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butyoudidthis4what · 2 days ago

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No Man's Land Part 3

Jack Abbot x F!Reader

You can find Part 1 here and Part 2 here!

25.1k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: mentions of blood, mentions of guns/shootings/gunshot wounds, mentions of suicide/suicidal ideation, CPR, mentions of jack's injury and losing his foot, anxiety about partner's safety, angst (kind of), very emotional, probably incorrect description of medical events, potentially incorrect medical descriptions/knowledge, reader wears Jack’s clothes, self-hate, Robby has been to therapy, fighting/arguing (no raised voices), unprotected PIV sex (BC implied with their committed relationship), allusions to sex and oral sex, discussion of end of life wishes, descriptions of nightmares, discussion of someone dying in front of reader, panic attacks, vomiting (very brief, not reader), discussion of scars/wounds, grief, mention of UTI, myrna, reader likes candles, Jack is the best, I had this idea and started drafting before we knew Jack was a widow so in this world he has never been married, no use of y/n or related, not really proofread.

Summary: Healing is hard. Emotions abound. Somehow life goes on. [Author continues to suck at summaries.]

AN: I am so sorry this took so long 😅 The vignettes have a bit of a different feel here because the way we are moving through time is much different and on a larger scale. But each vignette 'happened' before the scene it precedes. Part 4 is already like 75% of the way done so it will not be as long of a wait, I promise 😭 I know some wanted it all at once and I'm sorry it isn't, but I can offer as an apology the fact that because we're getting another part we're getting more content both in Part 3 and in Part 4!! Also I promise Quiet Part 2 is next up after Part 4. Thank you all so much for your patience and support and for reading!! Your replies and likes and reblogs mean so so much to me and I know we're all busy so I really appreciate you taking the time to read whatever it is I do here ♥️

After the housewarming party, life is good. You and Jack are still home together while you recover, in love and soaking each other in and planning France and dreaming out loud about your wedding. And healing. Individually and together.

Things get harder though.

You’re both in therapy, yes, but you’ve been through a lot in the last month and a bit, and an hour a week only does so much. You’re both struggling, struggling a little harder now that the kind of honeymoon period of you getting home from the hospital has passed.

You and Jack talk about it sometimes, about how things feel harder in a way all of the sudden now that you’re not focusing on being home finally and getting your place painted and all moved into. You think it’s just because you have lost some of that distraction. The reality of what happened starts to sink in deeper. Especially because things are ostensibly returning to normal but not really.

Because normal isn’t being at home together while you’re recovering. You’re back to that hospital feeling of waiting. Waiting for you to recover enough for the next step to get taken. Jack going back to work. You going back to work. The return of your true new normal.

So things get a little harder, emotions more intense. Some days it feels like you guys are taking more steps backward than forward. But you’re taking those steps in whatever direction together and you have each other and are in love and that’s all either of you need at the end of the day. Each other and your love.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s day four.

Four days now you’ve been in a coma. Four days with no signs of waking up soon, even after they weaned you off the meds that had been keeping you under to help you heal. No twitch of your fingers or toes, no flutter of your eyelashes, no little grunt, no breathing over the vent. Nothing. Just you laying there in a hospital bed. Technically still alive and with him, but are you really?

Jack stretches out. He hasn’t left the hospital since you got shot. Literally has not set foot out of the building, hasn’t gone to the roof or out into the ambulance bay or gone through the main doors to stand on the street.

Dana brought him in clothes and toiletries. She brought some for you too, telling Jack that you’d want them as soon as you were awake. Half of Jack wanted to scream at her for tempting fate like that, now that she brought them there would be no use for them because you’d never wake up.

And half of him wanted to just sob into her because he knows that as much as she did bring them for you, she brought them for him. To give him the option of smelling like you, or just smelling your shampoo to smell you for a second. To give him a shirt of yours to keep near his head when he tries to get an hour of sleep. It helped once. He was actually able to grab a couple of hours.

It’s not the same though, because those products haven’t mixed with your body chemistry to become the unique scent that is you. But it’s better than nothing. Because until Dana had brought it in for him he’d forgotten what you smelled like.

He’d forgotten what you sounded like too. The sound of your voice, the way you say his name. The way you say you love him. Your laugh. He just couldn’t hear it in his head. He cracked on day three and listened to a voicemail you left him, watched a video of the two of you that you’d taken one day. It was comforting to be able to remember what you sound like and what you look like when you smile, to have those little pieces of you back in his mind. But it was also a devastating reminder of what he might lose.

Your things, the voicemails you’ve left him and the videos and photos you’ve taken together might be all he really has left of you at the end of this. The realization had made him dry heave a little.

Robby walks in as Jack is stretching, hands him a coffee and a brown bag. Breakfast. “You have to eat if you want the coffee or else it’s just going to shoot up your heart rate and give you more anxiety.”

Jack looks at him almost blankly as he sits down in the chair on the other side of your bed across from Jack. “I’m still a doctor, you know?” The words hit Jack. “A fucking shitty one apparently. I can’t even fix her. This shit is what I do and I’ve saved so many people but the one fucking person who actually matters.” Jack shakes his head. “And nothing.”

Robby cocks his head at him. “No doctor could fix this Jack. She’s in a coma. You’re making sure she gets the best care possible. That’s all anyone could do for her right now, doctor or not.”

Jack waves Robby off, takes a sip of the coffee but makes no move for the bag. It earns him a look from Robby that he ignores. They sit in silence for a bit. It’s hard to come up with things to say. But Robby knows Jack needs to start thinking about it. It’s still very far down the line but it’ll be better for him to start thinking and coming to terms with it now, Robby thinks.

“Jack.” Jack pulls his eyes off you and over to Robby. “Have you thought about what you’re going to do?”

Deep down Jack knows exactly what Robby’s question means. But he doesn’t let himself go there. He can’t. Robby will have to spell it out for him. “What I’m going to do about what?”

“What you’re going to do if down the line she heals physically but doesn’t wake up?” Robby says quietly, as though saying it lower will make it somehow less painful, pull less of a reaction from Jack.

“What the fuck is that? Why the fuck would you even bring that up?” Jack snaps at him. While you were awake after surgery you’d signed a healthcare proxy giving Jack the authority to make treatment and end of life decisions for you. It had been just in case. Better to have it because then you would never need it right? Wrong. “We’re so the fuck far away from that. She’s not even healed. You and Dana are the ones that keep saying ‘it’s only been four days Jack give her time’ and now you’re coming at me with this bullshit?”

“I’m not coming at you with anything. Just asking a question because maybe it’s better to start preparing now for something you’ll never have to do than to be unprepared.” Robby shrugs.

Jack doesn’t say anything, just looks back at you. He scoots his chair closer so that he can hold your hand. You’re just so goddamn still. It’s unnatural. Even the way you breathe is, it’s mechanical. Chest rising and falling in time with the clicks of the vent.

“I know that I don’t really know her, Jack, and certainly don’t know her well. But just from the little bit of time I have been able to get to know her I don’t think she’d want this Jack. Not indefinitely. I don’t think she’d want machines keeping her alive.” Robby watches Jack carefully as Jack takes in his words. Devastation is quickly covered by anger.

“I don’t fucking care. She should wake the fuck up then and not leave this to me. Not make me fucking kill her.” Jack knows his anger at you is misplaced and a cover for how much this conversation is hurting him. Anger is just easier to deal with than heartbreak and grief right now. He sees Robby go to speak. “Just fucking don’t Robby. Don’t. You’re right. You don’t fucking know her. And I don’t care. I don’t fucking care if she wouldn’t want it because I need her. And having her here with me like this is better than not having her at all.” Jack knows how selfish he sounds, how selfish he’s being.

Robby doesn’t say anything, waits until Jack glances over at him, tilts his head and raises his eyebrows, asking him ‘really?’ without a word.

Jack sighs and looks back over at you shaking his head. “No,” he whispers. “She would hate it. We fucking talked about it once, way before this when it was on some show or movie we were watching. It would be cowardly and selfish of me to keep her here like this forever, just so that I wouldn’t have to deal with completely losing her and could live in a perpetual delusion that she’ll wake up tomorrow.” Jack gives a short and hollow laugh through his nose. “Right before I left to go down to the ED and help, we… argued isn’t the right word, but I don’t know what is. She mentioned it, her dying. That if she had already died, in the OR or at the courthouse then I could be properly grieving, and I cut her off but she was going to say that I could be working towards moving on.”

Jack feels guilty for getting angry at you, for being selfish. He knows you’d understand and wouldn’t care and wouldn’t want him to feel guilty but it doesn’t help. He swallows thickly and then takes in a deep breath, squeezing your hand, praying you’ll squeeze it back, even just a little.

“But there’s no moving on from her.” Jack shakes his head as he looks down at you. “The problem is that I don’t think I’ll be strong enough to do it. To sign the damn papers,” Jack admits, voice wet with the tears lining his eyes.

Robby nods slowly. “You are now and you will be then, if that then does ever come. You will because it’s for her. And I’m not sure I’ve ever seen two humans love each other as much as you do, the way you do. She would do anything for you. And I know you’d do anything for her, no matter how much it killed you inside. So I know that if that day ever comes you’ll be strong enough to sign for her, to do that for her.”

Jack’s silent for a minute, trying not to give into the urge to grab your shoulders and shake you awake. “I don’t know Robby. I don’t know how to talk to her like this. I try, but I just never know what to say other than I love her and please come back to me and please don’t leave me alone. And I hate it. She deserves more. For it to not be about me,” he whispers, stands and runs the back of his bent index finger over your face like he’s trying to memorize you. As if he hasn’t already. He’s teary, voice small and raw from all the tears he’s already shed. “So how do I let her be taken from me? How do I give her up, give up on her, tell her it’s okay to let go? How do I stand there and fight all my training and every instinct and just watch her die and know it’s my fault?”

Robby has to take a minute to compose himself because his heart aches for Jack. It’s hard to see your best friend, your brother, contemplating losing the love of his life. Even though all of Jack’s questions are rhetorical he answers the last one.

“You don’t,” he says simply. “You get in bed with her and you hold her and find it within you to talk to her. Tell her all of your favorite memories together. Tell her what she means to you. Tell her you love her. And you stay there in bed holding her until she’s gone.”

Jack takes in a shuddering breath as he sits back down in his chair. “Hope seems so worthless and useless right now even though it’s all I feel like I have left.” Jack grabs your hand again, brushes his thumb over your knuckles. “I hope I never have to sign those papers.”

Robby sniffles a little, not crying, just emotional. “That makes two of us, brother.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I think you should consider leaving your engagement ring here.” You and Jack are planning more for your trip to France, making packing lists. Well, you’re on the computer planning and making lists and Jack is chopping up ingredients for dinner.

It’s been four days since the housewarming party. You feel like Jack has been more stressed lately, more on edge. Looking at you like he’s terrified of losing you again, like he did at times in the hospital and the first two days you were home.

“Why?” You pout at him from the stool you’re sitting on at the kitchen island. “I want to wear it and show it off and take photos with it on while we’re in France!”

“I know,” Jack hums lowly, his eyebrows raising a little as he focuses on chopping. “I worry about it getting stolen, you getting assaulted for it or something, especially in Paris.”

“But walking around with it on in Pittsburgh is okay?”

He sighs at you. He kind of hates that you said that because now it’s all he can think about. Whether he has put your life in danger for a third time by getting you a nice engagement ring. Because he’s already done it twice. When he didn’t check you over in the trauma room before letting you go and going to help Robby, and when he left to go down to the ED and wasn’t there to notice you going septic and throwing a PE.

You’re the only one who would notice him stiffen the way he does, it’s so slight. You feel bad. You know he’s been struggling more the closer he gets to going back to work and having to leave you alone. Even starting with half shifts. And you know he’s struggling to talk about it with you because he doesn’t want to burden you with it or make you feel any guiltier. You’ve both fallen into that habit a little bit.

“I really don’t think anyone is going to try to steal it off me or assault me to get it when I’m walking around with you.” You raise your eyebrows at him and give him a knowing smile, wait for him to lift his head to look at you once he’s finished chopping. He does.

“Don’t look at me like that.” He points the knife at you teasingly and holds your gaze for a moment before grabbing something else to chop and getting back to it.

“But I don’t want to leave it here Peter!” you almost whine. It makes Jack chuckle to himself a little. “I don’t want to argue about it, but I really want to take it. I like showing it off, like everyone knowing I’m yours.” That makes him look up at you again and you smile at him and nod encouragingly. You can see the possessive look in his eyes, the way he breathes a little bit faster thinking about it. But he just clicks his tongue on the back of his teeth at you and shakes his head as he looks back down. “Okay, how about a compromise?”

“A compromise?” Jack echoes.

“Yes. A compromise.”

There’s a beat where neither of you talk, only the sound of the knife hitting the cutting board. Jack pauses his cutting and looks up at you. “Are you gonna tell me what the compromise is?”

“I’m thinking of one,” you grumble, knowing how satisfied he’s going to be.

“Oh,” he draws the word out teasingly, “she suggests a compromise before she even has one!”

“I’ll come up with one, just give me a minute,” you huff. Jack hums at you again, keeps chopping. “Okay, yes! I have one. What if while we’re in Paris or whatever bigger cities or places you’d prefer I wasn’t wearing it on my finger you wear the ring around a chain on your neck? Even on the same one as your dog tags if you’re bringing them. People are much less likely to try to snatch it from your neck and run, plus it’ll always be covered by your shirt unless you’re going to start wearing deep v-necks, which I doubt.” You smirk.

You watch Jack’s eyes slide from you to the wall behind you and glaze over. It’s clear he’s going back somewhere, you just don’t know where or why or what happened. The smirk slides from your face as it twists into concern.

He goes to say something but stops as your words fully process. Wear the ring around a chain on his neck. Like he did at your funeral.

Jack drops the knife, it falls out of his hand and clatters a bit as it hits the counter. “Jack?” you whisper, your heart rate picking up.

The nightmare plays on fast forward in Jack’s head, every emotion he felt when having it slamming into him all at once and making his head spin. With the massive flood of epinephrine, norepinephrine and cortisol all those emotions cause his body to release, Jack’s turning and leaning over the sink to be sick.

It’s all too much.

“Jack!” You’re off the stool and over by him in a second, rubbing his back. “Hey,” you murmur, “it’s okay, you’re okay.” You have no idea what’s going on with him, but have a feeling.

Jack shakes his head at you as he dry heaves a few more times, trembling like nothing you’ve seen from him before. “I’ve got you.” Your hand keeps rubbing circles on his back soothingly and it’s simultaneously comforting him and burning him, because it’s all too much. There are too many emotions.

You were dead. He was at your funeral. It was so real.

Tears start to stream down his face silently as he rinses the sink and his mouth. “We can get you to bed, okay? I’ll make you some broth if you feel up to it.”

He can hear the anxiety in your voice, the worry for him, your love for him. He loves it, he does, truly, but it almost makes it worse because you were dead. And if you were dead, if you had really died, he wouldn’t have this. He wouldn’t be in sweatpants and an old shirt at home chopping things to make dinner for the two of you while you sit in the kitchen to be with him and plan your trip. You wouldn’t be rubbing his back and so worried about him. You wouldn’t be taking care of him and offering to make him broth.

You simply wouldn’t be.

Jack shakes his head and sniffles. He turns to you and your eyes widen when you see him crying, pain and a heartbreaking and agonizing sorrow etched into his face that threatens to bring you to tears. You immediately know what this is about. He doesn’t need to say anything. He’s not ill. But you’re not sure how to support him, what to say, what exactly is wrong. “Jack what’s-”

You’re cut off by him crumbling in front of you, grabbing at your forearms to pull you closer as he slides down the base cabinets to the floor, bringing you down with him. “I,” he tries to choke out, “I, I…” He shakes his head again.

He can’t speak right now, and you know it. “Okay, it’s okay,” you tell him as you reach for him and pull him close to you as you press your back against the cabinet, letting him almost lay on you.

Jack buries his head in your chest, careful not to press into your still healing sternum too hard, and clings to you, both arms wrapped tightly around you, one diagonal up your back, hand clinging to your shoulder for just a second before it slides over to your neck, two fingers pushing down.

He’s looking for your pulse.

“Oh, Jack,” you whisper, your own voice thick with tears now. “I’m here. I’ve got you baby.” You hold him just as tight, let one hand find his hair and run your fingers through it, scratch at his scalp at times, kiss the top of his head and nuzzle your nose into him in hopes of soothing him. Sometimes you rock a little, but you’re not sure if that’s more to comfort him or yourself.

And you whisper little words of reassurance and, you hope, comfort to him. “I’ve got you.” “I’m here.” “You’re okay.” “I love you.” You hold him and let him weep into you. Let him keep his fingers pressed into your pulse point. Let him cling to you like you’re the only thing left in the world, because to him you are. You’re his whole world.

It kills you, seeing him like this, hurting this badly. This deeply. You know it has to do with what happened, know that it’s been building up in him for a long time. That he hasn’t said anything about it, not because he was trying to hide it but because he just couldn’t. And you understand that. A whole lot.

“Here baby,” you murmur at one point, try to move his head a little which just makes him sob harder and hold you closer. “Shh, I’m not going anywhere, just trust me, okay? I think this will help.” You try again and this time he lets you move his head, lets you turn it to the side and move it over and then pull him back to your chest, keep your hand on the side of his face, thumb brushing along his cheekbone. He’s confused until he hears it.

The rhythmic beating of your heart in your chest.

It makes him tremble against you harder, clutch at you tighter. But you don’t care. You wouldn’t care if he held you so hard it hurt. You’d take on all the physical pain out there without a second thought and genuinely smile about it if it would take away Jack’s pain.

It starts to pass the longer Jack is in your arms, ear to your chest listening to your heart beating, fingers pressing into your skin feeling your heart beating. It calms him. He quiets, reduced to only sniffles and hiccuped in breaths and swollen eyes and an ache so deep in his chest he’s not sure it can be fixed. But you’re with him, still holding him on the kitchen floor and brushing at his cheekbone and scratching at the nape of his neck and kissing his curls and whispering soft words of reassurance to him.

You’re here. You’re in your shared apartment. You’re alive.

You have to be, right? The sound of your heart beating and the warmth of your chest and your voice whispering quiet words to him has to be real. It would make sense for you to come up with the idea of him wearing your engagement ring on a chain around his neck all on your own as a compromise. It doesn’t mean he’s still in that nightmare and just starting to realize it. It means the two of you just think alike. Right?

You aren’t sure how long you end up sitting there on the floor together, his head pressed against your chest. It doesn’t really matter. You know he’s really starting to come down when his fingers no longer press into your neck to feel for your pulse. “I’m here if and when you want to talk,” you whisper. You don’t expect anything back from him and aren’t hurt when he remains quiet.

Eventually Jack pulls his head from your chest and looks up at you. After a few seconds of eye contact he pushes himself up and sits with his back against the base cabinet next to you. He wipes off his face with his hands and once he’s done, one of your hands immediately finds one of his and squeezes. He needs it. Little things like a hand squeeze from you to remind him that you’re still here with him. Eventually he lets his head tilt and rest on your shoulder. You turn your head, give him a lingering kiss to the temple and then rest yours on top of his.

And then you just sit like that. For as long as he needs. Even when your ass goes numb and back stiffens a bit. You stay just like that with him.

Jack loves the way you don’t press him. You don’t ask if he’s okay, or if he wants to talk about it, or tell him gently to talk to you. You just let him be as he comes back to himself fully. And he knows it’s not because you don’t want to talk about it or don’t want him to talk to you about it but because you understand that sometimes there is simultaneously too much and nothing to be said. So you let him be.

After a while Jack takes a big breath in and slowly lets it out. You feel him pull his head a little so you lift yours up and look over at him as he looks at you.

He looks wrecked in a way you’ve never seen before. Eyes red and swollen, lips a bit swollen too. Mouth set and lips pulled just the slightest bit down, hair fluffier and more askew than normal because of how much you’ve run your hands through it. His shirt is wrinkled, part of the neckline darker than the rest of the shirt from his tears. He looks haunted.

But mostly it’s the way he’s looking at you that really shows how wrecked he is. You’ve seen Jack look at you a lot of ways, with a lot of different expressions, especially recently with everything that has happened. Happy, sad, like he’s amazed and can’t believe you’re alive, like looking at you hurts him a little because it reminds him of what he almost lost and who he couldn’t protect.

But you’ve never seen Jack look at you like this. He’s looking at you like he can’t believe you’re alive, but not in an incredulous, happy sense. Jack’s looking at you like he truly cannot believe you’re alive, is scared to believe it even for a second. Like he doesn’t trust the world that you are in fact alive, doesn’t trust himself and his ability to know whether you’re alive. Like you’re a hallucination or a mirage, or a ghost who has been living with him and he’s just realizing it. Like you’re a dream he’s about to wake up from.

“I…” Jack tries to start, voice raw, as unsure and questioning and wrecked as he looks. He just keeps looking at you like he’s about to come back to reality and you’re about to disappear right in front of his eyes, just cease to exist.

He shifts and leans off the cabinet, gets closer to you and takes your face in his hands. Jack holds your gaze how he loves to do, lets his eyes burn into yours as though they’ll give him the answer to whatever question it is he can’t speak.

You lean your head into one of his hands a little and then Jack’s kissing you, pressing against your lips hard at first like he was bracing to just move through air and never actually find your lips. It’s short, his head pulling back from yours for a second to look you in the eyes again before his eyes drop to your lips.

Glassy eyes look back up at you, questioning. You nod slightly, because of course he can kiss you. And he does.

Jack pulls your head back towards his as he leans in, both of your mouths opening just slightly. He takes the opportunity, licks into your mouth and starts devouring you, his head moving slightly with each kiss and slip of his tongue back into your mouth.

It’s greedy the way he kisses you, nose smushing into your face as you both start to breathe hard, the sound almost lost in between the noises of pleasure you pull from each other and the pops of your lips with each pass. Jack kisses you like he doesn’t believe you’re real. Like each kiss might be the last one he’s ever able to give you, like it’ll never be enough, like he’ll never have enough of you. It’s not something you’ve ever felt from him before. You can tell he’s scared in a way but you aren’t sure about what exactly.

He keeps kissing you but his hands drop from your face to grab at the hem of your shirt, start sliding it up your body, stopping to pop the clasp of your bra as he works the shirt up and eventually over your head, helps you shrug your bra off. You expect his lips to return to yours immediately but they don’t.

Jack stands as he tosses your shirt and bra to the side, hands reaching down for you and helping to get you up on your feet. Before you can say anything his hands are on your hips and his lips are back on yours. He walks you backwards to the kitchen table until your ass bumps into the edge of it. Without breaking the kiss he moves his from your hips and blindly wipes off the table, sending some mail and books and whatever else happened to be there clattering to the floor.

He finally breaks the kiss to give you a chance to breathe and so he can check there’s nothing on the table. “Jack,” you breathe out with some surprise. He grabs your hips and helps you sit on the edge of the table before stooping to bring his face back close to yours.

“Please,” he whispers against your lips, “please. Please, I need this.” He pushes his lips to yours once again, licking into your mouth once again. “I need to feel you.” He feels your hands at the hem of his shirt and moves apart just enough for him to get it off and throw it to the floor. “I need you.” It’s pleaded, desperate and needy, but not erotically so.

“Of course, always.” You let him support you as he leans over you and guides you down until your back rests against the table. “You have me, you always have me.”

It’s quick then, the way he tears off your bottoms and then his. You wrap your legs around him as he leans back over you, chest to chest and kisses you again, like he can’t get enough, like each kiss is a surprise he wasn’t expecting to actually get. He grinds himself into you as he does and you respond in kind, tightening your legs around him and letting your hips buck as much as they can against him to search out more friction. His hands roam your body, pressing into you to feel as much as he can, groping at your breasts and squeezing your hips as his lips stay on yours.

“Fuck,” he groans into your mouth, hand sliding between the two of you to feel how wet you are for him. “Can you take me like this?”

“Yeah,” you pant softly, “yeah, please Jack.” You wrap your arms around his neck, hands tangling in salt and pepper curls you adore.

He shivers at the way you say his name, his lips leaving yours so he can look down at you as his fingers run through you and then over his cock to slick himself up as much as he can. “I need to know you’re real and still here. I need to be close to you.”

Jack notches himself in you and then moves to rest on his forearms with his hands holding your face, forehead resting against yours before he finally pushes himself into you slowly. His voice cracks with emotion part way through the needy and relieved groan he draws out as he pushes in.

“Oh Jack,” you moan as you take a breath in and feel it catch in your throat.

Once he bottoms out Jack stills, the two of you panting against each other’s lips until Jack’s are claiming yours once again. He stays still, lets himself relish in the way you taste and how you feel around him, so tight and warm and fluttering as you adjust to taking him with no real preparation.

Jack finally draws his hips back slowly and steadily pushes himself back in with a grunt. “You okay?” Even with as out of his mind for you as he is, how desperate and needy and frantic he is to have you he’s still checking in on you. Would rather die than hurt you, especially like this.

“Yes,” you breathe, “yes, Jack please. Need you.” Hearing that you need him has Jack pulling his hips back again, faster this time before snapping back in.

From there it’s all feral need and grunts and groans as Jack tries to be closer to you, to consume you, to be one with you. His strokes are hard as he tries to get as deep inside of you as he possibly can. His pace varies, keeps you on your toes, but it’s not deliberate this time. It’s Jack chasing what he needs from you however his body tells him, however feels right at that second. At some point one of his arms slides under your back, his hand wrapping over the opposite shoulder so that you tilt to the side just a little and he can pull you down onto him as he fucks you so hard your last clear thought is of concern he might break the table.

Your hands tug at his hair, nails draw up his back when he starts mouthing at your neck, kissing and sucking, lips passing over the scar from your central line again and again. He rests his cheek against yours leaving his mouth near your ear allowing you to hear every little noise your body pulls from him. Jack is fucking you with pure need but it’s not an erotic need like it is sometimes when you tease him or he’s been thinking about you all day. It’s intimate. Jack needs you. He needs you. All of you.

Only you.

You’re so lost in the haze of pleasure that it takes you a moment to realize your cheek is wet where your and Jack’s touch. You realize he’s crying. “Jack?” You moan his name so sweetly for him, lace it with all the concern and worry and need you have for him.

It makes him let out the smallest sob and breathe in hard through his teeth, shake his head a little against yours. He pulls his head from yours and looks down at you, hips slowing but not stopping. “Tell me you’re here,” a fresh wave of tears roll down his face and hit your cheeks. He’s unfairly beautiful when he cries. “Tell me this is real. That you’re real.” A few of your own tears slip out the corner of your eyes and roll down towards your ear. “Please,” his voice cracks, more of his tears joining your own on your face, “please be real. Please tell me you’re here and real and with me.”

You do. Over and over and over until his lips are back on yours and consuming you in a different way now. More confident, more convinced you’re real and here with him and letting him fuck you on your kitchen table to soothe himself and fix something inside of him he didn’t realize was broken.

Letting him take solace from every part of you.

One hand slips between your bodies and with how well he knows you it’s not long before Jack has you soundless with pleasure for a moment as your orgasm crashes over you, voice coming back to moan out little whispers of his name, veiled pleas for him to take anything and everything he could ever need from you.

And so Jack does. Lets himself give in and lose himself all the way in you, your name groaned with a relieved intensity you’ve never heard from him before, lower and more gravelly than usual right at your ear.

Jack works himself through it before stilling and resting his forehead back against yours, the two of you panting softly as you come down, bodies hot and sweat sheened and sticking together. “I love you,” Jack whispers, eyes opening and finding yours before kissing you, chaste but lingering. Just to feel you.

“I love you too,” you murmur against his lips when you’re able, hand running through his hair and scratching at his scalp. Jack kisses your lips again and then your chin, down your neck and to your central line scar, lingering there before kissing down to the highest part of your thoracotomy scar. “Bed?”

Jack nods, lifts himself off of you and pulls out gently. He steps back and helps you up and off the table. “I should take care of all this.” He nods to the kitchen.

You shake your head and grab his hand. “The carrots and potatoes can live there overnight and it’ll be fine. We can order something from bed.” You squeeze his hand and pull him gently so he starts walking with you.

Jack pulls back on your hand before you can get in bed, flicks his chin towards the bathroom. “Go,” it’s not an order, just a reminder. “We don’t want my… whatever that was to be the reason you get a UTI. You really don’t need that right now.”

You smile at him gently and nod. Even after all the emotional turmoil he just went through, still is a little bit from what you can see in his eyes, he’s still thinking about you and your well being and keeping you healthy and safe. “You’ll get in bed?”

He nods and drops your hand, sits on the edge and takes his prosthetic off as you go pee. He’s leaning against the headboard and staring into space when you get into bed. You slide up next to him so that your legs touch and lean back against the headboard, let your hand rest on his thigh and give it a little squeeze so he knows you’re here for whatever he might need.

“When you were in a coma,” Jack starts, voice strained and raw, “I started having nightmares.” He rests his hand on top of yours. You close your eyes and bow your head a little, heart sinking. “Some weren’t completely awful. But the one I got the most…” he trails off and shakes his head, grows quiet again.

“You don’t have to tell me,” you remind him softly, lean your head over and kiss his bare shoulder.

“I know, but I want to. At least enough to explain what that was.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation, Jack.”

“I know but I want to tell you.” He pauses for a second. “The worst, and of course most frequent, one was where you died in the OR. And I had to hold your lifeless body and somehow force myself to walk away from you. In the nightmare I’m thinking back on that while I’m sitting at your funeral.” You blink away tears because you can’t even imagine the level of pain that must have caused him. Multiple times. “The details, I… They don’t really matter, right now. In the nightmare I wore your engagement ring, the one that never got to go on your finger because I never go to ask, I wore it on a chain around my neck.”

“Oh fuck Jack,” you cringe, closing your eyes and squeezing his thigh tight and hating yourself. “I am so fucking sorry.”

Jack finally turns his head to look over at you. “Don’t be. Seriously. You had no way of knowing.” You appreciate him saying it but it doesn’t stop the guilt that builds inside of you. You were the reason he had the nightmare in the first place and now you’re the reason he had to go right back there. “So when you, when it got brought up, it just made it all hit me again, all the emotions from that nightmare and it made me panic almost. That this wasn’t real, that you weren’t. And I lost it a bit and so I did whatever that was and then needed to be as close to you as possible.” He shrugs a little. “I needed to know you were real.”

Jack’s hand slides under yours and picks it up, laces your fingers together and squeezes. You feel vaguely lightheaded by his admission and then berate yourself and feel guiltier for thinking about yourself when this is about Jack and him still needing you. “I,” you try to find words to say, “I’m sorry,” Jack shakes his head but you continue, “I can’t even begin to imagine how painful that must have been.” You pause and have to look away from him for a moment, can feel his eyes remain on you. “Or maybe I can, to some extent at least, and that’s why I’m sorry and wish I could take it all away from you, make sure it never happens again.”

“That one has only happened once since you’ve been home. The first night.” You feel a little relief at that, are able to look back up at him. “They’ve kind of changed though, honestly. It’s not holding your dead body in an OR anymore, it’s walking in the door from work or the store or wherever and finding your dead body on the floor or in bed or wherever. Complications. Something else random. Freak home deaths I’ve seen roll through work before.” He lets go of your hand to bring his hand to your face again. “I wake up and have to convince myself you’re here. I’ve gotten quite good at the art of taking your pulse on your wrist without you waking up.” He gives a little laugh through his nose, trying to infuse a little lightness. It doesn’t work. If anything your lips pull down a bit. “Sometimes I just lay awake for a while watching you breathe. Sometimes I cuddle up to you a bit closer to feel your chest rise and fall against mine. Sometimes I fall asleep counting the beats of your heart while I feel your pulse.”

You take in a shuddery breath, trying so hard to focus on him and helping him and being here for him and not on the way this is all your fault. “Do you want to talk or for me to just listen?” You don’t want to force him to truly discuss this with you if he’s not in the headspace right now and it won’t surprise you if he’s not.

Jack thinks about it for a second. “Listen, please.”

“Okay.” You nod at him. “I’m not saying this to start a conversation when you just told me you wanted listening but I just need to make sure you know. You can do whatever you need to do Jack. When you wake up from one. Wake me up. We can talk, we can just sit together, whatever you need, okay?”

He nods, pulls his hand from your face to wipe away the couple of tears that have fallen down his own during this conversation. “Actually when you shifted us earlier, in the kitchen. Pulled my head to your chest so I could listen to your heart. It helped a lot. I just didn’t want to hurt you, before. With your chest healing.” He tries to laugh softly at himself.

You give him the best smile you can manage with all the guilt and self-hate swirling inside you. “You can roll me into whatever position you want so you can listen anytime.” You know he’s trying to keep the conversation light because he knows how hard hearing it is for you. But that’s not fair. You should be the one trying to keep it light for him, should be taking care of him. “We could get you another stethoscope to keep on your nightstand,” you offer. “Then you could really listen whenever you wanted.”

He gives you a little more of a laugh at that and it makes your small smile become a little more genuine. “Could, yeah. But I like having my head on your chest, feeling you. I think it probably helps ground me in its own way.”

“Makes sense.” You rest your left hand on his chest, push down a little extra hard with your ring finger so he can feel the band that lives there now. “Thank you for telling me. I know it wasn’t easy and that you didn’t have to. And I want to do whatever I can to help you because I don’t want you to suffer.” You stop yourself from adding the because of me that you want to so badly.

Jack picks up your hand, brings it to his lips palm first and kisses the band of your engagement ring before flipping your hand and kissing to the side of it the best he can with the setting. He brings your hand to the side of his face and covers it with his as he leans into it. “You always help. Even when you’re just laying there asleep and don’t know it.”

You give him a little smile and laugh through your nose, try your best to take his words to heart because you know how much he means them. Jack knows you’re struggling, he can read you like a book. But he senses that you don’t want to acknowledge it so he doesn’t bring it up.

His stomach growls then which makes you laugh a little more and he huffs. “Ruined our moment.”

“Nah,” you shake your head and pull your hand away and rub his stomach, push off the headboard to sit up more. “What do you feel like? Can’t have my man going hungry.” The smile you give him is genuine, all the way to your eyes this time and it makes him mirror you, that smile of his you love so much pulling onto his face.

He widens his eyes at you for a second and raises his eyebrows and you already know what he’s about to say. “You.”

“Yeah, I walked into that one,” you click your tongue at yourself. Jack gives you a smirk. “I don’t think I’m going to be filling enough for that-”

“I could go for seconds. Thirds, even.”

“Mm, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but no.” You boop his nose and the way he scrunches his nose at it is so cute you could bite him. “Real food first. Me later, if you’re good.” He raises his eyebrows at you with a little smile. “What would you like? I’ll order.”

“Feisty. I’ll take it. Be so good for you so I can have dessert.” He nods all saccharine and put-on grin that makes you roll your eyes at him playfully. He thinks for a moment and then says the name of your favorite restaurant.

You tsk at him and give him a really? look, but you’re smiling still, grinning, in fact. Like an idiot. It’s so sweet and so Jack, just one of those little casual ways he shows he loves you.

“Whattt? I can’t want that?”

“You can, but I don’t think it’s really your first choice, right now.” You shake your head a little as you speak. You start to slide out of bed and Jack whines, grabs at one of your arms.

“Where are you going?” he pouts at you.

“Gotta go get my phone so we can order, baby.”

His pout lessens fractionally. “Alright, but hurry back.”

“You’re very cute when you’re clingy,” you giggle at him as you get out of bed. He goes to make a smart comment back that he isn’t clingy but stops. He is right now and he doesn’t fucking care. He’s allowed to be.

Jack has a favorite restaurant, just like you. Several, actually but you know the one that really tops the list. But you’ve also deduced that Jack has a favorite comfort restaurant that’s different from his favorite favorite. And you know what his favorite comfort meal from that restaurant is. So you add it, pick something for yourself and order it to be delivered before walking back into the bedroom with your phone.

“Took you long enough,” he teases as you come into view. “What were you doing?”

“Ordering.” You toss your phone at him as you slide in and he unlocks it, reads it over.

He swallows thickly and looks at you with glassy eyes. You make him feel more loved than he could ever possibly deserve, knowing him that well without him having ever said a word about it and doing it for him without asking. You give him a soft smile when you turn to look at him. “Okay?”

“More than,” he whispers. “Thank you.” He pulls you closer to him so that you’re cuddling chest to chest, gives you the sweetest, simplest kiss. It’s everything. “You know,” he hums, starting to push you on your back. “I think you’re my appetizer and dessert.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“How about the day we met? We consider that our first date, it’s our anniversary,” Jack suggests.

You and Jack are lounging on the couch together, half watching your show and half discussing wedding things. You’re not making any real plans, just thinking and dreaming out loud with each other.

You can’t help but tease him. “Is that because you only want to have to remember one date?”

He shoots you a look. “No.” He wags his head at you as he says it. “I just thought it was kind of sweet. That’s our day, you know? And it falls on a Saturday that year.” He waves his phone that’s open to the calendar app at you.

You grin at him. “You’re a romantic, Jack Abbot.” You’re crawling into his lap as you sing it, running your hands up his chest to hold his face so you can cover it in kisses.

“So you’ve said.” Jack moves his head and chases your lips with his trying to get a kiss on the lips. “Multiple times.”

“Because it’s true,” you mumble against his lips as he kisses you, running your hands through his curls.

“Yeah, yeah.” He playfully waves you off as you settle on his lap perpendicular to him, one of his arms resting against your legs, hand spread over the thigh closest to him. His other hand rubs up and down your back absentmindedly. “You thought about where?”

“Mm,” you hum, look down at your engagement ring, “not so much. You?”

“Yeah,” he nods, squeezes your thigh. “I was thinking the bookstore.”

Your eyes come up from your ring and look at the wall in front of you for a second before looking at Jack. He can’t be serious. You open your mouth to say something, but close it as you struggle to find the words.

“I didn’t expect speechless but I knew you’d love the idea.” Jack smiles. He uses the hand rubbing at your back to gently grab the back of your neck and bring your face close to his as if he’s going to kiss you. He drops his voice and lets a breath of hot air fan over your lips. “I’m fucking with you,” he murmurs before pulling his face away a bit and releasing you, letting his hand come down to your back again, a huge self-satisfied smirk on his face.

“Jack!” He laughs at the shrill tone of your voice and the way you swat his chest playfully.

“I really had you there for a minute,” he laughs as you fake pout at him. “But something I love about you is the way you were thinking so hard of a way to let me down without hurting me.”

“You did!” You huff at him. “I was sitting here thinking how am I going to explain to him that while I love our bookstore it doesn’t say wedding venue, nor do I want our wedding to be a near recreation of our first date with a bunch of extra people with us!”

Jack chuckles a little more. “I haven’t really thought about where either. Hard to think of where before you have a date to know the season.” You nod and hum, he makes a good point. “I only have one wedding requirement. And it’s not even really the wedding.”

“Oh?” You raise an eyebrow at him in intrigue. “What’s that?”

“I plan the honeymoon.” Both of your eyebrows raise at that and you cock your head at him. You don’t know what you expected him to say, but it wasn’t planning the honeymoon apparently. “And you don’t get to know where we’re going until we’re at the gate about to board.”

“How will I pack?” You look slightly stricken. “Jack, I love you and I trust you with my life, truly, but packing-”

“I’m going to give you,” Jack cuts you off with an oddly reassuring smirk, “two packing lists. You’ll make two piles. Once you’ve left to go get ready I’ll put one of the piles into a suitcase. That way I get my surprise and you’ve packed for yourself.”

You blink at him for a moment. “Jack,” you whisper, swallow hard and will away the tears you can feel forming. “You have this all planned out just to surprise me?”

“I thought you might like the idea, but it’s okay if you don’t.” He nods to emphasize that part. “But if we do decide to do it this way we’ll still talk about places of course, it’s not like I don’t want any input from you. I’ll just be the final decision maker.”

“No, I love it.” The laugh you give him is breathless. “It makes me feel so loved and taken care of. It’s hard to wrap my head around.” You lean into him to give him a deep kiss. “How long have you been thinking about this?”

“I think the general idea came to me a couple weeks after I knew I wanted to marry you.”

You beam up at him. “That long?” Jack nods. “Wow.”

“Did you have a moment?” Jack asks you. You furrow your brows at him and shake your head slightly to ask him to explain. “A moment when you knew you wanted to marry me. That you knew you’d say yes if I asked. It’s okay if you don’t, honestly.”

“Of course I do!” You click your tongue at him. You let out a short laugh. “It actually wasn’t long after yours. Like two-ish weeks later, maybe? Things had been adding up, there were lots of things. This was just the first moment where I really consciously thought it.” You smile at him, wrap one arm around his neck so your fingers can scratch at the back of his scalp and nape of his neck how he likes.

“You had just worked I think five nights in a row helping cover shifts. We hadn’t spoken on the phone that day, but exchanged some texts in the morning before you got home and went to sleep. And I could tell just from them that you were so beyond exhausted. My day, well. It was probably the worst and hardest day I had ever had at work and I felt so selfish but once I was able to leave I just went straight to your place. Without asking. So I knock and wait, get ready to leave because I know you’re asleep but then you open the door in your pajama pants, you’d clearly just woken up. And you give me this little ‘Hey Doll, come in’ as you open the door. I was frozen by that point. You took one look at me, grabbed my hand, pulled me inside and sat me on your couch and then disappeared. At some point you came back and gave me a tight hug, kissed my forehead and said ‘I’ve got you.’ And the next thing I know you’re stripping me and getting me into the bath you’d apparently drawn. You sat on the floor next to the tub with me. I still hadn’t said a single word to you at this point. Not even hi. And then you start talking to me. Just talking. I don’t remember about what. But you knew just from looking at me that I needed help getting out of my head. And as I listened I finally found my voice and was able to say I was sorry. You asked why and I said something along the lines of I was being selfish and knew you were exhausted and shouldn’t have come and made you do all this just because I had a bad day. And then you said, ‘Don’t apologize for needing me. Ever. For anything or for any reason. The day will never come where you need me and I am too tired for you.’ It wasn’t a big deal or a huge declaration. Just a casual fact you were stating. You knew what I needed just by looking at me. You didn’t care that I didn’t say a word to you while you did all this stuff for me. You didn’t ask what was wrong or for me to talk to you. You just met me where I was. And as you were helping me out of the bath and drying me off with a towel I just had the thought. I want to marry him.”

You wipe a few tears from your eyes. “Sorry, that was probably way more of a story than it needed to be to answer your question.”

“Don’t apologize,” Jack murmurs. His eyes are glassy just like yours, a bit red. He gives a soft laugh. “I just feel kind of bad now that I didn’t give that much detail.”

“Don’t.” You shake your head at him. “I promise, if I had been down on one knee on this floor that story would have been a whole lot fucking shorter.”

That makes Jack laugh properly which makes you laugh properly. You turn a little and slide your arms around his neck to hug him, his arms sliding around you in return and holding you close.

You nuzzle into his neck and then pull back for a kiss, let Jack deepen it as he begins moving to get you on your back on the couch, propping himself up on his elbows on top of you to keep too much weight off your chest and abdomen. You have to break apart for air but Jack goes straight to your neck, kissing and sucking and pulling all those pretty little sounds from you that he loves.

“We have a date,” you whisper, hands tugging at his curls a little.

Jack pulls back from your neck to look down at you, both of you grinning at each other. “We have a date.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You and Jack walk into the Pitt together. He needed to grab some stuff and sign a few things and was going to have Robby drop it all off so he didn’t have to leave you. You haven’t been outside much since the shooting. But you convinced him that you guys should go together, that it would be good for him to see people. As long as he would drive you guys, which he would of course.

Jack was weary at the idea. You seemed to be struggling a bit harder lately and he worried something about being in the Pitt specifically might be too triggering for you. He knows that you have a lot of unresolved anxiety and guilt about what happened still. And that, while you’ve spoken generally about feeling guilty for putting him through all of this, you, like him, struggle to talk about it with him because you see it as burdening him or guilting him.

But you reassured him that it would be fine. You’d been back to the hospital since everything for follow up appointments. Not to the Pitt, but if the hospital didn’t completely trigger you why would the Pitt?

You feel a little twinge of something as you walk through the ambulance bay doors, the ones you’d come through that day. Jack can tell and he squeezes your hand, stops and pulls to the side. “You sure about this? We can leave, right now.”

You shake your head. “No, no I’m sure. It’ll be good for me. I’m okay, really. It was just a little second of something.”

He eyes you for a second but nods and starts walking you further in. It’s busy, nobody notices either of you as he leads you over to the break room. “You want to wait here? Shouldn’t take long. You can check the fridge. Anything with Robby’s name on it you can steal.”

That makes you laugh, helps you relax. “I’ll wait here, yeah. Go do your thing, Dr. Abbot.” You wink at him.

Jack lets out a little chuckle and shakes his head. “Don’t even start with me, Doll.” It makes you giggle as he leans down to kiss you. “I won’t be long, okay?” You nod at him, take a seat as he walks out.

You scroll on your phone for a few minutes before your curiosity gets the better of you. You walk over and peek out the window of the door. It’s constant movement right now, people barely acknowledging each other as they rush to get somewhere else. You open the door and step out, just to look around.

Before you’re even really aware of it you’re standing in front of one of the trauma rooms. That trauma room. The parts you can remember play in your head. Hugging Jack, Robby calling him over, you realizing what had happened and calling to Jack. And then nothing. Standing here you can only imagine what it must have been like for Jack, for him to have seen where you were shot and then watch you collapse. And then you made him live in the hospital with you for weeks. And now you’re making him stay home with you. Sometimes your guilt makes you feel like his jailer.

Jack chats with Robby at the desk while he fills out one of the papers, gives whatever info it is HR so desperately needed to process all his leave correctly. Robby’s mid sentence when Jack spots you just in the corner of his eye, turns to see you standing in front of the trauma room. Jack leaves without a word to Robby and strides to you.

“Hey,” he calls out as he gets close so that he won’t scare you when he steps in front of you and puts his hands on your arms. He sees that your eyes are a little glazed over when he gets a good look at you. “Why don’t you come over to the desk with me, yeah?” He’s not going to ask you why you were there like you’re a child who needs to explain yourself to him. He’s just going to redirect. “Yeah?” He asks again as he cups your face with one hand.

“I just wanted to see. I, I got… curious. Just wanted to watch.” You explain anyway. “And then I was here.”

“That’s okay, Doll. You can sit at the desk with me, yeah?”

You look around. There’s a chair against the wall a bit down, not facing the trauma room. “I’ll sit there. If that’s okay. Then I can watch.”

Jack glances over. “Yeah, that’s fine, that’s okay.” He walks you over to it, squeezes your hand. “I’m almost done, I promise.”

Being away from the room and back in Jack’s space snaps you back a little. “Okay, Peter.” You smile at him before he walks away.

After a few minutes sitting there by yourself a woman rolls her wheelchair up to you. “And who are you that they’ve got sitting in time out?”

You glance around for a second to see if anyone’s coming after her and when nobody does you figure fuck it, and answer. “I’m Jack, um, Dr. Abbot’s fiancée.”

“Oh you lucky girl,” the woman smirks at you. “I’m Myrna.”

“Oh!” You smile widely at her. “Yes! I’ve heard a lot about you from Robby!”

“Have you now? Fruitcake’s talkin’ about me outside of this shithole. I knew I had that cocksucker wrapped around my finger.”

“Fruitcake?” You laugh. “That’s what you call Robby? Fruitcake?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “He loves it.” Myrna gives you a conspiratorial wink. “He pretends it doesn’t, but I know it makes him feel things.”

At the desk Robby looks up, sees you and Myrna talking and you laughing. “Oh that’s not good.”

“Hm?” Jack raises his brows and then looks up. He smirks. “Not for you, but I think it’s going to be pretty funny for me.” Jack signs the last form and they both walk over to you. You and Myrna quiet as they get closer.

“Myrna, are you harassing Jack’s fiancée?” Robby asks sternly, crossing his arms.

“Not at all Fruitcake!” You answer for her. “We were just having a little chat.”

Robby lets out a big sigh as Jack laughs. “See man, I told you. Not good for you, funny for me.”

“Actually, we were talking and Myrna is free, Robby. She can be your plus one to the wedding! You said yesterday you were still looking!”

“That sounds perfect!” Jack smirks, clapping Robby on the shoulder. “I’ll let you see my vagina again for free Fruitcake,” Myrna offers, raising her eyebrows at Robby.

Robby lets out another sigh and hangs his head. “The roof doth beckon.”

You and Jack laugh while Myrna swats at him. “Ready Doll?”

“Yeah.” You look at Myrna. “It was lovely meeting you Myrna, I look forward to seeing you again.” You turn your attention to Robby, disguising your smirk with a warm smile quite well. “Bye Fruitcake!” You lean up and give Robby a quick kiss on the cheek as Jack snorts a laugh and holds his hand out for you.

As the two of you walk away you hear Myrna giving Robby more shit.

“How come she’s allowed to kiss you on the cheek, cocksucker, but when I try you threaten to call the cops?” You and Jack laugh with each other as you walk out the ambulance bay doors to go back home.

That night Jack thinks it’s a little strange, how long the shower has been running. And how it doesn’t sound like you’re in it. There’s no pause to the water raining down on the tiled shower floor, no slaps of water hitting against the floor suddenly when you step to rinse your hair or body, no muffled rain sound when you let yourself stand under the stream and soak. Only the uninterrupted sound of water raining from the shower head onto the tile.

He glances at the alarm clock on his nightstand. You have to have been in there for at least thirty minutes. Jack looks back over at the bathroom door. It’s unnerving. Something is wrong.

He gets off the bed, shirtless and just in his sweatpants. You guys had been winding down for the night before you decided to shower. He tries the handle. It’s unlocked. There’s an unspoken rule between the two of you that you can enter without asking if the door is unlocked.

“Doll?” Jack calls to you softly as he opens the door.

It’s like you don’t even hear him. Jack finds you in only your underwear staring in the mirror at your scars, one hand hovering over the bottom of the long laparotomy scar running up your stomach, another over your mouth, tears streaming down your face. Being at the Pitt today pushed you over some edge you didn’t realize you were so close to.

He knows now that you were using the sound of the shower to hide your muffled sobs.

His eyes run over each of your scars, starting with the one up near your neck from your central line, that one fading quicker with how small it is, especially in comparison to the others. From there his eyes move down until he hits the scar from your thoracotomy. He traces the line with his eyes before he finds the laparotomy scar and lets his eyes drag along it. And then his eyes move over to the more circular scar. The bullet hole.

“Doll, sweetheart,” Jack keeps his voice low as he walks into the bathroom. He steps over to the shower first and turns it off. Even that hardly seems to get through to you. He sees your eyes leave yourself in the mirror and flick to him for just a second. The tears start to fall harder.

Jack walks up behind you so that his warm, bare chest presses against your back, his hands resting on your hips and lips kissing at your neck. Not teasing, just loving, soft and sweet and trying to soothe you when he knows words are only going to go so far.

“What if you can never look at me the same way again?” You finally whisper, moving your hand from your mouth.

You can see his brows furrow and a look of confusion fall over his face. “What do you mean?”

“I know you’ve kissed all of them, that you did the first time we had sex again after what happened. But I see you looking at them all, all the scars, whenever one is visible. And so what if you can never look at me the same way again, especially when they’re visible. What if my body is just always a reminder of one of the worst days of your life? A visual reminder that sends you right back there, that just, that just tortures you!” You let out a quiet sob. “What if that’s all you can ever see when you look at me?”

Jack takes in a deep breath and you can feel his chest press into you a little more as he does. He catches your eye contact in the mirror. “Doll,” he murmurs, “I think that you misunderstand why I look at your scars whenever one is visible.” Jack slides his hands from your hips around your front in a kind of backwards hug, pulls you back closer to him a bit.

Your chin trembles a little. “Oh?”

He nods. “Will you turn for me? Sit on the counter?” Jack tilts his head a little so that it rests against yours. “You can say no and I’ll still tell you of course. You know I just like my eye contact.” He says it with just a hint of a smile and self-teasing tone to try and get you to smile.

And it’s small, but it works. Your lips pull up just slightly for a second. You chew on the inside of your cheek for a second before you turn around and let him help you get you up to sit on the edge of the counter.

“Thank you.” Jack steps between your legs and leans down to kiss your forehead. “You want me to grab your shirt?” He’s cognizant of the conversation you’re having and the fact that you’re topless, scars on display. You give him a little nod and he grabs it from the pile of your clothes you made to the side of the door. “I say your shirt, but I really mean my shirt, don’t I?”

You’d been wearing one of his old shirts that’s a bit oversized on him, soft and worn in and smelling like him. You stay quiet and nod. Jack’s heart almost throbs in his chest at how much he hates seeing you like this, this upset. Your tears have stopped now though. Little victories. Once it’s on he rests his hands on the tops of your thighs, rubs his thumbs in what he hopes are soothing circles.

“Your scars don’t remind me of one of the worst days of my life. Looking at them doesn’t send me back to the hospital or torture me. Pretty much the exact opposite.” This time it’s your brows that furrow. “They’re a reminder of what happened, sure. Of what I almost lost. But it’s that part that’s important. What I almost lost.”

“You know what you didn’t have in any of my nightmares?” Your eyes widen a little because you know what he means, what he’s going to say. “Scars. You only had wounds, fresh, stitches still in them. No scars.” Jack squeezes at your hands. “When I was in that operating room holding your dead body, you didn’t have any scars. So your scars, looking at them, when I look at them, they don’t torture me or send me back to one of the worst days of my life. They tell me that you’re alive. They remind me how hard you fought to stay here with me. They remind me how strong you are. They remind me that you’re here with me, healing and living.”

Jack moves his hands from your legs and sets them on the outside of each of your thighs on the counter, hunches over a bit and leans on them as he moves forward to kiss your forehead again. You bring your arms up and set them on either side of his neck, fingers playing in the curls at the nape of his neck.

“Your scars are proof that you’re alive. And so your scars will never be anything less than one of the most beautiful and important and comforting things I could ever look at.” He says it so seriously, so firm and settled, looks you straight in the eye as he says it. It makes a few tears slide down your cheeks again. “Second only to your face and you in general, okay?” He nods as he says it.

He brings a hand up to wipe away the tears that have fallen. “Can I give you a kiss?”

You nod as a couple more tears fall. Jack takes your chin between his thumb and index finger and tilts your head up so he can kiss you. It’s gentle, soft and sweet and lingering as he just holds you there. He pulls back but then goes back for another quick one.

Both you and Jack are surprised you haven’t started fully bawling into him, but there’s something in your chest that stops it from coming out like it needs to. You couldn’t describe it if you tried.

“Bed? Or you wanna shower?”

It takes you a moment to answer. Not to decide. Just to answer. “Just bed, please.”

“Of course, Doll.” Jack steps back from between your legs and helps you get off the counter safely before taking your hand and leading you back to your shared bed. You both slide in and Jack takes his prosthetic off and gets an arm around you, pulls you into him as he leans up against the headboard.

You let him, let your head rest on his chest and let his arms wrap around you and let him hold you close as you think about everything he said. You believe him, you do. You know he would never lie to you and when you think about it all it makes sense. You just wish it were the same for you. Wish you could look at them and feel something, anything other than crushing guilt.

Because for you they’re a reminder of a traumatic event but more than that they’re a reminder of what you put Jack through. What you continue to put him through now as you try to heal physically and mentally.

Sometimes, maybe a lot of the time recently, you go back to that place. That place where you just wish it would stop, be over for the both of you. Wish you hadn’t made it out of the OR or the courthouse. That place where your brain tells you that Jack would be better off without you, that it’s unfair of you to ask him to do this all with you, that he’s only here with you still because he feels some sort of weird responsibility for what happened to you, that even if he doesn’t think he could, he would survive losing you and he would properly grieve and he would move on and find someone else. Someone who’s less work, less of a burden. Someone who’s better. That it wouldn’t even be that hard.

The rational part of you knows that those thoughts aren’t true. That Jack is here because he loves you, more than anything, that he wants to spend the rest of his life with you. That he would not survive losing you or properly grieve or move on. That if he knew he would tell you that you’re not work at all, not a burden, that he could never do better. That he had an entire nightmare about having to bury you and it hurt so bad that even weeks later when he thought about it he was physically sick and broke down in the kitchen.

Jack doesn’t push you, just like you never push him. He does get worried though. He hates to see you cry but this silence is somehow worse.

“You wanna go to the bookstore tomorrow?” He asks it just to ask. Just to fill the silence and help distract you and maybe keep you out of your head. Or from getting further into it.

You can feel the vibration of him speaking as your head rests on his chest. “Hm?”

He kisses the top of your head. “Bookstore tomorrow?”

“Maybe, yeah.” It’s an odd answer from you. “I don’t know.”

Jack nods slowly. “It’s okay to not know. And I’m here if you want to talk or have me listen. Whatever you need.”

You hum at his words. “I don’t know anything anymore Jack,” you admit.

You feel his arms hold you a little tighter. He doesn’t understand and something about the way you say it scares him a little. “What do you mean?”

The something in your chest that was blocking everything from coming out starts to crack. “I don’t know,” you whisper, high pitched and cracking. “I don’t know how to do this.” You pull away from him and move so that you’re sitting next to him with your legs crossed so that you can face him.

“I know I’m in therapy. And I know it helps. And I hate to think about what I’d be like without my therapist.” You shrug, chin trembling and tears lining your eyes as you look at him. You look so sad and it kills him.

“But I still don’t know how to do this Jack. How to heal, how to grieve. I don’t know how to heal the tremendous guilt I feel. And everyone says to let myself grieve and what the fuck am I grieving? I don’t have anything to grieve. I didn’t lose anything! Not like you. It’s not the same as what you went through. You lost a piece of yourself. I happened to get shot and spent time in the hospital and yes I almost died but I didn’t lose a piece of me. And so I don’t know what I’m grieving and I don’t know how to grieve or what I’m grieving or how to heal from this… this amorphous concept. This thing, that just happened to me. This event. And I shouldn’t need to! I shouldn’t need to grieve or heal. There’s nothing there. I don’t have anything to grieve or heal from, and I shouldn’t be like this! And I’m not trying to throw what happened in your face Jack, I’m not, I promise, and I’m not for a second saying you somehow had it easier because there was a more tangible thing to grieve, if anything it’s the opposite, you lost a piece of yourself and I lost nothing. You had so much to grieve and heal from, you needing to grieve and heal and struggling that makes sense. I lost nothing. I don’t even know what I have to grieve. I don’t know.”

All the tears in your eyes spill over at once. You bring your shoulders up to your ears in a held shrug. “I don’t know, Jack.” He’s never heard you sound so small. Not even that ‘okay’ you gave him in the hospital was like this. The guilt and shame and embarrassment all flood you, make it hard to look at him. “I didn’t say anything even though I’ve been struggling because-”

You shake your head, try to wipe some of the tears off your face, look down at your hands in your lap. “I just don’t know how to do this, whatever this is. And it’s like recently I’ve lost all the words to even try and begin to explain how I feel or felt. I lost all the words.” You force yourself to look back up at him because when you admit this and apologize you need to be looking at him. “I lost all the words and my head got so fucked up that I didn’t know how to ask for help, from anyone.”

Jack catches the change in tense. You had said you don’t know but now you’re saying you didn’t, like somewhere along the way in this conversation, this admission, this time with him, you found the words again.

You shake your head a little as more tears slip down your cheeks. You whisper now, voice thicker than he’s ever heard with emotion. “Not even you. I didn’t know how to ask you for help Jack.” You try to hold back a small sob through your teeth. “And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I just didn’t know, I wanted to, I just couldn’t. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m-” You’re cut off by the wracking sob that you’re finally able to let out as that something in your chest shatters.

“Okay, shh.” Jack shushes you softly as he reaches for you while you let yourself fall forward into his chest, rolling on your side slightly to get your legs stretched out as he pulls you on top of him and cradles you against his bare chest. He isn’t shushing you to get you to stop, only for the comfort of it.

Jack hates this. He hates seeing you suffer so thoroughly. He hates the way he can’t hug you and put you back together, the way he can’t fix this for you, can’t take away your pain. Can’t take on all of the pain for you. Jack believes you when you say you didn’t know how to ask, knows that you weren’t trying to hide it from him, just like he wasn’t trying to hide his shit from you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “It’s okay. You have nothing to be sorry for.” He repeats it as he continues to hold you, rocks with you at times like you did with him. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” “I’ve got you.” “I’m here.” “You’re okay.” “I love you.” One arm keeps you close, his other hand rubbing your back in circles. He knows there’s very little he can do right now except hold you through it.

With time, you run out of tears, exhaust yourself out of crying and just sniffle and hiccup into Jack. He keeps holding you, doesn’t push for more from you.

“It’s just so hard.” Your whisper breaks the silence after a good five or so minutes.

You can feel Jack nod. “Talk or listen?” he whispers.

You try to think about it. You’re not really sure what you want. “I don’t know,” you admit, “I’m sorry, I don’t know.” You try to stop yourself from getting worked up again, the reality of one more thing you don’t know hitting you hard.

“Shh,” Jack soothes you, “it’s okay, you don’t need to apologize and you don’t need to know. It’s okay. I promise.” His hands rub up and down your back and he kisses the top of your head. With how escalated you are right now he thinks eye contact will be too much so he just holds you tight as you are. “I’m going to talk. And if you want me to stop, just say so, okay?”

You nod. Jack takes a breath in as he tries to think of how to start and how he wants to say what he has to say. “You don’t ever need to apologize for struggling and not knowing how to ask for help.” There’s a pause as Jack realizes how guilty he feels about that. He knows he can’t focus on himself right now. You need him. “I think maybe we need to try and find something that you could do, that both of us could do honestly, that doesn’t require words but would let the other know we needed help. So then we don’t need words and can still get help.”

“Probably, would be good, yeah,” you mumble against him.

“Good. We’ll figure something out, promise.” He’s quiet for a moment to give you the chance to say you’ve talked enough for the night, but you don’t. “As for the other part, I know and understand and hear you when you say that you don’t know what you’re grieving and that you don’t have anything to grieve. But Doll, you do. You have so much to grieve, so much you are grieving even if it’s hard for you to see or understand right now. There doesn’t have to be some tangible loss like a foot or a person for you to have something to grieve. I hate it, and I wish that I could make it different and better for you, but you did lose a piece of yourself.” Jack feels new tears wet his chest but you don’t ask him to stop or make a noise so he continues. He knows he’s not what’s making you cry. That it’s just hard to hear and realize. “You lost a piece of yourself the moment that gun went off, and the moment you watched someone die in front of you,” he addresses the one thing you don’t talk a lot about because you’re not ready yet. It took a while for you to even be able to tell him. “And the moment,” he has to take a breath to steady himself because it’s still so hard to say, “the moment that bullet hit you, and when you almost died and over weeks in the hospital. All of those things take something from you, even if it’s not something tangible. You’ve lost a piece of yourself. And you’re grieving the person you were before you lost it. You’re grieving the you who didn’t know this type of violence, the you who didn’t know what it felt like to be shot, or what it felt like to be drowning in your own blood, or what it felt like to be septic or what it does to you to watch someone die in front of you or how it feels to see reminders of what you went through permanently on your skin. You’re grieving the person you were. And you’re grieving other things that I don’t know because I’m not in your brain. But those ones I said, those are ones I can see you grieving and struggling with and I hope it doesn’t feel like I’m being condescending or trying to define your grief for you, because I’m not. I’m just trying to tell you what I see in the hopes that it’ll help you be able to see, or give you a starting point.”

You shake your head against his chest. You know he’s not doing any of that, he didn’t even need to say it but you find it sweet that he did. “I know,” you sniffle. “I do. And it does help and somewhere deep down I know what I’m grieving, all of those things. Some things I probably can’t articulate. I just feel like I don’t know how to grieve. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to grieve obviously but I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s all the guilt making me feel like I don’t deserve to grieve or heal and should be stuck in this weird limbo forever or what. I just don’t know how.”

You both sit with your words for a minute. “I wish I had answers,” Jack finally murmurs. “But I’m not sure if anybody really knows how to grieve.” He tries to think of more to say that might be comforting or helpful. Before he can you speak.

“I got you all wet and snotty, I’m sorry.” You lean off his chest a little and put your hand under your shirt and bring it up to try and wipe him off. Jack understands you. You’ve talked enough for the night.

“Don’t apologize, it’s okay,” Jack laughs softly, grabbing at your hand to get you to stop. “Two of the most benign bodily fluids I’ve had on me, and they’re yours. Plus, I think I’ve done the same to you recently.”

“That’s different.”

“I knew you were going to say that,” he shakes his head, gives you a little tap on the ass.

“It’s true!” you protest. “I was wearing a shirt. You’re not. That’s different.”

“Still.” He knows you’re technically correct. “I did the same to you. And I’m pretty sure I cried tears onto your face while we were, you know… at the table.”

You burst out laughing. “While we were at the table? That’s what we’re calling it?”

“It’s not incorrect.” He shrugs, beaming just from hearing you laugh and being the one to pull it from you.

“Well, actually, I think it was more you were at the table. I was on the table,” you point out.

Jack shakes his head and smiles at you. “Prepositions are overrated.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You and Jack don’t argue often. But you’re humans. Humans who went through a major trauma together. And humans aren’t perfect. Individually or as a couple.

Neither of you even remember how it started. And you’ve somehow moved far, far away from what you were initially discussing and starting to bicker about. But you’re here now and things are escalating into a kind of argument. Even with the escalation you never raise your voices at each other, never yell. Still. It’s neither your nor Jack’s finest moment.

Jack has never pressured you into going outside. He knows it’s still hard for you, knows how much it scares you. But he also knows that you really need to and that it’s never going to get less scary. He knows that he needs to go outside but doesn’t want to leave you, feels like he can’t leave you or something will happen like when he left you that time in the hospital. And you know that you need to go outside. It’s just so scary. You were shot. You’ve put Jack through so much, and when you think about outside you think about what if something else happened, when will it be too much for him, you can’t keep asking him to do this.

Jack isn’t pressuring you to go outside but he does ask. Again. In the space of minutes.

“I don’t want to, Jack.” Your tone has a snappy edge to it. You’re getting frustrated. At yourself more than Jack.

“You’re going to have to go outside eventually, Doll. For more than me driving you to a doctor or therapy or the bookstore.” Jack tries to keep his tone even. He’s getting frustrated too, also more at himself than you. Something about his words stings when you know he doesn’t mean them to, know it’s because you’re escalated and more sensitive in a way. The way he says it makes it seem like he’s not doing those things with you, just driving you somewhere. Chauffeuring you. Like he doesn’t want to be doing it. “Around the block, please. Nothing major. I’ll be with you the whole time, okay? I won’t let anything happen to you.”

You shake your head from where you’re sitting on the couch, knees coming up to your chest. “I don’t want to. Asking me eight more times isn’t going to change my answer.”

“I’m worried about you!” Jack stands across the living from you in jeans and a shirt. Actually dressed compared to you in lounge clothes that are effectively pajamas. “I’m not trying to pressure you,” you can’t help the little face you make at that, “I’m really not, I promise. I’m just worried. You need to go outside. Get some fresh air. You’re holding yourself hostage here. You’re holding me-”

Jack stops as soon as he realizes what he was about to say. But he knows from the look on your face that it’s too late. And he’s right. It hits you like a slap to the face, far worse than he even realizes or could imagine. Because you’ve never really explicitly or in any detail told Jack about the guilt you have from effectively asking him to do all of this with and for you, about how guilty you feel that his entire life has been turned upside down and that he was confined to the hospital and is now confined to home because of you, because you’re scared to go outside. About the guilt of feeling like his jailer. Or hostage-keeper, apparently.

It’s a silent type of panic. One that pulls a band around your chest and stomach making it hard to breathe and sends adrenaline through your veins to chill your fingers and toes and has tears hitting your eyes.

“Doll, I didn’t-”

“No, Jack, finish the goddamn sentence.” Your voice is eerily calm now. Jack takes in and lets out a breath, tilts his head and goes to speak. “No Jack. Finish the fucking sentence.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, and you know that. I wasn’t thinking when I said it, phrased it like that.” Jack sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“Phrased it like what? Like you resent me? Like you’re getting tired of me? Of having to take care of me?” You’re pushing some of his buttons now, a little more deliberately than he had initially pushed yours.

Jack clenches his jaw and tries to breathe through his hurt and rising frustration. “I don’t resent you, nor am I getting tired of you or having to take care of you.”

“You just feel like I’m keeping you hostage in your own home?” It’s cold, the way you say it. Icy. The guilt eats away at you. You hate yourself for what you’ve put him through.

“You won’t even try, Doll! I know you know I need out of this house and you won’t even try!” A push back at your buttons. Jack knows that it’s not a matter of trying. He knows it’s not that simple. Just like you know he isn’t growing tired of you or caring for you.

“You won’t try leaving me alone,” you fire back. “I got fucking shot and I don’t want to go outside. So why don’t you try just leaving me here alone if you want to go outside that badly?” That one really hits a nerve, harder than you realize because Jack hasn’t directly expressed just how guilty he feels about what happened when he left to go down to the ED that time in the hospital. How fucking responsible he feels for what ended up happening, for you almost dying. How he thinks it’s completely his fault and could have been prevented, easily.

“Because the last time I left you alone you ended up coding in front of me and coming a centimeter and a half away from dying!” Jack takes a quick breath. He hates himself for what he let happen to you. “You don’t even know what you don’t fucking know! I watched my best fucking friend intubate you and do CPR on you and shock you. I watched them crack your chest. I have seen your literal fucking heart.” That’s all new information to you and it makes you hate yourself a little bit more even though you know that wasn’t Jack’s intention. “I have sat by you while you were in a coma for five fucking days, all because I-”

You cut him off before he can finish his sentence. All because I left you and so I wasn’t there to notice you getting sicker and to feel your fever before you went septic and threw a PE.

“Oh well I am so sorry Jack, that I went to work and got shot and almost died-”

“Don’t.” The way he says it is almost dark, low and deadly serious, face set and eyes piercing the thick tension between you. That’s the line for him. The almost flippancy in your tone.

Jack holds his hands up. “I need air.” You don’t say anything as he walks over to the entryway and puts on his shoes. “I love you.” He puts his hand on the door handle and pauses.

“I love you too.” The door opens, Jack walks out and it shuts, key turning the deadbolt to lock a few seconds later.

The sudden quiet of your apartment is what seems to bring you back down. You take a gasping breath in as everything you said to him sinks in. You bring a hand to cover your mouth, tears wetting the back of it. You’re pretty sure you’ve never hated yourself more.

You stay there on the couch, are stuck there really, unable to bring yourself to move. All you can do is cry and think about how to apologize to Jack. You start ruminating and edging toward panic thinking about whether he’ll be able to forgive you, whether you guys will be able to work through this. You know it’s panic and that you guys will be able to. That both of you said things you didn’t mean and that were designed as jabs at the other. But yours feel so much worse than anything he said to you. Even when Jack forgives you, you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to forgive yourself.

Jack takes a couple of steps away from your apartment door but stops. He can’t. He can’t go any further. He knows he needed air and was right to step out and get some and help diffuse things between the two of you because that conversation was not going anywhere. But his fear is still there. So he walks back and slides down the wall right to the side of your door, convinces himself that this way he’ll hear you fall, if something happens. He’ll know.

Sitting in the quiet brings Jack back down too, gives everything he said to you the chance to sink in. He runs his hands over his face and through his hair before bringing the heels of his palms to his eyes and pressing in. He’s pretty sure he’s never hated himself more. He gets panicky too, it gets hard for him to imagine how you could ever accept his apologies, how he could ever make this right. He knows that you’ll forgive him, and that you’ll work this out. He just doesn’t know how he’ll forgive himself.

Neither of you even cares what the other said to you. Not really. Both of you can hardly even remember what the other said to you now, in part because it doesn’t matter. It was said out of frustration and hurt and a deep grief, none of it was meant. Things just boiled over. And in part because all you can remember is the terrible things you said to the other.

Jack doesn’t sit there long. It can’t be more than twenty minutes. You’re on your feet the second you hear the door start to unlock, walking closer to it and trying to wipe the tears from your face quickly. Jack pushes it open and looks at you, looks just as devastated as you feel and you hate it. He walks in and closes and locks the door.

“I’m so sorry.” You both say it at the same time and it makes you smile a little at each other. You’re both moving then, walking towards one another until you meet and pull each other into the tightest hug.

“I was so out of line Jack, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean any of it.” Jack can feel your tears wet his neck and it makes him squeeze you a little tighter.

“I was too. Way out of line. I didn’t mean it either. I’m so sorry, Doll.” Jack kisses the top of your head.

The anxiety hits you a little harder being in Jack’s arms for some reason and you start to tremble. “I feel so awful, and I promise the tears aren’t manipulative or for guilt or to distract, I’m just so sorry and I hate myself for what I said and I don’t want to lose you.”

Jack frowns to himself. He’d like to have a strong word with whoever made you feel like you have to explain your tears. “I promise you that I never, for even a second, thought that. Now or any time in the past. I don’t want you to hate yourself, but I get it because I hate myself too right now. I don’t want to lose you either.”

A few tears of Jack’s own slip down his face as he says it at the thought. “You’re not going to lose me,” you whisper.

“And you’re not going to lose me,” he whispers back. “Let’s go to bed.”

You pull away from him a little. “We can go out, if you just give me a couple of minutes to change-”

Jack shakes his head. “I don’t want to go out right now, I just want to be in bed with you, holding you close.” Jack brings a hand to your face and cups it, brushes some of the tears away. “I’m just as insecure as you are right now. Just as shaken. And not by anything you said. By myself, for what I said.”

You lean into his hand. “How do you always manage to do that?” Jack raises his eyebrows to seek clarification. “Read me so well. Know how I’m really feeling.”

He shrugs, like it’s simple and obvious. “You’re my favorite book. I’ve got you so well memorized you’re an easy read.” You give him a sad nod and look down at his chest. “Hey,” he guides your head back to look at him when you don’t resist. “That was so cheesy and deserved at least a pity laugh.”

You give him the smallest one through your nose. You love this about him, it’s one of the ways he takes care of you when you’re upset, tries to make you laugh a little when appropriate to help distract your mind. Usually it works. You’re just a little too shaken yourself for it to right now.

“I,” you try to find the words. “I’m not upset or shaken by anything you said either. I just want to make sure you know that.”

“I do.” Jack nods. “Honestly Doll, I barely remember what you said to me. All I can hear in my head right now are the things I said to you.”

You give a slightly bigger laugh through your nose. “Same. I can only hear myself, only remember my words.” You know you’re preventing him from getting you in bed where he wants to be, but you have one last thing to say. “I don’t want that to ever happen again Jack, I don’t ever want to hurt you like that again, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry too, and I don’t want to hurt you or say things like that to you ever again. But right now, I think we hurt ourselves more than we hurt each other.” He leans down and you share a kiss, three actually, each one lingering, an apology, forgiveness given and declaration of love from both of you to the other. “We’re going to figure it out, okay? I promise.”

Jack’s promise is how the two of you found yourselves here. Couples therapy.

It wasn’t one person’s suggestion. After the argument the two of you had been talking in bed, trying to work some of what you each said out. You both talked about your own therapy and it just kind of dawned on you both at the same time and you both agreed, easily, even laughing together when you said it at nearly the same time.

You stand outside the office with Jack. You hate the term, feel like it implies something. But nothing is wrong between the two of you. Just the opposite. After your argument you both knew you needed guidance on navigating your guilt and healing as a couple, not just as individuals. Both of your therapists had recommended the same couples therapist when asked, one who specializes in helping couples who have gone through an acute traumatic experience together.

Nothing changed after the argument. You were both clingy the rest of that day and for a few days after. If anything in some ways it made you guys feel stronger as a couple. But at the same time neither of you ever want it to happen again.

So here you are. You know it won’t make you as individuals or partners or your relationship perfect because that’s impossible. And you both know you’ll hurt each other again as you heal from this and move through life together because you’re human. Neither of you expect perfection.

Jack squeezes your hand as you stand there. You squeeze back, hard as you let out a big breath.

“Preventive medicine,” Jack reminds you. You’d admitted to him one day how much the term couples therapy freaked you out and how you knew it was stupid and nothing was wrong with you guys or between you guys but it still freaked you out. Jack had suggested calling it preventive medicine, asked if that might help. You weren’t sure you were sold but knew you’d pick apart any potential name for it and preventive medicine was better than couple’s therapy to you for some reason.

“Nothing is wrong?” Sometimes you just need reassurance from him. He’s always happy to give it.

“Absolutely nothing. I’m not mad or upset with you. I’m not hurt. I don’t resent you. I love you. More than I did yesterday, less than I will tomorrow, whatever the fucking saying is. We’re okay. I promise. And if we’re ever not, if we ever even get remotely near being on the same planet as not being okay I will tell you.” Jack kisses your forehead. “This is a good thing. It’s smart. They tell people to do this before they get married even when one of them hasn’t just been shot and almost died.”

You smile at him, soft and a touch somber, but a smile nonetheless. “I know. And thank you. I’m sorry, I know I’ve been so insecure and worried lately and asking for so much reassurance.”

“I’ve been the same,” Jack reminds you. You hum and shake your head as if to question him. “I have been, at least a little bit. And you give me reassurance. You don’t mind. You say you’ll give it to me as much as I need it, never take it personally because you understand. The same is true for me. I will give you however much and whatever type of reassurance you need as much as you need whenever you need and I will never take it personally. I understand too. I’d rather you ask than live with worry that could be soothed by asking, yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.” You lean into Jack for a second and take in a deep breath. “Alright. I’m ready. I don’t know why I even had to stand here and become ready, but whatever.” Jack smiles to himself because he loves when you do that kind of self-commentary. “You ready?”

“I’m always ready for anything with you Doll.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jack is obviously the first of you to return to work. It’s not something either of you are looking forward to really. In a sense you both are because it checks off another box on the return to normalcy. But you’re not looking forward to being alone and Jack isn’t looking forward to leaving you.

The two of you talk and decide he’ll start with half shifts, give you both some time to adjust back into things. He had been working days but he thought maybe nights would be better until you were back to work, you’d be asleep when he was gone that way. You were fine with it and so that’s what he worked out with Robby.

It’s strange sitting on the bed watching him pull on black scrubs that have been folded so long they’re a little creased. It’s been a long time since you last saw him in scrubs. It makes you smile because it reminds you of life before the shooting. And he still looks incredibly, incredibly fucking hot in them.

“What?” He smirks as he looks at you after pulling his scrub top on over his undershirt.

“I didn’t say anything!” You give him a look of mock offense. You really are doing your best to temper your anxiety about tonight.

He narrows his eyes at you a little and walks to stand in front of where you’re sitting on the edge of the bed. “You didn’t have to say it. I could just feel it.”

You lean your head forward onto his tummy and rest your forehead there for a moment before looking up at him. “That so?” He gives you another smirk and nods. “I’m not allowed to appreciate how good you look in scrubs anymore, Dr. Abbot?”

Jack steps back and takes your hands to pull you off the bed. “Of course you are. Doesn’t mean I won’t tease you about it.” He uses one hand to hold your face before leaning in and kissing you, hard, a little bit of tongue. Just because he can. He pulls back just far enough so you can see each other and gives you another smirked smile before kissing your forehead and releasing you.

The two of you walk back into the front room together, and you sit on the couch and fidget with your fingers while Jack looks through his backpack to make sure he has everything he needs. You grab your phone, try to distract yourself with it so he doesn’t feel you staring at him the entire time. You don’t want to make this any harder for him. Both of you know the other is just as anxious.

Jack glances down at his watch. He needs to leave. The urge to pull out his phone and call Robby to say he can’t make it in is immense. But he, and you, know that this day has to come eventually. He walks over and sits next to you on the couch. “You gonna be okay?” He grabs one of your hands in his to help ground you, get you to focus on him.

“Yeah, I’ll be alright.” You try to give him a brave smile but you’re not sure how well it lands.

“I want you to call me or text me if you need anything, okay? I mean anything. If I have to leave early then I have to leave early.” His eyes flit around your face trying to make sure he’s reading every little bit of you. “And if for some reason I don’t answer the phone, call the hospital, yeah?”

“I know Peter,” you murmur, bring his hand up to your face and lean your cheek against the back of his hand. “I’ll be okay though. Really. It might be hard at first but I’ll probably just end up falling asleep and then you’ll slip into bed beside me before I even know it.”

“I really hope so, Doll.” Jack leans in and kisses your forehead, lingers for a moment before he pulls back and looks back down at you. His brows are creased, mouth just slightly pulled down, eyes a little wider than normal. He’s concerned, worried about you. You hate seeing him like this. You know part of it goes back to his nightmares about coming home and finding you dead.

“It’ll all be okay in the end. You’re coming home to me.” You manage to give him a real smile, as small as it is, and it visibly helps him relax.

He’s able to return it. “Yes I am. Always.” He stands up and you follow, walk him over to the door.

“Text me when you get there, yeah?”

“Course. And you text me during the night if you need, okay?” You nod at him, give him another little smile as he pulls his backpack over one shoulder. He pulls you close to him in a tight hug, kisses the top of your head before letting you pull back and kissing you. “I love you. So fucking much.”

“I love you more,” you murmur before stealing another kiss. Normally he’d argue with you, but tonight he lets you have it.

Jack opens the door and steps out and you close it behind him. You both know that if he turned and looked at you he probably wouldn’t end up going in. He waits to hear the deadlock before he takes a few steps away. He has to stop though and just breathe for a minute before finally setting off.

You lock the deadbolt and then rest your forehead against the door, one palm flat on it. Tears hit your eyes and you feel so fucking ridiculous about it. Like some clingy, codependent fiancée who can’t stand to be away from her man for more than ten minutes. You try and remind yourself that this is okay, you’re allowed to feel what you’re feeling and you being upset isn’t because you’re clingy or codependent. It’s because you went through a major trauma and are healing and it’s your first time truly being on your own since you were shot. You know this won’t last, that it won’t always be like this, but in this moment it feels like it will and it overwhelms you.

Your hand itches to undo the deadbolt and dart out after him, beg him not to leave you. But you can’t do that. This is something that has to happen. So you pull yourself from the door and head back to the couch for a second before getting back up to go do the dishes from dinner. You thought it might be a good distraction. Instead it just reminds you that he’s not here doing them with you.

Your phone dings as you finish loading the dishwasher and washing the pan that can’t go in it. It’s Jack letting you know he got to work. He keeps typing, and you chew on your lip as you wait to see what he’s going to say.

J - I just want to let you know that it’s slammed here tonight so I’ll probably be busy and not around a ton. But I’ll check my phone often even if I can’t always reply. So text me if you need to, or call me or the ED. I love you.

Your heart falls at his words and some part of you feels selfish for it. It’s good. It’s good for him to be there and be busy and have that distraction and get back to normal. It just sucks you won’t have him to talk to much. You had tried to prepare yourself for this, tried to operate under the assumption that he wouldn’t be around much but a part of you, apparently a big part, still held onto the hope he would.

There’s also the unspoken meaning of the Pitt being slammed. The chances he’ll get off on time are probably slim to none unless some miracle happens. You try to tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You’re going to be asleep anyway. But will you really?

Jack is anxious to get a text back from you, glancing at his phone nonstop while Robby goes over the board with him. This was exactly what he did not want to happen. He didn’t want it to be slammed. Busy, fine. He appreciates the distraction it brings. He’d still be able to respond to you more even if not as frequently as he’d like. And slammed means the chances of him getting off in six hours are a fraction above non-existent. He knows you know that too.

He also knows that he’s the lucky one out of the two of you. He can’t afford to be distracted here. So he has to do some kind of compartmentalization. It doesn’t mean he won’t miss or worry about you constantly. He will. He just has to force himself to stay present where he’s at. His inability to be distracted here is itself a distraction from his anxiety and missing you.

It feels selfish. He knows that you don’t have the same luxury at home, if anything it’s the opposite. You have to try and find things to distract yourself so that you don’t end up getting too into your head. He knows that sometimes you struggle to come up with ways to do that, or that you think of ways but can’t convince yourself to do them. He gets it. He’s been there himself. And up until now he’d been there to distract you when you couldn’t do it for yourself. But now he’s not.

So he’s anxious as he waits for a response. He knows you’re just staring at your phone trying to think of what to say. He’s trying not to think about the likelihood of teardrops hitting the screen of your phone and magnifying whatever they fall on. He’s trying not to think about what you look like when you cry like that, completely silent with the tears slipping down your face.

You’re looking down at your phone enough that the first tear to roll off your face hits the screen. You shake your head at yourself. You need to get a grip. It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. Jack will be fine.

You - I’m glad you made it there safely. Thanks for letting me know, I hope the night isn’t awful. Let me know when you’re on your way home. I love you

Jack feels better for about half a second when your name finally flashes on his screen. But then he reads your message. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back for a second before looking back down at his phone. He can feel your dejection through the phone. For his part Robby gives Jack space, doesn’t comment on it, intercepts a couple of people who want to welcome Jack back. It takes Jack a moment to decide on what to reply. He knows that it doesn’t matter what his reply is, it’s not going to make anything better.

J - Of course. Don’t forget you have a couple new books on the kitchen table and all of wedding pinterest and the knot to explore. I love you more

His message does manage to pull a little laugh from you. He’s so sweet, your Jack. Reminding you of things you could do to keep yourself occupied and distracted. You look around the kitchen and take in a deep breath, try to hype yourself up.

It’s going to be okay. You’re going to do this and be fine and Jack will be so proud of you. You can do this. You grab your laptop and settle on the couch, put a show you like on and start looking through pinterest like Jack said. It goes well at first. Until you see something you really like and go to turn your computer and look over at Jack to show him. The realization hits you then that you’ve only ever done this with him.

Fine. That’s okay. You have books. You turn the TV off and go look through the stack, pick one out and curl back up on the couch. Reading also goes well at first until it finally hits you that you’ve been staring at the same page for quite a while now because it’s hard to see through your tears. You set the book down and feel so defeated. You want to be okay so badly, for Jack and for yourself. But it seems the more you try to be the more you aren’t.

You check your phone. 7:47. Nothing from Jack, not that you expected anything, especially since effectively no time has passed since his last message. You don’t know why you can’t do this, why it’s so hard. And that just makes you more upset.

You get up once you start sniffling from the tears and just take yourself to bed, curl up in a ball on it with a box of tissues and let yourself cry. You grab your phone several times, have to fight the urge to call him and plead for him to come home. You have to fight the urge to get up and grab an uber and show up at the ED. The only good thing about crying is that it’s exhausting, and the swelling of your eyes makes you feel even more tired. And so you slip under without even realizing it.

When Jack finally gets a second to check in and look at his phone sometime around 10:00 he’s a little surprised to see nothing from you. It’s unlike you. Normally you’ll text him often throughout your day, even if he can’t reply. Just little things. What you’re doing. Something funny that happened or that you saw. A photo of something that made you think of him. A moment on a show he doesn’t watch but that you want him to see. But then he realizes the problem with his thinking. Normally.

Normal at this point is synonymous with ‘before you were shot.’ Because nothing has been remotely normal since then. It’s all been temporary. The hospital was temporary. Him being at home with you was temporary. Even his half shifts are temporary. And you both want normal back. But it’s not. And even when it is you both know it’ll be different, and that’s okay. A new normal is okay. But you’re not there yet and so, Jack realizes, thinking about what you’d normally do is futile and deceptive. He is surprised he hasn’t gotten anything wedding related though. He thought you’d take him up on that suggestion, go on pinterest, send him things you find and like.

J - Finally have a second. You doing okay?

Before he can even start to wait for your reply Parker is grabbing him for help with a patient and his phone is back in his pocket. He tells himself he’s just been moving a lot and so that’s why he hasn’t felt his phone vibrate with your message. But when he pulls his phone out at 12:23 and there’s nothing from you he can’t help the pit of dread that starts to form in his stomach.

Flashbacks of nightmares play in his head. You dead on the kitchen floor. You dead in your bed. You dead on the couch. He stops himself. You must be asleep. You just fell asleep early. Hell, maybe you took some sleeping meds just to make it easier for yourself and were asleep before his last text. That has to be it. Even though he’s sure you won’t see it, because you’re sleeping, he sends another one with the news you both saw coming.

J - Hope you’re sleeping well. I’m going to be stuck here past 1. I’m hoping for 3/3:30, at most 4. I promise as soon as I can get out I will. I’m sorry. Love you

You wake with a start, covered in cold sweat, heart racing, chest heaving. It takes you a minute to fully come to. You had a nightmare. You were back in that courtroom with gunshots deafening you as you tried to hide. And then that body collapsed in front of you just like it did that day but this time you do recognize the person when their face rolls towards you as they bleed out, eyes fluttering closed.

Jack.

You think you woke up before you even got shot, though you’re not sure. You’ve never been able to remember exactly when it happened. All you know is you saw Jack’s face and Jack’s blood and then mercifully woke the fuck up. You take a second to try and come down, look over at your phone and see it’s just after 2:00 and Jack’s messages. Your heart is crushed a little by the disappointment of him being home late even though you expected it. If he had gotten off on time he’d have been here, might have woken you getting into bed, might have stopped you from having that nightmare and that image of him seared in your brain. You know it’s not fair to put that on him and you aren’t, you don’t blame him. You just can’t help but think it.

It’s what makes you burst into tears, again. Your disgust at yourself for even coming close to thinking about blaming him. And then you’re crying about all of it. Tears of anger at yourself, tears of frustration with yourself, tears of despondency about getting better, tears of panic from seeing Jack in your nightmare, tears of sorrow that he’s not home, tears of disappointment with yourself that you couldn’t do this one night, tears of confliction about being alive. You wear yourself out again.

But this time you don’t go back to sleep. Instead you get up and take a shower to rid yourself of the sticky cold sweat that covers you. You hold some ice to your face once you’re out, hope it’ll help with the swelling of your eyes and lips enough that Jack won’t notice, especially in the dark. You toss the copious tear soaked tissues in the bathroom garbage and put the tissue box back where it was so that Jack won't see anything amiss and crawl back into bed. The exhaustion of crying pulls you under again.

Jack’s out at 3:13. He hates it. He’s still on edge because still nothing from you even though he didn’t expect anything. He lets you know he's on his way home anyway. He cannot be home and have eyes on you soon enough. The drive is at least short at this time of night. There’s no lights on when he opens the door. Part of him is relieved because that would make sense if you were sleeping. But part of him is just put more on edge by the darkness. He doesn’t let himself think about it much, drops his backpack and gets his shoes off quickly and then is heading for your room.

As much as he wants to, he doesn’t turn the overhead light on. He can make out your form on the bed so he steps over to the bathroom and reaches in to flick the light on, leaves the door open to give him just enough light in the bedroom to look at you. Normally the sight would turn him on, immensely. It still does, he can feel it. But tonight that’s overshadowed by the way it breaks his heart because he knows what it means.

You’re curled up on his side of the bed, head on his pillow, wearing one of his shirts and holding another close to you, clutching it to your chest really. He lets out a slow breath through his nose as he takes you in. His brows furrow a little. He’s not sure if it’s the lighting or if your eyes and lips are really a little swollen. He makes himself let go of the thought for the moment so that he can grab a pair of pajama pants and just get in bed with you.

When he walks in the bathroom properly it hits him. It’s a bit warmer than your bedroom, a bit more humid. And the smell. It smells like he just showered. Which means you showered recently and used all of his products so that you’d smell like him. It’s so sweet but it hurts, that he wasn’t here when you so clearly needed him. He tries to set that aside and not feel guilty, think about and apply what you guys have learned in couple’s therapy but it’s hard. And it gets harder when the pile of white catches his eye and he sees all of the tissues in the trash can. It wasn’t the lighting. The swelling is real. You cried. A lot.

You’re not sure what wakes you but when you force your eyes open you realize the bathroom light is on which means Jack is home. It’s the first time you’ve smiled since he left. “Peter?” you call softly as you get out of bed to walk to the bathroom. Jack’s out of his scrubs in just his pajama bottoms.

“Hey, I’m sorry Doll, I didn’t mean to wake you.” You shake your head at him, meeting him at the doorway to the bathroom.

“I’m just glad you’re home.” You push your lips out for a kiss he happily gives you. “Missed you. Were you okay?”

“I was yeah. Being slammed was good at keeping me distracted." He frowns for a second because he knows how not the case that was for you. He leans in for another kiss. "I missed you more,” he murmurs against your lips, hands finding your waist.

You hum back against his lips as he kisses you again. “I’m going to let you have that only because I was passed out most of the night.”

Jack nods at you. But you can tell from the speed of it that he knows. You just give him a little shrug to tell him you know he knows.

“Why didn’t you call?” It’s soft. He’s not angry at you or upset with you in any way. Just curious. You look away from his eyes down at his bare chest and give another little shrug. “Did you need me?”

“I was okay… eventually,” you admit. One of his hands finds your chin, gently pushes it up to see if you’ll move your head up to look at him. You don’t resist so he tilts your chin up.

Jack gives you a small smile and keeps his voice low and gentle and he hopes comforting. “That doesn’t answer my question.” The hand still on your waist gives it a small squeeze. “You can be okay and still need me, or trying to convince yourself you’re okay and still need me, or trying to be okay and still need me.” He raises his eyebrows a little at you.

You look at him for a beat and then let out a big sigh, lean forward and into him a bit so that your forehead rests against his chest. “I hate it when you do that,” you grumble against him.

“What’s that?” He leans down and kisses the top of your head.

You move your forehead off his chest but plant a kiss there before looking back up at him. “See right through me,” you murmur through a watery smile. “I don’t know how you’re so damn good at it.”

“Well,” Jack nods slowly, “in your fourth year of med school they pull a couple of students aside, obviously the ones they think are the best since I was one of them, and they teach us x-ray vision.”

You let out a huffed laugh but smile at him. “I really thought I was about to learn something about med school.”

“Are you saying you don’t believe me?!” He gives you his best surprised face.

You roll your eyes at him and laugh a little with him but it quickly turns into trembling lips and you shaking your head.

“Okay baby, come here,” Jack whispers, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close, one hand finding the back of your head and holding your face against his chest.

“It was so bad Jack, it was so bad,” you choke out through a strangled sob. “And I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to cry into you tonight or this morning or whatever the fuck it is. I just want to get in bed and be with you.” You sniffle and try to pull yourself together.

“I know.” He rocks you just a little, presses his lips to the top of your head and lets them linger. “But we can be in bed together and you can be crying if that’s what you need.” As he speaks he flicks the light off and settles one hand on your hip and slowly begins walking you backwards toward the bed.

“I’m tired of it being what I need,” you mumble. At least you’ve managed to stop the tears. You turn once your knees hit the back of the bed so that you can slide in, Jack following you once he has his prosthetic off. “I just…I had a nightmare.”

Jack cringes as he settles and holds his arms open for you. “I’m so sorry.” He knows all too well how much they can rattle you and fuck you up for days. How long it can take to get them to a point of only happening a few times a year. How much therapy and EMDR he’s had to do to help with his over the years. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You sigh as you curl into his side and drape your top leg over his, rest your head against the crook of his shoulder. The hand of Jack’s arm that’s now behind you starts rubbing your back up and down. “I was back there. In that courtroom on that day. And it was all the same and as much as that sucked it was fine. But then I got to the part where that woman collapsed in front of me and died but,” you have to pause and try and get yourself closer to Jack. “But it wasn’t her. It was you.” Jack’s shifting onto his side a bit more at that and pulling you closer into him, pressing the front of his body against yours. He positions you so that you can rest your ear up against his chest. “And unlike her you rolled your head to look at me as you were bleeding out and then I woke up.”

You hear the click of Jack’s jaw as he opens it to say something. But it never comes, instead you just feel his head shake a little. You let yourself focus on the beat of his heart underneath your ear, the warmth of his skin. “I’m so sorry,” he finally whispers. “I know it’s not my fault but I am so sorry that you had to experience that Doll.”

You shrug a little. Apparently you’re all out of tears for the night. You’re too tired for them. And here in Jack’s arms with his heart beating under your ear it’s not so scary. There’s an odd sense of calm that fills both of you. You feel kind of bad, like you've taken this for yourself, haven't talked about how he did at work. But you know there's time. “Don’t be,” you whisper, turn your face a bit to nuzzle into his chest. “At least I didn’t have to live through your funeral. I’ve got that goin’ for me. More than you can say.”

He can feel your lips turn up in a smile against his chest. And he has to let out a laugh at it too. Because you’ve hit a point where you can start to make small jokes about what’s happened, what you’ve both been through. Because it’s all so miserable and horrific that if you guys don’t laugh you’ll cry. After a second you pull your head from his chest and look up at him. He looks so amused with his wide closed lip smile, shaking his head at you slightly that you have to bite your lip to stop from laughing. But that makes him crack and start properly laughing and so you do too.

You guys laugh until it hurts, until the smallest tears slide out the corners of your eyes. “I’m sorry, that was probably so insensitive of me-”

“No,” Jack keeps laughing, “no. No, Doll that was so fucking needed, fuck me. The laughing feels just as cathartic as crying right now.”

“I agree,” you giggle as you both start to wind down. You lean in to kiss him and Jack keeps you there, nipping at your bottom lip and tugging at it a little when you try to pull away. “Needy,” you murmur teasingly.

“For you? Always.” You lay there and kiss. Kiss and make out in bed pressed against each other simply because you want to feel close and because you can. It’s not leading anywhere as good as it feels and as wired as it makes both of you. You can feel him growing hard against you and yourself growing wetter for him but you’re both content to stay like you are.

Eventually the kisses slow. You’re both sleepy, and between snuggling with each other and all the kissing it’s quick to catch up with you. Just as you both start to nod off you think of something. “Hey Jack? Maybe no more night shifts.” It’s all sleep slurred and in that drowsy tone you get that he finds particularly adorable.

He laughs a little through his nose. “No more night shifts,” he agrees, just as groggy.

When you wake up the next day Jack is able to get in touch with Robby and switch things back so that he’s on days again. Something about the daylight makes it a little easier for you, and you don’t seem to have any nightmares when you sleep snuggled into Jack. The next time he goes to work for half a day shift sucks still, but significantly less than that first half a night shift. Each time it gets a little bit easier, even when Jack is finally back to regular twelve hour shifts.

And then eventually it’s your turn to go back to work. It’s not just going back to work, it’s going back to the place you were shot. Both of you are on edge. Jack hates the thought of you having to go back there, it sends his anxiety through the roof even though he knows logically it’s probably the safest courthouse in the entire country right now with all the heightened security.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to go with you?” Jack asks you for probably the tenth time this morning alone.

“I’m sure,” you call to him from the bathroom as you finish getting ready. Jack appears in the mirror behind you, stopping at the doorway of the bathroom. You look at him in the mirror. “It’s okay, I’m ready. I can do this.”

You sound more like you’re trying to convince yourself than you are Jack. “You can call me. If you need anything.”

“I know,” you nod, “I promise I know and that if I need you I’ll call.” You turn to look at Jack and start walking towards him. Half of you feels ready for this, is craving the normalcy that being at work will bring. The other half knows you’re probably not quite ready. You haven’t even been by the building to expose yourself to it.

You pick at the breakfast Jack made you, stomach churning too much to feel hungry and making it hard to swallow anything down. He doesn’t comment on it as he sits at the table across from you working on today’s crossword, isn’t going to pressure you into eating more or potentially make you feel bad by calling you out on it. He gets it. He didn’t eat much dinner the night he went back to work for that one half a night shift.

It’s going to put your shoes on where you really start to let yourself realize how not ready you are for this. You stare down at them for what feels like ten or so seconds but is in reality close to a full minute. Jack knows because he glances at his watch after the first few seconds pass and you don’t move to put them on.

Finally you force yourself to and grab your bag. You take in and let out a deep breath and ignore how shaky it is as Jack walks over to you. He doesn’t want to smother you in reassurance and reminders you can call him or end up letting an ask for you to stay home slip out. “Have a good day Doll. Call if you need and I’ll be here waiting for you when you get home. I love you.”

Jack leans down and kisses you, one that lingers followed by a bunch of softer pecks. “I will,” you nod. “I’ll see you tonight.” You put your hand on the door handle and open it a little. “I love you more,” you smile up at him. He lets you have it this morning.

As you walk out the door and close it you know immediately you’re not ready. Jack knows you aren’t ready. But you try anyway and he doesn’t try to stop you because this is something you need to do for yourself.

It doesn’t take too long to get there, the commute is generally fairly easy even though it’s busy. You walk up to the courtyard of the courthouse and stare at the entrance. It feels like you can’t breathe and you’re aware of how badly your hands shake. Your heart races as you try and tell yourself you just need a minute and then you’ll go in.

But everything just gets worse. All you can hear is screaming and gunshots, taste that metallic flavor of adrenaline, and smell sulphur and smoke. You can’t do this. You so cannot fucking do this.

You get yourself back enough so a trembling hand can get your phone out of your bag, unlock it and hit Jack’s name. He answers on the first ring. “I’m not ready Jack, I can’t do this, I, I, I’m stuck outside and I need you, please come, I’m sor-”

“Doll,” Jack interrupts you. “Turn around.”

You do and standing at the edge of the courtyard is Jack.

He hangs up his phone as he starts moving to you, shoving past a couple people with a distracted excuse me because he just needs to get to you. He knows that you don’t want to fully lose it here, not with the potential for people you know or work with every day to see. And Jack doesn’t want it for you either. He knows you hate crying in front of people, that it took a while for you to be able to cry in front of him.

“I’m here,” he’s saying as he gets to you, arms reaching out before he’s even all the way there to start pulling you into him. “I’m here, I’ve got you, you’re okay.” Your hands slide around his waist and clutch at the back of his shirt as you close your eyes and press the side of your head to his chest.

You breathe him in, smell your laundry detergent and his body wash and him. You focus and let his heart beating become the only thing you can hear. The metallic taste in your mouth starts to fade.

“Ready to walk?” Jack whispers as he feels you start to calm down. You nod against him and so he lets go of you. A hand finds your lower back and starts directing you over to a bench outside of the courtyard facing away from the courthouse.

You both sit and he pulls you as close as possible, wraps the arm closest to you around your waist to keep you close as you rest a hand on his knee. Jack brings his other hand across his body and rests it on top of your hand, laces your fingers together from above.

Jack doesn’t pressure you, doesn’t ask you for details or if you want to talk or what exactly happened. He just sits there with you holding you close. You tilt your head and let it fall onto his shoulder. He tilts his head and his lips press against you where they can reach before he lets his head rest on yours lightly.

“I feel so ridiculous,” you murmur after a while.

Jack squeezes your hand. “Why?”

“I knew the entire morning I wasn’t ready. I just wanted to be so bad so I didn’t listen to myself.”

“I know. I knew,” he murmurs. “But that doesn’t make you ridiculous. Just human.”

“You knew?” you whisper, pull away to look at him. “How?”

“You told me as much with your eyes and the way you hesitated before you did anything related to getting ready this morning.” He squeezes your hand. “Before picking up your hairbrush and putting your bra on and picking up your mascara, that type of stuff. Your hand hesitated for just a second or two before you grabbed whatever it was. And then when it took you as long as it did to get your shoes on I just had an intuition or gut feeling or whatever you want to call it that I should be here.”

“You didn’t try to stop me?”

“No,” he shakes his head and gives you a small smile. “It was obvious that you needed to do this. Come here. Try. Get yourself back in front of this building. You needed to do it for yourself and I wasn’t going to interfere with that, no matter how badly I wanted to stop you so you wouldn’t hurt. You needed to do this. My role is to support you and help you with your healing. Not to dictate how you do it.”

You take in and hold a long breath before letting it out through your nose and shaking your head a little. “You’re way too fucking good for me.”

Jack gives you a look. “Not even gracing that bullshit with a reply,” he parrots the phrase you love to use back at you.

You give him a little eye roll and a smile. “I just should be better, Jack. I should be able to go back and get back to normal. But then I got here and it’s like it was yesterday.”

He nods slowly. “I think it was yesterday in a sense, Doll. This is your first time even being in front of the courthouse since it happened. That’s one. Two,” he pauses to take a breath and look down and away from you for a second. “A very, very smart woman,” he looks back up at you with a small smile, “once told me that should is a stupid word. Nothing should or shouldn’t be. Things just are. And it’s okay for them to be as they are. It’s okay for this to be as it is.”

You’re quiet for a few seconds before you let out a huffed laugh through your nose. “I can’t believe you just used my own words against me twice in a row.”

Jack clicks his tongue and shrugs. “I can be a real dick sometimes can’t I?”

You roll your eyes at him again and lean back into him. “Maybe. But you’re my dick, so it’s okay, I’ll allow it.”

That makes him roll his eyes at you and chuckle. “Yeah, I’m your dick, alright. I’m glad to hear you’ll allow it,” he teases.

“I’m actually quite impressed that you remember that entire little speech I gave you,” you admit after a few minutes.

“Repeated it to myself a lot. Still do. Well, really in my head you’re saying it to me and I hear it in your voice. So I guess I have you repeating it to me a lot.” He pauses. “It’s important to remember.”

“I suppose it is.” You pull away again to look up at him. “Thank you. I love you.”

“Always, Doll.” The kiss he gives you is quick yet ardent. “I love you too.”

There’s a lull as the two of you just sit on the bench and exist together, soak in the sun.

“You wanna go to bath and body works?” Jack breaks the silence. An amused smirk pulls on your face as you pull away to look up at him. “Candles are on sale. $12.95. And they just released a bunch of new scents.”

You know he’s offering and that he keeps tabs on when they’re on sale and when new scents come out because he knows how much you enjoy candles and the fun of smelling them. You bite your lip and look up at him all dreamy. “You’re perfect, you know that?”

“Nah,” he shakes his head and stands up, offers you his hand and helps you off the bench so you can head to the store. “Just in love.”

You take a bit more time for yourself before you try going back again, go and sit outside the courthouse with Jack and alone. And the next time you go back to work Jack goes with you, holds your hand all the way up to the employee entrance. He gives you a kiss goodbye and holds the door open for you, watches you for a second before he lets the door close. He waits outside on a bench for a bit, just in case you decide you’re not ready again and need him. But you don’t. And so Jack smiles to himself as he gets up and heads back home.

Normal. Things are finally starting to get back to normal.

But, as it turns out, normalcy is a fragile thing. And so things are finally starting to get back to normal.

Until they aren’t.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thank you so so much for reading, I hope it was okay!

Part 4 will be out soon!! This weekend for sure! And then we're straight into Quiet 2 which I am so fucking excited for! I have many many plans! How many exclamation points can I use in a row!!!!!

You can find my Masterlist here for more Jack!

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hedgehog-moss · 3 days ago

Text

The cherry tree I planted in front of the greenhouse blossomed for the first time this spring! A round of applause!

The wind always blows from the valley so I planted this tree strategically so that in spring a delicious smell would be delivered in my living-room through the windows, and around the outdoor table where I work, and it worked :) I estimate that it improved my quality of life by 11%. A light spring breeze carrying a cherry blossom smell is the kind of thing that stops me in my tracks ten times a day and makes me close my eyes and take a deep breath and think oh, life is good.

More tree updates: I talked in this post from 2021, then this one from 2022, about how I hoped to plant a 'fruit tree path' in the woods behind my house—this project is still ongoing and, well, hasn't borne fruit yet, but has finally blossomed. My Fruit Alley now boasts 10 trees, and looks like—what it is, a small opening in the woods that I have to deploy heroic and sustained efforts to keep open, because the woods try to reclaim it year after year, patiently, like a slow green tide.

The white thing in the middle is one of the tarps I've been using to smother brambles, I move them every few weeks and it works pretty well. I also use cardboard, but in the spring it's hard to keep up with the sheer rate of growth everywhere. Of course the main enemy is the army of broom that you can see in the distance, all yellow and cheerful-looking at the moment. I mostly fight them in the winter, every year I manage to push them back a few metres...

Here's a photo where you can better see some of the trees :

In total I have planted 2 apple trees, 1 quince tree, 1 mirabelle plum, 3 red plums, 1 nectarine tree, 3 cherry trees. I'm really glad that all of them survived, as I was a bit worried about damage from deer or boars. I did lose 2 chestnut trees that were destroyed so savagely I have to assume it's wild boars, but I had planted them much farther away in the woods and I won't make this mistake again. I now have two new baby chestnuts and I planted them near the greenhouse (downhill):

I think I'd never seen nectarine flowers before, they look exotic! I also discovered this year what quince flowers look like:

The only tree that didn't bloom was the smallest apple tree, and honestly that's her fault because for some reason she decided to make tender new green leaves in the middle of winter, so she pretty much exhausted herself for nothing. And you can't blame climate change and seasons being weird for this, because it was a cold and snowy week and no other nearby fruit trees were making any leaves. The confused apple tree is a New Zealand cultivar, so I suppose you could argue she thinks she's still in New Zealand, except she's never been to New Zealand in her life, she was born and raised in France, she doesn't know New Zealand exists. The only possible explanation is, I suppose, a deep-rooted yearning for their ancestral homeland among New Zealand apple trees.

I was a bit concerned when this tree then failed to produce any leaves in the spring, I worried she might be hopelessly hemispherically-challenged, but then I went back to check two weeks later and she was finally green! In a seasonally-appropriate way!

Other trees I've planted, not in the fruit tree path: a persimmon, but it died very quickly :( I will try again; a goji berry shrub, which has been here for two years and seems to be doing well, but so far no sign of berries; and in front of my house, an amelanchier (un arbre dont ma mère n'arrive jamais à se rappeler le nom et qu'elle persiste à appeler "le mélenchon"):

Finally, my last piece of important tree-related news is that I had the hazel tree near my house removed this winter:

I asked the guy who was working on the road nearby with an excavator digging a drainage trench if he could do it, and it took all of 10 minutes, like picking a flower, it was impressive!

And the reason I wanted to remove it is that there are hundreds of hazel trees in my woods and I wanted something different in this spot by the house. Unfortunately for this deserving hazel, it just wasn't special enough.

So I planted a tiny ginkgo :) And now I just have to be extremely patient as I wait for everyone to grow.

#crawling along #and i'll continue to expand the fruit tree path at the rhythm of 3 new trees per year #(because that's the maximum number of saplings i can fit in my car)

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tojisun · 14 hours ago

Text

cw: messy smut & hand fetish

simon’s bird is a twitchy thing, buzzing about with tepid energy thrumming underneath your skin. he’d even catch you shifting around when you’re sitting still for too long, gaze dancing between objects as you try to tether yourself back to the conversation. it’s an adorable thing—it could be worrying on days when it splinters into a spiralling—but it has always been cute.

even cuter was the way that you’ll only stop when his hand clamps down on your thigh. you’ll twitch, blinking at his hold, before melting. you’ll never look away, your mind is quiet even for a moment, and for a while, simon thought that it was the touch that grounded you. that it was the weight of his hand that eases up your flighty thoughts, allowing you a reprieve.

it’s only after you moved in with him that he realizes that grounding you didn’t even need to be his touch because your mind stutters at the mere sight of his hands. and what a delight that realization was.

it came to him when he walked into the living room after being holed up in the garage, fixing up your car, only to see you freeze at seeing the way that oil tainted his fingertips, highlighting the ridges of his veins and the rough patches his scars. what he thought was a scrutiny of how dirty he’s gotten, ended up being a quiet thrum of your admiration.

it made him dizzy with elation—oh how adorable you are with your futile attempts to rip your eyes from his hands, unable to utter anything but a breathless gasp of his name. god, look how cute you are. how easy. falling apart at the mere sight of his hands.

he didn’t even need to touch you for your desire to burn hotter, your eyes always gravitated at the way he massaged them with lotion or cracked his knuckles. he doesn’t even have a thing for a hands but you’ve made him more conscious of it, almost like it is something pornographic.

so, naturally, he had to do something about it.

buying the full-length mirror and installing it in the bedroom was a hassle but simon loves it now.

“don’t look away,” he rumbles before curling his fingers and plunging them deeper in you. the wet squelch echoes in the room louder than his voice did, drawing out a hiccuped squeal from the base of your throat.

this isn’t even the first time that simon’s got you propped on his lap with your legs forced open by the spread of his thighs, but being fingered in front of the mirror really has you feeling shy, huh? you can’t even watch yourself properly, tending to run away from the sight by screwing your eyes close and tipping your chin low like by doing so, you could pretend that the mirror isn’t revealing every debauchery he’s making out of your pussy.

but god. you should see this—his hand is so soaked with your juices that it’s got it shining like a fucking glazed doughnut. it’s so messy as you drip onto him, your cunt spasming like the greedy hole that she is.

simon croons this to you, his other hand cupping your jaw to brush his thumb just over your kiss-swollen lips, coaxing you to open to your eyes. telling you to see how needy you really are—and even then, your pussy is more honest than you are being right now.

“c’mon, baby,” simon murmurs, twisting his fingers juuust right, making you keen, your legs jumping in your attempt to shut them close only for simon to knock them wide open again. “look at y’r cunt, love, makin’ my hand look all glossy.”

he huffs a laugh at the way your pussy clamps down on his fingers at hearing his words, your cunt betraying your stubborn self once more. truly what a naughty bird he’s got; acting all shy when you’re just as hungry as he is—

“isn’t that right, hun?”

simon thought that it’d take another coaxing, another curling of his fingers or maybe finally adding his pinky to stretch you even wider for his cock, but your resolve fizzled out fast. your tearful eyes peel open, blinking to adjust them to the light. they dance from the reflection of his face, meeting his eyes, before finally dragging down to where you’ve got your pussy spasming around his fingers at his beckoning nod.

he feels more than sees the moment you get a glimpse at what a beautiful sight you make.

“si—!” you gasp, reaching up to clamp down on the arm that he’s got around your chest. your hips begin to wiggle, almost like you desperately want to ride his hand, and oh, that thought makes simon’s cock jump from underneath his sweats.

“si, i’m cummin— i wanna— i’m—!”

he doubles his efforts, fucking his fingers in, nudging them along your walls, before fucking them out in a dizzying pace that has you screaming, your body tensing like a string being pulled taut. it is so messy now, each thrust of his hand meeting the fat lips of your cunt echo with a wet slap, and simon truly can’t wait to lap up at your juices left on his pruning fingers.

your nails bite his skin but he doesn’t even feel the prickles as your walls begin to spasm, your jaw dropping for a soundless scream, then—

an angry gush. your squirt hits the mirror, splattering so wildly, and simon swears he’s gone cross-eyed with his lust.

how beautiful you are, your body locking on his lap for a moment as you ride out your orgasm before falling limply into his embrace, your eyes staring faraway like he’s fried your brain with his fingers alone. he croons, pressing kisses on your sweaty temple, and carefully pulls his fingers out. you rumble, whining in overstimulation, and simon pets you in comfort.

he lifts his hand up—it is wet and his fingers have pruned—before immediately stuffing them in his mouth. he didn’t even notice the way you’ve been watching him until you squeak at seeing him desperately suck on his fingers.

simon flicks his eyes up to meet your gaze from the mirror and, even with a mouthful, he gives you a grin. you breathe in sharply, still shy but refusing to break the heated eye contact, and simon rumbles, pleased, because his cock is painfully hard. it is rutting along the cleft of your ass, leaking pre-, and it is very needy for the feeling of your pussy hotly swallowing all of him up.

#uhhhh idk what this is but yea hahshehehd #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley smut #cod x reader #x reader #suns

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mooncleaver · 2 days ago

Text

Love's Quiet Surrender

To love without judgement, without the need to change him. Not just whenever he makes you laugh or smile, but all of his darkness. His past, his anger, his sadness. You do not desire for him to become someone else because you understand that he is enough as he is. "You can be anything you want and I'd still be here to love you." It was your promise, sealed with a gentle kiss on his lips.

ღ pairing: bucky barnes x wife!reader

ღ warnings: maaybe steamy and also sad, small thunderbolts spoilers, writing errors soooorry

"Buck?"

Your voice echoes in the warmly lit apartment. It's just some minutes past midnight, and in the air a gentle thrum permeates. A kind of stillness filled with exhaustion and comfort at the same time.

"Yes, baby?" Bucky answers almost immediately.

Even though he calls out from your bedroom, you can hear the fatigue beneath his tone. It's almost unnoticeable—he always tries to be put together whenever he talks to you and you hate it—but years of being by his side made you a whisperer or his tell tale signs. From the low lilt of his voice to the slight slur at the end of his sentence, you're no stranger to when Bucky needs to sleep.

Your husband had arrived home late today, presumably working on the whirlwind that was impeaching Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. He comes come disheveled these days, hair tousled with an aching frown on his lips—one you always try to kiss away. You can tell that this is all weighing down on him. The pressure, the bureaucracy, the slinking around your words to be sharp and polite at the same time. And the damn paperwork. It was endless. You don't think you've ever seen this much paper lying around your home and it was the 21st century.

Amongst all the papers and packets that your husband has very much not read yet, you he's been making talks to Valentina's assistant, Mel. He told you about what happened at the gala, how he attempted to convince her to switch sides. Did it go the way he expected? Mm, sort of?

It was endearing, in a way. Bucky always tried to be earnest, though sometimes it's difficult for him to spell out the right words—the right cues. You felt bad for the pout he sent your way as you giggled at his retelling. It took a few words and some kisses to convince him that he was not that awkward, and that you were sure Mel would give him something at least. The way Valentina was moving right now, there was bound to be a reason.

The man had since retired to your bedroom after some heavy coaxing. Bucky was adamant on staying out to help you clean up (he felt guilty for dropping chili sauce on your precious counters), but you didn't let him continue his sentence, knowing just how tired he was. You ushered him back, promising to join the man with an extra minute of head scratches if he followed your words. That seemed to do it, as he finally made his way to the bedroom with a small chuckle echoing.

While you were wiping down the counters, your eyes glanced towards Congressman Gary's dossier on de Fontaine. Less than the actual words on the paper, you focused on the mush of red staining the pristine white. You shook your head at the sight. Unfortunately, you don't think you've ever seen your husband finish a packet from top to bottom.

Not knowing what to do with it, you decide to just ask him. Though you think he’ll most likely tell you to throw it and every other coming packet down the trash, seeing how things are going now.

While trekking your way to him, you can hear him shuffling around in your bed, no doubt leaning onto it for a semblance of support.

When you finally arrive at your destination, the sight that greets you is nothing less than breathtaking—you say this to just about anything that Bucky does.

He's now dressed only in his white tank, evidence of the previous chili-dog accident thrown away into the laundry basket (to which he later promises to scrub it out, of course). He's got his legs spread and was, just as you had thought, leaning back on his arms against the bed. This angle lets you stare at the up and down motion of his breathing, the muscles flexing with tension. And God if this were any other night, you'd take him right then and there.

Once you're finally satisfied with your ogling—which you purposely timed in a way that lets your husband know it was much more than a simple glance—you finally speak.

"You left your packet on the counter. Didn't know if you wanted me to put it away 'cuz of the stain on it or…"

You trail off, giving him a sheepish smile as you leaned against the door with your arms crossed. Bucky's whole body just falls at the mention of the packet, his metal arm running a hand through his hair in quiet frustration. He looks done with it. It's like he's fighting the sleep right out of his eyes, and the dim bedside lamps don't help as it only accentuates a certain gauntness in his skin. Goddamn, he was trying to real hard here, but there was always an itch at the thought of only relying on the legal system. Valentina was a cunning and powerful woman. Bucky just couldn't see how a packet would overturn her entirely.

Without opening his eyes, his hand pats the top of his thigh, and you are compelled to follow that rhythm. You take quick but quiet steps to close the distance, finding yourself standing in between his legs while your hands fall on his broad shoulders. You're careful when you place your right hand down where his skin meets metal. Though he says it doesn't hurt as much as it used to, you always believe in treating his scars with the utmost kindness and care. He moves instantly, leaning forward to drag his hands down the curve of your waist before gripping the back of your thighs like he never wanted to let you go.

When he looks up at you, you see the smidge of defeat in his eyes, and the tired smile he sends your way just makes you want to cradle the man in your arms for eternity.

"Don't think this old man is cut out for this type'f thing, sweetheart." Bucky mutters almost inaudibly.

He tips his head back as he quietens, as if the weight above his head is too heavy to carry.

Despite the joke on his age, there's a small drop on your heart. It's different when Bucky says he's tired. It's because he's been doing life for a very long 110 years. You've always encouraged him to pursue everything he wanted, from the smallest thing like learning how to cook his favorite dishes to bigger ones like campaigning to be a congress member. So when he says that he doesn't feel fit to continue, a piece of your heart breaks because you understand how hard he tries. To move on, to become a better man.

You lift your hand from his shoulder to the back of his neck, pushing forward lightly to let him rest on your stomach so it doesn't ache.

You shake your head while combing through his hair, pushing the loose strands behind his ear while gently replying, "Silly, everybody starts somewhere."

Bucky shakes his head against your waist, and you have to hold back a giggle at the sensation and the gesture. Sometimes your husband does things that are very childlike, and not only is it absolutely adorable, but it reminds you that he is just a human like everybody else.

"Feels like I haven't even stepped foot while everybody else is on the goddamn finishing line." He mumbles. Its nearly inaudible, but you can hear loud and clear the weight behind those words.

"That's not true." Your protest is as much convicted as it is true, and you make them known as you pull away from his grip, grabbing his shoulders to straddle him. Both your knees are bent beside his thighs, setting comfortably on the edge of the bed. It's an extremely familiar position—in many contexts. But it's the most intimate to you. Vulnerable. To be mere breathes away from his face, all of you and all of him meeting in the middle.

You know what he says isn't true because Bucky doesn't do things half-assed. He worked his way up on a very, very difficult campaign, rising above in a world that doesn't always make space for him. He has made it so far, from the Winter Soldier to Congressman Barnes. It hurts you that despite everything, he still has doubts about himself.

Even when he's hurting he holds you in his arms so gently, one arm propping behind your back while the metal one is stationed right on your neck, trailing down to your waist to join the other. Bucky pushes his face into your neck, molding it perfectly into the crook that was made for him. You run your fingers through his hair in response, wishing to relieve all the built up tension.

He breathes in your scent, nosing the skin like that mere contact could calm him down. And you feel the way he deflates beneath you, breath tensing—anticipating—as if he were scared of what he wanted to say next. The words he uttered then were so soft, yet so convicted at the same time. It sounded like he already knew it would happen. "If I went back out in the field.. would you be angry?"

Your fingers came to a pause, lips dropping into a small pout. The man slowly lifts his head up again to see why you've gone quiet and he can't help but give you a small kiss to soothe the upset.

Despite the slightly uncomfortable shift in your chest, you couldn't say you were surprised about his confession. Bucky had always been a man of action more than he was with words. He carries his promises in the way he moves. To repent, to love, to forgive. His silence spoke more than any word ever could. So it's not new to you that his sense of justice is rooted in physically fighting for it. Though you hated seeing him hurt, you loved it even more when he had that gratified smile and a look in his eyes that showed you he was proud of the man he became. You could never stop him from doing what he thought was right.

Toying with the chain of his dog tags you sighed, shaking your head in acceptance, "Worried maybe.. but never angry."

Bucky took your right hand off his chain and placed it on his cheek, softly urging you to look him in the eyes. He wanted to hear you say that right to his face. To look at the truth, the hurt and the apprehension. He wanted to understand you beyond the words that came out of your mouth.

"You mean that, sweetheart?" He kissed your palm like it was glass, savoring every line and crease as if it was heaven beneath his lips. He stopped particularly longer when he met your ring finger, where a golden band had sat comfortably for years.

Bucky was ready to see the light dim in you—he knew you didn't enjoy seeing him go back out there after everything he went through. He was ready to use everything in him to spark it again, to save whatever trust you had left in you.

But he was utterly surprised to see the pure acceptance in your eyes. That kind of willingness to stay beside him along the ride, no matter the bumps and distance in between. You looked at him like you were ready to weather the storms and carry the weight of the world with him—if not for him.

Because this is what love is. Love gives and lets go without seeking recognition, without seeking for something in return. You love because you have the capability to—to make space and celebrate another flourishing in your presence.

Being with Bucky was never about what you could get, but what you could offer him.

And so in love's quiet surrender you learn to accept without condition. To love without judgement, without the need to change him. Not just whenever he makes you laugh or smile, but all of his darkness. His past, his anger, his sadness. You do not desire for him to become someone else because you understand that he is enough as he is.

"You can be anything you want and I'd still be here to love you." It was your promise, sealed with a gentle kiss on his lips.

And suddenly it wasn't just him against the world. Wasn't just the darkness creeping into his life, never with mercy, never with kindness. There was you at the end of the tunnel, holding out your hand for him. A chance at salvation.

You could be that for him. A saving grace, a friend, a lover. You'd be anything for him if it meant you could see that rare sight of his smile again.

There is no future without him in it.

He tightens his grip around your waist, arms snaking their way beneath your pajamas to touch the skin. Not the bruising, desperate kind, but a touch that grounds him in the moment. That allows him to feel every single emotion following your confession. You arch against him lightly, laying your palm against his clothed chest when the cool metal of both his arm and the ring on the right meet your skin. But it only makes you smile into his lips, remembering that small yet incredibly meaningful detail.

He wears his wedding ring on the right instead of the left.

Bucky told you that it was because he wanted to always feel the weight on his skin. Not the phantom one on his left, but that real, wrapping sensation, so that he'd never forget one of the happiest moments of his life. So he’d never forget that there was someone waiting for him.

Bucky continues to kiss you with leisure, humming in satisfaction when your hands run up and down from the base of his neck to the top of his head. He pushed your body impossibly close, wanting to feel each and every part of you.

When he is finally satisfied with your loving, he pulls away to face you and you see that mischievous look return to his eyes. He leans in yet again, trailing little pecks that trace your jawline before asking,

"Even if I was a paperboy?"

Now this brings an unexpected laugh out of you.

You know for a fact that Bucky actually used to be paperboy back in the 30s. It's a story that you hold safe in your heart, a glimpse of a reality lost to time. You remember the first time he told you about it back before the two of you got married and the pure elation you felt. Although you knew paperboys did exist, it never settled in your head that they were real real. More than that, you never pictured that your very own husband was one back in his days.

With your head thrown back in glee, Bucky couldn't take his eyes off of you. He loved your smile, even more when he was the reason for it. His clear blue eyes took in the very image of you, everything from the hearty breathes you were releasing, the crease of your lips to the way your throat bobbed. He would trade the world for the sound of your laughter and the stars for that glimmer in your eyes.

"Oh I can just imagine little Bucky riding around the neighborhood in his overalls and newsboy cap. I bet you made eeeveryone fall for how cute you were."

It was meant to be a tease on your husband's charming nature, but deep down you genuinely believed that to be true. And you were proven right when he shrugged in response, that annoyingly handsome smug smile settling deeply on his face.

"How'd you think I sold out everytime, doll?"

It's times like these where you see the light come back into his eyes. The nonchalance, the proud puff in his chest. He has such a beautiful smile. The most beautiful.

The surge of love you felt propelled you to wrap your arms around his head, pushing his face to rest on your plush chest. "You were a charmer weren't you?"

"Born and raised, ma'am." He mumbled against the soft fabric of your top. His hand drifted down to the bottom of your ass, caressing in a silent promise for the coming night.

You chased after it, placing your hand on top of his and then dragging your fingers up lazily, tracing the vein on his bicep. It teetered on his shoulder now, where you could feel him shudder and then flex beneath. With this gesture you felt the utter pride and masculinity showing. "You're not even denying it!" You exclaim as his lips move away from that comfortable spot on your chest to press a thousand pecks on your neck and then cheek. His beard—the one that you begged for him not to shave off—ticked you pleasantly. Once he realizes this fact though, he cheekily shakes his head, and you squirmed to get away only for him to snake a hand behind your head to softly guide you back to his lips.

You sighed against him, closing your eyes to savor the feeling. "The man of my dreams."

"You dreaming of me?" It took him a while to answer you, too occupied with tasting your sweetness. He whispered the tease right beside your ears, his lips mapping the shell as he softly nipped your earlobe.

"Every night Bucky."

WOWWWW thunderbolts Bucky changed my life you guys (hello prince hair). I initially wanted to write a playful little moment with him but got a tiiiny bit emotional 😅

ALSO ITS CANON TO MEEE that Bucky used to be a paperboy. I literally couldn't stop laughing at the thought

masterlist

dividers by @enchanthings-a

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p1psqueaks · 3 days ago

Text

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — “YOU CAME?” “YOU CALLED.”

ZAYNE

The city hums like a living thing outside the window, its lights too bright, too indifferent. Rain claws down the glass in erratic streaks, turning the night into a blur of neon smears and muted sirens.

You don’t look at the door. You just sit on the edge of the hotel bed, fingers twisting into the hem of your coat like they’re trying to tear through fabric, skin, bone.

And then—you hear it. The knock.

One.

Two.

Three.

Measured. Controlled. So Zayne.

You shouldn’t have called. You knew he’d come.

But knowing something doesn’t make it hurt less.

You cross the room slowly, like the ground itself might open if you move too fast. Your hand lingers on the doorknob. You inhale like it might steady you. It doesn’t.

When the door opens, it’s like a punch to the chest. He’s soaked. Dark hair plastered to his face, jacket clinging to him like second skin. He doesn't speak. His eyes just search you like he's memorizing the lines of someone he's trying not to forget.

"You came?" you whisper. It’s barely a question. It’s a wound.

He exhales, jaw tight. “You called.”

There’s something dangerous in his voice. Not anger. Something heavier. Quieter.

You step aside and he walks in like a shadow—silent, consuming.

The door clicks shut behind him and the space between you becomes suffocating.

"You shouldn’t be here," you say, but your voice is shaking, like you don’t mean it. Like you never did.

"I know." His eyes don’t leave yours. "But you said you needed me."

"I didn’t think you’d still come."

He doesn’t answer that. Just shrugs off his wet jacket and tosses it on the chair like it doesn't still carry the scent of his cologne—sharp, electric, him.

You hate that it makes your throat burn.

"You left," you say. It spills out, broken glass from a shattered bottle. "You disappeared without a word, and now you’re just—"

"You called." His voice cuts through yours like frost. “You needed me.”

"And if I hadn’t?" you ask, eyes wet now, voice cracking. “Would you have stayed gone?”

He doesn’t answer.

And in that silence is everything he can't say.

You turn away before he can see the tears fall. Or maybe you just don’t want to see the way his face would twist when they do.

He moves closer. Close enough that you feel the heat of him, even through the cold.

"I never stopped watching," he says quietly. "Even when I shouldn’t have. Even when it hurt."

"Then why—"

"Because I loved you." His voice is raw now, stripped down. "Love you."

You spin, eyes wide. “Then why did you leave?”

He looks at you like you already know. Like he doesn't want to admit the truth out loud.

“Because everything I touch ends up broken,” he whispers. “And I couldn’t bear to see that happen to you.”

You're quiet for a moment. Just breathing in the pieces of each other, jagged and unfinished.

"You don’t get to decide what breaks me," you say finally. “You don’t get to run and then pretend it was for my sake.”

He flinches like the words hit him physically. And maybe they do.

But he steps closer again. And this time, when he cups your face, his hand is shaking.

"I came because you called," he says. "But I stayed because I never stopped wanting to."

You don't kiss him.

You just let your forehead fall against his chest and listen to his heartbeat echo all the things neither of you are brave enough to say.

Not yet.

But maybe soon.

If he doesn’t run again.

If you don’t.

XAVIER

The air in the abandoned warehouse is still, like it’s holding its breath. Like it knows what’s coming.

It smells like dust and old memories. The place hasn’t changed. You have.

You shouldn’t be here. But something about the silence felt safer than your apartment. Than your bed. Than being alone with the echo of a voice you told yourself you were done missing.

You didn’t expect him to actually come.

But then again, he always does the impossible.

The door creaks open behind you, soft but sure.

You don’t turn.

“You came?” Your voice cracks on the second word.

He doesn’t hesitate. “You called.”

You laugh. Bitter. Small. “That’s not an answer.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

You finally turn, and there he is—Xavier, in that same black coat, like night has wrapped itself around him. His face is unreadable, but his eyes give him away. They always do. They burn like a star that forgot how to die.

“You shouldn’t have come,” you say, swallowing the ache.

“I know.” He takes a step closer. “But I couldn’t not.”

"That’s a bad habit of yours."

"So is needing someone who disappears the moment it gets hard."

You flinch. Fair shot.

Neither of you speak for a moment. There's just that heavy stillness. The kind that settles in right before something breaks.

You look at him—really look. He looks tired. More than usual. Like the universe took something from him and didn’t bother saying sorry.

"You left without telling me why," you say, voice low. "I thought I meant something to you."

"You did." A beat. "You do."

"Then why the hell did you run?"

He hesitates. That alone says everything.

“I didn’t run,” he says slowly. “I withdrew. There’s a difference.”

Your laugh this time is sharp, bitter. “Yeah, the difference is whether or not I get a goddamn explanation.”

“I was trying to protect you.” He says it like it should make everything better.

"It didn’t work."

"I know."

You walk past him, pacing, running a hand through your hair, furious at how much you still care. "I waited, Xavier. I waited every damn night, thinking maybe you’d explain, maybe you’d just say something. And you never did."

“I thought staying away would make it easier.”

"For who?" you snap. “You?”

He doesn't deny it. Of course he doesn't.

He looks out the tall window, to the stars you used to point out together. The ones he taught you to read like a language only the two of you knew.

“I didn’t want to pull you into the dark with me,” he murmurs. “You shine too bright.”

You almost laugh again, but it’s too cruel. Too hollow.

“You don’t get to make that choice for me,” you say, voice quieter now. “You don’t get to disappear and act like it was noble.”

He finally looks at you again. “Then why call me tonight?”

You pause.

"Because I didn’t know who else would understand the kind of lonely that feels like being lost in orbit."

He moves toward you slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast.

“I’m still me,” he says, “even if I’m... not the version of me you deserve.”

You close the distance between you, until you’re standing chest-to-chest, eyes searching his like they might find the truth he never says out loud.

“I never asked you to be perfect,” you whisper. “I just wanted you to stay.”

“I’m here now.”

You shake your head, tears clinging to your lashes. “But for how long, Xavier? Until you get scared again?”

He doesn’t promise anything. He just reaches up, hesitant fingers brushing your cheek like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

“I don’t know how to be good at this,” he admits.

You press your hand over his.

“Then don’t be good,” you say. “Just be here.”

RAFAYEL

The door slides open with that soft mechanical sigh — too smooth, too easy for something that feels this heavy.

You step into his studio, unsure if you’re intruding or answering a summons. Maybe both.

Rafayel doesn’t look up immediately. He’s lounging in his chair like he’s been expecting you for hours, like your arrival is only mildly more interesting than the orbit decay he's monitoring. One leg crossed over the other, arm draped lazily across the back of the seat. Completely unfazed.

But you know him. You see the tension in the way his fingers twitch once before stilling. The quiet inhale he doesn’t think you’ll notice.

He finally glances over his shoulder.

“You came?” he drawls, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “How uncharacteristically obedient of you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You called.”

He hums, spinning lazily to face you. “I did. It’s nice to know I still have that kind of pull.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Not yet.

Instead, you cross your arms, leaning against the wall like you’re not unraveling just from being in the same room again. “Was there a reason, or were you just bored and craving emotional devastation?”

He grins at that. “Tempting. But no, I had a moment of weakness. I thought, ‘What if I said something sincere and emotionally available for once?’ Then I panicked and called you.”

You stare at him. “That explains the abrupt message with no context.”

“Ah. So you did miss me.”

You laugh. Sharp. Bitter. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

There’s a beat. The banter falters — just for a breath. You see it then: the exhaustion under the charm, the way his shoulders drop just slightly. Something is off tonight. Even for him.

“You look like hell,” you say, softer now.

He shrugs. “Sleep is for the emotionally stable.”

You take a few steps forward, slow. “Rafayel… why did you call me?”

He looks at you for a long moment. The smirk fades, bit by bit, until all that’s left is the truth he’s too proud to say out loud.

“Because the silence was louder than I expected,” he says finally. “And apparently, I hate the sound of my own thoughts.”

You exhale. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“I know. Terrifying, isn’t it?”

You reach him. He’s still in his chair, but now he’s watching you like you’re something he can’t bear to touch, but can’t look away from either.

“I was angry,” you say. “When you left. When you shut down. I didn’t know where I stood.”

“I thought I was doing you a favor,” he says, voice quieter now. “Sparing you from the mess. From me.”

“Well, it didn’t feel like mercy. It felt like abandonment.”

He winces like the word physically lands. “Ouch. You’ve been practicing.”

You don’t blink. “Just telling the truth. You do that too, sometimes. Usually when it hurts.”

His lips twitch. “Fair.”

You kneel a little, meeting his eye level. “If you didn’t want me to come, you shouldn’t have called.”

“If I didn’t want you here, I would’ve locked the door.”

“Would’ve stopped me?”

“No. But I would’ve felt better about it.”

A beat of silence.

Then, quietly:

“I missed you.” He says it like it’s dangerous. Like it’s a confession he’s not used to giving, and hates that he means.

“I know,” you whisper. “So did I.”

He exhales. His hand lifts, tentative, hovering for a second before brushing your arm like he’s asking permission with his fingertips.

You let him.

Just this once.

“You’re really here,” he murmurs.

You nod. “For now.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing with something unreadable. “Is this the part where we pretend to fix things? Or the part where we ruin them more beautifully?”

You manage a tired smile. “I don’t know yet.”

He leans in, eyes gleaming.

“Good,” he whispers. “I love a little uncertainty.”

And for once, you both sit with the ambiguity — no promises, no apologies. Just space. Shared, uneasy, electric.

Because sometimes, you came is all the answer there is.

SYLUS

The rooftop is quiet this time of night.

Above you, the sky hangs heavy with stars you’ve never really learned to name. Below, the city breathes in artificial light and distant hums — busy, blind, uncaring.

You shift on the cold ledge, arms tucked into your coat, trying to feel something other than the tight ache in your chest.

You shouldn’t have called him.

You barely know him — not really. Not enough to ask for this. For company. For anything that feels like comfort.

But you called anyway.

And now... he’s here.

The door creaks behind you.

You don't look back. Not right away.

His footsteps are soft. Controlled. Like he’s trying not to startle you.

“You came?” Your voice is low. Fragile, despite your best efforts.

He doesn’t answer at first. Just moves closer, the warmth of his presence cutting through the rooftop chill like something solid. Real.

“You called,” Sylus says, voice quiet. No judgment. Just fact.

You turn, finally meeting his eyes — that impossible shade of red, too vivid in the dark.

He’s still wearing his usual layers — all black, as if the world’s weight might be easier to carry if he looks like he’s already braced for it. But his expression is softer than you’ve ever seen it. Guarded, but open in a way you didn’t expect.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” you say, already retreating.

“You didn’t.” He steps closer. “Well. You interrupted sleep. But I wasn’t really doing that anyway.”

You offer a tired half-smile. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He says it like he means it. “I’d rather be here.”

That quiets you.

You look away, out at the city. “I wasn’t even sure you’d come.”

“I was already halfway here before I realized I hadn’t even asked why you wanted me to.”

“And now that you’re here?”

He shrugs lightly. “Still don’t need a reason.”

Your breath catches. There’s too much in that answer. Too much for someone you’ve only known for a few weeks. Someone who still deflects most questions and hides behind smirks like they’re bulletproof.

But he’s here.

“Rough day?” he asks gently.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t push. Just waits. You’re starting to realize that’s who he is. He gives you silence, not as avoidance — but as space. Like he knows you’ll talk if you need to. Or not.

And right now, you need to.

“I thought I was okay,” you admit. “But then everything just... started to close in. Like I couldn’t breathe. And I didn’t know who to call.”

His brow furrows slightly. “So you called me.”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“Why me?”

The question isn’t accusatory. He sounds curious. Maybe even surprised.

You meet his gaze, forcing the words out past the knot in your throat.

“Because you’re the only one who looks like they’d understand what it feels like to want to disappear sometimes.”

The silence that follows is heavier. Realer.

And then, softly:

“I do,” Sylus says. “Understand, I mean.”

You nod. “I thought you might.”

He exhales slowly, something easing in his posture. He sits beside you — not too close, but close enough that your shoulders nearly touch.

“I don’t usually do this kind of thing,” he murmurs.

“What? Comforting people?”

“No. Letting people see the part of me that needs comfort.”

You glance at him. “Is that what this is?”

“Maybe.” He hesitates. “Or maybe I just didn’t want you to be alone tonight.”

You smile, small and real. “That’s kind of the same thing.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Maybe I’m worse at this than I thought.”

“You’re not,” you say. “You’re just honest. It’s rare.”

He nods like that’s something he doesn’t hear often.

After a moment, you shift slightly toward him.

“You can go, if you want.”

He doesn’t move.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sylus says quietly. “Not if you still want me here.”

You don’t say anything. Just let the silence settle over the two of you — warm now, not empty. You can feel him next to you, steady and real.

And for the first time in hours, the world doesn’t feel like it’s closing in.

Not when he’s here.

CALEB

You should’ve let the message sit unanswered.

The city outside Caleb’s apartment still glows the way it always does — neon gold and soft blue, glittering like it's trying to convince you everything is beautiful and under control.

It’s not.

Not in here.

The air still feels bruised from the fight earlier. Words that shouldn’t have been said, thrown like sharp glass between the two of you. There’s a bitter silence now, the kind that doesn’t just linger — it punishes.

You don’t know why you came back.

Well — you do.

Because he called.

The lock disengages before you can knock again. The door opens just slightly, and there he is — Caleb. Towering, broad-shouldered, and suddenly so very… small in the way he looks at you. Like he expected you not to come.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

Until, finally:

“You came?” His voice is hoarse, low. Like he’s trying not to hope.

You answer without thinking. “You called.”

He looks away for a second, like your answer hurt more than he expected it to.

You cross the threshold, slowly, cautiously — like the apartment itself might bite. Everything’s just as you left it earlier: the couch cushions slightly skewed from when you stormed off, one of the mugs from your argument still on the table, untouched.

The air smells like ozone and tension.

“I wasn’t sure you’d answer,” Caleb says quietly, shutting the door behind you.

You still can’t meet his eyes. “I wasn’t sure I should.”

He swallows hard. “And yet... here you are.”

You shrug, feeling like your voice could crack at any moment. “Guess that makes both of us idiots.”

A soft, humorless laugh escapes him. “Speak for yourself, pipsqueak. I’ve always been an idiot. Took you longer to join the club.”

You glance at him, and for a moment, the pain in your chest softens — just a bit.

But it’s not enough.

“What are we doing, Caleb?” you ask, turning to face him fully. “Because I can’t keep pretending everything’s fine between us when it isn’t.”

His jaw tightens. “You think I’m pretending?”

“I think you’re avoiding. There’s a difference.”

He moves past you, pacing to the window, hands on his hips like he’s trying to hold himself together by sheer force of will.

“I’m not good at this,” he says, voice taut. “At… relationships. Talking. Not making everything worse.”

You follow slowly. “Then why push me away whenever I try to talk?”

“Because the more I care about you, the more it scares the hell out of me,” he snaps — and then stops, breathing hard.

It hangs there, naked and jagged.

You take a slow step toward him. “You don’t get to use love as a reason to hurt me.”

His head bows, shoulders tense. “I know.”

“I don’t want perfection, Caleb. I want honesty. Even if it’s messy.”

He turns back toward you. There’s something in his eyes now — something cracked and real.

“I called you,” he says quietly, “because I didn’t know how to sit in this apartment and not be able to take it back.”

You step closer.

“I came,” you whisper, “because I didn’t want to go to sleep angry. Not with you.”

For a moment, you’re both silent. Then:

“I’m sorry,” he says. And it sounds like it costs him.

You nod. “Me too.”

He lifts a hand, hesitant, fingers brushing yours — tentative, unsure, but desperate to anchor.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” Caleb says. “But I don’t want to lose you trying to figure it out.”

You take his hand. Grip it like it’s the only steady thing in the world.

“Then don’t let go.”

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alohajix · 3 days ago

Text

𝐍𝐨 𝐆𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤

Description: friends don’t kiss like that… and they definitely don’t spend the night tangled up in each other, learning what it sounds like when years of tension finally snap. But here you are. In his bed. Breathless. Wrecked. His hands shaking on your skin like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted. And you both know—there’s no going back now.

Warnings: smut, pining, begging, creampie mention, friends to lovers, feelings finally surfacing.

Word count: 6,090.

author note: hopefully you’ll love this one; I had a writer’s block trying to finish this one up 🥺

Main Masterlist

Marked by Midnight’s Masterlist

***

It's the same Friday night ritual you've fallen into for years now—predictable in a way that should feel boring by now, but somehow never does. You don't remember when exactly it became your thing, but you know it started sometime after his last relationship went up in flames. Somewhere between his dry, sarcastic text—"bring snacks or don't bother showing up"—and the way he always leaves the door unlocked when he knows it's you coming over. You don't knock anymore. Haven't in ages. You just toe off your shoes by muscle memory, drop your bag on the little hook by the door he hung there for you a year ago, and slip into your usual spot on his couch like it's second nature. It is, really.

Tonight's no different. The air smells like leftover pizza and the two cheap beers you grabbed from his fridge on your way in. You're half-curled under one of his worn-out throw blankets, your legs stretched long across the couch, your bare feet pressing into his thigh like they always do. He doesn't even flinch when you do it anymore. Just rests his warm palm on your shin absentmindedly like it's the most natural thing in the world. It's reckless, really, how easy this all is. How dangerous it feels sometimes when he doesn't pull away.

The TV's playing something you've both seen a thousand times—something neither of you are really paying attention to. The real entertainment, like always, is the stupid conversation unraveling between sips of cheap beer and leftover takeout. He makes a joke about your taste in men, you roll your eyes and throw one right back at him. The back-and-forth feels sharper tonight though, like you're both playing closer to some invisible line neither of you have dared to cross. Not really.

You don't know what makes you say it. Maybe it's the second beer loosening your tongue, or maybe it's the way his laugh curls in your stomach when you throw your head back against the cushion and groan dramatically. You mock the high-pitched whine one of his exes once made you promise not to bring up again. You pitch your voice higher on purpose, pressing the heel of your hand to your forehead in the most ridiculous overacting you can manage.

"Oh, Harry... oh my God... you're so—so loud—" you gasp, drawing the word out, clutching your chest like you're seconds away from fainting.

You expect him to laugh. That's how it always goes. You take the piss, he rolls his eyes, throws something back, and you both move on. But tonight... tonight he doesn't laugh.

Instead, he goes still. His palm on your shin tightens just a little—barely noticeable, really, if you weren't suddenly hyperaware of every inch of his skin touching yours.

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing, and for the first time all night, you swear the air between you crackles like something you shouldn't touch.

"You really wanna keep pushing, sweetheart?"

The words come out low. Thicker. Not playful like they should be.

And your mouth goes dry.

Because that's not the kind of thing he says to you. Not like that.

You blink, heart stuttering, trying to laugh it off, but it comes out wrong—too breathless, too tight. "What? I'm kidding. Relax."

But he doesn't.

He leans back a little, his arm curling casually along the back of the sofa like he's suddenly aware of how close you are, how easy it would be to pull you closer. His jaw flexes as he swipes his tongue across his bottom lip, like he's thinking too hard about something he shouldn't say.

And then he does.

"Maybe you should find out for yourself before you start laughing."

You freeze.

So does he.

The silence that falls between you isn't the usual kind—the one you fill with easy shrugs or dumb jokes. This one feels loaded. Heavy. Like you've both been balancing on this stupid little edge for so long you didn't even realize how close you'd gotten until you both looked down.

He swallows hard, flicking his gaze to your mouth and back up again so fast you almost think you imagined it.

You could laugh. You should laugh. That's how you survive this. You let it roll off your back, you change the subject, you make another joke and pretend you didn't hear it like that.

But you did. God, you did.

And something in your stomach twists.

Your voice comes out quieter than you mean for it to. Barely above a whisper. "What if I did?"

Harry's breath catches. You feel it more than hear it—right there where his palm is still pressed to your leg, fingers curling in slow motion like he's grounding himself. His mouth opens and closes again, like he's trying to figure out if you're fucking with him, if this is just another game.

You're not sure what kind of answer you're expecting—some dumb, cocky retort, maybe, or worse, a nervous laugh to remind you this is all one big misunderstanding. But when he finally speaks, it's nothing like that.

"Then you're gonna have to come over here and show me."

It knocks the air clean out of your lungs.

Because that's not a dare. Not a joke. Not something he can walk back if you say yes.

His hand slides a little higher on your shin, thumb dragging slow and steady like he's making sure you feel it. His gaze doesn't drop this time. Doesn't waver.

"C'mon, love. What's stoppin' you?"

You've never moved so slowly in your life. Shifting your weight, setting your half-finished beer down on the coffee table like you're moving underwater. Your heart's thundering so hard you're half-convinced he can hear it. You swing one leg over his lap, knees sinking into the sofa on either side of his hips until you're straddling him, palms braced on his chest to steady yourself.

And he's just... looking at you. Like you're the fucking answer to a question he didn't know he was allowed to ask.

"Hi," you whisper, suddenly breathless, nerves crashing over you in one dizzy wave.

The corner of his mouth twitches like he wants to laugh, but he doesn't. His hands find your waist, curling slow and careful, as if he's terrified you'll shift back and realize this is a mistake.

"Hey."

It's the softest thing you've ever heard from him. No edge, no teasing, just quiet and wrecked and right there between you like you've already passed the point of no return.

His thumb drags along your waist, and you swear you feel his hands tremble just a little.

"You gonna kiss me or what?" he whispers, voice cracking on the last word like it's killing him to hold back.

There's a second—just one—where the fear kicks in. Not the bad kind, not really. It's more the holy-shit-what-are-we-doing kind, the one that flickers right behind your ribs like a warning bell that's come a little too late. Because this is Harry. Your Harry. The one who steals your fries without asking and makes you playlists when you're having a bad day. The one who's held your hair back when you've had too much to drink, who's let you crash in his bed more times than you can count without ever once making it weird. He's always been safe. Uncomplicated. Yours in every way that didn't require you to risk everything by leaning in and closing the gap.

But now? Now his breath fans across your cheek, his hands tense on your waist like he's waiting for you to change your mind, and you know there's no coming back from this if you do it. No pressing rewind. No laugh-it-off in the morning.

And still—you lean in.

You don't even really kiss him at first. It's slower than that. Softer. Like you're both testing the weight of the moment, hovering close enough that you could pull back if you had to. You feel his breath catch when your nose brushes his, feel the tiniest tremor run through him when your fingers curl tighter in the worn fabric of his t-shirt. His lashes flutter against your cheekbone when you tilt your head, nudging your mouth toward his. And just when you start to wonder if he's going to make you do all of it—if he's going to sit there and let you chase the whole thing all the way down—he meets you halfway.

It starts careful. Almost clumsy with how long you've both tiptoed around this. His lips part slow, brushing yours once, twice, barely there. You almost pull back to say something stupid like "was that okay?" but then—God—he makes that sound.

Low in his throat, wrecked and quiet and so fucking real it short-circuits every rational thought you have left.

You melt.

The second time you kiss him, it isn't careful at all. You tilt your head, fingers sliding up into his curls like they've always wanted to, pulling him closer, chasing that sound like it's oxygen. He groans again, louder this time, and you feel him sink under you like his whole body's giving out.

"Fuck," he breathes, muffled between kisses, hands flexing tighter on your waist. "Fuck, baby, you're gonna ruin me."

The word baby snaps something loose in your chest, like you've just unlocked a part of him you never knew you were allowed to touch.

Your breath stumbles out in a shaky laugh, your lips brushing his as you gasp, "You really are loud."

He freezes for half a second like he's about to pull back, but you barely give him the chance. You roll your hips over his, testing the friction, chasing the heat, and it punches another groan right out of him—louder, needier this time.

"Yeah?" he pants, teeth scraping your jaw as he pulls you closer, rougher, like he's trying to fuse you to him. "You like that? Huh? Wanna keep mocking me, baby? Gonna let you hear it all fuckin' night if you let me."

You suck in a sharp breath, fingers tightening in his hair.

And God, you should stop. You should slow down, give yourself half a second to think this through, to figure out what the hell this means. But his mouth finds that spot under your ear that makes your whole body jolt, and suddenly you don't care about what tomorrow's going to feel like.

You rock against him again, chasing the pressure, the heat curling low in your belly. He hisses, dragging his hands up under your t-shirt like he's starving to touch you.

"Tell me to stop," he whispers, voice cracking like he already knows you won't. "Tell me right fuckin' now if this isn't what you want."

But you don't. You can't. Not when you're already dizzy with it. Not when you've wanted this longer than you've let yourself admit.

So instead, you lean in again, brushing your mouth against his ear until you feel him shudder under you.

"I don't want you to stop."

His breath hitches, hands curling tighter like he's barely holding himself back.

"You sure?" he rasps, nose brushing along your jaw, voice so wrecked it makes your chest ache. "Tell me you mean it. Tell me this isn't just the fuckin' beer talking, baby, 'cause I swear to God—"

You pull back just enough to look at him. Really look at him.

He looks wrecked already. Like this is costing him. Like this has been sitting on the tip of his tongue for longer than you've even dared to hope.

And you swear something inside you snaps.

"It's not," you breathe, shaking your head as you cup his jaw in your hands. "Swear it's not."

He curses under his breath, dragging his hands down to your thighs like he's grounding himself, like he's trying to keep himself from breaking.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours, eyes screwed shut like it physically hurts to keep his hands from sliding under your shorts. "Need you to tell me what you want, baby. Please."

And it's there, on the tip of your tongue.

The thing you swore you'd never risk saying.

But it's too late now, isn't it? You've already crossed the line.

So you whisper it like a secret, like it's been sitting there in your chest for years.

"I want you."

It happens fast after that. Like the air finally snaps between you and there's no holding it back. One second you're still hovering, trembling with it, your hands on his jaw like you're terrified he's going to pull away—and the next, you feel him exhale the most broken sound you've ever heard from him, his grip tightening on your thighs like he's lost the battle with himself.

"Come here," he groans, breath hitching, voice barely holding together, and before you can even blink, he's dragging you closer—sitting up straighter, chest pressed to yours, his mouth finding yours again like he's starving.

This time, it's different. Hotter. Desperate. There's no hesitation now, no teasing, no careful second-guessing. It's messy, frantic, like you've both finally stopped pretending this wasn't inevitable. His hands are everywhere—sliding up under your shirt, fingers dragging across your skin like he's trying to memorize every inch of you. You gasp into his mouth, shivering when his palms flatten against your back, pulling you flush to him, your thighs tightening around his waist instinctively like you can't stand even an inch of space between you.

You swear you feel him shudder under you, like you've knocked the breath clean out of him.

"Fuck, baby," he pants, dragging his mouth across your jaw, leaving open-mouthed kisses on your neck that make your whole body jolt. "Feel that? Feel what you fuckin' do to me?"

You do feel it—hard and hot between your legs, pressing up through your thin shorts—and the realization knocks every ounce of breath from your lungs. You roll your hips without thinking, grinding down with more pressure this time, and you feel him stiffen, hear the sharp curse tear from his throat.

His head falls back, curls brushing the back of the sofa, and you watch the muscles in his throat work as he swallows hard, jaw so tight you can see the effort it's taking him not to lose control right there.

"Jesus Christ, you're killin' me," he groans, one hand sliding up to fist in your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath hitch. "Tell me what you want, baby. Say it. Please."

You don't even hesitate. You can't. You're already shaking with it. Already soaked in it. Your voice comes out as more of a gasp than a whisper, breathless and messy against his jaw.

"Want you to touch me. Want you so bad it hurts."

The groan he lets out sounds like it physically knocks the breath out of him.

Before you can process it, he's moving. One strong arm sweeps under your thighs, the other curls tight around your back, and you let out a squeak of surprise when he stands, lifting you off the couch like you weigh nothing.

"Harry!" you gasp, clinging to him, laughing breathlessly as he stumbles toward the hallway.

"Shut up," he breathes against your neck, mouth dragging hot along your skin, "Not lettin' you go. Not now. Not ever."

You swear you feel your heart split in two right there.

By the time your back hits his mattress, you're trembling with it—skin buzzing, breath catching, heart pounding so hard it almost hurts.

He doesn't move for a second, just hovers over you, curls falling into his eyes, his chest heaving like he's trying to memorize every inch of you before he ruins it.

"Tell me again," he rasps, voice cracking. "Please. Need to hear you say it's not just the beer talkin', baby."

You sit up on your elbows, heart swelling so painfully full it feels like it might burst, and reach for the hem of your shirt.

"It's not," you whisper as you pull it over your head and toss it somewhere over the side of the bed. You're trembling a little now, but you don't stop. You meet his eyes—wide, glassy, hungry—and you nod, slow and certain. "It's me. I swear."

His eyes drop to your bare skin, and he drags his hand through his curls like he can't fucking believe this is happening.

"Jesus," he breathes, crawling over you again on his forearms like he's scared to crush you. "You're perfect. So fuckin' perfect."

You barely recognize the sound you make when he kisses you again—somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, like your body is short-circuiting under his hands. You've kissed him before—drunken pecks on the cheek, playful lips pressed to his jaw when he made you laugh too hard—but never like this. Never with the weight of every line you've tiptoed around collapsing all at once between your bodies.

His hands are greedy now, trembling just slightly as they trail along your sides, slipping under the curve of your ribs like he's afraid to rush, like he wants to memorize every inch of skin he's never dared to touch. He dips his head, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down your throat, sucking softly at the base of your neck, and you swear your back arches off the bed all on its own.

"So fuckin' soft," he murmurs under his breath, voice low and rough and right against your skin like it's a prayer you weren't meant to hear. His hands slide higher, fingertips brushing the underside of your bra, hesitating just barely like he's giving you that last out.

You nod before he even asks.

"Please," you whisper, breath catching, "I want you to touch me."

He groans like you've wrecked him completely, leaning up just enough to tug the fabric over your head and toss it aside with your shirt. The moment your chest is bare to him, he just... stops. Stares. Like you're the first thing in his life that's ever left him speechless.

His palms come up slowly, reverently, cupping you like he's terrified you'll vanish if he blinks too long. His thumbs brush over your nipples and your whole body jerks with the heat of it, breath spilling out in something dangerously close to a moan.

"Fuck me," he whispers, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, like he's trying to keep himself from coming undone too fast. "You're... fuck, you're unreal."

You can't stop yourself—you hook your legs tighter around his waist, grinding up into him again, desperate to feel all of him. His breath stutters, hips jerking like he can't help himself.

And then he's moving again, dragging his mouth down your body—slow, lingering kisses pressed to every inch of skin he can reach. Down your ribs, over your stomach, pausing just above the waistband of your shorts.

He looks up at you from there, lips pink and swollen, curls a mess, chest still heaving.

"Can I take these off, baby?" he asks, voice so thick and wrecked it makes your stomach clench. "Wanna see all of you. Need to."

You nod so fast it almost embarrasses you, lifting your hips for him without a second thought. He drags your shorts and underwear down slow, eyes never leaving yours as he bares you completely.

The air feels electric on your skin. Too much and not enough at the same time. You feel exposed, trembling, but the way he looks at you—like you're the only thing in the world that matters—makes you feel like you could fall apart right there and he'd hold every single piece.

He sucks in a sharp breath, dragging his hand through his hair again like he doesn't know what to do with himself.

"Jesus, you're beautiful," he whispers, voice cracking, like it's physically painful to hold back. "Can't believe I get to touch you."

You reach for him again, curling your fingers into his shirt, tugging at the fabric until he gets the message. He peels it over his head, tossing it somewhere behind him, and when his bare chest presses to yours, skin to skin, you swear you could die from how right it feels.

"Please, Harry," you breathe, burying your face in his neck, rocking your hips up again without thinking. "Need you so bad it hurts."

He shudders, dragging his mouth back to yours, kissing you slower this time—deeper, like he's trying to pour every unspoken word into you.

"Gonna take care of you, baby," he whispers between kisses. "Promise. Gonna make you feel so good."

And you believe him. God, you believe him with every shaking breath you take.

You barely register the way your breath shudders in your throat when his mouth finds yours again. It's slower now. Deeper. Less frantic, more certain—like every kiss is meant to make you feel it. Like he knows you already do. His weight settles a little heavier on top of you, hips sinking between your thighs, skin hot and slick where his chest presses to yours.

You can feel him—all of him—hard and thick, pressing right where you need him, just separated by the thin fabric of his boxers. The pressure makes your breath catch, makes your hips tilt up instinctively like you're chasing something you're both too far gone to slow down for.

He groans into your mouth, one hand sliding down your side to grip your thigh, pulling it higher up his waist like he needs to feel closer, needs to make sure you know how badly he wants this. How badly he wants you.

"Fuck," he breathes, voice cracking as he drops his forehead to yours, hips rocking forward once—slow, steady—grinding into you just enough to make your whole body jolt. "Baby... I—"

He doesn't finish. Doesn't have to. You already feel him shaking above you, like he's holding himself together by the thinnest thread.

"Harry..." You can't even hear your own voice, breathless and wrecked, but you know he hears it by the way his grip tightens on your skin. "Need you. Please."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, wide green eyes flicking between yours like he's trying to memorize every single thing about you in this exact second.

"You sure?" he whispers, voice barely steady. "I don't—fuck—I don't wanna do this if you're not sure, baby."

You almost sob. "I've never been more sure of anything."

His face crumples like you've broken him, lips crashing onto yours again with so much force it steals every bit of air from your lungs. You feel his hand slide between you, pressing low over your stomach, slipping down until his fingers brush over the slick heat of you.

You let out a noise that sounds nothing like you—high and desperate, something you'd be embarrassed about if you weren't already too far gone to care.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he groans, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, voice shaking like he's seconds from losing control. "You're so wet, baby. All for me, yeah?"

You nod frantically, clinging to him, your nails digging into his back as you roll your hips into his touch.

"All for you," you whisper back, voice cracking, "Please, Harry, just—please."

He shudders so hard you feel it in your bones, his breath spilling hot and shaky over your skin as his fingers slide through the mess between your legs, circling your clit so slow you could scream.

"Gonna take my time with you," he whispers, "Wanna feel you come on my fingers first. Wanna feel you fall apart for me."

And God, the way he says it—wrecked and hungry and like it's the only thing he's ever wanted—you don't think you've ever wanted anything more in your life.

You try to brace yourself. You know you should. But it's useless the second his fingers slip lower, dragging through your folds like he's already memorized every part of you. He's so gentle at first, so fucking careful, like he's afraid to hurt you or rush it. Like he's determined to make this the best thing you've ever felt.

Your body arches off the bed before you even realize you're moving, a broken moan catching in your throat when his fingers find that perfect spot again and again. It's slow, torturous, the way he circles your clit—light at first, just a tease, until your hips are chasing his touch, until you're gasping his name like you've forgotten how to say anything else.

"That's it, baby," he murmurs, breath hot against your jaw as he keeps moving, building you higher with every slow stroke. "You're doin' so good for me. Sound so fuckin' pretty when you fall apart, you know that?"

You dig your nails into his shoulder, gripping him like he's the only thing keeping you from slipping under. You've never been this sensitive, never been this wound up, like every nerve in your body is buzzing under his touch.

You try to warn him—you really do. But the words die in your throat when he adds just a little more pressure, a little more speed, his mouth pressing hot kisses down your neck while his fingers work you open.

"C'mon, baby," he breathes, "Wanna feel you let go for me. Been dreamin' about this for fuckin' years, swear to God—"

You cry out, hips stuttering, body shaking as the pressure coils tighter and tighter until it snaps, crashing over you so hard it nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

You feel yourself clench around his fingers, feel him groan right against your ear like he feels it too, like he's just as wrecked by it as you are.

You're still gasping, still trying to catch your breath, when he pulls back just enough to cup your face in both hands. His lips are pink, swollen, his hair a complete mess. But it's his eyes that leave you breathless.

Wide. Shiny. Like you've just torn him to pieces and he doesn't know how to put himself back together.

"Baby," he whispers, voice breaking like it's too much, "Need to be inside you. Please. Please tell me you want that too."

You don't even hesitate. You reach for him, curling your fingers in the waistband of his boxers, dragging them down until you feel him bare and hot and thick against your thigh.

You look up at him, heart in your throat, and whisper the only thing that's been sitting on your tongue since the moment this started: "I've always wanted you."

And you swear, in that split second before he sinks into you, he breaks all over again.

You feel him hesitate just for a breath—just long enough to make sure you don't change your mind. His forehead presses to yours, his nose brushing yours softly, like he's checking again without needing to ask out loud.

You slide your hands up his back, nails scraping lightly across his skin, and whisper the only thing you know will tip him over the edge.

"Please, Harry... I need you inside me."

The groan that rips out of him sounds almost pained. His fingers curl tighter around your waist, pulling your body up to meet him, and when you feel the thick head of him nudging at your entrance, you nearly stop breathing altogether.

He moves slow. So slow it's almost unbearable—like he's savoring every inch, dragging it out just to make you feel it. You gasp, clawing at his shoulders, your body stretching around him inch by inch until you're completely full, until there's no part of you that isn't pressed to him, surrounded by him.

"Fuck—" his voice cracks, shaking like he's seconds from losing it. "So fuckin' tight... Jesus Christ, baby, you feel... you feel like heaven."

You're trembling beneath him, breath stuttering out in little gasps you can't control. You feel stretched, full, claimed in a way that makes your head spin. Your nails dig deeper into his skin, grounding yourself against the overwhelming ache and pressure that feels like it's going to swallow you whole.

"Move," you gasp, hips tilting up to meet his, "Harry, please— need you to move."*

He groans again, low and wrecked, and finally—finally—he starts to move.

Slow at first. Barely pulling back before pressing right back in, hips rocking steady, grinding deep like he's tasting you from the inside. You cry out, biting your lip to muffle the sound, but he shakes his head, catching your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look at him.

"No," he pants, voice thick and ruined, "Let me hear you. Don't fuckin' hold back, baby. Want everyone to know how good I'm makin' you feel."

You let go of the breath you've been holding, head tipping back as a moan rips from your throat, loud and broken and real. His hips snap a little harder, a little faster, and the sound of it—skin on skin, your name falling from his lips like it's the only thing he knows how to say—makes you feel like you're coming undone all over again.

He presses his mouth to your ear, breath hot and shaking as he fucks into you harder, deeper, each stroke dragging a wrecked little whimper from your lips.

"Tell me this is mine now," he growls, voice pure filth in your ear. "Tell me no one else gets to touch you like this, baby. Ever again."

You can't think, can't breathe, can barely get the words out between gasps.

"It's yours," you choke out, clinging to him like your life depends on it. "Only you, Harry. Fuck—only you."

You don't know how he manages to keep it together. You're falling apart with every slow, deep thrust—clutching at him like you'll float away if you don't anchor yourself to his body. He's everywhere. Filling you, surrounding you, breathing you in like you're the only thing keeping him alive.

His hands frame your face like he needs to feel all of you to believe this is real. His thumbs swipe at the damp skin under your eyes, like he's trying to catch the little gasps and wrecked sounds falling from your lips. His mouth finds your jaw, your throat, dragging open-mouthed kisses down your skin as he groans, low and breathless.

"You feel so fuckin' good," he pants, hips rocking harder now, the bed creaking with every deep push. "Could stay right here all fuckin' night, baby. Stuffed full of me... takin' every inch so good... fuck— look at you."*

His voice hits something deep in you—something raw and helpless—and your back arches off the bed like your body's chasing every word.

"You're killin' me," you gasp, barely able to hold yourself together. "Harry— please—* harder, I—fuck, I need—"*

You don't even finish. He growls, actually growls into your neck, like you've snapped whatever restraint he had left. He pulls back, grabs your hips, and slams back into you, so deep and rough you choke on a cry you can't hold in.

"Like that?" he rasps, voice shaking as his hips piston faster now, driving into you like he's making up for every second you both wasted pretending you didn't want this. "S'that what you fuckin' need, baby? You need me to ruin you properly, huh?"

You nod, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes—not from pain, not even from pleasure—but from the way he's looking at you like you're his entire fucking world.

"Yes," you whimper, breath catching on a sob you didn't know was there. "Please— ruin me—* all yours—* always—"

He groans again, shaking above you, forehead pressed to yours like he's trying to climb inside your skin. His breath fans hot across your mouth as he slows just a little, grinding deep again, hips rocking in filthy little circles that make your whole body lock up.

"That's it," he pants, "Let me feel you again, baby. Wanna feel you come all over my cock. Can you do that for me? Huh? Wanna hear you fall apart one more time."

You can barely nod, already so close you could taste it. You grab at his back, wrapping your legs tighter around him, pulling him deeper, faster, until you can't even think anymore.

"Harry— I—* fuck—* I'm gonna—"*

He doesn't stop. Doesn't let up. He keeps fucking you steady and deep, his hand sliding between your bodies, finding your clit again, rubbing fast messy circles that destroy you.

You come hard, stars bursting behind your eyes, your whole body locking up under him as you cry out his name loud enough to echo through the room.

You hear him groan so deep it's almost a snarl, feel him jerk, hips snapping faster now, losing his rhythm like he's chasing his own release.

"Where— fuck—* where do you want me, baby? Tell me—* fuck—"

Your head spins. Your body's still shaking, still buzzing, but you manage to drag him down, mouth at his ear, whispering the filthiest thing you've ever said in your life.

"Want you inside me... fill me up, Harry... please— want all of you."

He loses it. Full-body shuddering, hands gripping your hips so tight you'll probably bruise, burying himself deep with a wrecked cry as he comes inside you, hips rocking through every last pulse of it until he finally collapses on top of you, shaking and breathless.

Neither of you moves for a long time.

His body is heavy on top of you, but you don't care. You wrap your arms around him tighter, as if letting go might shatter whatever spell has just woven itself between your ribs. His breath fans hot and uneven across your neck, every exhale trembling like he's still coming down from it—like he doesn't quite know how to land.

You feel him shift slightly, just enough to brace his weight on his elbows again, careful not to crush you. His nose brushes yours as he pulls back to look at you, curls sticking to his damp forehead, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. You've never seen him like this before. Wrecked. Fragile. Wide-eyed and terrified in the best possible way.

He blinks, searching your face like he's waiting for you to wake up and realize this was a mistake.

"Are you okay?" he whispers, so quiet you almost don't hear it.

Your throat tightens. You reach up, cupping his jaw with both hands, pulling him closer until your lips brush softly over his.

"I've never been better," you breathe. "Promise."

You feel him sigh, like you've just cut every string holding him together. His forehead presses to yours again, eyes squeezing shut like he doesn't know how to say what he needs to say without falling apart.

"I—" His voice cracks. He pulls in a shaking breath. "I don't wanna ruin this. Don't wanna fuck this up."

Your heart breaks a little at how scared he sounds. Like you could somehow forget what just happened. Like you haven't already fallen so far there's no way back.

You trace your thumb along his jaw, tilting his face until he's looking at you again.

"You couldn't ruin this if you tried," you whisper. "I'm yours, Harry. I've been yours for so fucking long."

He lets out the softest sound—somewhere between a breath and a laugh—and leans in to kiss you again. This one's slower, softer. No heat, no urgency. Just yours. Just his.

You don't know how long you lie there tangled together, skin sticky, hearts pounding in sync. Long enough for the air to shift. Long enough for the weight of it all to settle over you both in the best kind of way.

When he finally rolls to his side, pulling you with him, tucking you into his chest like you belong there, you hear him murmur against your hair:

"You're not leavin' me after this, yeah?"

You smile, nose brushing his throat as you snuggle closer.

"Not a chance."

And you swear you feel him smile against your skin, arms tightening around you like he's never letting go.

Not tonight. Not ever.

***

@cloudyluun @gem1712 @dipmeinhoneyh @idk1990 @harrrrystylesslut @sparxx27 @likea-silhouette @fangirl509east @starryhaze-crystal @mads3502 @run-for-the-hills @twinklaei @belgianblondee @pbandnutella @maudie-duan @cat-loves-music @harrysgirl2003 @harrystyleshotwife @secretands-blog @dutchtheatrelore @angeldavis777 @idkidcfuboh @maddiesalvatore1839

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violetrainbow412-blog · 2 days ago

Text

Where Soft Things Grow 🌱 [B. R.]

Bob Reynolds x fem!reader

wc: 6.8k

summary: when Bob's therapist asks him to find an activity that will help him gain some control, he's forced to turn to you. That's just the first step in a series of events he never thought would happen.

masterlist

warnings: mental health (yk, canon stuff)

It had been almost a year since the last big mission. Since the previous time someone ended up in the hospital, or any of you were trapped in your own silence for weeks.

Bob was better. Not well, not completely. But better.

At the recommendation—and insistence—of the entire team, he had started going to therapy. It wasn't easy. It took him months to accept that he needed to talk to someone who didn't carry a gun or know his traumas firsthand.

So his therapist asked him to choose a recurring activity. Something nonviolent. Something he could maintain consistently, even on bad days.

Bob thought about learning to cook, write, draw… but nothing really convinced him.

Ultimately, he ended up in a corner of the tower, with three pots, two bags of soil, and a defeated expression: so, gardening it was. He had bought plants, not seeds, because he thought it would be easier that way. He followed the shop assistant's recommendations a bit: he bought mint, lavender, and basil.

He'd never had a plant in his life and hadn't even read an article about it, but he tried to remain as positive as possible. After all, that was the goal, wasn't it? With a little practice, he could learn, and besides, he figured it shouldn't be too difficult to achieve.

What he didn't understand was that plants didn't survive on just care and excess water. Bob watered every morning, without fail. Sometimes out of anxiety, other times out of fear of forgetting, other times because he convinced himself he was doing the right thing. After a week of this routine, the most logical thing happened: the mint turned yellow, the lavender wilted, and the poor basil gave up without a fight.

He stood in front of the pots, his brow furrowed, his hands caked with damp soil. His fingers trembled slightly as they clumsily plucked the withered leaves. For a moment, he considered simply throwing them away. Buying new ones. Pretending things had never gone wrong.

But that wasn't what they had asked of him in therapy.

"It's not about making it perfect," his therapist had told him, with that calmness that made him a little uncomfortable. "It's about allowing yourself to fail, and moving on. About caring, even when you don't know how."

Then, for some strange reason, he thought of you.

You once mentioned that you liked plants, having grown up with a mother who took care of them a ton. You might know a thing or two about that, so, without giving it much thought, he went looking for you.

He wandered around for a while until he found you in the shared kitchen, sitting on one of the stools. You had a steaming mug in your hands, and he hesitated before speaking.

"Hey," he finally said, his voice softer than usual, "Do you have a moment?"

You nodded, putting the cup aside and approaching cautiously.

"Hi. You okay?"

Bob shrugged uncomfortably. He hadn't dared mention his project to anyone, for fear of feeling overly scrutinized or pressured. But now, in front of you, his nails were still stained with dirt and the smell of dead basil permeated his T-shirt. He felt ridiculous.

"I'm… trying this plant-care thing," he began, sounding a little frustrated. "My therapist recommended it. But it was supposed to be easy."

You frowned, curious.

"Easy?"

He gave a short laugh, with a hint of embarrassment.

"She told me to choose a consistent activity, so I bought three plants. But I killed them in a week."

"Which plants?"

"Mint, basil and lavender"

"Hmm, they’re whimsical…" you murmured, clicking your tongue, more to yourself than to him. "Can I see them?"

He nodded almost immediately, and then the two of you set off, walking to the space he'd selected for his little project. As soon as you arrived, he noticed you scanning everything around you. Then you knelt to touch the withered leaves and damp earth.

When you stood up, you delivered a verdict:

"They’re too wet”

"But they need water," he replied in bewilderment.

Seeing him so lost touched you slightly and you smiled at him, understanding.

"How many times have you watered them?"

"Every morning"

"Oh! No, honey. You're drowning them. Not only do they need to be watered so often, it depends on the plant. They also need space, light, and rest. Just like you."

Although your voice came out kind, he felt annoyed with himself.

"This is stupid, I'll try something else."

"No, Bob. Don't be discouraged. Gardening is… it's a very good strategy for what your therapist is looking for. It requires time, care, discipline, and above all, patience." You emphasized the last word, making him smile. "What do you say I help you? We'll buy some new plants, and I'll tell you how to take care of them."

"Would you do that?"

"Of course. Especially if this can help you in your process. You'll see how much you'll grow fond of it over time."

After that conversation, he felt more encouraged about it. He thought maybe sharing it with you would get him more involved, as he felt a certain commitment to not letting you down. Plus, he enjoyed spending time with you.

That same afternoon, you went to a nursery, with plants completely different from the ones he'd bought at the supermarket. They looked more vibrant, with bright colors and a fresh, lively look.

While there, you explained to him which ones were best suited for indoors—because yes, he didn't know there were plants for both indoors and outdoors—and then he chose all shapes and sizes. Maybe he was being superficial, but again, the criterion for choosing was appearance.

When you returned, it was no longer just three sad flowerpots, but you entered the tower carrying a wooden box full of vegetation, fertilizer, a set of gardening tools, and a metal watering can.

"What are you two up to?"

Bucky and Yelena were sitting in the living room, watching you with a strange interest. They were probably discussing important matters, a mission or something along those lines. You simply told them it was Bob's assignment and then slipped off down the hall, motivated to set up the small green area.

"Plants need different things. Some require more water, more light, more time in the shade…"

As you explained, he arranged the pots around the space, listening attentively to your words. The patio was somewhat small, but spacious enough to function.

"They're like people. Each one likes something different, behaves differently, or has different roles..."

"You know, I chose gardening without much thought, but now I'm thinking I might tell all this to my therapist when she asks me why. Would you write it down for me?"

Bob was cute and kind, but now and then he would make jokes that always made you laugh.

"Okay, okay, I get it. I must sound crazy."

"No! I didn't mean that, no. I'm just saying it would make a lot more sense for me to explain it that way than to simply justify it by saying I thought it would be the easiest activity."

With a smile, you looked at him for a moment. Then you placed the pot of dying lavender in his hands.

"This one's for you. First lesson, lavender needs lots of sun. Put it in your bedroom window."

"Can it be saved?"

"Everything can be saved, Bob. You just need to give it a chance."

The man felt that action was poetic. Would you maintain that attitude toward everything? Even him?

"You're… you're very good to me. Thank you."

That caught you off guard, though it didn't seem strange to you. He had this habit of thanking you for everything, as if you were doing him a favor by treating him decently.

From then on, the garden played two important roles: a space of stillness and order for Bob and a quiet way for the rest of the team to coexist with him.

"Looks good."

"You think so?" he asked Yelena, who was watching him from the doorway.

Now he watered the plants once or twice a week, as you had instructed. You had even helped him design a schedule that he kept posted on the wall, to ease his anxiety about forgetting.

"Yes, I mean it. I brought you something, by the way."

The woman handed him a ceramic pot.

"A cactus?"

"Yes. This one doesn't die if you forget to water it."

The gesture warmed your friend's heart, and he made sure to put the pot—small enough to fit in just one hand—in a pretty spot. He assumed it needed sunlight and little water. Later, he checked with you to be sure.

That corner soon became Bob's adoration, obsessed with learning and taking the best possible care of his little garden.

You made compost with organic waste, you taught him how to prune, and he even had his own crop of medicinal or edible plants, which more than once managed to save the day.

“Fuck!"

"What's wrong, Walker?"

"This recipe calls for rosemary. And we don't have any."

"Take it from my garden," chimed in Bob, who was sitting on the couch trying to put together a puzzle.

"Which garden?"

"The one I have downstairs. It's a task my therapist gave me. It helps me relax and so on."

John looked at him, incredulous.

"And do you have rosemary in that place?"

"Mhm. Rosemary, basil, mint, thyme, cilantro…"

He mentally reviewed the list and then swore he saw the soldier's face light up, probably already working on a couple of recipes. From that moment on, he became the official supplier of herbs within the tower. Anyone who was cooking and needed a condiment, or who fancied a medicinal tea, came to him.

On another occasion, Ava had heard murmurings in the hallway. She thought it was an intruder, then she thought Bob was having a breakdown, and when she got closer, she finally found him chatting excitedly. However, upon closer inspection, she realized he was alone.

"I didn't imagine you as someone who talks to plants."

The woman surprised him and he, logically, jumped into his own place. Then he smiled at her.

"Hi. I read somewhere it helps them grow. Honestly, I think it's helping me more than them."

"Well, if talking to them keeps you sane, then keep talking to them."

A soft chuckle escaped his chest as he stroked the leaves like one would stroke a pet.

"I discovered that plants are less complicated than people, anyway. That's why I like spending time with them."

"Well, it smells like my grandmother's patio."

Even if they joked around, everyone in the tower just let Bob be. If he was comfortable with the activity and it got him out of the darkness of his room, it was fine with them.

But to be honest, you were the one who was enjoying this hobby of his the most. In your free time, you went there hoping to find him, and from time to time, you helped him rearrange his pots, since some followed Yelena's example and bought plants from him whenever they could.

One of those days, you were immersed in your work when you heard Bob speak:

"You know, just being here makes this whole place feel different. More beautiful."

You laughed.

"Are you talking to that plant or are you talking to me?"

"Both. But you don't need that much sunlight."

You stopped turning the humus in the soil to watch him, surprised by his response to your joke. But Bob seemed to say that as if it were natural, for he didn't flinch in the least at your gaze; he continued pruning with the same delicacy and concentration as always. The mere thought of him thinking that about your presence made you blush, and although you tried to continue working, your concentration was disrupted considerably.

One day, however, the inevitable happened.

Your friend hadn't had an episode for a while, but something—you didn't know what—managed to unsettle him. It wasn't immediate or explosive. There were no screams, no blows, no prolonged absences. It was more like a fog that slowly settled over him, dulling his calm glow.

At first, no one noticed. Bob was still just as attentive, just as polite. But he stopped eating with the others. He became quieter, more methodical, more isolated. Yelena was the first to frown when he turned down a card game. Bucky said nothing, but watched him out of the corner of his eye with silent concern. John, on the other hand, was more direct:

"Everything okay, Bobby?"

"Excellent," he replied, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Ava left some snacks in the cupboard. Alexei offered to help him with an installation that clearly didn't need any help. Everyone noticed, in their own way. But no one found a suitable way in.

Except you.

Or maybe you were just in the right place when the lights stayed on past midnight.

From the common room, you could see, through the hallway windows, the warm light from Bob's room. It wasn't unusual for him to stay up late—he hadn't slept much in years—but there was something about the way that light didn't flicker, about the static shadow behind the curtain, that gave you a hunch.

So you walked up to his door and knocked softly.

"Bob?"

Nothing.

"Can I come in?"

You thought maybe he had just fallen asleep with the lights on, or maybe he just didn't want to talk to anyone. A few seconds later, as you were about to leave, you heard his footsteps shuffling toward the door.

When he opened your eyes, his eyes were red-rimmed, and the dark circles under them were more pronounced than usual. What worried you was that he didn't try to fake it. He didn't try to smile, or straighten up. He just stepped aside to let you in.

The room was messy. Not in a catastrophic sense, but the signs were there: clothes on the chair, a forgotten cup, books piled up as if he'd tried—in vain—to read one.

"No sleep?"

"I was finishing some things," you replied simply. You knew what he was trying to do; he wanted to divert attention from himself. "Do you want to talk about this?"

"Talk about what?" he asked. He wasn't looking at you.

You remained silent, and so did he. But you didn't move a muscle, making it clear that you didn't intend to leave, even if he didn't say a word. You would stay there and keep him company. Finally, he sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders hunched. Defeated.

He was slow to respond.

"I don't know. I just… felt bad. Not because of anything specific, I just think it built up."

You sat down next to him. You didn't say anything. You just listened to him take a deep breath.

"I thought I was better," he continued. "And I am. But sometimes it all comes back. And it's like my body remembers before my mind does."

You didn't hug him. Not yet. But you moved your leg closer to his, letting him feel your presence. It was Bob who leaned toward you, placing his head on your shoulder.

"Do you want me to say something or would you prefer that I not?"

"I don't want to talk. Just stay."

You spent several minutes like that, in silence. At some point, he closed his eyes, exhausted, and although he didn't fall asleep, it seemed like his body was finally letting go of something it had been carrying for days.

At some point, you slipped your hand into his, which he gladly accepted. The way your thumb caressed his knuckles made him feel calmer, as if he could focus on that instead of his own thoughts.

"You need to rest"

"I can't. I tried, but I can't."

"But you must do it."

Your tone, though firm, tried to be as empathetic as possible. Suddenly, your gaze fell on the flowerpot resting on the windowsill, and an idea popped into your mind.

Bob looked devastated when you stood up from your seat.

"Where are you going?"

"I'll get you something to help you sleep, okay? Wait a minute."

As a farewell, you brushed his hair with your fingers and he nodded without saying anything.

You then went to the kitchen, where a jar full of already dried lavender flowers rested –product of the garden, of course– you placed them in the infuser and it went straight to the fire.

Then you went to your room. The bottle of oil you used on some sleepless nights rested on one of the shelves, and you took the opportunity to put on a hoodie, since for some reason Bob's room felt frigid. As if it reflected the mood of its occupant.

When you returned—cup in hand—you found him in the same position, almost as if he hadn't noticed your absence. His gaze was lost, a hint of sadness shining in his tired eyes.

"Hey"

"You won't be able to sleep if you have all the lights on, for starters," you smiled. You then adjusted the lighting to amber. "Drink this."

Bob took the cup without saying anything, but his fingers brushed yours as he did so. He stared at the contents for a few seconds, then brought the rim to his lips and drank… too quickly.

"It's hot!"

"I noticed," he murmured, his lips parted, rubbing the roof of his mouth with his tongue.

You couldn't help but laugh, your tone soft and not inviting mockery. He imitated you.

"Let me see," you said, leaning in a little closer, as if you could actually do something about it. Your eyes met his, and for a moment, neither of you moved.

"I'm fine,"

"Be more careful."

Bob responded with a faint smile before bringing the cup to his lips and gently blowing on the drink, as if that slow gesture might also soothe the turmoil inside his chest. Meanwhile, you poured a few drops of the oil onto your fingertips and then knelt in front of him, occupying the space between his legs. Your knees gently touched the carpet, and your hands, delicate but determined, rose to brush away a few unruly strands of hair that had fallen over his forehead. You touched him with an almost ceremonial tenderness, stroking his temples as if each stroke brought some relief.

Bob let out a long, weary sigh. The warm scent of the oil—lavender, or maybe something with sandalwood—drifted softly into his senses, and within seconds his eyelids fluttered closed, overcome by the contrast between the warmth of your touch and the coolness the ointment left on his skin. His body began to relax, releasing the tension built up in his shoulders, neck, jaw... but his heart, that traitor, only raced.

He felt your proximity like a magnetic field: the warmth of your thighs, the calm cadence of your breathing, the barely perceptible touch of your fingers as they slid closer to his cheekbones. You were too close, and yet, not close enough.

If he leaned in a little—just a little—his nose would touch yours. He didn't.

"Have you finished your tea?"

Your voice broke the warm bubble that enveloped him and anchored him back to the room. Bob blinked, disoriented for a second, reminding himself that this was all part of an attempt to get him to sleep. So he feigned normalcy. He nodded slowly as you walked away, leaving an invisible gap in the air that he instantly felt.

He held the mug in his hands for a moment longer, as if the warmth trapped in the ceramic could fill the emptiness you left in his chest. Then he took a sip and placed it on the nightstand, next to the remnants of possibilities.

Suddenly, his movements became slower, almost mechanical, as if his body were finally beginning to give in to a tiredness he'd been ignoring for days. And you stood there, staring at him without intruding. The room had that kind of silence that comes only after a storm: a soft echo of what hurt, but also the promise that everything will calm down.

"You should sleep too," he said, softly and quietly.

His eyes remained open. Not because he wasn't sleepy, but because he was still watching you.

It was a silent gaze, without expectations or intention to disturb. But there was something about it—the way his eyelids softened, the way the corners of his lips slightly curved, the way he looked at you as if you were the only certainty he had at that moment—that overflowed with tenderness. An adoration so deep he didn't seem to realize he was letting it show.

"Yeah. I'll go to my room when you're asleep," you replied, unconcerned.

Something stirred inside him. Not physically, but inside. That sentence struck a soft blow to his chest. He didn't want you to leave. He didn't want to be alone when the silence returned with all its weight. But he didn't want to say it out loud either.

How do you ask for something like that? How can you ask someone to stay, to share a bed with you just to ward off the shadow of loneliness?

He thought about thanking you and staying silent. He thought about accepting that small consolation without risking more. But just as the thought began to hurt him a little inside, you looked at him with the same gentleness with which he looked at you and asked:

"Would it make you feel better if I stayed?"

And it was as if you'd read his soul. Bob blinked once, surprised at how quickly his chest filled with something warm. He nodded with unexpected, almost awkward energy, as if yes had won out over restraint.

"Yes. Yes... please."

"Do you have a blanket to put on the floor?"

"What? No! No need. You can sleep in the bed… huh, only if you want to."

A smile crossed your face, and then you moved first, as if you understood perfectly. You silently took off your shoes and settled on the side closest to the wall. He took a little longer, as if he was doubting whether that was really possible. But he lay down.

The mattress was narrow, and although neither of you sought contact, the closeness was inevitable. Your breathing began out of sync, but gradually found a similar rhythm. The room, with its warm light and soft shadows, no longer felt so cold.

Bob kept his eyes open for a while, fixed on a spot on the ceiling. He seemed to be trying to record the way everything felt: the scent of oil still hanging in the air, the distant murmur of the city beyond the windows, the nearby warmth of someone who wasn't running away from their sadness. The sensation was strange, not because it was uncomfortable, but because it was new. And newness, for someone like him, usually came with scars.

He thought of nights past, in beds where there was only a thick silence, where darkness felt like a threat. Of the years when insomnia was the only constant and abrupt awakenings were confused with fragments of a blurred childhood. There had never been anyone who came into his room to check on him. There had never been a cup of something hot or hands on his temples to help him calm down. That's why this was too much. Almost unbearable, so intimate.

And yet, there you were. You didn't push, you didn't say more than necessary. You were just there. And that, while it disarmed him, also sustained him. He didn't understand how, but your presence slowed down his chaotic psyche.

"Are you comfortable?"

"Yes, calm down. Are you?"

"Better than ever"

He didn't turn toward you. He didn't reach for your hand. But he knew, with a certainty he couldn't explain, that if he woke up in the middle of the night, you'd still be there. And that, for someone like him, was something of a miracle.

He fell asleep before he realized it. Not with the depth of someone who has never known fear, but with the peace of someone who, for the first time, is not alone with his ghosts.

That day was etched in his memory as one of those nights that don't seem extraordinary at first, but which, over time, take on a different meaning. It wasn't what you said or what you did. It was everything you didn't say. What you left hanging in the air, in the comfortable silences, in the way the warm light seemed to embrace the space between your bodies.

From then on, something changed. Slowly, without any big announcements, Bob began to walk differently. It wasn't obvious to everyone, but you noticed. On good days, his voice sounded clearer; on bad days, he no longer isolated himself completely. There was a kind of new pulse beating beneath his usual stillness. A faint thread that kept him more present.

Little by little, he resumed a more consistent rhythm in his life. Not perfect, not linear, but steadier. He slept better. He allowed himself to be accompanied. And although he still preferred brief conversations, he began to offer you small gestures that spoke louder than any words. His presence felt lighter, less cornered by the weight of the world.

And then there was the garden. That green corner, once merely a clumsy attempt at his therapy, became a reflection of everything he was trying to rebuild. The plants were more organized, more alive. Now and then, you find new shoots you didn't remember seeing before. Pots with freshly turned soil were rearranged; he had even started planting his seeds instead of buying the plants.

One ordinary afternoon—after one of those workouts that left your muscles crying out for respite—you took a long, leisurely shower. The steam washed away the exhaustion from your body, and for a while you thought about nothing. When you stepped out, the towel still hanging around your neck and your damp hair sticking to your skin, the first thing you saw upon entering the kitchen was your water bottle on the table… and next to it, a small bouquet.

You stopped dead in your tracks.

There was no note. Just the flowers: a modest handful, wrapped in brown paper, with no need to look perfect. A few marigolds opened as if they'd caught the sun, a couple of sprigs of still-fresh lavender, and in the center, two white begonias.

You gently ran your fingers over the petals, as if afraid of ruining the gesture. For a second, a very stupid one, it didn't occur to you who had done such a thing.

"And that?" Yelena murmured, next to you. She had also showered and was looking for something to chew on.

"They were… next to my water bottle. They just appeared."

"Huh, what a mystery."

"I know," you murmured sincerely, not having noticed the sarcasm in your friend's voice. She looked at you for a second, waiting for the punchline to a joke that never came. "What?"

“You seriously don't know who gave them to you?”

"Yours?" you tried your luck. She laughed, with that characteristic raspy sound, and shook her head in amusement.

"Maybe it is a mystery. If only we knew someone who took up gardening recently and practically kisses the ground you walk on…"

Suddenly, everything clicked. And you felt stupid for not having figured it out sooner.

"Bob?"

"I highly doubt Bucky is the romantic type. And Walker… well, he's Walker."

You remained silent. You knew that even a single syllable from your lips would condemn you forever, and you didn't want Yelena to know about your feelings so soon. You had to talk to him first.

"Huh, yeah, I think you're right. I'll put them in my room then. See you."

"Your room is across the hall…" she observed, smiling mischievously.

The worst part? She was right.

"Yeah! I'm just going to get something I… forgot in the training room."

The blonde didn't buy a word of your poor lie and made sure to remember the situation so she could annoy you in the future.

You walked quickly until you reached the door of his room. You knocked, but no one answered. You assumed he was probably in the garden, so you went there, certain you'd find him watering the garden or simply admiring the surroundings. The smile you had on your face was replaced by a frown. He wasn't there either. Had he left the tower? Maybe to buy something, you thought, although it wasn't logical.

You wandered through a few floors, hoping to run into him in one of the hallways, but it was all in vain. It was just you and the modest flowers you were holding. Finally, an unknown force whispered in your ear that he might be on the roof. It was a secluded spot you sometimes used to do things off camera—which Valentina monitored and watched like a psycho—so you thought it would be good to check. After all, you had nothing to lose if he wasn't there either.

As you stepped out, the drafts hit your ears and ruffled your hair. It took only a few steps to see his figure, near the shore in a contemplative pose with his arms crossed, as if he were hugging himself.

Of course he realized he was no longer alone, but when he turned and saw you, his expression softened considerably.

"How did you find me?"

"Were you hiding?"

Your question caught him off guard, and so he didn't say anything. You walked over to stand beside him.

"For someone afraid of heights, this doesn't seem like the best place."

"I like to see the sky. I try not to look down."

A chuckle escaped you. Bob looked at what you were holding and then pretended he hadn't.

"Look what I found. No note, no nothing."

"And do you like them?"

"Of course, they're beautiful. I wonder if it was Alexei, he's usually cheesy."

His brow furrowed. You stifled a laugh at his obvious annoyance.

"Do you think they're cheesy?"

"Coming from him, yes. If someone else were responsible, it would be… sweet. Even romantic, I think."

The look you shared was one of complicity. He knew you knew, but neither of you wanted to dare be the first to speak. So, when there were no words, he decided to reach out his hand to reach yours; a trembling, delicate, and experimental touch.

His fears evaporated when you smiled and leaned a little closer, forcing him to embrace you. His free arm cupped your lower back, and the flowers in your other hand wound up on his back. Suddenly, the chill in the air was overshadowed by the body heat you were suddenly sharing.

"I would have liked to give them to you in person, but… I think I was a little afraid."

"Why would you be afraid?"

"I don't know. I thought maybe you wouldn't like them."

"I was going to like them anyway, Bob. Only because you're the one giving them to me," you swore. Against your hair, he suppressed a smile. "Where did you get them?"

"I took care of them"

"But I didn't see them in the garden."

"It's just that I don't have them there. I put them somewhere else to… well, you know. To surprise you” you smiled. "I wanted to give you something nice as a thank you for everything you've done for me."

You pulled away, just a little, to look into his eyes. He was so tall that, if he'd wanted, he could have kissed you on the forehead.

"That's what friends do: support each other. You don't need to thank me for anything."

"But I wanted to. Maybe it's not much, but…"

"Don't say that," you interrupted. "These flowers are a symbol of the progress you've made. They need sun, water, soil, companionship, care… just like you. You keep them alive because you love them, and because at the same time, they lift you, even on bad days."

For a second, Bob felt like this didn't just apply to his garden. He wasn't a great connoisseur of love, yet he knew he loved you. And you were the reason he was getting better; the mere thought of being with you was what got him out of bed on days when he just wanted to lie there until he became nothing.

Perhaps he was lost in those thoughts for too long, because all you caught was his intense gaze on you. A soft whisper from your lips brought him back to reality.

"Come a little closer."

The phrase was gentle, but laden with something that made the world shrink at that instant. He obeyed, almost without thinking, and you, on tiptoe, leaned your face toward his. The gesture wasn't invasive, it didn't exert any pressure, and it wasn't meant to be intense. It was simply a kiss, gentle and delicate.

"Is this okay?"

Your voice was barely a murmur between his lips, but Bob felt it in the center of his chest, as if something inside him had suddenly loosened. He didn't know how to respond. Any words he could utter seemed too clumsy, too small for what he was feeling.

So instead of speaking, he leaned over you, demanding a much-needed kiss. Your small sigh caught between your mouths, and that was all the permission he needed. Your arms rose to surround him, and Bob's hands—large, honest, trembling—slid down your sides with an almost reverent slowness, stopping just short of crossing the line of caution.

You didn't believe he could kiss you with such passion, as if he needed your breath to live. Suddenly, everything became a chorus of lip smacking, sighs, and stifled breaths that died in each other's throats. The scent of the flowers, the natural aroma of your bodies, and the taste of the man were making you completely dizzy.

"Fucking Jesus Christ!"

The scream forced you to immediately break away, and then you saw John and Ava standing right in front of you. Both of their faces were twisted in an expression that combined surprise and disgust.

"What are you doing here, you perverts?"

"What are you doing here?" you countered. Bob was too flushed to form a coherent sentence.

"We came to smoke some weed. Bucky doesn't like us doing it inside, and Alexei forbade us."

"Why were you two swallowing each other?"

"That's none of your business, Ava. If you don't say anything, we'll just walk away and not say anything."

You offered no other options, as you barely finished speaking when you took Bob's hand and led him toward the door leading back to the apartment. The door closed with a dull creak behind you, and the echo of laughter lingered up above, floating on the cold drafts. You walked down the steps in silence, walking quickly but awkwardly, as if neither of you knew quite where to put your feet or what to say.

Once on the ground floor, the two of you stopped halfway down. Bob's face was still red up to his ears and he couldn't look at you directly. You, for your part, weren't immune either: adrenaline was still pumping in your temples, but beneath it was a smile you couldn't quite contain.

"Well…" you began, clearing your throat, as if trying to regain some composure.

"That was…" Bob tried, but then he scratched the back of his neck and let out a sigh that barely contained a laugh. "Unexpected. And very… public."

"Yes. Although technically we were alone. Until we weren't."

Bob gave a short, low laugh, as if he didn't know whether to laugh or hide under a table.

"I'm pretty sure I'll never be able to look them in the eye again."

"Relax, I'll take care of the looks. Just stay alive."

He looked at you then. Finally. As if humor didn't diminish the value of everything he'd felt up there, in that overwhelming moment. And you saw something in his eyes: a deep gratitude, a shy but real affection, and a hint of fear, as if he still found it hard to believe this was really happening.

"About that, I… I think I got excited and… sorry if it was too much…"

"Bob."

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

You laughed again, more freely this time, and so did he. The atmosphere between you lightened, as if you'd both let out something you'd been holding in for a long time. Suddenly, the laughter ended, and you two stared at each other again like a pair of fools in love.

"I have to make sure I thank my therapist."

"Why?"

"Because if she hadn't forced me to find a damn hobby, I probably wouldn't have kissed you like I just did."

A blush spread across your face. Then you laughed.

"Let's just say it was faster. Because eventually, it would have happened."

"You think so?"

"I know it, handsome."

Suddenly, it was as if things had changed, but at the same time, the chemistry between you was still as strong as the first time. He was your friend, after all, and you were his.

Bob knew he shouldn't rely on someone's affection or presence to be okay, but honestly, knowing that you reciprocated his feelings and wanted to continue spending time with him became a powerful incentive.

"Do you want us to accuse them with Bucky?"

"John and Ava?"

"I think telling Alexei would be more humiliating for them, right? He'd probably lecture them for hours and search their rooms."

"But we said we wouldn't tell anyone…"

Bob's honesty and the way he looked at you, concerned, made you smile. He could be so sweet sometimes.

"I assure you they'd do the same for us. At least we'll have an advantage. Come on, let's go."

"Wait," he said. He had gently grabbed your wrist to keep you there. "One and that's it."

You didn't need to ask what he meant, because his lips crashing against yours gave you the answer. Although it was brief, the contact maintained the passionate spirit of a few minutes before.

"Will this become a habit?"

"You don't want to?"

He sounded scared. Even disappointed, you dare say. A sly smile spread across your face. You looked at him calmly, as if you wanted to make sure he was really listening to you.

"I asked you because I wanted to know if this… if what just happened… is something you want too. Not because I don't want it."

Bob didn't say anything at first. His eyes moved between yours, as if trying to read between the lines, decipher if there was anything else hidden. But your expression was transparent. You were being honest.

"So…" he murmured, "why ask?"

"Because I care about you. Because I don't want this to become something that just happened on impulse, for a nice night, because of everything we've been dragging along. I don't want you to kiss me just because you were feeling grateful or vulnerable."

That last word hung in the air, but you didn't back down. He held it in silence. His lips pressed slightly together, and when he answered, his voice was deep and steady.

"It wasn't because of that."

You nodded, though you didn't let your guard down completely.

"I had to make sure"

Bob took a deep breath. Then, with a gesture that was clumsier than calculated, he took your hand again, as if he still needed confirmation that you were there, that you hadn't wandered off.

"I'm not good at this. I don't have much experience… in consciously choosing someone. In staying when things get real."

"That doesn't scare me," you said. "As long as you don't run away if I become real."

That response drew a brief, dry but genuine laugh from him. He looked at you as if he'd just seen you for the first time, as if your openness made him understand that you weren't expecting a perfect story. Just a shared story.

"Then yes," he said finally. "I want it to last. If you want it too."

You gave him an approving smile, and then he tried to walk down the hall. It was you who stopped him this time.

"One and done,"

You kissed him again, more briefly this time, but with every intention in the world. Then you took his hand naturally, as if it were something you'd always done.

And even though you didn't say anything else, the way you walked together was enough to understand that you would strive to overcome whatever came. Together.

#bob reynolds #sentry #the void #bob reynolds x reader #sentry x reader #bob reynolds fanfic #thunderbolts fanfic #bob reynolds x you #thunderbolts #the new avengers #the new avengerz #lewis pullman #thunderbolts fluff #bob reynolds fluff #sentry fluff #robert reynolds #robert “bob” reynolds

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papercranesandinkstains · 1 day ago

Text

Midnights

Summary: You guys never could get your timing right. Or could you?

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

AN: This is the first time I have ever published a written fic, so please please please be kind. I don't know if I will leave this up or if I will do more, but I just wanted to try it out... Thank you for reading!

Masterlist

The two of you had been playing this game for long enough. The back and forth. Committing your hearts to one another, then jumping and running the second the rain started. Waiting for the storm to subside and then your phone would light up late at night, sending you right back down the rabbit hole that always seemed to land you right back in his bed, skin pressed together and air filled with unspoken promises that the two of you had finally gotten it right.

You never had.

But the idea was warm, like most dreams are. Tangled up through years of almost confessions and jealous rages, but by the time the stars settled in the sky, the two of you would be right back where you always were. In love, but not. Together, but alone. Committed to keeping the other for yourselves, but not willing to take the final plunge.

That’s how you found yourself tonight, red cup pressed into the palm of your hand as your lips curl up into a small smile while you pretend you are listening to the very animated story John B is giving you by the fire. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to listen. You found John B quite entertaining under normal circumstances and with the little comments sprinkled in from JJ and the warmth from the beer in your hand, you would normally be a giggling fool tripping over your feet to hear more.

Maybe you would have been if you hadn’t seen him walk in, all smug smiles and blue eyes as he makes his way around the party. He’s careful to move around your group. Not that you notice. Okay, you do notice. You always do. That’s his plan all along. After yet another argument about him not knowing how to actually apologize with his words instead of the ghost of his lips in the middle of the night, you had sworn you were done.

You were done.

He’s the one who showed up in the stupid blue button up you had gotten him for his birthday lifetimes ago, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and buttons undone knowing how you felt about how it made his eyes stand out. You’d have to be blind to not catch the watch wrapped snugly around his wrist, silver and flickering by the firelight with the unmistakable carving of your initials on the side of it. He was doing it on purpose. You knew he would play dirty. He always did. Avoiding you so that you would have to be the one to make the first move no matter who was in the wrong- even if it was almost always him.

So, you were ignoring him back. The glances you snuck in his direction were because you were still a girl at the end of the day. Enjoying the sight of him and caving were two very different things. Rafe Cameron is beautiful. He knows it. To make it worse, he knows you know it. You can’t let him win. Not this time. The longest the two of you have held out is three days.

Tonight is day four.

Your eyes leave his face again, turning your sight back to John B who just rolls his eyes playfully and dodges a stick that Kiara throws at him for some obscene comment he made when you were too busy staring at your- When you were busy staring at Rafe.

The beer is warm on your tongue, a little gross but just enough to keep your attention off of the way Rafe throws his head back to laugh at something Topper is saying to him, hand finding his shoulder. After the time you have spent away from each other, watching his fingers land on anybody else drops a stone in your stomach. He’s like a drug and you never really noticed how addicted you are until his hands aren’t on you. The cup in your hand is drained in an instant, earning you a cheer from JJ, who nudges your shoulder and effectively drops your cup right out of your hand.

“JJ, what the fuck. I was-”

“If you need another drink, baby, I’d be more than willing to help you out.”

You straighten up as the deep voice pops up from behind you, pressed so closely behind you that you can almost feel the words rattling around in his chest. You don’t turn around. Instead, you stand and watch as JJ makes a not-so apologetic face before he is shaking his head and grabbing John B, promises of keg stands and staying out of “relationship drama”.

As if you could even call it that.

Still, your chest floods with a warmth only he can give you. Not that you would let him know that. Especially not when you are still trying to prove a point. You’re stronger than him. Rafe Cameron is used to batting his eyelashes and getting what he wants. It’s no surprise when you finally turn yourself around and meet his eyes that what he has decided he wants is you.

“I’m all good,” you say quickly with the flash of a polite smile.

He smirks at you, tilting his head in that stupidly arrogant way that makes you unsure if you want to strangle him or marry him. He holds out a wine cooler to you, glass bottle extended out like a peace offering. It’s his way of apologizing. Coming over to you at a party is a first, but this isn’t. Gifts instead of him actually admitting that he was wrong. You won’t fall for it. No matter how nicely the light of the fire catches his face or how good he smells.

You just raise an eyebrow at him, crossing your arms over your chest. It’s a challenge. You both know that, and usually he would be ticking his jaw and throwing you over his shoulder. He hadn’t exactly made his affections for you a secret in public, one too many punches landing on the bodies of boys who hadn’t quite gotten the memo you were spoken for. Not that you could blame them. You never got one either.

Instead, he puts the bottle down on the log your friends had abandoned to give you space and wipes his hands off on his jeans. The two of you stand like that for a moment, ignoring the curious glances and quiet whispers of the crowds around you. You two weren’t strangers to the occasional public standoff, but those usually entailed the two of you just yelling at each other. Neither of you says anything. Just a staredown to see who is going to break first.

It’s always you. You had a weakness for pretty boys with soft smiles reserved just for you. Danger wrapped up in selective kindness that only found itself extended to you. You fell for it every time, and everyone knows you’ll fall for it again this time. It’s just a matter of when.

For the first time, he beats you to the punch.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, “I’ll give it to you. You know I will.”

The scoff is slipping through your lips before he finishes his sentence, partially in disbelief at him actually making the first move and the rest because he is standing in front of you again beating around the bush and not just owning his shit.

“There’s nothing you have that I want.”

The smile that breaks across is genuine, blue eyes shining in the darkness, and it makes your heart stop for just a second. Just a second. You won’t be broken by a pretty smile. Plenty of people smile. Your face flushing is because of the heat crackling beside you, not because of your- whatever he is.

“I’d say lying isn’t cute on you, but then I would be lying. Everything looks good on you. I would look even better-”

You shove at his chest, giving him a glare as you glance around at the ears that have perked up around you. You flip the first set of eyes you catch off, middle finger lingering in the air and earning a chuckle from the boy in front of you when the stranger turns away in embarrassment.

“What do you want, Rafe?”

You're tired of it now. The back and forth. He is doing exactly what he always does, and the space hasn’t changed anything. You know this isn’t how things should be. You need to get out of this before your resolve crumbles. You aren’t asking for a miracle, but the longer you stand this close to him, a miracle would be what they need to get you off of him.

“You.”

Quick. Simple. Said without thinking, and in a breath that sounds so sure that your heart soars. You allow it a second before you are snatching it back, shaking your head as you continue to stare at him.

“You’ve had me long enough.”

Your shoulder knocks into his as you brush past him, finally tearing your eyes away and setting your sights on the parking lot. You came to have a nice night, and you are about two seconds away from jumping his bones or jumping off a bridge.

Warm fingers wrap around your wrist, touch feather-light but grounding. You don’t turn around to look at him. Your resolve is breaking fast, and if you look at him for a second longer, you will forget about the apology you are wanting. He has a way of bringing you in, and you always let him.

“What do you want me to say?” he asks, giving your wrist a slight tug. He wants you to look at him, but you don’t give in. “That I’m sorry? I am. I’m sorry. I never wanted to make you feel like I’m not in this.”

Your shoulders drop, teeth biting into the inside of your lip. Tears are burning in your eyes, cheeks burning as the alcohol and his words both settle into your being. It’s an apology. Not a good one, but a first. Are firsts ever really good? You aren’t too sure as your mind focuses on the way his thumb traces a circle over your wrist.

“Or do you want me to say that I love you?”

You are stumbling away from him, snatching your wrist back against your chest, cradling it like his words sliced it somehow. Your eyes find him, searching for the punchline. He just looks back at you, eyes soft in a way that they only ever are for you in the safety of his bed. Never in public.

“Because I do,” he says.

You just stare at him, mouth open as you try to find something to say. You want to scream at him. Your palms itch to reach down and throw the sand underneath your feet at him. He can’t just meet your radio silence with his own for four days after the two of you have gone back and forth for so long and then stand here and confess at a party full of people you don’t even really know.

“You’re being mean.”

He shakes his head at your words, taking a step towards you. It’s just a little one, but when you allow it, suddenly he is standing inches from you. Blue eyes are staring down at you and suddenly the rest of the party is gone.

“I love you,” he says the words this time, “I’m tired of not saying it. Calling this what it is.”

“And what exactly do you think this is?”

The tone of your voice cuts through all of the warmth you are feeling. It’s too warm. You are going to melt standing here and you aren’t even standing next to the fire anymore. He’s too close. You two don’t do this. Feelings? Barely when you are alone. In public? Not happening.

Well, maybe not before. Tonight is different.

“You’re mine,” his voice is firm. “You just have to let yourself be.”

His hand finds yours again, pulling your wrist out of your palm and entangling your hands together. His fingers slide into yours like they have a million times. Maybe they have. He’s let it slip before that you were made for him, but it’s moments like these where you think maybe he could be made for you.

He’s right. You are his. You always have been. The two of you have run from each other for so long that you aren’t sure you actually know how to stop. He is standing in front of you, holding your hand and offering you exactly what you have always wanted. The ache in your chest is deep, heart rate thundering in your ears, but for the first time, your feet are planted underneath you.

“You can’t take it back.”

His laugh floods you with warmth, the ache in your chest settling as he tugs you forward, free hand coming to rest on the back of your neck. You are surrounded by him, his forehead touching yours as he breathes you in for what feels like the first time in a lifetime and you find that you aren’t dreading the morning already.

For the first time, the two of you are really standing together and nobody is walking away.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And when your lips touch his, you find yourself thinking that maybe this is what forever can feel like.

#rafe cameron x reader #obx #obx rafe cameron #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron #rafe obx #rafe cameron outer banks #rafe x reader #rafe x you #rafe x y/n #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe outer banks #outerbanks rafe #outerbanks #outer banks

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letsgetrowdy43 · 2 days ago

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The first night alone —

Luke Hughes x reader

Request: 🐞 "you put a blanket over me when i was sleeping? what are we, an old married couple?" with luke! maybe they had only started dating and she’s surprised

Warnings/notes: Here is the first blurb of the celly!! I read a fic similar to this on Marauders tumblr (I can't find the original, but if I do, I'll tag them!!), so credit to the individual who inspired this whole blurb!! Warning of a tiny bit of sexually suggestive comments, but nothing detailed!!

Rowan’s summer celly!!

There was something nerve-racking about the first time Luke invited his girlfriend to stay the night at his apartment without he prescence of his older brother creeping aorund every corner.

The season had come to an unsatisfactory ending.

Jack was back in Michigan, rehabbing his shoulder. Quinn was on a tour of Europe with Elias and a few of his other Swedish team members. And Luke was still in Jersey, packing up his life to head back to the lakehouse to be with his family.

But for now, he was living in the blissful honeymoon phase with his girlfriend of a little over a month, as he prepared to be apart from her for a few weeks while she completed her teaching practicum.

So for the next week he was soaking up as much time with her before he packed his car and drove home, which led to tonight.

Her first time spending the night together, just the two of them.

He made her dinner before she got there, so she could get home from the high school where she was working and immediately have something to eat.

Then they went on a short walk to get dessert from the cafe located at the end of the block. Hands intertwined, dressed up in spring coats, as she recounted the horrible day she had with the class she was subbing.

And finally, when they got home, the sun began to set, and the weight of intimacy fell over them as they both realized how domestic the whole dynamic of living on their own felt.

"It's so quiet when Jack isn't here," Luke grinned, his head lying on her torso as she played with his curls, the two sprawled out on one another. "I kind of miss him," she added, looking down as she watched his eyes slowly shut, basking in the feeling of her fingertips scratching against his scalp, "especially his movie commentaries, feels a little too quiet."

Luke manuvered his body so he was now laying on his stomach, looking up at her as his hands moved up to draw shapes on her skin.

"I guess I miss him too," he joked before pressing a kiss to the exposed skin of her torso.

A grin slowly broke out on his face as he realized what the absence of Jack meant for the night. She could feel his smile against her skin, her hands cupping his jaw to make him look at her.

"You have that look in your eyes," she faked annoyance. "Just thinking about you... and maybe a little less clothing," he said, playing wth the waistband of her shorts, to which he was met with a gentle nudge to watch the movie instead. "Watch the movie you begged me to put on, you freak."

And with that, they fell back into silence, the lull of the screen pulling her into a light sleep as Luke continued to tickle the skin of her arm.

Before he knew it, the movie was over, she was out like a light, and there was still a sink full of dishes calling his name. So he carefully sat up, draping the throw blanket she bought the boys after deeming their apartment lacked 'warmth,' and he headed to the kitchen to clean everything up, so when she woke up, they could shower and immediately crawl into bed.

When she woke up twenty minutes later to the lake of a 21-year-old man lying on top of her, she frowned a little before snuggling into the blanket tucked under her chin.

She blinked a few times to wake herself up as she sat up, taking in the soft fabric of the blanket draped over her, one that she knew Luke must have given her while he went off to do his own thing.

The girl wrapped it around herself and went to look for him, finding him wiping off any of the remaining crumbs from the counter.

His grin grew the second he saw her, brows pulled together as her eyes adjusted to the light, hair a little tousled from the pillow her head lay.

"Good nap?" "You put a blanket over me while I was sleeping? What are we, an old married couple?" she smiled at his thoughtfulness. "I didn't want you to get cold," he shrugged as she squeezed all of the remaining water from the dish cloth and then walked over to her, wrapping his arms around her a pressing a gentle kiss to her temple.

"Let's go to bed sleeping beauty," he mused, lips still against her skin.

"What about a shower first?" she grinned, suggestively.

"Don't have to ask me twice!" he joked while picking her up a tossing her over his shoulder, and heading in the direction of his bathroom. Laughter followed as they basked in the domesticity of it all.

#Rowan's summer celly!!#luke hughes blurb #luke hughes fic #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes imagine #luke hughes fluff

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wbbfannnnnn13 · 1 day ago

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Motion Sick // Chapter 5

Theme: homoerotic friendship hot mess

A/N: Just trying to move plot forward before getting into some real messiness and eventually a resolve! Probably won't have another chapter out until next week for this series because I need to finish up my other series, but we'll see. Please comment, react, whatever! I love to see it!

WC: 5K+

Warnings: angst, maybe some cussing?

**** Chapter 5 ****

The thing about first dates is that they never feel like the movies. There’s no soundtrack, no golden-hour lighting, no perfect banter where both people say exactly the right thing. There’s just nerves.

A lot of them.

Especially when you’ve been hanging out for weeks already—study sessions, walking each other back to dorms, late-night Snap streaks, casual movie nights that weren’t officially anything but definitely felt like something.

So yeah. This wasn’t the first time Paige and Kathryn had hung out. But it was the first time it was called a date. Which somehow made it feel entirely different.

She stared at her closet for way too long before finally settling on a cropped long-sleeve top and black cargo pants. Comfortable, but bold. Just enough skin to hint at her abs—not that she cared if Kathryn noticed. (She did.)

Her hair was half up, half down, loose curls falling over her shoulders. She spritzed some cologne. Debated lip gloss. Changed her earrings twice.

Kathryn was waiting by the front entrance of her dorm, her usual athletic casual look upgraded just slightly—black jeans, crop top, an oversized denim jacket, a necklace Paige hadn’t seen before. Her hair was pulled into a loose braid, and she was fidgeting with her keys like she wasn’t sure what to do with her hands.

“You look good,” Kathryn said, smiling in that sideways kind of way that always got to Paige.

“You too,” Paige said, a little too quickly. “So… mini golf?”

Kathryn grinned. “Figured we should settle once and for all who the real athlete is.”

They walked over together, shoulders brushing, the teasing already in full swing about who’d win.

The place was half empty, glowing under string lights and faded neon signs. The vibe was more arcade nostalgia than romantic, which helped. Paige could breathe.

They picked out clubs and chose their golf balls—Paige called dibs on the purple one without hesitation—and made their way to hole one, where the goal was to bank a shot off a sun-faded plastic flamingo.

Kathryn was bad. Like, hilariously bad. Like, can’t-even-pretend-to-be-supportive bad. Paige didn’t even try to hide her laughter when Kathryn whiffed her second shot and sent the ball into a fake pond.

“Oh my God,” Paige gasped, wiping tears. “Are you trying to lose?”

“I’m establishing expectations,” Kathryn said, deadpan. “So when I come back and win, it’s more impressive.”

“Babe, you’re down by four already.”

Kathryn raised an eyebrow. “Did you just call me babe?”

Paige’s face went warm. “Shut up. Hit your ball.”

They bantered their way through all eighteen holes, pausing only to talk trash or duck around a group of loud undergrads. Somewhere around hole ten, Kathryn figured out a ridiculous strategy that involved ricocheting every shot off Paige’s ball.

“It’s a legit tactic,” she said, lining up another bank shot with zero shame.

“It’s cheating,” Paige shot back, grinning. “And you’re annoying.”

“Still catching up, though,” Kathryn said sweetly, right before sinking the putt.

They split a Coke and a bag of M&M’s at the end, sitting on a metal bench near the arcade. The air had cooled, Kathryn’s braid was coming loose, and Paige felt lighter than she had in a long time.

It was easy. Too easy.

The kind of night that didn’t ask anything of her. Didn’t push. Didn’t pull. Just let her be. And God, had she missed that.

After, they walked back to campus slowly—like neither of them was in a hurry to go back to reality. The air was crisp. Kathryn shoved her hands in her pockets and occasionally bumped her shoulder into Paige’s like she didn’t know what to do with her own affection.

Outside Kathryn’s dorm, they paused.

“This was fun,” Paige said, a little too quickly.

Kathryn nodded. “Yeah. It was.” Then a beat. “I was kinda nervous, honestly.”

“Why?” Paige asked.

“You’re just… not like other girls I’ve hung out with.” She looked down for a second, then back up. “You make me nervous in a good way. Like I wanna keep doing things that make you smile.”

Paige swallowed, pulse stuttering.

She didn’t mean to close the distance. Not really. But then Kathryn tilted her head, and Paige’s breath caught, and suddenly they were closer than before—shoes toe-to-toe.

“I had a really good time,” Kathryn said, voice low.

Paige smiled. “Me too.” And then she leaned in. Just a little. And Kathryn met her halfway.

The kiss was… sweet. Soft. Innocent. Like a sigh. Like a yes.

It didn’t take her breath away. But it settled something.

Her hand found the edge of Kathryn’s jacket, anchoring herself for just a second longer. Then she pulled back, blinking.

Kathryn’s cheeks were pink. She smiled. “Been wanting to do that since you beat me at FIFA.”

“You mean when I destroyed you at FIFA,” Paige said, breathless.

“Rematch soon. You’ll lose.”

“We’ll see.”

They lingered for a second longer. Not touching now, just standing in that quiet post-kiss pause, both a little dazed.

“Night, Paige,” Kathryn said, opening the door.

“Night.”

Paige turned and started walking back, fingers brushing her lips, trying—and failing—to hide the grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. She crossed her arms, like maybe that would help steady her heartbeat. It didn’t.

It didn’t feel dramatic. It didn’t feel like a movie. It felt… good. Simple. Easy. Maybe even right.

For the first time in a while, she didn’t feel like she was chasing something. She just felt found.

****

Morrone Stadium looked sharp under the late afternoon light. Clean turf. Crisp white lines. The kind of fall breeze that made you zip your hoodie up halfway and still squint against the sun.

Paige hadn’t planned on going alone—not because she wouldn’t have, but because when Aubrey and Ice overheard her mention Kathryn’s game, they immediately invited themselves. “You’re not about to soft launch your soccer crush without us,” Aubrey had said. “It’s not a launch,” Paige muttered, pulling her hood up.

But still—she didn’t say no.

The three of them sat low in the bleachers, close to the midfield line. A few basketball players trickled in over the first half, but none of them sat close. Paige liked that. It kept things… quiet.

Kathryn wore all white—jersey tucked, socks pulled high, her usual headband in place. She had a navy practice penny over the top for warmups, but by kickoff, it was off and folded on the bench. She looked calm, focused, confident. Like the game ran at her pace.

“She’s got field presence,” Ice commented, chewing on her straw. “She’s hot,” Aubrey added, unapologetically.

Paige tried not to smile. Tried not to stare too long as Kathryn jogged over to the corner flag midway through the first half.

“Corner kick,” Aubrey said, nudging her. “This your girl’s moment.”

Kathryn didn’t even glance toward the bleachers—just set the ball down with surgical precision, took three quick steps, and sent a perfect left-footed cross into the box. One of her teammates met it clean, heading it into the back of the net like it had been drawn up in a textbook.

The crowd roared. Kathryn jogged back into formation, high-fived the striker, and kept moving like she’d done it a hundred times.

“She’s smooth,” Ice said, tipping her coffee like a toast.

“Well, she is captain,” Paige replied before she could stop herself.

Aubrey raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Ohhh, okay. So now you’re bragging.”

Paige just shook her head, but her smile gave her away.

After the win, she stayed in the stands while Kathryn cooled down with the team. No waving. No big moment. Just a glance across the field and a barely-there nod—acknowledgment. Like something only the two of them would catch.

Later that night, Paige got the tag. Kathryn had posted a game-day carousel—action shots of her teammates, a scoreboard close-up, and a blurry bench photo with the caption: “w’s only.”

But the tag wasn’t in the post.

It was on her story. Just one clip: a slow pan of the bleachers, Paige tucked in the corner, hood up, grinning like she didn’t know she was being filmed.

The caption read: “love the support 🤍”

She tagged @uconnwbb, @aubreygriffin, @icebrady… and @paigebueckers. Like it was casual. Like it was nothing.

And yet Paige stared at it way too long before locking her phone.

She barely had time to process it before her phone buzzed again. The Huzzskies🏀team chat was already on fire.

Aubrey: okay soft launch 😏

Caroline: please tell me you’re sending this to your mom so she stops asking if you’re still single lol

Amari: not Paige out here looking like a proud boyfriend 😭

Jana: well damn

Aubrey: lowkey proud of you. highkey stalking her tagged pics rn 👀

She just watched the messages roll in, the screen lighting up again and again like it was laughing with her.

She didn’t respond. Didn’t add a single emoji. But her thumb hovered over the keyboard for a second, then dropped.

She smiled. Just barely. Then locked her phone.

And that should’ve been the end of it. Cute date. Supportive friends. A win all around.

But instead of feeling lighter, she felt… something else. Like a corner of her chest had come unstuck. Like her body remembered something she hadn’t given it permission to.

It didn’t hit all at once. Just a quiet nudge. The kind that starts as a whisper and gets louder the longer you try to ignore it.

Because it wasn’t just a story post. It wasn’t just a kiss, or a caption, or how easy Kathryn made things feel.

It was what came before. The dance. The almost. The way Azzi had looked at her like she was still something worth choosing. And the way Paige had walked away—like that solved anything.

She thought she’d feel proud of herself. She didn’t.

What she felt was unfinished. And tired of pretending otherwise.

She reached for her phone again. No hesitation this time. Scrolled until Azzi’s name came into view.

She hadn’t texted her in weeks. Not directly. Not since before the birthday. Before the dance floor. Before everything that still lived in the space between them, untouched and unnamed.

Her fingers hovered. Then typed.

hey do you have time to talk this week? just wanna clear the air after my birthday.

She read it back once. Didn’t overthink it.

Just hit send.

For a moment, nothing. Then—

Azzi: yeah. just let me know when.

That was it. No emoji. No questions. But it was enough.

Paige let the phone fall beside her, the light from the screen fading slowly as it dimmed out. She pulled her blanket tighter, curled against the far side of her bed, and stared at the ceiling like the right words might be written up there if she just looked long enough.

This was the right thing. To be honest. To stop letting silence answer for her.

And maybe it wouldn’t fix everything. Maybe it would just be a moment. But at least it wouldn’t be another ghost.

Still, later that night—long after her shower, long after Kathryn’s “thanks for coming :)” text that Paige reread twice—she opened her drawer, looking for headphones.

And for a half-second, she thought she saw something. A flash of white. A blue ribbon.

But then it was gone. Buried again beneath socks and receipts and whatever else she’d shoved in there.

She closed the drawer. Didn’t think twice. Didn’t notice what she’d missed.

****

They met in the film room after weights. Neutral ground. No distractions. Just the echo of earlier conversations bouncing faintly in her head and the quiet hum of a space that used to mean nothing but basketball.

Azzi was already there, perched on the edge of one of the recliners in the front row, her high bun loose in that casually chaotic way it always was. She sat hunched forward, elbows resting on her thighs, like she hadn’t fully decided if she was staying or just passing through. She looked up when Paige walked in, her expression carefully unreadable.

“Hey,” Paige said, her voice low.

Azzi nodded. “Hey.”

The silence stretched for a few seconds. Not tense. Just… uncertain. They hadn’t been alone together in a long time.

Paige leaned against the table at the front of the room, directly across from Azzi, close enough to talk, but not too close. Measured. Intentional.

“Thanks for coming,” she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I just figured it was time to clear the air. Before the season really starts. Before things get too complicated.”

Azzi nodded again, slower this time. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

Paige glanced down at her hands. “I’ve been thinking a lot about my birthday. About the dance. I know it was kind of a moment. It felt like that. I’m not gonna pretend it didn’t.” She paused, then added, “But I think it was more about… history. And the drinks. And just falling into old rhythms.”

Azzi’s eyes flickered, but she didn’t interrupt.

“We’ve been more than just friends for a while now,” Paige said, her voice soft. “Even if we never said it out loud… it was always there.”

Azzi gave a tiny smile at that. “Yeah. I know.”

“And I don’t regret it,” Paige continued quickly. “Any of it. I wouldn’t take it back. But I think it’s time to move on. For real this time.”

Her voice wavered for a second, but she steadied it. “Things with Kathryn feel… good. And I don’t want to mess that up by leaving anything with us unresolved.”

Azzi dropped her gaze to her shoes, her fingers knotting together in her lap. Across from her, Paige fixed her eyes on a spot on the wall like it might give her something to hold onto.

“I guess what I’m trying to say,” Paige went on, “is that I want us to be okay again. For real. Not stuck in that weird space where we don’t talk or try to pretend we’re fine when we’re not.”

She looked over then, eyes finding Azzi’s like she was checking to see if it was still safe.

“I just…” Paige let out a slow breath. “I want to go back. Before it got messy… When you were just… my person.”

The words came out soft, like they’d been sitting in her chest for a while.

She paused, then added— “Can we do that?”

Azzi didn’t say anything right away. She didn’t have to. The silence between them felt familiar now. Not quite heavy, but full.

So Paige kept going, her voice a little lower now, like maybe if she said it gently enough, it wouldn’t hurt as much.

“I know last time we tried to be friends… I was the one who pushed it too far. I crossed the line.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, eyes flicking down. “And I don’t think it was confusion. I think I just wanted you close, and I didn’t know how to ask for it without making it messy.”

She looked up again, her expression soft but sure. “I’m not trying to do that anymore. I’m not trying to stir things up or go back to something that doesn’t work. I just… I miss when it was simple. I miss when you were the first person I told everything to. And I guess I’m hoping we can find our way back to that.”

A pause.

“That version of us. The one that wasn’t so complicated.”

Azzi didn’t answer right away. She let the question hang there between them, suspended in the hum of the overhead light and the weight of everything they never quite said.

Eventually, she nodded. Once.

“Yeah. We can.”

Paige exhaled. “I really want that. Especially with the season starting. I want to be good teammates. I want to be in your corner. Always.”

Azzi looked at her, and there was something behind her eyes—something that wasn’t quite sadness, but lived in the same zip code.

“Me too,” she said quietly. “I never wasn’t.”

They didn’t hug. Didn’t linger.

Paige offered a soft smile, stood, and gave her one last look. “Thanks again. I know this wasn’t easy.”

Azzi nodded. “It’s okay.”

And Paige believed her. Mostly.

She turned and left, the door clicking softly behind her.

Azzi

Paige never mentioned the gift. Not once.

Not the white box. Not the ribbon that had frayed from being carried in Azzi’s pocket all night. Not the gift inside.

And that silence told her everything.

She’d opened it. Of course she had.

Azzi hadn’t left it somewhere subtle. This wasn’t a mystery box behind a stack of laundry or under a pile of books.

She’d put it dead center on Paige’s desk. Right next to a half-eaten granola bar and her tangled phone charger.

So yeah. Azzi knew. She’d found it. She’d seen it. And she hadn’t said a word.

Which meant she had nothing to say.

She didn’t spiral.

Didn’t cry.

Didn’t do anything dramatic like throw her phone across the room or listen to Phoebe Bridgers on loop until Caroline threatened to unplug the speaker.

Which, honestly, was worse.

Because that ache? The one she’d been trying to ignore since the dance floor? It didn’t go away. It just settled in. Got comfortable. Became background noise.

And yeah, at first it stung. But eventually it dulled into something manageable. Like a muscle that used to be torn and now just aches when it rains.

She still thought about it sometimes—what Paige might’ve felt when she opened the box. Maybe she’d rolled her eyes. Maybe she didn’t even try it on.

Maybe she tossed it in a drawer like it was nothing. (Okay, that one hurt a little more than she wanted to admit.)

But eventually, Azzi got used to it. Used to the silence. Used to being the one who still cared but didn’t say anything about it.

Then came the team group chat.

Screenshots. Teasing texts. A picture of Paige standing in the bleachers at Kathryn’s soccer game, hood up, hair tied back, looking happier than she had in weeks. Azzi watched the reactions roll in like a slow, dumb parade.

Lou dropped five heart eyes. Nika posted a GIF. Aaliyah suggested wedding colors.

And Azzi—she read every message, watched the little reactions stack up in real time.

At first, it hit like another quiet twist in her gut. She told herself it didn’t matter.

That it wasn’t that deep.

But if Azzi was being honest—really honest—it felt like the final answer to a question she hadn’t wanted to ask.

And the answer was no.

No, Paige wasn’t holding onto anything. No, she wasn’t second-guessing that dance. No, she didn’t open her gift and feel her breath catch in her chest.

So when Paige texted her—hey, can we talk?—Azzi already knew what it was going to be. Not a confession. Not a door reopening.

Just… closure.

And when they met in the film room, Paige sitting across from her with soft eyes and a measured voice, saying she wanted to go back to before things got blurry— Azzi nodded.

Because what else was she supposed to do? Fall to the floor and scream, Please, give me another chance.

No thanks. She still had to show up to practice the next day.

Besides, there was something almost comforting about knowing where they stood. Finally.

They were friends. Teammates. Not unfinished business.

And the truth was, she was grateful for that. Because losing Paige completely? That would’ve left a hollow space she didn’t know how to fill.

So she held on to what she could. Even if it wasn’t the version she used to hope for. Even if it meant learning how to sit beside Paige again without reaching for something that wasn’t hers anymore.

And maybe that would take time. Maybe she’d still flinch sometimes—at old songs, at inside jokes, at the way Paige laughed when she wasn’t trying.

But eventually, she believed she’d get there. To the version of herself that could look at Paige and feel calm instead of cracked open.

The part of her that still wanted more? It would quiet. Not today, maybe not tomorrow. But soon.

And when it did—when that ache finally softened—she’d still be here. Still Azzi. Still steady. And maybe, just maybe, still close enough to be in Paige’s life in a way that didn’t hurt.

In a way that felt like peace.

****

They rounded the corner, the Dairy Bar’s warm yellow lights glowing against the foggy windows. There was already a line — always was — students in sweats and messy buns, someone in pajama pants and slides, a couple with their arms around each other.

Azzi pulled her hood up. She didn’t know why. She kicked a rock down the street as they walked, hands shoved deep in her hoodie pocket.

Aubrey walked next to her, sipping from a Sprite and swinging a lanyard around one finger like she had nowhere in the world to be except right there.

“This better be good,” Aubrey said. “You pulled me out of my Netflix zone.”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “You act like you didn’t break into a jog when I said waffle cones.”

Aubrey gave her a look but didn’t argue.

They got in line between a group of freshman girls in matching sorority hoodies and a dad and his kid debating over rainbow sprinkles.

Azzi stared up at the chalkboard menu—overwhelmed, underwhelmed, and mostly just stalling—while a case full of too many flavors sat beneath a lineup of UConn-themed puns like Bleed Blueberry Bliss and Husky Tracks, none of which she actually felt like reading.

“Can I say something?” Azzi asked, staring at the freezer but not really seeing it.

Aubrey gave her a curious look. “Alright. Floor’s yours.”

“I think I might like girls.”

Aubrey didn’t flinch. Didn’t even pause. She just took another sip of Sprite and said, “Yeah. No duh.”

Azzi blinked. “Okay, why does everyone keep saying that?”

Aubrey shrugged. “Because… Azzi. We’ve all seen the way you look at Paige. It’s like you’re seeing everything you want and everything you’re scared of, in the same breath.”

Azzi groaned. “God, that’s so dramatic.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“Okay, yeah,” she admitted, laughing under her breath. “But still. It was only her. It’s not like I’ve been walking around campus making a list.”

“So?” Aubrey said, raising an eyebrow. “It doesn’t have to be everyone. Sometimes it’s just one person that makes you go, oh.”

They shuffled forward in line. The smell of waffle cones drifted toward them, warm and ridiculous and somehow perfect.

“I guess I thought it didn’t count unless it was more than once,” Azzi muttered.

“Who made that rule?”

Azzi didn’t answer. Because… yeah. She had no idea.

They finally stepped up to the counter. Azzi asked for pistachio in a waffle cone, mostly out of spite because no one ever picked pistachio and she kind of liked being contrary. Aubrey got cookies and cream because she was predictable and proud of it.

They paid, grabbed their cones, and headed outside to a bench near the side of the shop. The wood was cold beneath them, but neither of them said anything.

Azzi took a bite. “This was a terrible choice.”

Aubrey grinned. “Tastes like regret?”

“Yeah. But like… fancy regret.”

They sat for a minute, letting the sounds of the night fill in the space. Footsteps. Laughter. The low bass of someone’s speaker rattling in a dorm window.

Then Azzi spoke again, slower this time. “I think what hurts the most isn’t that she’s happy.” She licked a drip of ice cream off her wrist. “It’s that I’m not part of the version of her that is.”

Aubrey didn’t say anything for a second. Then— “You were, though.”

“Yeah,” Azzi said. “And I loved that version. I just didn’t know what to do with it until it was already gone.”

She looked out toward the parking lot, watching headlights pass through puddles from the earlier rain.

“She found someone who makes her laugh. Someone who doesn’t hesitate. And I keep thinking—good. Like, I really do want her to be okay. Even if it’s not with me.”

Aubrey leaned back on the bench, her cone resting against the wrapper. “That’s what makes it real, you know.”

Azzi turned. “What?”

“That you want her to be happy even if it doesn’t lead back to you.” A pause. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck.”

Azzi exhaled, quiet but not heavy. “It does.”

“Then let it suck. For now,” Aubrey said. “But maybe you also start paying attention to how you feel around other people. Like… just see who makes you want to smile. Or stay a little longer. Or flirt back.”

Azzi gave her a flat look. “I have a boyfriend, remember?”

Aubrey didn’t blink. “Sure, you’ve got a boyfriend. And I’ve got a plant I forgot to water for three weeks. Doesn’t mean it’s thriving.”

Azzi snorted. “That’s dark.”

“I’m just saying,” Aubrey continued, twirling her cone like she was making a point. “There’s a difference between staying with someone and actually wanting to be with them. One of those is comfort. The other’s real.”

Azzi let the words settle as she took another slow bite of her ice cream.

“Anyway,” Aubrey added with a shrug, “if you ever decide to explore what real might look like—with someone new—I’m officially offering my services as an unpaid, highly unqualified wingwoman.”

Azzi laughed—really laughed, for the first time in what felt like forever. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” Aubrey said, bumping her shoulder.

They let the quiet fall again. The kind of quiet that didn’t press. That felt like permission to feel things at your own pace.

And maybe that was enough for tonight. Not closure. Not clarity.

But a starting point.

****

She hadn’t planned on doing it that night. But when she got back to her dorm and saw Derrick’s name light up her phone — missed call (2), text: “U alive??” — something inside her clicked.

Not like a spark. More like a switch.

She’d known this was coming. For weeks, maybe longer. And now there was no reason to pretend she didn’t.

hey. can we talk for a sec?

They met outside the student center, the campus mostly quiet, lit by streetlamps and the flicker of vending machines buzzing against the wall. Derrick stood with one foot propped on the bike rack, a basketball tucked under his arm like always. Like nothing was off.

When he saw her, he smiled—out of habit, not happiness—and reached out for a one-armed hug.

She didn’t hug back.

“What’s up?” he asked, still easy, still assuming this wasn’t what it was.

Azzi stuffed her hands into the pocket of her hoodie. The same hoodie she’d worn to his games, to late-night film sessions, to fall asleep in when she didn’t know how to say what she was feeling.

“I think we should break up.”

It came out quiet. Still. But it didn’t waver.

Derrick’s brow pulled tight. “Wait… what?”

“I’ve been feeling it for a while. But I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure. I just… I don’t think this is right anymore.”

He blinked like he didn’t fully understand the language she was speaking. “Is this about her?”

Azzi hesitated. “Who?”

“Paige,” he said flatly. “Come on. Don’t act like I don’t see it.”

She tried not to react, but her throat caught on something.

“She walks into a room and you go stiff like someone just pressed pause on your whole nervous system.” He took a step closer, the ball dropping to the pavement beside him with a soft thud.

Azzi looked away. She could lie. She thought about it—just for a second. About saying It’s not like that. Or You’re overreacting. About falling back on the safety net of vague deflection.

But she was tired. Tired of performing what she thought other people needed from her. Tired of keeping her feelings sorted into folders labeled "safe" and "later." Tired of lying.

Especially to herself.

So she took a breath and met his eyes. “It’s not about Paige. It’s about me.”

He laughed again. This time it had edges. “I heard the rumors last year, you know. About you and her. Stuff people said. I figured it was just drama. People trying to stir things up. I didn’t want to believe it.”

She looked up. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Wasn’t it?”

A beat passed. Long enough to feel it settle between them.

“I didn’t cheat on you,” Azzi said. Her voice stayed even, but there was steel in it now. “I didn’t lie. I just… I didn’t know how to explain something I was still figuring out.”

He folded his arms. “So what now? You’re into girls?”

“I might be.”

“And what, I’m just the warm-up act?”

“No,” she said. “You’re someone I really cared about. And someone I don’t want to keep lying to—especially now that I’m not lying to myself anymore.”

He stepped back, mouth tight, jaw flexing. “Whatever. You wanna go figure it out, go ahead. Pick a team and stick to it next time.”

That one stung. Even though she’d half-expected it. Even though it told her more about him than it did about her.

Azzi nodded once. “Thanks for making this easier.”

He scoffed, grabbed the ball, and walked away without another word.

She stood there a moment longer, the night air cool against her cheeks, the back of her throat tight. Not with tears—just truth.

By the time she got back to her dorm, she was still holding onto the drawstrings of her hoodie like they were something to anchor her.

She didn’t feel triumphant. Didn’t feel broken either.

Just… clear.

It didn’t matter what label she landed on. Gay. Bi. Still figuring it out. She just knew that whoever she was becoming, he wasn’t part of it.

And maybe that was the whole point. Not choosing a side. Just choosing herself.

#pazzi fics #pazzi #paige x azzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #fanfiction

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