call you, and I just let myself spiral further, you’d be so mad at me.”

You know he’s right.

“You shouldn’t have to take care of me.”

“But I want to.” He says gently. “So let me.”

And you nod, because you know the path you’re on. You know what letting him in leads to.

So does he.

You don’t say much else, but you let him lead you upstairs, his hand clutched around yours.

The ride up the elevator is quiet. Bob just keeps his grip on your hand and then he asks,

“What else did you.. like about the book?” He asked.

You search your brain for an answer. You know he’s trying to keep you distracted.

“I like Peeta. He’s a sweet character.” You say gently. And then, before you can stop yourself, you say, “He reminds me of you.” Your hand shakily comes up to brush a lock of hair behind his ear. You notice the way a small smile tugs at his face. His head tilts and he kisses the palm of your hand.

The doors to the elevator open, and Bob’s fingers lace with yours.

“Let’s..” he nods towards the door, and you nod in return. He walks just a step ahead of you, but you notice the way he takes the occasional glance back. Both of your heads pick up when you hear footsteps approaching, and there stands Yelena, in these plaid pajama pants and a big tee shirt for some beer company. She looks half asleep but she smiles when she sees you two.

“Oh look, book club meets late now, how—” she stops, her face growing concerned when she sees your arms, “What did—” But she stops when she sees Bob shake his head. Instead, she glances back to you and in a way that leaves no room for argument, she says, “You call if you need me.” And without another word, she turns and makes her way past you down the hall.

You and Bob find the bathroom. “Take a seat,” he gently says, and you decide to sit on the edge of the tub. He shuffles through the supplies and pulls out some bandages and some antibiotic spray. He takes a rag from off the counter and soaks it in some warm water. Then, he turns back to you. “Can I see?”

You just hold your hands out, and Bob starts by just looking at the cuts. There’s not a ton of them, but there are enough for him to notice. He gently cleans them with the warm rag and then sprays your wrists with the antibiotic spray.

“When did you learn first aid?” you ask.

Bob shrugs.

“When.. when you’re the standby in a team of superheroes..” he shrugs. “You pick up on a few things.”

“You’re a hero too.” You say softly. Bob doesn’t respond, he just wraps your wrists with the bandages he holds. He doesn’t want to tell you that he’s no hero, that he’s hurt so many people that he thinks he’ll be repenting for the rest of his life.

He turns around to put the spray and bandages away, and when he turns back, he sees you sitting on the floor, leaning against the tub. He sighs and sits next to you on the floor. Then, he asks,

“Do you want to talk about it?” You shake your head. “C’mon..” he says softly. “It’s just me.” He reminds.

“I..”  You sigh. “I haven’t.. self-harmed like that since.. middle school. I just wanted to feel something, anything that didn’t feel like I was drowning.” You confess. “I’m sorry I bothered you, I don’t know—”

“Stop,” he says softly, “We’re..” He sighs. “I meant it. I want to take care of you.”

You can’t stop the tears from falling as you shake your head.

“You wanna know the worst part?”

Bob’s voice is genuine when he says,

“I want to know all of it.”

Finally, you turn your head to look at him.

“I’m falling back in love with you.” You tell him. He nods.

“Can I tell you a secret?” He asks softly. You feel a smile tug at your lips, and it makes Bob smile too.

“Sure.” You answer.

“I never stopped.” He said, “When I saw you again, it was like..” He shook his head. “I should’ve gone to rehab with you.” He whispered. Your heart aches. “I never.. never should’ve went to Malaysia or..” He frowns. “I could’ve built a life with you. A real life, not just.. One where I have to pretend like I don’t.. like I don’t want to ask you to stay.”

Your heart breaks when you see tears brimming his eyes.

“Robby,” You whisper, even though it’s just the two of you in this bathroom. The lights flicker just a bit, so you lace your fingers with his.

“I.. I was so.. so stupid.” He shakes his head, “I never..” His eyes meet yours. “I really screwed it up, and.. I’m sorry. And I love you.” He confesses.

“What about uh..” You sniff, “What about neither of us wanting to be in a.. serious relationship?”

“Fuck that.” He says, and his confidence in it takes you back, “I’m tired of.. of not seeing you everyday. A week is too long to go without seeing you.” He confesses, and your free hand comes up to tuck a curl behind his ear.

“I love you too.” You tell him. You lean your forehead against his and then say, “So ask me.”

“Ask.. Ask you what?”

“Ask me to stay.” You whisper, “And maybe I will.”

“..Just.. Just maybe?”

“Guess you’ll have to ask and see.”

“..Stay.” He says softly. You can’t help it, so, you say,

“That’s not really a question—” Bob stares at you for a long time, a smile making his glare much less intimidating.

“Will you stay? Here, with me?” he wonders, “Be with me.” He requests.

You kiss him, but there’s no expectation in this one. You don’t expect him to want to fuck, to want to sleep with you. This kiss is pure, with no strings attached. No benefits.

When you pull away, you nod.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll stay for as long as you want me to.” You promise, and Bob smiles a bit, looking down to your intwined fingers.

“That’s.. nice.” Your awkward Loverboy responds, and you’re shocked when he asks, “Do you.. uhm..”

“Do I..?”

“Do you.. wanna watch.. Star Wars with me?” he wonders.

You can’t help but smile.

“Which one?”

“The best one.” He shrugs. “Revenge of the Sith?”

“Sure. That sounds nice.” You confess.

Halfway through the movie, you would fall asleep right on top of him, and Bob would realize that this was always where he was meant to be.

///

For your birthday, Bob hands you a small present, wrapped in paper decorated with sprinkles. When you open it, you find a copy of The Great Gatsby.

Only this copy is bound by leather and has this beautiful dark blue and gold cover on it. It must’ve cost Bob—well, it wasn’t cheap, but It’s gorgeous, and inside, you find a note scribbled onto the title page—

“I found what I was looking for.

Love, Robby.”

[fairydustttx]

Best Cinematography: Sinners (2025) — cinematography by Autumn Durald Arkapaw

[fairydustttx]

Lewis Pullman character request idea 💡: Dr. Calvin Evans doesn't know how to act when his lab tech/research partner is going on a date with a colleague from his past (perhaps yearning, jealousy, and a declaration of love ensues 👼) I highly recommend everyone to watch Lessons In Chemistry if you haven't

Lessons in Chemistry has destroyed my life and soul. It's amazing and deserves a bigger fan base. I grant you your request. (Please note I chose a major FAR away from the sciences. I know NOTHING about chemistry.

It has been months since you started working as Calvin's lab tech. For the most part, you help organize his lab and brainstorm. You also spend most of your time reading research papers and textbooks to find solutions or get a different perspective. So far, things have been going well.

Except for the fact that he's hardly been talking to you recently. You can't remember the exact day things changed, but it can't have been more than two days. Every time you try to bring up an idea, he nods his head and gives you a one-word answer. It's gotten to a point where the other chemists talk to you more than him.

You expect the same treatment as you enter his lab. You've learned to ignore the signs on his door that grow in numbers every once in a while. The newest one is 'stop asking for my supplies'.

"Morning, Calvin," You greet him. He's hunched over one of the black laminate lab tables. He's staring intently at two beakers with different liquids in them. You know better to ask at this point.

"Morning," He replies in a low tone. He's dead focused and lost in thought. You pay him no mind and grab a textbook from his shelf. You've decided to go back to the basics to find anything you can use as a breakthrough. You can feel his eyes watching you as you sit at his desk.

You ignore him the same way he's been ignoring you. You won't give him the satisfaction of having all your attention unless he's earned it. Except, every few minutes, you can sense him watching you. It drives you mad that he won't even say a word. You want to throw the textbook at him to see if he'll finally speak, but you need it.

"Could you pass me my notebook and pen?" He asks after an hour of silence. Your eyes flicker from the page to him with an unamused expression. Without looking away, you reach for the notebook and pen. You hold it out in front of you and dare him to ask you to get up. "Thanks," He mutters.

He approaches you and takes the requested items. He doesn't move away from you. At least, not right away. You follow his line of sight, and he's zoned in on your hand. You clear your throat, and it snaps him out of his trance. He slaps the notebook against his hand and walks back to his experiment.

Another long space of silence passes, and you've finally gotten into the reading. You've relaxed in his chair, and your mind is filled with equations that you're trying to alter.

"Do you mind-" He tries to start, but you twist around in his chair to glare at him. Your fingers press against the chapter page as you silently loathe him.

"Listen, if you're going to keep me around to fetch you items, then I'd be more useful helping the other chemists." You snap. You're tired of only speaking to him when he needs something. You miss the banter and jokes you'd share with him. It used to brighten your day, and if he weren't so handsome, you'd have left by now.

His soft blue eyes search your face for a joke or for any sign that you're bluffing. You wish you were. His jaw clenches and unclenches as if he has something important to say.

"I heard you got asked out," He declares. He rests his fist against his mouth as if he regrets speaking. "I can't have you getting distracted," He mumbles.

"That's what this is about?" You scoff. He's been acting off because you got asked out. He's more interested in you remaining devoted to chemistry than your personal life. "One of the lab techs asked me out and I agreed. Is that enough information for you?" You speak harshly.

His eyes squint and reset at your reaction. You can see the gears working in his mind to figure out what to say.

"You agreed?" He asks. There is internal screaming inside your head that fuels your annoyance. "Does this mean you'll be here less?"

"I'm not sure! If things go well, then maybe. That isn't important, though." You throw your hands up. "I'm dedicated to helping you, so I'll be here enough."

"We need a submission for the grant, and if you're busy running off on dates, how am I supposed to rely on you?" That was more than enough for you. You close the textbook and set it on his desk. Your body is way too hot, and you cannot stand to be in the same room as him right now.

Without a word, you storm out of his lab and slam the door shut behind you. You can hear one of his signs hit the floor from the force. The farther you get, the worse your heart feels. As if it's being pulled in two different directions.

---

The day went by quickly after you left his lab. You distracted yourself with mindless tasks, but you still couldn't stop thinking about the argument. It doesn't make sense in your mind as to why he'd react that way.

You step outside the building to see heavy rain pouring down. Thankfully, you're covered where you're standing. Unfortunately, you didn't bring an umbrella to work. With a grunt, you step out from your protection and allow yourself to be exposed to the rain. The soft drops cool your skin down, and it soothes something inside you.

By the time you reach your car, you're soaked. You press the key into the slot of the door and right as you're about to turn it you hear your name.

Your head snaps up to look around the lot. You notice a figure running towards you and recognize them to be Calvin. You don't know why he's running in the rain to you, but you don't jump in your car.

He stops a few inches from you, and he's not even out of breath. His eyes instantly stare into yours as he tries to collect his thoughts. Rain drips from his hair down his nose. It's maddening how dignified he looks while getting drenched.

"Don't go out with him," He isn't ordering you, but he isn't suggesting either. "Please."

"This again? I'm not going to be distracted!" You groan. You press your hands against our face to contain yourself. You cannot believe you're about to have the same argument from earlier.

"I'm not saying this because I'm worried about your commitment. I know you're just as devoted to getting this grant as I am," He huffs. "I'm saying it because the idea of seeing you and your smile less drives me crazy. You brighten my lab just being there, and you make me feel unstuck." He confesses hastily.

You can't find the words to say as he admits his feelings. You had no clue he felt this way. You should scream at him for treating you poorly, simply because he was jealous. Yet, you're almost glad he is.

"Working with you has been the greatest pleasure of my life. I'd give up ever winning an award if it meant I could stay by your side." He places his hands on his hips. "I'm sorry I've been distant and I've been wasting your time. I just wanted more of it." It's clear he has more to say, but he's waiting for your reaction.

"I'll accept your apology, but if you ever treat me like that again, I'm breaking all your beakers." You warn. You want to look serious, but a smile creeps up on your lips as you speak. "However, you're going to have to do more to convince me not to go on that date," You taunt.

"Say less," He nods. His hands gently cradle your head, and he tilts it so his lips can press against yours perfectly. Rain enters your mouth during the kiss, but it doesn't bother you. Not when his warmth is consuming you. The kiss is desperate but slow. He's trying to get his point across, and it's working.

When he finally pulls away, you continue to stare at his lips. Your hands go to his wrists to keep his hands in place.

"I think I can cancel that date," You hum.

"Oh, you think you can?" He chuckles. His thumb rubs circles over your cheeks.

[fairydustttx]

M2M.

Bob Floyd x reader

“Maybe it’s our matching rings and that time that we kissed, I don’t understand why they never think what we do is totally platonic”

A/N: I have so many different ways I’ve wrote about this man but I can’t seem to write an enemies to lovers type story for him so here’s a lil platonicish one shot instead.

Wc: 1985

Summary: Everyone thinks you’re dating. Sometimes even you think you are but you’re just best friends. Maybe soulmates. Maybe something else. It’s complicated.

PART TWO

Bob's shoulder knocks gently into yours as you both stand in front of the ancient vending machine that lives just outside the rec room at the base.

It's midnight. The air smells like jet fuel and cold metal. You're both exhausted from the day and ready to go home with you still in your flight suit.

You groan softly hitting the vending machine with your fist, not at all impressed with the selection of snacks. "How is this stupid thing always out of the only decent chips?"

Bob leans in close to the scratched-up vending machine, the flickering light above casting a dim glow over his face. He squints at the smeared glass like it's a math equation and not a lineup of overpriced, over-salted snacks. The keypad sticks slightly as he punches in the code, the machine giving a low mechanical groan in protest.

"You say that like barbecue Lays aren't trash," he mutters, half to himself, half to you.

You shoot him a look, elbowing him hard in the side—not enough to hurt, just enough to make a point. "You have the taste buds of a sleep-deprived toddler. It's actually kind of worrying."

Bob grins, easy and boyish. "But you love me anyway."

The words hang there, soft but loud. He says them without weight, without a second thought, like they're part of some long-standing bit between you. And maybe they are. Maybe that's the problem.

Your breath catches—not audibly, not visibly, but you feel it. A pause just long enough to make it real. Your eyes flick to his face, studying it for any sign that he meant something by it, anything more than the careless comfort of familiarity.

But Bob just stands there, relaxed, like he hasn't just knocked the wind out of you. And you? You don't respond. You never do.

The machine sputters and jerks to life with a final groan, spitting out a sad bag of salt and vinegar chips like it's exhausted by the effort. The plastic packaging flops to the bottom bin with an anticlimactic thud.

You both stare down at it.

"I absolutely hate those," you mutter, nose wrinkling. The smell alone makes your mouth feel dry.

Bob shrugs, bending to retrieve the bag. His shoulders are broad under the soft gray hoodie he wears when he's too tired to care about uniform or image. He straightens, turns, and holds the chips out to you anyway, the corner of his mouth twitching like he's daring you to take them.

"Guess that makes us even."

You hesitate for a moment, your eyes on the crumpled bag in his hand. It crackles faintly as he holds it out, his fingers steady.

It would be easy to take it—say something quick and sarcastic, keep the rhythm the two of you always fall into. But tonight feels different. Off-balance in a way you can't explain.

So you don't reach out. You just say it.

"Bob, you know people think we're dating."

He pauses, caught mid-shift, the easy amusement faltering for a second. He looks at you, not surprised exactly—just waiting.

"Because of the vending machine?" he says eventually, with a hint of a smile.

"No." You exhale slowly. "Just... in general."

Bob tilts his head, like he's actually considering it. "Is it that obvious?"

You glance over at him, and he's already watching you. He's got that quiet way of looking—focused, careful. Like he never wants to make you uncomfortable, but he still wants the truth.

"Yeah," you say. "I think it is."

There's a pause. Not awkward. Just full.

"You want to correct them?" he asks.

You shift your weight, leaning back against the wall. "And say what? 'We're just... really close and maybe a little emotionally entangled but not in a romantic way, definitely not, absolutely not'?"

That makes him laugh, soft and tired. "You forgot 'definitely not sleeping together.' That part is also very important."

You smile faintly but don't laugh. It's quiet again.

He leans next to you, shoulders a careful distance away. His presence is familiar. He always has been, even when you didn't ask him to be.

The thing is, you've both had this conversation before. Not out loud. But in sidelong glances, in the way your fingers brush when you pass something between you, in the moments when you're too tired to pretend this connection doesn't run deeper than it should.

People ask all the time.

Phoenix asked once, outright, smirking across a crowded bar: "You two ever gonna admit you're disgustingly in love, or should we just start placing bets?"

Hangman's been cruder, but not entirely wrong. "No one stares at their so called 'friend' like that, Bob."

You always shut it down. "We're just close."

Bob always nods. "She's like family.”

But lately, even that doesn't sound right. Because it isn't just closeness. And you're not family—not really. You're something in between. Some unnamed liminal space neither of you dares to step out of.

Bob shifts again. "You ever wish it was easier?"

You glance sideways. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs, eyes down. "I don't know. That we could either be all the way in or all the way out. Instead of... whatever this is."

You don't answer for a long moment.

Then quietly, "Sometimes."

The silence grows heavier, but it doesn't crush you. It wraps around you both, familiar, like a blanket you've grown used to sharing.

Finally, he says, "We're still okay, right?"

You meet his eyes. Honest, open, as always.

"Yeah," you say. "We're okay."

And for now, that's true.

He doesn't press the bag into your hand again. Doesn't push. Just keeps it held between you, like the answer might live there, in that space you never quite cross.

You think about stepping closer but you don't.

                   ⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It happened on a Tuesday.

No alcohol. No party. No high-stakes adrenaline or moment you could pin it on later. Just two people sitting too close on a couch they'd half-fallen asleep on more times than either of them would admit. The overhead light was dim, the television humming softly in the background, casting flickers across the walls like distant lightning.

You were leaning sideways, legs curled under you, thighs brushing Bob's. He was laughing—quiet and breathless, hand half-covering his mouth the way he always did when he didn't want to laugh too loud. You'd just finished a downright horrible impression of Maverick giving a safety briefing, complete with squinted eyes and a hand gesture that didn't mean anything.

"You're gonna get us both court-martialed," Bob said, shaking his head, still laughing.

"Worth it," you murmured, grinning.

And then came the silence.

Not the awkward kind. The kind that settles between people who know each other a little too well. Who've seen each other wrecked and scared and messily human—and never looked away. The kind of quiet that says I know you and I don't need you to perform for me.

Bob turned to look at you. Just a little. But long enough and you didn't look away.

The moment wasn't big or dramatic. Just... slow. Soft. The air shifted, and suddenly your pulse was too loud in your ears. His eyes searched yours like he was looking for something he didn't quite dare to name.

And then his hand was on your jaw—tentative, warm, reverent and you didn't stop him.

The kiss was slow, unsure. The kind of kiss that starts like a question. You felt it catch low in your throat and twist somewhere deep in your chest, the kind of ache you weren't expecting. It made your skin feel too tight, your thoughts too loud. It didn't feel like crossing a line—it felt like remembering something you'd forgotten.

Bob pulled back first. Barely.

His breath caught, lips still close enough to brush yours when he spoke.

"I—"

You pressed your fingers gently to his shoulder. "Don't."

"No," he said softly. "I care about you. So much it makes my chest hurt sometimes. But...”

You nodded, even though your heart was still galloping at one hundred miles per hour. "Yeah. But."

The silence after that wasn't awkward, either. Just heavy. Full.

Bob swallowed hard. "You mean too much to me to mess it up."

You leaned your head back, eyes slipping shut for a second. "Same."

When you looked at him again, his expression was unreadable. Soft. Guarded. Like he wasn't sure what he wanted to say next, only that it would matter too much.

"You're my person," he said, almost a whisper.

A breath hitched behind your ribs. You smiled.

"Always."

                  ⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The next morning, nothing was different. Not really.

He handed you your coffee like he always did—two creams, one sugar, lid already on, still warm. You slid his breakfast sandwich across the table toward him without glancing up from your phone. You both settled into the rhythm like muscle memory.

But the difference was there—in the quiet places.

When your fingers brushed reaching for the same file, you froze just a second too long. When he laughed at something you said, his gaze lingered a little more than it used to. When someone on base cracked a joke "God, you two are like an old married couple" neither of you denied it.

You just looked at each other. You smiled. He didn't look away.

No explanations. No disclaimers.

It became the truth between you, unspoken but always there.

Halo raised a brow, catching the tail end of a too-soft conversation between you and Bob during the maintenance delay. "You two sure you're not secretly married?"

You'd waved her off, sarcastic and dismissive as always. "Please. I'd eat my wings before marrying Bob Floyd."

But later, when you were walking back to your quarters, Bob had murmured, "She's not going to be last person to ask."

You knew that. Of course you did because this wasn't normal. It wasn't nothing, either.

You were each other's first call. The name saved with little stars or dumb nicknames in your phones. The person who noticed first when the other was too quiet. Too tired. On the edge.

Bob was the one who'd driven an hour and a half once just to sit in your living room when you couldn't sleep. You were the one who'd pulled him off base after a rough week and sat with him in a 24-hour diner, playing stupid songs off the jukebox until he started smiling again.

It wasn't romance.

But it wasn't friendship the way people meant it, either. It was something else.

That night on the couch still echoes between you—still sits like dust in the spaces where your fingers almost touch. You think about it sometimes when he brushes a stray hair from your face without thinking. When he falls asleep next to you on long flights, his shoulder warm against yours. When someone else flirts with him, and you feel something twist in your stomach that you pretend not to name.

You lie awake some nights, wondering what if the two of you tried?

Would you make it work? Would you ruin everything?

But you never speak the questions out loud. Neither does he and maybe that's the point.

You live in that quiet middle place. In the long glances. In the unspoken loyalty. In the way you trust each other more than anyone else without ever needing to say it.

You don't say "I love you," but it's there. In the little things. In the constant showing up. In the comfort of knowing that when everything else is falling apart, you'll always have each other.

Bob Floyd is your anchor. Your calm. Your constant.

Not a love story in the traditional sense but something real. Something lasting.

And maybe, just maybe, that's more than enough.

[fairydustttx]

Undressed.

Bob Floyd x reader

“I'm lookin' at you, and you're lookin' at me, but the glimmer in your eyes is sayin' you wanna leave”

Warnings: Hangman being a dickhead as usual.

Wc: 1859

Summary: Not everything begins in life with fireworks. Sometimes it starts with quiet looks, a shared silence, and the slow unraveling of something real. Two people, a little worn down by life, learning how to show up—for themselves and maybe… each other.

Bob Floyd notices things. He always has. He notices the way people tap their fingers when they lie, or how they glance down and to the left when they're trying to pretend everything's fine. He notices the way you laugh just a little too loudly when Jake’s around. How your eyes never quite reach his anymore.

Hangman is all swagger and shine, perfect smile, perfect posture. He kisses you like he’s performing, and sometimes it feels like he loves the idea of being your boyfriend more than he loves you.

Bob never says any of that. Of course he doesn’t. You're still with Jake, after all and nothing he could ever say would change that

And Bob? Well he’s just friend. The quiet one. The one you sit next to when Jake’s late (again) for drinks. The one who brings you an extra granola bar on long flights because he knows you forget to eat when you're stressed out. The one who listens, really listens when you talk.

Tonight, it’s the Hard Deck. Hangman’s flirting across the bar with someone he probably shouldn’t be. Again. You're trying not to look. Again.

Bob’s sitting beside you in that too-large hoodie and those wire-framed glasses, hands folded, beer untouched. You’re swirling your drink, eyes distant.

“Rough night?” he asks, low and careful.

You exhale a laugh, humorless. “Jake’s being Jake.”

Bob doesn’t say I told you so. Instead, he says, “You okay?”

You blink at him. No one's asked you that in weeks.

“I don’t know,” you admit with a sigh.

And there it is, Bob’s eyes soften, not with pity, but with that kind of steady presence that tells you he’s right here. That he’s always been right here.

“You deserve someone who doesn’t make you guess how they feel.” he says, quiet enough that only you can hear it.

You look at him. Really look. The air between you feels different now. But nothing happens. He doesn’t lean in and you don’t reach out for him.

Jake calls your name from across the room, and you flinch. Bob sees that too.

And even as you stand, grabbing your bag, offering Bob a soft “thank you,” part of you stays behind with him. He just gives you the smallest nod. He doesn’t say, “I’d never make you flinch.”

But you hear it anyway.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The breakup doesn’t explode. It fizzles.

No slammed doors, no sharp words slicing through a crowded bar. Just silence. A slow suffocation of intimacy. Texts left unanswered. Glances that stopped lingering. The weight of everything unsaid pressing so heavily between you that it became easier to say nothing at all.

Jake moved on the way Jake always did, head high, heart low, already scanning the room for someone who didn’t look like you. He was all charm and polish, the golden boy turned ghost before the sheets cooled.

You didn’t cry. Not really. Just folded up the little parts of yourself that had bent to fit around him and put them away like a worn-out flight suit.

You still showed up. To flight drills, to the Hard Deck, to squad briefings with a practiced smile and dry jokes that tasted bitter at the back of your tongue. It worked mostly. Everyone bought the version of you that was doing fine.

Everyone except Bob. He saw through it. He always had.

Not that he ever said anything directly. That wasn’t his way. Bob Floyd was subtle the way gravity was constant, invisible, inevitable.

You noticed him more after Jake. Maybe not more, but clearer. The way he always gave you the better chair. How he’d tilt his head when you talked, like he was tuning into a frequency only you emitted. The way he said your name soft, full of care, never casual.

You’d always known he was kind. Gentle. Solid. But there was something else too—something just beneath the surface. A steadiness that didn’t come from pretending things were okay, but from surviving the times they weren’t.

You were sitting on the wing of your jet when he found you again still half-suited, fingers threaded through your gloves, just watching the light spill across the hangar floor like it might tell you what to do next.

“Didn’t see you at debrief,” he said quietly.

His voice cut through the silence like the first breath after surfacing.

You looked over. His hair was mussed, and his helmet hung from one hand. The collar of his suit was loose, revealing the strong lines of his neck. He looked tired. Or maybe that was just the way Bob always looked like he carried the weight of other people’s burdens even when they weren’t his.

“I didn’t feel like hearing about how I flared too early,” you muttered.

He gave you a soft half-smile, the kind that barely reached his eyes. “You didn’t. Not really.”

“Thanks for lying.”

“I’m not.” A beat. “Not this time.”

You let that sit between you. The quiet wasn’t awkward, it never was with him. He had a way of making silence feel like a choice instead of a void.

“You haven’t said anything,” you said eventually, eyes flicking to his face. “About me and Jake. About the end.”

Bob shifted his stance, his boot scuffing lightly on the concrete floor. “Didn’t think it was my place to.”

You nodded slowly. “It’s not. Or—it wasn’t.”

He looked at you then. And whatever he saw made his brows knit together slightly, like he wasn’t sure if what was happening was real.

“You’ve always had a place, Bob.”

The words felt heavier than they should’ve. But they were true. He had always been there on the edge, just close enough to reach if you ever turned around.

Bob hesitated for a moment. Then spoke.

“I hated watching you hurt,” he said, voice low. “But I knew if I said anything back then, it would’ve been about me. Not about helping you. And that felt wrong.”

You blinked. Something sharp caught behind your ribs.

“You were right. I wouldn’t have heard it. I didn’t want to see what he was doing to me. Not then.”

Bob nodded once, slowly. “People don’t always choose what’s good for them. Sometimes they choose what makes them feel less alone.”

You didn’t respond right away. The truth of it burned too close.

“And what do you think I’m choosing now?”

He looked startled. “I—what?”

You slid down from the wing. Your boots landed with a thud, and you stood in front of him, closer than you probably should have been. His eyes searched yours, cautious. Kind.

“You’ve always seen me, Bob. Not the idea of me. Not the version Jake made me into.”

“I never wanted anything from you,” he said. “Just to be near you. That was enough.”

You shook your head slowly. “That’s the thing. It’s not enough anymore.”

Bob didn’t move, but his whole body went still, like you’d pulled the pin out of something buried inside him.

“I don’t want you to keep watching me from across the bar, or giving me quiet coffee and excuses not to talk about it. I don’t want you to keep being the one who waits.”

He swallowed hard. “And if I said I’ve stopped waiting?”

Your breath caught. “I’d say you’re lying.”

He looked at you like he didn’t know what to do with this openness, this shift in gravity. But he didn’t step back. He leaned in.

“I don’t want to be your rebound,” Bob said, barely above a whisper.

“You’re not,” you said simply. “You’re my after.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then, slowly, deliberately, Bob reached up. His fingers brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. His palm hovered near your cheek, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the warmth.

When you finally kissed, it was slow. Not tentative—just full of meaning. Full of everything that had gone unsaid.

It wasn’t about possession. It wasn’t about fixing. It was about being seen.

And this time, being chosen.

When you pulled apart, you stayed close. Breathing in the same space.

“I’m not perfect,” you said. “I’m still figuring this out.”

Bob smiled small, shy, and sincere. “Good. Me too.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

There was no restaurant with dim lighting and overpriced cocktails. No rooftop views or curated playlists. When Bob asked what you wanted to do, you told him: “Something that doesn’t feel like I’m pretending.”

So, he took you to the beach. Not the tourist kind. The one tucked behind the base, quiet and mostly forgotten except by the occasional jogger or off-duty pilot who needed to scream into the sea. Which was pretty valid.

It was late afternoon when he picked you up. The sun slouched low on the horizon, spilling gold across the dashboard of his truck. The windows were rolled down, wind threading through your hair. Bob didn’t say much, but his thumb tapped lightly against the steering wheel to the beat of the radio. Something soft, something from a playlist you suspected he’d made just for this.

You didn’t ask. But you smiled.

The beach was empty except for a weathered picnic table and some sun-bleached driftwood. He’d brought sandwiches from a deli he swore made “the best turkey in the county” and two cans of ginger ale, still cold from a little cooler in the backseat.

It was easy. Ridiculously easy.

You sat barefoot on the sand, shoes forgotten, your knees brushing as the conversation wound from base gossip to childhood memories. You told him about your sisters, about sneaking wine coolers into high school dances and falling out of love with the idea of perfection. He told you about growing up quiet in a loud family, how he used to feel invisible until he met flying.

“But you were always there,” you said, nudging his shoulder. “I mean, I don’t remember a time I didn’t know who you were.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s kind of how I felt about you, too.”

The sun dipped lower. Orange bled into violet. The light hit his profile just right, and for the first time, you noticed how his lashes were unfairly long. His hands were strong but relaxed—like he’d finally unclenched something he’d been holding for years.

At one point, you stood up and wandered down the shore. Bob followed without question. The water was cold but refreshing. You didn’t talk, just walked close enough that your hands brushed occasionally, then lingered.

Finally, you stopped. Looked out at the wide-open horizon.

“I don’t know what this is yet,” you admitted quietly. “But I want to know. I want to see where it goes.”

Bob didn’t hesitate. “Me too.”

He reached for your hand. Not possessively. Just steady. Honest.

And it was enough.

Later, when the sun was gone and the stars began pricking the sky with silver, you sat beside him in the bed of his truck. Wrapped in a blanket he’d pulled from behind the seat. You rested your head on his shoulder and Bob leaned his against yours.