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randomtwistedlife · 3 months ago

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Omg hi if you're taking requests can u do one where bucket and reader are like investigating a murder or something and just make them bicker idk I'll read ur grocery list bro you can keep it annoyance to lovers like the "I just want you to stop saying odd shit" bit and then they fall in love

the way i had to cycle through multiple scenarios before landing on this so i could keep it lighthearted. hey sexy. ily mwah mwah

word count: 1.3k

warnings: mild thunderbolts spoilers, swearing, longing, reader being annoying, fake murders

my masterlist over here and my silly little inbox for more requests, should you please

They're trained assassins.

Bob is not.

Yeah he does the dishes, and folds his laundry and rewatches old movies he liked better the first time. But eventually, he realizes he needs something to get him out of bed.

So he starts organizing nights.

Trivia. Gets weirdly competitive, and the tiebreaker is the name of some random model of gun from 1996.

A wine tasting that resulted in seven open bottles, no glasses, and someone using a tactical knife to open a wheel of Brie.

Potlucks, even though they don't know what to do with fifteen packets of Doritos and no real food.

And finally-- murder mystery nights.

Which is objectively deranged, because why are they coming home from their day job to cosplay it at night, but worse.

But it’s Bob. And Bob asks with that quiet, hopeful tone that’s hard to refuse. So they come. They try to stay longer than thirty minutes.

There's a body on the floor, covered in fake blood. None of the metallic smell that usually follows one-- it's something sweet. Suspiciously close to edible.

Bucky arrives late thirty minutes. Ridiculous, considering he lives in the building.

You arrive five minutes after that.

The others have already formed their teams, so he gets paired off with you. He knows why Bob has done this, no one in the tower was particularly subtle about the both of you. To their credit, he doesn't fight it.

The teams have already gotten a headstart, and he doesn't know what to do at a crime scene that he did not cause.

He also knows for a fact that neither of you have read the case file.

"Hmm," you say, kicking at the body with your toe. "Suspicious."

"What?" Bucky asks dryly.

"It appears the victim is...dead."

He stares at you. "That's the fucking game."

"I see," you hum. "As I said. Suspicious. Perhaps the murderer enjoys playing...games."

He closes his eyes. “I forgot how quiet it was when you weren't around.”

“And you hated it.”

“I cleaned the kitchen twice.”

“That’s grief, Bucky.”

He glances at you, expression unreadable. “You think you’re funny.”

“I think I’m observant.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, but doesn't quite lift.

Bucky hands you a sheet of paper. “You’re the maid. You found the body.”

“No. You're the maid. You found the body."

"That's not how this works. This is not a negotiation."

Five minutes later Bucky is the maid. He found the body.

Bucky ignores you trying to lift the thing with one foot.

"Mr. Long was found by his maid, Ms. Bennett, when she came to work," he reads out dryly. "She says to the police, 'Gee''-"

And then he stops.

You raise an eyebrow. "What does she say?"

"I don't know, there's, like fifteen typos on this thing." He squints. "'Gee howdy, well I walked in and he was on the floor, cold as a slice of pie..that was left in the refrigerator'."

"Things that are famously cold." You nod. "Read it again. Put a little drawl into it. Gee howdy."

"No."

“Read it again. Commit.”

“No.” He folds up the paper. "Did you find any clues?"

"None. Where is the chalk?"

"Chalk?"

"I want to outline his body," you tell him.

"That is not a real thing that happens."

"But if we work together, we can live in a world where it does."

You settle for permanent marker. The team was not going to be happy when they see this.

Either way, he doesn't say anything when you hand the cap to him and start drawing around the dummy. He even tells you you missed a spot.

He doesn't mind that he's paired up with you. You'd showed up at midnight and slept through most of the day, so this was really the first time you were speaking since you'd come back.

Yelena and Ava breeze past on the way to the kitchen, clearly more invested. Someone mentions a footprint.

Bucky doesn't even know the murder victim's full name.

"What the fuck are you doing,” Bucky asks, squinting at your latest addition. "What’s this circle?

"I drew a basketball. He looks like he's playing."

He’s about to argue, but something stops him. Maybe it’s the way your finger traces the imaginary arc of the shot. The line of his jaw knows what that feels like. The thought of it makes him swallow just the briefest amount.

He clears his throat. "What is wrong with you."

"Look at his arm. I'm gonna draw him a basket."

"Stop it. We're supposed to be investigating."

"I already investigated. He's straight up dead, man."

''That's not--"

"RIP for real." You nod solemnly. "No chance of a come back."

"Investigate why he's here."

"Well, this is a dummy, Bucky. He's only here 'cause someone left him like this. I think we ought'a find that fool who left his mannequin out here and give him a real talking to."

He drags a palm down his face. "I don't want to be here. You're making this worse."

"Don't worry, we'll get to the bottom of this." You pat his shoulder. "What's this guy's name again?"

"I don't know. Mr Long."

"Mr So-Long." You smile wide. "Because he's dead."

He doesn’t argue. Not really. Not in the way that matters.

Bob asks on the group whether everyone's having fun. Everyone replies with various versions of 'yes'. Bob tells them there are no clues outside, and Alexei and John really have no reason to be rappelling down the side of the Avengers Tower.

Eventually, he starts reading the case notes. Finally, you abandon what you're doing and try to pick up on what's actually going on in the case.

You ignore his need for space, leaning into him to read for yourself.

“Why are you so close?” he mutters.

You don’t move. “I can’t read upside down.”

He reads the same line three times in a row. Can’t retain any of it. His brain is occupied with the way your hands are resting lightly on his wrist.

It's ten minutes to nine. Bucky's been trying to solve this on his own for a while now.

Bob, bless him, has tried to give everyone motives, but they don’t quite make sense. A missing cook. A driver who doesn’t show up until page four. A torn photograph. A coffee stain on the calendar. The date of a car accident circled in red.

You sniff the air. "San Marzano tomatoes."

"I'm pretty sure that's what the blood is made with." He continues reading from the notes. They’re sloppily written. Some of the pages are out of order. The names are inconsistent. The clues are vague.

"No," you say. "This was on purpose. This murder was at the hands of an Italian."

“There are no fuckin' Italians on the suspect list," he lies, knowing fully well he has no idea who the other suspects are, or if there are any.

"Fine. What other tomato-forward cuisines do you know?"

Bucky groans. "Let’s just say it was the maid. She poisoned him. Case closed.

"Well, actually Bucky, it's the driver. He took the fall for the crash a few years ago, got blamed for something that wasn’t really his fault. He drops Mr. Long off, follows him inside, kills him with a car key. The wound is something small. Multiple stabs, more than necessary, so it's definitely personal."

He stares at you.

He wonders if you meant the kiss you gave him before you left. He wonders if it meant anything to you. He’s been wondering that all week.

"Oh hey, you guys got it," Bob says, poking his head into the room. "Nice. I'll go tell the others you won."

"It was all Bucky. All I did was draw a chicken with his fingers."

Bucky shakes his head, but it’s with a softness you’ve seen before. Usually when you come back from a mission in one piece. When you make him laugh by accident. When he forgets, briefly, how much he isn’t supposed to want this.

"One more question, Bob," you say, spinning around. "Where was the driver from?"

“Oh, Ricci? Naples. Italian.”

"I fucking knew it."

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

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randomtwistedlife · 3 months ago

Text

Elevator, Baby!

Summary : The team thinks Bucky has a crush on the tower’s interior designer. They don’t know that they’re already married.

Pairing : New Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Interior designer!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers!!!!!!! Secret wife trope. Tower fic! Secret-ish baby. Cursing, not-too-detailed descriptions of sex, pregnancy, (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 6.7k

Requested by : two anons! Based on this and this.

Note : I combined two requests, I hope that’s alright, anons! Enjoy!

Bucky only stayed at The Watchtower three days a week.

Officially, those days were for debriefings, strategy syncs, mission prep, and what Alexei affectionately called team bonding.

The rest of the week, he goes off-grid and minimal contact, calling it rest and recuperation.

He spent those days outside the city, tucked away in a modest, two-story house in the suburbs.

The walls were painted in earthy tones. The porch creaked when it rained. The neighbours didn’t ask questions. But most importantly, it was where you, the love of his life, resided full time.

It was home.

Bucky had closed on the house exactly nine months and fourteen days ago. A week later, he’d married you under a willow tree in the backyard with no fanfare, only Sam, Joaquin, and Isaiah Bradley as guests, and a ring you both picked out from a vintage shop in Brooklyn. Sam had joked that it must have been the best day of his overextended, complicated life.

He was right.

Still, not a single member of his newly assembled team had a clue.

They knew Bucky Barnes, the leader of the New Avengers, war-hardened and famously chronically single. They knew the efficient, don’t-ask-me-about-my-weekends version of him. They did not know that the same man kissed his wife’s temple every morning before she left for work, took out the trash without being asked, and spent his evenings slow dancing with you in the kitchen to whatever jazz record was spinning on the old turntable.

That part of him was private.

He didn’t keep you a secret out of shame — Bucky showed how much he loved you in the ways that mattered. But with many of his old enemies still out there, keeping you out of the spotlight was non-negotiable.

It was especially necessary now that the New Avengers were under public scrutiny, the media hounding them with every move, and Val running ops like a government-sponsored reality show.

But, of course, what he least expected happened.

When Val asked Mel to source a top-tier interior designer for the Watchtower’s massive renovation, Bucky didn’t say anything.

He didn’t pull any strings. He didn’t say a word.

But of course, Mel found your firm. It was one of the best in town, after all.

Of course, all he could do was stare blankly when Mel casually dropped your name in a team meeting two weeks later. You, who’d been growing your design firm from the ground up, known for clean lines and warm spaces and zero tolerance for pretentious decor.

And when you told Bucky that you’d accepted the Watchtower job, he’d smiled weakly and said, “We’ll figure it out.”

Which led to this moment.

—

Your first day on the job was a Monday morning.

You stepped into the lobby of the newly renamed Watchtower, hard hat hooked on your hip, leather-bound notebook under one arm, and your chewed up pencil behind your ear.

You, as planned, acted completely unfamiliar with the man you’d kissed goodbye at 7 a.m. over toast.

You approached the cluster of Avengers who’d been haphazardly gathered for your arrival — Ava, John, Yelena, Bob, Alexei, and Bucky. Your husband leaned against a column, arms folded, feigning indifference while silently praying his face didn’t give away his precious little secret.

But then your eyes met.

For one fleeting moment, your smile brightened. But you covered it up and offered him a hand like you hadn’t fallen asleep his bare chest fourteen hours ago, and said, “Nice to meet you. I’m your interior designer.”

Bucky took your hand.

The handshake lasted two seconds too long.

“James Barnes,” he said. “Pleasure.”

Ava raised an eyebrow.

You let go of his hand, nodded politely, and turned to the others to introduce yourself.

Your voice was steady, your posture perfect, but Bucky noticed the way you tapped your thumb against the spine of your notebook — the tiniest nervous habit. He kissed that hand every night.

When you walked off to start your tour, Ava elbowed Bucky in the ribs.

“She is too pretty. If you don’t ask her out, I will.”

“M’ not into her,” Bucky said. It was the worst lie he’d told in years.

“C’mon man,” John chuckled. “That looked like love at first right.”

Bucky just shrugged and turned away, pretending to be interested in a support beam.

—

Six Weeks Later

You were everywhere.

Literally everywhere inside the Watchtower.

You were in hallways, stairwells, and repurposed labs. You were under floorboards to check for old wiring. You were balancing precariously on scaffolding with paint samples in one hand and a clipboard in the other. You had a team, sure, but you were the kind of interior designer who believed that breathing the same dust as your contractors was the only way to truly understand your art.

Within a month, you turned a gutted superhero facility into your battlefield.

And you made it look good.

You had turned bare concrete into well thought out sketches, made a temporary lounge out of broken furniture and vintage rugs, and wrestled the tower’s unmaintained lighting grid into semi-functional compliance. You worked long hours. You cursed openly at bad insulation. You drank your coffee black and your water in gallons, and somewhere along the way, the tower became a passion project, your baby.

And the New Avengers grew fond of you.

They tried to be subtle about it, watching you from doorways or pausing in their sparring sessions whenever you passed through to say hi.

You’d wave a friendly hi back, before going back to being all-business.

At this point, you and Bucky had practiced your we-just-met act to an Oscar-worthy level. You faked polite smiles, formal greetings, and total lack of familiarity, even when you showered together the night before.

But sometimes, it slipped through the cracks.

You can help but steal glances at each other — each one lasting just a little too long. His hand would find your lower back when he leaned over your desk to study a blueprint, fingertips brushing that sensitive spot just beneath your shirt hem. Your voice dropped half an octave whenever you addressed him in front of others, slipping in sergeant under your breath like it wasn’t a private reference from your bedroom.

Sometimes, you’d pass him in the hallway and murmur things quiet enough only he could hear. A reminder of what you’d do to him the moment he got home. Or what he’d done to you the last time he snuck back to the house for the night. You’d say it just loud enough to leave him frozen in place for a second — then he’d look like he needed to punch a wall or take a very cold shower to stay professional.

You made it impossible to concentrate.

So Bucky, for all his practiced stoicism and control, was coming undone.

Which was probably why the team started to notice.

Or, more accurately, why John Walker lost his goddamn mind one Tuesday afternoon.

The makeshift common room — still mid-renovation — was still half-furnished, but they made it work. Yelena was scrolling through her phone while Bob napped on a deflated air mattress. Ava cleaned her knives at the dining table that had mismatched chairs. Alexei was rearranging the fridge after someone messed up his system.

Bucky stood near the large window, arms folded, pretending to be interested in the HVAC schematics you were showing to one of your contractors across the room.

You laughed at something the guy said, and Bucky’s eyes twitched in jealousy.

That was all it took.

John groaned loud enough to echo off the half-installed acoustic panels. Then, on his last straw, he flopped onto the couch dramatically.

“If you like her, Barnes, just ask her out already. Jesus,” John said, dragging a hand down his face. “You’ve been eye-fucking her across the hall for a month.”

Bucky just raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“She’s out of my league,” he said coolly. It was a textbook deflection. “Besides, she’s not even my type.”

Yelena immediately snorted. “Liar.”

Ava didn’t look up from her knives. “Liar.”

Even Bob, barely conscious, mumbled. “Liarrrr.”

Alexei only chuckled.

“What is wrong with you?!” John sat up, “You’re literally, like—what? A hundred and ten years old? You can’t still be doing the whole ‘girls don’t like me’ routine.”

Bucky gave a half-shrug, still not looking away from where you were, now climbing a ladder with a pencil behind your ear.

“She’s here to work,” he said. “I respect that.”

“Ah,” Alexei scoffed. “Is that why you follow her around like Roomba?”

Bucky had no answer to that.

—

One Afternoon

Today had been a long day

It was dusty. It was loud. Contractors bickered, blueprints got smudged, and Bucky had looked unreasonably good doing absolutely nothing — just standing around in that damn new uniform with the red star on his right arm.

You hadn’t had more than a couple hours alone where you weren’t sleeping or eating— not at home, and especially not in the Tower, when at least one other team member would be hovering like a nosy, overgrown child.

So when you saw Bucky slipping into the elevator alone, you called out for him.

“Mr. Barnes,” you half-shouted to get his attention, jogging across the hall. “Hold the door.”

He pressed the button with his metal hand, glancing up with a fond smile. “Didn’t know we were doing last names now,” he said, just above a whisper.

“Would you rather I call you Sergeant?” you replied quietly as you slipped inside, brushing past him just enough to make it intentional.

The doors slid shut.

And then, just as the elevator began its slow descent, you heard a mechanical in the belly of the Watchtower. The lights above flickered once—then again—before cutting out entirely.

A single red emergency light buzzed to life.

You stumbled slightly, grabbing onto Bucky’s arm instinctively.

“What was that?” you asked.

“Power’s off,” he confirmed, chuckling when you jumped, kissing your temple to let you know that it was going to be okay, that the elevator was ventilated well enough for you to survive a long time in there.

You slapped the emergency call button, and…. Nothing. Not even a buzz.

You blinked up at the ceiling like divine intervention might come through the grates.

“Bucky,” you pouted, clutching his arm a little tighter, “do something.”

“I am doing something,” he said as he crouched down and nudged at the panel, making no real effort. “It's just not working.”

“Well, pry the door open or—use your metal arm or something!”

He shot you a dry look over his shoulder. “Can’t. This thing was built to withstand the hulk.”

You watched him stand and lean back against the wall like he was settling in. Like… he didn’t mind this.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you sighed, “I’ve got to meet the people installing wallpaper in ten minutes.”

Bucky folded his arms across his broad chest, his eyes maddeningly calm. “Could be worse,” he offered with a shrug.

“Bucky,” you warned, eyes narrowing.

“What?” he replied, too innocently, too calmly.

“We’re technically both on the clock,” you reminded him.

He shrugged. “We’re also stuck. Sounds like PTO to me.”

You rolled your eyes, but can’t help the smile on the corners of your mouth. “You’re impossible.”

That crooked grin formed on his face. “You’re tellin’ me you haven’t missed me, doll?”

“Don’t,” you said, pointing a finger to his chest.

“Don’t what?”

“That voice. That look. You're gonna get us in trouble.”

He pushed off the wall and stepped closer. He was not touching you, but he was near enough that your heart began its traitorous dance, even after all this time. “We’ve barely touched each other. Last time was what— four days ago?”

“Four days is not that long,” you said.

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “It used to be four hours.”

You swallowed hard, but he was not done yet.

“Used to be I couldn’t walk past you in our house without stopping to touch you.”

You looked away, heat creeping up your neck.

“Used to be I’d wake up with your thighs already wrapped around my face,” his voice dropped an octave lower, “And now I’m lucky if I get a quick kiss before you run off to yell at plumbers.”

“I did give you a kiss this morning,” you looked up at him.

“Not the kind I meant,” he said, eyes glued to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

You choked on a laugh, shoving at his chest weakly. “That’s very inappropriate, Mr. Barnes.”

“I’m your husband.” He bit your earlobe gently. “And I’m tired of pretending we don’t wake up in the same bed.”

“We’ve got… responsibilities.” Your fingers were already in his hair. “People are counting on us.”

“Let them wait,” he muttered, kissing you slow and deep now, mouth moving with that sinful confidence that made your knees buckle. “You’ve been killing me all week, walking around this place like you don’t belong to me.”

“I am yours,” you whispered against his lips, heat coiling in your belly. “But the cameras—”

“Power’s off.” He reminded, hand sliding up your thigh, curling behind your knee and hiking your leg around his hip. “You need this. I know you do.”

“You’re cocky.”

“I’m right,” he said, kissing you again. This time you kissed him back harder.

Your body gave in before your words did. It always did with him.

And as his fingers slipped past the lace of your underwear and his mouth returned to your neck, you forgot entirely about the elevator, the job, the rules.

You weren’t the Watchtower’s interior designer anymore.

You were just his wife.

And he was very, very good at reminding you why.

Neither of you noticed the faint red light in the ceiling blink back to life. Didn’t notice the tiny lens in the far corner of the elevator was still functional.

You had no idea Yelena had rigged a backup battery into the surveillance system.

And you definitely didn’t know the power outage wasn’t an accident.

It was a setup.

—

Later that afternoon

The new Avengers gathered in the security room like kids about to witness an R-rated movie.

And in a way… they were.

Yelena had the footage queued up. She sat with arms folded, boots propped up on the console, a smug grin across her face.

This was her idea, after all— playing matchmaker as a favour to Bucky.

“It’s visual-only,” she said, almost too casually. “No audio. You know—normal CCTV stuff. But we don’t need sound to read body language.”

She hit play.

The plan was simple: trap Bucky Barnes and that absurdly hot interior designer in the Watchtower elevator to see if he finally made a move.

“Ten bucks says he doesn’t even talk to her,” Ava declared, leaning against the wall.

“I say he kisses her,” Bob offered gently, still half-asleep in sweatpants, rubbing his eyes. “Just a little one. He’s always so tense, it would be nice to see him… be sweet.”

John had brought popcorn like it was a movie premiere. “I want to believe he asked her out,” he said.

“Today is the day,” Alexei nodded in agreement, “ I can feel it.”

The screen flickered to life.

Bucky stepped into the elevator first, holding the door for you.

The doors closed.

Nothing out of the ordinary at first. It looked like normal conversation.

Then the elevator stopped.

You pressed the emergency call button. Nothing.

Bucky tried the panel, giving up too quickly.

Yelena’s grin widened. “Showtime.”

And then, Bucky stepped closer, whispering something into your ears.

“Classic,” John said, leaning in. “Here we go. Here comes the kiss on the cheek.”

The kiss landed on your lips instead.

It was not a peck. To everyone’s surprise, it was hungry.

The room went deathly silent.

Ava’s arms slowly uncrossed. “Okay….”

Bob’s mouth parted. “Oh…”

Then— then came the second kiss.

It was longer.

Your hands in his hair. His metal arm was up… your skirt?

Your back hit the elevator wall.

John sat forward slowly. “Wait… wait.”

Then, you climbed him.

It got very explicit very quickly.

John’s popcorn slid from his lap, forgotten.

Alexei was blinking like he’d witnessed a cult ritual.

Ava whispered, “Jesus Christ.”

Bob clutched the arms of his chair. “That’s— that’s not him asking her out on a date.”

“Is the—” Alexei squinted, his voice dry, “—is the camera shaking?”

“No,” Ava said hoarsely. “That’s the elevator shaking.”

“Fuck,” John gasped. “We should— we should stop.”

Yelena stared at the screen, frozen. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

Alexei held up a trembling finger. “He has not taken her to dinner. There was no courtship. There was no honour.”

Ava turned away from the monitor. “Turn it off. Turn it off!”

Yelena did.

The room plunged into an eerie silence.

Bob was still cross-legged on the floor. “I… I think there was a round two. Like… halfway through. I think I counted it. Different positions. Less vertical.”

They were all pale now.

Yelena stood up like she’d survived a car crash. “We are never speaking of this.”

“Delete the footage,” Ava added. “Burn it. Hack the cloud. Scrub the backups.”

“Gone,” Yelena said grimly. “It’s already gone.”

Alexei placed his mug down. “He has not even taken her out on date yet,” he repeated, horrified.

John slumped back into his chair, stunned “I’ll never look at elevators the same way.”

No one—not one of them—suspected marriage. No one suspected long-time commitment.

Not even a little.

They thought they’d witnessed a slip. A one-time break in Barnes’ solitude, a rare show of his desire.

They had no idea he fucked you like that at home every other day.

They just thought Bucky Barnes had the most soul-shattering game any man had ever possessed.

And not a single one of them ever got in that elevator without wincing ever again.

—

Six Weeks Later

It started out like any other off-day in the suburbs.

The early morning was quiet, with pale light spilling across the hardwood floors, the distant hum of a lawn mower down the street, and the smell of Bucky’s burnt-but-endearing attempt at breakfast wafting in from the kitchen.

It was supposed to be peaceful.

But you were in the bathroom, staring at the positive pregnancy test with your hands trembling and your heart threatening to beat out of your chest.

Pregnant.

Three times, all different brands.

It wasn’t planned, not really. You have been talking about it, and even said you’d give it a go by the end of the year.

Hell, you were on even the pill. But the last couple months had been a blur— long hours at the tower and stress-induced forgetfulness.

Somewhere in the chaos of overtime and rushing out the door with a protein bar instead of breakfast, you must’ve slipped up. Maybe once. Maybe twice. Maybe that was enough.

You barely heard your own footsteps as you tiptoed down the hallway in a fog, still holding one of the tests like it might disappear if you blinked. Bucky was at the kitchen counter, humming under his breath, shirtless in his gray sweatpants, a bowl of strawberries in front of him with his dog tags reflecting in the morning sun.

He turned when he heard you come in, and his smile immediately faltered.

He could tell by the look on your face that something was… off.

“Sweetheart?” His brow furrowed as he stepped toward you, eyes looking over as if scanning for wounds. “Are you okay?”

You tried to say something, but nothing came out. You just looked at him with wide eyes, parted lips, and the test clenched tightly in your hand.

His hands gently closed around your arms.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he said, his voice a little rough. “Breathe, doll. Tell me what’s going on. Did something happen?”

You shook your head, lip trembling. “No. Nothing like that. I just… I…”

He ducked his head, trying to catch your eyes. “Look at me,” he said, less demanding but more gentle. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, we can fix it. Just tell me.”

Your breath hitched. You looked down, uncurled your fingers, and held out the test.

Bucky looked at it.

Then up at you.

“…What is this?” he asked, almost cautiously. Like he needed confirmation.

You opened your mouth, but your voice cracked before it even came out. “I think I’m pregnant.”

He blinked twice. “You’re—”

You nodded, tears welling in your eyes. “I—I know. I was on the pill. I swear I was. But with everything going on at the tower and those back-to-back all-nighters and fuck, James, I must’ve messed up, I must’ve missed one or two—”

“Wait. Wait—wait,” he said suddenly. He stepped back just enough to look at you fully, like he needed the whole picture to understand. “You’re serious?”

You nodded again. “I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t joke about this.”

He was completely still, like the words were sinking into him bit by bit.

And then, to your surprise, he let out a shaky breath, laughed a little, and ran a hand through his hair.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “You’re pregnant.”

You looked at him nervously, heart pounding. “I—I mean, it’s early. Like really early. Just a few weeks, I think. We don’t have to freak out. We can talk about it. Think about it. We can—”

But he cut you off, stepping forward again and cupping your face in both hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears on your cheeks. His eyes were glistening.

“Hey,” he said gently. “I’m not freaking out. I’m not freaking out. I’m just—holy shit, baby. I— you’re growing a little version of us in there. We’re doing this... if you… if you want this, too.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding, your arms wrapping around him instinctively.

“We’re doing this,” you whispered back, like saying it out loud made it more real. “I… I do want this.”

He kissed the top of your head, your temple, your cheek. “We were headed here anyway. Maybe I didn’t know it’d happen now, but…” He leaned back to look at you, eyes full of wonder. “I love you so much.”

You sniffled, laughing through it. “I was so scared.”

“You don’t have to be,” he said, “Never with me.”

There was a long moment where the two of you just held each other, breathing in the warmth of the moment. When…

“So, uh. What do we tell the team?”

You chuckled. “About what? The baby or the fact that we’re married?”

He winced. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Bucky wanted to share his joy, he really did.

But he still had enemies. The kind who would use anything, anyone, to get to him.

And he would rather die than see your name — and his baby’s— end up on one of their lists.

“You still want to keep it quiet?” you asked quietly.

He didn’t answer right away. He looked at your stomach, his teeth clenching.

“I don’t want anyone knowing if it puts you in danger,” he said finally. “I don’t care what they think of me. I just want you safe. Our family safe.”

You nodded. “Okay. So... in two or three months— the tower renovations’ll be done by then. I can just wear baggy clothes.”

He gave you a wary look. “You already wear baggy clothes.”

You shrugged. “I’ll wear bigger ones.”

Surely, this was a foolproof plan, right?

—

It was successful for all of two weeks. You played your part, showed up to the tower, exchanged the usual small talk with the team, and pretended everything was normal, all while avoiding harmful construction materials and focusing on furnishing.

Then one morning, you looked pale coming out of the toilet, wiping acid from the corner of your mouth with tissue. Bob looked over, eyebrows raised in concern. You waved him off with a smile.

“Fuck morning sickness,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

And that was it. You didn’t even think twice. You were too focused on the nausea, the spinning room, the unpleasant taste in your mouth. You didn’t realise you’d said it.

Bob didn’t clock it right away either. You’d already left the room by the time the words caught up with him. He was halfway through his coffee, reading a book, when—

He froze. His eyes widened.

“Wait…”

Morning sickness?

—

Bob didn’t say anything right away.

He sat there for a moment, staring at the spot where you’d stood.

Morning sickness, his brain repeated again, louder now.

He stood up so fast his chair rolled back and hit the wall.

Fifteen minutes later, there was a closed-door meeting in Conference Room 7.

Ava, Yelena, Alexei, and John filed in, curious and worried—it wasn’t often that Bob called a we-need-to-talk-right-now meeting that didn’t involve a breach or a fire drill.

Bob stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, unreadable.

“She’s pregnant,” he said flatly.

Everyone blinked.

“…Who?” Ava asked, tilting her head.

Bob stared at her. “Bucky’s little elevator secret.”

Yelena raised an eyebrow. “How… How do you know?”

“She….” Bob started. “She said something about morning sickness.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Oh,” said Alexei, thoughtfully.

“...Oh,” Ava echoed.

Yelena’s eyes widened. “OH?”

John straightened up in his chair. “Hold on. Do you think—” He looked around the room, dropping his voice to a whisper, “—do you think Bucky could be the dad?”

They all looked at each other. The memory hit them at once like a suppressed group hallucination.

No one’s talked about it since.

Not out of respect, but out of sheer trauma suppression and the fact that, frankly, they weren’t paid enough to bring it up.

“I mean,” Ava said slowly, “Did anyone see him with a condom?”

“Not that I can remember,” Yelena shuddered, brow furrowed. “But I wasn’t exactly memorising it.”

“Elevator baby,” Alexei whispered, stunned.

Bob just nodded grimly.

Then John, who’d been thinking too hard, looked up. “Do you think Bucky knows?”

The room went completely silent.

Ava blinked. “Shit.”

Yelena exhaled through her nose. “He’s either going to marry her in a panic or pass out.”

John rubbed his temples. “Do we… do we tell him?”

Bob looked down nervously. “Better question—who’s going to tell him?”

Everyone looked at each other.

No one volunteered.

So they did it together.

—

They confronted Bucky two hours later. In the gym, of all places.

He was mid-rep when they approached—shirt damp with sweat, and music blaring in his ears. His brows furrowed in concentration as he finished his set and racked the barbell with a clang.

That’s when he noticed them.

Five fully-grown adults in a semicircle, watching him. Staring, like it was going to be a goddamn intervention.

He tilted his head. “...who did you kill and where did you bury the body?”

Bob cleared his throat, stepping forward like a nervous HR rep. “Umm, that’s not why we’re here.”

Bucky pulled out one earbud. “Then what’s going on?”

“We need to talk.”

That phrase never meant anything good, and they all knew it. Ava shifted her weight from foot to foot like she had somewhere more pleasant to be (a landmine field, perhaps). John had his arms crossed and was chewing the inside of his cheek. Alexei was trying to look fatherly and failing spectacularly. And Yelena—oh, Yelena—was vibrating with the kind of energy that suggested she either had bad news or gossip so juicy it came with a side of fries.

Bucky glanced at them, suspicious. “Okay… what is this? Am I getting voted off the team?”

Yelena stepped forward, and just… spat it out. “She’s pregnant.”

That landed like a punch to the solar plexus. His brain buffered.

Oh shit. Oh shit.

They knew. They’d figured it out.

How?

He licked his lips, then attempted to play dumb. “….Who?”

Ava folded her arms. “We have a feeling,” she started, unimpressed, “you might be able to figure it out. Considering you had some… fun… in the elevator a couple months ago.”

Bucky’s eyes twitched.” I—what? You’re saying—how do you even know about that?”

Yelena raised a hand, almost sheepishly. “We, uh… we might’ve set up the elevator failure.”

John immediately smacked the back of her shoulder. “You. Not we. That was your idea.”

“I said might’ve!” she hissed.

“What we’re saying,” Alexei interjected, rubbing a hand down his face like a weary dad at a PTA meeting, “is that there is chance you are going to be dad.”

Bucky tried to laugh. It came out like a goose being strangled. “I’m not ready to move on from the elevator camera. That’s a massive violation of privacy. I—what kind of sick—”

“You did it in public,” Ava interrupted coldly.

“And you’re not denying it,” Bob added.

“I’m just saying,” Bucky snapped, pointing wildly, “you kept it? You still have the tape? Can I see it?”

Everyone groaned in unison.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “You might have gotten a hook up pregnant, and the first thing you care about is your sex tape? Seriously?”

Bucky didn’t respond, which said a lot.

Bob said plainly, “But we’re pretty sure you didn’t use protection.”

“She was on the pill!” Bucky snapped.

“You still don’t do hookups bare, Bucky!” Ava exclaimed, voice rising.

“She hadn’t had sex with anyone else in years!”

“Anyone… else?” John asked, skeptical.

Bucky opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

And shut up.

Bucky groaned, dragging his hands down his face like he was trying to scrape the stress off his skin.

Then, finally, with a voice so quiet it barely made it through the hum of fluorescent lights, he finally said, “She’s…my wife.”

A beat passed with silence.

Then Ava shrieked, “I’m sorry—WHAT?!”

“When?!” John thundered.

“About a year ago,” Bucky admitted. “We kept it a secret. It wasn’t safe for her. I didn’t want anyone coming after her because of me.”

Alexei frowned, tone softer now. “And now…”

“Now she’s having my baby,” Bucky said. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “And I don’t know how to protect her from this. From all of this.”

“Fuck,” John let out a low whistle. “Is it… is it the elevator baby?”

“We did the math,” Bucky turned beet red, “there is a… pretty good chance that’s the case.”

“Elevator baby,” Yelena echoed, eyes wide.

She sounded almost proud.

Bucky looked at each of them— serious now. “You can’t tell anyone,” he warned, “She’s… she’s everything to me. If this gets out—if she’s hurt, if someone uses her to get to me—I wouldn’t— couldn’t— live with myself.”

And just like that, gone was the teasing.

They stood there, in a loose circle around him, the lights humming overhead, the scent of sweat in the air. A line crossed, and secrets spilled open. This was a line where their friendship was tested—and affirmed.

John, finally, clapped Bucky on the shoulder. “Congrats, man. You’re gonna be a dad.”

“Elevator dad,” Yelena added.

“Don’t,” Bucky warned, but he was smiling, just a little.

—

The shift was subtle at first.

Alexei started carrying things for you.

You’d walk into a room with a stack of sample boards or fabric swatches for a renovation pitch, and before you could even blink, he’d be at your side, snatching half of them away and saying, “You should not be lifting this.”

You tilted your head the first time. “I… I’m okay, Alexei.”

He just stared back, deadpan. “Does not mean you should.” And then walked away before you could argue.

Then there was Ava, who started checking the air quality constantly.

“Gotta keep the air pure,” she’d say, making sure your workstation was well-ventilated from paint fumes.

You started to get suspicious after the third can of air purifier she smuggled into the conference room.

And then came John, who strolled past your desk one morning with a coffee in one hand and a brochure in the other. He stopped like he just happened to remember something.

“Oh hey,” he said, waving the paper around. “That new baby store down the street? Massive sale. Car seats, little shoes, those bib things shaped like bandanas? You know, the cool ones. Just… figured I’d pass it along. Y’know. In case… anyone.”

You squinted. “Anyone?”

He coughed. “Just in case anyone… likes sales.”

Right.

It wasn’t until Yelena hugged you, that the alarm bells started getting harder to ignore.

She pulled away, uncharacteristically gentle, and said, “You’re good at taking care of things.”

“…Okay,” you said cautiously, “Are you dying?”

She just blinked. “No. I just think you are doing great.” She paused. “And you should not wear heels. They’re bad for your ankles.”

That was it.

You came home that night, dumped your bag by the door, and found Bucky on the couch eating mac and cheese he probably stole from the tower.

He looked up, beaming. “Hey, doll. You okay?”

You squinted at him. “Do you know something I don’t?”

He tilted his head. “About what?”

You flopped next to him, sighing. “Yelena hugged me today.”

His eyes widened. “…Oh.”

“And told me I’m good at taking care of things.”

He was dead silent.

“John is talking about baby boutiques to me. Ava keeps purifying the air. And I’m pretty sure Bob gave me vitamin water.”

Bucky looked down.

You gave him a pointed look. “So, I’m just gonna ask: Did you tell them?”

He winced. His whole face did the oh-no-don’t-be-mad-at-me scrunch.

“Umm…” he said.

“Oh my god.”

“I—I didn’t tell them, technically,” he started, clearly floundering. “They figured it out! Bob overheard something, and then there was a meeting, and I got cornered at the gym and they were all standing in a circle like some kind of intervention and they were like ‘we know,’ and I panicked and I didn’t want to lie and—”

“Bucky.”

He stopped, biting his lip.

“I’m not mad,” you said, cutting him off before the ramble could spiral into an apology monologue. “I’m… relieved.”

His brow furrowed. “You are?”

You nodded. “Do you know how exhausting it is trying to hide a whole human and pretend I’m not in love with you?”

“I just wanted you to be safe.” He looked down, a little guilty. “I thought if they didn’t know, there’d be less risk.”

“I know,” you murmured, reaching over to take his hand. “But honey… they’re not strangers. They’re your people. Our people, now.”

He smiled, fingers threading through yours. “Yelena did threaten to murder anyone who so much as looked at you wrong.”

“See?” You leaned in, kissing his cheek. “That’s the kind of prenatal care I’m talking about.”

He chuckled, pulling you close, one hand resting gently against your stomach. “We’ll still keep it quiet outside the tower. For safety.”

“Of course,” you said. “But at least I don’t have to hide there.”

Then Bucky said, “Also… Bob wants to throw you a secret baby shower. In the hangar. With… themed cupcakes.”

—

Eight Months Later

Jamie was six weeks old the first time you brought him to the Watchtower.

He was bundled up in a little blue onesie with a cartoon white wolf on the chest, swaddled like a burrito in a cotton blanket, and blissfully asleep in your arms.

The 87th floor had been converted for the three of you— a secure residential wing with baby gates and blackout curtains and a surprisingly tasteful wallpaper Bucky picked himself. You were here to check it out, and also introduce your baby to the team.

Most days, you would stay at the house in the suburbs, where birds chirped and neighbors waved and no one could hear Bucky singing lullabies off-key at 2 a.m. But it was nice to know you had a home in the Watchtower.

You barely stepped in the common room when the team got up.

“Is that him?” Ava whispered like she was approaching royalty.

“Don’t crowd the baby,” Bucky said, holding out an arm protectively.

John peered over Ava’s shoulder. “He looks like a tiny Bucky. But like, angrier. Is that even possible?”

Jamie yawned.

Yelena, unusually soft-voiced, leaned in “Look at him. So small. So squishy. Like a baby potato with many opinions.”

“He does look judgmental,” Bob offered.

“He is judgmental,” you smiled.

—

There were a couple more visits after that before your first official night at the tower.

They’d been asking for weeks to hold him now.

Every visit, every mission debrief, every team meeting that you attended with Jamie snoozing in a carrier strapped to your chest, someone would inevitably ask:

“Can I hold him?”

The answer had always been not yet.

Not until he had more of an immune system than a fruit fly.

Especially not until Bob stopped referring to his hands as “clean-ish.”

But today, Jamie was twelve weeks old.

Today was the day.

You warned them ahead of time, sending them a group text. Bucky enforced it like a drill sergeant, passing non-alcohol hand sanitiser around like communion.

The baby was clean. The adults were clean. The air smelled faintly of lemon.

Yelena was first, practically vibrating as she took Jamie into her arms like a sacred artifact.

“Bozhe moi,” she whispered, eyes wide.

“He’s real,” Bob said, as Jamie curled his arm around his finger, “we can touch him.”

Then John took a turn, cradling Jamie like he was made of glass. Bucky, perhaps knowing he had some experience and was trying to make amends with his own son, trusted him most. “He’s so… light.“

Eventually, one by one, everyone got their turn.

And then… Alexei.

He stepped forward quietly, hands extended, palms open and ready. There was a certain fondness in his eyes.

You gently handed Jamie over, and Alexei took him with a grace that didn’t match his usual bull-in-a-china-shop aesthetic. He rocked him slightly and began saying something soft in Russian. It sounded like a lullaby.

Jamie adorably blinked up at him.

And then, with the seriousness of a priest delivering a sermon, Alexei slowly walked across the room… and stopped in front of the elevator.

“Little Jamie,” he said in a soothing voice, still swaying, “this, my sweet little cherub, is where you were conceived.”

“Dad!” Yelena whisper-shouted, her hands in the air. “Stop!”

“I’m just telling him the truth!” Alexei protested.

“He’s a baby!” Ava barked.

“He needs context!”

“HE NEEDS A NAP!” John insisted.

Alexei looked down at Jamie, who stared back, completely unbothered.

“I think he gets it,” Alexei said, beaming.

Jamie sneezed.

Bucky buried his face in your shoulder. “I can’t believe we let him hold the baby.”

You, already laughing, said, “At least he didn’t point out the exact panel of the wall.”

Alexei turned around, lifting Jamie like Simba. “And over here, by button 13, that’s where your father’s ass was—”

“OH MY GOD,” Yelena wailed, launching a pillow at him.

Bob hastily caught it. “We shouldn’t throw things when the baby is airborne.”

John held out his arms. “Give him back before you scare him with a detailed retelling.”

Alexei sighed, but passed Jamie over. “You are going to be great warrior like your father, Jamie.”

You settled onto the couch beside Bucky, your body relaxing as you leaned into him. He pressed a kiss to your temple, then let his lips linger in your hair. He never failed to remind you that you were safe. That Jamie was safe.

Your eyes drifted across the room— your strange, chaotic, beautiful little makeshift family in a room that was a labour of your love. Bob was wiping down a clean countertop for the third time. Ava and Yelena were mid-argument about the correct way to swaddle a baby, neither remotely qualified but equally committed.

Jamie, unfazed by the commotion, cooed contentedly in John’s arms, his tiny fingers reaching for the man’s bead as Alexei kept talking to him in russian.

Your heart felt like it might burst.

He had your nose, Bucky’s eyes, and all the love in the world.

In the background, Alexei’s voice rose again, brimming with mischief. “Next time, I’ll show him the armoury.”

“NO!” came the instant chorus from everyone in the room.

You couldn’t help it, so you laughed.

Jamie was loved. Fiercely, ridiculously loved.

And there wasn’t a person in this room who wouldn’t burn the world down for him.

-end.

General Bucky taglist:

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

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

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

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

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

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

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

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

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

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

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

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

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

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

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt @softpia

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125 @buckybarneswife125

@imaginecrushes @phoenixes-and-wizards

8K notes · View notes

randomtwistedlife · 6 months ago

Text

𝐁𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 | Greg House x Reader

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 | House being a jerk.

𝘝𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘦’𝘴 𝘋𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥—𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘢 𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘶𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯. 𝘏𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘨𝘰, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘶𝘴𝘶𝘢𝘭, 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘫𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘭𝘶𝘳𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘶𝘱 𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘴.

Princeton-Plainsboro had a habit of embracing every holiday with excessive enthusiasm, drenching the hospital in whatever themed decorations fit the occasion. This week, it was Valentine's Day, which meant the lobby was drowning in hearts—paper hearts, plastic hearts, heart-shaped balloons taped to the walls with a kind of desperate cheerfulness.

It didn’t particularly bother you. In fact, you even liked the atmosphere, the air tinged with an almost cinematic sense of romance. But, in your mind, love wasn’t something that should be celebrated on just one day. It was something you proved—day after day, in the quiet, unremarkable moments, not through grand gestures dictated by the calendar.

And yet, despite your pragmatic stance, the holiday still managed to unsettle you. Because Valentine's Day had a way of shining a spotlight on what was missing. On what you didn’t have.

You stepped into the elevator, pressing the button for your floor. The doors had barely begun to slide shut when a sharp thunk echoed through the space—a cane, wedging itself between the closing doors. You jolted at the sound, your breath catching for just a second before your eyes followed the length of the cane up to the man holding it.

House.

Of course.

He stepped inside with his usual lazy swagger, his cane clicking against the floor as he settled into the space beside you. His blue eyes flicked to yours—just a brief glance, unreadable, before he turned his attention forward. You greeted him out of habit, your voice polite but restrained, and he responded with a noncommittal hum, barely more than a breath of acknowledgment.

Silence stretched between you, thick with things neither of you would say.

You weren’t stupid. You knew what today reminded you of. Not just what you lacked—but what you had. And lost.

Two years of working together had been more than enough time to understand House in a way that most people didn’t. At first, you couldn’t stand him. His arrogance, his relentless sarcasm, the way he seemed to delight in making people uncomfortable—it had all grated on you. But over time, you’d learned to see the patterns beneath the chaos, the layers behind his defenses. You learned how he functioned, how his cruelty was often a smokescreen, how his sharpest jabs were sometimes shields rather than weapons.

And then, somehow, without meaning to, you fell for him.

It started in small ways. The long hours in Diagnostics that turned into inside jokes, the cutting remarks softened by something that almost felt like affection. Sarcasm laced with just enough warmth to make you wonder. And then the shift—the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The way he touched you, subtly, like testing the weight of something fragile. And finally, the moments you let yourself believe in. The kisses, the whispered words that felt too real to be meaningless.

You had let yourself believe.

And then he did what he always did. He tore it down.

Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was self-sabotage. Maybe it was just House being House. Whatever the reason, he made sure to push you away in the most painful way possible—stinging remarks delivered with surgical precision, a childish detachment that made it clear he chose to ruin it. You had reached your breaking point, retreating before he could dismantle you entirely.

Since then, you’d both played the game of normalcy. Business as usual. Colleagues, nothing more. But every time you saw him, the fracture inside you widened just a little.

The elevator continued its slow ascent, the air inside growing heavier with unspoken words. You stole a glance at House, catching the way his fingers tapped against the handle of his cane—a restless rhythm, like he was debating whether or not to say something.

“I’m surprised you haven’t made a single cynical remark about all the hearts everywhere,” you said, breaking the silence.

House smirked, shifting his weight slightly. “Figured I’d save my energy for something more worthwhile. Like mocking Wilson’s desperate attempts to pretend he likes spending money on overpriced chocolates.”

You let out a small chuckle, shaking your head. “You’re insufferable.”

“I prefer ‘incorrigible.’ It’s got a classier ring to it.”

The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open. You stepped out, feeling the weight of his gaze following you for just a beat longer than necessary before he fell into step beside you. The walk to the Diagnostics office was quiet, but not completely uncomfortable. House moved with his usual lopsided gait, his cane clicking with every other step.

The moment you stepped into the office, your eyes were immediately assaulted by a sea of red and pink decorations. Heart-shaped garlands draped over the whiteboards, little plastic cupids stuck to the windows, and—most offensive of all—a bouquet of roses sitting proudly on the central table.

House let out a theatrical groan, rolling his eyes so dramatically that you were pretty sure he strained something in the process.

“Really?” he grumbled, scanning the room with the same disdain he usually reserved for clinic duty. “Did I miss the memo that the hospital was doubling as a Hallmark store?”

Foreman smirked from his seat, flipping through a file. “Cuddy thought it would ‘lift spirits.’”

“Lift spirits?” House repeated, snorting. “Yeah, nothing like forced displays of affection and commercialized romance to remind people how miserable they are.”

Chase barely looked up from his paperwork. “Says the guy who definitely got dumped on Valentine’s Day at least once in his life.”

House narrowed his eyes at him. “I dumped someone on Valentine’s Day.”

Chase looked doubtful. “Uh-huh.”

You shrugged off your coat, draping it over the back of your chair as you turned to House. “You know, some people actually like Valentine’s Day.”

He scoffed. “Yeah. People who enjoy overpriced dinners and pretending they still like their significant other for one whole evening.”

You shook your head. “Or maybe some people just like the idea of celebrating love. Even if it is a little over-the-top.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

You huffed a small laugh, turning toward your desk—only to freeze mid-step.

Sitting there, right at your usual spot, was a bouquet.

Not part of the hospital’s decorations. Not one of the communal arrangements scattered around the room. This was something different—an elegant, understated arrangement of soft pink and white flowers, wrapped in delicate paper.

You blinked, feeling your stomach flip unexpectedly. Slowly, you turned toward your colleagues, as if they might provide an explanation.

Cameron, always observant, took pity on you. “A courier delivered them this morning,” she said with a small smile. “They’re for you.”

That caught House’s attention.

His head snapped up, his blue eyes flicking between the flowers and you, a faint crease appearing between his brows.

“Well,” Chase mused, leaning back in his chair. “Looks like someone has a secret admirer.”

Foreman smirked. “Or not-so-secret.”

You swallowed, your fingers hesitating just above the bouquet before finally brushing against the soft petals. Your mind raced, sifting through possibilities.

Who would send you flowers?

You glanced up—only to find House staring at the bouquet with a look you couldn’t quite decipher. A flicker of something in his expression, gone too fast to catch.

Then, as if remembering himself, he leaned back in his chair, his usual smirk slipping into place. “Well, that’s disappointing,” he said. “And here I thought no one liked you.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was still hammering in your chest.

You frowned slightly, your fingers brushing against the delicate petals as your mind raced. You weren’t seeing anyone. You hadn’t been for a while. So who on earth would send you flowers?

Curiosity prickled at you as you reached for the small card nestled among the stems. The moment your eyes landed on the name, your expression shifted completely.

A bright, genuine smile spread across your face.

“Ah,” Foreman whistled, leaning back in his chair with a knowing smirk. “That’s a look. Someone’s happy.”

Chase arched a brow, eyeing your expression. “Judging by that smile, I’d say it’s a good thing. Secret admirer?”

You grinned but said nothing, teasing them with an exaggerated shrug. “I refuse to confirm or deny.”

“Come on,” Chase prodded. “Who’s it from?”

You tucked the card away, enjoying the moment a little too much. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

What you didn’t notice—what none of them seemed to at first—was the way House had gone disturbingly still.

His gaze remained locked on the bouquet, his grip tightening around the handle of his cane until his knuckles turned white. Something twisted uncomfortably in his chest, sharp and unexpected. He didn’t know why it irritated him so much, but seeing you that happy, that radiant over a stupid bunch of flowers felt like a knife straight to the gut.

He hated it.

And worse, he hated that he hated it.

The words left his mouth before he could stop them. “Guess it doesn’t take much to impress you.”

Your head snapped up, blinking at him.

House leaned back in his chair, a smirk curling his lips, but there was something colder beneath it. “What was it, a generic Hallmark message? ‘You're the most beautiful person in the world, blah blah blah, love, whoever?’” He made a dismissive gesture. “Real original.”

The lightness in the room evaporated instantly.

Your smile faded, your fingers still resting against the flowers as you processed the sudden shift in mood. Foreman, Chase, and Cameron exchanged looks, immediately sensing the tension.

House, of course, didn’t stop there. “Let me guess,” he continued, voice dripping with mockery. “Some guy you flirted with at the nurse’s station? Maybe the radiologist with the weird haircut? Or, ooh—” he gasped dramatically, “Wilson finally grew a spine?”

Cameron shot him a warning look, but House ignored it.

You exhaled sharply, shoulders tensing. “Why do you even care?”

“I don’t,” he shot back immediately. Too quickly.

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Right. That’s why you’re acting like a jealous teenager.”

House’s smirk twitched, and for a second—just a second—you saw something behind it. Frustration. Something raw, something unguarded. But just as quickly, he buried it.

He rolled his eyes, grabbing his cane and pushing himself up with more force than necessary. “I don’t do jealousy,” he said, voice flat. “I do reality. And reality says that whoever sent you those flowers is probably an idiot with zero creativity.”

Silence hung heavy between you.

Foreman sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Chase cleared his throat, barely suppressing an amused smirk because, despite everything, House’s reaction was obvious. Cameron, the ever-diplomatic one, decided enough was enough.

“Alright,” she said quickly, shifting the conversation. “Can we focus on our actual job now? We do have a patient.”

House let out a dramatic sigh, finally dragging his gaze away from you. “Fine. Since I have to earn my paycheck.”

The discussion moved on, the case taking center stage, but the tension in the room didn’t fully dissipate. And even though you tried to focus, your mind kept drifting back to House’s reaction—his words, his tone, the way his hand had clenched so tightly around his cane.

You weren’t the only one who noticed.

Because even though House pretended to be unaffected, everyone in that room knew the truth.

House was jealous.

And he hated it.

The day crawled by in a haze of tests and theories, all of you circling around the mystery of your patient’s condition. But as much as you tried to stay focused, House refused to let you forget the damn flowers.

Every opportunity he got, he threw out another snide remark.

“Bet it’s that guy from radiology. He’s been staring at you in the cafeteria like a lovesick puppy. You like puppies, don’t you?”

“Or maybe it’s from that nurse—you know, the one who keeps ‘accidentally’ bumping into you in the hallway. Classic move. Clumsy equals adorable.”

“Oh, I know—it's your mailman. Reliable, dependable, always delivers. Perfect husband material.”

At first, you ignored him. You knew better than to feed into his games. But the constant jabs, the pointed smirks, the needling little comments—they were relentless.

The truth was, House was obsessed. The moment those flowers arrived, his mind latched onto the question like a puzzle he had to solve. Who sent them? What did they say? Why were you smiling like that? And worse—why did it bother him so damn much?

He had even gone as far as storming into Wilson’s office, tossing himself dramatically onto the couch.

“She got flowers.”

Wilson barely looked up from his paperwork. “Yeah, I heard.”

House scowled. “Some guy sent her flowers.”

Wilson sighed. “And?”

“And it’s stupid.”

Wilson glanced up, unimpressed. “You know what’s stupid? You acting like you have a right to be upset about it.”

House rolled his eyes. “I’m not upset.”

Wilson gave him a look. The kind of look that said, I’ve known you for years, don’t insult my intelligence.

“House,” he said carefully, “you had your chance. You’re the one who sabotaged it before it even began.”

House scoffed but said nothing, choosing instead to fiddle with his cane, his expression unreadable.

And that was the problem.

The truth was, House had wanted it. You. He just—he just didn’t know how to want it in a way that didn’t ruin everything.

By late afternoon, you were drained. Not just from the case, but from him. The constant snark, the passive-aggressive tension, the cruel edge in his voice that dug deeper than you wanted to admit.

You just wanted one moment of peace.

You stood alone in the lab, focused on running a set of blood tests when you heard the telltale click of a cane against the floor.

Not now.

House leaned casually against the counter, arms crossed, watching you like a cat that had cornered its prey.

“So,” he drawled, “still not gonna tell me who sent them?”

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “House—”

“Must be serious, huh?” His voice was light, but there was something sharp underneath. “Or is it just a pity bouquet? Someone trying to make you feel special since, you know, you don’t have anyone else?”

You gripped the edge of the counter, your nails pressing into the surface. He was pushing you. Harder than usual.

And it hurt.

“I mean,” he continued, his smirk widening, “clearly, you’ve moved on. The whole thing—” he waved vaguely between you “—must not have meant that much to you, huh?”

That was it.

You turned, anger flashing in your eyes. “You’re the one who didn’t want this, remember?”

Something flickered across his face, too quick to catch.

You shook your head, your voice trembling with frustration. “I was all in, House. I wanted—us. And you—you made sure it never happened. So don’t stand here and act like you get to be pissed about it now.”

House didn’t move, but his jaw tensed. “You’re overreacting.”

You let out a bitter laugh, your throat tightening. “No. I’m done.”

The words spilled out before you could stop them, years of unspoken emotions crashing down all at once.

“I loved you, House. And I actually believed that maybe—maybe—you could love me too. But you ran. You pushed me away, and I—” Your voice cracked, your vision blurring.

You swiped at your eyes angrily.

House looked stunned. Silent for once. His fingers curled tightly around his cane, his breathing just a little too controlled.

You inhaled shakily, forcing the words out. “And you know what’s funny? The flowers—they weren’t from some guy. They were from my brother.”

House blinked, his mouth opening slightly like he wanted to say something—but you didn’t give him the chance.

“He sent them because he knew you’d be an ass today,” you said, your voice raw. “Because he knew I still cared about you, even when you don’t deserve it.”

Silence.

You shook your head, turning toward the door.

House should have said something. Should have stopped you. Should have done anything other than stand there like a man who had just realized—too late—that he had crossed the one line he couldn’t uncross.

But he didn’t. He just watched you leave, his throat tight, his stomach twisting. And for once—just once—his sarcasm couldn’t hide the regret in his eyes.

It was late. You sat curled up on your couch, a blanket draped over your legs, half-heartedly eating ice cream straight from the carton while some forgettable show played on the TV. Your mind wasn’t on it, though. It kept drifting—back to the hospital, back to him.

Your eyes flicked to the bouquet on the coffee table. The stupid flowers that had somehow ruined your entire day. Except, of course, it wasn’t the flowers that had done that. It was House. His immaturity, his constant need to push, to prod, to destroy things before they could ever become real.

You weren’t mad at your brother. You were touched by his kindness, by the simple gesture meant to bring you joy. But House? House you were furious with.

So when a knock sounded at your door, the last person you expected—or wanted—to see was him. And yet, there he was. Standing at your doorstep, looking about as uncomfortable as a man could possibly look.

Your first instinct was to slam the door in his face. You should have. But something in his expression stopped you. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t wearing his usual mask of indifference. He just… stood there.

Then you noticed what he was holding. A bouquet. Not perfect, not grand or romantic. Slightly wilted, like he had grabbed the first thing he saw without thinking too hard about it. But still—a bouquet. From him.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. Was this another joke? Another sarcastic stunt meant to humiliate you? Or—was he actually…?

House shifted uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair before thrusting the bouquet toward you like it was something poisonous he needed to get rid of.

"I heard women like these,” he said, his voice gruff, almost defensive. “Or maybe that’s just a corporate scam designed to drain men of their dignity. Either way—here.”

You blinked, startled, and then—before you could stop yourself—you laughed. It wasn’t mean. It wasn’t bitter. It was just—so ridiculous. So cliché, so un-House-like that you couldn’t help it.

House’s lips twitched like he was debating whether or not to be offended.

Finally, you sobered, eyeing him warily. “What are you doing here?”

He hesitated, shifting his weight between his feet. You could see the battle happening inside his head, the way his pride fought against whatever had brought him to your door. House didn’t apologize. He didn’t admit to mistakes. That just wasn’t him. But he was here. And that meant something.

“I screwed up,” he said finally, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard it. “Not just today. Not just with the flowers.” His eyes flickered to yours, searching. “I screwed up everything with you. And it’s been eating at me.”

You swallowed, gripping the doorframe to keep yourself steady.

“Watching you today,” he went on, his voice raw, “smiling at those flowers like they actually mattered—it hurt. And it took me all day to figure out why.” His jaw tightened. “What we had… it was good. It was really good. And I wanted it to last. But…”

You saw the hesitation, the war inside him. The vulnerability he hated to expose. His fingers tightened around the handle of his cane. “I destroy everything I touch,” he admitted, his voice barely above a murmur. “I guess I thought if I ended it first, before it really started, before I really ruined it, it would hurt less.”

You felt your heart clench. House never admitted to fear. Never admitted to weakness. And yet, here he was—standing in your doorway, admitting the very thing that had broken you both.

You didn’t know what to say. For the first time, House seemed uncertain. His throat bobbed, his eyes dark with something too real, too unfiltered.

“I don’t know how to love you the way you deserve,” he murmured, his voice thick with frustration, regret. “But I do. I love you.”

Your breath caught. You had dreamed of hearing those words from him. And now, here they were—imperfect, flawed, uncertain. Just like him. Just like you. Just like whatever this thing between you had always been.

You stared at him, his words still hanging in the air between you. He was the most infuriating, frustrating, stubborn man you had ever met. A complete pain in your ass. A sarcastic, self-sabotaging bastard.

And you loved him.

God help you, but you loved him so damn much.

Your fingers curled around the doorframe as you exhaled shakily, trying to process everything—his confession, his presence here, the ridiculous bouquet still clutched in his hand like he had no idea what to do with it.

House shifted, visibly uncomfortable under your silence. His eyes darted away, like he was already bracing himself for the rejection, the sarcastic quip you’d throw back at him before slamming the door in his face.

But you weren’t going to slam the door.

You weren’t going to push him away—not when he had finally stopped pushing you away.

So instead, you did the only thing that felt right.

You stepped closer, bridging the space between you. His head tilted slightly, surprised, but before he could say anything, you rose onto your tiptoes, slid your arms around his neck, and kissed him.

House stiffened. For half a second, you thought he might pull away. But then his hands gripped your waist, his cane knocking against the doorframe as he steadied himself, and just like that, he kissed you back.

And it was everything.

It was raw and unsteady, desperate in a way neither of you would ever put into words. His scruff scraped against your skin, his lips hesitant at first, then hungry, like he had been waiting for this—waiting for you—all along. You could feel his frustration, his regret, his need, all poured into this one moment, as if it was the only way he could say the things he couldn’t bring himself to put into words.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, and when you finally broke apart, breathless, you met his gaze—those piercing blue eyes that had always seen too much.

House swallowed, his grip on your waist still firm, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. “So, uh…” He cleared his throat. “I’m guessing you’re not gonna throw the flowers at my head?”

You huffed a soft laugh, shaking your head. “You’re an idiot.”

His lips twitched. “Not denying that.”

You sighed, resting your forehead against his. “But you’re my idiot.”

He smirked, but there was something softer beneath it now, something real. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Guess I am.”

You glanced at the slightly wilted bouquet still dangling in his hand and snorted. “These are pathetic, by the way.”

“Yeah, well.” He rolled his eyes, shifting his weight. “They’re symbolic.”

“Of what? Your lack of effort?”

“No,” he drawled. “Of my attempt at effort. Which, given my history, is basically a grand romantic gesture.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. He was impossible.

But he was here. And that meant everything.

You took the flowers from his hand, shaking your head fondly as you turned toward your apartment. “Come inside, House.”

He hesitated. “Not gonna make me do some sappy Valentine’s Day crap, are you?”

You gave him a look. “House.”

He sighed, following you in, kicking the door shut behind him. “Fine. But if I see a rom-com playing, I’m setting something on fire.”

You smirked, setting the flowers on the table next to your brother’s bouquet, and as you turned back to House, his gaze lingered—not on the flowers this time, but on you.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t look like he was running.

Maybe Valentine’s Day was about forgiveness, after all.

▸ Everything

@alexxavicry

▸ House MD

@mayo-i

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