httpazxnth

[httpazxnth]

jesus, this one is one of the best marvel fanfic i’ve read in a while. loved it !!

Off record.

John Walker 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – nsfw (18+), sexual themes, explicit sexual content MDNI, Angst with a happy ending, “we’re not dating” energy, emotional tension, spicy payoff, domestic softness, John Walker redemption arc, Dad!Walker, found family, and I swear I don’t hate Creed lmao

word count: 7k

Summary: You weren’t supposed to fall for John Walker.

Not when he was a disaster of a man, all snark and contradictions and casually cruel denials. Not when he made your chest ache with how close he let you get—only to remind you it “wasn’t a thing.” Not when you knew better.

But still, you stayed. And so did he.

notes – not proofread. A slow-burn, not-a-relationship that turns into something real. Featuring: angry hallway kisses, whiskey sours you hate, Bucky Barnes giving big-brother judgment, and a reluctant co-parent turned domestic menace who finally learns how to love you out loud.

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

The job is supposed to be easy.

Babysit a state senator for one night during a hush-hush defense contract meeting in lower Manhattan. Keep him breathing. Keep his reputation clean. Don’t break anything you can’t afford to replace.

You’re two hours in and already regretting every life decision that led to you being crammed into the front seat of a blacked-out SUV with John Walker.

He’s in the driver’s seat, boots on the dash, fingers drumming a steady beat against the steering wheel. Every few seconds he glances at his phone, sighs, and tucks it back into his jacket like he didn’t just check it 30 seconds ago.

You cross your arms. “You good over there, Captain No Chill?”

He doesn’t look at you. “I’m fine.”

“You sure? You’ve checked your phone more than our perimeter.”

He shrugs. “Sorry if I’m not thrilled to be stuck in a car with someone who breathes sarcasm.”

“That’s not fair,” you say. “Sometimes I breathe disdain.”

A ghost of a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. But it fades fast.

Back to silence.

You study him in the low light of the dash—clean-shaven, sharp jaw that’s clenched tighter than his crossed arms. His knuckles flex every few seconds, like he’s trying to keep something in check. Something alive. Or angry.

You’ve seen that look before. He wears it like body armor.

You clear your throat. “You always this twitchy on stakeouts?”

He finally glances at you. “You always this nosy?”

You shrug. “Only when I’m bored.”

“Then find a podcast.”

You reach for his phone. “You’ll thank me when I fix your music taste.”

He yanks it away. “Don’t even—”

“Let me guess. Still blasting Creed like it’s 2001 and your life peaked in ROTC?”

He glares. “I’ll have you know Creed is objectively badass. Male empowering.”

“You’re objectively seventy.”

He mutters something under his breath.

You grin, satisfied, and recline your seat just a little farther back. The silence now is thicker, but not hostile. Just tense. Like there’s something in the air neither of you are ready to name.

Your phone buzzes. Group chat.

Yelena 🖤: How’s Walker? Still brooding?

Ava 👻: Bet he’s doing the jaw thing. The sexy pouty angry one. That jaw line is wasted on him.

Yelena 🖤: Speaking of things wasted on Walker. We talking pistol-sized or full-on rifle vibes tonight?

Ava 👻: Come on. It’s Walker. That man’s working with a tactical shotgun.

You choke.

John looks over, suspicious. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re a bad liar, for a former super spy.”

You smirk. “Just a little bit of girl talk.”

His brow furrows. “About me?”

You shrug again. “Don’t worry about it.”

He narrows his eyes. “You all really that desperate for material?”

You don’t answer. You just hum under your breath. Something vaguely smug.

He turns back to the windshield.

But his ears are red.

-

By hour five, the senator is still holed up in the hotel suite upstairs and your eyelids are getting heavy.

John stretches his arms behind his head, shirt pulling just enough to flash the barest hint of skin above his waistband. You catch yourself looking and force your eyes away.

He notices anyway. “I saw that.”

“No you didn’t.”

“You totally just checked me out.”

You roll your eyes. “Please. I’ve seen better.”

“Oh yeah?” He shifts slightly in his seat, voice lower now. “Like who?”

You shrug. “I’m not naming names.”

“Coward.”

“I’m not stupid enough to feed your ego, Walker .”

He chuckles. “Too late.”

The warmth in your chest is immediate. And dangerous.

-

It’s after 2 a.m. when Val finally gives the all-clear.

“Senator’s safe. You’re off duty. Try not to get arrested on the way home.”

You and John step out of the tactical SUV and into the cold. The air is biting, and you shiver before you can stop yourself.

He notices.

“Come on,” he says. “You’re not going home like that.”

“Like what?”

He gestures at your windbreaker. “You’ll freeze on the subway.”

“I’ll be fine, I’ve survived worse—”

“My place is five minutes away. Yours is 45 if you’re lucky,” he cuts in. “Couch is yours.”

You open your mouth. Close it.

Say nothing.

He doesn’t look at you when he adds, “It’s not weird unless you make it weird. Just trying to make things… easier.”

You nod once. “Okay.”

-

His apartment is cleaner than you expect. Not spotless, but lived-in. A framed photo of him and Lamar near the door. A toy car on the coffee table—his son’s. You remember John mentioning earlier that he’s with Olivia this weekend.

John doesn’t make any comments for once. Just tosses his keys on the counter and grabs two beers from the fridge. He offers you one with a raised brow.

You take it, still silent.

He sinks onto the couch with a heavy sigh. “Take the bed.”

You blink. “I’m good out here.”

“It’s more comfortable.”

“I’ve slept on worse.” You say, dropping next to him on the couch.

He tilts his head. “Stubborn.”

You raise your bottle. “Cheers to that.”

You drink in silence.

The TV hums quietly in the background. He flips through channels, lands on something boring. Some old movie neither of you care about. But you both stare at it anyway.

The couch isn’t big enough for distance.

Your knees touch once and you both pretend not to notice.

-

Eventually, you doze off—curled into one end of the couch, arms wrapped around a pillow that smells like cedar and soap and John Walker.

You wake sometime later to the click of a blanket being draped over you. John stands above you, bare feet, hair damp from a shower, eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just tucks the blanket under your arm.

You whisper, “Thanks.”

He nods. Lingers for a second. Then walks away. But when you roll over later, a hoodie he must have left on the armrest is now pressed against your chest.

You don’t know if it was for you.

But you keep it like it was.

-

It starts with tequila.

You’re at some post-mission debrief dinner that turned into drinks that turned into “fuck it, let’s stay out,” and now half the team is crowded around a booth in some hole-in-the-wall bar Val would definitely disapprove of.

Yelena is already tipsy, poking fun at Ava’s drink order. Alexei is loudly defending karaoke. And John?

John Walker is leaning across the table toward you, elbows planted, saying something cocky about hand-to-hand combat technique with the kind of smirk that makes you want to either kiss him or shove him off a cliff.

Possibly both.

“I’m just saying,” he drawls, “you lead too much with your right.”

You raise a brow. “You clocked that in the middle of a firefight?”

He shrugs, smug. “Hard not to notice when you’re flailing like a drunk octopus.”

You narrow your eyes. “And what, you’re the picture of elegance?”

“I’m graceful as hell.”

“You tripped over your own gun last week.”

“Fake news,” he says, completely serious.

You sip your drink. “You’re a menace.”

He grins. “But you love it.”

You stare at him for a beat too long. “Don’t flatter yourself, Walker.”

“I don’t have to.” He leans in, lowering his voice just enough that it curls heat behind your ribs. Something only meant for you to hear. “I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

Your breath catches. But you don’t back down. “You mean with pity?”

“With interest,” he says, easy, cocky. “Like you’re thinking about how good I’d be between your thighs.”

You blink.

Then, slowly: “Jesus Christ.”

“What? I’m not wrong.”

“You’re unhinged.”

He tips his drink toward you. “Maybe. But you’re still here, so what’s that say about you?”

-

Later, outside the bar, you both hang back while the others scatter toward Ubers and subway entrances. The air’s cooler now, your buzz settling into something low and dangerous in your bloodstream.

He pulls out a lighter. Offers you a cigarette. You take it, more out of spite than need. “You always this charming?” you ask, watching the flame flicker between you.

“Only for you.”

“That’s tragic. Could have at least used a better line than that, Walker.”

He grins, exhaling smoke. “You gonna keep talking shit, or you wanna admit you like me already?”

You scoff. “You’re not that hard to resist. Just loud.”

“Loud?” He steps closer. “I can be quiet. Depends on what you need. I’m adaptable.”

The tension tightens between you like a string pulled taut.

You tilt your head. “Is this your idea of flirting?”

“No,” he says, stepping into your space. “This is.”

And then he looks at you.

Really looks.

His eyes flick to your mouth. Down your throat. Lower to your chest. Then back to your eyes.

Your pulse jumps. That one move shouldn’t have worked so well. But you don’t flinch. “You gonna kiss me, or just stare like a creep?”

“I’m thinking,” he says.

“About what?”

“Whether I’ll stop once I start.”

You don’t answer. You just flick your cigarette away, grab the collar of his jacket, and pull him down.

The kiss is hotter than it should be. Teeth. Tongue. Frustration disguised as hunger. He groans into your mouth, one hand bracing against the brick wall behind you, the other settling low on your back. His fingers are warm. Big. Too confident for how stupid he acts sometimes.

You nip at his bottom lip. He gasps.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“You taste smug.”

You laugh, breathless.

-

You end up at his place.

Neither of you says it out loud.

You just go.

It’s a short walk, filled with too many glances and not enough space between your bodies. When he opens the door, you kick it shut behind you and kiss him again before he even gets the lights on.

His jacket’s gone first.

Then your shirt.

Then his hands are on your waist, under your bra, rough and reverent like he doesn’t know whether to worship or wreck you.

You shove him onto the couch.

He lands with a grunt and a grin, hair falling into his eyes.

“Bossy,” he says.

“You like it.”

He reaches for your hips, pulls you onto his lap. “You gonna take your time with me?” he teases, voice low.

“I haven’t decided if you deserve it. Want me to call you a good boy, Johnny?”

“Oh, I do.”

“Bold of you to assume you’re that good.”

He grins. “Honey, I’ve got military commendations and a confirmed god-tier dick.”

You blink. “Did Yelena say that?”

“Ava backed her up.”

You roll your eyes, biting your lip to hide your smile. Then you shift your hips—grinding down slowly, deliberately.

His breath stutters.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispers. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Promise,” you purr.

-

You fuck on the couch.

He had you on your back, hips caged between your thighs, breathing hard against your neck like he’s been holding back for months.

“Took you long enough,” he mutters, grinning against your skin. “You been actin’ like you don’t want this. But baby… you’ve been lookin’ at me like I’m your last fuckin’ meal.”

Your shirt’s already rucked up to your chest. His hands are on your thighs, pushing them wider like he owns them—like he’s earned this. And he has. You just didn’t want to admit it.

“What happened to my smart-ass girl, huh?” he teases, tugging your panties to the side. “You had so much attitude five minutes ago.”

He runs a thick finger through your slick folds and groans—low, deep, possessive. “Jesus. Look at you. All that talk, but this pussy’s beggin’ for me.”

You squirm, cheeks hot. He gives you a slow, cocky smile as he sinks down and rubs the head of his cock against you—just enough to make you shiver. “Couch okay for your first time with me, or you gonna complain?”

He leans in closer, eyes dark, voice filthy. “’Cause I’m not fuckin’ waiting. You’ll be beggin’ to ride me next time anyway.”

You let out a shaky breath, grabbing at his shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring you.

“Please.”

He looks at you like you hung the moon.

That’s what wrecks you most.

He thrusts in hard—one long, claiming stroke—and you gasp so loud it echoes off the walls. He doesn’t give you a second to adjust, just fucks you into the couch cushions like it’s the only thing he’s ever been good at.

“There she is,” he grits out, watching the way your mouth falls open. “Already fucked dumb on my cock, and I’ve barely even started.”

He snaps his hips forward, rougher now. “This what you needed, baby? Big fuckin’ mouth finally shut?”

Your nails dig into his back. Your thighs tremble.

“Next time,” he pants, eyes locked on yours, “you ask nicely. Or maybe I don’t let you come at all.”

But right now?

Right now, he’s making a mess of you on that couch—and he’s gonna make damn sure you never think about anyone else while you’re sittin’ on it again.

It’s too much and not enough all at once. You’re not supposed to feel anything.

You thought this was supposed to be a one-off. But the way he talked during? And then afterward—after you’re sprawled on his chest, sweaty and stupid and dazed—he doesn’t say anything cocky.

He just holds you.

And whispers, “Shit.”

You mumble against his neck. “What?”

His fingers brush your spine.

“I’m not gonna stop wanting that.”

You should tell him it’s a bad idea.

You should leave.

But you don’t.

You stay.

And that’s how it starts.

-

You weren’t supposed to still be here.

Not six months in. Not brushing your teeth in his bathroom. Not knowing where he keeps the extra towels without asking. Not having a drawer. Not craving his hands like they’re something your body forgot how to function without.

You weren’t supposed to be this far in.

But you are.

And somehow, he is too.

-

You wake up in his bed. Again.

You don’t mean to. It just keeps happening.

Three nights a week, at least. Sometimes four. Once, after a double-length mission and a bottle of shared whiskey, it was five in a row.

You never planned to stay that long. You told yourself this wasn’t routine. That you weren’t folding yourself into his life like a fitted sheet—awkward, complicated, impossible to extract once it’s there.

But the truth is, you stopped pretending months ago.

You just haven’t admitted it out loud.

-

The bedroom’s still dim when you wake up, sunlight barely cracking through the curtains. You’re tangled up in the blankets, head on his chest, one of his arms heavy across your back. He’s warm and solid beneath you. Smells like skin and sleep and something faintly woodsy you can never quite place.

He stirs when you shift. Doesn’t open his eyes.

“Stealing the covers again,” he mutters, voice rough.

You smirk into his collarbone, against the mark you left there last night. “I’ll let you complain as soon as you stop sleeping like a furnace.”

He groans softly. Tightens his grip. Doesn’t let you go. His lips brush your hair. Not a kiss. Just… there.

You lie there too long. Breathing in tandem. Existing in the soft space between pretending and something dangerously close to real.

Then he ruins it.

“You’re not staying again tonight, right?”

You go still. It’s not even what he says—it’s how he says it. Light. Breezy. Like it doesn’t matter. Like your presence is a casual thing, easily shaken off. You push up slowly. “You got someone coming over?”

He scratches his chest. “Nah. Just figured you might have a life.”

You arch a brow. “You jealous?”

He scoffs. “Of who?”

You lean in, taunting. “You tell me.”

He smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “We’re not dating.”

The silence after that is deafening.

And then you kiss him.

Because that’s what you do when the words cut too close. When the truth feels too big. You bury it under lips and tongue and heat. Under the feel of his hands gripping your waist like you’re the only thing tethering him to this earth.

-

By mid-morning, you’re in the kitchen. One of his t-shirts. No pants.

He watches you from the doorway, arms crossed, biting back a grin. “You keep dressing like that and I’m gonna have to marry you.”

You glance over your shoulder. “You’re not even my boyfriend.”

“Exactly.” He walks over, palms your ass. “Low stakes.”

You swat him. He laughs. You pour two mugs of coffee. One for him—black, always. One for you. Two sugars. Splash of cream. He doesn’t even look surprised anymore. When you hand him his, he brushes your fingers. Doesn’t let go right away.

You let the moment hang.

Then you walk away.

-

Later, on mission, the mood shifts.

You’re partnered again. Fieldwork is smoother now. Seamless. The two of you move like synced muscle memory. You watch each other’s backs. Cover angles without needing to speak. At one point, he throws himself into the path of a stun round meant for you.

You bark at him after, furious. “I had it!”

“You didn’t see the second one.”

“You still didn’t need to—”

“Too bad,” he snaps, chest heaving. “It’s already done.”

Your glare could slice steel. Bucky walks by just in time to see it. John opens his mouth to say something else—probably something snide, something flirty—and shuts it the second he catches the look you shoot him.

Bucky raises a brow. “Jesus.”

John mutters, “Yeah, yeah. I get it.”

-

The ride back is quiet.

You sit beside him in the van. Don’t speak.

He keeps glancing at you.

At one point, he nudges your knee. “Still mad?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

You sigh. “You don’t get to be reckless with yourself just because I’m here.”

“Would’ve done it for anyone.”

“Then don’t argue with me like it meant something.”

He falls silent.

You don’t notice his hand has drifted close to yours on the seat between you until your pinky brushes his.

You don’t move away.

-

That night, you’re back at his place.

Of course you are.

You’re in the bathroom brushing your teeth when you hear him talking on the phone. Low. Muffled. Soft voice. When you step out, he hangs up quick.

“Your kid?” you ask, voice gentle.

He nods once.

You don’t push.

He hands you a blanket on the couch. You sit. He joins you.

You flip on some movie neither of you care about. Just to fill the space. He sprawls out beside you, socked feet brushing yours, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

“You gonna tell me about that guy you were talking to last week?” he asks casually.

You blink. “What guy?”

“The one with the button-down and the dumb watch.”

“Oh,” you say slowly. “That guy. He’s a friend from back when I was with pararescue.”

He nods, sips his beer. “He into you?”

You smile without mirth. “Why, you jealous?”

He shrugs. “Just making conversation.”

“He’s nice.”

“That’s not a yes.”

You look at him. Hard. “It’s not a no either.”

He snorts. “Dumb watch guy.”

You smirk. “You’re petty.”

“You like it.”

“Not when it’s aimed at anyone I speak to with a penis.”

He leans in. “He looked like he moisturizes with Axe body spray.”

You roll your eyes and shove him, before resting against his chest. “You’re impossible.”

He just grins.

-

By midnight, you’re fully curled up beside him. His arm around your waist. Your head tucked into his chest.

“You cold?” he murmurs.

“No.”

He pulls you closer anyway.

You lie there, soaking in the warmth, the comfort, the illusion.

Then—

“You’re not staying again tomorrow, right?”

You stiffen.

“Why do you keep saying that?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Just checking.”

You shift to face him. “You want me to leave?”

“No.”

“Then what is this?”

He swallows.

You keep going. “We do this. All the time. I sleep here more than I sleep at home. You make me coffee. I do your laundry. You get pissed when other guys talk to me. But you keep saying this is nothing. So which is it, John?”

He doesn’t answer. His jaw works. His fingers flex on your hip. You exhale, angry and aching. “Say it.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t make me lie.”

That stings more than anything else. You sit up. “Fine.”

He pulls you back down. “Wait.”

You fight it. “Why?”

“Because I need you here.” You freeze. He buries his face in your shoulder. “Even if I’m not ready to be what you need.”

You close your eyes. And then you kiss him.

It’s not slow. It’s not soft.

It’s bruising. Desperate. Your fingers in his hair, his hands gripping your thighs, pulling you into his lap like you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold tight enough.

You rock against him once. Twice.

He groans. “Fuck, baby girl.”

“I’m not your baby,” you whisper, even as you sink your teeth into his neck.

He cups your face. Kisses you again like you are.

-

You fall asleep tangled in each other.

He keeps one hand on your waist.

Like a claim.

Like a promise.

Like a man who doesn’t know how to say the words, but means them anyway.

-

It ends on a Tuesday.

Not the whole thing, technically. But something inside it does.

You don’t remember what you said. Not exactly. You were tired. Frustrated. He’d been colder than usual since the mission last weekend, brushing off your concern, retreating into that space he sometimes disappears into when things get too close.

You’d asked a simple question.

And he’d looked at you—flat, unreadable—and said, “Jesus, not everything is about you.”

It hit like a slap. Not loud, not flashy. Just sharp. Personal.

He didn’t even blink after he said it. Just turned away.

And you?

You didn’t argue.

You didn’t cry.

You left his apartment with your jaw clenched and your hoodie still on his couch.

-

You don’t speak after that.

Not for days.

He doesn’t text. You don’t call.

He doesn’t ask you to come over, and you don’t offer.

At HQ, you’re polite. Surgical. When you’re assigned together on recon, you cover your sectors and don’t speak unless it’s mission-critical.

He spends his time doing his job, but being followed by a shadow. A new marketing hire, meant to help the public build trust in The New Avengers. Despite the rest of you also being on the damn team, she seems hellbent on memorizing every part of John Walker.

And he lets her.

The silence between you two is deafening.

Bucky notices first. Of course he does. He watches you two with a furrowed brow and subtle confusion, like he’s trying to do the math and keeps getting the wrong answer.

Yelena notices next.

She waits until you’re alone in the weapons room before she breaks the silence.

“You’re going to kill the new girl,” she says. “Aren’t you?”

You don’t look up. “Not if I don’t have to.”

She snorts. “Over John Walker. Of all people.”

You glance at her then.

She raises a brow.

You both burst out laughing.

It doesn’t feel funny. But you laugh anyway. Because the alternative is crying.

-

Tessa’s presence multiplies.

She’s around constantly now—filming promo reels, hovering during gear checks, giving Val feedback on “approachability metrics.” She’s always smiling. Always upbeat.

And always within arm’s reach of John.

She laughs at his dumb jokes. Touches his shoulder a lot. Makes comments about how “nice” it must be to have someone like him on the team.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter.

You tell yourself he doesn’t matter.

But then—one afternoon—you catch a flash of fabric at the end of the hall. Gray. Soft. Familiar.

It’s your sweatshirt.

The one you wore home after a mission when your suit ripped. The one you left at John’s place when everything ended.

And it’s on her.

Something inside you splits clean down the center. You don’t confront her. You don’t ask.

You just walk away.

And that night, when you go home, you rip every Creed song from your own playlist in a blind rage and try not to scream.

-

John’s On Repeat playlist hits him harder than he expects.

It starts as background noise while he’s in the gym. He’s mid-set when the song comes on. Slow. Smoky. Female vocals.

Your music.

The same shit you used to force into the queue every time you were over, swearing that if he listened to “With Arms Wide Open” one more time, you were going to rip his AUX cord out of the dash and strangle him with it.

He told you he hated it.

He lied.

Now it plays and he doesn’t skip it.

He just sits there on the bench, sweat cooling on his skin, eyes unfocused, mouth drawn tight.

His hoodie still smells like you.

Tessa texts him while the song plays.

He doesn’t answer.

-

The Gala is Tessa’s idea.

Or at least, that’s what Val says during the briefing.

“A rebrand opportunity,” she calls it. “Public goodwill. Press coverage. Team optics.”

You call it bullshit.

But orders are orders.

You wear a dress that hugs you in all the right places. Dark. Sleek. Strategic slits and sharp heels. Your lipstick is killer. Your hair’s done up in a way that took effort. You didn’t do it for anyone in particular.

That’s what you tell yourself.

And then you walk in and see him.

John.

Dark navy suit. Crisp shirt. Subtle tie. Beard trimmed exactly the way he knew you liked it.

He looks like every regrettable decision you’ve ever made and every good one you’ll never have the guts to admit to.

He sees you.

Freezes, just for a second.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

The event is glittering. Polished. The room hums with money and politics and carefully curated conversation.

You make your rounds.

Smile when you have to. Pose for a few pictures with the team.

John is never far. Always a few feet away. Always watching.

You can feel his eyes on you every time you laugh at someone else’s joke.

When you accept a drink from the guy in the sharp gray suit who introduces himself as part of the PR review board, John shifts his stance. Crosses his arms.

You let the guy flirt. You flirt back.

His name is Colin. Or Connor. Something bland. Something safe.

He compliments your dress. Your confidence.

You smile. “Thanks.”

He offers to get you another drink.

You hesitate. You try to remember what you like but your mind blanks. Because he always ordered for you. Knew what you wanted without asking.

Your throat tightens.

Colin-Connor raises a brow. “Whiskey sour?”

You nod, too quickly. “Perfect.”

You hate whiskey sours.

-

You sip the drink like it doesn’t taste wrong.

Colin-Connor invites you to dance. You say yes. Because if John can move on, so can you.

The music is slow. Elegant. You dance, barely touching, smiling too much. And when you glance over his shoulder—you catch John’s eyes.

He’s across the room. Still. Expression unreadable.

His jaw is tight. His knuckles are white.

You look away.

-

He finds you in the hallway.

The night’s winding down. Lights low, chatter fading. The event is still humming behind closed doors, but the energy has shifted—postured celebration giving way to the quiet ache of what’s unsaid.

You don’t hear him at first. You’re standing alone, facing the far wall, fingertips brushing the seam of your dress as if grounding yourself.

He sees the tension in your shoulders. He’s not thinking. Not really. Just moving.

“Really?” he says, low and sharp. “That guy is my replacement?”

You turn. Slowly. Already tired. “Don’t start.”

“Oh I’m not starting,” John says, hands in his pockets. His tie is loose. His jaw clenched. “I’m just asking.”

You fold your arms. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.”

You laugh once. Hollow. “Then walk away.”

He doesn’t. He steps closer.

You hold your ground.

“Whiskey sours?” he mutters, voice dropping. “You fucking hate whiskey sours.”

The words land like a gut punch. You blink, throat thick. “I forgot.”

“No, you didn’t. You were trying to forget me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Walker.”

He huffs a bitter laugh. “You always do that.”

“What?”

“Pretend you don’t feel shit.”

You step in. “That’s real fucking rich coming from you, Walker.”

“I never said this was easy—”

“You never said anything.” You’re too close now. “You just kept pulling me in and pushing me away like I was supposed to be okay with being a fucking convenience.”

“I wasn’t—”

You shove his chest, hard. “You were. You are. You wanted me when it was dark and quiet and no one else was around. But God forbid you call me yours. God forbid you tell me I matter.”

He grabs your wrist.

Not rough. Just… needy. Like he has to feel his hands on you again before something breaks for good.

You try to yank away. “Don’t.”

He steps in, breath catching. “You do. You do matter.”

You look up at him. “Then why did you let me go?”

He doesn’t answer.

Because you both know the truth.

He let you go because he thought he had to. Because something in him always breaks the things he wants to keep.

The air between you is thick.

Hot.

He’s breathing hard. You’re trembling. And then—he grabs your face and kisses you like it’s the only way he knows how to speak. Teeth. Tongue. Desperation. Fury. His hands are in your hair. Yours claw at his lapels. It’s not gentle. It’s not careful.

It’s months of buried longing breaking the surface all at once.

You gasp against his mouth. “This isn’t fair.”

“I know.” You bite his lip hard enough that you both taste blood. He groans. “Jesus, baby.”

Your back hits the wall. His hand finds your thigh, hikes it up around his hip. You both know this is a bad idea. But you both know you’ll do it anyway. Because this is where the truth lives.

In the burn.

In the ache.

In the way he kisses you like he’s drowning and you’re the only air he’s ever known. “Christ,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “I thought I could stop needing you.”

You whisper, “You can’t.”

And he kisses you again like that’s his only answer.

A throat clears.

You both freeze.

John steps back slowly. Turns his head.

Bucky Barnes stands at the end of the hallway, arms crossed, one brow raised, face expressionless.

He looks between the two of you. The wrinkled dress. The askew tie. The smudged lipstick.

Then he says, flatly, “Tell me that was a hostage situation so I don’t have to bleach my eyes.”

John groans.

You exhale, mortified. “Fuck off, Barnes.”

Bucky holds up his hands. “Hey. I’m not judging. Just making sure I don’t walk into the next room and see you dry humping next to the shrimp platter.”

John mutters, “Real supportive.”

“Very,” Bucky deadpans. Then, after a pause, “She could do better, you know.”

You blink.

John stiffens.

Bucky shrugs. “Just saying don’t fuck it up.”

Then he turns and walks away.

You and John stand there in the silence he leaves behind.

Still breathless.

Still aching.

Still unsure where to go from here.

-

He shows up at your door an hour after the gala ends.

You’re still in the dress. Barefoot now, makeup half-worn off, hair pinned lazily out of your face. You don’t expect the knock—you’d honestly assumed he’d find some way to disappear, like he always does after moments that crack him open too wide.

But when you open the door, he’s standing there.

Still in the navy suit. Tie gone. Eyes tired. Jaw set like he hasn’t decided whether he came to apologize or break something else.

You stare at him. “What?”

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he says. No hesitation. No buildup.

You blink.

“I tried,” he continues. “Tried to fuck it off with you. Work it off. Drink it off. Thought if I ignored it long enough, it’d burn out like everything else I ruin.”

His voice is low. Frayed. “But you keep showing up in my head,” he says. “Every damn time I close my eyes.”

You swallow hard. “Why are you here, John?”

“I saw you tonight. Drinking whiskey sours. Dancing with that guy.” His voice cracks. “You looked like you were trying to forget me, and I realized—” He breathes in, hard. “I don’t want to be forgotten.”

You stare at him. “You said this didn’t mean anything.”

“I lied.”

Silence.

“You said we weren’t anything.”

He nods. “I was scared. And stupid. I thought if I kept it casual, you wouldn’t leave. But I made it worse.”

You let the door fall open a little wider.

He steps in.

The room is quiet, dim.

He doesn’t reach for you. You don’t reach for him. You just look.

And then—softly—you say, “You hurt me.”

He nods. “I know.”

You press your arms tight across your chest. “You made me feel like I was just… there. Just something convenient.”

His throat works. “You were the only thing keeping me sane.”

You shake your head. “You didn’t treat me like that.”

“I didn’t know how,” he says, voice thick. “I don’t know how— I’ve never had something like this. Something that felt like home.”

That word breaks something in you. “John…”

“I didn’t mean to break it,” he whispers.

You step forward.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Until you’re right in front of him, breath mingling. “Then stop running from it.”

He doesn’t kiss you right away. He just brushes your cheek. Fingers trembling. “I missed you,” he says.

“Then have me.”

And he does.

-

The kiss is soft this time.

Still hungry. Still desperate. But reverent. Like he knows what it costs you to let him in again.

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him in. His hands find your waist, splay wide, like if he covers enough of you, he can anchor himself there.

You tug him toward the couch. He follows. He kneels between your legs, eyes scanning your face like he’s memorizing every line.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low.

You nod. “Don’t ask unless you plan to stop.”

“Not stopping,” he promises.

Not this time.

-

He peels the dress from your skin like it’s sacred. You unbutton his shirt with shaking fingers. His kisses map every inch of you—slow, aching, reverent. Like he’s apologizing with his mouth.

You gasp his name when he finally settles between your thighs. He shudders. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

“You could’ve had this the whole time,” you whisper.

“I didn’t think I deserved it.”

You cup his face. “You still don’t. But I’m giving it to you anyway.”

That breaks him.

He presses into you with a low, broken groan, the blunt heat of him stretching you open so slowly, so carefully, it nearly shatters you.

His forehead rests against yours, noses brushing, breath stuttering. You clutch at his shoulders, nails dragging down the bare muscle of his back. He fits inside you like he was carved for it—like your body had been waiting, aching, built for this moment and no other.

You both gasp at the same time. Not from pain. From relief. From the devastating sense of finally.

He doesn’t move at first. Just stays buried deep, his hands cradling your hips, your leg wrapped around him, breath trembling where it fans over your mouth.

“You feel…” he whispers, barely audible, “so fuckin’ good, baby.”

Your eyes flutter. “Then move. Please.”

And he does.

Slow.

Then faster.

Then slow again, grinding deeper instead of harder, chasing not just the physical, but the feel of you—your sounds, your softness, the way your walls flutter around him every time he whispers your name.

You say it like a litany, a warning, a surrender—John. John. John.

He kisses you through it. Lips feverish. Teeth scraping. Hands worshipping every inch of skin like penance.

“You’re mine,” he whispers into your throat, teeth grazing the place your pulse pounds. “You’ve always been mine. I was just too fuckin’ stupid to hold on.”

You arch into him, mouth open in a soft cry as he hits a spot that makes your eyes roll back.

“Say it,” he pants. “Say you’re mine.”

“I was yours,” you gasp. “Even when I didn’t want to be.”

He groans, rutting into you harder now, desperate, lost in it.

“You wreck me,” he growls. “You ruin me, baby.”

And he means it.

He’s never fucked like this. Never loved like this. Not with his hands shaking. Not with his mouth on yours like he needs to taste every word you’ve ever spoken. Not with his heart so wide open it terrifies him.

When you come, it crashes through you like lightning. Your whole body tightening around him, your mouth parted in a soundless moan that he catches with a kiss so soft it makes you ache.

He follows you seconds later, pulsing inside you with a ragged groan of your name, like it’s the last thing tethering him to the world.

-

You don’t let go of each other.

Even after.

He stays pressed against you, his arms locked tight around your waist, your legs tangled, his lips brushing over your damp cheek, your temple, your throat like he can’t stop touching you, can’t stop proving that you’re real.

When your heart finally slows, when the tremors subside, you lie tangled on the couch—bare skin against bare skin, sweat cooling between you.

And in the quiet, you whisper:

“So what now?”

John strokes your back, fingers gentle.

His voice is steady—but his chest is still rising too fast. “Now I stop pretending.”

He presses a kiss into your hair, softer than you’ve ever felt from him.

“And I ask if you’ll let me try again. For real this time.”

You don’t answer right away.

Just close your eyes, exhale.

Let the silence hold all the pain, all the ruin, all the love.

And then—quietly—you nod.

Because you’re his.

You always were.

Even when he didn’t ask.

Even when you swore he never could.

Even when it wasn’t enough.

But maybe now?

It finally could be.

-

You find the sweatshirt three weeks after you move in.

It’s shoved between a couch cushion and the wall, wrinkled beyond reason, clearly forgotten in one of John’s frequent, chaotic attempts to “help” you reorganize the living room.

It’s the one you saw Tessa wearing, back when things were falling apart.

Back when you were falling apart.

You pick it up, thumb brushing over the faded logo on the chest. You think about burning it. Or throwing it in the trash. Or turning it into something petty and pointed.

Instead, you fold it neatly and toss it in the laundry.

Because it doesn’t matter anymore.

Because that was then.

And now?

Now you’re standing barefoot in the middle of the apartment you both live in.

Now John’s in the kitchen, arguing with your toaster.

Now there’s a dog curled up on the couch—some terrier mix you swore you wouldn’t adopt, but he caught John’s eye on a mission and somehow came home with you anyway. His son loves him, John loves him, and now, you kind of do too.

Now it’s all so stupidly normal it makes your heart ache.

“You gonna help me with this?” John calls from the kitchen, frustration sharp in his voice.

You pad in and lean against the doorframe. “With what?”

He gestures toward the counter like it personally offended him. “Your toaster. It’s possessed.”

“It’s not possessed, John. You just have to push the lever down.”

“I did push the lever down. And then it popped back up and tried to kill me.”

You snort, walking over to inspect the situation.

The toaster is fine.

John, on the other hand, is shirtless, hair damp from a recent shower, sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips. He looks like chaos incarnate. Like someone who still doesn’t quite know how to live with softness, but is trying anyway.

You press the lever.

The toaster works.

John glares at it. “Traitor.”

You hand him a piece of bread. “It’s toast, not Hydra.”

He smirks. “Could be both.”

You roll your eyes and turn back toward the living room.

He slaps your ass on the way past.

You jump. “John!”

“What?” he says, grinning. “That’s how I say ‘thank you’ now.”

-

Later, he finds you folding laundry on the bed—his idea of helping being throwing socks in your general direction and dramatically collapsing beside you like he’s been wounded in battle.

“Fold these,” you mutter, tossing a shirt at him.

“I don’t fold,” he says.

“You live here now.”

“I provide emotional support and sex. I think that’s enough.”

You glance over at him. “You’re an idiot.”

“And you love it.”

He’s not wrong.

You sigh and let your head drop onto his chest.

He wraps an arm around your shoulders, stroking your back lazily.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, “I used to think love was bullshit.”

You hum.

“And now?”

He kisses the top of your head.

“Now I think it’s you.”

-

Sometimes it still hits you, how much has changed.

Like when he kisses you goodbye before missions without pretending it’s just a joke.

Or when he texts you songs he thinks you’ll like—actual good ones, not just Creed.

Or when he holds your hand absentmindedly during team briefings and doesn’t care who sees.

Sometimes, you’ll wake up with his arm draped heavy over your waist, his nose in your neck, mumbling nonsense in his sleep.

Sometimes he calls you baby in that voice—low, gravelly, like a promise.

Sometimes you argue. About dumb shit. About real shit. About his stubbornness, your pride, whatever mess two damaged people can still make together.

But he doesn’t leave.

Not anymore.

He stays.

-

One night, months into living together, you catch him staring at you while brushing your teeth.

He’s leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed, shirt wrinkled from where you’d grabbed it earlier.

You pause, toothbrush mid-air. “What?”

He shrugs. “Just thinkin’.”

“Dangerous.”

He chuckles. “Yeah.”

You rinse your mouth and look at him. “What were you thinking?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then: “I never thought I’d get to be happy again.”

Your breath catches.

“Not really,” he says, stepping closer. “Not like this. Not with someone who actually knows me. Who stayed.”

You reach up, curl your fingers into the collar of his shirt. “You deserve it.”

His mouth quirks. “Still think you could’ve done better.”

“Probably.”

He kisses you anyway.

-

Some Sundays are loud.

Loud with footsteps. With cartoons. With John swearing softly when he steps on a Lego barefoot.

His son—five and wild with imagination—races through the apartment with a blanket cape and a plastic shield. He calls you his “mission partner,” insists on code names, and always demands pancakes shaped like Avengers.

John grumbles about the mess. About syrup on the couch. About the fact that he’s now been called “Cap-Dad” at least twice in public.

But you see it.

The way he softens around his kid.

The way he always carries him upstairs, even when he’s tired. The way he listens—really listens—to the stories, the dreams, the disasters about broken crayons and missing socks like they’re briefing reports on world-saving missions.

You weren’t part of the picture at first. Not really. You stayed back, cautious, letting John set the pace.

But it didn’t take long.

Not when his son took to you like gravity. Not when Olivia saw the way you steadied him without trying to fix him. The way your presence—quiet, sure, consistent—became something John leaned on instead of ran from.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was real.

And it made John better.

More grounded.

More patient.

More open.

Co-parenting with Olivia had always been a landmine field—years of guilt, grief, resentment, all his fault—but now?

Now he shows up for school events. Handles pick-ups and drop-offs without flinching. Answers the “why is the sky blue” questions with a serious face and a sarcastic edge that makes both you and his kid laugh.

And every time he looks across the room and sees you—smiling, steady, there—he knows:

This is the version of himself he never thought he’d get to be.

The one who didn’t just survive.

But became.

-

There are still rough edges.

He still forgets to buy milk. Still cusses out traffic. Still makes a mess every time he tries to fix something around the apartment.

But he listens now.

He shows up.

And when he says I love you, it’s not quiet. Or careful. Or scared.

It’s clear.

Proud.

Undeniable.

-

“You good?” he asks one night, arm around you on the couch, TV playing quietly.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Like—really good?”

You glance up at him. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Just makin’ sure I haven’t driven you insane yet.”

You smirk. “Oh, you have. But I still love you.”

He leans in, nose brushing yours. “Damn right you do.”

And he kisses you.

Soft and slow.

Like he means it.

Because he does.

-

(Bonus epilogue moment, because I couldn’t help myself)

There’s a rule on the jet: no bringing kids to base debriefs.

Val made it. You all ignored it.

Because today’s an exception. Olivia had a scheduling conflict. John didn’t want to miss the mission. And frankly? The kid begged to hang out with “Auntie Yelena” and “Uncle Alexei” more than he’s ever begged for candy.

So he’s here.

Tiny hoodie. Matching boots. Little shield toy in hand.

Sitting cross-legged in John’s lap mid-briefing while Ava lays out satellite recon.

“No touching,” Ava says without looking up. “Especially buttons. Especially that one—”

She gestures toward a glowing red interface.

The kid immediately reaches for it.

John gently intercepts. “Buddy. What did we say?”

The kid huffs. “That if I touch that one, something explodes?”

John nods. “Exactly.”

“But explosions are cool.”

“Yeah, well, they’re cooler when you’re not getting grounded after.”

Alexei leans over from across the table. “He’s right. Explosions are better with plausible deniability.”

“Absolutely not,” you and John say at the same time.

Bob walks in with snacks, which immediately leads to an argument over who gets the fruit snacks, because the kid insists he called dibs using “mental telepathy.”

Yelena teaches him how to sneak extra packets from the supply closet.

Bucky watches the chaos with the long-suffering expression of someone who regrets agreeing to come out of retirement.

“Why does he have a tiny shield?” Bucky mutters.

“Because he wants to be like Cap,” Yelena says.

Bucky deadpans, “Which one?”

John, without missing a beat: “The better one.”

“Excuse you?”

You kick John under the table. He winces. His son mimics the face. “Ow,” he says, even though no one touched him.

-

By the end of the debrief, the kid’s curled up on John’s chest. Dead asleep. Tiny fingers tangled in the collar of his shirt.

John doesn’t even blink. Just holds him like it’s second nature, one hand cradling the back of his son’s head, the other still flipping through mission details.

“Why is this hot?” Ava mutters to you. “This shouldn’t be hot.”

You shrug. “It’s the dad thing.”

“Gross.”

“I know.”

Alexei sighs. “He looks like a Walmart Captain America and a loving father. It’s… confusing.”

Bucky grunts. “Remind me to never bring Alpine here again.”

“Alpine is a cat,” you point out.

“Exactly,” Bucky says. “And has better manners.”

-

Later, as you’re leaving, the kid half-wakes in John’s arms, murmurs sleepily, “Night, Daddy.”

Yelena chokes on her water.

Bob bursts out laughing.

Ava whistles.

John sighs. “I told him not to say Daddy in front of the team.”

You grin. “You brought that on yourself. Daddy.”

The team screams, Bucky’s head smacks against the table. And maybe it’s not perfect. Maybe it’s still messy, still chaotic.

But it’s yours.

And it’s good.

[httpazxnth]

ahhhh yes, feed my delusion

I'm so drunk and all I can think of is Jack Abbot coming to a family gathering for the first time as your controversially older boyfriend.

He's slightly scared because you're not even 30 and he's close to 50 so you assure him everything will be fine.

Still, he decides to buy expensive alcohol and insane amounts of beer and even a cake to make sure he hits all the spots and maybe they can pass the fact that he's got grey hairs and he's closer to your parents and uncles/aunts, which they do.

He wins them over with three things: successfully setting up the grill in no time. Throwing all the little kids in the air as they giggle. And setting up the table without anyone asking him.

No one bats an eye when his hand rests comfortably on your knee or the way he serves you food. They ask him to come over next time. And eventually, they joke about him coming over without you because they like him more.

Hell, when he doesn't show up because he's at work or resting they send him a plate. He's so beloved by them because they can tell how much he loves you.

And he loves every bit of it. He asks about your family and what they're doing, he comes over to fix things for them and shows up every time.

And he would choose you and your family every time.

© CARMENLIKEME 2025. All rights reserved. Do not repost, modify or claim as yours.

[httpazxnth]

*sigh* i miss reading clint on the vents and all of the og avengers lore 😔

I'm not just a bitch, I'm a bitch with a backstory

[httpazxnth]

this !!!!

i'm so done with seeing and finding purely smut fics, what happened to yearning?? what happened to developing plots??character development??fluff?? angst?? hurt/comfort?? what happened to those monologues of characters that hurt your heart and made you go insane AGH

[httpazxnth]

found this on twitter today (x or whatever) felt the necessity to share it with you guys. Also the pitt community on twitter, they are hilarious lol. have you seen Patrick’s shakespeare video???? anyways credit to: @/darkowitch on x. Thanks for your service 🙏

[httpazxnth]

I’m so pumped for this already!!!

𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐘'𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

Some of these works are NSFW - any persons that are considered minors (under the age of 18) found to be reading/interacting with these works will be promptly blocked from this blog.

All works found here belong to ABBOTTY and are protected under general copyright as they are my intellectual property. I do not give any persons permission to repost, rewrite, or translate these works in any way, shape, or form. The unauthorized redistribution of my works (through reposting [not including reblogging], rewriting, or translating) is considered plagiarism and will be dealt with accordingly.

Feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

jack abbot

☆ i wanna love you (but i don't) | coming soon!

after 5 years spent with jack abbot, you've come to the conclusion that you'd be better off apart. after all, what good is a loveless marriage? now, with the divorce papers signed (supposedly), there's only one thing keeping you tied to jack: your three year old son adam. In order to protect adam and yourself from the scrutiny of jack's family, you and jack decide to keep the divorce a secret until the 4th of july week spent with the abbot family is over. a week spent in a cabin trying to convince everyone that yourself and jack are still in love... what could possibly go wrong?

[httpazxnth]

Man how i love slow burn awkward interactions. i need more of them 🙏

Gravity Part One

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader

Notes: Welcome back to another accidental two-parter. Not beta-read.

Rating: M

Length: 5.6K

Warnings: Yearning (a frickin lot); slow burn; coworkers to friends to lovers; angst; fluff; canon-typical medical chat; fluff; POV switches a couple of times; Reader is roommates with Ellis; Jack 'Prolonged Eye Contact' Abbot

Summary: Abbot didn’t make you uncomfortable, per se. But the nerves that had welled around him during your first few weeks at the Pitt had never really gone away. If you were hard-pressed to examine and classify your feelings, you would (grudgingly) sort them into the mild to moderately romantic category. You blamed him for that entirely.

It wasn't fair, of course. He was handsome, knowledgeable, charming when he wanted to be. He was an amazing physician, an excellent teacher. And it wasn't his fault you had a bit of competency kink. Abbot had never made you feel anything but valued—and nervous.

Besides, it was embarrassing to admit that you had a crush on a man that you’d hardly looked in the eye for the last few years. 

It started when she was an intern. 

Jack was fully aware of his tendency toward strong eye contact. It helped him make sure he was fully getting a point across when he was guiding residents in the ER—so long as their focus wasn't meant to be elsewhere. 

He managed to meet her eye fully exactly twice—and maybe it was odd, but Jack could remember both times clear as day. 

The first one was her first day at the Pitt, when she’d shook his hand, introduced herself with a nervous tremor in her voice. Her palm had been a little sweaty, and cold, but her eyes had held his. 

The second had been a week or so later, the first time she’d lost a patient. He’d clapped her on the shoulder, reassured her that there was nothing more she could’ve done. He’d tacked on, “Don’t let it happen again,” and he’d been kidding—but she had balked, ducked her head, apologized, and hurried away. 

She had rarely met his eye since then.

At first, he’d figured that she was shy, and that she’d grow out of it. Then, he’d thought that maybe she was more reserved at work—some people simply kept their personal and professional lives separate.

But those notions had been disproven time and time and time again: when she palled around with her fellow residents; when she watched and communicated with Walsh attentively; when the senior resident that was clearly hitting on her leaned just a little too close for Jack’s liking in the staff room. 

She hadn’t backed down from a single one, hardly batted a damn eyelash.

But any time she spotted Jack, her eyes would lower or dart away—to the floor, to her hands, to a chart, to the sandwich cart, to a counter.

Now, Jack was not a man to take these things personally, but after all these years, it stuck in his craw. He didn’t think about it most days, had learned to take it in stride, found ways to work with it. It had never caused a hold up during a procedure, or in the event of an emergency. She was always active in communicating with him, she just…Never looked at him. 

“You’re going to burn a hole through her head.” 

Jack hadn’t realized he was staring until Lena said so. He glanced toward the nurse, eyed her knowing smile, and redirected his focus to the computer in front of him. 

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

Lena snorted, turning back to the desk as someone approached to ask her a question. 

Jack only half-listened, unable to help his eyes drifting toward her again. She was hunched over her own computer, and seemed to be fighting back a smile at something Shen was saying. Another comment or two from Shen, and then her chin was tipping up, a bright smile on her lips as she held Shen’s eye.

Jack huffed a soft laugh through his nose at the sound of Shen’s cackling laugh, and it was like watching ripples in a pond—her head tipped, her brow furrowed, and her eyes darted in Jack’s direction. The smile flattened when she caught him looking, her focus lowering to her keyboard as she hurriedly straightened. She seemed to point to the charge board, mutter something, and turned on her heel, striding away with purpose.

Jack couldn’t help a swell of petty disappointment. What the hell was that? There was no way she’d heard him laugh. It was like she’d sensed a disturbance in the force. Jack shook his head, trying to refocus on the chart. 

Did she panic because he had been smiling? Had he been staring at her as long as Lena implied? Did he look like some dirty old man? 

Jack pushed off of the desk, eyeing the charge board with purpose. Whatever it was that made her skitter away like that—well. He’d forget it by tomorrow. 

--  

“Hey. You headed in?” 

You glanced back, doing a double-take at the site of Ellis standing in the kitchen doorway. 

“Uh—Yeah, just packin’ a few snacks. You need anything?” 

“I got something to ask you.” 

“Sure, what’s up?” You turned to face her, folding your arms expectantly. In the entire time you and Ellis had been roommates, you’d never seen her look concerned like this—and she usually didn’t bother trying to be delicate when broaching a difficult subject. 

“Parker, what is it?” You pressed.

“Is something going on between you and Abbot?”

Your brow furrowed, mouth falling open as if to answer—but what the hell kind of question was that?

“Excuse me?” 

“You and Abbot, what’s going on?” 

“There’s nothing going on.” 

“You sure?” 

“I think I’d know if something was happening between us, El. Where the hell did this come from, anyway?” 

“Shen said the two of you were weird yesterday, that Abbot looked at you and you bolted. And—” She shrugged, “You kinda always seem like that. Did something happen?” 

“Nothing happened yesterday! I realized I needed to go check on a patient, I’d just gotten their results back.” 

“And all the other times?” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

Ellis gave you a long look before she relented, holding her hands up in surrender with a mutter of, “Alright.”

“Great.”

“If you insist—”

“I do insist.” 

“But you know what they say about people who protest too much.”

“Cap it, Hamlet. You on tonight?” 

“Yep,” Ellis nodded. 

“See you in there.” 

“If you wanna wait, I’ll drive you.” 

“Nah, it’s okay,” You shifted your bag onto your shoulder. “The walk is good for me.”

“We’re gonna be on our feet for the next twelve hours.” 

“I like a warm-up,” You insisted. “See you in there.” 

Slow and steady, that was how you left the apartment—even steps, a measured pocket-pat-down at the door to make sure you had your phone, keys, wallet, ID badge…And then you were out the door.

Out the door, and down the stairs, and cursing under your breath as you stepped out onto the street. Where the hell did Ellis get off, asking something like that? Implying that something could be going on between you and Abbot? You hardly spoke to the guy. Hell—you felt like you barely said more than two words to the man that didn’t have anything to do with work. The implication that the two of you had something going on was categorically insane—and it twisted your gut up in a knot. 

The closer you got to the Pitt, the worse the feeling got, until it was bordering on nausea. You stopped a block away, drawing in a deep breath and puffing it out between your lips, trying to shake yourself of the feeling. Damnit, why’d you let Ellis get in your head that way? 

You drew in another steadying breath as you started forward again, trying to shake the nerves out of your hands. This shift was going to be fine—as seamless as the ones before it.  

-- 

“You doin’ okay?” 

It was a fair question asked by the last person you wanted to hear it from. The shift had been hell. Patient after patient seemed to have some hitch. You were slower to respond when Abbot asked you questions, prompted you. It was only made worse by the feeling of Ellis and Shen watching every goddamn interaction. 

Now, the test results were back for the patient you were least looking forward to seeing. The patient herself was sweet, but you were getting nowhere with her overbearing husband answering nearly every question for her. 

You pushed yourself to straighten up. 

“Fine,” You insisted flatly. “Thanks.” You straightened fully, hesitating as you heard him take a step away. “Actually—” 

It was out of your mouth before you could stop it. You saw Abbot go still in your periphery, and your hands flexed around the iPad in your hands. 

“I’m having trouble getting answers from a patient—a woman with a head injury. She said she slipped and whacked it, but based on where the cut is...I don't think it's possible. And her husband’s an overbearing ass. I’ve got a bad feeling about him.”

“Abusive?” 

“I think so. Could you run interference?” 

“Sure. You have one of those pens, one of the—” 

“I always keep a couple in my pocket.” 

--

She steeled herself before she went into the examination bay. Jack had seen her do it time and time again when she could. He wondered how it steadied her, savored the way that she closed her eyes for a split-second, drew in a deep breath, and then slapped a smile on before pulling the curtain back.

"How are we doing in here?"

Her chipper tone did nothing to reveal the concern that she'd shared with him moments ago. Abbot followed close behind, taking in the young woman laying in a hospital gown on the bed, and the man standing just beside her at the head. Abbot took another step toward the bed, then stopped as the woman seemed seemed to shrink back, attempting to make herself smaller.

"She's fine." The man's voice was gruff in his insistence, his hand curled into a fist just by his wife's head. Abbot's eyes skated across the bruises and scrapes to the knuckles there, his own hands wringing behind his back as he took another step closer.

Jack saw her glance back toward him before she gestured, "Dr. Abbot, this is Nick and Amanda Alpers. Mr. and Mrs. Alpers, this is Dr. Abbot. He's the ER's foremost expert on head injuries." An easy fib, and it seemed to be a necessary one.

"Aren't you all trained on the same shit?" Nick grumbled. Abbot took a couple of steps closer, taking in the slight matting of hair on the wife's head, the dark clotting of blood.

"We all have our own experiences that inform how we practice," Abbot passed easily, taking one more step. "Mrs. Alpers, would it be alright if I examined the—"

"It's just a scrape, really!" The insistence was hurried, and left the poor woman in a squeak. Abbot forced a small smile, giving a conceding nod.

"May I examine the scrape?" He conceded.

Amanda's eyes seemed to dart to Nick for permission, and only after a hefty sigh did Nick wave Abbot closer.

He couldn't help but note the way his fellow doctor rounded the bed, caught on the slight flurry of her questions as he gloved up.

"Are you feeling any pressure?" He asked, gently parting the hair to get a better look at the bloody, raised bump on her head.

"N-no. No more than usual—I mean! No more than anyone ever usually feels," Amanda hurried to answer. Abbot's eyes lifted to the doctor on the opposite side of the bed just in time to see her fingers tightening around her iPad.

"Any sensitivity to light, sound...?" Abbot went on, drawing his penlight out of his pocket and shining it from one eye to the next.

"Nn-nn."

"Hm."

"If that's all, can we go?" Nick groused. "Already been a waste of a night."

Abbot straightened, sizing Nick up. He waited for his fellow physician to say something, but—Nothing. He looked at her, certain she was eyeing the chart, but realized immediately that it was a mistake. Her eyes were right on his, widening pointedly as they darted to the creep beside her. Abbot cleared his throat, doing his best to focus on the patient—though he knew he'd be tucking that look away for himself.

"Nick, can I have a word?" He asked, gesturing toward the nurse's station.

"What for?"

Abbot pushed a short breath out through his nose as he rounded the bed, taking even steps so as not to raise the brute's hackles.

"There are some things that I'd like to discuss with you. Things that, you know," He nodded, "Women shouldn't hear."

Watching understanding wash over Nick's face made his stomach turn. It was a wonder the man had brought his wife to the ER at all if that was the attitude he held.

"We won't go far?" Nick pressed, though he was already moving.

"No, no," Jack insisted, following him out, "Just a few feet." He gave her one last look, and a quick nod before tugging the observation curtain closed behind them.

--

The knot that had formed in your stomach only tightened, but it wasn’t for your own nerves or panic anymore. You didn't like letting her go, hated seeing her leave with him. Abbot came to a stop beside you, and for a moment, the two of you just watched Nick steer Amanda out of the ER.

"What'd you say to him?" You asked.

"Distracted him with football."

"I didn't know you watched."

“Sometimes. She take the pen?” He asked. 

“...Yeah.” 

“It’s a start.”

“Might be too little, too late.” 

“She’s got a good head on her shoulders.”

“You think so?” 

“Sure.”

“...I gave her my number, too.” 

You saw Abbot’s head turn toward you, and you froze, biting the inside of your cheek. 

“You shouldn’t have done that.” It should’ve been more of a scold, but you could’ve sworn his tone was tinged with admiration. 

“I know.”

“What were you thinking?” 

“I wasn’t.” You turned away from Abbot. “Thanks again for distracting him.” 

“...No problem. Will you tell me if she calls?” 

“Yeah,” You nodded, turning to look at the board. “Hope she does—and soon.” 

“Was that all that was bothering you?” 

“What?” 

“You seemed a little off earlier. Just making sure everything’s okay.” 

Well, Abbot always was the observant type. It was one of the things that made him such a good doctor. You shouldn’t have been offended by his question, but in that moment, his concern was as unwelcome as Ellis probing had been just a few hours before. 

“Just one of those days—nights,” You corrected, “You know.” 

“Take a couple minutes, get some air.” 

“I’m alright.” And before you could stop yourself, you gave him a grateful smile before turning away. In truth, you weren't entirely sure where you were headed to—you’re more distracted by the fact that you’d met the guy’s eye more in the last twenty minutes than you probably had in the last two years. 

-- 

“Here.” 

“Thanks,” You took your beer as Ellis set it down and settled into the seat across from you. “John on his way?” 

“Yeah,” She nodded, “And uh…Don’t kill me, but he’s bringing someone.” 

You frowned, shaking your head as you waited for her to explain. Ellis didn’t elaborate, merely tipped her brows up. It only took a second for you to put the pieces together, and you groaned, sliding down in your chair as nerves flooded your stomach. 

“Parker—” 

“It’s just a coincidence!” She took in your unimpressed glare, corrected, “Mostly a coincidence. We always ask, he almost never says yes. It’s as hard to talk him into coming out as it is to talk you into it. Besides, it’ll help!” 

“There’s nothing here that needs helping.” 

“It’s slowing things down—”

“When has it ever slowed anything down?”

“Last few shifts, he’s waited for you to look at him when you answer and nothing. It’s making shit weird. We leave that messy personal bull for the day shift.”

“I’m not—This isn’t messy, it’s just—”

“You barely look at the guy. We all notice it.” 

“He’s so big on frickin’ eye contact, like,” You glanced around the bar, “It’s intimidating.” 

“Intimidating?”

“Yeah.”

“Intimidating.” 

“Yes! I barely even like making eye contact with you, but I live with you, so it’s mostly unavoidable.” 

“You love it.”

“Sure. Who wouldn’t want to be adopted by the meanest lesbian in the ER?”

“I thought that was Garcia.”

“No, she’s the meanest lesbian in surgery.” 

Ellis’ smile widened before she perked up, waving at someone behind you before she leaned in just a touch. 

“Just be yourself, be cool.”

“Pick one.”

“You know, I bet he thinks you hate him.” 

“What?” You hissed, “Why would he think that? And—Why would he give a shit, plenty of people hate their boss. Not that I hate him, I don’t, just—”

“Hey!” Shen’s voice cut over your nervous chatter, and you couldn’t stop your knee-jerk reaction of turning to look at him—and spotting Abbot just a couple of steps behind. Shen patted you on the shoulder, settling down beside you as Abbot rounded the table. Your eyes glued to your beer instinctively as he shrugged out of his jacket, sitting down beside Ellis. And you thought you’d just managed to be subtle enough—until both Shen and Ellis kicked you lightly under the table. It took everything in you not to kick back, instead lifting your head to meet Abbot’s eye, plastering a small smile on your lips. 

“Hi.” 

“Hello.” There was a little lean to his lo, a friendly tease that you felt like you hadn’t earned. And there was eye contact—heavy, steady eye contact as he folded his arms on the table. You tried to ignore the traitorous little flip in your stomach as you hurriedly lowered your eyes to the table, picking your beer up and taking a swig to try and drown the flurrying butterflies.  

“We miss anything good?” Shen plied. Ellis shook her head. 

“We were just talking about renewing our lease.” 

“I forgot you two were roommates,” Abbot commented. Ellis must’ve told him, and you couldn’t fathom why he’d remember. 

“What’s the verdict?” Shen asked.

“We’re gonna stick,” You reported as you looked at him. “Rent is going up, but, like, barely…Barely.”

“And the location is too good,” Ellis tacked on. “Half an hour to the Pitt walking, fifteen minutes by car—utilities don’t suck, either.” 

“Decent space,” You added, “And allows dogs—if this one goes through with getting a dog.”

“I’m still in research and development.” 

“Aren’t you allergic?” Shen nudged your arm. 

“Yeah, but not deathly. And if she picks a breed that doesn’t shed much and has a low can f 1 gene—” 

“I want to adopt from a shelter—” 

“So I’ll probably be moving out as soon as that happens,” You teased, “Because god knows she’ll wind up with a mutt.” 

“And sublet?” 

“Sure, John. You can move into my room, I’ll move into your place. Even trade.” 

“I don’t know about that—” 

“Better rent, better location.” 

“You won’t mind being further from the Pitt?”

“Nah,” You shrugged, “I like a long walk.” 

“Sure does,” Ellis rolled her eyes, “I don’t know anyone that spends more time just wandering around on their days off.” 

“Is it a crime to enjoy being outside when the sun is up?” 

“You ever think of switching to day shift?”

Abbot’s question caught you off-guard—it was like you’d fallen into such an easy rhythm with Ellis and Shen that you'd almost managed to forget that he was there. Your fingers tightened around your beer as you forced yourself to meet Abbot’s eye again. 

“Not once.” 

It was the truth, and it made Abbot’s smile widen in a way that felt dangerously vindicating. Unnerving quiet wrapped around your shared gaze, and Ellis clearing her throat was what finally snapped you out of looking at him. 

“So, hey,” Shen jumped in, “Did I tell you guys about my latest acquisition?”

“Jesus fucking christ,” You muttered over Ellis’ low whistle. 

“Another ebay war?” She asked.

“Not a war, an easy buy,” Shen insisted, “You know, for—”

“Yeah, your shank bank, we remember,” You insisted, smile pulling wide as both Abbot and Ellis’ laughter catches from that side of the table. “That weird-ass collection of antique medical equipment—fucking medical history nerd.” 

“I keep them as a display!” 

“Must really get ‘em going on a date night. Nothing hotter to a woman than rusty scalpels,” You batted back, nudging Shen’s shoulder with yours. You didn’t mean to catch Abbot’s eye on your way back to looking at Ellis again. And this look didn’t hold for as long as the one before it—but it was just long enough to reawaken the butterflies, even as Shen insisted,

“This one isn’t even rusty!”

--  

As you turned in for the night, Ellis teased you, insisted, “See, it wasn’t that bad.” 

You didn’t argue, because she wasn't wrong—it wasn’t the worst way to spend an afternoon out. But it was…Different. 

Your aversion to Dr. Abbot’s attention had started your first week at the Pitt, when he’d stuck close during an intubation. He hadn’t been breathing down your neck, but his steady focus had made you so damn nervous. You were used to your attendings being just a little scattered, torn in six different directions. And other matters had vied for Abbot’s attention, sure, but he hadn’t heeded them until the patient was in the clear.

You’d started to avoid his gaze after that, and it had just become second nature. Avoiding eye contact turned into avoiding him during the quiet moments of your shifts, which turned into a patient-treatment-only conversational focus. Abbot consulted on your cases, made recommendations, listened to your rationalizations. 

When he did insist on meeting your eye, you gave him just a long enough look to show that you’d heard him, but never anything more. You’d avoided palling around with him, even though you palled around with your fellow residents, and with other attendings—but you were comfortable with them. 

And Abbot didn’t make you uncomfortable, per se. But the nerves that had welled around him during your first few weeks at the Pitt had never really gone away. If you were hard-pressed to examine and classify your feelings, you would (grudgingly) sort them into the mild to moderately romantic category. You blamed him for that entirely.

It wasn't fair, of course. He was handsome, knowledgeable, charming when he wanted to be. He was an amazing physician, an excellent teacher. And it wasn't his fault you had a bit of competency kink. Abbot had never made you feel anything but valued—and nervous.

Besides, it was embarrassing to admit that you had a crush on a man that you’d hardly looked in the eye for the last few years. 

You could understand how Abbot may’ve thought you didn’t like him—if he really thought that. But he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who needed everyone to like him. It probably helped, sure, but you were positive that your countenance had never caused a slow-down or a hitch in the ER, no matter what Ellis said. You were just focused—and since when was that a bad thing? 

Either way, today had been kinda…okay. You’d made nice with Abbot, made eye contact multiple times without Ellis or Shen kicking you in the shins again. Whatever wound up happening, you’d tried, and they couldn’t take that away from you, right? 

You settled in bed, letting your eyes slip closed, drawing in a deep breath to relax yourself.

For all your initial irritation, Ellis was right—it wasn’t that bad. 

But it didn’t stop Abbot’s warm gaze from lingering behind your eyelids when you closed them, and it couldn’t keep the mirthful roll of his chuckle from playing through your mind as you tried to drift off. 

-- 

You decided to make it a little experiment, approach it as something that you could train yourself out of. Seeing him over drinks had laid the groundwork—and you had managed to look at him twice a few shifts ago, hadn’t you? 

You went into your next shift determined to look Abbot in the eye three times.

You only managed it once when you passed him by the board—a glance and a small wave.

The smile that he returned flustered you so much that you nearly walked into the sandwich cart, and it scared you out of looking at him for the rest of the night. As a matter of fact, it scared you out of it the next shift, and the one after that. 

You talked yourself out of the whole foolish endeavor. You’d managed to work with Abbot perfectly well before, why change things now? Especially when looking at him seemed to awaken something girlish and fluttering inside of you—and you couldn’t afford to be girlish and fluttering at work. 

-- 

She was doing it again. 

Jack had thought they had turned a corner after Shen and Ellis had invited them all out together, but things seemed to be moving in reverse. It had gone beyond sticking in his craw—it was almost nagging at him now, and worse now that he knew what the full force of her focus was like. It was easy to brush off before, but these days Jack was hard-pressed to admit that he felt something in him wilt whenever she avoided his eye. 

She was making a meal of it now, focused stalwartly as she instructed Javadi on setting a bone. He’d seen her head tip in his direction a couple of times, but she’d always given her head a little shake before refocusing. Was the shake for Javadi? For him? 

“...You didn’t hear me, did you,” Ellis asked, forcing him to refocus. He had heard her—and he could feign that his silence had been fueled by contemplation. He turned away from the treatment bay, arms folded across his chest. 

“See if the OR can take Mr. Tosches yet," He instructed. "I don’t want him down here too long. You follow up with the raccoon kid?” 

“That’s my next stop.” 

“Perfect, thanks.” 

“Sure—Hey, are you coming by this weekend?”

That weekend. He’d been dodging giving Ellis an answer for the last couple of weeks. She’d invited him to the last four get-togethers at the apartment, but he’d never made it to one, either because he was working, or because he just wasn’t in the mood to socialize. 

He wasn’t sure he was in the mood now, but…A fleeting smile flashed through his mind. They’d seemed to come easier to her when they were away from the hospital. And his therapist had been nagging him about leaving the house more…

“Yeah,” He nodded. “Yeah, I can make it.” 

Ellis didn’t cover her surprise well, but her, “kay, sweet. I’ll text you the address," Told him that she was just as surprised by his answer as he was.

Abbot nodded, casting another glance toward the treatment bay before turning away fully. It was just an experiment, he told himself. He would see if her smiles for him came easier outside of work, or not at all. 

If it was not at all, he’d let it go, once and for all.

--  

“Is there any coffee?” 

The question made you freeze in front of your cabinet. Your eyes darted through its contents, but you didn’t take in a damn thing. He was in your kitchen. He never came to these things, why the hell did he come to this one?

“Uh—” You turned, looking around your kitchen as though you’d never been there before. “It’s um—Yeah. Right there. It might not be hot, though. I can turn the pot back on.” 

“I’ve got it.” 

“You're on shift tonight?”

“Mhm.”

You nodded, turning back to the cabinet. Hell, what did you open it for? Goddamn, but you came in here looking for something—You huffed, shoving the cabinet door closed as you scrubbed your hand across your forehead. He wasn’t allowed to do this, he wasn’t allowed to make you feel this out of sorts in your own damn kitchen. 

“Everything alright?” 

“You know, I feel like half the time you talk to me, you’re asking if I’m okay.” It was out of your mouth before you could stop it, and embarrassment sprang up the second it did. “I should, um—You need a mug, don’t you,” You muttered, turning to the other cabinet, and glancing back toward the living room when you heard a swell of laughter. Damnit, but Ellis sent you into the kitchen for what? Napkins? Napkins would be in the cabinet.

“Well forgive me for being concerned when one of my best residents seems to spend half of her shifts avoiding me.” 

You whirled around, too stunned to do anything but meet Jack’s eye. The steady contact seemed to catch the both of you off-guard. Your mouth worked wordlessly for a moment as your mind reeled. What the hell could you say to that? Well—what would you say if you were talking to Ellis or Shen? 

“...Just one of your best residents?” 

Abbot’s brows lifted, his lips quirk with a smile, and your stomach filled with that girlish fluttering again. 

“You’re certainly not avoiding me now.”

You press your mouth together, gaze instinctively dropping to the floor. 

“I don’t avoid you at work, either. I’m just—” You turned back to the cabinet, reaching into it for a mug. “I’m focused when I'm at the Pitt.” 

“Seem to be focused right now, too.” 

“Do you want a mug for your coffee or not?” 

“Oh, that old excuse.” 

“Fine, drink it from the pot. That’s Parker’s machine, anyway. She’ll kill you.” 

“She wouldn’t. We’re short-staffed as it is.” 

“Well, that’s true.” You crossed the kitchen, holding the mug out. And, though you knew the answer, you asked, “Do you need milk or sugar?” 

“No.” 

“Alright.” You turned, reaching for the cabinet by the coffee machine. Maybe it was something in there.

“...You don’t really think I avoid you," You plied, unable to stop yourself.

“Certainly avoid looking at me.”

“Focused.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“You’re fine to look at.” 

“Oh?”

“Good—Good to—” No, nothing in that cabinet. Check the next one. At least, you needed to get a few feet away from Abbot before you said anything else stupid. “You’re fine.” 

“Thanks.”

“Sure.” 

“...Look at me.” 

It was so firm that you went still in front of your cabinet again, hands on the knobs, doors half-open as your heart leaps into your throat.

“Excuse me?”

“We’re not at work, you can’t need to be that focused. If I’m so fine to look at, look at me.” 

Your fingers flexed around the knobs, palms growing sweaty. 

“Ellis asked me to grab something for her and you’ve already distracted me enough.”

“Is that so.” 

“You can be very distracting sometimes.” For fucksake. What was it about being alone with this man that had your head so horribly scrambled?

“I suddenly feel like I oughta apologize,” He commented.

“I feel like you’re making fun of me.” 

“A little.” 

You scoffed out a laugh, your nerves only worsening when you heard Jack take a few steps closer, saw him lower his coffee onto the counter beside you. 

“It won’t take long,” He reassured, raising his hand to close one of the cabinet doors. “One quick look.” 

You drew in a deep breath, planting your hand on the counter and turning to face Jack with wide eyes. You were prepared to stare at him pointedly—but you faltered at the look on his face. His eyes were softer than they had any right being. They searched your expression, sweeping over your nose, across your cheeks, to your lips, and up again—as if he was seeing you for the first time. 

“...See?” He murmured. “This isn’t so bad.” 

You struggled to swallow, throat dry; your face was flooding with heat. If this was a cartoon, you were certain that your heart would be beating out of your chest. 

“No,” You finally managed, shaking your head a little, unable to tear your eyes from his, “No, it isn’t.” 

Jack’s smile widened as he leaned against the counter a touch, fingers skimming against yours. And you knew that you ought to look away, go ask Ellis what she sent you into the damn kitchen for in the first place, but you couldn't bring yourself to move.

“You just gonna keep staring at me, Jack?” You murmured. His brows jumped slightly at the use of his first name, lips quirking with a smirk.

“You’re staring, too.”

“Making up for apparently avoiding you.” 

“Very kind of you.”

“Do what I can.” 

Maybe it was better that he was looking at your face, anyway—if he looked down, he might see the goosebumps sweeping up your arm from the gentle sweep of his fingertips against yours. It felt pathetic to get so worked up from such a simple touch. Goddamn, did he look at everyone like this? Did everyone feel like this when he looked at them? There was no way—if it was, nothing would ever get done at the Pitt. 

“Hey, did you find the Triscuits?” 

Ellis bottle snapped you out of the trance-like stare, and you whirled away from Jack like he was trying to set you on fire. The Triscuits, son of a bitch, that was what you were sent to look for. 

“I just—I just saw them,” You fumbled, pulling the cabinet open again. 

“My fault,” Abbot spoke up. “I asked for some coffee.” 

“You’re on tonight?” Ellis frowned, and you were relieved to hear her come deeper into the kitchen. “I thought you were taking the day.” 

“We had two call outs. Matter of fact, I should get going.”

You glanced doggedly back toward Jack, watching him pick his mug up and take a deep swig. You busied yourself with poking through the drawer beneath the cupboard, vaguely catching Abbot saying his goodbyes to Ellis in the background. Jeez, did the Trisuits fucking evaporate? 

You glanced toward the mug as Jack set it down in the sink, and, against your better judgement, met Jack’s eye when he turned to look at you. 

“Thanks for the coffee.” 

“Sure,” You nodded. “Have a good shift.” 

“Good luck finding those, uh…” He glanced toward Ellis. “Triscuits?” 

“Uh-huh,” She nodded. “Thanks for coming, man.” 

“Have a good night.” 

You listened to his retreating footsteps, marked the opening and closing of the door…And tried not to die from complete mortification when Ellis tapped your shoulder, then pointed out the box of Triscuits where it was sitting on the counter. 

Tag list:

@missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @amneris21 ; 

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage​​​ ;  @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; 

@millllenniawrites ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; @missswriter ; 

@thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @realwhoreforfictionalmen

 ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @artsymaddie

@winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989

[httpazxnth]

i’m tired of the smut bring back thor’s poptart addiction and clint being in the vents all the time

[httpazxnth]

when i say my type of man is the funny type, this is what i mean. just shawn.

[httpazxnth]

staaaaph, he is so unserious. (Giggling and kicking my feet in the air like a high schooler girl)

Some gems from the Shawn Hatosy Reddit AMA

[httpazxnth]

Guys…..

[httpazxnth]

i’m trying to persuade you into making them kiss or smt.

Lost Love - Part Three

a/n: sorry this took a minute! I’ve been deep in Joel Miller fanfic after the recent episode of tlou (biiiiiig Pedro fan). Anyways, please enjoy this next bit of writing :)

Steve Harrington x fem!reader, more angst

Summary: tis the damn season for you and Steve as you try to avoid the past while figuring out the future

———————

December 1991 - Hawkins

The Wheeler house looks straight out of a holiday catalog with its large tree lighting up the front room. Christmas music plays throughout the decorated house and a fire warms up the young guests.

Mike decided to have the gang back together at their parent's place this year. Most of the kids were home for the holidays and desperately needed to see each other after being at school all semester. After running into Dustin outside of your homes, he insisted you come. Nancy ended up calling you that night to extend the invite, explaining that she didn't even know about the party until she arrived that morning.

So there you were, dressed in your festive velvet red dress, sipping mulled wine with Nancy. She tells you about her job at a local newspaper and how she's making more connections at the Boston Globe, her dream company. You fill her in on getting into law school and your decision to move to Chicago. She's excited for you and easily dances around the subject of Steve.

It had been a couple of months since your break up with Peter and when he revealed to you that he and Steve had spoken. You did pick up the phone that night with the full intention of calling Steve. But you never did go through with it. You weren't thinking straight, your emotions were too high, and frankly, you were too scared to face him. So you set the phone down and swore to call him the next day, and the next, and the next. But you never called Steve. Instead, you let the situation sit there and simmer. No questions answered. Just like your relationship had always been with him.

As if the universe was reading your mind, the front door swings open, letting the cold December air in for just a moment. Your back was to the door, so you didn't see who came in. But you quickly started to gather who it was when Dustin cheered and rushed over to greet the guest. You straightened up a bit, building up the confidence to turn around and face the very person who's been tormenting your thoughts for the last couple of months.

His laugh hits your ears as he greets the kids with hugs. Your heart weakens a bit, loving that they all still care about him so much. You turn, wanting to catch the sweet moment.

As you turn around, Steve looks up, catching sight of your familiar hair and pretty red dress. You see each other from across the room, the lights around you softening as you hold his gaze. You feel a familiar tug towards him - something unseen, intangible but still there. He must feel it too because he's quick to give you a small smile. Steve wasn't sure what he'd do if he saw you tonight, but instinct took over with that smile. So you smile back. Two small, knowing smiles in a home filled with too many memories.

Then a young woman appears in the doorway behind Steve. She smiles wide at the kids and slips comfortably under Steve's arm. He breaks his gaze from you and puts all his attention on her.

Steve introduces her to Mike and Dustin, and she's all smiles as she meets everyone. You look away - at your shoes, the Christmas tree. Anything but Steve and this girl.

Luckily, Nancy clutches your arm, spinning you back around to face her. She leans in to whisper, "I'm so sorry. I had no idea he'd be here."

You pull back, shrugging, “it’s all good. Really.” Lie, lie, lie.

Your body practically ached at the sight of Steve and his - what? Girlfriend?

You wanted to peek back at them. See Steve's rosy cheeks and big smile as he paraded her around to meet everyone. Oh god, you thought, you're going to have to meet her too.

Nancy smiled tightly, her voice quick and low, "don't freak. They're coming over here." She waved as you felt two people approach you.

Nancy knew your history with Steve, even the most recent encounter. Somewhat ironically, she was the first to clock that something was going on between you two. After Jonathan moved to California, she and you became closer. Sometimes eating lunch together at school or working on college applications together. She noticed when he’d pick you up after classes got out almost every day or when he’d be at your soccer games, cheering you on alongside your family. She especially noticed when you had like three hickeys on the back of your neck the morning after you told her you were catching a movie with Steve.

Nancy noticed how he changed too, both as a person and his behavior towards her. He was lighter with her, not mopey or awkward. The tension completely dissipated.

Naturally, you and Nancy grew closer when you two were the only ones who moved away from Hawkins. She was there for you during the fallout with Steve, which was why she was shocked that you wanted to say hello to him and his girlfriend, Amanda, who Nancy just met about thirty minutes ago.

Steve's pulse quickened as you turned around to greet them. Your expression was collected, cool, and unreadable. Suddenly feeling vulnerable, he quickly scans the room for your boyfriend but comes up short. Nancy speaks up before he can think too hard about it.

She gives him a quick hug before introducing herself to Amanda who only says her name, waiting for Steve to fill in the rest. The three girls, including yourself, stare back at him. He cracks a smile, recovering from his brief falter, and then says the words you were dreading.

"My girlfriend," he's almost bashful, you think, as he wraps an arm around her.

Girlfriend. A word now seared into your brain, likely to cause inexplicable heart pain every time you hear it now. Girlfriend.

Nothing could have ever prepared you for this moment. You never imagined meeting one of Steve’s girlfriends. It’s not like you didn’t expect him to never date anyone after you, but you never imagined that this situation would be occurring. That was one of the pros of going no contact for so many years - no girlfriends.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” you say, shaking Amanda’s hand with an obligatory smile on your face. You tell her your name and she gives you a knowing smile, "Steve’s told me so much about you guys. It’s great to finally put a face to the name.”

You blink, trying to keep your smile from faltering. God, what has this man said to her about you?

You deliver the perfect cliche, “oh, all good things I hope," and shoot Steve a look, lofting your eyebrows just slightly. He doesn’t miss a beat, sending you the slightest of head nods.

Old habits never die, you think as you quickly fall back into the knowing looks with Steve. The subtle communication only you two could understand of each other.

Amanda laughs, “of course! He was just saying that you’re a lawyer. That’s so impressive.”

You turn back to her, shaking your head, “well, not yet. I just go into law school.”

You can feel Steve’s eyes on you and wonder if he’s thinking about your decision to move to Chicago.

“Are you staying in the city? Or looking elsewhere?” Amanda asks, genuine and annoyingly nice.

Nancy perks up, "she actually just committed to Northwestern."

Steve shifts his gaze to you. But you avoid his eyes, not wanting to see his expression. "Chicago!" Amanda exclaims, "that's so exciting. We'll have to show you around."

He knew that this was a real possibility. Hell, you were the one who told him you wanted to move. But hearing the confirmation was a whole different thing. This was real. You were about to be back in his life whether he liked it or not.

“That would be great,” you say, keeping your attention on her, “what about you? What do you do?”

And then she tells you about teaching and how they met. They’ve been seeing each other for a little over two months. Interesting you think, doing the mental math in your head. You ask about her childhood, family, where she grew up. Steve chimes in here and there, but you can feel the tension radiating off his body as he stands in between you and Amanda.

The night goes on and more of your friends arrive, quickly swapping stories about high school and your collective near-death experiences. You do enjoy yourself, wrapped up in the warm nostalgia of it all. But every time your eyes shift back to Steve and Amanda, an unreasonable bitterness nips at the back of your mind.

You had no right to be jealous, sure, but you could be a little bothered by the whole thing. It doesn't help that she's charming and friendly. Boo.

You’re in the kitchen now, stress-eating the finger foods off a platter on the counter, alone in your thoughts. Tonight would not be a good time to bring up the past with Steve, would it? But when would be a good time? When you're finally living in the same city again? No, it should be sooner. But what would he say?

“That cheese is great-“

You jump, startled by the sudden voice in the kitchen. You turn around and find Steve frowning, worried about your reaction.

He steps forward, “shit sorry. Thought you heard me walk in.”

“I guess I was a little distracted,” you say without really thinking.

Steve notices a hint of bitterness in your tone. You look up, finally meeting his eyes. Both of you pause, lingering in the moment, unsure of what to say next.

For the first time all evening, you two are finally alone together. Everyone else is in the living room playing games, including Amanda who is partnered up with Robin in a very competitive game of charades.

Steve steps to where you’re standing. You suck in a breath as the distance between you two grows smaller. He stands beside you and picks through the cheese platter, completely ignoring the tension in the room.

You want to roll your eyes at him, annoyed at how cavalier he could be during situations like this. So you decide to poke the bear a bit and not ignore the obvious.

“Your girlfriend’s cool,” you say, turning to face the counter like him, your shoulders brushing.

Steve pops a piece of cheese in his mouth letting the silence linger. He wasn’t sure where you were going with this, so he let you lead the way.

You weren’t going to lie to him. You did think Amanda was great and you were not about to be the type of girl to hate her for being with your…whatever Steve was to you.

“So you two met at school?” you ask, genuinely curious and purposefully dancing around the real question you wanted to ask - when did they meet?

Steve smiles, “she’s the first-grade teacher." Of course, she is.

He pauses, not sure if he should say anything but this would be a perfect time to segue into that night. And for whatever reason, Steve couldn’t help himself around you.

“Actually,” he looks at you now, “she was at the bar when I ran into you in September.”

Your whole body tenses. So we’re doing this now, huh?

You catch the cheeky glimmer in his eyes, remembering just how much of a dick Steve could be sometimes.

“You should have introduced us,” you reach for a piece of cheese, “maybe the night would have turned out differently.”

“Yeah maybe if you told me about your boyfriend we wouldn’t have been out all night,” Steve lets out quickly, his emotions getting the best of him.

Now you’re speechless. You never did figure out what you would say to Steve about that phone call. You naively thought you’d never see him again so you wouldn’t have to discuss it.

You drop the cheese and turn your body to face him. He stares down at you, the hint of cheekiness replaced with anger now. He hates that you’re the only one who can rile him up like this.

“I should have told you about Peter that night,” you concede, “I’m sorry.”

Steve falters, not expecting an apology. Before he can think of something to say, you continue, “I guess I was caught up in the moment. I don’t know.”

He looks away, pushing off the counter, “seeing you again was already a shock. But then to find out you had a boyfriend really fucked with me.”

Your stomach aches as Steve admits this all to you. As you finally talk about that night. He doesn’t want to do this now, not with all your friends and Amanda in the other room. But, as usual around you, he can’t control his emotions. The words just flow out of him.

“And finding out about him that way was pretty shitty too,” Steve shook his head, “I mean, hell, do you two live together?”

“We broke up,” you blurt out. The words fly out of your mouth before you can stop yourself.

Steve shifts back, his hands brace the counter as you face him. He looks over your features as if trying to read your mind and you do the same.

You being single, Steve in a relationship - does it even matter? What would you do if you were both single? Steve practically answered that in Chicago when he didn’t know about your boyfriend and you asked him up to your room. And yet he still turned you down and you still had no idea what you wanted from him. So single, taken, it didn’t make a difference.

Before either of you can respond, Robin rushes into the kitchen. She notices the moment between you two but doesn’t think twice to acknowledge it. She loves Steve and wants what’s best for him, and what’s best is Amanda, his girlfriend who’s currently waiting for him in the other room.

Robin yanks Steve’s arm, “I’m tapping out and Amanda’s looking for a new partner.”

Steve holds your gaze for just a moment before shifting his attitude ever so slightly. He smiles at Robin then nods at you, before turning into the living room.

You turn back to the counter, pick up the discarded piece of cheese, and pop it into your mouth. A tense gaze hits you. You turn slightly to catch Robin eyeing you narrowly.

“What’s up, Buckley?” You say casually. Your relationship with Robin has always been this way. Close at times but a one-sided skepticism was always apparent. Then of course when everything ended between you and Steve, you hardly ever spoke to Robin.

She steps closer, “are you really moving to Chicago?” She clocks your surprised reaction.

“Nancy mentioned it,” she clarifies.

You nod, “not until summer.”

Robin sighs, “I’m not going to pretend like I know what the fuck is up with you and Steve, but I do know that he’s happy. Like really doing well and doesn’t need any bullshit in his life - happy.”

“I know,” you say honestly, “I don’t plan on screwing anything up for him.”

Robin wants to tell you that actually, you don’t know. You have no idea what kind of hold you have over Steve. She wants to tell you how messed up he was after seeing you and how you totally derailed his life and can definitely do it again. That’s what she’s worried about. But instead, she saves face.

“Good,” Robin crosses her arms.

You think about what it will look like to live near Steve again and you don’t know why you continue the conversation and say, “we probably won’t see each other much anyway.”

Robin practically scoffs as you say this. She shakes her head, “this is you and Steve we’re talking about. At the very least, he’ll want to be your friend.”

You don’t know what else to say so you nod, thinking about everything. You hoped you could be friends with Steve, but you never were ever just friends with him. There had always been that hint of what if? That possibility of something more.

Laughter and shouts break your thoughts. Dustin’s calling your name to join on the next round. So you push it all aside and follow Robin back into the room with all your friends, and you decide to enjoy being home for the holidays.

———————

A few days later

As the town gears up for the New Year, you help your dad clean up the garage. Your family loves to do a big cleanout before the new year. Help clear out the old and bring in the new.

The manual labor was a much-needed distraction from your mind swirling with thoughts about your future and Steve, and his really cool totally awesome girlfriend. Spending time with your family was also a reminder of other forms of love in your life. You were excited to be closer to them again.

You and your dad stand hunched over the engine of his 1964 silver Mustang. You were helping him fix up something under the hood when the sound of footsteps hit the pavement.

Your dad was the first to see who it was. He steps away from the car, “Steve! Been a long time, bud.”

You brace yourself on the side of the car, pushing off of it to face them.

Your dad and Steve break away from their friendly hug. What the hell is going on?

Steve nods, “I know, I’m sorry! With Dustin moving away for school, there’s not much left for me in Hawkins these days.”

“Did you hear our girl’s moving to Chicago?” Your dad says proudly.

Steve flashes you a smile, taking in your dirty jeans and worn-in sweatshirt. You smile back, raising your eyebrows a bit at him entertaining your dad.

“Yeah, it’ll be great to be in the same city again,” Steve says as you approach the two of them.

You nod, “don’t worry. I won’t bother you too much, Steve.”

He gazes at you, trying to search for another meaning in your sentence. Bother me all you want, Steve wants to say.

The garage door opens. Your mom has the phone in her hand, the cord extended all the way. She spots Steve and smiles, “oh, hi honey! How are you?”

Steve waves, greeting your mom. She calls over your dad, “your sister’s on the line.”

He bids Steve goodbye and rushes into the house after your mom.

You chuckle, wiping your greasy hands on the rag poking out of your jeans. You look up at Steve, “they always ask about you.”

“Oh yeah?” he beams.

You nod, “it’s sweet.”

You turn to the car, walking towards it. Steve watches as your hair sits high in a ponytail, swishing back and forth as you walk. He always liked when you put your hair up.

He follows you to your spot under the hood. Steve eyes the car, “how long have you been working on this?”

“Pretty much all day,” you say, “you know how my dad can get with his cars.”

He smiles, remembering when your dad got you your first car - a used Chevy truck that was cool in theory but broke down on you every other month. You resorted to catching a ride with Steve instead.

Steve helps as you slam the hood shut. You turn to him, “so, what’s up?”

He had almost forgotten why he was there in the first place. Steve puts his hands on his hips.

“When do you move?” He asks.

You nod, “in June. Thought I’d get a head start on apartment hunting near campus.”

Steve looks around, finally coming to peace with your response. He eyes the sun as it begins to set. The birds chirp around you. He nods over to the street, “let’s take a walk.”

You eye him, but ultimately agree, following him down your driveway and into your quiet neighborhood.

Walking these streets with Steve brought back some serious nostalgia. You used to do this all the time. His house only a few blocks away from yours. He’d walk you back to your house at night when it was too dark and you had school the next morning. Or on Saturday mornings, you’d walk to his place and eat breakfast because his parents were already out for the day.

Now the two of you walked side by side, leisurely taking in the old pine trees and suburban homes. Steve straightened his back, clapping his hands together as if prepping himself for what he was about to say.

“I think we should air everything out. You know, before we live in the same place again,” he states.

You shove your hands in your back pockets, what did you have in mind?”

He tilts his head, “well, I’m with Amanda now and everything’s going pretty good.”

You nod as he continues, “and I didn’t tell her about us. You know, our past.

“Oh,” you hesitate. That was a little surprising, but given how nice she was to you, it tracks.

“I didn’t think it was necessary,” Steve says slowly, “I mean, I didn’t really think we’d be in each other’s lives again.”

You look over at Steve, “it’s up to you. But I’m sure it won’t come up in conversation.”

He chuckles, “right. Well, how often do you want to see each other?”

You blink, all the time, preferably. If he’d have you.

“You could show me around? Then we’ll go from there?” You say sheepishly. He and Robin are the only people you really know there, and you don’t think Robin would be the most excited to hang out with you.

Steve smiles, “yeah, yes of course!” He runs a hand through his hair, “sorry. I’m not really sure how to handle all this with you.”

You decide to lighten the mood and bump his shoulder, “neither do I. But, I do know I want to be back in your life.”

He takes in your words and smiles, “me too. Someone you know again.”

You look down, hearing Steve say your words from that night back to you. It feels different this time. Like you’ve got the “what if?” out of the way and can maybe begin to move onto a new part of your relationship - just friendship.

You continue, “and if you’re worried about Amanda, I won’t mess anything up. I promise.”

“Don’t be weird,” Steve eyes you, playfulness in his voice.

You shake your head, “I swear. I’ll be on my best behavior. No weirdness here.”

He knocks his shoulder back against yours. You stumble a bit, taken off guard. Steve reaches out, grabbing your arm to steady you.

You laugh, “easy, Harrington. I get the message loud and clear. No need for intimidation tactics.”

“Funny, really hilarious,” he says, sarcasm dripping off his tone.

You proceed, feeling good, “honestly Amanda is really cool. Like way cooler than you.”

“Oh yeah? Hang out with her then,” he laughs.

“Maybe I will,” you smirk, “what’s her number?”

Steve reaches out and lightly tugs the end of your ponytail out of instinct. You groan, shoving his hands away from you. He puts his hands up in surrender, scurrying up the street a bit.

You laugh, jogging up the street to catch up to him. This shouldn’t be too hard, you think. You’ll be busy with school and he’s got his whole life to focus on. Maybe being friends with Steve Harrington will be easier than you think!

—————

a/n: ahhhhhhhhhhh just friends! What could go wrong! I’m not sure how long this little series will go. But if you’re still interested, I’m already working on the next part :)

tags: @httpazxnth @wwylmlive @xaimary @dogstarbytes @micheledawn1975 @ortega29 @djodirt @ahead-fullofdreams

[httpazxnth]

need him biblically 🙏

The kind of man who talks you through it

[httpazxnth]

Jack Abbott x ER paediatrician who is sunshine personified

And apparently I went overboard and made this into a mini series

The Pitt didn’t do cheerful.

Not at 3:47 in the morning. Not after a fifteen-year-old coding on arrival, two overdoses, and a multi-car pileup that left blood in the tiles Jack Abbott just cleaned yesterday. And especially not when the nurses were triple-charting because the damn system kept crashing.

So when a too-perky voice piped up from the edge of Trauma 2 with a singsongy, “Morning, everyone!”—Jack nearly dropped the trauma shears in his hand.

She was all sunshine. Literal. Hair pulled into a messy ponytail that bounced when she walked. Bright pink scrubs, covered in little cartoon hearts. Crocs with glitter. Glitter. And a damn cup of coffee in each hand.

“Dr. Abbott, right?” she asked, breezing into his space like she didn’t see the metaphorical DO NOT ENTER sign hanging over his perpetually furrowed brow. “I’m Dr. Yn Ln. Just started in Peds ER. I brought caffeine and good vibes.”

He stared at her. So did two nurses, the med student, and the unconscious patient on the gurney—probably out of sheer secondhand embarrassment.

“Why are you here?” he asked, deadpan.

She blinked. “Because I cover trauma consults for pediatric cases now. Just thought I’d introduce myself. Be neighborly. You know. Teamwork makes the dream work?”

Someone choked on a laugh behind him.

Jack slowly reached for the cup she held out to him. It was labeled with a sticker that read “Grumpy but Hot.”

He didn’t want to smile. Absolutely not.

But he did take the coffee.

“I don’t dream,” he muttered.

She grinned like he’d made a joke. “Then I’ll do the dreaming for both of us.”

And just like that, Yn Ln turned and walked off, leaving a faint trail of vanilla behind her and a trauma bay filled with stunned silence.

“She’s going to eat you alive,” one of the nurses whispered.

Jack took a long sip of the coffee. Sweet. Frothy. With a dusting of cinnamon on top.

He hated it.

…He finished the whole thing.

[httpazxnth]

This is what heaven looks like

i’m in love

via itsboomail on Twitter (X)

[httpazxnth]

Lost Love

Summary: You run into Steve after years of not seeing each other Steve Harrington x fem!reader, 4.3k, angsty, exes, one shot okay, this is angsty, but I recently ran into an ex and for a fleeting moment saw what my life could have been and was inspired by that what if. Instead of acting on these rash feelings, I wrote about it! also, go listen to The Crux!!!!!!!!!!

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

Chicago, Fall 1991

The city bustled around you. A slight chill nipped at your exposed neck as the wind picked up. You walked down the street, heeled boots clicking against the pavement as you made your way to the bar.

You were in town for the weekend on a work trip, accompanying one of the law partners to the Chicago office to oversee a merger. You were not even a year out of college and were already looking into law school, specifically one in Chicago.

While you loved living in New York, you had already spent four years of school there and were looking for a change. Moving closer to home would be nice too—only a short drive to Hawkins from the city. Yeah, you thought, being closer would be nice, which was such an odd sentiment given that just five years ago you couldn't get out of Hawkins fast enough.

Who could blame you though, after everything that happened to your little town and your friends? God, you haven't spoken to anyone in a long time. You saw Nancy up in Boston here and there. Occasionally spoke to Robin on the phone, but that was really it. Even when you came home for holidays, you rarely had time to see anyone besides your family who came out to visit you more than anything.

They knew you didn't love to be home, partly because of what happened and partly because of him. Because of Steve.

You two ended things before they really got started. Two kids way too afraid to really admit how much they felt for each other, too scared to commit to one another.

When you tell new friends about your past relationships, you usually keep it light when it comes to Steve. Chalking it up as a friends-with-benefits type of thing or it was never that serious. But that couldn't be farther from the truth. You two shared an immense amount of trauma that no one could begin to understand, and that ultimately led you two apart.

Steve was a constant reminder of a past you were so ready to let go of. So that's exactly what you did. You let him go. You left Hawkins after graduation, moved to Manhattan early, started school at Columbia, and never looked back.

You've come a long way, graduating with honors and clerking at a prestigious firm. Your boss tells you that getting into law school will be a breeze and that you'd have your pick. Chicago has great schools and is an even better place to practice business law, so it seemed like the obvious choice to explore your options there.

You walked into the dive bar, meeting the other clerks also dressed in business attire, quickly falling into a comfortable stride with them. This was who you were now and this could be your new life here. But something picked at you, like a soft scratch or gentle tug coming from just 200 miles south of here.

The night went on as you learned about the other young people at the firm, where they were attending school or applying. Northwestern sounds great or even the University of Chicago, all great choices really.

It was easy getting along with them. You talked about work, new artists they've listened to, movies they've seen, their love lives. One of them is newly engaged, the other just had a monumental breakup, and then they turn to you.

So you tell them about Peter, your boyfriend of just over a year. How kind and smart he is, how he's a finance guy but not the kind on Wall Street, he's a lot more relaxed than that. He's from Manhattan, his parents come from old money - whatever that means, you always thought. You think of his light blue eyes and his sweet smile, what you'd be giving up if you moved away. Even though he told you there was money to be made in Chicago.

You liked that you could see a future with Peter. That certainty was refreshing, something you never had before.

After everyone insists on another round of drinks, you follow to the bar, slipping onto an empty stool. You lean over to order your drink and turn back to your friends. That's when you see him. Like a ghost at the other end of the bar.

You freeze, it can't be him. It can't be Steve.

But that's his hair, tamer now but still big. Then comes his laugh as he smiles with some people you don't recognize.

The bartender places your drink in front of you, breaking your trance. You quickly look at your drink and pick it up, taking a long sip. What is he doing here? Does he live here now? Does he see you? Oh shit, oh shit.

You look up and he's gone from his place at the bar. Oh no.

You would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about this moment before, seeing Steve after years of not speaking. You imagined it quite a bit actually. How you’d tell him about your new life and how happy you were. You thought you’d have more control in this situation, and feel more confident and less like a floundering fish.

Then you feel a warm hand on your shoulder and your body is turning toward Steve before your mind can catch up. You look up at him, his smile wide and eyes happy.

"No fucking way," Steve beams, reaching his arms around you.

You can't even compute what's going on, but again your body moves before you can think and you're hugging him back. His scent hits you like a train, the familiar smell of fresh linens and pine.

You play off his positive, light attitude, "Steve, wow, it's great to see you."

He smiles, "what are you doing here? Did you move?"

"No, no," you shake your head and gesture to the group of business casual people around you, "I'm here for a work thing."

"I thought I spotted a shit ton of lawyers," Steve jokes. He was so good at this, making light of everything. Making every situation comfortable and easy, even when it shouldn't be. You hated that about him and were jealous of that trait too.

"Lawyers to be," you smiled, taking a long sip of your drink. You never needed tequila more than at this moment. You look back up at him, “what about you? What are you in town for?”

“Oh, I live here now,” he smiles widely, “I’m studying to teach while working at a local middle school.”

Well, that hit you like a ton of bricks. Steve Harrington moved? Out of Hawkins? But then the rest of his words register, and you’re overcome with happiness for him.

You clap his shoulder proudly, “that’s amazing! Actually, that’s so perfect for you.”

“Took babysitting those kids to a whole new level,” he laughs.

You nod, “I totally see it though. Really, I’m so happy for you.”

Steve beamed, “look at the two of us. Grown ups now. Who woulda thought.”

You laughed, relaxing a bit. He was always good at that, making a conversation easy and light. Feeling bold, you nod over to the bartender.

“Let me buy you a drink,” you smiled at Steve, “you know, to celebrate.”

He happily obliged, sitting down at the bar next to you, kicking off the start of a long night of catch-up.

It’s funny, how time can feel so irrelevant with the right person. You hadn’t seen Steve in almost four years and yet it was like no time has passed.

But that’s what happens with old friends, former lovers. The connection will always be there if it’s right.

The conversation was polite at first, covering the basics. How were the kids? Your parents? Is Manhattan really that great? Hopper still the Chief? They rebuilt the mall? You two went on and on about your mutual connections. After all, there was a lot to cover in the last few years.

Then your friends started to trickle out and Steve’s too, but you two stayed, moving over to a booth - quieter, more intimate. The conversation became more familiar then. It was like you were back at the diner, gossiping over milkshakes and burgers. Just the two of you and your opinions about anything and everything.

The Terminator sequel was better than the first. You’re into baseball now? The Yankees, really? No way you saw the Stones at an underground show, no way.

Then you were inviting him to New York, telling him there’s so much going on there with its music and art and people. Steve gushed about Chicago and how you were right, that living in the city really was the best thing to do.

So you told him that you were looking at law schools in Chicago, considering moving back to the Midwest for good. And for the first time since he saw you that night, Steve felt those past feelings come up. The ones he tried to repress and put away for the night, for the sake of seeing an old friend. But now you could move here, to his home and that thought scared him.

But Steve didn’t falter, instead, he listened as you told him your plans and how everything was so up in the air. You were excited, he could tell, and it was contagious. So he suggested taking you to his favorite deep dish place a couple blocks away. If you were considering moving to Chicago, you had to try the best pizza the city has to offer.

So of course you went with him, not even considering checking the time. Although you knew it had to be past midnight by now.

The pizza place was packed with late-night eaters, which overwhelmed your senses. Steve grabs your hand as you push past the crowded doorway to the tiny shop, guiding you to the line.

That was the first familiar touch of the night. You two didn’t even realize you were still holding hands in line, distracted by the crowded room.

Then it was swapping pizzas, Steve insisting on you trying his spicy pepperoni slice. You looked up at him and he was already holding up the slice for you to take a bite out of it. The interaction seemed casual to you, but Steve couldn’t help but let his eyes flicker down to your pink lips for just a moment.

After a couple of more hours of catching up over pizza and beer, Steve was walking you back to your hotel. Both of you slightly tipsy, most of the buzz already soaked up by the greasy pizza.

You were freezing, not prepared for the wind chill, and Steve noticed your shivering. Without any hesitation, he wrapped an arm around your shoulder and pulled you in. His pine scent makes you woozy again.

But you didn’t move. Instead, you leaned further into his side, grateful for his warmth and the familiarity of it all. Another mindless touch, one that you’ve exchanged so many times before. This time, you couldn’t help but feel the pull towards him, the unspoken connection between you two that you had believed ceased to exist.

It’s funny how time doesn’t work like that. Because no matter how many years go by, feelings never really go away. Where would that love go? That lost love. The untested love that never really got a chance to go somewhere. It doesn’t just go away. It lingers and stews until a moment like tonight when two former lovers randomly reunite.

You two walked down the empty street, huddled closely together. From a passerby, you two look like a young couple that’s been together for a long time now. Then came the music blasting from a club a couple of doors down. The line to get in was short, but people were still heading in.

A New Order track hit your ears and you immediately turned to Steve who was already laughing, knowing you loved this song and this band and to dance. So he didn’t even scoff when you pleaded with him, “just one song! Please!” Steve feigned reluctance, as you grabbed his hand and pulled him into the packed dance club.

And there you two were, after five more songs, dancing your hearts out. Like it was prom again and you two were the most embarrassing (and high) students on the dance floor. This time you were two fully grown 20-somethings, mostly sober and having the time of your lives. An unexpected turn of events to say the least.

So you inched closer to Steve as the familiar 80s synth raged on. The disco lights flashed in and out, casting most of the floor in a dark fluorescent purple hue. Steve watched as you swayed your body, noticing your fuller hips and sweet smile. He couldn’t bring himself to look away as you turned around, your ass looking too good in the tight skirt you were wearing. Fuck, you looked good. With your knee-high boots and off-the-shoulder top. For the first time tonight, he realized that you looked older now too, or at least acted like it. You moved your body confidently, knowing exactly what you were doing with those new curves of yours.

Steve cursed himself for missing so much of you.

You caught him staring, of course, you did. You had always known when men looked at you or when a man wanted you. So when you caught a glimpse of Steve’s hooded eyes, you should have suggested calling it a night.

But you didn’t.

You grabbed his hand, pulling him in to close the gap between you, and really danced with him, your body pressed to his. Steve’s hands find your waist as you peer up into his eyes, and he recognizes that cheeky glimmer. Frankly, he missed seeing it. That little look you’d give him when you wanted something from him. But you didn’t even realize you were doing it. You never did. It was a tell only Steve recognized, and that was dangerous.

Steve should have wondered then if you were single and that’s when you should have finally brought up your boyfriend. But the possibility of significant others was so far from your mind the entire night, especially when you were pressed together in a dance club.

It was always like this with you and Steve. Monogamy was never brought up because it was always implied. There was no room for anyone else in your hearts when you were together and honestly, you didn’t want anyone else. Steve tried to date other girls just for the sake of it, but no one ever measured up to you. So he waited patiently for those quiet moments together in his bed or the back seat of his car when you let him in.

Was this one of those moments? Was this always how the night was going to turn out for you two? Under the disco lights, the possibility of reconnecting on a whole other level. Again, this logic was the furthest thing from your mind. All you and Steve wanted to do was be with each other in this moment, this rare moment an unexpected gift from the universe.

The bar flashed its house lights to indicate the night was coming to a close, but neither of you wanted it to end. So Steve enclosed your hand in his and you two stumbled out onto the street again, slowly trekking to your hotel.

Steve wrapped his arm around you again, tighter now, breathing in your scent. The same light floral perfume your mom gifts you. He smiled, remembering the bottle on your nightstand when it almost broke after he pushed you into the dresser during a little more rough and needy hook up. The bottle nearly fell, but he was quick to catch it and yet you didn’t even notice, too busy pulling him onto the bed.

Oh, how he missed you. Your smile, your humor, the way you said all the right things, how you two could talk about anything and everything.

“It’s funny,” Steve pulls you in closer, “how we bumped into each other tonight.”

You nod, “I know. Of all the bars in Chicago, we happened to be in the same one. At the same time.”

“I’d say it’s fate,” he bumps you lightly.

“I agree,” you smile, “it feels like the universe is trying to tell us something.”

Steve bites his lip, nervous to take this step but it just feels natural. He smiles, “maybe it thinks we should be in each other’s lives again. In some way or another.”

It’s music to Steve’s ears when you reply, “I’d like that. To be someone you know again.”

He pauses at this, suddenly saddened by your words. Steve stops walking, pulling you with him, and looks down at you. His eyes fill with sincerity as he shakes his head, “you know me. You know me better than anyone else.”

His words send you reeling. Taken aback, you look up at him, “we haven’t spoken in years. Shit, I didn’t even know you moved, Steve.”

But he doubles down, his hand gripping your arm gently, “sure, but I wouldn’t be who am today without you.”

How could he be so kind, after everything? Maybe he wasn’t angry or upset with you anymore, and maybe you shouldn’t be either. Maybe you two could move forward from this.

Then Steve’s looking at you, really looking. His eyes memorize every feature of your face, noticing how you’ve changed but only slightly. His fingers trail up to your cheek to move the strand of hair behind your ear and you have to steady yourself from this touch. Another familiar and way more intimate touch.

You look over his face too, how there’s a shadow of stubble on his chin that wasn’t there before. How his face is thinner, more mature now. How his eyes are still the same shade of honey brown you loved. Time was a wicked thing, and you’d be damned if you wasted any more of it.

So you pull back, looking over at the doors of your hotel, and taking a step up the stairs toward the lobby. You hold Steve’s hand, enticing him to follow. He stands there, looking up at you, lips turned up into a slight smile.

Then the words spill out of your mouth before logic can stop you, “want to come up?”

Your hand lingers in his as he gazes up at you. Steve’s expression is breathless, eyes soft as he contemplates your question. The insinuation hits a nerve, deep in his chest. He’s not in shock that you’d ask such a thing, honestly, he was expecting the night to end this way. The two of you wrapped up in each other just like old times.

But, instead of accepting your invitation, his first instinct is to pause. His second is anger.

It bubbles up out of nowhere, emotions he’s repressed over the years of not seeing you. How dare you pop back into his life and think it’s this easy to get him in bed again. He has a life now without you in it and here you are steamrolling through like you own the place. Like you’re entitled to him.

Steve recoils, breaking his hand away from yours. His gaze now hardens as he shakes his head, “are you serious right now?”

You shift back, bringing your hand down to your side, it still tingles from his touch. “Steve, I thought-”

He cuts you off, piling on, “you don’t just get to show up here and act like everything’s normal. Like I’m some old fling you screw on vacation.”

You flinch at his version of events. Is that what he thinks he is to you? An old fling?

Now you start to get angry, frustrated at his sudden aggression. You shake your head, “that’s not what’s happening here. I haven’t seen you in years and-”

“Yeah, well whose fault is that,” Steve mutters, bitterness not looking good on him.

You swallow harshly, “it certainly wasn’t just mine. Don’t act like you didn’t have a hand in it.”

He throws his hands up in the air. “You left!” Steve yells, “you made your decision and ran away to New York!”

“It’s not like you tried to stop me!” You’re yelling now too, on the steps of the upscale hotel your company is paying for, but you don’t care. The conversation you’ve envisioned dozens of times is finally coming to fruition and you are losing control.

Steve steps up to your level, the height difference more evident as he looks down at you.

“You said you couldn’t do it anymore, that you needed to move on and that meant from me too,” his eyes narrowed at you.

Your cheeks were hot now and probably red, but you continued on, “I was always going to leave Hawkins, you knew that and still did nothing. I felt like you gave up! Like you were fine just letting me go!”

“What was I supposed to do? Stop you?”

“You could have come with me!”

Steve pauses, hurt flashing across his face. “Now that’s not fair,” he breathes out, “how was I supposed to know you wanted that? You said you wanted a clean break!”

He was right. You hadn’t voiced that desire for him to follow you because you hadn’t known that was what you wanted. But now you knew, you knew that you should have asked him to come with you and start your life together. Frankly, he can’t put this all on you. If he cared so much, he would have tried harder to be with you. Told you to stop being stupid and let him love you.

“I was wrong! I was dumb and angry, but you didn’t even put up a fight!” Your voice still raised.

It’s all out there now and Steve knows it. He shouts, “you expected me to drop everything? After what we just went through?”

“Yes!” You breathe out, exhausted from the vulnerability. But you had to tell him how you felt.

Steve looks at you, his chest rising and falling as he steadies his breathing.

“I was scared,” he states quietly.

You sigh, “yeah, well so was I.”

Now at a stalemate, you look at each other. Not sure what to say or do from here. All that time wasted and for what? If only you had communicated things better, maybe you’d have an entirely different life. One with Steve still in it.

“Look,” he took a step down toward the sidewalk, “maybe you were right. Maybe we shouldn’t see each other.”

Your chest tightens, your stomach dropping at his words. The same way you felt a few years ago when you first broke it off.

So you let your pride get the better of you and nod at his words. Maybe you had been right, maybe you didn’t need each other after all.

“Yeah, maybe,” was all you could say without your emotions overwhelming you. You could feel your throat tightening, your eyes glassy.

Steve of course notices as your eyes redden and your arms cross against your chest, hugging yourself tightly. He hated making you feel this way, but he had to protect himself. Following you up those steps into your hotel room would send him down a path he wasn’t sure he was ready for.

He had felt similarly after you graduated and told him you were moving away for school. Steve wasn’t ready to make such a life-changing decision, not after everything that just happened. He needed normalcy and comfort, not to fall head first for you. So he didn’t protest and he let you leave, brokenhearted and angry.

Steve looks up at you and nods, more at himself than to you, “take care.”

Then he was turning down the street, walking away. Leaving you alone and cold as the city quieted down into the early morning hours. The faint sounds of the train and a garbage truck drown out the thump of your heart beating.

You breathlessly wander into the hotel lobby before you can watch him turn the corner, disappearing forever.

The bright lights of the elevator sober you up a bit, letting your emotions sink in. You were angry, definitely angry. Why was he allowed to be the only victim in this? If he really loved you he would have fought harder. Right?

You push into your quiet hotel room, the bed untouched.

After all these years, he managed to still make you feel so intensely and he clearly harbored the same sentiment toward you.

If this was the universe’s way of giving you closure, it was a fucked up attempt. You were reeling more than ever now.

As you discard your clothes and change into pajamas, you eyed the alarm clock - it was almost 4 am. God, where did the time go?

You notice a flashing red button on the room’s phone. Pressing it to reveal a voicemail, your boyfriend’s voice coming onto the line. Fuck, Peter.

In the chaos of the night, you had forgotten to give him a call. Truthfully, you hadn’t thought about him since the moment you saw Steve.

Then a cold wave of regret hits you as you listen to his message. His sweet tone saying, “hey, it’s not too late here so you’re probably out and about, but I just called to say goodnight and that I love you. Hope you’re having fun! Talk tomorrow, bye.”

You lay back on the bed, throwing your hands over your face as the tears finally come.

You had invited Steve up to your room.

Not even stopping to consider your nice boyfriend back in New York. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

part two?? where steve finds out about the boyfriend??

[httpazxnth]

“Their eyes locked from across the room”