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marvelstoriesepic · 4 months ago

Text

Weakness

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You use Bucky’s only weakness to your advantage until it bites you in the ass.

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: feigning injuries; a sprained ankle; bruises; hiding injuries; combat fighting training; sparring sessions; mutual pining; Bucky being a doting sweetheart; Bucky being smug; Bucky being worried

Author’s Notes: This idea has been sitting in my drafts as a rough outline for months lol and I finally got the inspiration to make something out of it. I hope you will enjoy this! ♡

Masterlist

You love sparring with Bucky.

Maybe because you love the man.

But there is so much more to that, honestly.

You have basically sparred with anyone out of the team.

Steve is methodical. Always a teacher, always Captain. He calls out corrections in a way he does orders, his patience long-practiced. His strikes are accurate, economical, as if he calculates the exact amount of force necessary to bring you down and delivers it precisely, nothing wasted. But you always know he is holding back. He does not say it but you feel it in the way he controls every movement, never quite giving you the full weight of his strength. You learn from him, but there is always a ceiling to what he will allow you to take from the fight.

Natasha is sharp. She doesn’t coach you, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t hold back. She fights you like she fights anyone. You feel the sting of a bruise blooming before you even realize she struck you. And yet, when you get a hit in, when you shift fast enough to slip past her guard, her smirk is quicksilver - pleased, challenging, like she has just discovered something worth sinking her teeth into.

Wanda fights like she plays. Some days, she keeps her powers at bay, working only with what her body allows, light on her feet, swaying rather than striking. But she is not used to this. Not using her powers in a fight. So most of the time, she teases, powers tugging at your wrist mid-swing, a flicker of scarlett at the edge of your vision before she is suddenly behind you.

Sam is solid. He fights with his whole body, never wasting energy on anything that doesn’t serve his goal. He takes up space, keeps you on the defenses, his moves seamless. But he is generous too, throwing you a verbal lifeline mid-fight - “too slow, come on,” - challenging you in encouraging you. And when you get him down, he grins, bright and wide, like he wants you to win.

Clint fights like someone who doesn’t need to win, just needs to keep moving. He is slippery, dodging rather than blocking, grinning rather than growling. He makes a game of it, laughing at your frustration, forcing you to loosen up, to adapt, to try something unorthodox. He doesn’t spar to overpower. He spars to frustrate, to outlast, to make you think three steps ahead.

But Bucky.

Bucky watches you. Always. Even when he isn’t facing you directly, even when he’s standing in the shadows at the edge of the gym, you have his attention. It is something you have learned to steady yourself beneath. Because it never really seems to waver.

He is mindful. Of your form. Of your tells. Of how far he can push you. He does not go easy on you. Despite the obvious differences in height and weight and him being a super soldier. But he fights you like an opponent worth fighting. He fights you like himself. Precise. Controlled. Thoughtful. When he corrects you, it is not instruction, just a simple adjustment with the brush of his metal fingers nudging your wrist into a better angle, a small nod when you adapt.

And when you take him down - when you surprise him, when you shift your weight at the last moment and send him to the mat - there is that laugh breaking out. He is not stunned at the way you overpowered him. Not disbelieving. He merely laughs. A short burst of warmth, rare and genuine, something boyish in the way it escapes.

You live for that laugh.

Because Bucky knows your competence. He does not gift you victories because he knows you don’t need them in the first place. He expects you to win. He knows you can. And will. He does not say it outright, but you learned to read the subtle body language in the years of knowing him - the glimmer of something pleased in his eyes, the upturn at the corner of his mouth.

And when he helps you up - fingers gently curling around your wrist to pull you to your feet - he lingers just a little too long.

So yes, you love sparring with Bucky.

Basically, on the first day as an Avenger it was drilled into you that knowing your enemy is everything - know what you are up against, who you are fighting, how they move, what makes them weak.

You are good at this. At observing. You know how to study people, how to pick out patterns, how to find the smallest crack in an otherwise impenetrable wall and press until it splits wide open.

Still, Bucky Barnes is not an easy person to read.

But perhaps it was just a little too much fun figuring out what exactly his weaknesses are.

He doesn’t have many. His body is conditioned for war, his mind sharpened, his instincts too honed to give much away. If he has vulnerabilities, they are subtle. Nearly imperceptible to anyone who isn’t looking closely enough.

But you have been looking closely. For the better part of a year.

And then, about five months ago, something clicked.

Bucky Barnes does have a weakness.

A glaring one, in fact.

One so obvious you nearly laughed out loud when you finally pieced it together.

It’s you.

You are his weakness.

Bucky is a creature of routines.

The kind that keep him grounded in a world that still feels like shifting sand beneath his feet. And somehow, you have become part of them.

You don’t remember when it started, exactly. But you know that when you stumble into the kitchen in the morning, still half-asleep, Bucky is already there. Always. Sometimes with coffee already poured for you, sometimes just sitting at the counter like he’s lost, waiting like he’s been expecting something. You.

You tested it, once. You woke up later than usual, wanting to see if he still lingered. And sure enough, when you finally stepped into the kitchen, he was there, nursing a long-gone cup of coffee that was somehow still halfway filled, gaze fixed on the entryway even before you entered. Like he hadn’t been planning on leaving until he saw you. It’s when he loosened his grip on the poor mug. Flexing his fingers, as if he was close to shattering it.

Bucky is not a fan of crowded spaces.

He likes corners, walls at his back, exits in view. He keeps a respectable distance from most people, moving on silent feet, always aware of what’s around him.

Except when it comes to you.

You began to notice that in the common room. How he lets you sit closer than he does with anyone else, how he doesn’t shift away when his knee bumps his. How, when you walk side by side, he moves to make space for you without thinking. How he stops standing near the door when you are in a room, like some unconscious part of him doesn’t feel the need to watch his six when you are there.

And then there are the small things.

The way his arm comes up instinctively when you reach past him for something, like he is preparing to steady you or get it down for you if it is something you can’t reach. The way he steps in front of you if something startled him, body moving before anything else.

Little things. Automatic things.

And the most endearing part is, that he genuinely does not seem like he knows he is doing all that.

Bucky is strategic on missions.

He follows the plan without a hitch, keeps his cool and executes flawlessly.

Until you are in danger.

Then he gets frantic. He even tends to snap at Steve. He gets tighter, sharper, more lethal. It seems like instinct.

Just last month, you got cut along your thigh that you managed to patch up before the mission was even completely over. But Bucky was stoic and brooding. Frown on his face the whole time. He saw the blood, saw the way you had a limp in your step and something utterly cold settled in his eyes.

Sam later mentioned to you with a weird wiggle of his eyebrow that the man whose knife slashed you never had the chance to land another hit on anyone.

You started testing him in small ways. Seeing if he moves when you move. If he adjusts his strategy to keep you in his line of sight. If he listens to your voice above all others in a debriefing, even when Steve is talking.

And he does. Every time.

Bucky got mad at Clint once because he ate the last donut that was meant for you. Clint was genuinely terrified. He even went out to get you new ones.

Bucky picks up stuff from the common room he knows belong to you and takes it to your room.

Just yesterday, there was a book on your nightstand. One you had mentioned offhand in conversation weeks ago, something you said you wanted to read someday. And you know for a fact that Bucky got dragged into the city by Sam and Steve the day before.

After years as an Avenger, you learn to fool people.

You know how to smile when you need to, how to shake things off, how to deal with missions gone wrong or people unsaved.

But you can’t fool Bucky.

He just knows when something is off. He notices the way your voice shifts, the way your shoulders carry tension differently. You don’t have to say anything. He just knows.

And he never pushes. He lingers. He makes himself available. He sits beside you in silence when you don’t feel like talking. He glares at everyone who wants something unnecessary from you in times like those.

And then he would just go, come on, let’s go do something.

It is basically just watching a movie or cooking a dinner or baking cookies, but everything is more fun with him, and soon enough your smile touches your eyes again.

Bucky does not share.

He does not share his food. He does not share his belongings.

But he does with you.

When you are out and freezing, he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over your shoulders without a word.

He lets you take fries off his plate and lets you drink from his cup, much to Sam’s surprise and disgruntlement.

Bucky does not talk about his nightmares.

Not to anyone.

But on certain nights, when sleep refuses to hold him and his mind is drowning in things long past but never gone, he finds you.

You were in the common room when it first started. Months ago. Nursing a mug of tea, when he wandered in, looking lost and exhausted.

With a single glance at him, you nodded to the couch, shifting over to make space, and he came sitting down without a word.

He let you talk. He even seemed to relish it. Intertwining his hands at his front and laying his head back against the backside of the couch, closing his eyes and listening to your mocked aggravation at the fact that Sam left a half-eaten sandwich on the counter again.

He stayed until the sun crept in through the windows, slight snoring making you smile.

It happened again. And then again.

After a while, you started recognizing the signs when his nightmares are getting worse again. The way he drifts into whatever room you are in and stays locked in his own when you are gone on a mission or out with the girls. How he leans against the doorway for a second longer than necessary before stepping inside, like he is debating whether he has the right to be there.

Sometimes, he’d pretend he’s just passing through. He would linger in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee he doesn’t drink while you are having your conversation with Wanda and Natasha.

One night, he even came to your room. Knocking and standing there with his hands fidgeting at his sides, eyes shamefully lowered, looking so much like a puppy in search of some love.

He didn’t pretend. He didn’t offer excuses. He just stood there and you saw it in his eyes.

You took him in your arms and then you took him in.

First, he sat down on the floor beside your bed, back against the wall, knees drawn up like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. He didn’t say anything for a long time. You just sat beside him on the ground, laying your head on his shoulder.

Eventually, his breathing evened out, head falling onto yours.

He would fall asleep like that. Until you managed to get him to lie down in your bed beside you. He usually sleeps like a baby when he’s with you.

You are not stupid. Neither are you naive. You have always been good at reading people, at knowing them, at watching them, and deciphering the things they do not say.

And you know what this might mean.

You certainly know what it means to you.

The way your pulse picks up when Bucky walks into a room so casually because you are there. The way your stomach flutters when his gaze lingers on you. The way your chest gets so unbearably full when he does all those smallest things for you.

But you think you also might know what it means to him. He seeks you out for everything, on instinct or not. Smiling seems to come so easily to him when he is with you. You are the only person he lets into his personal space - the only person he doesn’t startle away from when it comes to accidentally touching.

But Bucky Barnes is not a man who allows himself to want things easily.

So, you will not force yourself upon him. You will not push. You will not demand. You will not take what he does not freely offer.

Because you understand that he does not fear pain, or war, or perhaps even death.

But he fears something real, something good, something that cannot be fought off with fists or buried beneath old ghosts.

Because he does not think it is something he deserves yet.

But you are willing to wait. Until he is ready. Until he is sure. Until he knows that this is what he wants.

And if he never is, if he never comes to you with certainty in his hands, if he never crosses the space between you - then you will wait anyway.

Because for him, you would wait forever.

****

“Alright, sweetheart. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

There’s a smug grin on his face as he’s circling you.

And you know why it is there.

Because you are currently three losses deep into a losing streak against Bucky. And that just won’t do. You need a win.

You move first, closing the distance fast, testing his defenses. He blocks. A quick jab - he dodges. A feint - he doesn’t bite.

He knows your patterns, how you move, how you think. But you know him, too.

You go low, aiming for his legs, but he anticipates and shifts out of reach. “Getting predictable there, doll,” he drawls, smirking.

Yeah, you’re gonna wipe that off.

Rolling your eyes, you adjust. A punch goes up that isn’t meant to land, just to see how he reacts. He blocks high, but his balance shifts and there is a brief opening. A second and you are too late.

You strike fast, sweeping low again, and this time, you actually catch him. Not enough to take him down, but a start.

Bucky huffs, rolling his neck. “Not good enough, but better,” he teases, smirk still in place.

“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, lunging again.

He meets you halfway, and for a moment, it’s just movement - sharp and fast and fluid, but you keep your balance. You duck, weave, block.

You land a hit, but it barely fazes him. He grabs your wrist, twisting - flipping you, but you are prepared, rolling and springing back up.

“That all you got?”

“Come find out.”

He laughs brightly before going in for attack. You block his strike, twisting out of reach.

It’s definitely not all you got.

He is not expecting you to cheat.

Not that you call it cheating anyway.

You decide that it’s time to take advantage of that weakness of his.

After all, it has worked before. And it will work again.

Bucky feints left. You dodge, pivot, but let your foot catch just so against the mat to send you off balance. The stumble isn’t exaggerated - it doesn’t need to be. You land on your side, letting out a sharp breath as if this is not exactly what you were expecting, and grab your ankle, wincing.

Bucky stops immediately. Just like always. It’s the first time you feign your ankle getting hurt but he reacts all the same.

His shift is instant. His whole body tenses. Taking a step toward you with his brows furrowed tightly, he scans you like he’s already running through every possible way to help you. Carrying you to the medical wing, for example.

“Shit, doll. You okay?” His voice is softer now. Concerned. So genuinely worried, you might actually feel bad.

He crouches without hesitation, without a thought, eyes so intensely fixed on you. And that smug grin is as predicted wiped cleanly off his face.

“Lemme see-”

He reaches out to you but that is when you strike.

You twist up, leg sweeping out and knocking his feet from under him. His surprised noise is so satisfying as he goes down, flat on his back, sprawled across the mat.

Silence.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Bucky groans loudly.

You are kneeling beside him, grinning, chest heaving. “Kinda needed that win, Barnes. No bad feelings, yeah?”

Bucky just stares at the ceiling for a long moment, one hand scrubbing down his face. He exhales sharply, muttering something under his breath, something that sounds suspiciously like every goddam time.

The last time you used your little trick on him, you had sold a jab against your side, staggering back and exhaling sharply as if he hit some sensitive point. He froze instantly, eyes wide. And you spun him into a flawless takedown.

The time before that it was your shoulder. All you needed was a slight grimace in fake pain and his whole demeanor changed in an instant. His hands went up slightly, a step in your direction and that was your opening to duck under his arm, and bring him down with a precise twist.

Yeah, alright, people might believe that that technique is a little mean and it certainly wouldn’t help you at all in the open field, but Clint did tell you to try something unorthodox.

You stretch, still smirking, and tilt your head at him. “You know, you’d think after falling for this multiple times, you’d have learned by now.”

Bucky’s head rolls to the side and he glares at you. Not in anger, not even close. Just that specific kind of exasperation that you have come to learn is something only you get to see from him.

He huffs. “Should’ve known you’d pull this shit again.”

“Should have. And here I thought I am predictable.”

He gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“Can’t believe I was worried.”

“Aww, you were?” you say sarcastically, lightly. Almost in a sly sing-song voice, because is is always worried. That’s the whole point of this.

Another hand drags down his face, but there is a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

****

You exhale deeply, rolling your shoulders, as you make your way down to the gym.

Your muscles are stiff. Everything aches in that dull, stubborn way that promises it will get worse before it gets better.

The bruises that paint your ribs throb with your pulse. You remember the sharp, biting crack when you hit the ground.

It was a mission for Steve, Nat, and you, though you definitely could have used some backup.

You feel terrible.

And you hadn’t told Bucky any of that when you came home yesterday, sometime late.

Instead, you sent him a quick I’m fine. Training tomorrow? and buried yourself in sleep before he could pry. You know how he gets, after all. How his worry manifests, his eyes linger and his mouth tightens when you brush him off. You did not have the energy for it last night. And you don’t have it now. He does not have to know what hits you have taken due to your own recklessness. You already got a lecture from Cap. Don’t need it from his best friend.

So you show up. Because, if you don’t, he will know something is wrong.

Bucky is already waiting for you, standing loose and ready on the mat. His eyes snap up the moment you enter, scanning you the way he always does. Checking.

You ignore his gaze.

“Ready to get your ass kicked?” you say, tossing your water bottle onto the bench, forcing something light into your voice.

He smirks, arms crossed. “That what’s gonna happen?”

You step onto the mat, careful not to wince, careful to keep your breath even despite the sharpness pulling at your ribs. “Don’t sound so doubtful, Barnes. I’ll let you eat the mat.”

He snorts, tilting his head. “I sure like to see you try.”

He raises his hands, shifting into a stance, watching you closely. Too closely. There is something probing in his gaze today.

“How’d the mission go? Steve mentioned you guys ran into some-”

You don’t give him time to finish - time to think.

You move, fast, hoping to catch him off guard.

He sidesteps, but you strike again.

And immediately regret it.

Your ribs scream. Punishing. Your breath stutters, but you grit your teeth and keep going, keep pushing forward and attacking because if you pause, he will most definitely notice.

It goes on for perhaps a minute and you think you might actually be able to bite away the pain your whole body is consumed with, but then you stumble.

It’s a half-second of hesitation, a misstep that normally wouldn’t happen. But it causes you to trip away a few steps. Sharp pain courses through your ribs and a hand instinctively shoots up to your side. A hiss slips past your lips. Loud enough for him to hear.

But instead of reacting the way he always does - immediately stopping, immediately reaching - he just huffs amused, shaking his head.

“Bad time for trying that trick again, sweetheart. Shoulda known better.” There is that smugness in his tone.

His voice is light, teasing. His eyes are sharp, watching.

You grit your teeth, saying nothing.

He thinks you’re faking.

Which - fine. You have done this a few times. But now, with every movement grinding against the ache in your ribs, you wish he would just stop you.

Because it’s getting harder to hide.

It’s getting harder to see.

Bucky seems confused for a second when you don’t react to him at all, but doesn’t have time to act on it as you are going in for the next hit.

And Bucky dodges you too easily like he doesn’t even need to try. You swing again, slower than you should be, weaker than you should be - and he sidesteps, frowning.

“Tryin’ a new strategy?” he asks, but his voice is careful. His eyes are assessing.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just go again, ignoring the way your body protests, ignoring the way you are moving wrong like you are just a second behind yourself. You hope maybe muscle memory will carry you through.

It doesn’t seem like it.

Bucky stopped throwing punches himself, only staying in defense mode and he won’t stop fucking looking at you.

And then you pivot too fast - twist wrong.

White-hot pain flares through your side so fiercely, it rips the breath from your lungs. A harsh, unsteady sound falls out. You can’t catch it. You stagger, grip tightening into fists, trying to push through.

But Bucky’s expression now definitely shifted. Amusement gone. Smugness gone. His face is hard.

You ignore that and try to go in for the next hit, but Bucky steps in fast, too fast for you to counter in your state, hooking an arm around you, pressing your back against his chest. He doesn’t throw you - he could, easily, he would - but he just halts your movement, stopping you clean in your tracks.

The pain spikes again and you gasp sharply. Your knees nearly buckle and Bucky’s grip on you tightens.

His hands are firm around you. Steady. But his breathing is not. It’s fast, strained, the muscles in his arms locking as he keeps you upright.

“What the hell happened?” His voice is so low, so serious. There is an edge to it, teetering on loosing control.

“It’s not a big deal,” you grit out.

“Bullshit.” Now he sounds harsh.

But his fingers still press so gently into your side, checking you out.

You whimper, flinching.

And Bucky freezes.

“Shit.” He shifts his grip, an arm around your waist, moving you to face him and still trying to support you without making it worse. His heartbeat is fast. You can feel it. Even in his hands on you.

He grabs the hem of your shirt and lifts it enough to see your torso. A breath hitches. It’s not yours.

The bruises are bad. Worse than they were yesterday. Dark and sprawling across your ribs, blooming in ugly purples and reds. You feel the shift in him, the way his whole body goes still.

You watch his tense features in discomfort. His eyes are turbulent, filled with a wildness stemming from something dark that writhes beneath his skin and causes his hands to shake against you. A tremor passes his jaw.

He curses under his breath.

“You didn’t tell me.” His voice drags low.

“I didn’t think it was that bad.”

He lets out a deep and rumbling sigh. Trying to compose himself. “It is bad, Y/n! How come you thought it’s a good idea to train like this, huh?”

He meets your eyes. There is a sternness in his expression. His eyes are heavy.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

Bucky lets out a humorless breath. Closes his eyes for a moment until he takes a breath in again.

“I was already worried, doll. I always am. You know that, no?” he speaks solemnly. “You think not telling me makes this better?”

You open your mouth, then close it.

He shakes his head, exhaling profoundly through his nose. His grip tightens, but not enough to hurt you. He holds you carefully.

You take in a deep breath. “I- I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t wanna talk about it. I’m sorry, Bucky.”

His jaw is clenched and he bites his bottom lip, staring at the bruises littering your skin for a moment with eyes so dark they make you shiver.

“How did that happen? Who did this?”

You scoff half-heartedly. “Got a little messy. Pretty sure that guy’s not doing that well either.” You aim to get even the tiniest bits of amusement out of him but he might have gotten even more grim.

His touch is slow, a careful sweep of his finger across your skin, studying you for reactions.

He opens his mouth. Something on his tongue he wants to get out, but he hesitates. He swallows. Waits a few seconds. His voice is a rasp. “Don’t do that again.”

“Getting hurt on missions is kind of a normal occurrence, Buck. Not much I can do about that-”

“No, I mean-” he interrupts, voice quieter. “Don’t hide it again. Not from me. I- Just please.”

There is something in his tone that makes you stare for a while longer.

Then, you nod. Just once. But you mean it.

****

It took weeks for you to properly heal.

But finally, earlier today, you got the clearance of Dr. Cho - and Bucky, because he somehow told himself he has a say in that kind of thing - to step onto the mat again and resume training.

There is still a phantom pain in your ribs but it’s locked somewhere in the back of your mind.

But Bucky still would not stop fucking looking at you.

And it never is in a casual way. Bucky always watches you like he is waiting for something. Like his body is ready to move before his mind even has to tell it to. Like he is memorizing you, making sure nothing slips past him.

He is currently standing in front of you on the mat, rolling his shoulders, the stretch of muscle under his shirt shifting with the movement. The tension in his frame hasn’t faded, no matter how much you’ve reassured him. His fingers flex, then curl into loose fists.

Then his eyes find yours.

“Alright,” he says, voice low and edged with something firm, something not up for debate. “Don’t ever pull that shit on me again. You’re good enough as it is. No need for all that, yeah?” There is something heavy in his tone. “I'll even let you win this time if you need it so badly, doll,” he adds with a hint of humor that his voice lacked earlier, bouncing right back into your easy friendship.

You huff out a laugh and stretch your arms over your head, feeling the pull of muscles that have gone a little too long without use. “Trust me Bucky, I’ve learned my lesson.” Your voice is rather light, but it carries an edge as well.

Bucky’s jaw ticks.

There is something like guilt crossing his eyes for a second. Gone as fast as it came but you catch it. His lips are pressed together tightly and he seems to hold back an uncomfortable cough.

You’ve talked about this already. Plenty, in the weeks of your recovery. You told him you wouldn’t have believed him either after the many times you feigned injury during matches. That if anything, it was your own stubbornness that got you hurt and not him.

He only agreed with the stubborn part but he stopped bringing it up.

Still, you see he hasn’t let it go.

He carries too much guilt as it is. You don’t want him to carry more. So, you definitely won’t question his weakness during fights again. It was kind of funny, though, at least you’ll hold onto that.

You roll out your shoulders, shaking off the stiffness, then take your stance. “C’mon Barnes. You gonna fight me or just stand there looking pretty?”

His mouth twitches, a ghost of a smirk, maybe even a ghost of pink at the tip of his ears, but his eyes stay sharp.

He steps in, closing the space, moving with the same impossible control he always does.

You block his first strike, but it shakes through you. The force of it reminds you just how much power he’s holding back.

His eyes snap to your face. He doesn’t stop watching.

Studying.

Testing how you move, how much strain you can handle.

You feel yourself get into it again. The movement, the impact, the swiftness. The gym is filled with the sounds of breaths and footwork against the mat.

Bucky tests you, pushes you.

And you give as good as you get.

Your body remembers even if it’s been weeks. Your muscles adjust, wake up in a way they haven’t in too long. You move on instinct, dodging, striking, thinking, even pulling a move that you copied from Nat. One that Bucky didn’t see coming.

And it honestly looks pretty good for you, until your foot catches.

It’s nothing at first, a simple shift in weight, an uneven pivot that causes your balance to tip slightly off center. But a dizziness suddenly overcomes you and it’s too late to catch you. Your ankle twists, your knees buckle and the floor comes rushing up to you.

You hit the mat hard, landing awkwardly on your side, the jolt of pain snapping through your ankle up your whole leg, sharp enough for you to wince.

Shit.

You suck in a breath, already dreading what this looks like, what Bucky must be thinking. The timing couldn’t be worse. After everything - after the fights weeks ago, after the conversations, after the promise you just made to never feign getting hurt again - what else would he think?

But before you can lift your head, before you can force out some half-hearted quip, Bucky is already there.

Not hesitating. Not wary.

Rushing. Fast and frantic.

He’s at your side, crouching so fast his knees nearly hit the mat.

And you find yourself blinking at him stunned.

You expected him to pause. To hesitate. Maybe even get angry - to assume, even for a second, that you are feigning again, that you had just promised him not to pull that anymore but here you are.

But there is none of that.

Only the same panic from every other time you’ve dropped yourself to the ground on purpose. But this time it is real. There just was no way for him to know that. He still reacts the same.

“Where does it hurt, doll? Talk to me.”

His voice is calm, but his face is tight. His brows are drawn together, tension lining his mouth. The breaths he lets out are just a little too measured.

You blink at him, still baffled at the way with how fast he was there, how fast his reaction was.

“Just my leg,” you say, exhaling slowly. “It’s nothing. I just got dizzy and fell.”

That makes him frown, deeper than before. His hand moves so gently as he lifts the fabric of your training pants to get a look, taking your calve into his other hand. The touch sends a pulse of pain through you but you manage not to let it show on your face. You’ve had worse. You’re an Avenger, after all.

But Bucky’s jaw clenches so tightly at the sight of the swollen bone and the deepening flush of color on your ankle as if it is serious.

“Might have sprained it,” he mutters gruffly, and the displeasure in his voice is so clear.

“Think I’ll live, Buck,” you quip lightly and shift, trying to stand up but his hand doesn’t let up on your leg and he presses just lightly against your shoulders to make you sit back down.

“You still feelin’ dizzy?” he asks, basically ignoring what you said, voice dipping lower. His gaze locks onto yours. Intense.

You shake your head, trying to show him how casual this whole thing is but his eyes won’t stop searching you and it makes your stomach churn.

“I’m fine, Buck.”

His eyes don’t move. He doesn’t let go.

“Why did you even believe me?” You voice it light, but there is something cautious underlining it, you can’t shake. “Could’ve faked again.”

Bucky rakes a hand through his hair with a long breath. He averts his eyes.

“Saw you go down,” he says with a shrug that seems just a little too exaggeratedly indifferent. “S’ enough for my head to go straight to hell.”

That’s certainly not something you expected him to say and you are stunned once again. But you can’t help the way your belly does some delightful flips.

“And you promised me you wouldn’t,” he adds, shoulders straightening, like he is trying to shift your attention from the words he said before. From the admission he made.

“I’m really not going to do it again,” you promise again. But you won’t forget his words.

“I know, sweetheart,” he says sweetly, certainly, but the tension of your current situation lingers.

His touch on you is so damn careful, checking and rechecking, making you tell him what and how something hurts and you almost laugh out loud at his fussing.

“Buck, it’s not like I broke it,” you point out, a laugh in your voice. “I can still-”

“You’re not gonna walk around on that.”

You lift your brow at him, at his tone, an amused smile on your face but he just stares back. Without the smiling part.

Then he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face before standing to his full height, adjusting his stance before crouching slightly again.

“Alright, come on.”

You blink but his hands already settle, one beneath your legs, the other bracing your back, and you barely have time to react before he is lifting you, arms locking as he pulls you against his chest with an ease you could only dream of.

“Bucky-”

“Not a word,” he warns with a grunt.

You sigh, letting your head fall back against his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Don’t care.”

****

A sprained ankle takes anywhere from two to six weeks to heal properly, depending on the severity. You’ve had a few sprained ankles in your career already, so you would know.

But yours sits on the longer end of that spectrum and it frustrates you to no end because what the fuck. You were just done healing and now you got to do it all again.

The first week, Bucky barely lets you breathe without hovering close. He is always there, catching you if you wobble because you are too damn stubborn and rather hop around the compound than use a clutch. Because that would make it too easy, wouldn’t it?

The second week you get snappish. Tony makes sure to leave the room when you enter, Sam gets defensive, Natasha just smirks what frustrates you even more, Vision is a fucking robot only answering in a robotic voice way that drives you up the wall when he gives you a list of stores around New York that sell kettle fries but you only wanted to know where they are in the compounds kitchen. And Bucky endures every tiny bit of it, only that he is entirely unmoved by your attitude. At one point you just taped your ankle and tried to go down to the gym but Bucky stopped you before you could reach the elevator. He already stood there, brow quirked, arms crossed, unimpressed but amused.

By the third week, he sat next to you during team training, watching, studying. You criticized movements, talked about strategies, and laughed at Sam when Nat made him faceplant onto the mat.

Then the fourth week rolled in and you could finally put weight on your foot without wincing. For you, that meant you were good to go train again. But not for Bucky. So that meant another week of waiting.

But now you are back on the mat. Fucking again.

And you promise yourself, you will not fall this time. Not on purpose, not by accident.

Bucky stands across from you, arms loose at his sides, weight balanced, watching as you roll your shoulders and move through your warm-up.

“Got any last words before I kick your ass, Barnes?”

His mouth twitches. That half-smirk, something smug but fond, something that flies through his blue eyes like a spark.

“I dunno, sweetheart. Wouldn’t wanna land you on the sidelines again.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes.

“Bite me, Barnes.”

The moment you move, he matches it.

His reflexes are quicker than yours - always have been, always will be - but your advantage is that you know that. You know him. His patterns, the way he shifts his weight, the way his left shoulder always tenses a fraction of a second before he throws a punch. You don’t need to match his strength to win. You just need to read him.

The first strike comes low, an attempt to test your footing, but you pivot fast, avoiding the sweep of his leg with a practiced step-back. You counter with a jab - not meant to hit, just to distract - but he reads it immediately, catches your wrist, yanks you forward.

You twist, using the momentum, your free hand shooting up - Bucky dodges, barely, but you are already adjusting, using your own imbalance to push into him.

His hands are always steady, whether he’s attacking or defending. He uses his strength not to hurt you, but to push you, to remind you that you can take it.

And you do.

Blow for blow, counter for counter.

You refrain from looking at his face because he looks distractingly hot with his hair falling into his eyes and all, whipping around with his movements.

The moment his weight shifts forward, you are already countering. Stepping out of reach just as his arm sweeps for your waist. Your breath comes sharp as you turn and aim a well-placed jab that he sidesteps.

Bucky’s eyes gleam. Thrilled.

“Not bad,” he calls, already throwing another feint.

“Not trying to be”, you fire back, ducking, moving with him like it’s a dance. Like your bodies know this better than your minds do.

You push - he counters. You feint - he laughs, quick and breathy. You strike - he blocks.

Fuck, you missed this.

But then, he shifts.

And something changes.

It’s in his stance. The way he adjusts - not a mistake, but a decision. And in the half-second, before you react, before you catch on, you realize you don’t know what he is planning.

Your body is moving, a reaction before thought, but he is quicker - and you only feel him wind his arm around your waist, spin you around, and crash his lips against yours.

You stagger, letting out a surprised grunt against his mouth, caught completely fucking blindsided, because - what?

His mouth is firm, demanding - and it sears straight through your skin, your ribs, right into your bones, into your pulse, because Bucky Barnes is kissing you.

It’s not soft.

Not hesitant.

Not careful.

It’s everything it shouldn’t be in the middle of a fight.

It’s so unexpected that you don’t even notice the moment your back hits the mat. Don’t notice the way he takes you down like it’s nothing, like it’s unpredictable, because you weren’t ready.

You didn’t see it coming.

By the time you blink, by the time your brain catches up, he is already above you. Hovering.

His weight is balanced, both arms braced on either side of your head, and he is looking at you like he just won the fucking lottery.

Smirking. So damn smug.

Because Bucky finally found out your weakness. And he used it to his advantage.

Because what else could it be than him?

“You cheated,” you breathe out. Where has all the air gone?

“You kinda started it, sweetheart.” Bucky grins so wide, so proud, so happy. He pants above you. His eyes are shining.

And then he ducks down again.

He kisses you once more.

Slower, this time. Deeper. With something that lingers, something that presses into you as his hand slides along your jaw, something that feels like it has been waiting far too long for this exact moment.

And you don’t fight it.

Because it seems, you no longer have to wait for Bucky Barnes.

“You’ll know… not just in the way they look at you, but in how they’re not looking anywhere else.”

- butterflies rising

#bucky barnes fanfiction #avenger!reader #avenger!bucky #avengers bucky #bucky barnes x reader #bucky marvel #buckybarnes #bucky fanfic #bucky #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #marvel bucky barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes one shot

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daxisyzz · 2 months ago

Note

hi! i’m thinking about some angst with a soft fluff ending where the reader and bucky is in their early stages of their relationship. bucky was s h@rass3d in hydra, he was struggling to make physical contact and interactions with the reader but somehow learned what safe touch is 🫶🏻

here's your fic <3

A kind of brave

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky flinches when you touch him—but you're not in a hurry. Love, in your world, is patient.

Word count: 1.1k+

The writing in italics is a flashback

Warnings and tags: Past trauma and harassment (non-graphic), Flashbacks to Hydra-related abuse, PTSD symptoms (flinching, hypervigilance, difficulty with physical touch), Emotional vulnerability, Hurt/Comfort, Gentle Love, Healing Together, Safe Touch Exploration, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Reader Helps Bucky Heal.

You weren’t expecting anything when it started.

He’d shown up to the Tower quieter than most. Standoffish, unreadable. You'd been assigned as his point of contact—“Ease him in,” they said. “Help him find normal.”

But normal wasn’t easy to come by for someone like Bucky Barnes.

Still, he let you sit with him during shared meals. You’d catch him listening as you told stories about the city or teased Sam across the room. His replies were clipped but thoughtful. He'd nod when you made jokes. Once, you caught him smiling.

Then came the moment that changed things—subtly, but completely.

You were reaching for a mug in the kitchen. He stood beside you. As your fingers brushed his arm—just a touch, featherlight—he flinched.

Not dramatically. Not enough to cause a scene. But enough for your heart to ache.

His shoulders tensed. His breath hitched. He stepped back like the heat of your skin had burned him.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, pulling your hand back instantly.

He didn’t speak. Just stared at the floor, ashamed of something that wasn’t his fault.

You didn’t bring it up that day. Just gave him space and offered him coffee like nothing happened.

But that moment stayed with you.

So you started paying closer attention

You noticed it in the way he avoided the couch if someone was already sitting. How he always stood at the far edge of the elevator. How his hands stayed buried in his sleeves, even when the sun was warm.

When he smiled, it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

When he laughed, it was careful—like joy was something borrowed.

You adapted without needing to say it aloud. Stood beside him instead of in front. Sat far enough away that he wouldn’t feel cornered. Asked with your eyes before you ever reached out.

He noticed. You knew he did. Because slowly, inch by inch, he started to linger longer. Sit a little closer. Speak a little more.

Trust takes time.

Especially when you’ve been taught the wrong definition of touch.

It always started with the sound.

A low, mechanical click as the restraints slid into place, followed by the sterile whir of lights flickering to life overhead — harsh, clinical, too white. Too clean. A cruel contrast to the filth he was forced to live in.

The chair was metal, ice-cold against his skin no matter how long he was in it. His breath fogged in the air like a ghost trying to escape. But ghosts were free. He wasn’t.

He stopped fighting it years ago — if years even existed down here. Time was meaningless in a place that never changed. No windows. No sky. No sense of day or night. Just missions, control, silence. Then pain.

A man in a lab coat leaned over him, faceless and featureless in Bucky’s mind now. There had been too many. They all smelled the same — antiseptic and cruelty. A hand gripped his chin, tilting his face roughly upward like he was an object being inspected.

“You're not him anymore,” the voice said, clinical, bored. “You don't flinch. You obey.”

But he did flinch — inside, where no one could see. Where it wouldn't earn him another reset.

Another hand came next — this one pressed over his shoulder, firm and too slow to be casual. They wanted him to feel it. They always wanted him to feel it, in the worst ways. Not just pain, but control. Ownership. Submission.

It wasn’t the physical agony that broke him the most. It was how they taught him to dread touch. How something so human became a punishment. They rewired him — so that warmth became threat, closeness became fear, and skin-on-skin was something to survive rather than savor.

There were nights after a mission when they didn’t even have to touch him. They’d just come close. Breathe behind him. Wait for him to flinch.

He always did.

It was a week after a rough mission. Bucky had barely said a word.

You found him on your couch one night, long after the city had gone to sleep. Hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. Eyes vacant.

You didn’t speak right away. Just offered him tea. Sat beside him—far enough to let him breathe.

Eventually, he said it.

“Do you know what it’s like,” he whispered, “to want to be touched but not know how?”

Your heart cracked. You didn’t rush to fix it.

Instead, you said, “Yeah. I think… I do.”

He turned toward you. “It wasn’t just the fighting. HYDRA—they used touch. Twisted it. Made it mean control. Made me afraid of something I used to love.”

You swallowed. “I’m sorry they did that to you.”

His voice dropped lower. “Sometimes I still feel like a weapon. Even now. When you smile at me. When you sit close. Part of me wants to pull you in. And the other part... is scared I’ll ruin it.”

“You won’t,” you promised. “Not with me."

He asked if he could hold your hand.

His voice shook when he said it.

“Only if you’re sure,” you told him.

“I’m not sure of anything,” he confessed. “But I want to try.”

So you laid your hand between you on the couch. Open. Waiting.

He took it, slow and careful. His fingers hovered before they rested on yours, like he was expecting the world to crack open beneath him.

But it didn’t.

And for the first time, he didn’t flinch.

You squeezed gently. “You’re doing amazing.”

He smiled—small, but real.

He started coming over more.

Sometimes with books. Sometimes with nothing but tired eyes and quiet company.

One night, you found him in the kitchen. He was making tea—two cups. He handed you yours without a word, then hesitated.

“Can I stay tonight?” he asked.

You blinked. “Of course. You want the couch?”

He shook his head. “I want to try… sleeping next to you. If that’s okay.”

You nodded. “It’s more than okay.”

That night, he curled up beside you—nervous but determined. You didn’t reach for him.

But he reached for you.

His fingers brushed yours under the blanket.

Light, hesitant.

You looked over. “This alright?”

He nodded, eyes a little glassy. “Yeah. It’s… nice.”

You didn’t need more than that.

And when you woke the next morning, his arm was loosely around your waist. His breathing soft against the back of your neck. No nightmares. No panic.

Just warmth.

Just safety.

Just him.

He still had bad days. Days when the shadows whispered louder than your voice.

But they passed.

And on the good days, you’d catch him reaching for you without thinking—nudging your foot under the table, brushing your hair behind your ear, linking pinkies as you walked side by side.

He was learning.

And he was loving you, in the way only he could—slow, steady, gentle.

Not perfect.

But real.

And more than enough.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel #tw assault #tw harassment #bucky barnes fluff #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes angst #sebastian stan x reader #bucky barnes x you #james buchanan barnes #bucky x reader

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ohtobeleah · 2 months ago

Text

Purgatory // Jack Abbot

Part 1of2

Summary: A patient brought in with the Pittfest mass casualty event experiences a psychosis of some sort. Jack Abbot doesn’t know it but while he’s elbow deep in saving some guys bowel…you’re attacked while just trying to help.

Warnings: Jack Abbot x Nurse!reader. Violence against women. Angst/whump.mediocre medical knowledge. Hurt!reader. Established relationship. Age gap marriage. Older male x younger reader.

Word Count: 4.3k

Author Note: This guy…this fucking guy.. Truly, I could write about him for hours, if not days on end. I love him your honour.

Next Chapter

In the practice of medicine, change is inevitable. New surgical techniques are created, and procedures are updated. Levels of expertise increase. Innovation is everything. Nothing remains the same for long, and we either decide to adapt to the change…

Or we get left behind.

“Sir,” You sighed as you tried your best to have the man in the hospital bed cooperate. “I’m just trying to–” Before you had a chance to finish your sentence, to let the man who’d been brought in during the worst mass casualty event you’d ever worked, that you were just cleaning him up a little in a low period, he was on you like a bad rash.

“Hel–!” You tried to scream, but two large, bloodied hands wrapped themselves around your throat as the unidentified male, mid-fifties possibly, tackled you to the ground. “H–!”

*Crack* The sound was jarring. *Crack* The back of your head was repeatedly being slammed into the laminate floor. *Crack* You couldn’t breathe. Your lungs felt like they had been set alight, burning with a deep desire to take in oxygen.

“Get away from me!” The man yelled as he released one of the hands he had tightly gripped around your neck, only to draw it behind his head and lay a full fist of force against your nose.

“SECURITY!” You heard Dana shout as she caught sight of the assault happening across the way. She couldn’t tell who it was under the man who’d gone rogue. But it felt too late now…

Everything was a blur. You couldn’t breathe as blood trickled down your throat. The swelling had already begun to take effect. You coughed and rolled onto your side as the man was removed from you in a flurry of blurs. You couldn’t hear the commotion going on around on, but you could see the shadows behind swollen eyes and broken skin.

“Y/n!?” Robby was the first voice that managed to break through the perpetual ringing. He was just a shadow, mixing with the fluorescent light beaming down on you. “You’re not okay, but you’re gonna be.” You could barely make out what he was saying. If you could, you would’ve panicked at the sheer heaviness in his tone of voice. The worry, the panic that his best friend’s wife had just been attacked.

“Someone get me Dr. Abbott!” Robbys voice echoed across the entire expanse of the Emergency Room department. Everyone heard the urgent desperation in his voice. Everyone besides Jack…who was someone across the department, elbow deep in saving some guys bowel from needing to be removed. “Tell him it’s his wife!”

Whittaker was the one who dropped what he was doing, albeit not as important as finding Dr. Abbott, but nevertheless, he knew whatever it was that it was bad. Jack hadn’t anticipated one of the new kids to come charging in like it was life or death the way he did.

“Dr. Abbot! Something happened, you need to come and–”

“Someone better be dying for you to be taking any of my time away from this man, Whittaker, what is it!?” Jack didn’t shout, nor was it laced with anger. It was a response of pure and total control over the situation. Jack was as calm as they come under crisis. It was just who he was. He saw the solutions in chaos like a puzzle he could put back together.

“Your wife–” Dennis choked on his own words like he was afraid to deliver bad news. Ironic that delivering bad news to loved ones of patients was a part of the job. “She uh–”

“She what, Whitaker? My wife, what?” Jack never faltered. He never looked up from where he was working magic. Blood-stained gloves halted to a standstill, however, when the words that left Whittaker’s mouth next knocked the wind right out of Jack’s lungs.

“She was just attacked, Robby has her in trauma two now, it’s bad, like real bad, sir.”

The air grew thin, the walls began to cave in. Jack Abbot was, on a regular day, as calm as they come under pressure.

He saved his breakdowns for the roof in the early hours of the morning. He’d spend a few minutes watching as the sun kissed the horizon with a warmth that could only be rivalled by your own.

He’d hedge his bets, cut his losses and accept what reality had dealt and delivered. All the while continuing all the reasons why he couldn’t take that leap. Always circling back to the most important of all.

You.

But when that guiding light is challenged, Jack's body language alters. His normally rigid, ex-military stance softened for a brief moment.

Jack's heart was breaking. He could feel it being ripped apart inside his chest cavity. The thud of his heart was nearly loud enough to echo off the walls.

“What?” No one had seen Jack Abbot so flustered before. His eyes softened in a moment of what must have looked like weakness. But to Jack, it was love. Pure, that’s my best friend, love. The kind of love that’s deep in your bones, love. The kind of love that haunts you, love. “My, my wife?”

It was a softness only reserved for you, a side to Jack Abbot that was hidden away behind the safety and security of his own perfectly designed Volt system. His expert ability to compartmentalise only ever falters around you.

He can’t control it. Jack Abbot had a weakness, an affinity of affection. An addiction to the release of Oxytocin he received whenever you paid him any mind. It had always been like that, a little catch and release. Cat and mouse. Jack loved to watch you walk away because he knew you were always coming back.

But now…you were hurt. You were hurt, and he was stuck in his own head thinking about the first time he saw you. How you lit up the entire night sky and hung every star just for him to feel comfort in the darkness.

Your laugh, how it’s the only therapy he’d ever need. The deep cackle that’s not cute, but infectious. You’re like a shot of espresso, keeping Jack on his toes and never allowing him to fall completely off the deep end into permanent geriatric grumpiness. No matter how far he teetered over the edge.

Jack Abbot was just lucky enough to be living in general, but to be living in your world was just the luck of the Anglo-Irish. He wasn’t sure if he could live in a world without you in it.

The thought consumed his entire being. A world without you. A life without you. What if he never got to hear your voice again? Or tell you how much he fucking loved you. The contrast between the heat of Jack's skin and the coolness of his wedding band resting upon his heart couldn’t have been more stark.

“Is she—“ Before Jack could ask if you were okay, he was cut off.

“Go,” Dr. Ellis damn near ordered. “I got this, go.” She reaffirmed as Jack felt her shove him over, there was no extra time that could be wasted. It was all Jack needed to find his centre of gravity again and get a hold of himself.

His composure.

“Who attacked her?” But as the surge of panic softened, a wave of uncontrollable rage began to boil deep within Jack. His eyes scanned the utter chaos that was the emergency department, searching for whoever it was that had hurt you. “Where are they now?”

No one gets to hurt Jack Abbots wife and gets to continue breathing.

“Uhhh—“ Whitaker stammered, unsure of whether he should disclose that information or not. “He’s with security now, behavioural health two.”

It was a deep-rooted, all-consuming need to hook it left and make a B line directly for behavioural health two. Who did this guy think he was? Huh? Attacking people, no…attacking his wife like this? It wouldn’t be without consequence.

“Dr. Abbot.”

“This the guy?” Jack asked one of the security guards with a look of rage behind his exhausted eyes. “I need to speak with him?”

“The cops and McKay are in there with him now.”

“It wasn’t a request.” Jack snarled as he tried to make his way into the room that held the man who attacked you.

“JACK!” It was Robby who had yelled. “NOW!” You were in a rough way, Jack would tell by the tone in his friend’s voice.

“Y/n,” Jack whispered to himself as he looked over at trauma two. “Oh, oh no no no no no.” It was a mumble only to himself, but everyone could feel the heaviness that followed Jack Abbot across and through the emergency department chaos.

Change. We don’t like it, we fear it. But we can’t stop it from coming. We either adapt to change…

Or we get left behind.

“She needs to be intubated, get her up for a head CT, we’re looking at some major blunt force trauma here, needs–needs burr holls to relieve the intracranial pressure.”

“Y/n!” Jack barreled in like a hurricane-force wind. “What the actual fuck happened here, man?”

“She was with a patient, Y/n? Can you hear me? It’s Robinovich here, don’t you make this difficult for me,” Robby spoke through panicked words as he worked on you as fast as he could. “Guy freaked, psychotic episode, probably a bleed on the brain–”

“Ja–” You barely mumbled as blood spilled from your mouth. Jack heard you, though. He heard you loud and clear as he made his way to your side. His hand was immediately in yours as he made sure to be aware of his spatial awareness as his colleagues worked on you.

“I’m right here,” Jack cooed as he took in the sight of your face. Beaten, bloodied and bruised. “You’re okay, I’m right here, just hang on for me, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”

“I, love–” You were in and out of consciousness, fighting against the pull of whatever it was threatening to pull you away from the surface.

“Pulse is thready, she’s crashing,” someone announced as all the bells and whistles sounded off at once. You were indeed crashing, right in front of Jack.

“Sweetheat? You stay with us, you hear me?” Jack was feeling the panic creep up his spine again. “Are you shitting me? What the hell do you think you’re doing being alone with a patient like that?” Jack knew if you were listening, you would have jabbed him back. Of all people to be giving you a lecture on hospital protocol, it shouldn’t have been him.

You called him a Cowboy for a reason.

“If you die on me, i’m gonna be so fucking screwed here Y/n, get your shit together,” It was Jacks love language. “Robby, get her back!”

He kept searching for some sort of eye contact, that deep-rooted ability of his that you at times often regarded as his superpower. That intense gaze, the one able to break through anything and reach your very soul.

But Jack couldn’t see you through you, he couldn’t see anything but the blood that covered your beautiful face. The face he dreamed of at night, when all was said and done, and there was nothing left to do.

“Working on it, someone get me neuro, NOW!”

“O.R. is prepped and ready upstairs.”

“Okay, let’s get her stable and on the move.”

“I’m coming.”

“Like fuck you are, brother,” Robby sighed, never missing a beat as he continued to stabilise his best friends wife. The love of his life.”You can watch from observation, but you can’t be in the O.R., hospital policy we—“

“Don’t work on family, I’m not, I’m telling you I’m—“

“If we can’t get her back, you’ll be in there, let me get her back, I’ve got her.” It was a promise Robby shouldn’t have made. But he knew you and he knew you well enough to know that this was not your exit music moment.

Jack simply held his lips into a tight line of silent panic. He never let go of your hand, opting to walk you all the way to surgery.

“Wait,” He begged right before the double doors automatically opened on your arrival. Everyone stopped moving as Jack leaned in to whisper something in your ear. “If you die on me so help me god, I’m walking right up to that roof for the last time and you damn well know it, don’t do this to us,” Jack begged. “I love you with all that I am and have.” He said one final time before letting go of your hand. Grazing across your wedding band as he let you go.

“Let’s move people!” Someone beside your side yelled as all Jack could do was stand still, as you were wheeled away from him.

“Oh god,” It was immediate, the sudden feeling of sickness. The wave of nausea hit him like a freight train. The nearest fake plant was the best course of action. With one hand on the wall in front of him, Jack emptied the contents of his stomach. It wasn’t much, mainly stomach bile, but the sentiment remained the same. “Fuckk-.”

The thought of losing you made Jack Abbot's stomach churn.

It hurts to adapt to change; anyone who tells you otherwise is lying. It’s utter bullshit. But change is inevitable, good or bad. It haunts us like ghosts of our former past. It can taunt us like a small child who thinks you’re having the time of your life.

But when change is brought about, it’s better to adapt than deny that it's happening in the first place.

—----------------------

There’s a reason surgeons learn to wield scalpels. They liked to pretend that their hard, cold scientists. They like to pretend that they’re fearless. But the truth is, people become surgeons because somewhere, deep down, they think they can cut away that of which haunts them.

Weakness, frailty…death.

Jack woke with a stark jolt. He was sweating, running a fever. The darkness was all-consuming as he tried to gain his bearings. He was in bed. The bed he shared with you.

“Christ,” Jack sighed to himself as he laid on his back in the middle of the night. A hand ran down his face as he collected his thoughts. That had been one of the most intense nightmares, one of the most realistic ones, he’d ever had.

“Something tells me he had you on do not disturb.” Jack heard you mumble from beside him, wrapped up in a mess of covers and sheets. “Probably, don’t think that guys ever paid much mind to me, has he, sweetheart?”

When you didn’t respond, Jack frowned. You were just talking. Were you talking in your sleep? But you were talking directly to him.

“Y/n, you awake?” It was a question laced with hope. Jack hoped you were. He couldn’t stop thinking about your bloodied face in his nightmare. The way you lay there, lifeless, not breathing. “Hey, c’mere for a minute.” Jack nearly begged as he slowly but surely moved closer to where you were in the bed you shared together.

With a gentle kiss to your exposed shoulder, Jack maneuvered you from where you were lying on your side to your back. It was then he realised he was still in a living hell.

“Remember?” Was all you said as blood spilled out of your mouth and down your chin. A bloodied smile was permanently seared into Jack's memory as pure horror washed over him. “You couldn’t protect me, you couldn’t save me. What’s the point of being married to a doctor if you can’t save my life?”

“No, no this isn’t real,” Jack tried to reason with his mind as he hovered over your now lifeless body in the bed you shared. “Stay with me, sweetheart, stay with me!!”

But you didn’t move, you were lifeless and cold. So fucking cold.

“Jack?” He heard through a whisper, a mumbled distance away, “Jack?” There it was again. This time, though, a hand on his shoulder accompanied the male voice, coaxing him back to reality. “Jack, wake up, bother.”

With a jolt, Jack was waking from where he’d fallen asleep. Right beside you with his head on the spot beside your hand. His in yours. His back ached like no tomorrow, but his hips hurt the worst.

“I must’ve fallen asleep.” Jack sighed as he tried to regain his composure. The thought of you dead beside him in bed had rocked him to his very core. But it was always the same dream ever since you were attacked.

I could hear you screaming from the second I stepped out of the elevator,” Robby sighed as he checked your vitals. All the signs pointed to good news. “Have you spoken to your therapist about all this yet?” he asked with a frown of concern from above his glasses.

“Nope,” Jack explained as he let out a sigh and stretched out in the chair he was sitting on. “Can’t bear to bring it up, might jinx her.”

“Well, the swelling is mostly stable, she’s regaining strength, and her pulse ox is great, the only thing keeping her under right now is, well, her,” Robby shrugged as he crossed his arms over his chest. “She’s gonna wake up, man.”

Jack didn’t respond right away. He let the silence linger in the air. He watched your steady heartbeat on the monitor. He eyed off your vitals, the way your chest rose and fell with every breath you took unassisted. He was still on edge, but was able to talk himself through it.

He’d watched you recover over the last week since the attack. Jack hadnt left the hospital once. He’d become what he hated most. A border. But he couldn't bring himself to leave even just for a few minutes. Not when you were here.

It took a village. Dana had organised someone to collect all the essentials Jack and yourself might need during your stay. The house was probably a mess and the content of the fridge was well past used by, but that wasn't important right now.

He’d stay here beside you watching you heal. Watching you get stronger. Watching you slowly come back to him like Robby had promised. But no one had any idea how you would react when you finally woke up. There was worry of mental deficits from the head trauma. But Jack knew you well enough to know you were a real fighter.

He finally knew what it was like for you when he’d lost his leg. A part of him he’d never get back. Jack wondered if you'd feel the same way after, if a part of you died that day. He was anticipating it really. The onset of depression post traumatic events. The PTSD that would haunt you like a ghost. The sleepless nights. The recklessness. The suicidal tendencies. All of it, he knew about it and was prepared for it.

Only difference is you weren’t. But boy were you a fast learner. And oh boy did Jack understand the other side of it now. How it felt to watch the person you love suffer so much.

“Here,” Again Robby's voice broke Jack out of his trance-like thinking state. “Drink this, eat this, don’t argue,” A juice box lands in Jack's lap, so did a half eaten sandwich. He looks up at his friend, perplexed…but already knows the answer. “I ate the other half in the elevator.” Robby still explains.

“Thanks.” Is all Jack has left in him to say. He’s exhausted, but won't say that out loud. Won't admit it to anyone but himself. Robby can see it written in the lines on Jack's face. He can see it in the growth of his facial hair, the bags under his eyes.

“Have a shower before she starts to stir,” It's one of the last thing Robby says before he leaves. “You look and smell like shit, she’s probably not waking up just to be polite you know.” He doesn't wait for an answer, but as he leaves and heads down the corridor back to the elevator, he knows Jack is smiling behind him. Shaking his head.

“You would do that, wouldn't you?” Jack sighed, popping the straw into the small juice box. The sugar is a much needed relief for the man running on empty.

It isn't just surgeons, the truth is, Jack didn't know anyone who wasn't haunted by something…or someone. And whether we try to slice the pain away with a scalpel or shove it in the back of a closet…

Our efforts usually fail.

—-------------------------------------

Jack Abbot went into medicine because he wanted to save lives. He went into medicine because he wanted to do good. He went into medicine for the rush…for the high…for the ride.

But what he tends to remember at the end of most days are the losses. What he lies awake at night, replaying is the pain he caused or failed to cure. The lives he ruined or failed to save. So the experience of practising medicine, for Jack Abbot, that is, rarely resembles the goal.

The experience is, too often, ass-backwards and upside down.

“One slight gust and you’d be done for, you know?” Jack knew it was you the second he heard the approaching footsteps.

“What are you doing up here?” Jack replied, all the while he still had his hands tucked away in his pockets.

“Oh, I dunno,” You sighed as you ducked under the railing. Coming to stand close to but not close enough to where your husband stood. “Heard some lunatic was up on the roof, didn’t take much for me to realise that the lunatic in question was probably my repeat offender.” You rubbed your hands over your face like you’d had enough of today. Coaxing your husband off the ledge of the roof was not something you had on your bingo card for today. “What are you doing up here, Abbot?”

It was a loaded question, but a question that deserved a genuine response nevertheless. Jack shrugged, unable to look his wife in the eye for once. Something he was really fucking good at doing.

“Guy lost his leg in a car accident.” You didn’t need much more than that, but Jack continued. You didn’t interrupt. “My call to amputate, we weren’t gonna be able to save it.” You could feel the heaviness weighing on your husband’s heart as he explained what led him to the roof. “Pains been unbearable ever since.”

You didn’t speak, you didn’t respond, but you sure knew what you had to do. There was a deeper meaning behind the reason Jack made you carry a pocket knife with you. One that wasn’t permitted by the hospital. You casually reached into your back pocket to reveal the small pocket knife.

“You know, a wise man once told me that you find comfort in darkness,” You said as you knelt down carefully and knew back your arm with just enough force that the blade of your knife would pierce the titanium foot of your husband’s prosthetic leg. “There, should start to feel some slight relief soon.”

Jack sighed. It never worked when he did it himself. Nor did it work if he knew it was coming. It had to be spontaneous, quick and off guard. You did just that.

“I needed that more than you know.” It was another way of saying ‘I love you’ But you already knew that.

“Oh trust me, I knew, otherwise we wouldn't be up here standing on the edge of a building.” Jack knew you were right. You knew him better than he knew himself most days.

That’s why you were his wife. His life partner. His better half.

Jack let a moment of silence pass the two of you by as you moved to stand beside him once again, both watching the sun gently kiss the horizon. He raised an arm up and over your shoulders. Drawing you close to his side as he left a gentle, but meaningful, kiss to your temple.

He adored you, far more than you would ever know. Jack was thankful for the way you left the knife in his foot. The more he looked down at it sticking out of his prosthetic, the more the pain alleviated. The more the tendencies subsided.

“You’re pretty good at this comfort thing, you know.” He prayed the roles were never reversed, was there a version of Jack that could offer the same kind of comfort, strength and grace that you could?

“Comes with the territory,” Was all you said as you let your head against Jack's shoulder. “But seriously, we should totally get down before you spiral again.” You bumped Jack's hip with your own. He smirked.

“There’s always tomorrow,” Jack teased as he kissed your temple once more. Choosing to leave with you via the stairs rather than over the edge.

As the warmth of the water cascaded down Jack's exposed body, he stood leaning against the wall. Prosthetic leaning against the doorframe. He needed a moment.

The scent of your body wash adorned him, using the toiletries you hadn’t had a chance to use yourself yet. Sure, Jack had kept you as clean as you could be during your stay, but wet wipes weren’t the same as your black plum and vanilla scented everything.

Your wedding ring hung around his dog tags, right next to his. Robby had taken it off before surgery. It had become Jack's comfort blanket. To thumb at the circular silver ring.

But as the steam threatened to allow Jack's muscles to relax, he heard it…the warning alerts.

“No,” He gasped. Panic rose inside his chest as he fumbled to switch the water off and wrap the towel around his midsection. Fuck a shirt, this was a hospital and everyone knew basic anatomy. “No, this cannot be happening—not now.“

The sight that Jack saw when he stepped out of the bathroom was nothing short of horrific. There you were, surrounded by doctors and nurses alike. Some Jack knew, some he didn't. But they all shared a common goal…

Avoiding the experience that is, too often, ass-backwards and upside down.

***~***~***~***~***~***~

Part Two: Coming Soon. Please leave me something to encourage that to come sooner :)

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