tuffluuhv

[tuffluuhv]

𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐒𝐊𝐘 - 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖊𝖊

𝐫𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭 𝐱 𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐛!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 6,068

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: returning to the small wyoming town you were raised after a sharp fall from grace, your music career having turned into mindless pop you were forced to churn out by your manager and now ex, a return to home is just what you need, the perfect place to take a break from the life of a pop star, and also to meet some old faces.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: rhett is jealous again, tense eye contact, niki being a walking green flag, swearing and slight arguing.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: the niki fangirls are gonna love this one, the niki haters maybe not so much, sorry not sorry. the reposts and comments are so greatly appreciated my loves, your feedback means the world and keeps me motivated! please enjoy chapter three!

Aside from the slight talking to from your father when he had come home about an hour later, with a soft reminder to just let him know next time, the night trailed off to be particularly uneventful after the video call with Amanda had ended.

The next morning, you’d hopped into the shower first thing, suddenly feeling all the more grateful for the list of shower supplies you had no doubt Amanda had gone to the trouble of ordering and sending out to you, as they’d been waiting for you ready to go in the shower caddy on the first day.

Soaps that smelled like honey and facial exfloiator had seemed to be exactly what was needed to make you feel recharged and invigorated, washing away the sour emotions of last night.

Reminding yourself of the meditation tracks your therapist had sent to your phone as you stepped back out of the shower, you took the extra time to blow dry your wet hair, putting it up into a claw clip before changing into a comfortable set of grey lounge wear.

Today was a day that was whole heartedly for you, you knew your father was out today, so the entire house was solely your own for a few sweet hours.

Having initially began the day with a coffee and a quick fifteen minute guided meditation out on the porch, just as was recommended, a womans soft breathy voice guiding you through breathing exercises and wellness techniques that you were only half paying attention to.

Your reflex was to grab your phone and post your regularly scheduled promotions for whatever sponsor you were set up with for the day, but here you were, no pressure to post anything, no schedule to follow.

In short, you felt like you had too much free time to do anything with.

Standing on the porch looking out into the driveway in the distance, you could only huff and walk back inside, looking for something that you could fill your day with.

There was only so much old coffee to wash off of the mugs on the sink, polishing them to perfection was enough to waste away a whopping seventeen minutes, you’re only other option to sit on the plush couch and flick on the tv on the wall.

Sitting cross legged, you flicked through a few channels, nothing but older sitcoms played out on the tv stations out this way, maybe a local ad here and there.

As you flicked once more to another channel, the sound of the halfway point of a song began, realising you’d flicked onto the MTV of all things, surprised they even aired it out this far.

Within seconds, you recognised the song to be one of your own, the music video playing along with it, the skintight outfit you were wearing glistening while you danced, two other backup dancers imitating the movements behind you.

You could remember filming this one so clearly, the green screen you’d been made to dance in front of a clear memory, now superimposing you against a backdrop of what you guessed was meant to be the top of a building.

Inbetween the shots of you dancing and singing, they were followed by snippets of you splayed out onto a silk sheet on a bed, the little black nightie they’d put you in leaving little to the imagination as you made bedroom eyes into the camera, just as you were directed to.

It was hard not to cringe, you didn’t even hate the song entirely, the lyrics were just empty against what could have been a half decent hook.

Words of desire towards nobody in particular, singing about how much you loved some imaginary person and how badly you needed them.

The next shot seemed to be you in some sort of leather leotard with gold details, walking through a crowd of people in just as odd outfits dancing along to the song you were lip syncing against.

Unable to watch anymore, you flicked over to the next channel not even caring much for what was on there anymore, even if it was just so that you could have some background noise.

The feeling of your phone vibrating next to you was a welcome distraction, even if it was just a notification from the weather app.

Oh. This was much better than the weather.

A text message, from an unknown number, that didn’t remain unknown for long as you actually opened the message, reading keenly as you found yourself sitting up straighter.

‘hey, its niki. i hope you dont mind, your dad gave me your number before he left last night.’

Even thought you ached to check whether or not he’d actually asked for your number, or if your dad had simply offered it, which did actually sound like something he’d do to be polite to one of your old highschool friends, you resisted, some part of you trying her hardest to remain composed and play it cool.

Is it weird if you respond back too quickly? Would he know you’ve done nothing all day except stare at your phone and cringe at old music videos.

Tapping the back of your phone against your hand impatiently, you allowed at least a minute or two before you even looked at the message again, feeling the slightest bit giddy.

Finally allowing yourself the privilege of typing back a message, you’re teeth sunk into your bottom lip just a little bit as your nails tapped lightly against the screen.

‘oh hey! that’s ok, we probably should have exchanged numbers anyway, considering, haha.’

Unable to help yourself, you screenshotted the message, along with your response, sending it straight to Amanda, already knowing that she would want to be the first of all people to know.

Watching the text you had sent her turn green, as well as the small ‘read’ icon coming up from the bottom almost immediately, it shouldn’t have been a surprise that the facetime request all ready popped up onto your screen, the photo you took of Amanda when you were out to dinner spanning across the screen.

Opening the call with a soft hum sound, Amanda’s face came into view, a grin on her face rivalling that of the cheshire cat.

From what you could see, she was in her gym clothes, her hair in a low bun and a fresh sheen of sweat on her face as she walked to the locker room.

“What did i tell you.” she spoke as soon as she was alone in the locker room, shaking her head at you in the way she always did when she was proven right.

“Ok but like, this doesn’t mean anything solid yet.”

Your response only made her smirk more, her head turning as she opened up the locker containing her bag.

“Clearly he wants to give you something solid.”

Letting out a cackle, your head flying back slightly as you stood yourself, walking to the kitchen and placing the phone on the window sill so that you could make another coffee as you talked.

Before you could continue, you heard your phone vibrate, looking straight at the screen and squinting as you read the message that popped up.

Hearing the vibration through the face time call, Amanda’s wide eyed looked only made you grin more, putting a hand over your mouth to laugh as she placed her airpod in her ear to get ready to exit the gym.

“What’d he say!” she begged, waiting impatiently as you opened the message and read it silently. “I want you, baby, come round to my house so I can bend you over my kitchen table.” Amanda’s poor impression of some kind of latin accent and her comically deepened voice only made you roll your eyes.

“Shut up, thats not what it says.”

Finally reading the message, you couldn’t help but hop in place a tiny bit and let out a small little giggle.

“He’s asking if i’m gonna be at the rodeo on Wednesday, his dad and him are gonna be running his food truck there.”

As Amanda let out a sound of glee, she held a finger to signal to you to wait a second as she opened her car door and got inside, positioning the phone up on her dashboard as she gripped the steering wheel of the parked car.

“So, first of all, you’re going” she began, already taking charge as if she was planning every little detail out in her head to the upmost significance. “And second of all, you will be calling me the night of to pick a pair of jeans that makes your ass look irresistable.”

Rolling your eyes, you pulled up a mocking salute, unable to say no to any of Amanda’s orders; To be completely fair, she knew better thank you about most of these things, having always been the one you came to for advice.

She felt untouchable to you sometimes, like she just had everything figured out, even if you knew in your heart of hearts it wasn’t true.

There had been more than enough times where she’d been vulnerable to you in the same way you had to her, the time’s she’d taken care of her niece when her sister had to go through some treatment at the hospital, the flowers you’d helped her pick out.

It was so often that she was looking after you, so coming around to her place to help her with some dinner and a helping hand with the fussy little seven year old girl had been something she’d barely even had to ask.

“Ok girl, i love you, but i have to get ready to head back home, i’m having Kaycey over again.”

Nodding understandably, you gave her a smile as picked up the phone, using your free hand to run your fingers across your scalp, a small yawn coming out of your mouth.

“Tell her i said hi.”

Kaycey was adorable, but full of stubbornness, the pair of you slowly worked out what made her tick, how she preferred to watch old Bratz movies you’d watched when you were younger, as opposed to Bluey. As the facetime finally ended, the small chirp from your phone signalling the disconnect, you finally spared a look out the window, noticing the beginnings of rain falling from a now darkened sky, the first time it’s rained since the first time you arrived back in Wyoming.

Leaning against the wall as you held your phone back up, you continued typing out your response to Niki, assuring him you wouldn’t miss it, that you’d come up and say hi, even requesting the promise of some free food as a lighthearted joke.

Putting your phone down on the counter, you allowed yourself a moment to step outside, the pittering of rain already starting to sound out against the tin patio roof;

Just as you’d used to do all the time as a child, you took a deep inhale into your lungs, the unplaceable smell of the rain making your mind come flooding with nostalgia.

You’d had no idea just how good the smell of Wyoming rain smelled until it had been so long since you’d even been around it, finding yourself at a weird sense of peace that you hadn’t experienced for a long while.

-

When the night before the rodeo finally came, there’d been a steady stream of messaging occurring with Niki, messages exchanged reminiscing over highschool memories, asking about how his mother was doing and him gushing about how happy she was about the photo.

Graduating from texting to snapchat should have definitely been the first sign, or at least Amanda thought it was.

Soon enough you were receiving stupid little selfies of him grinning while stood behind the bar, captioned with things such as ‘it’s so dead here, don’t how know many more glasses i can polish’.

It was hard to pretend like you weren’t kicking your legs like a little girl whenever you received one of his absolutely adorable selfies, sometimes at home, sometimes at work.

It was on the off chance that when he’d asked how you were doing, you had a photo of a towel on the door, mentioning needing to take a shower in a bit.

The following snap you’d received from him only about a minute or two later had you with your jaw slack.

A cheeky grin on his face, obviously aware of the nature of the photo, there he stood in all his glory, his arm reached above his head to rest his hand on the doorway above him, his shirt riding up just enough so that you could see the beginning of a line going along his pelvis, a sneaky little hint of olive skin poking out.

For a moment you felt like you’d died and gone to heaven, the way you had to put a hand over your mouth to hide the small laugh of disbelief at his sudden boldness.

The caption didn’t help by any means, only agreeing that he himself also had to shower, the mirror in the bathroom providing just enough of a shadow so that he was slightly less in view.

At first, it was hard not to feel at least a little bit of panic, debating what exactly you could send back, whether or not you wanted to match his energy, return the bone he had thrown your way.

Brief consultation with Amanda has proved more than helpful, advising that an innocent enough little selfie in your pajamas laying on the bed was more than enough of a response, while still hinting at something more.

By no means were you about to jump into sending a nude to your old science partner, but there was certainly some little kick out of being subtly flirty, you definitely missed the feeling of being desired, to be chased, it was invigorating.

It was in all honesty refreshing.

As you placed your phone back face down on the side table, there was a level on anticipation to be found, even if it was late; knowing you were gonna see him tomorrow and that you’d had a pair of jeans hanging on your door along with the stetson your father had just let you keep.

Everything coming together made it hard to sleep at all.

-

With your father’s agreeance to drop you off at the rodeo, even if he wasn’t attending himself this time, he’d seemed please you were taking the initiative to go somewhere by yourself, musing about how he’d been invited to a poker night with some friends anyway.

Assuring that he’d have his phone on the entire time if you needed anything, he’d waved goodbye to you from the window of his truck, a pleased smile on his face.

The task of actually weaving through the crowds was daunting at first, but slowly you became used to the feeling of turning your body from side to side as you progressed forward, allowing yourself to move in the same rhythm as everyone around you.

There was definitely so much to see that had changed since when you used to go to the rodeo as a kid, more games for the kids set up, so many more different food options available, it was a weird, but not unwelcome change in the slightest.

Watching a group of kids throwing darts at the balloons set up on the wall in front of them, it was hard not to smile, your arms crossing over your chest and watching one of the smallest ones lining up their shot, concentration clearly ethched on his chubby little face, before he threw, a pop sounding out as he cheered with his friends.

Well that was just a little bit adorable huh.

Pulling your purse tighter to your shoulder, you’d hoped your choice of outfit was plain enough so as to not stand out hugely, the denim flare’s on your legs paired with a slightly cropped tee, simple enough, you’d hoped.

The smell of all the fried food only became more tempting the closer you got, being reminded of one of the reasons you’d even come out to the rodeo by yourself in the first place.

You kept your eyes peeled, trying to remember Niki’s description of the food truck that he’d shared over text, as well as a rough idea of where it’d be parked.

It was the bright yellow that initially caught your eye, followed by the small line following to the window lit up by fluorescent white light, only to finally land on Niki, there, in all his glory, a short sleeved grey shirt and apron around his neck.

He seemed so swept up by orders, handing food out of the window and yelling out orders with each docket printing out seemingly at an unforgiving pace.

You recognised his father, along with one other stranger, likely just another cook that worked at the restaurant, grilling away, working at a pace that made you nervous on their behalf.

Smiling to yourself, you approached patiently, waiting for the line to go down until you eventually got to the front, the anticipation killing you each time you’d step forward.

Just as professional as always, you heard Niki yell out a quick “Just one second!” as he hadn’t turned his head to look at you yet, punching an order into an ipad with the concentration of a nuerosurgeon.

When he’d finally looked down at you, you’re smile greeting him, it was quickly reciprocated, his eyes widening as he leaned forward slightly out of the window.

“Hey you! You made it!” he started, turning to look at the dockets printed and hanging above the grill, seemingly checking to see how it was all travelling before he turned back to you.

“If you give me like, five minutes, ill come out and hang, just gotta wait for the rush to finish.”

He was so sweet about it, seeming apologetic as if you weren’t the one he was preparing to halt his work for. Nodding, you gave him a thumbs up, going to turn before you heard his voice once more.

“Pendeja!” he yelled with a laugh, shaking his head when you turned back around “what do you want?” he enquired, gesturing to the chalk board on the side of the truck “on the house.”

“Niki, no, i can’t-”

Your protest was interrupted by a wave of his hand.

“Shut up and tell me what you want.”

God his smile was so gorgeous, even when he was telling you to shut up.

Letting out a sigh as you tilted your head, it was hard to concentrate on anything written on the chalkboard next to his head.

“Just surprise me.”

Finding a spot to the side was easy enough, settling yourself down on one of the many tables that had been set up as a place to eat, you could only wait in silence, finding yourself unable to do much else aside from checking your phone occasionally, pretending to be interested in the time.

Just as promised, after about five or so minutes, you could Niki arriving from the distance, two plastic plates in his hands, apron now discarded you didn’t know where.

Your arm extended out to wave at him, smiling brightly as he came to sit across from you, sliding the plate of food in front of you.

Only now that he was across from you did you realise that he was also holding two glass bottles under his arm, grabbing them and setting them on the table between the two of you, a satisfied sigh leaving his throat as he gestured to what you now realised was a corona.

“For you.” he spoke, nodding to himself, seemingly not noticing the way your face fell only slightly, still trying your hardest to maintain a smile.

You had absolutely no clue how to actually explain everything, the reason you couldn’t touch anything even slightly alcoholing, on top of how you might explain it to him without making him feel petrified at having offered you a beer of all things.

Opening your mouth to speak, you could only let out a small sound, seemingly having no clue as to how you would phrase it.

Noticing the look on your face, his eyebrows rose, concern seeming to cross over his features as he looked down at the spread he’d brought for you.

It felt rude to decline the drink he’d brought for you, no doubt from the fridge of the food truck himself, even worse if he’d actually bought it for you.

“Everything ok? Is it the food? I didn’t make it if thats what you’re wondering.”

His attempt at brushing it off with humour made you feel better in all honestly, a soft exhale of laughter leaving your lips as you leaned forward and hung your head slightly.

Looking back up, you gave him an apologetic look.

“No, the food looks amazing, it’s just..” part of you felt petrified to even touch the bottle, images of you drunk in the street in heels and a sparkly outfit while paparazzi hounded you coming to mind.

Keeping your voice low, you kept it to a simple “I don’t drink.”

Niki’s eye’s widened, his arm immediately coming out to grip the bottle, pulling it to his end.

“Shit, im so sorry.”

The fact he felt bad for something he didn’t even realise killed you a little, yet he seemed to shift the mood back over pretty quickly, sending you that same grin he’d sported in the bathroom photo.

“More for me.”

As you sat and ate, your discussion seemed to range from an array of different topics, old school memories that you were able to laugh about all the way to him explaining all the different times he’d had to kick people out of the bar.

All good things must come to an end evidently, your stomach sinking a little bit as the topic of yourself was brought back into discussion.

“So how long do you think you’re gonna be back in town for?”

The question was obviously innocent, but it only made that ever present anxiety in the back of your mind grow ten fold. The long answer was that you had no idea, would you just hide out here till you had no career to come back to?

Live off of the royalties of your songs for the rest of your life? Not likely.

As much as you wanted to pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist past this small town, you knew there was still record studio executives waiting on you, of course the timeline of your recovery was in your hands, the scandal could still keep your name in headlines for at least a little while longer.

But eventually you knew in your soul they were going to start pulling out when you started dropping off the charts, fading into obscurity.

In the god’s honest truth you hadn’t even thought about it that deeply yourself.

“Absolutely no clue.” you laughed out, holding your hands up and shrugging your shoulders; you didn’t want to go into the details with Niki, you didn’t really wanna burden anyone with the details really.

“I guess this could be a good place for some inspiration, maybe write some new music while im here.”

You didn’t even know yourself if that was true, the inspiration in you had been long sucked dry, when your team started bringing on ghost writers and producers, assuring you that the money was worth the creative integrity.

Deciding that this conversation was doing probably more harm than good to your inner dialogue, you rose from your seat, gathering up the plastic plates and swinging your purse over your shoulder.

“I think i’m gonna go watch the bull riding.”

It definitely was a little bit rude, but the food had been long finished and you knew that there was only so long Niki’s father was going to tolerate him being away from the truck for so long.

“And you.” pointing a finger at him as he stood, placing his hands in his pockets

“Need to get back and keep helping your father out.”

Holding his hands up in a surrendering manner, he only nodded in agreeance with you, the smirk on his face carrying just as much mischief as it always seemed to.

“Okay, okay. I’ll do what i’m told, but only this time.”

Niki returned the gesture of a finger pointed at you as he began to walk backwards, shaking his head as he looked at you.

“I’ll see you round, Pendeja.”

Watching him turn to jog back around the corner to where the food truck was, you could only let out a small huff.

There was definitely an inner turmoil at play within you, that was for certain.

Niki was such a sweetheart, and clearly there was a mutual attraction shared between the two of you, but the petrifying fear of intimacy within you, much less whatever it was exactly that eas starting to bubble between the two of you, seemed to be taking precedence each time a little bit of progress was made.

Even now as you continued your walk towards the bull riding stands, finding a place to sit inbetween all of the other people that lined up to see some cowboys get flung, you were unable to stop the slight frown from cementing itself on your face.

The idea that you could get in the way of yourself that badly was infuriating, but then the idea of jumping straight into another man’s arms so soon after such a messy breakup was just the same.

Hell, the wound was only about four months healed, you still occasionally saw your ex’s face coming up on old mutual friend’s social media, it was nowhere near enough time to just brush something like that aside, right?

When do you know when it’s because you actually want something like that, and not just yourself desperately seeking out the comfort of trading one man out for another?

As the event began, that same familiar rock music blaring out of the speakers just the same as last time, you occupied yourself with watching men getting flung off of thrashing bull’s backs.

Even then, it’s hard to be distracted by self pity when you’ve got something so absolutely entertaining in front of you.

The stupid rodeo clown was even enough to have a laugh leaving your throat.

As fun as it all was to watch, the universe decided that it was particularly enjoying fucking with you tonight, considering that you’d forgotten one big fundamental detail at the bull riding that was currently on.

That detail, that important little smidgen you’d conveniently forgotten?

Rhett Abbott was coming on next.

It was the first time you’d even heard his name since the restaurant, much less seen him in person, having been so distracted by the prospect of meeting up with Niki, you’d completely forgotten about his existence all together. You tried to force yourself not be invested, truly, wanted to continue the air of not caring if he lived or died, considering that was obviously how he felt about you.

Yet when the horn rang out and you immediately heard the sharp clanging of hooves on metal as the gate was swung open, for some reason you just could not look away.

The bull was relentless, seeming to thrash itself in a change of direction as much as possible, determined to get what i considered to be nothing but an annoying flea off of its rump.

As much as you cursed the ground he walked on, hated the way he looked at you with an air of superiority. God, as much as you hated him for starting the nickname tweety bird in highschool.

It would be a lie to say he wasn’t doing a damn good job. You didn’t have to like him or even particularly enjoy his company to see that.

You could literally hear the cheers of the crowd growing wilder the longer he stayed on the bull for, that anticipation of waiting to see whether or not he’d get flung off before his eight seconds were up.

In some weird way, time seemed to be moving in slow motion, yet ultra fast all at the same time, with every millisecond that you didn’t hear the buzzer making your heart rate increase.

As soon as it rang out, like a choir of angels sent from heaven itself, you let out a breath you didn’t even realise you were holding, letting go of your purse handle which was now sporting little moon shaped indents from how hard you were gripping it.

The roar of the crowd around you was palpable, your silence pertaining more to your absolute shock, your mouth hanging open slightly.

As he finally allowed the bull to shake him off, being helped to his feet hastily by a handler as the rest worked at getting the bull back through the gate, you could see his chest rising and falling even from the distance you were at.

Adrenaline was a powerful thing, you knew that better than anybody, as you watched Rhett Abbott begin to bang on his chest like some sort of primal warrior, it was palpable.

His eye’s scanning the crowd hadn’t initially had you off guard, obviously he was enjoying the resounding response to his victory, continuing to bash his fist against his chest.

Even when his eyes landed on you.

As if set off, seeing you in the crowd, knowing you’d witnessed what just occurred, you weren’t sure if it was ego or something else entirely.

But you could have sworn he was smirking.

With a final bang to his chest, your vision might have been tricking you, but had he just nodded at you, a single, sturt nod before he’d turned to jog back to the gate, jumping it as if it was nothing.

You’re head tilted, eyes widening and brows furrowing.

Exactly what the fuck did he mean by that one?

Whether you were meant to be insulted by that, you had absolutely zero clue, the only thing you were certain of is that whatever it was, it was most certainly meant for you.

-

Left thoroughly confused by whatever it was that had just been shared between the two of you, you dispersed with the rest of the crowd when the rodeo was swiftly coming to an end.

Now noting the lights from games that were no longer on, as well as the now dwindling number of people around, the show grounds were suddenly seeming a lot quieter.

You were definitely tired, no doubt about that, hell, it was nearing almost midnight.

As much fun as it had been to go out by yourself for the first time in ages, the task you were now faced with of getting home was already proving itself to be a daunting one.

Exiting into the now nearly empty parking lot, you stood by the entrance and pulled out your phone, tapping the name ‘dad’ in your contact list and putting the phone to your ear.

Soft ringing was all that you could hear, feeling your heart drop a little bit as it continued, all the way up until his voice mail began to play.

Sucking in a sharp and nervous breath, you hung up and dialed his number again, waiting with a nervous breath, reassuring yourself that he’d probably just put his phone down somewhere and that any minute now he’d pick up.

Yet as his voicemail continued once more, you already felt a lump in your throat as panic began to set in.

Trying two more times evidently wasn’t a big help, doing absolutely nothing to remedy yourself.

Pacing back and fourth by the entrance was doing little for you, running your free hand along the seamline of your jeans not helping in the slightest as your heart beat hammered in your own head. As your own thoughts began to get to you more and more, you subsided in your attempts to call your father, nothing the fifteen percent battery life left on your phone, if he tried to call you back, a flat phone would do absolutely no good.

Yet as about ten more minutes passed, no buzzing from your phone, you were now cursing softly to yourself, feeling tears prick in the corner of your eyes as you rummaged around in your purse for some sort of miracle, anything to feel like you were doing something other than just standing there about to cry.

“What the hell are you still doin’ here?”

Initially, you jumped at the sound of a voice behind you, turning to see who it was however, only made you want to sink further and further into your little pity party.

“Fuck off, Rhett. I really don’t need this right now.”

Any attempt to hide the way your voice wobbled was futile, turning your head up to the sky to try and blink your tears out of existence as you let out a shaky exhale.

“Hey, fuck you. I was just checkin’ to see if you were okay. Christ, don’t worry about it.”

His response only made your lip wobble more, your head hanging as you heard him walk past you, the gravel crunching under his boots, growing softer as he walked towards his truck.

Desperation was a powerful thing, top it off with you on the verge of a panic attack wondering how the hell you’re going to get home that doesn’t involve walking and becoming coyote food.

“Rhett, i’m sorry.” you wobbled out, the sound seeming to stop the cowboy in his tracks, duffel bag hanging off his shoulder as he turned to watch you walk towards him.

“Please, I know you fuckin’ hate me and god knows I don’t know why. But I can’t get home, my dad was supposed to pick me up and he’s not answering me.”

Almost as if you could quite literally see him deliberating, he looked across at you, your puffy eyes and wobbling lip seeming to be enough to appeal to his better nature, whatever the beef seemingly shared between the two of you.

“Fuck sake..” he whispered to himself, letting out a huff as he unlocked his truck and opened the driver side door. “Get in.”

Letting out a sigh of relief, you scurried around to the passenger side of his truck, opening the door and moving a few things off of the passenger seat before sitting down and closing the door.

Trying to compose yourself as he got in next to you and shut his own door, you could hardly even focus on how you were now sitting in the truck of a man you apparently hated.

“I can’t take you to your pa’s place.” he started, his tone already laced with annoyance at the predicament he had found himself in and somehow agreed to.

As he spoke, you waited him to finish, already not loving the idea of not being in your own bed tonight, but anything was better than being stranded out here at night.

“It’s the exact opposite of where I live and I’m fucking exhausted.”

You couldn’t blame him in that regard, you were just as tired if not more, feeling as if you could even fall asleep on these seats, as uncomfortable as they were.

“But, I have a pullout couch you can crash on, just don’t make too much fuckin’ noise and i’ll take you home in the morning, gotta head out that way anyway.”

Nodding, you were in no position to say otherwise, and you knew you were already on thin ice anyway, arguing against him could result in him rescinding his offer of transport all together.

“Ok.” you spoke, trying to calm yourself down and relax knowing you were gonna be safe for the night “I’ll be quiet as a mouse, you won’t even know i’m there i promise-”

As you spoke, he sent you what could only be described as a warning look, tired and exhausted eye’s telling you all that you needed to know.

“Starting now.” you finished, buckling you seat belt and keeping your gaze out the window as his truck pulled out of the parking lot.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 : @foreverchangingmind . @tsukikyo . @marsupialnoises . @iknowrocknroll . @astromilku .

[tuffluuhv]

𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐒𝐊𝐘 - 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖓𝖊

𝐫𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭 𝐱 𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐛!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7,214

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: returning to the small wyoming town you were raised after a sharp fall from grace, your music career having turned into mindless pop you were forced to churn out by your manager and now ex, a return to home is just what you need, the perfect place to take a break from the life of a pop star, and also to meet some old faces.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: mentions of drug addiction, drinking, bad highschool memories, cheating, frustrating miscommunication.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: hey pookies, so despite only just finishing one series, i've already started another because im a glutton for self torture. not a huge amount of rhett in this until the end because i wanna get our reader established first, keep an eye out for part two and please message me if you'd like to be added to a taglist.

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐨

life was nothing but a series of twists and turns, followed by hard fucking drops.

from the moment of your ‘discovery’ by an agent of a recording company just after graduating high school, you’d been pretty damn certain life was going to be absolute roses from here on out. a promised escape from the country town in wyoming to the beaches and glamour of los angeles.

it was exciting, going from a nobody that occasionally sang in a bar or two in your home town to now having an entire team behind you, helping you pump out records and preen you for live performances across america.

maybe you should have known from the beginning it was too good to be true.

with the money that came from your bursting career, do too came the parties, the drinking, the endless supply of anything you wanted at your finger tips, any and all abuse of your health was brushed aside by everybody around you, to the point that as long as they were able to get you awake enough to sit in a makeup chair and put a coffee in your hand, it didn’t matter what you’d done before.

even with all of this, you’d managed to stay afloat with your manager by your side, the man you’d come to think you’d fallen in love with, he’d been there with you the moment you arrived in hollywood, it was only inevitable that you’d have fallen head over heels like an idiot.

he was just the same as the others, allowing you to put your body through hell every night as long as you were able to make him money in the day time, each time pushing you to harder and harder limits. more hours in the studio, songs written faster.

by the time you were four years into your blossomed career, your music had almost completely lost the soul it had started with, power anthems of love and loss reduced into standard pop that came with flashy music videos and tedious choreography.

it was bound to all come crashing down sooner or later in retrospect.

when you’d caught the man you loved in bed with your makeup artist, you’d thought at the very least that he might have at least tried to defend himself, cook up some half baked lie following the basic premise of “it’s not what it looks like.”

instead he’d only smirked at you, making a comment about how nice you looked, an evident jab based on the fact that your makeup was smeared from the night of partying and your glittery clothes were still on.

despite the fact he was your manager, he seemed to have no problem letting you crash completely.

with the tabloids pumping out images of you running out of the hotel looking the way you did, it wasn’t hard to out the pieces together about your issues, scathing headlines painting a picture of a washed up popstar going into a downward spiral.

maybe he hadn’t actually expected you to fire him, expected that you would actually have made sure you weren’t stuck in any sort of binding contracts from the beginning.

because when you’d opened the door of your hollywood home and saw your own father standing there, you couldn’t have held back the cry that left you.

you hadn’t spoken to him for at least a year, when he’d brought up concerns for your partying, the people around you twisted his words, making it seem like a personal attack in a convincing enough way that you’d cut him off entirely, believing in your heart of hearts that he was trying to jeopardise your career.

the day your father had driven almost three days out to LA to find you, when the tabloids had no doubt finally made their way all the way down to wyoming, that was the day you’d hesitantly allowed him to help you get the therapy you needed.

with a few final comments from your lawyer, the official word out was that you’d temporarily retired into rehab, and that you would be spending some time with family while you recovered.

you thanked the stars that you at least had hired a good lawyer, one that actually gave a damn about her job, you’d even dare say about you.

amanda was fresh out of law school when you’d hired her, a risky move, but one that paid off, considering that your ex was now almost penniless, save for the small settlement that had been offered in order for him to keep his mouth shut.

you’d damn well nearly cried all the tears out of your body when you gave her one final hug before getting in your fathers truck and prepared for the long drive back to wyoming.

you really, really didn’t want to go back home, with the embarrassment of public opinion of you, as well as just an overall dislike for the almost deserted town you grew up in, you knew you had to bite the bullet should you be able to recover, as well as try to salvage the damage to your career.

when your mother died, you offered to move your father to los angeles, more than enough money at your disposal to set him on a gorgeous ranch, but he’d refused, always proud; he’d always said he was born in this town, and he’d die in this town.

it was a pity you didn’t share the same sentiment in the slightest.

the long drive had been worsened by the fact that your body was still recovering from the detox you’d been forced to undergo, weak from the horrible sleep you’d been having, and exhausted from all the med’s you had to take afterwards.

you’d managed to almost entirely pass out within about 45 minutes.

even over the span of almost two days and one truck stop, your father had spoken very little.

there was much between the pair of you to be worked out, so much anger shared mutually that needed to be addressed.

when you hadn’t come back to wyoming for your mothers funeral, your father had never sounded more heartbroken over the phone, one of the only times you’d ever heard him genuinely sound like he was gonna start crying any minute.

in your barely sober state, you’d said some words you’d regretted the moment they left your mouth, the guilt eating away at you every day since then, and probably would for the rest of your life.

when you’d finally spotted the welcome sign for the small town you grew up in almost two days later, you couldn’t ignore the growing dread in your stomach, as the buildings came into view, you suddenly felt yourself becoming very conscious of the designer items you were wearing, having become so accustomed to such things that it became the norm in hollywood, but it was most definitely not the norm in wyoming.

the sunglasses pulled over your eyes couldn’t have helped either, considering the golden versace emblem present on the side of them.

intent on at least trying to hide yourself, you pulled your hood over your head and lowered yourself in your seat slightly, keeping your eyes on the road and willing yourself to not be seen by any locals that might remember or recognise you.

this entire town was filled to the brim with people that were proud, loyal; you didn’t have any doubt in your mind that they wouldn’t have the greatest opinion of the girl who ran off to hollywood and came running back home when it chewed her up and spit her back out.

“dad. can we go straight home. please.”

your pleading seemed to have little affect on your father, who only shook his head as the truck came to a stop outside of a diner you’d remembered from your childhood, fond memories of milkshakes and club sandwiches.

“no can do ducky, you remember what the doctor said.”

he held his finger up, reciting the strict instructions he’d been given when he became your official carer for the extent of your recovery.

“food every three hours, lots of greens and lots of protein, last time you ate was at that gas station, and i’d hardly call spicy beef jerky nutritious, you need a meal.”

you’d have been lying if it hurt your heart a little bit how much care he was putting into all of this, the man you’d always known to live off of steak and cornbread had taken the time to research all of nutritional information and requirements going forward.

and you’d treated him like shit and barely spoke to him for an entire year.

in no position to say no, you only pulled your hood further over your face, exiting the pick up truck and crossing your arms in the hope that your clothes wouldn’t be the deadest giveaway in the world, much less the fact that everybody here knew your dad, and by extent, you.

hopefully, a decent meal would at least do you the service of feeling like you actually had a full stomach for the first time in at least a day.

-

you were thankful you’d managed to keep the meal down, yet you were no less embarrassed when the waitress in the diner looked at you like you were crazy when you asked if they had anything avacado in it, a request you didn’t think was that crazy, seemingly reflecting just how long you’d been away from home.

when you’d arrived at your childhood house on the ranch your father owned, the sounds of horses in the distant pasture welcomed you, a familiar yet at the same time almost foreign sound to you.

one familiar sound however, caught your attention almost like a reflex, your head whipping back around to your father as he gave you a knowing smile.

“there’s no way.” you spoke with shock evident in your voice, only receiving a nod from your father and a shrug of his shoulders.

“i couldn’t find the heart to sell her ducky, you should have known that.”

with that being all the confirmation you needed from your father, you turned back in the direction of the neigh’s you could heard, allowing your feet to move on their own as you walked around the back of the house and to the fenced off area where the horses were kept.

and there she stood, her head shaking as she fussed, seemingly knowing your father was finally home based on the sound of his truck.

the gypsy vanner before you stood proud, her caramel and white colours practically shining in the sun. you thought your father would have sold her, you know how much he would have been able to pick up from selling such a beautiful horse, and with you gone, there was no one around to ride her.

aurora had always had an interesting temperament similar to your own, independent and stubborn, it was no surprise you were made for each other when she first arrived on your farm when you were only seventeen.

you were almost scared to approach the fence where she stood, terrified she wasn’t going to remember you.

even if she did, she gave little response other than staring across at you as you stepped closer, reaching out your arm and running your hand across her head with a visible hesitance.

if she hadn’t recognised you, you knew she would have tried to go for your hand by now, she always did refuse to let anybody ride her except you.

had you know that a reunion with your horse of all things was going to make you this emotional, you would have better prepared yourself.

-

the childhood pictures lining the walls of the living room in your home told a story that brought with it memories that were both happy and sad.

from the ones of you on aurora all the way up to your high school graduation, it was a colourful group of pictures that seemed to out forward a beautiful happy family.

until you seemed to disappear from the pictures suddenly, leaving pictures of your mother and father at barbecues with extended family, your own face very clearly absent.

already you could feel yourself dreading the emotional unpacking that was going to happen during your time home.

much less the actual unpacking judged by the suitcases that had been placed in your bedroom, the one that had barely changed since you left.

as much as you knew it would have been better to rip the bandaid off and unpack everything, you were so exhausted from the long drive you could hardly bring yourself to do anything except flop on the double bed with the bright purple sheets.

when a knock sounded on the open door, you raised your head to see your father standing there, a fluffy blue towel on his arm, and your various new med’s placed in a labelled container ordered by the days of the week.

“i thought you’d be pretty desperate for a shower huh? long drive.”

even with the overwhelming tension that seemed to remain permanent between you two, your fathers friendly smile and attempted crack of a joke had already started warming your heart just like it used to.

“thanks dad.”

it was all you could muster in that moment, the emotion seeming to take its hold finally as you rose from the bed to take the towel out of his hand and put the med’s on your side table.

“i’ll get started on dinner, then we’ll probably head in for the night, i got an early start tomorrow.”

even now in his older age, he worked hard as ever, with the limited hands on the farm because he was always adamant about not hiring more help than he needed, there was only so much one man could do after all.

nodding your head, you walked past him and headed in the direction of where you remembered the bathroom to be, saying nothing else and not looking behind you as you entered and shut the door.

at least the shower was a sanctuary where you could finally let the gravity of the situation finally wash over you, suddenly feeling so real that it came crashing down as soon as you stepped under the water and wet your hair.

your hand held over your mouth was seemingly enough to only let out silent cries, finally here in the cramped bathroom with the horrible water pressure, did you allow yourself to feel the emotion of everything that had led to you being here now.

putting your body through hell only to do it all over again fighting with detox and withdrawals, you could still feel how delicate of a state you were in, still finding yourself shaking on occasion or zoning out when you were trying to focus.

your war was hardly near over, that was the only thing you were absolutely certain of.

-

it seemed that your father had been more than happy to let you sleep in, because when you woke up and saw that the time in the clock read almost eleven in the morning, you were shocked you’d managed to get a solid nine hours of sleep.

maybe being back in a bed that was so familiar had done you a world of good already.

your meds were sat on the side table, along with the glass of water you had guessed your father left there for you, ready for you to take your first round of the day, a mix of tablets meant to stabilise both your body and your mind, a delicious cocktail of chemicals to try and make you feel even slightly normal again.

when you’d finally made your way down to the kitchen, a fresh set of lounge wear on, more designer, the fact made you cringe when you’d opened your suit case and realised that you owned nothing except designer, reminding yourself that you’d have to make time to go out to town to find some new clothes that didn’t cost a stupid amount of money.

with a kitchen that was usually left rather unsupplied, you were shocked to open the cupboard and see an array of healthy snacks and a multiple different choices of health foods, obviously your father had done enough research to stock up, even adding a few of your favourites that your certain amanda had been involved in selecting, because you knew for a fact that your father had no idea what matcha was.

only able to feel thankful for the support around you, you prepared yourself a drink for the morning as well as a small bowl of fruit and yoghurt, a nice light breakfast.

the sun practically called to you, the warmth against your skin being exactly what you needed as you placed your sunglasses on once more and sat at the outside table on the porch, beginning to slowly make progress on your breakfast.

when your father finally emerged and made his appearance from the barn across the dirt driveway, he waved at you and began to walk over, pulling off the gloves he was wearing.

finally walking up the small set of steps, he sat across from you and let out a sigh, the trucker hat on his head being enough to shelf him from the sun, as well as the cover over the porch.

“do you want me to make you a coffee?” you offered, partly out of politeness because you knew your dad always stopped drinking coffee after nine, otherwise he’d get jittery.

“i’m fine ducky, thanks though.”

the nickname was something you’d had all your life, seemingly originated from the fact that you’d always be found down at the creek as a child, trying to beat the heat by standing in ankle deep water and catching tadpoles.

nodding your head, you took another sip of your own drink, staring out into the coast field of your fathers property.

“i gotta go into town and try and get some new tools, just to the hardware supply, thought we could do a little window shoppin’?”

his offer was perfectly timed, as you’d managed to scrape down the last bite of your breakfast, nodding your head as you covered your mouth to avoid talking with your mouth full.

“i was gonna ask if we could go to town, that sounds perfect.”

with a satisfied smile, your father stood and told you to be readied up in about ten, giving you enough time to go back and wash your bowl in the kitchen.

-

town was bustling with life as it always did at this time, so many people going about their daily errands just the same as you and your dad.

while he’d taken the time to occupy himself at the hardware store, you’d excused yourself to have a look at the small boutique next door, opening the door which resulted in a soft ring of a bell.

before you’d had the chance to take a proper look at anything, you’d watched a head poke out of the back room, a smiling staff member greeting you before moving to stand behind the counter set up with a till and computer.

offering up a small smile, you kept your sunglasses on as you ran your hand over some of the pairs of jeans on the shelf in front of you, as well as some of the few leather pieces above them.

maybe they’d look nice with one of your sweaters back him in the-

your name being spoken directly behind you made you almost jump out of your skin, turning your head to see that same staff member standing behind you now, speaking your name out as if it was more of a question than anything.

as you finally turned, her mouth open led with a shocked smile as you finally got enough of a look at her face to recognise her as one of the girls you’d gone to highschool with, though you’d hardly call the pair of you friends.

“oh my god, i thought it was you!”

the southern drawl in her voice only seemed to grate across your brain as she reached forward and pulled you into a hug with no hesitation at all, your arms coming up uncomfortably as she let out a little sound of glee as she hugged you.

“i can’t believe it’s really you, big hollywood star back here! what’re you doin’ here?”

her questions were already putting you on edge, her peppy attitude and tight hug that you didn’t consent for enough to already send your anxiety going.

“i’m uh.. i’m visiting some family.”

your response only brought a look of sadness over her face, her hand flying up to your shoulder as she tried to seem comforting, only succeeding in making you more uncomfortable.

“oh i know, im so sorry to hear about your mama, when i found out i was just heart broken for ya’ sweetheart. it was such a shame to hear you couldn’t make it up for the service.”

the mention of that was enough to send you pulling back, almost bumping into the shelf behind you, your hand coming up in a stop motion which silenced her quickly.

“i’m sorry.” was all you could muster before you found yourself turning quickly, your anxiety to the point now where you can feel your head throbbing and your hands starting to shake.

your first attempt at integrating back into your home town was so far going horribly.

as you made your way to the exit and stumbled out the door, you collided with a passer by, only able to call out another apology as you kept your head low, a hand coming up to your face in some small attempt to alleviate the feeling of eyes in you that you weren’t even sure were real or just your mind tricking you.

finding your way back to your dads truck, you opened the door and practically fell onto the passenger seat, sliding down to try and hide yourself with prying eyes as you lifted your sunglasses to sit on your head, tears already beginning to flow.

you knew she hadn’t meant to upset you, that was what felt the worst about, she was just trying to comfort you and yet came on so strongly that it had sent you spiralling in a matter of seconds.

it hadn’t taken your dad long to get back to the truck opening the door and already beginning to chat to you before he saw the state of your reddened and puffy eyes.

“thought you’d have taken longer that that ducky! i wouldn’t have minded wait-“

as his eyes finally caught the sight of you crying, he quickly got into the seat and chucked the tools in the back, shutting the door as he put a hand on your shoulder.

“what happened? are you okay? did someone say something to you?”

his questions all came at once, leaving you only able to shake your head to alleviate his concerns, your hands coming up as you wiped your eyes.

“i’m okay dad, i promise, i just need to go back home.”

understanding but not pressing any further, your father responded by immediately turning the key and roaring the truck to life, pulling out of the parking space and making fast work of heading back to the house without breaking the speed limit.

-

It had been a good first attempt at the very least, even if it was ultimately a failure; you couldn’t blame the woman from the store, it was natural for people out this way to be overly friendly, it just seemed you’d forgotten that during your time away.

Home was a welcome sanctuary at the very least, a beacon of warmth and familiarity seeming to wash over you as you stepped back inside, wasting no time before going back up to your room and shutting the door, maybe you’d be able to just try again tomorrow, maybe it’d go smoother.

As you father spent the rest of the day tinkering away in the barn, you’d managed to keep yourself occupied with a book, reminding yourself to grab a tv next time you managed to get out into town, at the very least, with the your pride and wellbeing at a stand still you could remain thankful that you’d managed to get out of the lawsuit with your wealth and contract primarily intact.

The meds placed next to your bedside table were the first thing to catch your eye, your psychiatrists words echoing in your head like clock work, reminding you of all the little things you needed to remember, which ones you had to take with food and how many each day.

Your nighttime routine used to consist of expensive skincare, silk sheets and an hour and a half spent on going through your itinerary for the next day, all the appointments and interviews and recording sessions you’d be doing for hours at a time.

There was some part of you that almost felt as if you were in limbo, now all you had to do was take your meds and lay in bed reading, you hadn’t had this much free time in at least five years.

-

When your father had asked if you wanted to come out to the rodeo with him, you’d initially been hesitant, the idea of crowds only filling you with anxiety.

As much as you’d wanted argue, it was hard to deny his argument that it was a good opportunity to get out of the house, insisting he’d be by your side the entire time ready to go if it became too much.

His commitment was so strong, some part of you simply didn’t have the heart to say no, hesitantly agreeing with a smile.

A rodeo clown in his youth, your father was beloved by the community, well known on top of that, there was little doubt that you’d be stopped at least three or four times at the very least by people who knew your father, and by extension, also knew you.

-

With the stetson your father had managed to dig out of his wardrobe and a pair of true religion jeans, here you were, weaving through the crowd as the smell of fried food you’d never been allowed to eat by your personal trainer filled your nose, the sound of echoing rock music playing on the speakers.

Even now already, you were pushing yourself to keep your cool, letting yourself be put as ease by placing your fingers in the shallow pockets of your jeans, running them over the fabric to keep yourself grounded, occasionally bumping shoulders softly with your father.

All of this was something you’d been taught to do to manage your anxiety, even since you were only young, keeping yourself grounded by feeling and looking had always helped profoundly, especially now if ever.

Correctly predicted, it’d only taken about thirty seven minutes into arriving at the rodeo for your father to be stopped by a buddy, exchanging quick hugs and small talk, even allowing yourself to shake the mans hand and laugh at his comment about how he “hadn’t seen you since you were yeigh high!” and gesture with his hand to show how small you were.

After about an hour and checking out everything up for offer, saying hello to a few more buddies, your father led you to where you’d both be sitting in the stands, a corn dog covered in mustard sat in his hand, just as he’d always gotten from your memory.

It’d be hard to lie and say there wasn’t nostalgia to be found here, coming her with your mother and father so many times as a kid, whereas towards graduating highschool you’d attended less and less.

Your mind was interrupted by the sudden blaring of music, an announcer’s booming voice coming through the loudspeakers to hype up the crowd, eliciting cheers as a response when he’d asked the crowd if they were ready.

Unable to hide even the slightest of smiles when you watched your father cheer, you clapped your hands together in show fo excitement, even managing to let out a small cheer.

Each rider came out and received cheer’s from the crowd as their names were announced, some names sounding familiar, others not. A few people you could have sworn you remembered from highschool.

As time went on, even you started getting invested, at one point letting out a resounding ‘oooh’ with the rest of the crowd as one of the riders was thrown off his bull only moments before the buzzer signalled his eight seconds were up, laughing to yourself as he threw his hat to the ground, stomping back towards the gate.

Suddenly you were thankful for your father’s insistence, even if it had partly been due to the fact that he didn’t want to leave you at the house by yourself. For what felt like the first time in months, years even, you felt some semblance of peace, allowing yourself to enjoy something you’d stopped enjoying years ago.

One name out of all stood out to you only slightly more than others, only due to the fact that hid father had been a good friend of your own, even occasional business partner when it came to the sale and exchange of livestock, not exactly a friend as opposed to somebody you just saw a lot of when his father brought him round to your family’s ranch to give royal a hand.

You weren’t sure if Rhett had changed much since highschool, considering you hadn’t seen him since you left for Los Angeles, much less due to the fact you could hardly make out his features from where he was currently positioned behind the gate, sat atop of bull that already seemed to be sufficiently pissed off.

Personality wise, your opinion of royals youngest son had soured towards your graduation, the nickname he’d used to call you echoing in your head, the nickname that stuck so hard that almost everybody in your graduating class began to call you the very same thing.

When tweety bird first began to get thrown around, you’d only laughed awkwardly, hoping it would eventually fade, just like every other nick name did in highschool.

But even when one of Rhett’s own friends, the one you’d been crushing on hopelessly for months, had called you the nickname, hoping to be endearing, it only stung deep in your chest in a way that you couldn’t quite explain.

It wasn’t necessarily his spreading of the nickname that had caused you to dislike him so deeply; the nickname you could have brushed off as a teenage boy just being a bit of an asshole to make his friends laugh.

What he’d done that really twisted the knife, was tell the aformentioned friend of his, that you’d already found a date for the dance coming up later that year, only when you’d found out from a mutual friend that he’d told Rhett about his plans to ask you out, only for Rhett to shut it down immediately, for what reason, you still had no clue to this day.

It didn’t matter what the reason was, the damage had already been done; by the time you’d found out, the dance had already been and gone, a boring and melancholy event that had essentially been ruined for you by Rhett Abbot for absolutely no discernable reason.

You’d tried to reason with yourself and think of anything you could have done to Rhett in order for him to have some sort of vendetta for you, but there was nothing you could conjure up in your mind that could possibly be the reason why.

Whatever ill will he had towards you certainly hadn’t been helped when you’d spotted him in the hall with his friends, stormed over and told him to eat shit completely unprompted.

The last interaction you’d had with him before you took the final step and got on a bus to Los Angeles only a few days later.

There was a rational part of you reminding yourself that you were an adult now, that there was no reason to still be upset over something that happened when you were both teenagers, but to have had something that important ruined for you for no actual reason other then him just seemingly going out of his way to be an ass.

Well it was hard to call that water under the bridge.

The eighteen year old heartbroken girl in you had to pretend she wasn’t even the slightest bit satisfied when the cream coloured bull finally whipped him off rather unceremoniously onto the dirt ground, the buzzer ringing out only a second later, signalling that he’d failed.

At the same time, the adult that you were told yourself that it was unfair to celebrate the failures and possible physical injuries of a person you hadn’t spoken to in years.

“You remember Royal’s youngest, right Ducky?”

Your father had pulled you out of your own daydreaming with a hand on your shoulder, his other arm pointing to Rhett out on the small arena as he rose from where he landed, only able to quickly jog back towards the gate as the handler’s came in to herd the kicking bull back to its pen.

Nodding with slightly cringed smile, you watched him until he hopped the iron gate, disappearing from sight just as quickly as he’d been thrown out into the ring.

“We should go say hi after! I’m sure Royal’d love to see you!”

As much as you’d wanted to refuse, as much as you might have still had it out for his son, you couldn’t deny that Royal and his wife had ever been anything but sweet to you, inviting you around for lunches with your father a lot when you’d still lived in Wyoming, even Cecilia going as far as to add you on facebook when she’d seen you on tv for the first time, wishing you luck in your new career.

Even you couldn’t deny how good it would feel to give her a big hug for the first time in years.

It’d been a good amount of fun to watch the rest of the riders, to feel a kin ship with the rest of the crowd in the joy you all expressed when a rider successfully stayed on for the required eight seconds; how much you’d felt your heart soar when your father grabbed your shoulder excitedly, raising his arm and cheering with you.

When it finally finished up and everyone began to peel off of the stands, you gripped your father’s arm, letting him guide you out of the small arena.

As the pair of you made a turn towards the rider’s area, a gate marked with a rather large privacy sign that held remnants of familiarity for when you’d been backstage before a show, swearing for a second you felt yourself preparing to be bombarded by a makeup and wardrobe team just as you always had used to.

A tip of the hat to the guy at the gate had seemingly been all your father needed to be let through with you, his close relationships with most of the riders as well as probably their father’s as well carrying weight.

It had taken a bit of walking past lots of trailers and drifting past the chatter of lots of voices, some pleased with their wins, others audibly upset that they’d failed.

One voice that you instantly recognised as Cecilia made your heart jump a little bit, catching her in your vision just as you rounded the corner, standing with her arm’s crossed talking to somebody who you recognised after a few moments when you got closer to be Perry, the eldest of the siblings.

Your father’s voice called out to Cecilia, her head turning and her face forming into a gleeful smile as she waved the two of you over, your face slightly hidden under the stetson, your head downturned as you got closer.

“What’re you doin’ here?” she called out as she finally met halfway with your father, taking him in for a hug and patting him on the back endearingly, your arms crossing sheepishly as you stood slightly to the side.

“Thought you might wanna see who’s back in town!”

As your father, spoke, he turned and held his arm out to you, outstretched hand practically announcing you as you rose your head, only able to smile softly and wave with a hesitant hand, Cecilia’s face twisting for a moment before her eye’s widened and an opened mouth smile came over her features. “Oh my goodness!” she practically squealed out, her hands coming to her face before she stepped forward, opening her arms to place a hand on your arm softly, not quite pulling you in for a hug just for the moment which you silently were thankful for.

Reaching your own arm forward, you placed a hand on her shoulder, the soft fabric of her flannelete shirt being a great bit of texture for you to run your finger tips against for an extra little bit of grounding.

You could hear your father’s happy and satisfied chuckle, seemingly knowing how much it would mean to Cecilia that you came to say hello, considering how much she’d doted over you in your younger years.

“How the hell have you been, babygirl!”

Her voice was layered with a slight hint of emotion, a hand coming up to crush a strand of hair away from her face as she took a step back and put her hands on her hips.

You could only smile and nod, mustering up as generic of a response as you could.

“Takin’ it easy.”

Understatement of the century.

You wouldn’t have been surprised if she knew what had been happening with you, every tabloid in america had seemingly relished in sending your story across the country, all the details of your legal case and rehab.

Her face seemed to soften, her brows upturning as she nodded.

“Thats the way.” she spoke a bit softer, “You look beautiful, honey.”

Her kind words still hit just the way they always had, warming your heart to the core with her motherly nature.

Cecilia gestured to Perry, checking to see if he remembered you which Perry answered with a nod and polite hello, which you returned with a nod of your head.

Taking your arm in her head, it was as if you’d never been gone, Cecilia immediately going back to her old ways as she showed you around the rider’s area, making comments about how the two of had to go horseback riding together soon.

As the unavoidable finally made it’s way known, you felt Cecilia tap your arm, pointing in the direction of a trailer that must have been theirs, the door open and the light on, a figure stepping out with a fresh shirt and slightly damp hair. “There he is, Rhett! Get yer’ ass over here!”

When Cecilia’s youngest son turned his head to the two of you, he seemed indifferent, tired even, not surprising considering what he’d been through less than an hour ago, yet he still slowly began to walk towards his mother, running his fingers through his damp hair.

“You remember your father’s friend with the ranch down the road right?”

From where you stood, you could see Rhett nod, a polite smile coming to his face as he hadn’t seen your face yet, expecting his mother to introduce him to a stranger.

“Look who’s come back down for a visit!”

When you lifted your head, it seemed to take a few moments for him to recognise you, his brow furrowing slightly as he looked at you, your own face twisting into an awkward smile as you raised your eyebrows.

“How’ve you been Rhett.”

Your tone was formal, nowhere near similar to greeting an old friend, which of course you weren’t, seemingly putting off just enough stand offish energy for Cecilia not to pick up on it.

Clearing his throat as he wiped a hand across his face, evidently trying to catch himself and pretend like it hadn’t taken him a moment or two to recognise you, nodding his head as he placed his hands on his hips.

“Been good.”

It was clear that the both of you felt the awkward energy, not entirely sure where you stood with each other considering the last words you’d spoken to him years ago, clearly he wasn’t sure if you still hated him or not.

Nodding your own head back, part of you wondered if he’d seen the articles about you, seen the reports from TMZ; some anxiety settling in the back of your mind, if he still held a dislike towards, it definitely wasn’t helped by the paparazzi photos he’d seen of you drunkenly getting into limo’s, or the pictures of you leaving court.

“I watched you ride before.” it was all that you could muster out, your brain panicking when you realised it’d taken you a few seconds of silence to respond to him.

Pursing his lips slightly, he managed a small smile, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked over at his mother briefly.

“That bad, huh?” he joked with a chuckle, your brows furrowing slightly as he seemed to take it as snide remark straight away, your head tilting.

“I never said that.” your tone couldn’t be held back, unable to not feel just the slightest bit stand offish as he furrowed his own brows, visibly taken aback slightly by your response.

Just as he opened his mouth to say something in response, his facial expression tellin you it was probably something just as equally snarky as your own, only to be cut off by the sound of your own father’s voice calling you over, Cecilia’s arm twisting out of your own.

It seemed Rhett hadn’t changed much, still holding some sort of idea about you that made it seem like you were a bitch, at least that’s what he’d muttered when you’d walked away from him in the hall that day in school.

“Have a good night Cecilia, drive safe for me okay?” you spoke quickly, wanting to avoid any confrontation that could potentially be rearing its ugly head, turning on foot before she could respond and walking back over to your father who was waving you over.

“Ready to go home, Ducky?”

Your fathers arm curled in yours, a knowing smirk seemingly being exchanged with Cecilia before he turned to walk with you.

“Absolutely.” you responded, a satisfied nod on your head.

Continuing on through the crowd that was growing thinner and thinner as you approached the exit, you finally made it back into your fathers truck, opening your door and buckling yourself in as he got into the driver’s seat.

“I spoke with Royal while you were with Cecilia by the way.” he began, turning the key as the truck roared to life.

“We’ve been invited out to dinner with them tomorrow night.”

[tuffluuhv]

Crawl home to you- Bob Reynolds x reader

Chapter Eight

Chapter seven

Summary: Ever since you had met Bob inside the vault, your life had took a drastic turn, one there was no coming back from. Through helping him deal with his struggles, you were able to heal your own scars. However, untold truths, silent battles and reassuring lies start to break apart all you've built together.

Warnings: just like, one mention of SH

A/N: This one's really short but it's pure flufff to make up for all that angsttt soooo i hope it gives u satisfaction while reading. And tis is also the last chapter so I rally want to thank everyone who read this eight chapter long fic that was originally supposed to be a oneshot lmaoo. More bob fics will be out really soon whenever inspiration hits. And share your thoughts on this fic in the comments I'd LOVE that heheheeeee

Word count: 733

Bob found you sitting near a window, Yelena sitting by your side.

You were wearing your favorite sweatshirt, hair falling close to your eyes.

You were tired, but you were here.

“And let me know if you need anything, okay” said Yelena as she held your hand.

You chuckled, “I’m getting princess treatment from Yelena Belova” you said, lifting a shoulder. “I should fake being sick,” you said, considering the idea.

She gave a light smack on your hand but she too, was grinning. “Whatever” she rolled her eyes, but then she smiled gently.

“I’m just glad you’re okay”.

Bob stepped forward, finally mustering up the courage to approach you.

“Hi, Y/n” He spoke, but you were already looking at him.

“Hi Bob,” you smiled. 

Yelena stood up, “I’m gonna go find something to eat” she said.

She placed a hand on Bob’s shoulder before leaving.

He stepped closer.

You shifted to your side, making space for him. 

He sat down next to you.

“Y//n” he began. 

You turned to him.

“I’m really sorry,” he spoke. "For all the things I said”.

 He shook his head.

 “I didn’t mean any of it” He sighed, pressing his fingers to his eyelids briefly.

“It’s just that..” he began.

“The void-” his voice wavered.

 “His voice got loud, and he kept on saying these terrible, awful things” He pressed his lips briefly. 

“Until I started believing them too”.

“Hey no it’s not your fault” you shook your head. “I should’ve told you”.

“I kept-” you took a breath, formulating a proper sentence.

He knew

He waited

“I kept thinking,” you sighed.

“ kept telling myself that I was protecting you that way” you frowned slightly. “By keeping you away from worrying, from the-” you turned your gaze down. “from my pain”.

You sighed, brushing a hand over your face. “But deep down I was scared.”

You admitted, shaking your head. “Scared that it’d all be too much for you”.

“I was scared that I might be too much for you”.

His gaze turned sombre as he furrowed his brows.

“So I just hid it” you lifted a shoulder as you winced. “For as long as I could” you said.

“For as long as I would have to”.

“And in doing so I-” you pursed your lips briefly. “I hurt you”.

“I led you to believe that I didn’t trust you enough to tell you.”

Your gaze softened, you raised your brows. “But I do trust you, Bob” you took his hand in your own, and he felt a weight lifting off his chest, a burden he didn’t even know he was carrying.

He furrowed his brows, concern spreading over his features, before he smiled.

He moved his hand up, gently tucking a loose strand of your hair behind your ear.

“I know now,” he nodded. “I know you do”.

A thought came to his mind. He took a deep breath, “Can you-” he began. “Can you show me please?” he asked.

Your gaze softened

You knew what he meant.

Slowly, you lifted up your sleeve, revealing the scars covering a better part of your arm.

He held onto your hand, gently, he moved it up and placed a kiss on top of a scar. “I love you, Y/n” he said. 

“All of you”.

"And I will love you through it all” he nodded in encouragement. 

“The good, the bad,” he met your gaze. “the worst”.

‘I’ll be here, always”.

He smiled, slowly lifting a shoulder, “Isn’t that what we always do for each other?”.

You smiled, the tears in your eyes shining. 

“Yeah” you nodded.

You cupped his face in your hands, moving closer.

He silently took a deep breath, mustering up all of his courage. 

He was the one to close the distance between you two.

The kiss was slow, gentle, patient, hesitation lingering in the air.

But when you kissed him back, he knew the moment was real, he knew you truly felt the same.

It mended every broken piece of him, healed every wound, it was the solace he'd been seeking his whole life, without ever realizing it.

When you pulled away, he chuckled.

“You terrify me,” he said with a wide-eyed gaze.

You grinned proudly. “Maybe” you shrugged. 

“But you love me anyway,” you smiled.

He nodded in response, “I love you” he said, before kissing you again.

You rested your head on his shoulder as he wrapped his arm around your waist.

You were there with him

And he knew one thing for sure, he was never letting you go.

@uncertified-doc @uracowboylikemee @jkjklopo

[tuffluuhv]

all the small things

pairing. bob reynolds x gn!reader

summary. three times bob goes out of his way to show you kindness, and the one time you find out why

content warnings. loads of sweet sweet fluff and mutual pining (no one’s surprised), non established relationships, r being referred to as pretty, spiders & r being afraid of them, yelena and ava being nosy shits and an instigators (affectionate) (lovingly), eventual confession of feelings, not proofread

word count. 4167

a/n. here have another 3+1 with bob cause i love him and i have so many thoughts for him. also im not too good at characterizing ava so when shes mentioned it might be ooc im sorry

———

shared couch

it was hard trying to acclimate to living and working in the rebuilt tower. you liked the responsibility, you liked being in your feet and having something useful to do. while you may’ve unwillingly been recruited to be on the new avengers team, you were glad to be of use somehow. still, even with this sort of twisted contentment, it was… odd being in this tower full of people you’d only known for two short months.

you found a little difficulty in communicating with the team, something that was expectant. you’d barely known each other when the title of the new avengers was thrust upon you. everyone was grappling with their own issues as they tried to make sense of what was happening. some people opened up better than others.

someone you grew fond of quickly was bob. while he wasn’t the most open of the group, you found that he was pleasant to talk to. on the few occasions you were able to get more than simple small talk out of him, he was quite charming. even when stumbling through a punch line of a joke, it always landed right, making you let out small, genuine laughs. though the conversations may never be deep, you were grateful someone here was willing to talk with you, especially someone who was so easy to talk to.

the large, open living room inside of the tower was bustling with people. all six of your teammates were there, something that didn’t quite happen often. you realized quickly that alexei was droning on about a new promo idea he had for the team no one seemed to care much about. you didn’t care too much, either, frankly sick of the all the photoshoots and the public appearances. still, you wanted in on the conversation.

you searched the furniture for a place to sit, eyes falling on two different spots. one would have you smushed between walker and bucky, an unfortunate duo to be sitting by. the other was next to bob, who sat alone in silence, head lolling onto the cushion of the loveseat. his eyes were looking everywhere but alexei as if trying to keep his mind occupied. that’s how his eyes found you, who was shyly standing a little away from the furniture.

bob watched as your eyes flickered between the two empty spots, quickly catching on to your dilemma. you wanted so desperately to sit next to him, though unsure whether you should. a small wave of his hand caught your attention, eyes falling onto him like his had down to you. the hand he waved with dropped down to the cushion beside him, patting it gently, urging you to come sit. you were more than happy to oblige.

your pace was a little slow as you walk towards him, gently sliding onto the small couch next to him. hesitantly, bob nudged your arm, brief and nervous. you wondered only for a second if it was in case the other side of him made an appearance. he leaned in slightly after his nudge, whispering into your ear with a tilted head.

“thought it would be better than trying to squeeze next to them,” bob said, a finger pointing discreetly over at bucky and walker. “walkers riled up today anyways.”

it was your turn to lean in a little, a small smile playing on your face as you whisper back to him, watching alexei wave his hands around as he spoke. it was your turn to discreetly point, this time at the man on his feet. “i wonder why.”

bob let out a short huff of air out of his nose as a way of laughing, eyes flickering over at you as you finally settled down next to him, resting your head back on the cushion the same way he was. your whispered conversation continued on below everyone else’s much louder conversation. while the theatrics were entertaining, you’d much rather speak with bob. he was kind.

———

coffee runs

it’d been a long few days for the team. between a two day mission that required more of your time than it should’ve, nearly excessive training that had your legs feeling like jelly, and meetings valentina practically forced you guys into, it was hard to find time for yourself. needless to say, you were quite drained.

with a cheek pressed against your pillow and your phone loosely in hand, you lay rested against your very welcoming bed. this was the first time you’d been inside your room in nearly four days. the first thing you attended to was a much needed shower, sweat gripping your body from the two hour training session from earlier in the morning. while you should be getting yourself ready for a press conference, you decided that spending some time on your phone just a little long was more important. you were better in a rush, anyhow. the hardest part of getting ready was done, you were clean. two and a half hours was plenty enough time to rest for a while longer.

you were rather enjoying that peace when you were interrupted by a knock on your door, soft and steady. a groan escaped your chest before you could think twice, turning your phone off as you let it drop face down on your bed. you pushed your aching body off of your bed, wobbling a little on your feet, before you forced yourself upright and to the door. relief washed over your body when you opened the door to reveal bob, shoulders straight and unusually confident, something you didn’t dwell on for too long.

in his hands were two large, warm coffees with small black writing on it. he was quick to smile at you as his fingers indent the cups slightly, something that happened almost on instinct when his eyes found you.

“hey,” bob greeted, voice a little weak. he let out a cough to clear his throat, as if that would help him amplify his voice. it only worked a little, though. “i, uh- i got you a coffee.”

you watched as he held out one of the coffees to you, gratefully reaching out for it with both hands. your fingers gently grazed his as he passed it along to you, an accidental touch that had his throat closing up just slightly. bob had more to say that was surely going to come out as a long, drawn out ramble, though it got caught in his throat. he took that as a momentary win, glad that he wasn’t completely making a fool out of himself like he usually does around you.

you always made him so nervous. you were kind and funny and so pretty to look at. it was easy to fall for a person like you, so it was no wonder that he did. he just wished he wasn’t such a pathetic wreck around you sometimes.

“thank you, oh my god,” you let out, warmth radiating onto your hands as you held the cup. you brought your lips up to it in an instant, tasting the deliciousness of the slightly bitter liquid. another groan left your mouth, this time soft and appreciative. you licked the coffee off your top lip that remained, realization hitting you right as you do so. “you know my order?”

“yeah,” bob squeaked out, rushing to answer you. a sudden burst of embarrassment surged through him. he realized how bad this might look, how it may come across creepy or something that he knows your order by heart. he wasnt meaning to come across that way, he simply just remembered. “you told me about this really good latte you had last week, thought that you might like another, ya know?”

that’s when the floodgates opened up, his rambling beginning with no sign of stopping. “it’s been a busy week, we’ve got that stupid press conference later, and you looked so tired after training that i thought you could use one. not that you looked bad or anything! god, i’m sorry, i didn’t mean it like that. i just figured since i was already out for a coffee for myself that you’d maybe want one too.”

bob let out a low, nervous chuckle when he finished speaking, shoulders slouching back down to its usual position. a little bit of his coffee had spilled over his whitened knuckles amidst his talking, his hand shaking ever so slightly, his grip a little too tight on the flimsy cup. his eyes fell down to the ground as he began shrinking into himself.

“that’s so thoughtful of you,” you told him once he let himself breathe after speaking. his eyes flickered up to your face searching for an insincerity he didn’t find any trace of from you. he never did, now that he thought about it. the only time you were even a little insincere was when you were speaking to walker, who tended to get on everyone’s nerves sometimes.

you had the prettiest smile on your face, one that eased his nerves down to where they usually were when he was around you. he was flustered, but not on edge. you weren’t weirded out by him. in fact, you seemed flattered that he remembered your order, and even more so that he’d thought to get you one.

“thank you, bob, really,” you told him, giving him a genuine nod.

“of course,” he responded, a small, nervous smile finding its way back onto his face. “anytime, really!”

“would you wanna come in?” you offered, opening up your door for him as a welcome. “we’ve got some time before we need to be at the press conference, i can finally tell you about how alexei gave yelena the birds and the bees talk on our way to the mission.”

“you’re joking?” bob asked, eyes going wide in shock and amusement. he looked just as bewildered as you did whilst it was happening, letting himself inside of your room. you couldn’t help but laugh at his reaction, face scrunching up as you recall the awfully uncomfortable situation, closing the door shut behind the man.

you tried not to think too much about how bobs scent washed over you as he passed you briefly, and you tried even harder not to stare too hard at the gorgeous smile that rested on his face. he looked a lot more at ease now that he knew you weren’t off-put by his actions. you liked this look on him. still nervous and a little fidgety, but more comfortable. he didn’t look like he wanted to crawl into his skin anymore.

and, even when you two sat right next to each other on the edge of your bed, thighs just inches apart, bob still felt better than before. it was odd the way he felt around you. while still incredibly flustered by your presence, he always felt comfortable around you. he never felt judged by you, and if he did, you unknowingly brushed that aside for him. it was like second nature to you.

———

loose spider

the aversion you had towards spiders always seemed a little childish to you. it was something you thought you’d eventually grow out of, or an issue you’d be at least a little less affected by by now. you were a tough combat fighter, one that has seen some unimaginable things. a fighter that still, for some reason, was afraid of spiders.

you never told this to the team, it was useless information, something you were sure would never need to be addressed. quite frankly you’d forgotten about this little fear of yours until you came face to face with it in the most unfortunate events such as this one. like usual, the team was bumping into each other in the towers kitchen in desperate search of some breakfast. while you rarely ever seemed to eat the same meals, you always accompanied each other before a long day.

with the shuffling of your feet, you found your way to the fridge in search of some butter for your toast. instead, you were met with a jet black spider that sat right on the handle, stopping you in your tracks. your hand was merely inches away from it when you realized it was sat there, watching as it moves a couple inches towards your hand as you pulled it back. you let out a choked gasp as you stumbled back slightly, eyes blown wide as you stare.

all you wanted was some damn buttered toast, yet here you were.

“someone get it,” you blurted out quickly, eyes not moving from the spider as you frantically pointed at it. your words caught the attention from everyone in the room. it was rather silent this morning, only a few whispers here and there between each other. everyone seemed to stare at you for a few moments instead of helping.

“it’s just a spider,” walker deadpanned once he saw what you were pointing at as if it was obvious. “it’s not a big deal.”

“it is to me,” you whispered weakly, embarrassed by your fear. you wish you could just ignore it, get what you needed and go, but you couldn’t. the mere sight of the spider made you shiver. you heard feet shuffling behind you, and you half expected it to be john ready to make fun of you or something.

instead, it was bob, who moved past you without a word. he was careful with his steps moving forward, hands reaching out to gently scoop the spider off of the fridge. once it was secured in his big palms, he slowly turned around, letting you see that he has it without actually showing it to you.

“‘m gonna go let it outside,” he told you in the softest tone. he offered you up a small, un-judgmental smile, before he started to move past you again, heading towards the elevator. this time, you didn’t flinch when the spider came near you. bob was kind, and despite whatever your brain was trying to tell you, you knew he wouldn’t tease you with it, or bring it near you to scare you even more.

“thank you,” you replied, looking at him with the most appreciative expression. he simply nodded as he continued on, the same smile playing on his lips still there, calming your anxiety.

god, he was so gentle. most people would’ve killed the spider, squashing it in their hands or with a shoe. but bob? bob was escorting down one of the largest buildings in new york to safely set it outside. he didn’t make a big fuss out of it, or make you feel bad for your fear. instead, he made you feel seen, safe. even if it was ‘just’ a spider. you were deep in thought about the man as you watched his figure disappear out of sight when yelena broke the silence.

“well that’s just adorable,” she quipped, a small smile playing on her face as she swirls the coffee in her hand. “i think a little someone has a crush on you.”

“the spider?” alexei asked cluelessly, earning an eye roll from ava who was perched up on one of the counters, and a quiet ‘dumbass’ from bucky who was nose deep in some book he hadn’t looked up from this entire conversation.

your face heated up at yelena’s comment, eyebrows furrowing together as you glance over at her. you finally move to open the fridge, grabbing ahold of the butter you were in search of.

“bob doesn’t have a crush on me,” you told her, shaking your head in disbelief. your voice was shaky, and you weren’t quite sure if it was because the adrenaline from the spider, or the possibility of bob having a thing for you.

it’s not that you didn’t like the idea, it’s just that you didn’t think it was true. sure, you had a blooming crush on him, and it would be amazing if he’d felt the same about you. there was just no way bob felt that way. he was simply being kind and attentive to you like he always was. this wasn’t new, and it definitely wasn’t motivated with anything romantic.

“just saying,” yelena mumbled, drawing her attention back to the meal in front of her. “i don’t think he would’ve been that nice about it to any of us.”

“can you imagine bob looking at walker like that?” ava piled on with giggles. her next words were laced with a fake affection, swooning in exaggeration as she looks at the blonde haired man. “don’t worry walker, i’ll take it outside for you!”

everyone laughed at ava’s nonsense, even bucky let out a huff of air out of his nose before she said one last thing. “he would’ve dragged him for it, y/n. clearly bobs just got a big ole soft spot for you.”

you spent the rest of breakfast in silence as you sat in your thoughts, picking at your toast and sipping at your juice when you realized you were being nearly too still. you tensed up a little when bob came back to the kitchen, frowning slightly when you realized his food must be a little cold now. your eyes lingered on him as he sat, something he noticed. he gave you another soft, closed lip smile, as if reassuring you in his own little way.

could he have a thing for you? could bob feel the same as you do? you tried to be optimistic about it, letting hope linger inside of you at the thought that maybe yelena and ava were right. you still doubted yourself. that’s just who bob was. kind, honest, caring. there’s no way he was only like that with you.

———

clean laundry

maybe you were being too confident in yourself. you brought a large load of laundry into the laundry room in the tower, slipping what you could inside the washer and dryer to get it done and over with. it was tough getting it to the room itself, but now that you had to bring it back up to your room you wished you would’ve just done two smaller loads.

you had your fabric softener barely gripped with a few of your fingers as you braced the hamper, waddling your way towards the elevator, leaning your whole body towards the buttons to indicate you’re wanting to go up. you tried to keep ahold of everything, knee pushing upwards to keep the hamper in place.

getting inside the elevator was worse. you nearly knocked over your clothes when you sat it down, hands fumbling to press the number for the living quarters. why they didn’t put a laundry room on your floor was beyond you. valentina was, as usual, no help when you pressed her about it. she simply shrugged it off and moved along. as if she couldn’t be more frustrating of a human being.

the hamper wasn’t super heavy, only heavy enough for you to struggle a little lugging it around with you across the large tower. you huffed and puffed your way out of the elevator when you finally make it there, irritation growing rapidly as you try not to drop any clean clothes on the floor. you didn’t want a trail of potential undergarments leading towards you room.

you weren’t even a quarter of your way to your room when bob coincidentally turned the corner, finding you struggling slightly with your clothes. you gave him a tight lipped smile, one that was clearly full of annoyance. he was quick to swoop in to help. of course he was.

“can i help?” bob offered, walking up to you with his arms out slightly. you shook your head no, though your eyes told a different story. all he had to do was cock an eyebrow at you for you to give in, sheepishly setting the hamper down on the ground.

“thanks,” you whispered out, watching as he effortlessly picked up the hamper and began to walk. you followed behind him with a slight stumble at the start, fabric softer in hand. while you were strong as you were, sometimes you wished you had superhuman strength like some of your teammates did. it would certainly help you with your mundane tasks.

as you followed bob to your room, you began to think about what yelena had told you about bob having a crush on you. he was always eager to help you out. you always thought it was nothing, just a way to be friendly, something he would do for everyone. the thought was eating you up inside. you wanted desperately for him to feel that way about you. you wanted him to want you.

you were surprised at what came out of your own mouth next as he opens up your door for you, letting you walk in first, quietly following behind you.

“ya know,” you started, pointing beside your bed to let bob know to set your hamper there. he did just that, watching as you start to pick at the laundry to sort through it. “yelena told me you might have a crush on me.”

bob froze in an instant. he watched as you seemingly nonchalantly started to fold your clothes, setting them down on your bed right afterwards. your hearts seemed to pound together quickly, sharing the same rapid pulses at your words.

“she did?” bob choked out, eyes blown wide. he seemed just as shocked at the proclamation as you did.

“yeah,” you affirmed, glancing over at him. he was visibly nervous, hands fumbling with each other, fingers moving together in attempts to calm himself. you started to panic more at the sight of him, trying your best to distract yourself with your laundry. did you make him uncomfortable?

you realized that you might’ve messed up big time. you didn’t reveal your feelings for him directly, though it felt like by telling him that, you were opening yourself up to questions. ones that would lead him straight to your feelings. it felt like you were already out in the open for him to see right through.

“would it be so bad?” bob whispered, eyes piercing into your skin, trying his best to get his read on you. even if you felt like he knew how you felt, he hadn’t a single idea. “if i, uh… did had a crush on you?”

that made you stop in your tracks, hands gripping the half folded shirt in your hands. your eyes trailed to him one last time, looking right into his. bobs eyes were big and round and blue as you stare at each other, tension thick in the air as he waits for your answer.

“not at all,” you whispered back. you finished folding the shirt without looking at it, setting it blindly on the bed. relief visibly washed over bobs body, tension releasing from his jaw and his shoulders. his hands still fidgeted together, though, as he tried to collect his thoughts.

“i was really hoping it wasn’t obvious,” bob told you, chuckling quietly at himself. “i guess i was.”

“i didn’t notice until she mentioned it,” you replied, deciding to lean into the newfound information. “not until you were a gentleman and saved me from that spider.”

you two had matching cheesy grins on your faces at your words, the slight absurdity of it bringing out a giddiness that made your chest bloom with warmth. all he could do was shake his head at you at first, a hand of his reaching up to scratch the back of his neck nervously. “just know i didn’t show it any mercy for scaring you like that. i put it right on the sidewalk instead of the grass.”

it’s your turn to laugh this time. “the poor bastard got what it deserved.”

as your guys’ laughter died down, you went back to silently folding your clothes. the air was a lot less tense now that everything was - for the most part - out in the open. you thought the conversation over as bob started slowly pacing across your room, finding the swivel chair at your desk to sit at. he leaned back as casually as he could manage, hands smoothing down the front of his shirt. you realized that you might not have been clear on how you felt, doing so in the best way you could think of. teasing and kind.

“you know this means you have to take me on a date now, right?” you asked him, eyebrows lifting up with expectation. bob nodded quickly and enthusiastically, eyes bright as he looks up at you from his seat across the room.

“of course, y-yeah!” bob tells you immediately, a small spout of rambles beginning like they always do when he’s nervous. “i would be honored to, i mean, i’ve been thinking about it for months. i’d be kinda crazy not to now that i know i’m not completely off base with you.”

and honestly, you couldn’t wait.

[tuffluuhv]

Business

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: After a night on the town with your old field ops team, you return to the Watchtower in hopes of making a drunken confession to Bob that will change your friendship forever.

Warnings: Fluff, and Some Angst, Reader and Bob are friends and aren’t dating, Mentions of heavy drinking, reader drinks until they are very drunk/tipsy (it is described), Drunken Confessions (and the embarrassment that comes with it afterwards lol), Mentions of throwing up/Hangovers, Reader is kind of hard on themselves regarding love, Bob takes care of the reader while she is in this drunken stupor and he kind of secretly loves every second of it? We are finally attacking the good old Drunken Confession Trope y’all and I frickin love it!!!!

Author’s Note: Y’all I frickin adore a good old love confession trope, like holy crappppp. This was a request from ‘Book anon’, amazing request, thank you a lot for it, I absolutely loved writing it for ya <3. Hope it’s what you’re lookin for! Also…It’s Rhett Abbott Friday…Y’know what that means…Double updates :p

Word Count: 8,137

The bar was absolute chaos.

It pulsed like a living thing–thick with music, sweaty bodies, and the pungent scent of spilled beer and a cocktail of various colognes mixing together, sharp and heady in the humid air. It clung to your skin, warm and damp, tasting like salt and gin and smoke from the overworked fryer in the back kitchen.

There was a faint haze that clouded the enclosed space from people sharing vapes and sneaking off to the alleyway to have a quick cigarette–but this was all normal for a Friday night at a downtown bar. Normal for a place like this, where you didn’t come to relax, you came to drown something.

The ceiling fans spun lazily overhead, which did nothing to help the heat, it just pushed the warm air in spirals. The walls were exposed brick, cracked in places, and plastered with old concert posters and handwritten signs advertising ‘$6 shots if you tip well’ and ‘No Vaping Inside (We See You)’. Every surface glistened faintly with condensation or sweat or both, and the wood beneath your elbows was sticky with spilled drinks and the ghosts of a thousand stories.

Somewhere to your left, the jukebox warbled the opening chords to a song that had no business being that loud, and someone shouted in recognition, fists raised. Glass clinked, a cheer erupted near the dartboard, and the bartender didn’t look up once–just kept pouring with the efficiency of a soldier who had seen war in shot glass form.

You and your old team took up four stools near the far end of the bar–just close enough to the speakers that conversation came in shouts and fragments, but far enough that you could pretend the chaos wasn’t swallowing you whole. The bar was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, but around your little carved-out corner, it still felt like them–back when your life was smaller, rougher around the edges, but easier to understand.

Benji, always the loudest and boldest, lifted his beer with exaggerated ceremony, nearly tipping it as he stood one foot on the stool’s lower rung. His cheeks were already flushed, the sleeves of his worn flannel pushed up past his elbows, one of them singed at the cuff from a mission he still refused to talk about. His knuckles were always bruised, and there was a faded tattoo peeking from under his collar that said ‘Viva La Prague’–something that he regretted getting when he woke up the next morning.

“Cheers to Y/N!” He bellowed, beer sloshing over his knuckles. “For finding time in her very demanding, top-secret, super glamorous Avenger-adjacent schedule to come slum it with us mortals for one night.” Calla let out a sharp laugh and clinked her whiskey glass against his. Her laugh was sharp like broken glass but warm beneath it–always had been. She still wore the same dog tags under her tank top, still had that scar across her forearm from the rooftop extraction in Marrakesh. She had this permanent smudge of black eyeliner beneath her eyes like she never fully washed off the field, even now.

“Damn right,” She said. “You realize you’re sitting next to someone who’s brushed shoulders with some of the most dangerous people on this planet?”

“And still somehow manages to answer my texts,” Rye added dryly, raising his own glass with a faint smirk. He was the quiet one, always had been. Broad-shouldered and sharp-eyed, more thoughtful than most gave him credit for. You used to joke that his blood ran cold–until the night he’d broken protocol to drag Benji out of a firefight with nothing but a cracked riot shield and a broken rib. He didn’t speak much, but when he did, it landed.

You flushed at the array of comments, ducking your head with a half-laugh, fingers curling loosely around the rim of your mint mojito. The ice had melted, watered the drink down to something limp and barely sweet–just the faint herbal bitterness of wilted mint and cheap rum. You sipped it anyway. It gave your hands something to do. Something to hold onto in the midst of all this.

“Please, guys,” You started with a tight laugh, trying to wave it all off. “You always make a big deal out of this stuff when it’s really not.”

Calla scoffed, swirling the ice in her glass. “Sure. You’ve got a god on your team. And the Winter So–”

“Bucky Barnes,” You interrupted quickly, not looking up from your drink when you corrected her. She smirked over the rim of her glass.

“Alright…Bucky Barnes. My apologies. Didn’t realize it was so formal.” You sighed and took another sip of your wilted mojito.

“We’re also still in a fight for the rights to the name, technically. So I’m not an Avenger. I’m a Thunderbolt.” Rye gave a low grunt and brushed that off with a lazy wave of his hand.

“Please. You guys saved New York City from that big shadow guy. Don’t tell me you’re not on the same level as them.” You groaned, hand lifting to your temple.

“That big shadow guy is the alter ego of the god you’re referring to,” You muttered, rubbing the thin skin on the side of your head with a sigh, “Just saying…And on top of that he’s out of commission so…Technically we’re down a god.” Calla tilted her head.

”Well that must mess up the team dynamic.” She replied, letting out a huff of a laugh. You didn’t answer–not right away at least. You just stared into the half-melted swirl of your drink and felt something subtle crack open beneath your ribs.

Because from the minute they brought up The Void, or Sentry…Your mind went back to him again…

Bob.

You had done everything you could tonight to keep your thought off of him. You came here to be loud, to get drunk, and to surround yourself with the memory of who you were before he started slipping under your skin like golden light through fractured glass.

But now that his name tiptoed through the caverns of your mind, it was impossible to ignore the ache. That slow-burning, bone-deep, stomach turning pull that never left–because he never left. Because he was always there, buried within the little things that littered your life.

Like the way he’d appear in the observation deck above the training floor when you were running combat drills. You’d feel it first, that prickle at the back of your neck that you got when you knew his eyes were on you. That hush just beneath the noise. When you’d glance up mid-round, panting and flushed, there he would be. Leaning with his forearms braced against the railing, light brown hair tousled, and sleeves pushed up, with his eyes locked on you with the softest kind of focus.

When your eyes would meet his, he’d smile–small and startled, like he hadn’t expected to be caught, and then came the little wave. That dumb little half-wave of his. Fingers lifting slowly, shy and gentle, like he was suddenly shy about the fact he was watching you as if you were under a microscope.

You’d raise your hand in return, trying not to blush, and he’d disappear a minute later–quiet as he came–leaving behind the weight of his presence like the last warmth from a sunbeam that had already moved on.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That he probably watched everyone. That he must have waved at someone else like that, and visited them when they were training too. But still…The moment never left you.

Then sometimes you’d catch him in the kitchen before dawn, getting breakfast ready for you before a whole morning of briefings.

It didn’t matter how early you got up, how quiet you were when you crept into the kitchen, or how late the last mission had run. He was already there. Pajama pants hanging low on his hips, t-shirt wrinkled and inside-out, hair sticking up like he’d rolled out of bed ten minutes ago–because he had. Just for this.

He never said much. Just hummed quietly under his breath, something tuneless and soft, his mug of tea steaming beside the stove as he stirred eggs in a pan like the world wasn’t sitting on his shoulders. There was always a banana sliced with precise, practiced symmetry. Always a small bowl of whatever fruit hadn’t gone soft in the fridge. Always coffee waiting–and not just brewed, but made right. The exact way you liked it.

He never asked how you took it. He just…Knew.

At first you thought it was a coincidence. Then a fluke. Then you thought it was something he specifically did just for you because he was trying to tell you something he couldn’t say with words.

But then you noticed the post-it notes. Little squares of yellow stuck to the fridge door, each one penned in Bob’s unmistakably neat handwriting–slightly slanted, soft around the corners like he hesitated before each letter. A dozen gentle reminders. A dozen invisible kindnesses.

“Leftovers in the container–help yourself :)”

“Made a plain omelette for you Bucky! Check the top shelf!”

”Yelena! I picked up your favourite fruit snacks!”

And you realized…He remembered everyone.

He remembered how Yelena peeled her oranges in one spiral and hated blueberry yogurt. He remembered Bucky’s low tolerance for spice and how he liked his food seasoned well but not with crazy amounts of experimental ingredients. He remembered how Walker took his coffee too sweet and how you once mentioned you liked banana slices with cinnamon–once–and they had shown up on your plate the very next morning. He even remembered specific details about Alexei’s odd meal plan and attempted multiple times to get it right for him.

He was kind to everyone.

Consistent. Gentle. Attentive.

And not just with you.

And that realization sat in your stomach like a stone.

Cold and sinking.

Because all those moments you’d hoarded like firelight–his quiet glances, his shy smiles, his soft waves from the upper deck–they weren’t yours. They weren’t special. You’d just made them feel that way. You had done that. You’d built a shrine to him in your heart based on borrowed things.

And God, did it hurt to realize that.

The ache in your chest twisted, sharp and punishing, because you’d let yourself believe. You’d let yourself hope.

You wanted a sign. Just one. Something undeniable. Something that said:

I see you the way you see me.

But it never came, Instead, you had small waves, and breakfast, and polite, crushing kindness.

He haunted you in the gentlest ways imaginable.

And it killed you every single time.

You inhaled sharply through your nose and blinked hard, forcing your eyes back to the present, back to the bar where Calla was laughing at something Benji said and Rye had his glass tipped back like he was trying to disappear into it. The room swam in noise–booming bass, clinking glass, a woman’s voice singing a chorus in a key she couldn’t quite reach. It all blurred around the edges.

And maybe that was what you needed tonight.

To blur the reality you were facing a bit.

You slapped your palm lightly on the bar, catching the bartender’s eye with practiced ease.

“Shots,” You called out over the music, voice a little too bright, a little too loud. “Four of ‘em. Tequila, preferably please.” Benji whooped. Calla raised her brows. Rye didn’t say a word, but his smirk deepened.

And you smiled. You smiled like it didn’t hurt. Like your heart hadn’t just folded in on itself. Like you weren’t standing knee-deep in the quiet ruins of all the little almosts that Bob had given you without ever meaning to.

You would drink until your body was louder than your thoughts.

You would drink until your head buzzed louder than the ache in your chest.

Until the weight of his quiet love for everyone drowned out the way you had foolishly wanted it to be just for you.

So when the bartender slid the shots across the bar, you didn’t hesitate.

You knocked the first one back with shaking fingers.

Bitter. Clean. Empty.

And you welcomed the burn.

——————————

The city blurred past the window of your Uber, a smear of neon and streetlamp gold, glowing through the raindrops that had started falling sometime after shot number three. Your head lolled slightly against the window, eyes half-lidded, the hum of the tires and your own pulse making everything feel distant–like you were underwater. Or watching your life from outside your body.

By the time the car pulled up in front of the Watchtower–a steel-and-glass monolith that sliced through the dark sky of New York City–you were barely holding onto the thread of consciousness that guided your limbs.

You fumbled with the handle before the driver even came to a full stop, murmured something that was half “thanks” and half “sorry,” and stepped out into the night on legs that didn’t quite feel like yours.

The heels were a mistake. You knew it the moment your ankle gave a soft warning twist on the slick pavement.

You wobbled, caught yourself against the doorframe of the Uber with a slurred curse, and gritted your teeth as you leaned heavily against the side of the building. The clutch in your hands was trembling. Or maybe that was just you. It took three full tries before you got your fingers to actually grip the zipper and tug it open.

Keys. Where the hell were your keys?

You muttered softly to yourself–nothing coherent, just a trail of “come on, come on, come on’s”–until finally your fingers brushed cold metal and closed around it.

You fumbled the key into the reader by the glass security panel. The red light blinked once.

Then again.

Then turned green with a chirp.

“Ha,” You breathed victoriously, stumbling inside, your shoulder knocking against the side of the lobby door as it whooshed shut behind you. The interior lighting was dim and moody, the kind of atmospheric glow designed to look expensive and feel exclusive. Everything in here was marble or glass or brass-accented. Everything screamed quiet money and polished silence.

You certainly did not match that aesthetic, not tonight at least.

Not in your tiny black slip dress, silk clinging to your damp skin like it was reluctant to let go. The hem was hitting high on your thighs, dangerously close to riding up with every step. The plunging neckline had been a power move at the bar–now it just felt…Exposed. The thin straps had slid halfway down your shoulders, and the delicate silver jewelry at your throat glittered faintly under the chandelier lighting–dainty hoops, a little pendant, the layered rings on your fingers clinking faintly against your clutch.

Your heels clicked unevenly against the sleek tile floor, your mascara slightly smudged beneath one eye, lips tinged pink and glossy, though the edges were wearing off. Your hair had frizzed a bit from the humidity, and it was dampened from where sweat and summer air had kissed it. You looked like you barely survived the night.

You stumbled forward, half-dragged by the momentum of your own steps, your shoulder grazing the edge of the marble wall as you made your way toward the elevator tucked at the far end of the lobby. The walls glittered faintly with embedded flecks of quartz, cool and luxurious against the chaos clinging to you like perfume and poor decisions.

You hit the call button with more force than necessary, nearly stabbing it with your thumb. The ring around it lit up in a soft gold halo, and somewhere behind the mirrored doors, gears began to churn.

You closed your eyes and tipped your head back against the cold marble, breathing through your nose. Big mistake.

The room swayed.

Your stomach rolled.

You squeezed your eyes shut tighter.

“Fuck.” You mumbled.

That sickly wave of nausea was curling up your throat now, hot and bitter like it had been distilled straight from regret and tequila. The inside of your skull throbbed, slow and heavy, like the hangover had decided to arrive early and was already unpacking its bags behind your eyes.

The elevator chimed softly.

You pushed off the wall and stumbled in just as the doors slid open, nearly tripping on the threshold as your heel caught on the groove. Your hand slapped against the mirrored wall for balance.

Cool air kissed your bare skin as you stepped into the softly lit interior that reflected your image back at you tenfold. It was quiet thankfully, and you hoped that it would ease the sickly feeling that was brewing beneath the surface.

You exhaled a long, shaky breath.

Then, with a small whimper of relief, you bent to unstrap your heels, one hand bracing on the brass railing that ran along the mirrored back wall. You kicked the shoes off with a graceless thud, the straps tangling around each other as they landed in the corner like discarded evidence of the night you were trying to outrun.

Your bare feet met the cool tile floor, and you sighed as if that alone had peeled away a layer of your exhaustion. It didn’t, really. But it helped enough.

The panel of glowing buttons waited silently beside you. You squinted at it, already swaying as your fingers hovered in hesitation.

You pressed 64.

Then 73.

Then 87, your eyes blinking slowly with a look of concentration like you were solving a puzzle only you understood.

The elevator didn’t move.

“Oh my god,” you muttered under your breath, dragging a hand down your face.

Then, finally, you reached out and pressed 80.

Home.

The right floor.

The correct button glowed back at you, steady and sure, as the elevator gave a soft mechanical sigh and began to rise.

You leaned back against the mirrored wall, shoulders slumping, one hand pressed flat to your stomach as if you could calm the roiling sea inside you by sheer will. The light above your head flickered slightly with each passing floor. The city outside blurred behind the glass wall of the elevator shaft, nothing more than distant, glowing geometry.

Your reflection caught your eye on the polished surface behind you.

You looked…Like a mess.

Not in the beautiful, tragic way either. In the real way. In the mascara-smudged, lipstick-faded, emotionally-gutted way. Your dress clung to your sides, one strap threatening to fall again. Your fingers were still curled loosely around your clutch, your knuckles tight with tension even though you hadn’t realized you were gripping it that hard.

Your eyes–God, your eyes. They looked glassy, like you had put eyedrops in them and they didn’t absorb properly.

You pressed your forehead to the cool mirror, the glass fogging faintly from your breath. You didn’t want to cry. You didn’t have the energy to cry.

So you didn’t.

You just stood there, barefoot and quiet, while the elevator climbed.

And with every passing floor, it felt like you were being carried closer and closer towards the part of yourself you had tried so desperately to drown tonight.

Up.

Up.

Up.

The elevator gave a soft ding as it arrived at the 80th floor, and the doors slid open with a whisper, spilling warm light and the faint scent of something buttery into the space around you.

You stumbled forward like gravity had suddenly tripled, one hand still braced against the mirrored wall until your foot hit the edge of the elevator threshold. Your clutch slipped from your fingers and hit the floor with a muffled thunk, but you didn’t stop to pick it up.

The living space that unfolded in front of you was dim but alive in the quiet, familiar way that only the Watchtower could be at night. The common room stretched out in soft pools of warm yellow light, lamps scattered strategically along the shelves and corners, casting long shadows over the leather couches and polished floorboards. A movie played on low volume from the TV, some old sci-fi flick that was mostly just flickering blue light across the far wall. Someone had left a blanket thrown over the back of the couch, and the faintest scent of popcorn clung to the air–microwaved, and slightly burnt.

The floor under your bare feet was cool and smooth, and the air here was different–cleaner, quieter. It should have sobered you a bit but it didn’t. If anything, the stillness made the emotional noise inside you ring louder.

You wandered forward like a ghost through the room, mumbling a little laugh to yourself as you navigated around the edge of the coffee table and nearly tripped over the corner of a throw pillow. You caught yourself on the arm of the couch, a breathy giggle escaping your lips.

”O-Oh boy…” Came a soft, familiar voice from the left, and you froze like someone had turned a spotlight onto you, “Someone’s d-drunk.” Your head jerked up, eyes wide, and you found Bob standing just beyond the breakfast bar, halfway between the common room and the kitchen.

He looked soft in the low light, like the moment had rounded all his unintentional edges. He was barefoot in flannel sleep pants and a worn navy blue cotton t-shirt, sleeves loose on his biceps, with the collar slightly stretched from multiple washes. His light brown crown of hair was brushed back like he had ran his hands through it to get it that way–it looked neater than normal. He was holding a glass of water, while leaning on his free hand that rested on the counter beside him, and his deep blue eyes glowed faintly, just enough to reflect the soft lamplight that surrounded him.

Your eyes softened the second they landed on him.

Like the sight of Bob in the soft kitchen glow had physically reached inside your chest and flipped the switch that held you together.

“…Bob…” you breathed, barely a whisper, the syllable thick with alcohol and emotion. His name left your lips like a prayer or a spell–like something that lived under your tongue, always waiting to escape.

You stumbled toward him, your steps loose and unsteady, arms swaying slightly as if you couldn’t quite feel your own limbs. He moved the moment your weight pitched too far forward–quick but gentle, setting the glass down and reaching for you.

His arm caught you right before your knees could give, wrapping firmly around your waist as you let out a tiny gasp, hands clinging to the soft fabric of his shirt.

“Woah–got you,” He murmured, voice quiet and careful, like he was speaking to something fragile. His other hand steadied your arm, helping you straighten just enough to stop swaying.

Your eyes drifted up to his face again. Those soft, blinking lashes. That faint glow in his gaze. The concern furrowed across his brow.

“…Bob,” You whispered again, like saying his name might hold your world together

“Y-yes, yes…” He gave a tiny, sheepish smile. “It’s Bob.” His voice carried that gentle stutter, the same one that made your heart ache even harder when it came wrapped in kindness. “Y-you really are drunk, huh? I-I thought you said you were only going to h-have one drink tonight…” He leaned in slightly, breathing in slowly, his nose crinkling at the smell. “Your b-breath smells like you downed a whole bottle of…Tequila? V-vodka?” You tilted your head back in slow motion, neck jelly-soft, eyes glassy as you stared at the ceiling like it might stop the room from spinning.

“I had…A little more than that…” You slurred, the words tumbling out through a hazy grin as you leaned your cheek lazily against his chest. The warmth of him beneath your skin felt grounding–dangerously so. Bob let out a breath, quiet but pointed, and looked at you with the kind of expression that made your heart twist: equal parts amusement and gentle worry.

“Y-yeah, I think a little would be an u-understatement,” He said, voice soft as his fingers shifted carefully at your waist, steadying you again, before picking up his glass of water and offering it to you.

”H-Here…You need this more than I d-do.” You stared at the glass of water in his hand but didn’t take it. Just leaned forward a little, lips parting to put the rim of the glass between them. Your eyes didn’t leave his–not even for a second.

Bob went stiff as a board.

“…O-Okay,” he breathed, blinking rapidly as he adjusted his grip. “I-I guess we’re doing this then…”

He tilted the glass gently, his other arm still holding you steady at the waist, and you drank–loudly. The slurp echoed in the quiet room like a firecracker in a chapel. Your eyes remained fixed on his while you did it.

Bob made a soft, choked noise in the back of his throat.

Then he laughed. Nervously. Tight.

“Y/N,” He mumbled, trying to keep his voice light, but it cracked a little, “S-stop l-looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” You asked, lips still against the rim, your voice playful and fuzzy with alcohol.

He shook his head slightly, exhaling through his nose with that familiar pinched look he got when he was trying not to say something he shouldn’t.

“L-like you’re gonna jump me or something…”

Your giggle came instantly–high and breathless. “W-why? Is it making you blush?”

“I-it’s not–” His voice pitched up, caught between flustered and mortified. “N-no! I just–It just looks…” He didn’t finish the sentence. Because you were still staring at him.

At his mouth. His eyes. The soft dip of his collarbone beneath the worn shirt fabric. The gentle flex in his arm where he held the glass. The way he steadied you with one broad palm against your lower back like it was second nature. Like holding you up was something he’d always be willing to do, whether you noticed it or not.

And that was the problem.

Because your brain was no longer operating with logic. The part of you that normally weighed consequences and considered timing had packed up and left sometime between shot two and shot four. All that was left behind was this awful, soft, unfiltered version of you–the one that looked at Bob like he was a deity.

“…Can I tell you a secret?” You asked, tipping your chin so your face was close–close enough that you could see the way his breath caught in his throat. Bob blinked at you. His mouth opened, hesitated.

Then: “I-I’m gonna assume you’ll tell me e-even if I say no, so…Go ahead.”

You reached up, slow and heavy with exhaustion and feeling, and placed your hand flat against his chest, right over his heart.

It was warm beneath your palm, beating away with a hard and steady rhythm.

You looked up at him, eyes glassy, lip trembling with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, and said:

“I’m so…So in love with you.”

The words hung there between you.

Soft. Heavy. Unstoppable.

Bob froze.

His lips parted. His brows lifted. His eyes went wide, and for a moment, the whole room felt like it had been dipped in stillness.

“And you have no idea…” You added with a soft, broken giggle, blinking hard as your vision began to shimmer. “None. Like…Zero. Zip.”

His throat bobbed in a swallow. His hand didn’t move. He just stood there, staring at you, as if any sudden shift might cause you to shatter right in front of him.

“Y-You’re s-super drunk,” He said gently, like he was trying to give you an out, an excuse, “Y-you don’t even know what you’re saying right now…”

But you did. You knew exactly what you were saying. You just didn’t have the filter left to keep it in. You shook your head, slow and heavy, your hand still pressed to his chest.

“I know you don’t love me back,” You murmured, voice cracking on the words, “But I just don’t understand why you don’t…” Your eyes welled. You blinked, but the tears didn’t care. They spilled anyway, hot and unwelcome, trembling down your cheeks with no grace at all.

Bob’s face twisted–not in discomfort, but something closer to heartbreak. He set the glass of water down with a soft clink and a sigh.

“L-Let’s get you to bed,” He said, almost too softly. “Y-you have to sleep this off before you say anything else…”

“I’m fine…” You mumbled, but your knees were already giving out again. Bob caught you–easily, without hesitation–his arms scooping under your legs and behind your back as he lifted you like you weighed nothing.

“C’mon,” He whispered, his voice close to your ear now. “I’ll bring you t-to your room…”

You said something incoherent against his chest, your head lolling. The world tilted, then began to fade as the comfort of being in his arms won the battle against everything else.

You passed out somewhere between the hallway and your door.

———————

You woke to the soft hush of morning light slipping through sheer white curtains–just enough to tint the room in a pale, silvery glow. The air felt still, like it didn’t want to disturb you. And for a second, everything was quiet.

Then the pounding in your head started.

You groaned softly, burying your face into the nearest pillow–warm, faintly smelling like linen and something else. Clean soap. Sunlight. A hint of coffee and cedar and… Bob. You froze, nose still pressed to the pillowcase.

This…Wasn’t your room.

You cracked one eye open, letting your vision adjust slowly to the warm light bleeding into the space. The room wasn’t large, but it was lived-in in a way that felt rare in the Watchtower. Not sterile or pre-designed–personal. Lined neatly across the window sill were tiny cactuses in mismatched ceramic pots, each a different shape and size. One had a little pink flower blooming from the top. You blinked at them slowly, as if expecting them to vanish once the dream faded. But they didn’t. They stayed.

There was a navy throw blanket folded at the foot of the bed, textured and heavy-knit. The comforter tucked around you was cloud-soft, pulled neatly to your collarbone, and smelled faintly of detergent and something…Familiar. Like fabric that had been line-dried in sun and wind. You wriggled slightly, groggy, blinking the haze from your lashes–and that’s when you felt it.

Something pressed lightly against your back.

Not a person. No weight or breath or heat–just soft resistance. You shifted again and rolled your head to the side, squinting down to find a long, narrow body pillow pressed up against you. Positioned carefully. Like it had been put there with purpose. To keep you from rolling onto your back. You were slowly starting to piece together that something must’ve happened last night.

You pushed yourself upright slowly, fingers dragging across your cheek. The room spun a little, tilting like it was on a boat, and you winced at the sensation. Your mouth was dry. Your stomach ached with emptiness and leftover nausea. You swallowed hard, blinked a few more times–and then glanced down at yourself.

You weren’t in your dress anymore.

You were in a soft, oversized cotton tee–light gray, threadbare at the hem, with sleeves that hung down past your elbows. You pinched the fabric and brought it closer to your face. It smelled like him. Like sleep and clean skin and the warm edge of something you couldn’t name without your heart stuttering in your chest.

You looked to the bedside table and found a small glass of water waiting for you. The condensation fogged gently on the inside of the glass. Next to it, a bright blue electrolyte packet lay unopened beside a sleeve of dry crackers–still in the plastic. And beneath them…

A sticky note.

“For when you wake up.”

His handwriting was unmistakable–neat, soft-cornered, careful. Your throat tightened as you stared at the little smiley face he’d drawn after the message. It felt like something private. Like a gift left at the edge of a dream you barely remembered having.

You reached for the glass with trembling fingers, lifting it slowly to your mouth to take a long drawn out sip, grateful for the cool taste against your dry tongue.

The door creaked softly on its hinges.

You turned your head, still groggy, expecting maybe a knock–some warning–but instead, Bob slipped quietly into the room with a laundry basket tucked against his hip. His hair was tied up in a small, slightly messy knot to keep it out of his face, a few strands still falling across his brow. He’d changed since last night. Now he wore a deep forest green sweater that was just a little too big on him, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, and a pair of soft gray sweatpants that pooled slightly at the ankles.

His socks didn’t match.

You stared at him for a second too long–there was something about the way the soft light caught on his face, the curve of his jaw, the loose comfort of his frame that made your stomach twist.

Then his eyes landed on yours.

He froze for just a second before his expression melted into something warm and careful.

“O-oh,” He said, voice low and a little shy. “You’re up.” His smile, small and genuine, tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth. He set the basket gently on the floor by the dresser, fingers brushing his knee as he straightened again. You rubbed at one of your eyes with the back of your hand, the oversized sleeve slipping down your arm.

Your voice came out rough with sleep.

“…What happened last night?” Bob let out a quiet sigh, raking a hand through the wisps of hair that had fallen loose. He didn’t look annoyed. He didn’t even look all that flustered. Just…Tired. Gentle.

“W-well…” He started carefully, shifting his weight a little. “I’m assuming you d-don’t remember much, ‘cause I brought you to your room and… As I was putting you o-on your bed you threw up all over your duvet…”

You groaned instantly, a soft and mortified sound, setting the glass back down on the nightstand so you could bury your face into your hands.

“Oh my God.”

Bob’s voice was soothing, almost amused. “A-and so I had to change you b-because it got on your dress, and I, um…Put you in my bed.”

He motioned toward the room with a tilt of his head, voice still soft.

“I s-slept on the couch.”

You peeked through your fingers, eyes wide and already heating with embarrassment.

“I–you–oh God, Bob.”

“I washed your sheets and stuff,” He added quickly, pointing down to the laundry basket near his feet. “T-they’re clean. I-I used the good detergent, the one that has the stain remover in it…T-They’re good as new.” Your hands slid down your face, palms dragging slowly as you stared at him in horror, remembering that you were wearing his shirt.

”And you changed me?” You questioned, your brows pulling together.

”Y-Yeah? I mean…You had vomit on your dress, and I-I wasn’t going to leave you on the floor of your bedroom…B-But I also didn’t want to get vomit on m-my sheets so…” You dropped your head back against the pillow, groaning louder this time as you brought your arm across your eyes. “I-If it makes you feel any better I-I didn’t see much, I had the lights off and my eyes closed p-pretty much.” You couldn’t help it–you let out a small, pained laugh behind your forearm.

“God, that makes it so much better,” You muttered sarcastically, your voice reverberating through your arm. You heard a quiet shuffle–soft socks brushing across the floor, fabric shifting–and then the distinct dip of the mattress beside you.

It was subtle, the weight of him settling, careful not to shift you too much.

“S-So I’m assuming you don’t w-want to hear what you said to me l-last night either then?” Bob’s voice was quiet–gentle, almost like he was giving you a way out if you wanted it. But it trembled at the edges. You froze in your spot, as your arm dropped from your eyes.

He was sitting beside you with his legs crossed at the ankles, sweater bunched a little around his hip, hair still loosely tied but not it was truly falling out of the knot completely. His brows were pulled together in that way they always were when he was bracing himself for something.

“…What did I say?” You asked, barely above a whisper.

Your voice cracked halfway through, stretched thin with dread. You already knew. Somewhere in the back of your brain–behind the fog of tequila and the undeniable ache–you knew exactly what you’d done.

Bob didn’t answer right away.

He let out a breath through his nose and reached up, fingers tugging the hair tie loose. His hair spilled out with a slow tumble, strands falling across his face before he swept them back with one hand and began fidgeting with the elastic between his fingers.

“Y-You told me you’re in love with me,” He said finally, voice low and uncertain–softer than you expected. He gave a faint, shaky little laugh at the end, like he was still trying to convince himself it had really happened, “Said i-it was a secret, actually…” Your blood ran hot in your veins. Not from the warmth of the blanket, not from the sunlight–but from the kind of shame that makes your throat tighten like it’s trying to hold in everything that’s already spilled.

Bob kept fiddling with the tie, eyes fixed on his hands.

”A-And then…You told me that you know I d-don’t love you back, and you…Y-You said you didn’t understand why.” The silence that followed was devastating, as you let the moment–that sentence in itself–stretch and breathe. You could hear him picking at the fabric that surrounded the hair tie, not wanting to make eye contact with you, knowing that you would probably recoil into yourself if he did.

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The words were there–lodged just behind your teeth, crowding your throat–but they all fought for space at once. A breath left your lips instead. Just a small one. Shaky. Barely a sound.

Bob kept his eyes on the elastic band in his fingers, stretching it between his knuckles. Pulling. Twisting. Letting it snap softly back into place like it helped him stay focused.

Then, he said it–quietly, gently, and without accusation, “Y-You don’t have to explain yourself…I know you were d-drunk, and…It doesn’t have to mean anything…I-I just–“ He hesitated, his voice cracking faintly around the edges, “I thought you should know that you told m-me. I didn’t want to pretend like you didn’t s-say it.” His profile was soft in the morning light, jaw faintly stubbled, hair falling messily around his temple. But it was the expression on his face that held you in place–something pulled tight beneath the surface, something raw. Not pity. Not awkwardness. No, it looked almost like…

Disappointment.

A quiet kind, the kind he wasn’t even aware he was showing.

Your pulse quickened.

Your fingers curled in the fabric of the blanket as you slowly sat up, the shift of weight creaking faintly beneath you. You swallowed hard, tasting the nerves on your tongue like they might choke you.

“…It did mean something,” You whispered, almost like you were afraid saying it out loud would break the spell–or him.

Bob’s fingers froze around the hair tie.

His eyes flicked to you instantly. Wide. Searching. He didn’t speak at first, just watched you, his chest rising slowly with each breath like he was trying not to exhale too hard and blow everything away.

“W-Why do you think I don’t love you back?” He asked. Your heart stopped and stuttered in your chest.

You looked down, unable to hold that gaze for long. Your voice came out uneven, quiet.

“…Because you’ve never…”

You hesitated. Licked your lips and tried again.

“Because you’ve never said anything to me about it. Ever. And everything you do for me–”

You swallowed.

“It’s what you do for everyone else. You remember things for them. You cook for them. You leave notes for them. You watch their training too, don’t you?” Your voice got smaller, softer. “There are no concrete signs, Bob. Not ones I can trust. And I didn’t want to impose…I didn’t want to make something out of things that weren’t meant for me.”

Silence.

A beat passed.

Then two.

And when you finally glanced up through your lashes to meet his gaze again, you found him looking at you like you’d just said something he didn’t know how to answer. Not because he didn’t want to–but because something in your words had hurt him, more than you expected.

His voice was quieter than ever when he spoke again, “And what if it was meant for you?” You blinked slowly, taken aback by his hidden admission. Your lips parted to say something but nothing came.

Bob’s fingers loosened around the hair tie, and he dropped it on the bed beside him without a sound. His hands now sat quietly in his lap, thumb brushing the inside of his palm before he began picking at the dry skin there.

”What if…I did all those things b-because I felt different when I was doing them for y-you?” Bob turned toward you slowly–deliberately–until his whole body faced yours, knees brushing against the edge of the blanket you still had tucked around you.

His hands remained in his lap, fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to fidget again. But his eyes… his eyes didn’t move from yours. They held steady. Gentle. Glowing faintly with something fragile and unspoken, like a lantern shielding its flame against the wind.

“I d-do those things for everyone, y-you’re right,” he said, voice soft and trembling–but certain, too, like each word had been sitting on his tongue for months. “I-I take care of people. It’s how I… show I care. Because I’m not always good at s-saying the things I want to.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t dare. You were too afraid that the moment might fracture if you breathed wrong.

Bob swallowed, his eyes never leaving yours. “But when I do those things for you…” His voice dipped lower. “It is different.”

You blinked slowly, breath caught in your throat.

“I watch y-you train because I want to see you be strong,” He continued, his voice gaining weight, trembling with emotion even as he tried to keep it steady. “Because it’s the only time I-I get to admire you without getting caught. And sometimes I want to feel like I’m supporting you, even if it’s just…Just b-being there.”

Your stomach twisted, curling tighter and tighter with each quiet admission.

“I get up early to make breakfast for everyone, s-sure,” He said, his mouth curling faintly at the corners like he was almost shy about it. “But when I’m m-making yours? I’m not thinking about calories or b-balance or what’s healthy. I’m thinking about you.” His hand lifted, hovering in the space between you like it might touch you–but didn’t. Not yet. “I’m thinking about whether your eyes will go wide when you s-see what I made. Or if you’ll laugh and roll your eyes b-because I cut the banana slices too thin. I think about what you’ll say. I think about if maybe…Y-You’ll know that I made it with all the care in the world…”

Your breath hitched in your chest.

“I leave notes for the others because I-I want them to feel looked after,” He said softly. “But yours? I write them slowly. I-I sit there with the pen in my hand and w-wonder if I should sign my name with a smiley face or not. I wonder if it’ll m-make you smile if I write something dumb or sweet, and I-I wonder if you’ll read it twice.” You stared at him, stunned, lips parted. The weight of his words pressed into your ribcage like a tidal swell, heavy and full of warmth, of longing, of something you hadn’t dared to name before now.

“B-but if you’ve been waiting for a concrete s-sign…”

He trailed off softly, like the rest of the sentence was afraid to come out. And then he moved–slowly, gently, like he was approaching something sacred. His hand lifted from his lap with an almost reverent caution, like he didn’t want to startle you, like you might vanish if he rushed this moment.

You felt it before it landed.

The warmth of his palm hovered for a heartbeat near your cheek–close enough that your skin prickled with anticipation, with want, with fear–and then he touched you. His fingers trembled ever so slightly, calloused but tender as they curled to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing delicately across the high point of your cheekbone.

Your breath hitched–caught and held like a secret between you.

His gaze was steady now. Deep. Quietly ablaze.

“I-It’s this,” He whispered, before leaning in, without hesitation. Just quiet, deliberate affection–like this was something he had pictured in a hundred different dreams but never dared to reach for while awake because he thought he couldn’t execute it as well. He moved close enough that his forehead nearly brushed yours, his breath warm and sweet between you, tinged faintly with mint and something soft like cinnamon–probably from his morning tea. His fingers shifted slightly at your jaw, tilting you just enough, guiding without pressure, coaxing without assumption.

Then he kissed you.

Just the faintest pressure of his lips brushing yours, the kind of kiss that barely registered as physical. It felt like something else entirely–like a promise passed from his mouth to yours. His other hand came up slowly to frame your face, fingertips pressing slightly into your hairline, as he deepened the kiss with such mindfulness it made your whole body shiver.

He kissed you like he was learning you, like he’d waited long enough that now every second had to be savored. And when he pulled back for just a breath–just to look at you, his eyes wide and dark and brimming with emotion–you were already chasing the kiss back.

And this time, when his mouth returned to yours, he took your bottom lip between his.

It was deliberate, careful, and full of devotion.

His lips were plush and warm, and then gently–so gently–he sucked on it, slow and sweet, like he was trying to taste all the years he’d spent not saying what he felt. A quiet sound left your throat, something between a gasp and a sigh, your fingers clutching the edge of the blanket like it might anchor you to the moment.

His thumb was still brushing your cheek in soothing arcs, even as his mouth lingered, coaxing yours open with nothing but affection. Not hunger. Not need.

Just love.

There was no question in the way he kissed you.

No doubt.

He kissed you like this was the answer to every secret you’d both ever buried. Like it had always been building toward this.

When he finally–reluctantly–pulled back, his forehead came to rest against yours, his breath mingling with yours in soft, trembling puffs. His hands stayed cupped to your face, thumbs still caressing your skin like he couldn’t stop touching you now that he’d started.

You barely opened your eyes, afraid to break the spell, but when you did… There he was. Glowing faintly in the morning light, cheeks flushed, lashes low over sea-blue eyes that brimmed with something so open it made your chest ache.

“I love you too.” He said.

[tuffluuhv]

Black Sheep

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

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

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

Word count : 9.2k 

Requested by : Anon! Based on this request

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were happy you could finally help— 

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

And… They were proud.

If only they knew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hydra was predatory like that.

—

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

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

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

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

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

And still— he didn’t look away.

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

They called him It.

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

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

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

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

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

He walked out before you could respond.

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

And then there was just you— and him.

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

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

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

But he sat there, still breathing like a machine.

He didn’t flinch when you treated him.

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

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

It was the first time he looked at you. 

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

You worked in silence. He sat in silence.

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

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

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

The handlers noticed.

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

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

But you did it anyway.

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

He grunted when you pressed gauze to it.

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

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

Maybe not always. Maybe not fully.

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

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

—

Tonight, he came back worse than usual.

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

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

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

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

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

You froze.

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

He didn’t look at you.

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

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

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

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

A few seconds passed before the speaker crackled.

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

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

Then you turned back to him.

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

But his body thrashed again.

You dropped the needle.

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

He didn’t mean to, you reminded yourself.

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

Your hands shook.

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

Fuck.

You were losing him.

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

You… sang.

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

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

You saw his breathing slow down, just slightly. 

“Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full…”

He…  didn’t flinch again.

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

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

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

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

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

You paused, still stitching, thankful he calmed down. 

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

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

You didn’t expect a response. 

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

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

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

You froze.

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

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

Through all that, he watched you. 

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

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

But something had changed.

—

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

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

He… made a conscious choice. 

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

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

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

“Pressure here—sorry, hold on…”

He never answered at first. 

Then one day, he did.

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

“You always say that.”

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

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

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

Then, you resumed your work.

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” he said simply. 

You frowned. 

Still, your hands were steady.

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

“Be careful.”

One night, he asked for your name.

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

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

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

—

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

You called it the holding room.

They called it the kennel.

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

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

They joked about him.

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

But it got worse.

Much worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “What?"

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

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

“Too late.”

Their hands grabbed your arms.

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

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

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

And they enjoyed it.

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

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

But they didn’t care.

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

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

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

Then came the worst line.

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

The laughter didn’t stop.

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

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

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

You fell, and started trembling.

Everything hurt.

And then you looked up.

He was there.

The Asset — him. The Winter Soldier.

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

You froze.

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

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

You believed it for a second.

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

You were terrified.

You curled tighter.

He took one step forward.

And… stopped.

You took a chance and looked at your face.

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

He was staring at your injuries.

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

And his whole body… melted.

The heat was gone, almost instantly. 

Slowly, he lowered himself to one knee.

“Who…” he rasped, “did this to you?”

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

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

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

His teeth clenched.

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

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

He didn’t say anything for a while.

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

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

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

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

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

Once again, The Asset had made a choice. 

A human one.

—

Hours passed.

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

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

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

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

You barely had time to pull the blanket tighter.

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

And then you heard the voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You screamed.

And The Asset snapped.

No hesitation, No programming.

Just rage.

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

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

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

Anton raised his hands to surrender.

Too late.

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

He dropped the gun.

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

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

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

You blinked, still clutching the blanket, hands shaking.

—

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

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

He didn’t look at you.

He didn’t look at the corpses.

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t resist. He didn’t even try.

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

“Come.”

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

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

—

The interrogation room was cold. 

Karpov stood across the table from you, arms folded.

“You will explain,” he said coldly.

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

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

Your mouth opened, then shut.

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

You froze.

He watched your reaction like a scalpel watches skin.

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

You nodded slowly, not trusting your voice.

“Then you know what heat was for.”

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

Karpov did not wait for permission to continue.

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach lurched.

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

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

“You must have!” he snapped. 

You flinched. 

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

“I don’t know,” you said hoarsely. 

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

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

—

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

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

On the floor was a folded piece of paper.

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

You sank onto the cot.

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

—

The cot wasn’t meant for two.

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes flicked up.

“What?”

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

You hesitated. Then nodded.

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

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

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

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

—

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

You stayed calm and gave him space. 

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

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

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

"No. Not her. Not her."

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

What?

Your mouth opened slowly, your breath finally catching up. 

He… remembered?

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

He did.

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

He looked real.

—

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

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

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

“What—what are you doing—?!”

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

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

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

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

Then you realised: 

Oh. 

Someone saw the footage.

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

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

But Karpov demanded more.

“Did he say his designation?”

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

“What did he tell you, girl?”

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

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

You heard a grunt. A thud.

And suddenly—he was there.

The Winter Soldier. No—Bucky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The cuffs snapped off.

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

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

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

“You need to go.”

You froze. “What?”

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

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

He clenched his teeth. 

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

“I don’t care—”

“I do.”

That stopped you cold.

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

You shook your head. “Don’t.”

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

“I—please—”

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

“Go.”

So you did.

—

Thirty Years Later.

The world had changed. 

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

What would be the point?

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

So he never tried.

But he never loved again either.

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

He still did.

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

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

Until...

—

New York. Post-Void.

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

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

Bucky was scanning for movement in the fallen concrete.

That’s when he heard it.

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

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

His whole body went still. 

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

There.

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

And you… you hadn’t changed.

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

He was so stunned, he forgot how to breathe. 

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

“Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full.”

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

Bucky didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

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

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

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

And then—

You looked up.

Saw him.

And smiled.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he started shaking.

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

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

And maybe it had been.

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

Alive.

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

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

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

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

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

Was that what he was to you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

It belonged to him. And you.

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

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

He barely nodded. 

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

—

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

He hadn’t stopped shaking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you turned the final corner.

Oh.

That was all his mind could manage.

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

No. This place was…

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

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

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

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

He kept turning. The memorabilia… evolved.

A cracked Daredevil helmet, dark red and scuffed.

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

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

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

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

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

He turned to you. “Friends?”

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

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

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

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

Bucky swallowed, but you continued. 

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

He went still.

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

You kept working on the cuts on his face. 

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

Your fingers paused briefly, then continued.

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

Bucky winced as you moved on to the next cut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet you continued doing what you do best. 

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

But now…

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

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

“Can I…?”

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

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

And that was all he needed.

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

His thumb brushed along your skin, just once.

It was real. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t answer right away. 

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

Your breath hitched.

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

He could only nod. 

And you kissed him.

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

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

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

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

You grinned, eyes still closed. “Better.”

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

—

You and Bucky had taken it slow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until now.

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

You paused.

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

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

There was a beat of silence.

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

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

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

“Or both,” Alexei said.

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

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

Mutual enemies? Yeah, right. 

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

– end.

General Bucky taglist:

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

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

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

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

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

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

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

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

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

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

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

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

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

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

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt @softpia 

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125 @buckybarneswife125

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

@biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @herejustforbuckybarnes @kitasownworld @shortandb1tchy @roxyym

@badl4nder

[tuffluuhv]

Hurt in the Workplace

Jack Abbot x reader

status: dating

synopsis: reader gets attacked by a patient, and jack is there to help.

warnings: reader is technically gender neutral (minus one predominately feminine derogatory word), language (i love to curse), violence, slight suggestive content, drugs

words: 16.6k

note: this is my first posted story. i hope you like it!

The Pitt had been hectic since your shift started. Myrna was back hassling Robby, another ambulance got stolen, and you somehow managed to get hit by every door you passed. After seven hours on your feet without more than a sip of coffee, your scrubs felt tight as hell, and the granola bar you managed to sneak a few bites of tasted like shit. If it weren’t for your co-workers - your friends - your family, you would have snatched one of Dana’s cigarettes and gone for a smoke, never to come back. 

Jack Abbot knew you well enough by now to know when you were struggling. I mean, you’d hope so - you’ve been dating for two years. His apartment was now your apartment; your conditioner was now his. And you’ve gotta admit - his curls have never looked bouncier. So when you pass him at the nurse’s desk while grumbling about annoying patients and wishing you were in bed, he grabs you by the arm and leads you to the break room. You don’t put up a fight, not when it’s Jack. So you let him usher you into the space with little more than a sigh.

“You want some coffee?” You ask, going over to the counter to pour yourself a cup. He nods, and you start to pour a second.

“What’s wrong?”

There he is, always straight to the point.

You huff and lean your back against the counter. You hand him his cup and take a sip from your own, delaying your answer. “Nothing, just tired.”

“You did stay up late watching tv.”

A crooked grin graces your lips. “You know I love my true crime. Can’t get enough.”

At the smile on your face, Jack cracks his own - just slightly, but enough for you to notice. He shifts his feet. You notice that too.

“How’s your leg?” You ask.

He flexes at the thought of it. “Sore.”

“I’ll massage it later,” you smile, reaching into the fridge and pulling out an ice pack. You toss it his way, and he catches it effortlessly. “Be a good boy and ice it, and maybe I’ll give you a full body massage when we get home.” You wink, and Jack shakes his head at you, but he gives in. Easing his way into one of the chairs, Jack watches you put your cup down.

“I won’t pull a Shen and say the “Q” word,” he starts, “but we’re through the thick of it.” 

Despite his attempt at reassuring you, you still feel sick with anxiety. There’s a bad feeling in your gut, like something’s going to happen. Five hours left, you think.

You nod and begin to head back into the ER, patting him briefly on the shoulder. “Love you,” you call over your shoulder before the door shuts behind you. 

Three hours later, you’re chilling at the nurse’s desk when Whitaker asks for your help in one of the exam rooms. Rolling your shoulders, you say bye to Perlah and Princess and follow him down the hall. Before you reach the room, Whitaker stops you, all big eyed and anxious. This isn’t anything new, but it sets off alarms in your head. 

“He’s here for a cut on his finger. I already stitched it up, but he keeps asking for morphine.”

You catch on immediately. “You think he hurt himself so he can get drugs.”

He nods. “He’s shaking and sweating profusely. And he’s getting irritable.”

It’s your time to nod. “I’m sure he is - you just told him he can’t have his daily dose.” Moving forward, you near the exam room and push the curtain open to reveal a middle aged man nursing his finger like it’s been chopped off. 

“Hi, I’m Dr. L/N,” you say, hopping onto a sliding stool and sliding towards the patient. “Dr. Whitaker here told me you cut yourself.” You take his finger in your hand, “He did a great job.” You turn to smile at Whitaker. He smiles back, pleased. “So,” you continue, “everything looks good. We should be able to send you home in a few minutes.”

The man’s forehead scrunches at this. “Don’t you need to give me some morphine?”

Your eyebrow quirks upward. “I’m sorry?”

He shrugs, totally disregarding the shock in your expression as he picks at the stitches. “It hurts.”

I can tell by the way you’re manhandling it, you think tiredly. “Look…I’m sorry, you never told me your name?”

“It’s Andrew Smith,” Whitaker pipes up, oh-so-dutifully.

Smith, how original. You nod, not turning from the patient. “Okay. Mr.  Smith. I’m sorry, but there is no reason for us to give you morphine at this time.”

“Well, I want it. Ain’t that a good reason?”

Keep cool. Don’t explode. “Again, I’m sorry, but we can’t give anyone morphine just because they want it.” He starts to speak, probably to complain again, but you cut him off. “I’m a Senior Emergency Resident. I know when to apply morphine, but this is not the case. The best I can do is offer that you get some Advil or Tylenol.”

“Bitch,” the man grumbles, but you ignore it (visibly. Inside, you are seething). 

You can feel the anticipation radiating off of Whitaker at this exchange. You do your best to keep your cool. “Dr. Whitaker never told me how you cut your finger.”

Mr. Smith huffs like you’re interrupting his time. “I don’t know, I was cutting some carrots and the knife slipped or something.” 

“You don’t know, or the knife slipped?”

“I said I was cutting onions,” he growls. 

You raise your hands in front of yourself slowly, victorious but now on edge. “I’m sorry,” you say for the hundredth time. “No need to get hostile.”

He slumps backwards onto the pillow. “Nobody’s getting hostile.”

You turn to Whitaker, and he looks equally triumphant. You’ve caught the man lying. Now all you’ve got to do is get him the hell out of your ER.

“Well,” you say, rubbing your hands together, “like I said, there is nothing more we can do for you. Keep the cut site clean and dry for the first twenty-four hours, and then you can start cleaning with soap and water. They should be healed in about six days.” You turn again to face Whitaker when you feel it: a sharp pain between your chest and left armpit. A sharp cry escapes you as the patient yanks the stitch scissors out of your back and jumps on you from behind, throwing you to the ground. 

“Get Ahmad!” You yell to Whitaker, who’s already dashing out into the hall. Mr. Smith tries to stab you again, but you grab his hand with both of yours and use all of your strength to keep the blades away. His fist finds your face in a brutal left look, and you’re seeing stars as the scissors gain on you. Before any more damage can be done, Ahmad smashes into your assaulter’s side and sends him flying. Backing as far away from the two as you can, you try to calm your rapid breathing. 

As Ahmad gets the man into cuffs and shoves him out of the room, you move your hand to feel for the stab wound. Your fingers graze it, and you wince, cursing. Your hand comes back bloody.

Someone else runs into the room. Abbot. You could recognise that silver hair and serious face anywhere, even with a vision as blurred as yours is right now. 

“Hey,” he says softly, crouching quickly and taking your face in his big hands. “Tell me where it hurts.”

“He stabbed me,” you croak out, motioning to your back. 

Jack turns you gently to check out the wound, pulling up your scrubs. He lets out a sigh of relief. “It’s superficial.”

You visibly relax. “Good thing he found with the dullest weapon here.”

Jack nods and helps you onto the patient bed. He lifts your scrub top again, this time adjusting it so it won’t fall back down when he lets go. Plopping onto the sliding stool, Abbot moves to one of the cabinets and pulls out the necessary clean-up tools. He wipes at the spot with disinfectant, his hands falling away as he takes a fresh needle to stitch you with. “Sharp pinch,” he says before starting. You laugh, but that is quickly cut off by a curse as he begins his work.

Not long after, he’s finished and making sure the wound is all good. Gently, he moves your top back in place. You flinch at the uncomfortable, irritating burn the fabric creates. 

You turn to face him, and that’s when you notice the set of his jaw, tight - so tight you’re sure he’s grinding his teeth. His eyes are ablaze as he takes in the black eye already forming. “Did Ahmad take him?” he asks, voice cold. 

“Yeah,” you breathe.

He begins to move back, most likely to hunt the man down and pound him into the earth, but you grab his arm before he can leave. “Hey,” you say gently. “It’s handled. Don’t Hulk Out on me.”

He laughs dryly but stops trying to get away. He cradles your face to inspect the bruise. “I’ll order a CT Scan.”

“I don’t-” you start to argue, but his icy stare shuts you down. “Fine,” you huff, defeated.

Jack pats your knee. “Our shifts end in less than two hours. We’ll get your head checked out, and then you should go sit with Princess and Perlah until I can take you home. Scroll through Pinterest.” He pauses. “Scratch that, don’t strain your eyes. Just sit and gossip or something.”

You giggle. “Can we get Dunkin on the way home? I want my Strawberry Dragonfruit refresher”

He sighs. “Only if you let me try some.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Ew, cooties! Get your own, old man.”

Jack laughs, the tension melting from his shoulders. “You’re lucky I love you.”

[tuffluuhv]

Bright Lights (Chapter 3)

Warnings: Angst with a happy ending, Hurt/Comfort, post-divorce healing, Pitt Fest is a warning of its own, medical inaccuracies.

Pairings: Michael Robinavitch x Reader

Word count:  5,410 words

Universe: The Pitt

Reader gender: Female

Tagged: @questionably-intelligent69 , @dizzybee03 , @virgomillie , @mrsjosephmazzello , @sus-styles , @moonshooter , @hagarsays @that-sarcastic-writer , @ddrawers96 , @pear-1206 , @nerdgirljen , @penbridgertonn & @emma8895eb

Part 3 of 4

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6:30pm

As time ticks on, second by second, minute by minute. Frankie can’t help but worry. The uncomfortable plastic of the cheap hospital cafeteria chair digging into her thighs served as a reminder. A reminder of what she had experienced. Pitt Fest had been an incalculable disaster. The whistle of flying bullets had been hard to shut out, as she continued to relive each decision and choice she made. With each passing moment, more found their way here. Family members, friends and the like always with the same burning questions; Are their loved one’s safe? Are they counted amongst the wounded or had they been the unlucky ones?

Frankie couldn’t leave, not yet. She couldn’t return to House 42 empty-handed and without the small sliver of information on the whereabouts of her missing friend and colleague. Guilt gnawed away at her. No-one gets left behind but in less than a second, someone did. The click of heels against the linoleum tiles caught her attention, dragging her out of her depressive thoughts; Frankie lifted her gaze to see two figures approaching where they all waited.

The sight of two staff members had been enough to silence the chatter; all eyes had fallen upon these two women ready to listen as a younger woman approached them. Frankie wasn’t close enough to hear her words but still watched on, noting the pile of papers in their hands. The interaction was brief, but the young woman’s body language spoke volumes, worry and panic overpowering all other emotions, as she was the same boat as all the rest that gathered all around. 

Her eyes tracked them as they crossed into the centre of the cafeteria, where they could be heard easily by everyone.

“Hello? Can I have your attention, please? My name is Kiara Alfaro. I’m an emergency-department social worker.” Frankie was almost certain that she had seen her before; she had never found an opportunity to meet the resident day shift social worker. She only really knew her night shift colleague; he was a right scream but had spoken highly of Kiara praising her calm nature and how she could get almost anyone to open up to her. 

“This is Lupe Perez, one of our ward clerks.” As she continued to speak, Kiara introduced her colleague, the ward clerks were all hardworking, taking the brunt of the frustration of the waiting patients. Each word was loudly and clearly projected to ensure that they were understood by all who listened on.

“I know you all want information about your friends and family. In order to help you, we have a QR Code you can scan for our patient-identification website.” This was the beginning of the next stage with handling the mass casualty. 

“Cell phones are down, but you can log onto the hospital guest WI-FI. That information is on these papers we’ll distribute around the room.” It was understandable that phone lines would be jammed up, with the sheer number of people trying to reach out to their loved ones. Frankie’s phone had already logged into the Wi-Fi network as soon as she had entered the hospital grounds. This was a good sign; it would give people something to focus on.

“Once you log on, send us the name and birth date of whomever you’re concerned about.” She quickly tried to recall the necessary information; did she know her friend’s exact date of birth? The day and month were easy, but the year that might take a moment. As she thought back to her friend’s last birthday, how old had she been? With access to the Internet, she could shoot a message to Captain Valentino, who had direct access to the personnel files, but that would be a last resort.

“If you could tell us what they were wearing, upload photos, pictures of tattoos, piercings, anything to help identify would be useful.” Frankie had been the unofficial photographer of the tent; she had been the one to step up and take more than a few photographs and selfies through the day. Mostly for Instagram and her own personal collection, but a few for the Department to show their involvement as part of the PR and the monthly newsletter; not that many people actually opened that email when it dropped into their inbox. The next one might be an exception.

Frankie had been the one to take her to her first tattoo appointment, so she had photos of it. It had been a special moment since she knew the meaning behind the chosen design. Jake had been the one to help her shape into reality. He had drawn it for her, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to be there as he had class on the date that had been chosen. Frankie couldn’t help but wonder at the sweet relationship that her friend had with the young man. She had wished that she had something when she had grown up.

“If we get a match, we’ll let you know. We’re setting up phone chargers, water, snacks. And if anyone needs to change clothes, we’ve got paper scrubs coming.” Her hands had been covered in blood, that had long since dried, but it didn’t seem overly important to find a bathroom and wash it away as she made her way to the Cafeteria.

“Give us some time. We’re doing everything we can to help get you the information you need.”  Frankie took a second before moving, as a crowd formed around the two tables where the papers had been placed. As she took a seat once more, with the newly acquired document, she began to follow the instructions. Her fingers danced across her phone keyboard as a WhatsApp message popped up on her screen. Another swiftly followed; House 42 was reaching out.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------7pm

“Fuck” The very word was stuck on repeat; Dana could not let Robby see this. Not now, when his attention needed to remain focused. The house of cards could not fall apart at this most crucial of junctions. As more patients flooded into the department, as much as worry was seeping through the cracks in her armour, Dana could not let Robby see the bloodied garment.

The split second decision had to be made, as she placed the jacket and thoughts of its owner aside. Using the moment of a patient being transferred up to surgery as a barrier to try to hide how shameful she felt. She watched where it landed, in the corner of an empty bay. Not that it won’t be unoccupied for long. Her tricky mind conjured countless scenarios, imagining the almost listless ways a mass casualty event could injure someone. Hope was a thin thread that she placed her bets on; Dana knew her. They punched, kicked and spit at her on the job, but still she had kept coming back for more.

She couldn’t say the same anymore; it was getting harder to reflect on the good times, without the awful moments overpowering the rest. Today was the latest in a long line of violence that had pushed over the edge into thoughts of if she was going to come back. If this was all really worth it. There wasn’t even enough time to take a breath between incoming patients. Once the panic subsided, Dana could ponder what came next only after they had attended to all critically unwell patients.

With the stream of gurneys and wheelchairs, the patients had blurred without the coloured wristbands to identify them. Dana wandered would she had missed Robby’s ex-wife in the crush? She had been a close friend in another life. She couldn’t recall the last time that she had met up for coffee and a catch up. Aside from a few brief moments at Central, before another call come in over the airwaves, summoning back to work.

Dana tried to think back to the last time that they had been in the same room. Silence had reigned for months. Robby might not have shouted from the rooftops, but Dana had seen the more subtle signs. Firstly, it had been the ring protector falling by the wayside, then his wedding band vanished from his golden chain, but finally it had been the growing closeness between himself and Heather. It might have a brief few months, but a bond had formed. It had its share of ups and downs, but the damage wasn’t as visible.

The tether had fizzled away; it had been what they both had needed in the moment. Passing affection and physical attraction hadn’t been enough to develop into a more permanent and lasting connection. Princess and Perlah had noted the changes. Quick gossip followed, its impact lessened only by awareness that one relationship ended to begin another.

Black lines that hadn’t been there before floated up to the surface of Dana’s thoughts. A tattoo? She had never questioned the fresh addition, wondering which design had you chosen? Robby had a few, but you had been a blank canvas. 

With her thoughts misaligned, Dana needed to stay calm in the storm’s eye. This was what the department required her to be, even in the hours past the end of her shift. The one who led them through the push, over the edge, straight into no-man’s-land. As the mask slipped back into place, she couldn’t help but frown at the sight of the few heavily armed SWAT teams roaming around the halls. They hadn’t been there a few minutes ago?

This abrupt development put her further on guard. This was far from good news.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------The department was rushed off its feet as soon as one patient would be taken up to surgery or the ICU floor, two additional patients had taken their place. It was never ending; Frank Langdon and Cassie McKay were working in a familiar rhythm formed in the past two years that they had worked solidly side by side. In that time, they had gotten used to the speed that each other worked at, but they had also gotten to know one another on a more professional basis, but tidbits of their personal lives would slip through the gaps now and then. McKay’s centred more around her son Harrison, whereas Langdon tended to ebb and flow with the emotional state of his marriage.

Frank was more aware of the fallout of Robby’s marriage, but Cassie had only met the ex-wife in passing. The connection to Dr Robinavitch fell at the wayside; to McKay, she was just another paramedic who preferred to work nights. On the rare occasion that Cassie was rotated in to cover a night shift, this had been where they crossed paths for the first time. She had seemed nice enough, quiet, but there had been an underlying playfulness that came to the surface whenever Dr Abbot was around. 

There was a story, a history between the pair of them, not that anyone dared to comment on the exact nature of their connection when she had brought it up. It wasn’t worth antagonising Abbot, so Cassie let it go. Never given it much thought, as it had been nearly eight months since her last night shift, Frank hadn’t been as lucky. His last night was less than a week prior; it had been far from an easy shift to boot.

Cassie watched as the next patient was wheeled in, an unconscious female, dressed in what looked like the standard issue trousers worn by paramedics, topped with a once white shirt coated in dirt and blood. Paramedics had been at the Festival in an official capacity, yet her patient seemed familiar, but many crew passed through those doors on a nearly hourly basis. 

“Shit, you know who that is, right?” The sound of Langdon’s voice floated in as he made his way over whilst McKay was midway through her assessment. Cassie shook her head as she continued on, focused on carrying out the basic steps of a complete neurological exam considering her presentation. “Should I?”

“That’s Robby’s ex-wife” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

7:30pm

Frustration was bubbling up within Trinity swiftly returned to the yellow zone. With no attending trailing behind, they were on their own. This was not the outcome that she had been hoping for when she had gone searching for an attending.

“I tried. No attendings available,” she announced as she approached Dr Mel King, who remained at the patient’s bedside, still working on the unconscious man. Trinity moved through, trying to find her next interesting case, whilst keeping an eye out for any available attending. 

“Okay,” she muttered to herself, as she surveyed each patient that she passed by; nothing immediately stood out. One gurney caught her eye; as she made her approach, Trinity slipped on a fresh pair of sterile gloves ready to make her assessment.

“All right” As Trinity slipped effortlessly into doctor mode, as her gaze dropped to the open wounds upon the young man’s legs that Nurse Donnie was cleaning with large pieces of gauze. 

“Okay, those look pretty superficial.” Santos commented as she took in what she could see; the wounds on his leg might be large but were shallow. 

“Might’ve been fragments from a ricochet off the ground.” Donnie replied, as he had been the one tending to the wounds; she listened to his assessment as her mind turned over the information as she worked out the possible next steps.

“Lost a lot of blood, but you’re gonna be okay, bro.” As she carefully lifted up the heavily stained remains of what once had been a trouser leg to inspect the wound for herself. The ease of his interaction spoke of a familiarity with her patient that she had not noticed until this point. Did Donnie know this young man? Trinity was left wondering the possibilities as her mind raced.

“It’s not bad. Just put me back in the wheelchair.” The young man answered; this was not even an option as Santos knew what the outcome might be if they allowed their patient to get out of the bed before his legs were bandaged up. She could not risk his wounds opening further and him bleeding out.

“No, no, stay in bed with your leg up.” She said, before continuing on speaking as she cautioned him bluntly. “We don’t want you oozing to death.” As she left the bedside to see what the other doctors had landed as Javedi helped move another gurney through the department into the yellow zone.

“Samira, what you got?” Trinity loudly asked; waiting patiently for Dr Mohan to answer.

“Opiate OD needs observation after Narcan.” For Santos, that was far too pedestrian, too ordinary and, to put it plainly, boring. Not for her. This was what came with festivals; drugs and overdoses were a dime a dozen but there were more interesting patients than this. There was nothing to learn, no interesting procedures to practise or carry out solo. “Ugh, boring. No, thank you.” Trinity swiftly replied before moving on as she turned her back and walked back toward Mel.

“Mel, how’s Ganja Grayson?” She called out, inquiring about the status of the patient with a newly christened nickname. The man was a true hippie as she walked the few meters back over to the bay. 

“Um, we can put him in pink whilst he waits for ICU.” She listened to the words of her senior doctor, as the man’s condition had continued to worsen since falling unconscious; without the typical methods of investigations available, there was little they could actually do in the here and now. He needed a CT scan, but it would be hours before he could be sent up for one.

“Okay. One second.” Santos curiously watched on as Whitaker moved closer to the patient with a probe that had been plugged into his phone. Yet Samira beat her to the punch, speaking first. “What are you doing?”

“I’m checking the retina.” Trinity patiently watched the back-and-forth exchange, as it seemed that Huckleberry was chasing a cause. He was thinking creatively to find a solution to help Mr Grayson.

“For detachment?” Samira continued on, adding a potential diagnosis to the pile, but Whitaker responded with his own reasoning. As he used the phone screen to measure the distance from one end of the optic nerve to the other. With the swipe of a finger on a touchscreen. “For Intracranial pressure by measuring the optic nerve sheath, which is—holy shit—10 millimeters”  He quickly pulled away with the news of this recent development.

What Huckleberry had uncovered was wild. As Victoria Javedi spoke up, running through the encyclopaedic amount of medical knowledge that was rushing through her mind, much like they all did with each fresh case.

 “What’s normal? 5?” She asked, knowing the answer from the countless neurology seminar and skills labs that they had all attended whilst studying. As they memorised a plethora of textbooks with case studies and long lists of symptoms and treatments outlined in great detail.

“Yeah, 5” Whitaker replied, as the answer unfolded, as Mel was the one to offer up what was the most likely conclusion. “It’s an Intracranial bleed. ”One had they all had swiftly come to with the discovery of the expansion of his optic nerve, it was practically doubled in size! This was becoming a wildly more interesting case than the OD.

“The pressure’s been building up.” Trinity had turned her to listen as Mel continued on with her explanation of Mr Grayson’s condition. “There’s no blown pupil.”

“Yeah, not yet. Trinity replied, knowing that as soon as the pressure reached a critical level, then his pupil would likely blow. But if he keeps bleeding in his skull, he’s going to die.” This was not the moment to sugar coat what was going to occur if they just stood around and did nothing. This man was inching closer and closer to the edge with every passing second.

“Yeah, he needs a one-inch, uh, burr hole in his—with a cranial drill.” Mel spoke through what was needed, stuttering over words as she started to move away from the patient. “I’m just gonna see if neurosurgery’s here.”

“We don’t have time to wait for Neuro.” Trinity watched as Dr Samira Mohan stepped up to the plate, taking over the case. Santos might have a rough around the edge approach to medicine, her bedside manner might need tweaking, but she did not wish to risk her internship on her very first day. For intern to attempt burr holes without the supervision of an attending that was a Grey’s Anatomy level of madness that would quickly hand a one-way ticket to the psych ward. No, thank you. However, she was more than happy to assist if Mohan was taking the lead.

Mohan had rushed off to collect the supplies that she needed, returning the bay once she had what was required to start the procedure. “I got Betadine and a 10cc syringe.” Announcing each step as she continued on. Whitaker had been the one to speak up, asking a basic but necessary question. His tone wavering as he worked through his jumbled up thoughts. “Should we intubate, hyperventilate?”

“Mannitol decreases ICP.” Victoria answered; Trinity was still mentally referring to her as Crash. The nickname was not going anywhere fast. Once she had handed one, she rarely would change it unless continually pushed too. She would count on one hand the number of times that she had altered one of her famous nicknames. Javedi’s reply was factually accurate, as Trinity recalled the effects of Mannitol on the intercranial pressure and the outcome of this situation if the drug was delivered.

However, before anyone could blink; Samira had picked up an IO drill and made her first burr hole, drilling into the side of Mr Grayson’s head to relieve the pressure.

“Holy shit! What the hell?” All at once, the three of them responded in tandem in equal parts shock and horror at what they had just witnessed. An unconventional use of an IO drill to carry out a neurological procedure to administer burr holes and reduce the built up intercranial pressure. This day couldn’t get any wilder. Samira had proven to be more resourceful and more impressive than Trinity’s earlier impression; she wasn’t as stiff as she had initially appeared to be.

“Relieving Intracranial pressure so he doesn’t die.” Samira replied as used the first 10cc syringe, drawing back as Whitaker cut in with his next question. “With an IO drill?” Samira shrugged back, this was the best option that was to hand. Trinity chose this moment to speak up; now that she wouldn’t the first one to attempt such a out of left field procedure, there was no way that she wouldn’t let the opportunity slid by. “That’s sick. I get the next one.”

“Long as it’s not on me.” Trinity wanted to burst out laughing at the patient in the next bay’s words, as normally there wouldn’t be the chance for this kind of interaction. His words might still be more slurred as he slowly recovered from the effects of the overdose, but the meaning was crystal clear.

“What the fuck?” Dr Emery Walsh exclaimed as she leaned over to see Dr Mohan seated at the patient’s side, already performing the procedure. Mohan had caught her gaze briefly before returning to continuing to drain blood. “Draining the ICH with an EZ-IO.” The atmosphere grew tense in the presence of Dr Walsh, the no nonsense trauma surgeon.

“40 cc’s out so far.” Confused by the sight of the unsupervised unconventional procedure being carried out, night shift charge nurse Bridget approached Mohan for an explanation. “Like she said, what the fuck?”

“There was a case report in the 2022 Journal of Emergency Medicine.” Trinity focused on her task of preparing for the intubation, still heard most of Mohan’s explanation. “Patient survive?” The back and forth was not important as she continued on as Samira confidentially spoke through her reasoning for her actions. “Went home neurologically intact.”

Whitaker squeezed his way, with the screen showing the most recent data from the scan. “The optic sheath is back to normal.” 

This was all good news as Victoria noticed that Mr Grayson had began to move. “Starting purposely movements.” Santos slid up with the intubation tube, prepared, ready to step in.

“Ready to intubate.” She announced as Mel then added in her orders as they proceeded forward. “Propofol, Rock, and Mannitol.” There was a rush that came when completing a successful procedure for the first time; she might’ve had a minor role, but still it was still such a head rush.

“I’ll let neurosurgery know. We’ll get him up ASAP.” Emery Walsh was clearly unimpressed with their reckless abandon with the rules, with the standard of care, but she would inform neurosurgery of this latest development as this patient moved further up the list. As she began to walk away, Walsh reach her walkie talkie ready to reach out to Neurosurgery primary lead.

“Incredible save.” Those words, as soon as they were spoken, caused her to turn her head and mutter in response.. “If he lives.” Trinity had made quick of work of inserting the intubation tube and working it past the vocal cords in the moments that followed as they got Mr Grayson ready to head up for surgery.

“I’m in.” She declared, as Whitaker bagged the end and check to see if everything was in the right place. “Uh, end-tidal looks good.” Everything was coming up as a success, as a win. The nursing staff stepped in, ready to get the last jobs ticked off; this was where they stepped off the case.

“Okay, OR team can take it from here.” Bridget said as she effortlessly moved around the head of the bed, mentally running through the checklist that was required before any patient headed up to the OR.

“We need to check on the others.” Mel added as she moved away; Trinity added her two cents in the mix, never missing a beat, as she used a nickname before heading back towards her patient with the leg wound. Knowing the effect that it had on Victoria, knowing that it rubbed her up the wrong way. “I should get back to Pink. Stay Strong Crash.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------Trinity turned her head, noting Mel across the way, standing in front of where some supplies sat on top of a movable station. As she checked with Mel on her thoughts as her patient’s bandage was now sodden, heavy as he had bled through the layers that Donnie had wrapped tightly round. “He bled through his Kerlix.”

It was almost as if she could see the cog turning as Mel shuttered over the words as she considered, then rejected, the possibilities until she landed the right option. “Um…elastic—elastic pressure dressing-yep.” 

“Okay, got it.” She nodded and got to work retrieving her correct type of bandage from the tray with the bandages that sat neatly on top of the station. Plucking exactly what was required to re-bandage the small holes on his lower leg.

“All right. Got a better bandage, and we’re gonna elevate your leg.” Trinity announced as she made her way back over to where her patient was still laying. She places the supplies on the bed, picking up the scissors and begins cutting off the blood soaked old one.

“Do you know what’s happening with my girlfriend? Her name is Leah. She was shot in the chest.” She can understand the worry in his voice, as it trembles when he mentions her name. However, all incoming patients had been assigned a number. Names were not a necessity during a mass casualty event and his girlfriend would have been rushed off to the Red zone if she sustained a gunshot wound to the chest. 

“I’m sorry. We have a ton of patients, and they are only marked by numbers.” Santos tried her best to be as sympathetic as possible as she continued on with her explanation. Her eyes darting between his and the wound as she worked on.

“Robby and Dana were working on her—they were doing CPR.” Now this piece of information that he had freely offered caught her attention. Much like the bloody paramedic jacket had, her mind still would wander back to the name stitched into the fabric. She wanted to chase that hypothetic thread till it was completely unravelled.

“How do you know Robby and Dana?” Santos was curious to find out as she asked, to know more about the people that she would be working alongside for the duration of this rotation.

“Robby and my mom were together for a couple of years, and I would—I would come, and I’d hang out here.” This was the definition of a juicy gossip; Dr Robinavitch seemed like a closed book. With no way to breakthrough that thick protective shell, that doubled as his professional mask. There was more to the man than just the doctor. She noticed his face twist as pain washed over him, as she disinfected and cleaned the wound site.

“Well, I’m sure if they’re helping her, then she’s in great hands.” Her words only meant to reassure his deepening worry. Even with the knowledge gained from this single shift, their combined strength was evident, a force to be reckoned with. “Can you check for me, please?” It was hard not to feel sorry for him; considering all that he had in this one day. “Sure, Of course. Just after I finish this.” She nodded as she agreed to help him out with one small task.

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

8pm

The florescent lights, albeit harsh under normal conditions, were a drop in the ocean on his list of concerns. Dr Jack Abbot, sharp-eyed, thrived in these conditions. A mass casualty was similar enough to working under the threat of a war zone.

This was where he did his best work, where his skills were truly put to the test. He could not ignore the call to action that came over the airwaves, as he listened to his police scanner that sat at his side as he had wound down for the day. All in the knowledge of what this day meant to Robby, an anniversary that no-one who worked through the heights of the pandemic would ever simply put aside. It was locked away, compartmentalised with all the other bad days. Each under lock and key, he was chipping away one at a time with his therapist.

Holding true to his promise to her, his wife and the memory of their life together. The ring on his finger was well-loved, but time had worn away the last restoration. A trip to the jeweller would be scheduled tomorrow, in between shifts. Each wave of new patients, of scared victims, drew him further into his element. With a cool and level head, Jack worked seamlessly with the tight team within the Red zone. Each was a cog in a machine fighting to save each patient from the jaws of death. Mourning each loss in the few seconds between that patient and the next being wheeled in.

Each would be remembered long after this voluntary shift had concluded. His gaze was trained upon his next patient; despite that, it would wander over to Robby now and then. His demeanour had shifted, there was anger that usually lingered far beneath the surface bubbling up. He was burst soon rather than later, but Jake and his fatally injured girlfriend had become the linchpin.

As soon as he had noticed that gurney being pushed through the doors, Jack had clocked the heartbreak upon the kid’s face, knowing that it would be mirrored on Robby’s. He had fought tooth and nail to keep her alive; it was a fruitless, uphill battle. One that he could never get in front of, as the wound to heart was just too severe. He had seen many in the heart of battle, presenting much the same way Jack knew what the outcome would be.

With all the time in the world, there still would be slim chances of coming back from a shot to the heart. Each new unit of blood was a cause of concern; two had been the agreed upon limit, but Robby had quickly reached for another and then the next. That limit had been reached and doubled. He could glean the depths of desperation as clear as day as Robby clutched at every available straw. Holding on the vaguest string of hope, fighting for Leah, for Jake.

There was no happy ending, not this go around. No last-minute miracle solution would be found, this was bare bones reality, not some half-baked medical dramas that his wife had loved, the ones which he sat through season after season for each smile, the laughter and tears that she had circled through. Whilst he pointed out the medical mistakes and inaccuracies. She had once joked that she could turn into a drinking game and be easily under the table by the halfway mark of a single episode. God, he missed her.

His mind would wander in the moments between the screams, but never for long enough for Jack to vanish into the what-ifs. He needed to be in the here and now as the darkness crept closer. It was where he felt most comfortable, out of the light of day. Away from his most painful memories, as they always returned.

The same could be said about Robby; had his own heartbreak manifested as he tirelessly worked on Leah? Had he envisioned his ex-wife beneath his blooded gloved finger tips as he fought to get the girl’s heart to beat once again. Had her image flickered, replacing the young woman for less than a second before switching back. He might hesitate for a split second if she had been wheeled into his care, but thankfully she hadn’t.

Heading up to Neuro ICU

The familiar vocal tones of Dr Frank Langdon could be heard as he moved his latest patient up to the Neuro section of the ICU floor up on the level six. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack caught a sight of the gurney as he made his way back into the heart of the red zone; No, it couldn’t be her lying there. Jack was in no position to chase after Langdon as he disappeared into the elevator shaft.

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

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[tuffluuhv]

𝖣𝗂𝗀𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗅 𝖾𝗋𝖺 {1}

summary; 𝖱𝗈𝖻𝖻𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾. 𝖨𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗅. 𝖡𝗎𝗍, 𝗎𝗇𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖮𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗐𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖽-𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾…

pairing: Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x reader

rating: 𝖬𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾

chapter no: 1/2

wc; 8.1𝗄

tags/warnings; 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗉𝗌 𝖻𝖼 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆, 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖾-𝗀𝖺𝗉, 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗁𝖺𝖻𝖻𝗈𝗍, 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖻𝗒 𝖻𝖼 𝗐𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗋, 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍

Author; @lucis-dove

a/n: 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 @oldermenfucker 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺 𝗈𝖿 𝖩𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗋𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖱𝗈𝖻𝖻𝗒 𝖺 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝗂𝗅𝖾, 𝖨 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽𝗎𝖼𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖨 𝖼𝖺𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝗍 𝗎𝗉

"I'm out. The mess is all yours." 

That's the single thing Jack receives as a goodbye when Robby walks past him by the nurse station. His backpack is already slung over his shoulders, AirPods just being pushed into his ears to close out the world.

Jack follows him until he walks through the door into the waiting room. He hadn't run into Robby as he arrived nor by the lockers as he put away his stuff. So, the hasty goodbye is unexpected.

His gaze shifts back when another figure joins him. 

Samira stands before him, still in her scrubs, even though the day shift officially ended half an hour ago. Her hair is frizzier at the temples, as it usually is after twelve hours.

"Did something happen?" Jack notches his chin the way Robby had headed not long ago.

She shakes her head only to end up in a shrug. "Apart from Gloria being on his ass almost every time I ran into him today, I would say no."

Jack's brows furrow, glancing at the doors leading to the waiting room.

"Has he been like that the whole shift?" His eyes track back to Samira. 

She tilts her head sideways, brows raising only to fall just as quickly. "Snappy? Yeah, with everyone. That's why I've waited to get my stuff."

An exhale rushes from Jack's lungs, the sigh harsh as his eyes drop to the iPad. "He isn't going to be any better tomorrow."

"No?"

"No," he confirms as he looks up at her. Whatever hopeful light in her eyes flickers out as she realises a night's sleep won't considerably change the older attending's mood. 

"Has anything happened?" She nods in the direction they both last saw him. 

Although Robby was her attending, Samira didn't know him personally. Yes, she had been told things about him since getting to know Jack better, but she still didn't consider herself a friend of his friend. He was still her boss, as far as she and Robby would put it.

"Nothing, and that's the problem," Jack's attention once more falls to reviewing the details from the day-shift. "He bounces back and forth between the Pitt and his apartment."

Samira understands what's not said outright but implied. She'd experienced a similar lack of any social life up until a handful of months ago. 

Friends, first and foremost, had been scarce. The ones she received during medical school were the only ones that came to mind at the time. Relationships? Dating? Yeah, that had been non-existent. She remembers the desperation, even if it flickered out quickly, that pushed her to once download the dating app one of her few friends suggested.

"I have an idea, and tell me if it's awful or not." Jack's eyes shift upwards, seeing her with her phone now in hand. After some fiddling, she shows him the screen.

His eyebrows pull together, gaze dropping only to sharply flicker to meet her's again. "He would never download that himself."

"You never answered if it's a bad idea." Her smile is tentative as she waits.

"He would think it's awful."

"It's awful when you do it yourself, talking from experience." 

Jack cocks his head, chin tipping upwards. "You've used it?"

"I deleted it after a month." She's smiling as she explains, not at the look he sends her but that her idea still hasn't been outright rejected. She pulls the attention from her back to the topic at hand with a slight shake of the phone. "So?"

Jack rolled his head, staring at the screen.

Robby would hate the idea with venom. Partly because this was the negative side of digitalisation and partly because he would never admit that he wanted, needed, anyone. A partner was the last he would mention, even if someone threatened him under gunpoint.

His eyes shift to meet Samira's brown ones, "I'm letting you be in charge of this."

"I'm happy to be if he lays off on his hounding." Her smile has widened, bringing out the dimples on her cheeks. She pockets her phone. "Send me whatever pictures you have of him or the two of you."

Jack nods, "Update me when you're done."

"Oh, you'll get the giddy messages once I start swiping."

He sends her an amused look. "Don't have too much fun." 

"Don't worry." Her look softens as she continues. "See you at shift-change?"

"'Course," the edge of Jack's mouth tugs upwards but is pulled into a line as the commotion from the ambulance bay catches his attention. He's quick to move but still manages a soft touch against Samira's arm as he passes her.

Even if Jack wasn't glued to his phone like Samira that night, she sent him the updates he'd requested.

─He's popular

─I don't know how I feel flirting with women who find my boss sexy

─Don't mind me, desperate women are entertaining

─Oh wait, I think she could be something

It was after Samira sent the pictures from your profile she received the first reply to any of her messages. The notification from Jack brought her out of the conversation with you, the only one she'd found herself jumping back to answer the messages from between swiping.

She's younger than him─

─But much better at actually holding a conversation compared to many who is his age

─And I guessed he maybe had the same taste for a younger partner, like you

Very funny─

─I know, right, I am

─Should I ask her out?

Are you ready to work with him tomorrow if you do?─

─I'll let you mention it, spare me the worst of his blowup

How generous─

Much like Jack had predicted, Robby's mood hadn't changed overnight. 

He still arrived with a polite smile sent to those he passed in the morning, but his sighs ─followed by a hand rubbing the side of his face─ began even before lunchtime. If anything, it felt like each time Samira was close to him, his attitude worsened even further, her good mood doing the opposite of cheering him up.

And it was all because you'd agreed to a date with Robby. 

Samira had asked you yesterday. Waiting with bated breath for your answer, as if she was the one who would meet up with you. Then, when the reply finally came, a short and sweet I would love to, she jumped from her couch with an excited gasp.

Jack already knew. She'd told him yesterday with a quick text. However, he didn't receive the full update until they met by the lockers this morning and were able to read the entire conversation. Throughout, his mouth had twitched until he looked up, unable to fend off his smile any longer as he handed back the phone.

Then and there, they decided to stick with the plan and inform Robby when the day shift traded with the night shift. Not only to spare Samira from Robby's ire but for Jack to also be well-rested when he broke the news. And the confrontation was getting closer.

The night shift had rolled in, the patient rounds with quick briefings were done, and while Jack didn't do the same huddle Robby did in the mornings, he stood in the same place, waiting.

He busied himself with the iPad, at least wanting it to appear that way. But those who paid close enough attention would notice his eyes flicked up at each day-shifter who emerged from the hall leading to the lockers. While it dropped back down in between, the iPad in his hand was forgotten the second the person he was waiting for appeared.

"We'll hold it down while you're off," Jack says as Robby walks up to him. 

"Good," he claps him on the shoulder. "Text if something comes up." 

Just as he turns, Jack speaks up, halting him in the middle of a step. "And don't forget your date." 

Robby freezes, turning to slowly look over his shoulder with furrowed brows.

"What did you say?" Jack meets his gaze as he presses the off button on the iPad, the screen going dark. 

"You're going on a date." 

Robby turns fully and jerks his head sideways, mouth open as he sharply dips his chin, demanding an answer through a sharply asked, "I am what?"

"You've been stressed-"

"When are we not?" He flings out his hand.

"Worse than fucking usual," Jack speaks through his teeth as he leans forwards. "So suck it up and go; we figured you needed something to take your mind off the Pitt."

"We?" Robby's eyes shift to Samira when she suddenly joins them, noticing how her lips are closer to a thin line than the smile she attempts. "Of fucking course," he laughs in disbelief, shaking his head as he looks away, hand dragging over his beard.

"I should keep you separated," he points at them individually when his eyes return to them.

Jack cocks his head. "You already do. Didn't help."

"You- it just feels like you've had a few bad days," Samira interjects, much gentler, but receives the same look of bottled-up frustration, indicated through brows pinned high and mouth open as if Robby was holding himself back.

"And this would solve it?" He asks it slowly, nodding just slightly as he does, not in agreement.

"Maybe not solve it, but take your mind off of it?" She offers hesitantly. His jaw grinds, but he doesn't manage to reply before Jack cuts in.

"It's your only hope at this point. Your workplace-approach didn't work, like for some others," Robby sends him a look, but is simply met with his unrelenting gaze. 

Samira cuts between them, attempting to diffuse the tension, "She's nice."

Dark brown eyes meet hers. Heavier and stormier than usual. "And how did you find her? Hopefully, she's not a patient?" 

Samira pulls up her phone and shows the account she'd set up for Robby on the dating app.

He takes the phone from her as she offers it, simultaneously reaching for his glasses. 

Inspecting the profile, he's met with candid photos of him. In most of them, he's with Jack, but there's the occasional one where he's alone in the picture. The one he's staring at now is one where he's smiling, his eyes cast down to his beer, still dressed in his scrubs in a lowly lit place.

Only when he squints does he notice the shoulder at the edge of the picture, leading him to the conclusion that it's one Samira has of him and Jack from one of the Pitt's bar nights, but where she's cropped it to exclude the latter.

A short text is visible beneath the pictures he flickers through, and once he reads it ─Doctor who likes beer. Obviously, the taller, more handsome one who can grow a beard out of the two─ he groans.

"Christ, this is so much worse." He mutters as he hands the phone back to Samira.

"But it worked," Jack reminds him.

Robby rubs a hand over his face, scratching his neck before letting it fall, sighing heavily. "And who am I meeting?"

"That's for you to find out tomorrow," Samira answers.

His brows shoot up. "Tomorrow?"

"Yes, you're off during the weekend", Jack shrugs as if it explains everything. And while Robby has a suspicion about why Saturday was chosen, he doesn't get the time to comment on it. "You're going to meet at the Italian restaurant a few blocks from yours, the new one."

"And wear something else than your scrubs; you told her the dress code is summer casual, after all." Samira pipes in with an excited smile.

"Oh, I did?"

"Yes, and she liked that you booked the restaurant and told her to meet there as well," Jack's lips are pulling hard in the corners. "She already seems to like you more than the others you've met in recent times."

Robby sends him a look, deadpan, brows set low. "I haven't seen anyone." And Jack knows that.

"Even the more reason to meet up with her." His friend shoots back.

Samira watches Jack and sighs, turning her attention to him. "She seems sweet, said she liked your smile when she swiped on you,"

"So try not to be too grumpy," Jack adds, smug voice and entertained smile not hidden.

Robby decides not to answer, only throwing up a few fingers in an attempted wave as he turns to leave. But he lets it fall halfway through, releasing another heavy exhale as he exits the Pitt.

This thing, scheme, set up, blind date, had been on Robby's mind since he went to sleep yesterday. Only to be reminded the second he woke up through Jack's text message.

Don't chicken out.

He wouldn't, Robby told himself. At least he wouldn't stand you up. You didn't deserve that just because his friends, colleagues in this instance, wanted the same for him as they shared. No, he would show up and tell you the truth to spare your and his time. You deserved that, even if he didn't know you.

That didn't explain why he never felt like he could settle throughout the day. 

He tried to watch whatever rerun shows were on TV but fiddled with the remote. Either flickering through channels or spinning it in his hand while attempting to find something worthwhile.

He caught himself checking each reflective surface he passed in the house, each time running a hand through his hair, only to drag it down his face when he realised what he was doing. After a handful of times, he decided to just take a shower to tame his unruly hair. 

And while he practised what to say when he met you, sorry for my idiot friends or something along those lines, he actually considered what shirt he should wear and which pants it could match as he rummaged through his wardrobe as it neared the time of departure.

He settled for something relaxed: jeans and a light blue jumper with a minimal pattern or weave, perhaps. He didn't really know what to call it. It wasn't too casual, but neither dressed up, fitting for the dress code he had given you.

But what he decided to wear didn't mean anything. He wouldn't stay long enough to start worrying about his appearance compared to yours.

Robby continued telling himself there was no deeper reason for his behaviour as he locked up behind him and headed towards the restaurant.

It was warm outside; no jacket was needed. Even so, he burrowed his hands in his jeans, fingers fighting for room along with his keys and phone as he tracked to the address he, rather Jack and Samira, had given you.

Not until he reached for the door to the Italian place did he actually realise, admit, he was nervous. Not for the… date but to break the news and, without a doubt, ruin your evening.

Robby exhaled harshly as he pulled the door open, cursing the couple that definitely would send him hopeful looks at shift change on Monday.

Only when the equally warm inside of the restaurant met him did Robby remember he had no idea who he was looking for. He hadn't been shown a picture, only received a name after Jack's message about not chickening out.

Unsure of what, who, to expect, he glanced around the room. 

He guessed you were here already since it was only a few minutes until the set time of the booked table. The one under his name.

The main seating area was further in and to the left, while a bar with seatings ran along the counter to his right. It was as his eyes strayed over those seats, his eyes connected with someone's.

He didn't know if it was an accident, not at first. But his attention remained, unconsciously flickering down and up, only to be met by a smile being sent to him. When a small wave followed the reestablished eye contact, it sealed the deal.

Shit, you're pretty. Really fucking pretty.

That was Robby's first realisation as he watched you slide from your stool and head over. You weren't overdressed, following a similar theme as him. But god, if you didn't look even more put-together. 

Dark blue jeans hugged your hips and waist before they fell straight. Hiding what he realised were white heels from the point peeking out from the lower hem and the rhythmic clicking he heard. Your jumper, closer to a cardigan with buttons lining the front, was tailored to fit snugly at the waist. The white fabric looked soft, dressing up the otherwise rougher fabric covering your legs. 

Nothing of your outfit gave away too much of your figure, but just enough his eyes followed it anyways. 

As your pace slowed when nearing, he saw a chain peek through where the two uppermost buttons of your top were popped open. It rested against your collarbones, dainty but glittering as it caught the light.

His eyes jumped to yours when he realised you'd stopped in front of him.

"Hi, Michael, right?" Your voice was soft, the slight smile still there as you looked at him.

He opened his mouth, preparing to tell you that this was all just a big mistake, a rouse to unkindly thank his friends for. But the words died on his tongue as your head tilted, and he noticed that your fingers never stayed still, wringing together, playing with the rings that matched your necklace.

"I haven't taken the wrong person, have I?" You question a bit awkwardly.

"Uhm, yeah- I mean, no, no, you haven't." The words rush from his mouth this time around. You breathe out an amused, verging relieved sound through your nose. "But Robby is just fine," he stretches forth his hand, which breaks up the nervous practice of spinning the ring on your index finger.

"Robby?" You question after you've shaken his hand, letting yours fall along your body again.

"My last name-"

"Hello, do you have a booking?" The voice cuts off his reply, Robby's attention falling to the man who steps up to you two.

"Ugh…" Robby notices how you look towards him, sees it in the edge of his peripheral. He swallows. Fuck, he could just say it later, not make a scene here. "Yeah, yeah, Michael Robinavitch."

"7 P.M.?" He nods even if the waiter doesn't look up from the iPad. "Perfect, follow me," he says, looking up to offer a polite smile to both of you before turning on his heel.

Robby looks towards you, brows rising when he finds you already, still, watching him. He plays it off by nodding forwards, hands leaving his pockets to motion with one of them into the restaurant, telling you to lead the way. 

Your smile reaches your eyes as it widens, turning around to follow the waiter. Robby follows two steps behind. 

"I get the nickname now." You speak to him over your shoulder, glancing backwards. Your voice wasn't hushed but slightly lower to signal you were speaking to only him.

"What?" 

"Your last name. I think I would have a hard time spelling it if you didn't sound it out." He actually finds himself releasing an amused scoff, head dipping before his gaze returns to you.

"Got tired of people calling me everything but it."

Your laugh is preceded by a smile that flashes teeth. And Robby finds himself just looking at you, eyes flickering over your features scrunched into amusement. Even as it falls slightly, just enough to offer a polite thank you to the waiter once he stops by your table ─another one as you sit down and accept the menu─ his eyes never leave you, unable to look anywhere else.

It's not until your gaze flickers to Robby that he realises he's still standing and finds himself pulling out his chair the moment he does. 

He offers an appreciative nod to the man who hands him the same two-sided menu as you received, as well as a wine list, once he's seated.

As the waiter leaves, you nod in momentary goodbye. Nothing familiar, just polite. Robby finds it charming, in some weird or deeply hidden definition of the word in a glossary. Perhaps it's due to his own work in the service sector.

When your eyes trail back, returning from the quick sweep of the restaurant ─which you took the opportunity to do after already looking up at the waiter─ they move over the drinks list in his hands on the way to the menu in yours.

Although Robby planned to explain the absurdity of the situation and let you down gently once the two of you were left alone. Perhaps offer to buy you a glass of wine to nurse while he goes home, intending to deliver a few chosen words to Jack. That's not what happens.

"Want to take a look?" Robby is quick to offer the drink list to you. 

When your eyes flicker up to him, it halts his thought that, in seconds, managed to jump from 'that was not what you were supposed to say'  to 'out of all the things you could say, you chose that.'

"Thank you, but I'm okay. Don't fancy getting tipsy," you explain, one hand gesturing aimlessly as the other keeps holding your menu.

He clears his throat as he sets the booklet down. "Lightweight?"

"Winedrunk is a real thing," you huff, but it's light and airy. Adding in your smile, Robby knows it's all said in jest.

"So, what did you have at the bar?" He remembers the empty glass you'd left behind when coming to greet him.

"A mocktail, just to occupy myself with something", you shrug. "And I'll continue down my boring path."

Robby motions to where he'd put the drink list between you. "Heard they have pretty good non-alcoholic options."

"Actually, I'm leaning towards just a soda." He nods, rapping his finger against the table, focus entirely lost on the menu he holds open in his other hand.

"What's your go-to?" 

He really didn't know what urged him to ask, but the question had already left him when Robby realised he was the one who continued the conversation.

"I'm not fussy," you settle one elbow on the table, propping your chin on it. "So surprise me." 

His brows arch, not anticipating your answer. But you don't shy away from his surprised look. Simply continue watching him with a quirk on your lips, making no move to say anything, nothing to justify or explain yourself. You hold his gaze for long enough Robby understands you are attempting to drive your point home.

He feels the edge of his lip tick upwards. Something about your subtle playfulness elicits the reaction. 

Upon his non-verbal cue, your lips pull to one side, looking like you are biting the inside of your cheek to stop your smile from growing. Although your attention returns to the menu once more, your face remains angled toward him as it's your eyes that move. 

Robby finds his eyes flickering between his menu and you repeatedly. Somewhere along the way, he gets stuck studying you. How your eyes flicker across the paper, or the way your teeth play with your lower lip as it seems you consider which dish is the most appealing.

He doesn't realise how long he's watched you, not until the waiter arrives at the side of the table once again.

Eyes directed to the same man as previously, he notices you do the same from the corner of his eye. Upon the question of whether you're ready to order, Robby answers for you both.

He feels your gaze move to him as he orders your and his drinks, asking for a bit more time concerning the food. He realised ─whilst ordering his usual bear and choosing a soda for you─ that he barely knew what was on the menu after his attention got sidetracked by you.

After the waiter leaves, Robby's eyes automatically move to you. 

When his gaze connects with yours, witnessing the smile you send his way, he certainly doesn't feel the same displeasure rise in his body as when he mentally prepared for this evening. In fact, he reciprocates it. Genuine, no faking it, like he very much thought he would've needed if he forced himself to sit through this blind date.

After that, Robby has his second realisation; he's slowly warming to the idea of being here with you. 

Yeah, one dinner can't hurt. 

While you'd been the one to swipe on Michael, Robby, you'd been pleasantly surprised when he'd walked into the restaurant. 

He looked the same as his pictures, which certainly wasn't always the case. You dared to say he looked even better when you got closer to him. 

Maybe it was due to how he carried himself. You knew how tall he was from the app, but he felt taller in person. Even with your heels, you needed to angle your chin to properly look into his eyes. 

Or perhaps it was those brown eyes. Yeah, they were just as pretty in person as they'd been through the screen. If anything, you had a hard time looking anywhere but them as you fell into a conversation after receiving your drinks and ordering your food. 

They looked perpetually dark, bottomless ─but not emotionless─ in the restaurant's dimmed light. It was easy to get lost in them, far too easy.

"So, how did you hear of this place?" You ask him. He's gotten more comfortable in his seat, leaning against the back. 

"Heard it from my… son?" 

Even if he grows unsure towards the end of the sentence, making it sound like a question, your brows arch. You hadn't seen that on his profile, nor was it anything he'd mentioned during your short back and forth. 

And Robby notices your reaction, it seems, as he is quick to clarify, "Not my son. Jake, he's the kid of my ex." 

Robby winces after it's said. He may not have dated in years, but he knows the etiquette about bringing up exes on first dates.

"Yeah, sorry, you probably didn't need that detail." He sheepishly drags one hand over the side of his face, ruffling that side of his hair, only to slide down along his bearded jaw and down his chin.

"It added to the explanation, so I'm not offended." You say it with a wink at the end, letting him know no real harm has been done. "So, you two are close, you and Jake, I mean?"

"We're building back up to that point after some rough patches." You nod, deciding not to push upon catching the tension behind his words.

"And you and your ex, I suppose you're on good terms if you still hang out with him occasionally?" His head cocks as you ask, and you simply raise your hands. "Hey, you mentioned it, I'm just gauging."

And Robby believes you. He doesn't know why, but you make it feel easy to talk about these things. It's the first time he does it with someone who knows nothing of his background in... how many years, he doesn't know. 

"I guess. We don't really talk, only if it concerns Jake, but it's not like I'm always present at every big step he takes." You nod with a bit of hum

"If you don't mind, why did it end? From the outside, it looks like you've stepped into some kind of father role for Jake. It feels like you don't abandon the relationship it stemmed from readily."

"Me and the kid got on better than me and his mom." You chuckle at the joke. He smiles but continues with a half-hearted shrug. "Work, I guess, always the joykiller."

"Doctor, was it?" He nods twice, guessing you'd worked it out from the pictures he wore scrubs in or during the texting Samira had done with you. "I guess that does take up a lot of time."

He chuckles, hearing how it brushes on sardonic in his own ears. "You could say that."

"So, long-term then? Do you feel like that's correct if your work takes up so much time?" 

That question makes him stall, hesitate. Not because he didn't know where it came from. He'd seen what type of relationship preference was visible on his profile. It was the only option he would've considered as well if he, over his dead body, would've created it himself. But he didn't think you would ask about it, no less without averting your eyes as you waited for his answer.

"I… good question, honestly," he couldn't help but exhale, rubbing his neck. 

Robby had, of course, thought about it and knew it was the reason most of his previous relationships gave away in the end. He wasn't the sole fault for it. Janey and Collins both had careers they'd also wanted to focus on advancing or just maintaining amidst everything else. 

"It's not that it takes up too much time, just that it never technically leaves you, me, even if I'm not at work." He looks at you, eyes locking with yours from unconsciously having fallen to the table. "It's not something everyone wants to sign up for and…"

"Not something you want to put them through?" You lean on the table, resting your temple on your fist, eyes on him.

Robby doesn't know if smart would be the word to describe you for working it out. Perceptive, maybe, as you'd suggested the reason he'd left out with enough confidence to showcase that you knew that's what we wanted to say. 

And you weren't wrong.

"It's just easier to sometimes not bother when you know the outcome." He confirms. Not defeated, just the simple truth.

"Being alone can be awfully comfortable." 

It's his turn to tilt his head in intrigue. "Speaking from experience?" 

"Yeah, you can say that." You smile, but it's not as light as your previous ones. "I've met enough people who want fleeting things and never even want to try and settle." 

Without having seen your dating profile, Robby gathered what your questions tried to determine, as well as what your preferences were. "In for a penny, in for a pound?"

You break into a smile as you sit up again, leaning back with your arm loosely folded across your chest. "If you want to choose the lightest saying."

"So, any exes I should know about?" 

Concerning how you two already have broken the standard protocol for a first date, he isn't shy to steer the conversation to focus on you this time around rather than a topic of favourite colours or foods.

"None recent and none who's left much baggage." You share with him. But it seems like you're reminded of something, your lips pulling at the edges as you grimace. "People I've dated on a short-term basis are a different story. But I feel like you're not the kind of man who's got the patience to listen to how miserable guys are with dating in this day and age."

"You're probably right." He scoffs, able to imagine it more than well. "Men can be impossible."

You chuckle at that, and Robby finds himself smiling.

The silence you settle into as your sound of amusement fades is short-lived, your food arriving to break it and the eye contact you shared.

Although the conversation evens out while you eat, occasional comments are shared. 

Some touch on superficial topics. Robby likes sports, you don't mind them. You both enjoy reading, but he prefers journals, while you gravitate towards fiction of most kinds. 

Others don't, but neither of you shy from them.

You don't use the exact words, but when thoughts are shared on partners and relationships, your answers are nonetheless similar. Not uncomplicated, unchallenging. But right, worth attempting.

Robby finds himself wanting to know more, curious about you. With how your conversation never waters down into prolonged and strained silences ─of course, the occasional lull, but it's filled with shared glances─ you seem equally as invested. Asking about him, gazing at him while he speaks, sometimes with a small smile. 

Without realising, those hours he never intended to spend with you in the first place pass. 

Your bubble breaks when the waiter appears and plucks the dishes from the table, voicing an open question regarding dessert.

Robby glances at you, and you notice his attention. With a little jerk of his head, he silently tells you to decide. Your eyes move back to the waiter, only answering when the clatter of cutlery and plates has silenced and he balances the dishes in his arms.

"We're good, thank you." You smile up at the man, who offers a nod before he walks off. Your attention lands on him again, "I'm just going to the ladies. I'll be back soon," you excuse as you stand up.

"You'll find me here." Your eyes remain on him even as you begin walking away, and Robby catches the flicker in them, relieved, happy. It's mirrored in your smile, hidden only when you face forward. 

Without realising, he feels how he reciprocates your smile even if you can't see it. 

As you wash your hands, looking at yourself in the bathroom mirror, you have to forcefully purse your lips to beat down your smile. 

This evening was going above and beyond whatever you'd imagined. It was hard not to consider what was possible down the road if it continued like this. But Robby... he just made it too easy to accidentally trip and fall right down that rabbit hole. That's precisely why you needed to run your hands through the coldest water possible from the tap. 

As you placed them on the back of your neck to ground yourself, you exhaled slowly, putting a lid on the ecstatic quiver in your chest. Your eyes fluttered close for a brief moment; annoyingly, your mind simply conjured a picture of Robby behind your eyelids.

You shake your head, opening your eyes, only to see a smile has worked itself onto your lips again.  

"Jesus," you huff, the excitement in your own voice not lost on you as you dry your hands. 

This was only a first date. You really needed to approach it as if it meant nothing. Disappointment was too close otherwise.

Yet, it's proved impossibly hard to keep yourself to that, your smile already returning once your eyes find Robby as you get closer to the table.

When you're a few feet away, he turns to you, probably catching you nearing through his periphery.

"Are you ready to go?" He asks, standing up before you have time to sit down again.

Your brows pull together. "But the check?"

"I took care of it." Robby waves towards the way you just came, insinuating he paid while you were gone.

"Thank you, that's really kind." Your head dips as he takes the lead to the exit. "I appreciate it." 

He doesn't respond, not verbally, but he throws a look over his shoulder, lips tugging upwards. 

It took every part of your non-lizard brain to continue walking and not just dumbly stop in the middle of your step. Robby had looked so incredibly good in that short instance that it took you off guard in that off-hand realisation way. 

You'd stared at him countless times tonight, never denying you sat across from a handsome man. But that, and how he now holds the door open ─close to the hinges as he'd already stepped on the pavement outside and looked back at you─ would ingrain itself in your memory forever.

"Which way are you going?" He asks once you join him on the sidewalk. 

You nod towards the left.

It grants you a smile that makes Robby's eyes gentle and incorporates his whole face. His smile lines appeared. The wrinkles deepened on his forehead. The creases grew beside his eyes. 

"We're heading the same way," he says, and just like that, you set off in the same direction. 

A conversation flows easily. You laugh slightly louder at his sarcastic comments, able to when you weren't indoors. His chuckles also ring deeper as he watches the way you look up at him after softly swatting his arm. The kind of minor physical contact that wasn't possible when sitting opposite each other. 

Yet the air of finality was hard to ignore. The daunting feeling the night was closing in on its end grew. 

As Robby slows his pace, which you catch onto a few seconds later, as if you didn't anticipate it, he knows for sure it is. 

"This is me," he nods down the right turn of the intersection as he says it.

You offer him a smile, motioning forward. "My bus stop is a few blocks away." 

"You took the bus?" You hum with a nod.

The wind has picked up during your walk together. It's not cold by any means, but being this close to the water increased the power of the gusts. Robby notices your shiver, probably just due to the sudden shift in temperature by a few degrees more than actually freezing. Even so, he finds himself stepping in front of you.

You follow Robby as he moves, cutting off the gust of winds that previously blew into your face. Your eyes widen slightly as you realise what he did, the words tumbling from your lips before you could stop them. 

"Thank you," you quickly follow them up with something to cover your shocked appreciation. "I enjoyed tonight."

"Yeah, me too."

"I really didn't have any expectations." You admit with a chuckle. "I honestly headed into this with the mindset to get it over with and be disappointed if, and no offence, I thought you would, proved to be a completely different person than over text."

Robby chuckles and shakes his head. Apparently, you'd had the same attitude toward this as he had.

"Maybe I'm shooting myself in the foot by telling this, but-" This time he looks sideways, hand finding the back of his head, scratching it as he continues. "-some friends set me up for this date. Without me knowing."

"No, you're joking?" His gaze shifts back to you. Your lips are slightly parted, brows knitted together.

"Didn't know I had a dating profile until yesterday." He gives you an apologetic smile, arm dropping to find shelter in his back pocket.

Even though he didn't reveal how adamant he'd been to call quits on this, Robby still thought the information he shared would be enough for your surprised expression to turn sour. Maybe even take a step back, excuse yourself and be on your way now when you know. 

He didn't anticipate seeing amusement, maybe even curiosity, bleed into your surprise as a laugh bubbled slowly in your throat until it filled the air.

"Oh, god, I-I'm sorry," you excuse through your chuckling, biting your lip and dampening it into a smile before you decide to continue. "I really thought someone like you-," you abandon the rest of your sentence with a small shake of your head. 

That made his head cock, intrigue rising suddenly. "No, tell me." 

Your brows rise, tongue wetting your lips, chest stuttering a little on your inhale. To Robby, it was clear you hadn't thought he would ask you to continue, explain what you'd left out.

"I, well… figured you didn't need any apps with your looks. If we base it on how I malfunctioned when seeing your photos." Your chin drops, watching your toes as you shift the weight on your feet. 

You remember the noise you let out as his profile grazed your screen, very undignified. Enough so that you'd looked around your empty room to see if someone accidentally heard you.

"You're exaggerating."

"No." Your head snaps up, Robby looking as surprised as you feel upon the conviction behind the statement. You fumble to continue with an explanation. "I mean, you look good, really good; most women would think so."

"I'm on the wrong side of fifty."

Your head does a minuscule shake as your brows furrow as if you can't comprehend his words. "And?"

"I have greys in my beard." 

You hum, bewildered expression dropping just like your eyes do as they narrow lightly, focusing on his beard. God, that beard. You hesitate, only to take a step closer. 

Robby inhales at the proximity, only getting a lungful of your perfume rather than the fresh air needed for his brain to function. But he doesn't mind your closeness, not at all. 

When you slowly raise your hand, he watches as bewitched. 

You do it slowly enough so he knows you leave time for him to object, step back, say no. But he doesn't move an inch. Simply follows your hand that reaches for his chin, waiting to feel your touch.

The gentle sensation of your nails scratching his skin beneath the coarse hair as your fingers card through his beard sent one long shiver down his spine.

"Congrats, you're one step closer to becoming a silver fox." He actually chuckles at that, shaking his head. Your hand automatically falls again as he does, but you don't step away.

"And you don't mind?" He looks at you again, searching your eyes even if a smile greets him.

There's a gap between you. He'd noticed it as soon as he saw you in the restaurant. Compared to him, there were yearsuntil you even started greying. The lines on your forehead and around your eyes still tilted more towards smooth skin than not, unlike himself.

"Do you think I would've swiped, let alone met up with you if it did?"

"Maybe you just wanted a free meal," he shrugs. He doesn't really believe it himself, not after getting to know you. So the rise of your brows doesn't surprise him.

"I'll let you know, Robby." The slow, accentuated way you say his name while you notch your chin higher makes his heart speed up. "I may have decided to meet up after that short conversation with your friends. But I stayed throughout the dinner because of you." 

"So my dad-jokes worked?" He doesn't even realise he bends his neck slightly as he asks you. But he does notice the hitch in your breath as he does.

Robby's smile is slightly toothy as he looks down at you. A grin almost. It looks remarkably boyish for someone of his age, a juxtaposition to the rest of his aged features. But you found it simply spread fondness through your chest like so many other things he'd done tonight.

"Yeah, yeah, they did." 

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Hopeful for a second date?"

"Am I wrong to think I have a good chance?"

"No."

You hadn't noticed how you both inched closer, gravitating towards each other. Your chests almost touching. The point of your shoes nearly meeting his. But it does feel like you realise it at the same time. Both your eyes fall, only to meet again seconds later. 

He takes a tentative step closer, a shuffle more like, angling his head down as one hand slips from his jeans pocket. You have a feeling where it will land but are surprised when it settles on your waist. 

"I really had a good night," his voice has dropped, rough and low. 

"You've already said that." Robby's hands slide to your ribs, leaving behind goosebumps he can't see, but you can feel.

"Needed to say it again." It's more of a mumble beneath his breath as he watches you closely, following your reaction to his hand jumping to the curve of your shoulder, moving until his hand cups behind your neck, thumb along the hinge of your jaw. "Since I didn't think it would be."

"Robby-" his name is a whisper, breathed into the space that still separates you. Far less than before, but still not enough to touch. Not until he dips closer, tongue rolling to briefly be trapped between his lips before they part.

"This okay?" His nose nudges yours, the tip rather than the side, as he remains far enough away that his brown gaze can meet yours.

"Yeah." Even if his eyes fall to your lips as you reply, he remains a few inches away. 

You swallow, inhaling, eyes flickering from his eyes to his mouth. Robby's jaw clenches, then it slackens, his grip on your face shifting.

It's you who tilt your head and lean closer, but it's Robby who closes the gap and initiates the kiss.

Your eyes flutter shut as his warm, rough lips press against yours. 

You hadn't had enough time to dream- consider this. A second date, more down the road. But not this, not tonight. And yet, everything about kissing Robby feels right.

It feels natural when your hands fall against his stomach as he parts and tilts his head, only to seek you out again. The shivers working overtime through your nervous system ─prickling the skin across all parts of your body, enough for your hair to stand at the edge─ feel good and not uncomfortable. And when his other hand lands and curves over your hip, his warmth radiating through the fabric of your clothes as he pulls you into him, you welcome it.

When you part properly and with more space than a breath that fans hotly against each other's lips, you finally look at each other again. 

Robby is the first to speak as you inhale a lungful of air, attempting to steady your hammering heart after witnessing the look in his eyes.

"Do you want to stay at mine?"

Yeah, all that air? Gone.

The air you just pulled in whooshed out in an exhale that sounded like a rushed huh?. Apparently, his own comment caught him off-guard, his brows shooting up high enough to accentuate the lines on his forehead.

"I-just…," he swallows, cutting himself short. 

You feel how he wants to release your face and smoothen the hand down his face. In the end, he settles for a quick sideways-jerk of his head, accompanied by a smile that is void of humour in contrast to troubled.

"I'm just offering for you to stay at mine so you don't have to take the bus this late." You blink, watching him for a few seconds. Then you suddenly break into a smile, brows cocking.

"And you don't offer to pay for a cab to take me home but invite me to sleep over?" His mouth falls open, face elongating, a pink hue spreading across his cheeks as he averts his eyes.

"Christ, I know how it sounded, but I'm not expecting anything, just…if you want to- feel like-" he cuts himself off with an exasperated noise and a shake of his head. "I should just have offered you that cab ride." 

His brown eyes look from the ground to you, apologetic as bashfulness shines in them. 

You can't help but chuckle at the state he's in. The troubled furrow between his eyebrows. The slight pink still tinging his cheeks. 

What spurs you to respond is when you feel his hand slide from the side of your neck and your hip.

You halt his movement by moving your respective hands to the outer part of his arms, then elbows. With a slight push, you redirect his hands, that's just about to fall alongside his body, to land at your waist.

"I'm taking you up on that offer." Robby visibly relaxes, his hands on your waist settling fully rather than hovering. "Lead the way, if you're not having second thoughts on that cab?"

"Are you?" You shake your head. In return, he nods once, only to motion sideways with his head. "Let's go."

Although Robby's hands fall from your waist after the slight tug to direct you along with him, you walk closer than before, arms brushing, fingers touching every now and then. 

Your pulse is already thrumming, and even though you want to, you don't intertwine your fingers with his. Instead, you settle on slipping your hand around his bicep. Which is still quite daring if you go off how your heart jumps as you take the plunge. 

Whatever hesitation you had is quelled when Robby accommodates instantly, arm bending slightly. You bite your lip, gaze still set forward as your other hand also settles on him at the green light, draping across the crook of his arm, near where his forearm starts. 

You softly squeeze his bicep. He reciprocates with a lightly flexing and bringing it closer to his body, trapping your hand in a gentle press against his ribs. It's nothing and so much at the same time.

[tuffluuhv]

Across The Hall (6) | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Michael Robinavitch x F! Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Summary: After everything Michael has done for you, on what might be the longest, and undeniably the worst shift of his life, you finally get the chance to be there for him.

Word Count: 5818

Warning: Age Gap (Mid 20s/Early 50's), Mentions of death and mass casualty event.

Authors Note: Hello! It's June (happy pride month! Be who you are for your prideeeeee!!!!) and we're back in actionnnnnn. I'm no longer sick thank god. The last two weeks of May were stressful and crazy for me but summer is here!!! Let's get back to our slow burn of will they...won't they... maybe??? Enjoy :) - ryn

You’ve stumbled down the hall, heels dangling from one hand. Girls' night had been long overdue—a rare chance to catch up with your friends despite everyone’s crazy schedules. Now, barefoot and a little tipsy, you padded softly across the cool floor toward your apartment. A quiet giggle escaped your lips—because, honestly, that walk felt way longer than you remembered.

Rummaging through your purse, you tried to focus, but everything inside seemed to blend together into one big jumbled mess. Lip balm, receipts, gum, a pen… no apartment key.

You squinted at the top of your door and stretched your arm up, pawing around for the spare you were pretty sure you’d left there.

Nothing.

“Perfect,” you muttered, leaning heavily against the door before letting yourself sink to the floor. Your back thudded against the wood as you slowly slid down, finally landing flat on the cool tile. Not bad, actually. The chill against your skin felt kind of nice. Your eyes began to flutter, growing heavier with each blink… and before you could muster the energy to sit up and call Jimmy, the apartment manager, to let you in—you were out. Fast asleep in the hallway.

—-

Michael stepped off the elevator, eyes cast down at his shoes. It had been the longest day—undeniably the worst shift, possibly the worst of his life.

Not only was it the anniversary of his mentor, Dr. Montogermy Adamson's passing, but he had watched an elderly man die in front of his sobbing children. He pronounced an 18-year-old brain-dead after a fentanyl overdose. They were unsuccessful in resuscitating a little girl who drowned. And on top of all of that was the mass casualty event at PittFest.

The chaos from that alone kept him past shift change, elbow-deep in blood and trauma, racing against time to save people whose lives were slipping through his fingers.

 His feet ached. His mind buzzed. He was absolutely exhausted, physically, emotionally, mentally. 

But when he looked up, he froze in his tracks.

There was someone lying in front of a door in the hallway.

Not just someone. You.

Sprawled right there on the floor, halfway between your doors.

Adrenaline surged through him all over again as he bolted forward. It had already been a horrific day—but this. This was absolute, the epitome of hell. 

He shrugged off his backpack—it hit the floor with a heavy thud. Dropping to his knees beside you, his heart pounded as he reached out, searching for breath. Relief hit him like a wave when he felt it—shallow, but steady.

Quickly, his hands moved over you, checking for any signs of injury. No blood, no visible trauma—but you weren’t waking up.

“Sweetheart—” he said, his voice tight with panic and urgency.

“Sweetheart… baby, open your eyes for me.”

He gently cradled your head in his hands, brushing hair away from your face with trembling fingers. 

“Come on, sweetheart”

You groan, your face crunching from being disturbed from a deep sleep, but your eyes flutter open to see a panicked Michael. 

“Michael?” you murmured and groaned, voice thick with sleep and something else as you began to stir awake. 

He exhaled hard, the tension in his shoulders starting to drop. That’s when he caught it—the unmistakable scent of alcohol on your breath.

Oh.

He sat back a little, dragging a hand down his face as realization dawned.

“You’re drunk,” he said softly, more to himself than to you.

You squint your eyes at him, adjusting to the light.. “Maybe I was… earlier. I went out with some friends.”

His jaw clenched, relief and exasperation battling it out.

“I thought you were hurt.”

You blinked slowly. “I lost my keys somewhere. My spare wasn’t in its spot. I sat down and I guess I just… fell asleep.” You swallowed hard. “Not sure how long I was out there…”

A heavy silence settled between you.

You slowly sat up, brushing your hair out of your face, still a little groggy. Across from you, Michael stayed seated, his knees pulled up, arms resting on them. His head hung forward, shoulders tense, breathing uneven.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he said quietly, his voice muffled but thick with something you hadn’t heard from him before.

You looked at him, really looked, and the weight of what he must’ve thought, what he must’ve felt in those few panicked moments, settled over you.

You reached out and gently took his face in your hands, guiding him to look at you. His eyes met yours, glassy and tired, but wide open now.

“Hey, I’m okay.” you said softly. “I’m sorry for scaring you.”

His eyes searched yours for a moment, as if double-checking you were really okay. Really here. He held your wrists gently, his thumbs brushing over your skin, your hands still cradling his face.

You felt his jaw relax slightly under your hands, the tension melting, just a little.

“I thought I’d have to call it in,” he said, voice quiet. “The irony of finding you like that… after the night I just had.”

Your thumbs brushed along the line of his cheek. “What happened tonight?”

He swallowed hard, his eyes flickering downward before meeting yours again. Vulnerability wasn’t something he gave easily—not in his line of work, not in his life. He rarely opened up to anyone outside the hospital. Only a few coworkers, like Dana and Jack, had ever seen him close to breaking. But tonight, something cracked. Tonight, Whitaker, one of the med students, had seen him have a panic attack. Even then, he tried to hold it together, tried not to fall apart unless he was completely alone.

“A lot…” he said quietly. “just…”

With a deep sigh, he gently took your hands from his face and lowered himself to the floor, lying flat on his back—mirroring how he’d found you moments before. You watched him for a moment, then quietly shifted, lowering yourself beside him. The hallway floor was cool beneath you, grounding in its simplicity. Shoulder to shoulder, you both stared up at the ceiling.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Michael begins to open up about tonight. 

“Today was the anniversary of my mentor’s passing,” he said quietly. “Five years. So… today was already hard enough as it is.”

He paused, the weight of it all pressing into the silence.

“I watched an elderly man die in front of his sobbing children,” he continued, voice low but controlled. “ I had to pronounce an eighteen-year-old brain-dead after a fentanyl overdose. And we lost a little girl who drowned—six years old.”

He rubbed his eyes, exhaling slowly through his nose

“Was about to head home when they called ‘all hands on deck,’” he said, voice low but steady. “I’ve dealt with mass casualties before, more times than I can count on my fingers. But it never gets easier.”

He paused, eyes still on the ceiling. “We had to triage on the spot, prioritize who needed help first. Every second counts, but you can’t save everyone. That’s the hardest part.”

His eyes flicked to yours for a moment before drifting back to the ceiling. “We lost people tonight. People I should’ve saved.”

His voice barely above a whisper. “I know you didn’t mean to scare me. But when I stepped off the elevator and saw you—still, not moving—I thought…”

He trails off, jaw tightening. “My brain went to the worst place. Just for a second, I thought I’d lost you too. And I—I couldn’t take it. Not after everything. Not after the fucking day I had”

You turned your head to look at him, your heart aching at the cracks showing through his normally composed exterior.

You reach out for his hand. He doesn’t let go. He squeezes it, gently at first, then tighter, like he’s anchoring himself to you. You don’t say anything. You don’t have to. 

“I know you did absolutely everything in your power,” you say softly, your thumb brushing over his knuckles. “Everything you could possibly do to save the people you brought through those doors.”

“And I know that because of your character. You’re selfless. That story you told me—the night you built my shelf, the one about why you became a doctor—I see that little boy in you every single day.”

You glance at him, your heart tightening at the way his jaw clenches.

“You’re someone who steps up. Who takes action. Who does what needs to be done, whether it’s something huge… or something no one else would even notice.”

Your hand tightens around his.

“It’s not just what you do. It’s who you are.”

He swallows hard, and for a moment, his eyes shut like he’s trying to hold it all in—grief, exhaustion, fear not wanting to let it out again.

“I don’t always feel like that guy,” he admits quietly, voice rough. “Sometimes it feels like I’m just… failing. Like no matter what I do, it’s never enough.”

“You can’t save everyone,” you add, softer now. “But that doesn’t mean you failed. You did more than most ever could.”

His jaw flexes again, but he doesn’t argue. He just turns his head slightly, eyes finding yours with something raw and unguarded behind them.

“And me?” you say, squeezing his hand just a little tighter. “You didn’t lose me…I’m okay, I promise” 

The two of you remain there in silence, giving him time to steady his breath and sort through the storm of emotions inside him.

“My spare key… it’s taped to the back left leg of the vending machine,” Michael says, his voice low, almost like he’s testing the words. “If you ever need to come to my place for… something. You know, just in case. I just—thought you should know.”

“Noted”

“I should probably call Aiden… see if I can crash at his place,” you say, sitting up with a tired sigh. “I know Jimmy’s not gonna answer at this hour.” 

Michael gives a half-smile, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Yeah. Jimmy turns his phone off the second it hits nine. Like clockwork.”

You glance at him, and he shrugs.

“Crash at mine,” he says simply, still lying on the floor. “Call Jimmy in the morning.”

“Michael, you’ve had a hard night,” you start gently. “I don’t want to intrude. You probably need space to decompress, and—”

“Stay…please?” he says, cutting you off. “Just call Jimmy in the morning.”

“Okay.” You didn’t protest or argue this time.

With that, you stood up, Michael following a moment later, towering over you. For a moment, you both just stood there, staring at each other like you were caught in a trance.l

You broke it first, bending down to grab your bag and heels from the floor. Michael slung his backpack over one shoulder, the movement quiet, almost careful.

He unlocked the door to his apartment. It was dark inside, quiet. As he stepped through the space, he began flicking on the lamps one by one. Warm light filled the room, casting a soft glow that made the space feel unexpectedly cozy.

It was your first time in his apartment. The layout was identical to yours—just mirrored. Familiar, yet entirely his.

Aiden’s place had always felt sterile—cold, impersonal, like no one really lived there. But Michael’s apartment was the opposite. It was warm. Cozy. It had character.

There were knickknacks on the shelves, books stacked in uneven piles, framed photos here and there, all signs of a life being lived. His touch was everywhere, quiet but unmistakable. Each detail told a story. His story.

“Make yourself at home,” he called out as he disappeared down the hallway.

You set your bag on the coffee table settled onto his couch, sinking into the cushions. A moment later, he returned with a towel and a folded set of clothes.

“Figured you’d want to shower, get comfortable,” he said, offering them to you.

“Thank you,” you said softly, accepting the bundle.

After your shower, you stepped back into the living room, now wearing his oversized T-shirt and a pair of sweats. They smelled like him. You clutched your bundle of folded dirty clothes against your chest, suddenly unsure of where to set them.

You found Michael laying out a pillow and blanket on the couch. He glanced up, then did a double take when he saw you in his clothes. His hands paused mid-motion, eyes lingering for a beat too long. 

“Hey” he said quietly.

“Hi…” you replied, hugging your clothes a little tighter. “Thank you… for letting me shower. And for letting me borrow your clothes.”

His mouth lifted slightly, not quite a smile, but close. “Yeah. Of course.”

You stepped further into the room, placing your bundle of clothes on the coffee table. You moved to settle onto the couch, but before you could, Michael stopped you with a look.

“What are you doing?”

You blinked, confused. “Um… going to crash on your couch?”

He shook his head, standing up straighter. “You’re not sleeping out here. Take my bed.”

“I’m not putting you on the couch,” he said, unwavering. “My mother raised me better than that. My place, my rules. Take the bed.”

“I don’t want to,” you said, quieter now, arms crossed stubbornly. “I’m perfectly fine with-”

Suddenly you let out a shriek as he scoops you up and flings you over his shoulder. 

“Michael! Michael—oh my god, put me down!” you yelped, bracing your hands against his back as he lifted you effortlessly off the ground. You felt like you were about to tumble headfirst, your legs kicking slightly in protest.

He didn’t flinch. Just kept walking toward the hallway, completely unfazed. “You’re taking the bed,” he said, as if you weren’t currently flailing in his arms.

“Michael!”

He carried you into his bedroom and, with infuriating ease, tossed you gently onto the mattress. You bounced once, arms flailing, your hair fanning out across his sheets. He stood at the foot of his bed.

“Was that really necessary?” you asked, glaring up at him as you sit up on your elbows.

“Yes,” he said without missing a beat. “You need to sleep”

“I was fine with sleeping on the couch”

“Too bad, you’re sleeping here. Now, go to sleep,” he said as he made this way towards the door.

You pick up a pillow and hit him square in the back. He picked it up and tossed it back to you, a small, playful smile tugging at his lips before he switched off the light. 

He started to head for the living room.

“Wait—” you blurted, stopping him mid-step. “Are… are you going to be okay?”

Your fingers curled around the edge of the pillow, knuckles white. Something deep in your chest told you he was holding it all in—fighting it, refusing to grieve, refusing to let himself feel the full weight of the day.

He stood there for a moment, his back still to you. Then, without turning around, he said simply, quietly:

“Goodnight.”

___

You couldn’t sleep. Worry gnawed at you—he had opened up earlier, but now he was closed off again. Lying there in his bed, your eyes traced the slow, steady spin of the ceiling fan above. The soft hum of the shower echoed down the hall, steady and soothing. You listened—the faint creaks of the floor, his footsteps moving toward the living room where you knew he was sleeping. Then the TV clicked on, casting a gentle flicker of light and muffled voices into the quiet apartment. Time blurred around you. You didn’t know exactly when you drifted off, but eventually, you did.

You woke to the sound of faint, muffled crying. The room was still dark, and for a moment, you weren’t sure where you were, then you remembered you had slept over at Michael’s.

You climbed out of his bed and made your way quietly through the room and down the hall. As you got closer to the living room, the crying grew louder.

“Michael?” you called softly.

In the shadows of the night, with a faint light peeking through the window, you made out Michael lying on the couch. He shifted restlessly, caught between mumbling and crying.

You move quickly to the couch, crouching down in front of him. 

You placed your hand gently on his shoulder.

“Michael,” you said again, a little louder this time, your voice full of concern.

His eyes stayed closed, his brow furrowed, and the tears kept coming. He muttered something unintelligible, a name maybe, or a plea. Whatever he was seeing in his dreams, it wasn’t letting him go easily.

“Hey, hey…it’s okay. You’re safe,” you whispered, brushing a strand of damp hair from his forehead. Your heart clenched. You’d never seen him like this, so vulnerable, so small in a way.

He jolted suddenly, gasping as his eyes flew open. For a second, he looked right through you, his chest heaving, confusion etched deep into his face. Then his gaze settled, focused.

“It’s me,” you said gently, not moving your hand. “You’re okay. You were just dreaming.”

Michael blinked hard, like he was trying to come back to the surface. He swallowed, his breath still shaky.

“Shit—I’m sorry,” he muttered, wiping at his tears, clearly embarrassed you’d seen him like this.

But you knew exactly what it was. It had finally caught up to him—the stress, the exhaustion, the guilt. His body was finally letting it all go. The trauma of the day bleeding into his sleep.

He closed his eyes for a second, leaning into your touch like, grounding him.

“Shhh, it's okay” you whispered.

After a moment, you asked quietly, “Does this happen often?”

A pause. “Hasn’t happened in a while,” he said, his voice low, almost ashamed.

You didn’t push, just nodded. You stood and reached for his hand. “Come with me,” you said, your tone gentle but sure.

He stared at your outstretched hand for a moment, as if unsure whether he was awake or still somewhere inside the dream. Then slowly, he reached for it. His fingers curled around yours—cool, tense—and you gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

You led him back down the hallway, back to his bed where the sheets were still tangled from your sleep. He stood there for a beat, hesitating at the edge, his shoulders tight.

“I shouldn’t…we shouldn’t. I’ll be fine—I’ll take the couch,” he said, starting to pull away.

You caught his hand before he could. You knew what he was thinking—because you were thinking it too. This felt intimate. Raw. Like standing on the edge of something neither of you had meant to cross.

But none of that mattered right now.

He needed someone. And you weren’t going to let him be alone.

You sat on the edge of the bed and gave his hand a gentle tug. “It’a okay…Come on,” you said, quieter now. “Lie down with me”

Michael crawled in beside you, his movements sluggish, like he was still half-submerged in the dream. You pulled the covers up around both of you and turns to face him.

Michael let out a breath and closed his eyes, but you could tell he was still wide awake. His jaw was clenched, his body coiled like a spring beneath the sheets.

You just reached for him, wrapping your arm around his waist and pulling him closer. His forehead rested against yours, and you felt the tension in his body begin to ease. 

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” You reassure him. 

His breathing slowed, the tremble in his body fading bit by bit. Absentmindedly, you traced soft patterns along his torso with your fingertips—gentle, soothing movements meant only to remind him: you’re not alone.

And eventually, wrapped in quiet and warmth and the comfort of closeness, the two of you drifted off to sleep.

__

Your eyes fluttered open as soft morning light filtered through Michael’s window. The weight of his body pressed gently against you—your back resting against his arm, his other wrapped securely around your waist. As you turned slightly to look at him, he shifted naturally in his sleep, rolling onto his back but keeping his arm beneath your head, still holding you close. His breath was steady, his face peaceful.

For a moment, you simply stayed there, watching him—feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. He had slept through the night beside you, undisturbed, safe.

And you felt it—that flicker of guilt.

For liking this. For wearing his clothes. For letting yourself settle so easily into the comfort of him. For being this close to Michael, in ways that felt more than friendly. You knew this wasn’t right—but it felt right.

Being there, wrapped in his warmth, hearing his steady breathing beside you…

You quietly slipped out of his bed, doing your best not to wake him. He needed the sleep—you didn’t want to take that from him.

Padding into the living room and kitchen area, you grabbed your bag from the coffee table and pulled out your phone. You couldn’t leave just yet—not until you got in touch with Jimmy. He didn’t answer your call, so you shot him a quick text instead saying you were locked out and crashed across the hall. A moment later, he replied: Out running errands. I’ll try to get back as soon as I can.

You let out a quiet sigh. Now all you had to do was wait.

Turning toward the kitchen, you started rummaging through the cabinets until you found the coffee maker. You filled it with water, scooped in the grounds, and set it to brew. The familiar aroma began to fill the space, wrapping around you like a small comfort.

Next, you opened Michael’s fridge to see what he had. The least you could do was make him breakfast—he had stayed the night, after all. He’d probably be hungry, you figured.

You plated the cheese omelet and toast on a simple plate, alongside the freshly brewed coffee, still steaming. Quietly, you carried it back to his room and set it down carefully on his nightstand.

You were about to leave the room when you spotted a polaroid that caught your eye on his cork board above his desk area in the corner of his bedroom half-buried among ticket stubs, scribbled reminders, and fading notes.

Curious, you moved closer to get a better look.

It was a candid shot, taken in what looked like a hospital break room. One doctor sitting in a chair, and three people, a woman and two men, crowded together on a couch, with another doctor sprawled across their laps. Everyone was smiling or caught mid-laugh. And then you realized the doctor stretched out across their laps was Michael.

A young Michael.

You take the tack out and lift the photo, examining it more closely, taking in a version of Michael you’ll never truly know or get to see. Those big, pretty brown eyes. That same cheeky smile. He looked the same, just aged like fine wine—time softening nothing, only adding depth and warmth to his features. 

So this is what a twenty something year old Michael looked like. 

God, you would’ve been completely captivated by him back then, wide-eyed, passionate, still finding his way.

And now, here you are, drawn just as much to the fifty-three-year-old Michael.

Maybe even more.

Because Michael knows himself. He holds every piece of his past and present, the mistakes, the victories, the laughter and the scars.

Suddenly, you heard a fork clinking against a plate. You whipped your head around to see Michael sitting up in bed, holding the plate of food and taking a bite of the cheese omelet you made.

“Morning” he mumbled talking with his mouth full. 

You giggle. “Good Morning”

He grinned “Breakfast in bed? You’re setting the bar pretty high.”

He picked up the toast, taking a bite, chewing slowly. Michael shifted in bed, resting the plate on his lap. “You really didn’t have to do all this,” he said softly, voice still a little rough from sleep.

“I wanted to,” you replied, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“Well, thank you. That’s kind of you." 

“How are you feeling?”

“Alright…not feeling a hundred percent, but enough to survive…”

He seemed to be in a better mood—sleep had softened the weight of everything from the night before. The tension in his shoulders was gone, his eyes a little clearer, the shadows under them not quite as heavy. But you could still see it—the lingering exhaustion in the way he moved, the quietness in his voice.

He picked up the coffee mug, taking a slow sip, then arched a brow at you over the rim.

“Snooping through my stuff?” he asked, teasing, lacing his voice, but there was a glint of curiosity behind it too.

You froze for a second, then glanced at the polaroids in your hands., guilt creeping into your smile. I just… saw the polaroid. The one with you and your co-workers. It was cute.”

You move over to the bed, climbing to sit beside him. He sets the coffee back on the night stand. 

Taking the Polaroid from your hand, it was his turn examining the photo. 

“That was from when I was a med student,” he says.

“Those were some of the residents who worked in the ER back then. Best people around. Sure, we butted heads a lot, but we genuinely cared for one another. I learned a lot from them”

He smiles, lost in memories and fond thoughts of his old mentors.

“Do you keep in touch with these people?”

He continues to eat the omelet, “Not often as I would like, but from time to time.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to snoop, I just like looking at photos…”

“It’s okay, I don’t mind Hell , I got plenty more where this came from. I have a whole tin full of Polaroids–” 

“Can I see them?” You ask. 

“Really?” He pauses, a little surprised.

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “If that’s okay.”

He studies you for a beat, then his expression softens. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.” 

He takes the plate setting it next to the coffee, he crosses the room to a shelf next to his desk, lined with well-worn medical books, scattered knickknacks, and a few dusty records leaning against one another. Nestled between them, he finds a dented tin can and pulls it out. 

“This old thing has survived three apartments. I'm honestly surprised I haven’t lost it.” he says with a chuckle as he climbs back into the bed beside you.

He pops the lid open. Inside, a treasure trove of Polaroids—some curled at the edges, others with fading ink scribble across the bottom.

“Can I?” you say.

He nods, giving quiet permission, leaning back on the headboard as he watches you reach for the stack of Polaroids.

“We used to take a bunch of pictures during downtime or celebrating someone or a holiday in the ER…I haven’t looked at these in a while”

You begin to shuffle through them, careful and slow. Smiles frozen in time. Scrubs. Hospital hallways. Races on a stretcher. Tired eyes and wide grins.

Michael leans in closer, peering over your shoulder. One by one, he begins to name the faces—pointing them out with a soft smile or a quiet laugh.

“That’s Keisha, she once delivered a baby in the parking lot with nothing but gloves and a prayer.”

“That guy there? Sebastsian. We used to time each other running IV lines just to stay awake during night shifts.”

Some photos come with full stories, chaotic, funny, or unexpectedly tender. Others get only a name and a glance, the weight of memory settling in silence.

You nod, listening. It feels like holding Michael’s life in your hands. A version of Michael stitched together in snapshots and stories, long before he ever knew you.

“I like this kind of stuff,” you say softly, your fingers grazing the edge of a photo. “Looking at pictures... It's comforting. Nostalgic. You learn a lot about someone this way.” You pause, offering a small smile. “a picture is worth a thousand words”

You come to one photo of him—sitting on top of a counter, surrounded by files, a chart in hand, smiling at whoever took his photo. “You were cute back then,” you say before you can stop yourself. “I would’ve had the biggest crush on you…”

Your face flushes instantly, the words hanging in the air, too honest to take back.

Michael raises an eyebrow at the comment.

“...hypothetical,” you say, trying to save yourself.

“Yeah?” he says, tilting his head slightly. “And now?”

There’s a teasing note in his voice, but his eyes search yours like he’s genuinely curious, hopeful, even.

You hesitate, just for a beat. “N-now?” you say, giving him a look. Now I’m in trouble, you wanted to say. 

You give him a pointed look, arching a brow. “Now you’re just old” 

He laughs softly, but you’re already turning the photo over, pretending to study the next one like your heart isn’t racing.

He smirked.

“Old, huh? Maybe. But clearly age hasn’t scared you off yet.”

You snort, still pretending to focus on the next photo. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Michael leans a little closer, just enough to make you feel it. “Come on. You just admitted you would've had a crush on me.”

“I—I didn’t say I was into you now,” you shoot back, trying to sound smug, but your voice gives you away—just the slightest hitch.

He hums like he’s weighing that. “Mmhmm. But you’re still sitting here looking through my baby-faced glory days, so...”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, lips twitching. “I was just… making an observation.” You place the polaroids pack into the tin and shove it towards him

Michael chuckles, low and amused. “Right. Just a completely innocent, not-at-all loaded observation.”

He takes the tin and gets up, moving to put it back on the shelf. His movements are casual, but there’s a small smile still playing at the corners of his mouth—like your words are echoing in his head, lingering longer than either of you expected.

You watch him for a moment, your heart still a little too loud in your chest.

You glare at him, but it’s weak at best. “Don’t start.” 

“Hey you’re the one with a crush” 

You feel your cheeks burn even hotter, but you refuse to back down.

“Oh please, it was hypothetical,” you say, trying—and failing—to keep the teasing out of your voice.

Michael’s smirk deepens, and he leans back just a little, clearly enjoying the game.

“Hypothetical, huh? I’ll hold you to that.”

“Don’t get too full of yourself, old man.”

You finally look up at him fully. You’re not sure who moves first, but suddenly the teasing fades into something quieter, something that hums between you.

He holds your gaze, he makes back over to the bed. “I’m just saying… if it wasn’t hypothetical—”

His voice is quieter now, the teasing stripped away, replaced with something real. Something careful.

You tilt your head up to meet his eyes, your breath catching as he stops in front of you.

“What then?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

The two of you locked eyes. For a moment, the room went still. Your breath caught as Michael slowly climbed onto the bed, each movement deliberate, measured. You lowered yourself onto your back, off your elbows, heart hammering.

He hovered over you, one hand braced beside your head, his gaze never leaving yours.

Your pulse jumped. Heat flared beneath your skin. You weren’t sure what was happening—only that everything felt too close, too loud, too much. He looked at you like he was going to kiss you. Like he wanted more.

You swallow hard, frozen beneath the weight of his gaze.

Then—a knock at the door. Sharp. Ill-timed.

You jolt upright, the spell broken. “That’s—uh, that’s probably Jimmy—I texted him earlier,” you blurt, tripping over your words. 

You fly out of the bed, nerves surging through you, tangled with something deeper.

Michael’s heart pounds in his chest, mirroring the chaotic rush inside you. He knows he wasn’t thinking clearly—his feelings for you clouding his judgment, blurring the careful boundaries he’s tried to keep.

Following you into the living room, he watches you quickly gather your clothes, the tight grip on your purse a silent testament to your nerves—nerves he knows all too well, because they’re his too.

He wants to say something—anything—but the words catch in his throat. Instead, he stands there, torn between wanting to reach out and fearing he’s already pushed too far.

You make your way to the door.

“Wait—” He places his hand on the doorframe, gently stopping you from leaving.

“I didn’t mean—” He trails off, struggling to find the right words.

You avoid his eyes, knowing you could fold at any moment if you looked at him.

He takes a small step back, giving you space, but his eyes never leave you. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

But you weren’t. Not even close.

The truth is, you wanted him—more than you were ready to admit. That was what scared you. The pull between you wasn’t the problem. The problem was how real it felt.

You finally meet his gaze, your voice low but certain. “I wasn’t uncomfortable, Michael.”

You finally meet his gaze, your voice quiet but steady.

Something in your tone—maybe the way your eyes softened, maybe the way you said his name—told him the rest. That you didn’t want to talk about what happened back in the bedroom. That it was too much, too soon, too tangled.

He understood. You could see it in the way his expression shifted—still watching you, still wanting, but careful now. Respectful.

So he didn’t push.

“Thank you…for last night. Being there for me in the way you were.” 

“Yeah… of course,” you say. The words are simple.

“Thanks for letting me stay.” you return the thank you.

Michael nods, a quiet understanding in his expression.

He steps forward and opens the door.

Jimmy, the apartment manager, is waiting in the hallway with a key in hand. He gives you a polite nod, a little surprised maybe, but too professional to comment.

“Bye,” you say softly, glancing back at Michael.

“Bye,” he echoes, his voice just as quiet.

You step into the hallway.

“Hey, Jimmy.”

He offers a small smile. “Not like you to get locked out.”

“Yeah,” you say, forcing a light laugh. “One of those nights.”

Jimmy just nods and gestures for you to follow him toward your apartment. No questions, no raised eyebrows.

Behind you, the door to Michael’s apartment closes with a quiet click.

You don’t look back, but the moment lingers anyway.

Tags: @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere@beebeechaos@antisocialfiore@delicatetrashtree@xxxkat3xxx@homebytheharbor@woodxtock@letstryagaintomorrow@livingavilaloca@elkitot@annabellee88@hagarsays@emma8895eb @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing @jazzimac1967@lafemme-nk@kmc1989@whos6claire@harrysgothicbitch@trustme3-13 @qardasngan @silas-aeiou @k3ndallroy @ohmystrawberrycheesecake @ay0nha @404creep @dantemorenatalie @obfuscateyummy@steviebbboi@alliegc28@catmomstyles3@ardentistella@madprincessinabox@circumspectre@the-one-with-the-grey-color@thatchickwiththecamera@violetswritingg @valutfromlune @baileythepenguin @galmorizethechaos @capj-1437 @airgoddess

Across The Hall (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6)

[tuffluuhv]

I Would Do Anything To Hear It. To Hear You.

Post Prision!Spencer Reid x GN Reader

synopsis: Your loving husband comes home a little changed after a wrongful imprisonment. He's still your Spencer but you'll have to find a new way to communicate with him. 2.8k word count.

Tags: Pre-established relationship, slight angst with comfort, Sunshine character finding they're spark again

Warnings: Talk of mental health/state and PTSD, Small discriptions of anxity attacks and night terrors, a few mentions of Spencers time in prision but no event is really talked about, one mention of the leg injure he gave himself in prision, slightly cold Spencer, bad editing (as usual), attempting to be poetic (I had fun okay)

Spencer Reid who’s fallen quiet after coming home from prison.

No longer is your home warm with his smile and loud with his knowledge. Telling you about his day, about a book he just finished, a class he signed up to teach, a joke he told to Jj. It’s quiet. Quiet and frozen with his new habit of staring at the same spot on the wall for hours on end. Quiet as the only light that seems to come from him are the emotions trapped just under the surface of his skin. Only catching glimpses when his eyes dare to meet your own. Quiet with how his footsteps seem to be at the same volume as a mouse. His movements kept fluid and precise as if to faze through the sound barrier to avoid making noise.

Spencer Reid is quiet. A sentence you’d never think would come out of your mouth. Hell, you didn’t even know the words could be in the same sentence together.

Despite the newfound quiet, Spencer Reid is still Spencer Reid. It shows in how he still brings home takeout from whatever restaurant he can find open when he gets back from a case. How even if he flinches at first he still rushes to meet your touch. That despite him having a job that can pull him away for days at a time, the trash cans never seem to become full. How even if he’s only gotten 4 hours of sleep, he still gets up with enough time to unload the dishwasher before he goes to work. No matter how many times you’ve told him not to worry about it. That when you're standing at the front door, patting yourself down and looking in your bag trying to find what you’ve managed to forget. He appears with a gentle kiss and a helping hand. Silently handing you whatever you’ve forgotten.

Spencer Reid may no longer be loud with his words but his actions are just as meaningful as they were before. Every once of love that left with him came home tenfold. His voice once as common as the sound of a ticking clock, now only heard in the creeks of the floor boards. Deep and gravely from under usage, yet still irrevocably holding a softness that was uniquely his.

His friends are worried, wishing that he would just open up to them so they could help more. His mother blames herself, believing that he’d fallen quiet due to a scolding she must have given him but couldn’t remember. Her letter’s right after he visits her in person always holding some form of apology. Praising him and all that he’s done in hopes of seeing her smiley boy once more.

They all turn to you. As if you hold some secret answer or can read his mind. As if you're also not begging him to tell you what's going on. Watching him become rushed with emotions he could no longer control and lashing out. Finding him sat up in bed or even just completely missing, having gone to sit in the living room after a night terror. Like you weren’t just as lost or desperate when it came to the new Spencer Reid.

It’s coming home from work one day that changes how you handle the situation.

Sat on the subway as you turn to see a mother scolding her child in ASL. The boy reluctantly watched his mother’s flickering hands. The only reason you know they’re arguing is the firm and slightly irritated look on the mother’s face, and the huff the boy lets out before sighing his own fiery message back to her.

Communicating in a silent language in a place that was usually highlighted by its noise.

Huh.

Well, they do say if you can’t beat em, join em.

So you start finding ways to communicate your love and support for him. Starting with an ‘out with the old, in with the new’ strategy. You want him to have a comfortable and easy life, so you start replacing his worn-down items. A new lunchbox after having sewn the same strap on his old one at least once a year for the past 3 years. Spencer having said, he didn’t want to replace it because it kept his food at the perfect temperature. So you hunt down the brand and manage to find the exact same one, that surprisingly the company is still making.

You don’t make a whole show of it either. Simply waiting for him to go into the shower before taking and swapping out the two lunchboxes. Silently putting the old one into the closet in case he responded negatively.

Spencer doesn’t realize until he’s eating lunch at work the next day. Pulling out the leftovers he’d packed the night before, only to find that the barbecue sauce stain he’s never managed to get out of the inner lining is gone. For a few seconds, he panics. Thinking he’d somehow managed to grab somebody else’s lunch and just not realized. But these were definitely the containers he’d packed the night before, and when checking the washing instructions tag his name was still written neatly over the instructions. Though upon closer inspection, that’s not his handwriting.

Your chopping veggies for a salad, craving something a little lighter for dinner when you hear the door clicking open and then snapping shut. His shoes make a soft padding sound as he toes them off. Barely processing his footsteps before he stood right next to you. Crowding your personal space slightly as his hand comes out resting on yours that's holding the knife so that you let go of it. The knife now laid flat on the cutting board as you turn and look up at him.

His face is serious but not necessarily angry, “Did you change out my lunchbox?”

“Oh um… yeah.” You shrug slightly, moving your hand out from under his so you can throw the cut cucumbers into the bowl. “Yours was getting pretty old and my stitching on the handle doesn’t seem to be holding very well anymore. It’s the same brand and model, just newer”

His expression is hard, brows pulled together slightly as he thinks it over.

“In hindsight, I probably should have told you before swapping it out. I just thought it’d be a nice surprise” You look at him once again, expression soft with a small smile. “I still have your old one if you’d prefer it back”

His gaze snaps to yours. Locked on for a few seconds as he thinks before flickering away. He leans in planting a gentle kiss to your lips.

“Thank you Angle” And just as quickly as he came, he silently puttered away.

The next jester was to start having time as a couple again. You still see him often, obviously because you live together but ‘date night’ hasn’t been a thing for nearly a year. So the next time Spencer gets a few days of rest after a case, you put an event in your shared calendar called ‘couple time’. Spencer blinked a few times when he saw the calendar notification but decided not to question it. Simply ensuring he was dressed and ready when the time came.

Couple time was now a time for the two of you to just be in the same space as each other. A deliberate effort to share time and space with one another. It was always an easy and fun activity. Going to a new art exhibit and silently standing next to each other as you looked over the art. Bring him to a bookstore both of you liked where all you said to him was, “I’m going to look for a book I think you’ll like and you’ll do the same for me” and both of you set off to do just that. A butterfly garden that had adult-only hours in the evening, where you two would just sit and watch the colorful insects flutter about. The only words spoken were when you would point at one you thought was especially pretty and he would respond with the name of that specific butterfly.

The butterfly garden would lead to a new strategy to connect with him.

Starting a murder mystery podcast that you now play when you fold laundry together. Giving Spencer a chance to shake his head and complain about a narrative inconsistency or that “forensic science doesn’t work that way”. Both of you knew who the killer was by episode 8 but still followed through with all 22 episodes.

Eating dinner on the couch together you begin to pick out a really bad sci-fi show to watch. Spencer, getting halfway through the first episode before muttering out a small, “This is awful” followed by you pausing the show and asking “How so”. So now whenever you're watching the show if anything ever happens that you don’t understand or at least act like you don’t understand, you pause the show and turn to him. He follows with a detailed explanation, said in a way you’d understand.

While it’s not the mindless babbling he used to do, it’s the closest you’ve gotten to seeing Spencer behind the emotional walls he’d put around himself. The stress and anxiety fall away from his expression as his passion for knowledge and the sciences reignites, even if it’s just for a few seconds.

The change in communication seems to be having its desired effect as well. Penelope and Jj don’t text you half as often as they used to with worries about him. The last time you went with Spencer to visit his mom, she said he was looking better. That her baby was finally getting some rest.

While he may not be getting more sleep, its quality has improved since you’ve started operation ‘comfort after nightmares’. Normally if you try to approach him after he’s woken up from a nightmare he just waves you off, sending you back to bed. So upset that even trying to touch him he’d cower slightly. It hurt seeing him so distressed.  

So after your revelation on the train, the next time you wake to him slipping out of the room after jolting awake. You follow. He’s sat on the couch, clutching his sleep shirt over his heart. Trying desperately to calm his breathing while also being quiet.

You wander around the apartment briefly. Pulling on more presentable sleepwear and grabbing shoes and socks for the both of you. Putting his shoes next to him with a pair of socks on top, before taking a seat to put on your own shoes. Spencer looks confused, almost hurt at first as he thought you were silently throwing him out, but seeing you put your own shoes on dismisses the fear.

Still confused but too scatter-minded to try and question what's going on, he pulls on his shoes as well. Both of you standing, garbing a pair of keys to get back into the apartment later and slip out into the cool night air. Spencer follows a pace behind as you lead him on a small walk. Going round the block once and when he’s still a little shaky, you head towards the park.

Spencer can still feel the restlessness in his body. His mind is jumbled from the fear as memory after memory is shoved to the front of his mind's eye clouding his judgment and perception. But the sudden walk you’ve pulled him on is slowly helping. Offering an outlet for the anxiety running up and down his spine. Sitting down on a bench you’ve chosen as his breathing is steadying out, the adrenaline slowing puttering off now.

Looking up he can make out a few constellations despite the light pollution fogging the sky slightly. Though as twilight begins to tease the sky the stars are slowly getting harder to make out. The small part of the horizon he can see leaving waves of a plum purple as the faintest rays of the sun begin to tease the sky. It must be around 4 am.

“You don’t need to be scared alone Spencer” Your voice finally breaks the quiet hum of crickets ticking in the night. His gaze met yours briefly before flickering back to his lap. “I’ll gladly be scared with you” Giving him a small nod with a knowing smile.

A moment of reassurance that he’d denied you until now. That he wasn’t willing to accept for himself until now. Slowly his hand comes out, lacing into yours as another piece of the jigsaw puzzle that is Spencer Reid finds its home with you once again.

It a few months into your new language that the foundations that kept his walls of fear up, finally begin to crumble.

The team and their spouses are all partying at Rossie’s for Emily’s birthday, but a recent recurring night terror is leaving Spencer’s already limited social batteries lower than usual. Sat out on the porch rubbing a hand over his face as the rest of the team bicker and laugh with each other. Everyone takes turns to tell their favorite story involving the birthday girl. The surround sound system littered through Rossie’s home playing smooth music that was easy to talk over but would fill the void in any conversation gaps.

The noise around him adding to his already congested mind. Everything was so damn loud.

Abandoning your drink on a small table in the doorway, your shoes make a soft tapping against the wood of the deck. Looking down at him as you approach the steps he’s sat on.

“You all partied out Spence?”

He only gives you a small grunt in return. Not being able to wound his pride enough to admit that he couldn’t be as sociable as he used to be. The scar on his leg aches with a faint pulse as memories create a disconnect from the present.

With a small smile, you make your way down into the grass of the backyard. Turning and holding your hands out to him.

Slowly with a bit of hesitation, he slips his hand into yours. Following your lead as you gently guide him down to the lawn with you. Getting a few paces away from the steps but still close enough to hear the music. Guiding one of his hands to your waist and letting that hand slide up to his shoulder. Your still connected hands now extended out to the side slightly.

Only having to take one step to the side, before he picks up on what's going on. A smile breaking through the slight pout his grumpiness had left on his face. Taking the lead as he guides the two of you through the steps of a foxtrot. Stepping to and fro with each other as you go in a small oval. Breaking apart briefly to spin you before falling back into step with each other. His own chuckle slips out as you giggle.

His boyish smile is now glued onto his features as your eyes lock together. Moving silently and with purpose as your dance slows with the music. His hand on your waist guiding you closer as the two of you fall into a soft sway. Faces inches apart as his gaze flickers over your face. Despite his identic memory he never seemed to get the image of you in his head perfect. The real deal was always better.

“I-” His voice died, actually hearing himself seemed to shake him from the small daze he’d been in. That slightly love-sick look being replaced by an awkward fear.

“Please don’t do that” You whisper looking up at him. Grateful that with your current position, he couldn’t look away easily. “I hate when you hide from me… Spencer Reid, I live every day of my life trying to find ways to hear your voice again, and again, and again." You let out a small sad laugh, "Nothing compares to it. I can't replicate it, I can't substitute it. It's my favorite sound..." The confession leads to a light burning behind your eyes.

“Please don’t keep it from me. I would do anything to hear it. To hear you.”

The emotional dam seemed to crack and break away, as tears well up in his eyes as well. Closing the distance between you as his forehead comes to rest against yours. His breathing grew shaky but he still kept the soft sway of your body's going. The tears bubble over quickly as he blinks his eyes open to look down at you.

“I love you” His slightly frogged voice whispers out.

“I know” you smile tilting your head up so that you’re nose rubs against his, “I love you more”

“Not possible”

“I guess you’ll just have to prove me wrong”

"With pleasure... I'm well versed in this topic"

.

.

.

I've been sitting on this for a while! I wrote it when I first got back into writing about 2 months ago so it definitely still feels a little rusty, but I had so much fun writing it!

I know in fandom there's a pattern in taking really emotionally damaged characters (though most of the time they are men or at least masc presenting) and shifting their characterization into hyper-dominant and cold but with a sensitive side after whatever trauma they go through. Which is definitely a way a person can change (especially after trauma) but I feel like the knob is sometimes turned up to 11 with Spencer. So this fic was really inspired by the idea of still letting his character become colder, but in what I hope to be a little bit closer to canon.

(p.s. There's nothing wrong with whatever version of Spencer you write. It's fanfiction we're all doing this to create our own fun. I read a lot of Spencer Reid and Simon "Ghost" Reily fics so I've seen a whole range of how characters like this can be written. I just get whiplash between fics sometimes and this was trying to cure that lol)

The banner was made by me! The pictures are from pintrest. The divider is from here!

Thank you for reading <3

[tuffluuhv]

For the game

Can I get Spencer, in a preschool playroom, with ²⁸⁾ “neither of us are leaving this room until you tell me how you got that shiner.”

Maybe reader is a preschool teacher and Spencer comes in on his day off.

Please and thank you. Also I love your stories so much!

you sure can! thanks for playing <3

Spencer Reid x gn!reader who has a black eye [1k words]

CW: no gender markers used for reader, discussion of a black eye, fluff

Spencer’s not in the practice of using his credentials to get what he wants, but the staff at the office of your school hardly bat an eye when he introduces himself as Special Agent Doctor Spencer Reid, wondering if they could point him in the direction of you. 

He thinks you might be friendly with the receptionist who lights up in recognition at Spencer’s name before dutifully instructing him towards your classroom. That’s probably for the best; it likely isn’t a good look on your part to have the FBI showing up at your workplace to speak with you. 

But it wasn’t the FBI showing up at the workplace to speak with you, it was just Spencer. And Spencer wasn’t in the practice of using his credentials to get what he wants, but he needs to see you; an achingly unfamiliar feeling for the agent but somehow it feels like a fundamentally natural response to a lack of you. 

The day is mostly done; most kids having been seen off on the bus and the remaining few petering out with their parents. Spencer smiles at all of them. 

But the sight of you has his smile falling from his face in an instant. 

“What happened?” He coos emphatically, nearly tripping over the tiny, miniature furniture built for tiny, miniature people. 

“Spencer!” You greet him, mouth open in silent surprise, the mottled skin surrounding your eye completely forgotten at the sight of him.

Luckily, Spencer doesn’t forget so easily. Or at all. 

“What happened to you?”

“What are you doing here?”

Spencer has the grace to chuckle at the two of you speaking over each other, his hands finally rising to take the sides of your face and tilt your head up to inspect it. 

You smile at him like it doesn’t hurt to do so, but Spencer’s sported enough shiners of his own to know that it does. 

“I leave for nine days and come back to find you bruised?” He pouts, thumbs gently brushing the space beneath your lower lashes – touch barely there – as your eyes flutter shut. 

“In fairness to you,” you begin with a chuckle, “this only happened today.”

“While you were at work?” 

Your eyes open then, smile growing even as your brows furrow in bemusement. “What? You leave work beaten and bruised, too. Not to mention the times you’ve been shot or-”

“Okay, alright.” He cuts you off gently, subconsciously worried that a tot might hear the word shot or stabbed. “Well, I tend to work with some of the most dangerous people in the country. You work with preschool children.”

“Hey,” you chide playfully, “you know as well as I do what the stats suggest; any number of these kids could grow up to be on the FBI’s most wanted list.” 

You’re not technically wrong but that’s not the point. Ignoring the area’s demographics, the role that early childhood education plays in the development of healthy behavior patterns, and how it leads to conforming to social norms, Spencer is of the mind that any child who is lucky enough to have had your influence in their life – however brief – can’t possibly grow up to be anything less than lovely. 

He doesn’t say any of that, though, narrowing his eyes in an attempt to level you with his best impression of one of Hotch’s glares; the way you beam at him has him knowing he’s fallen painfully short. 

“Neither of us are leaving this room until you tell me how you got that shiner.”

Your lips purse like you’re trying to be annoyed with him but just can’t manage it; your nose scrunching and hinting at a bit of embarrassment.

“You’re going to laugh at me.” 

“I’d never.” He says with a chuckle; you narrow your eyes at him. “I promise. What happened?” 

“Well…” you start carefully, taking a minuscule step out of Spencer’s grasp as you look anywhere but at him. “We were working on some gross motor skills.”

Spencer hums in agreement. 

“And some hand-eye coordination.”

“Oh jeez.” He whispers; you wince. 

“So I pulled out our little t-ball set.”

“You didn’t.” 

“I did.” You groan; morose. Your forehead tips down until it rests against Spencer’s collarbone. He welcomes you into his arms. “Most of them couldn’t figure it out, you know? I mean, some of them just kept swinging.”

Spencer winces, this time for himself; he does know, intimately. 

A laugh bubbles out of you. “I mean, one of them I had to keep telling to keep their eye on the ball, and they stepped up to the tee and actually touched their eye to the ball!”

“Hilarious and adorable, but I am struggling to see how that translates to you sporting a black eye.”

Spencer can actually feel you cringe against his chest. 

“Turns out, one of the kids has been practicing all summer with her dad. She, well, she’s got a really good swing on her.” 

“Oh, love.” Spencer pouts as he pulls you away from his chest to examine your face again. 

Yeah, just as he expected; still lovely albeit bruised.

“I feel ridiculous.” You admit with a laugh. “I mean, it was just one of those little plastic balls. Who knew they could cause so much damage?”

Spencer hums noncommittally. “The eye socket is fragile and the tissue surrounding it is very delicate with blood vessels very close to the surface. Even a relatively minor impact to the face can cause trauma to the area. It’s called a periorbital hematoma; it's caused by bleeding beneath the skin due to broken blood vessels.” 

His eyes leave yours only to flit down to your lips; you’re smiling at him. Beaming, really.

“What?” 

“I feel better now.” You murmur happily, leaning further into him so that your lips graze his chin as you speak.

He smirks, ducking his chin so that your lips are level with one another before pressing a chaste kiss to your lips.

“Well I’ll feel better once I get you home with a cold compress and furniture built for adults.”

You sigh happily and grab your work bag. “Well? Lead the way, Doctor Reid.” 

You don’t have to tell him twice.

© ellecdc; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[tuffluuhv]

Au Revoir | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader Summary: Going to prison changes relationships, but you were determined to withstand it until Spencer broke up with you in a letter. His return changes things. Themes & Warnings: Prison!Reid, i am addicted to writing angst with happy ending

You were happy. You were so, so incredibly happy.

You met Spencer at the university where you taught forensic psychology. He was consulting on a case involving a former student, and his presence was magnetic. His voice -- soft, precise, laced with more knowledge than most tenured professors -- filled the lecture hall with calm authority. He quoted studies off the top of his head, spoke of human behavior like it was poetry, and didn’t so much walk as glide through conversation.

You’d never met anyone smarter. Honestly, you doubted anyone smarter existed. His genius IQ, his eidetic memory, and his multiple phD's made it evident.

He was awkward and sweet and a little too fast with his facts, but he never talked down to you. In fact, he always looked awed by you -- by your wit, your lectures, your stubbornness. He remembered your favorite tea after one conversation and quoted your syllabus back to you a week later.

It didn’t take long to fall for him. It was easy.

Within months, you practically lived at Spencer’s apartment. You had a routine, a quiet rhythm that made the chaos of the outside world feel far away. He came home from work, jacket half-shrugged off, his tie loosened. And you’d be there waiting. You always sat and talked first. Not because you had to. Because he needed to. His head was always full -- of cases, of trauma, of things he didn’t know how to say -- and you were the only person who ever made it all quiet enough to sort through.

While he showered, you made dinner. Simple meals he always claimed were better than anything in Quantico. You'd plate it for him just the way he liked -- never too much, everything not touching. You knew his quirks. You loved his quirks.

Afterward, you'd curl up on the couch, some old noir or classic foreign film playing, and he’d play with your hair absentmindedly while reciting the film’s trivia under his breath.

Then, you'd crawl into bed. Sometimes you'd talk until 2am, whispering nonsense between kisses and laughter. Sometimes you'd fall asleep immediately, tangled in each other, warm and safe and whole.

It didn't matter if he was on the brink of sleep or wide awake. Before you drifted off, Spencer always said, "I love you, darling." Never failed. Like clockwork.

You went to bed happy. Giggling. Overjoyed at yet another day of loving each other.

Sometimes, it was hard. Sometimes, Spencer was gone for a long time. And now, he'd been gone a while. But you stayed at his apartment, keeping it clean and tidy and warm with your presence for when he came back. He needed your presence right now. His mother was getting sicker by the day, cases were getting more brutal, and the only thing that made it better was that you were always there waiting for him.

You didn’t believe it at first.

The call came early in the morning -- a colleague, hushed and panicked, asking if you’d seen the news. You turned on the TV, bleary-eyed, your heart already tightening with dread before you even found the right channel.

Dr. Spencer Reid. FBI profiler. Arrested for drug possession and murder in Mexico.

You stared at the screen like it was playing a joke. Like any moment, Spencer himself would walk through the door, rambling about how the media misrepresents facts and how probability makes false accusations more likely in cross-border cases.

But he didn’t come home.

And it wasn’t a joke.

Spencer had been arrested in Mexico, alone, without authorization, without backup, trying to obtain medication for his mother. It didn’t matter that it was compassionate. It didn’t matter that it was Spencer. He was caught with narcotics and implicated in the death of a doctor who had tried to help him. A setup. Clearly. But it didn’t stop the trial. It didn’t stop the sentence.

And it didn’t stop him from being sent to prison.

The man who recited Baudelaire in the kitchen and alphabetized your spice rack for fun was now behind bars -- bruised, cornered, alone. The letters started coming then, short at first. Then longer. Then emotional. You read each one a hundred times, your fingers brushing over the creases like you could smooth away his pain.

You cried for him. His friends and colleagues comforted you. Penelope had been by with one too many casseroles and cupcakes decorated in pink glitter. JJ tried getting you out of the apartment, even just to sit on a park bench and talk in the fresh air.

Finally, you were taken by David Rossi to visit him. They said you wouldn't want to see him. Said he looked rough. But you never stopped asking until they gave in.

You remembered every step through that prison like a dream you couldn't wake from. The clink of doors. The sterile, suffocating scent of bleach and old paper. The fluorescent lights that made everything feel too sharp.

Rossi kept a steady hand on your back, guiding you gently. He didn’t say much. Just, “Brace yourself.”

And you did. Until the moment Spencer walked in.

He looked nothing like the man you knew. His curls were wild, uneven, untamed. There was a cut on his cheek, a bruise blooming beneath one eye. His frame -- already lean -- seemed thinner. Clothes hung awkwardly on his bones. But it was his eyes that gutted you. Still the brown eyes you loved. But cold. Wounded.

They didn't light up when he saw you, like usual. But they did soften.

They softened until he got angry.

A fiery glare was directed at Rossi, one you'd never seen Spencer wield.

“I told you not to bring her here,” Spencer snapped, his voice low and ragged but edged in fury. “It's not safe for her here, these men are like animals, and I didn't want her to--”

Rossi didn’t flinch. “She asked. Repeatedly. You think I enjoy watching the two of you suffer?”

Spencer shoved back from the table slightly, the chair legs scraping loudly against the concrete. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn't have listened. I needed her to be safe, away from this. Away from me.”

You stepped forward before Rossi could respond, your voice softer than either of theirs -- but stronger, too. “You don’t get to make that choice for me, Spencer.”

His gaze snapped to you. Raw. Defensive. Cracked open. You glanced at Rossi, a look that told him it was finally okay to step out.

Spencer’s jaw tensed as he looked at you. “You don’t understand,” he said, voice low and gravelly. “You shouldn’t be here. You don’t want to be here.”

You moved closer anyway, heart aching. “I do. And I am. And I’m not leaving.”

His mouth opened like he wanted to argue -- like he had a hundred reasons why you should walk away and never look back, but nothing came out. His eyes dropped to the table between you, his hands curled into fists.

“You don’t know what this place does to people,” he finally whispered. “I'm not the same.”

You sat across from him, hands folding in front of you. “Then let me get to know this version of you, too. All of them. I’m not here because I want the perfect version of you, Spencer. I’m here because I love you.”

His breath hitched.

“You think I haven’t imagined this?” you asked. “What it would look like? Seeing you like this? I have. And it still doesn’t scare me off.”

Spencer’s eyes were red-rimmed now, and his voice cracked when he finally said, “I don’t deserve you.”

You exhaled, eyes softening at the tears developing in his.

“Spence..”

You thought the visit had gone well. You thought he was finally letting you in.

He'd squeezed your hands in his before you left, his eyelids squeezed shut as a tear dropped from his eye. Like he'd forgotten what it felt like to touch you. To talk to you and have you close to him.

When you went home, a few days passed before you received a letter from Spencer. You opened it eagerly, expecting to see how he'd changed his mind and he was happy you came. How he'd missed you and wanted to see you again. How he "loved you, darling," as he'd said to you for years.

But that wasn’t what the letter said. Not even close.

I need you to understand something very clearly: I’m not the man you think I am anymore. This place changes people and not for the better. I don’t want you anywhere near it, or me. You deserve better than the husk I’ve become. What we had was a mistake, a foolish hope in a situation that’s already lost. Holding on to me will only drag you down into a life of misery and pain. You’re stronger than that, and you don’t need me poisoning your future. Don’t come looking for me. Don’t send letters. Don’t wait. Forget me, because I’m gone. The man you loved died the day I walked through those gates. This is the last time you’ll hear from me. -- Spencer

You read it once. Then again. And again.

Each word like a hammer blow to your ribs.

Tears blurred your vision, and your fingers curled around the paper, threatening to crush it -- but you didn’t. You couldn’t. It was still his.

This wasn’t a breakup. It was a severing. A mercy killing of the most sacred thing you’d ever had.

He hadn’t signed it love, Spencer. Just Spencer.

And that alone shattered you.

You let the letter fall from your trembling hands, your knees buckling beneath you. The world blurred as tears spilled freely, raw and endless. Your chest heaved with sobs that clawed at your throat until your voice was stripped away, until your body convulsed with silent agony.

You curled in on yourself, the sharp sting of heartbreak twisting deep inside, and when your body could take no more, your pain spilled over, leaving you empty and broken on the cold floor.

You went through phases.

Awful depression was the first. All you did was sleep -- sometimes sleeping days away without eating. You'd lost a considerable amount of weight, but the sleep didn't help. All you did was dream of Spencer.

Your friends were concerned. Your mom was concerned. She began staying over at your apartment, forcing meals down your throat and waking you up every morning. She even held you while you cried, wiping your eyes and the snot from your face.

Next, you were angry.

Not just irritated -- furious. Blindingly, bitterly angry. At Spencer, at yourself, at the system that swallowed him whole and spit him back out as someone you barely recognized. You smashed a coffee mug when you re-read the letter. You ripped one of his old shirts out of the laundry basket and tore it in half with shaking hands. The quiet, aching grief hardened into something sharper, something that boiled behind your ribs like acid.

How dare he? How dare he shut you out, cut you off like you were nothing? Like what you had meant less than the pain of keeping you?

You’d stood by him. You’d waited. You’d believed in him when the world didn’t.

And he still left you bleeding with nothing but a letter. Just Spencer.

You didn’t cry that week. You paced. You snapped at people. You dug your nails into your palms just to feel something other than the sting of abandonment. Anger, at least, gave you control -- and control was the only thing you had left.

The anger stayed with you, burying the anguish. Until Spencer got out.

You saw it on the news first -- a quiet headline, a fleeting mention: Dr. Spencer Reid released after wrongful imprisonment. No fanfare. No apologies. Just a footnote in a week of chaos.

You stared at the screen, heart pounding, coffee forgotten in your hand.

He was free.

And he didn’t tell you.

Of course he didn’t.

That night, your rage came back in full force, but it was quieter now. Sharper. More refined. It didn’t explode -- it simmered. You cleaned your apartment top to bottom, tossing the last remnants of him into a trash bag. That scarf he always wore when you visited bookstores. The annotated copy of Lolita he left on your nightstand. A pair of mismatched socks. The tea he used to brew just right.

You didn’t cry. Not this time.

You just whispered to the empty room, “Don’t come back.”

And he didn't.

For weeks, you didn't see him. You didn't hear his name when you went shopping with Penelope, as if she knew you wouldn't want to. It was like your life before this evaporated into smoke. No mention, no sign of Spencer at all.

A month later, it was Luke's birthday. There was a party for him coming up, a little get together at his house. He begged you to come, and Penelope, and JJ, and Prentiss, until you finally caved. You could do it, right? You could withstand it, whether Spencer was there or not. You didn't care. It was in the past.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was just a gathering. Just old friends. That you’d walk in, make polite conversation, maybe even laugh once or twice. You’d wear something nice, something that made you feel like you — not like the hollow ghost you’d been when Spencer vanished from your life.

Luke greeted you with a hug that lasted a beat too long, like he was bracing you. JJ’s smile faltered for just a second before she pulled you into her arms. Penelope beamed at you, glittery and brave, but her eyes scanned the room anxiously -- almost like she was trying to prepare you for something she couldn't say out loud.

"I'm so glad you're here." Luke smiled, trying to disarm the tension. "Wouldn't be a birthday without you."

“Yeah, well. I owed you a drink and an awkward hug, so here I am.”

Luke laughed softly, squeezing your shoulder. “You’re stronger than you think, you know.”

You rolled your eyes, giving him the first genuine grin you'd had in months.

"Don't bullshit me."

It was almost familiar. Almost comfortable and warm. A party with old friends who loved you.

And then you saw him.

Spencer.

Standing in the kitchen, hair trimmed now but still wild, wearing a soft gray sweater you hadn’t seen before. He was thinner still, but no longer fragile. He was composed. Collected. Familiar in all the worst ways.

And when his eyes met yours, they didn’t just soften -- they broke.

He looked like he’d stopped breathing. Like seeing you had hit him harder than any prison wall ever had.

You stood frozen in the doorway, one hand curled tightly around the strap of your purse.

You hadn’t prepared for this. Not for the way your stomach twisted. Not for the way your heart stuttered at the sight of him. Not for the way every inch of you remembered -- vividly -- how it felt to be loved by him. And left by him.

You blinked once. Slowly.

Then, you turned away and headed straight for the liquor table.

Prentiss followed.

Shakily, you poured yourself a glass of whiskey, lifting it to your lips in a hurry. You hoped the liquor burning down your throat would arm you, hardening around you like a shell and making you impossible to break.

Prentiss didn’t say anything at first. Just stood beside you, watching you pour and drink like it was survival -- like this party was a battlefield and the whiskey was armor.

“You okay?” she finally asked, voice low.

You gave a humorless smile. “Peachy.”

Prentiss leaned a hip against the table. “You don’t have to talk to him.”

“I know.” You stared down into your glass.

“Ease into being around him. There's no rush.”

You nodded slowly, swallowing the next sip with a wince. “Yeah..”

Prentiss was quiet for a moment. Then, “Do you want me to stick around? Watch your six?”

You smirked faintly, heart pounding. “I think I can handle one skinny genius.”

She gave a soft snort. “Alright. But if you need backup…”

“I know,” you said, finally meeting her eyes. “Thanks, Emily.”

She squeezed your arm gently, then stepped away, giving you space.

You drank there silently for a while. It wasn't helping like you thought it would.

The burn in your throat faded too fast. The warmth in your chest settled into nothingness. You were still too aware of the room -- the quiet laughter, the conversation, the way people kept glancing toward the hallway like they were tracking someone.

Like they were tracking him.

You gripped the edge of the table until your knuckles ached, breathing slow through your nose. It wasn’t working. The whiskey wasn’t a shield. It wasn’t dulling the pain or the memory of his letter. Just Spencer. The cruelty of it. The cowardice.

And yet… you still felt him. Like gravity. Pulling at you even across the room.

You turned your head just slightly, and that’s when you saw him.

He was standing half-hidden near the archway to the kitchen, hands in his pockets, looking smaller than you remembered. His eyes were already on you. Not moving. Not blinking.

Like he’d been watching the entire time.

You almost looked away.

Almost.

But you didn’t.

You needed some air. You quickly walked towards the door, muttering apologies and promising to come back, before you reached the front porch. You sat on the porch chair, threading your hands through your hair and inhaling deeply.

You thought you could do this. Hell, you even thought it would be easy. But you just couldn't.

The dreaded tears came to your eyes before you noticed them, dripping down. You sniffled, looking up at the stars.

The stars blurred above you, gentle pinpricks of light in a sky that didn’t care how much your chest ached. You wiped at your face roughly, as if that could erase the entire last year: the prison, the silence, the letter. Him.

You’d told yourself you were over it. Over him.

But here you were, falling apart on someone else’s porch like the wound had never closed. Maybe it never had. Maybe it never would.

The screen door creaked behind you.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t have to.

You knew it was him.

There was a long pause. Then footsteps, soft and hesitant, and the subtle rustle of fabric as Spencer slowly sat on the step beside your chair, not too close, not touching. Just there.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The silence wasn’t comfortable. It was sharp, cutting, full of all the things that should have been said months ago.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said finally, his voice low, almost broken.

You laughed bitterly through your tears. “I shouldn't have.”

Another silence.

“I'm glad you did. I didn't even know if I'd talk to you.. I just wanted to look at you again.”

Spencer’s voice cracked on the last word, and when you glanced sideways at him, his profile was haloed in porchlight. Soft, tired, and somehow still beautiful in the way that only he ever was to you. His hands were folded tightly in his lap like he was afraid they’d shake if he let them move.

“I used to dream about this,” he admitted quietly. “Just… being near you again. Seeing your face. Hearing your voice.”

Another wave of tears washed over you. You just listened to his voice. Part of you hated him. Part of you missed his voice.

“I counted the minutes I was in there. One-hundred and thirty-nine thousand and six-hundred eighty minutes," He continued, looking across the lawn at the cars that occasionally passed on the street. “With every minute that passed, it got more probable that I wouldn't leave. After all, the statistics for false imprisonment are..”

He stopped himself with a tight, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Sorry. I’m doing it again -- hiding behind numbers.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Your throat was too tight with grief and memory and the ache of loving someone who had broken you in the name of protection.

Spencer glanced over at you, his expression open and fragile. “But I did count the minutes. I counted them because I was scared that you'd waste a good life waiting for me.”

“It wasn't your choice.” You hissed quietly, refusing to look at him. “But you made it your choice with that damn letter. Cruel.”

Spencer didn’t respond right away. You could feel him flinch beside you, like your words had physically hit him, maybe harder than anything he’d taken inside those prison walls.

“I know,” he said eventually, the words barely more than breath. “I read it back a thousand times after I sent it. And every time, I thought: I hope she hates me enough to forget me. I kept a copy. To remind myself not to reach out. Not to pull you back to me.”

You laughed, bitter and wet. “I didn’t. I couldn’t. I hated you, but I couldn’t forget you. You don’t just forget the person you built a life around, Spencer.”

Finally, you looked at him. He was already staring at you, devastated, like he was watching something crumble that he could never put back together.

“I wrote that letter like I was dying,” he admitted. “Because I thought I was. Not physically. Just… everything that made me who I was, it was getting chipped away. I thought if I died to you then, at least I wouldn’t take you down with me.”

“It wasn't fair. What happened to you wasn't. But it wasn't fair of you to shove me away,” your voice began to wobble, tears coming down your face again. “I loved you, Spencer. Wasn't it enough?”

Spencer’s face crumpled -- not all at once, but in small, controlled fractures, like he was trying desperately to hold himself together for your sake, even now. Even after everything.

“It was,” he whispered. “God, it was more than enough. It was everything. That’s why I let it go.”

You shook your head, the ache blooming sharp again. “That’s not how love works. You don’t just… take someone’s heart and decide for them what’s best. You don’t destroy them to save them.”

“I know,” he choked out. “I know that now.”

You let out a trembling breath, wiping your face with the sleeve of your jacket. “I would’ve waited. I was waiting.”

“I know, baby,” he said softly, his voice watery with tears he was trying to force back. The pet name slipped -- he hadn't even noticed he'd used it. It was too natural for him. “But I didn't know if I was coming back. And I didn't know who I'd come back as.”

You exhaled, but your lungs felt punctured.

“God, I hate you, Spencer. I hate that I still..”

Spencer froze, his eyes wide and glistening. He didn’t speak, he couldn’t. Your confession seemed to punch the air from his lungs the same way it had yours.

You shook your head quickly, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand, ashamed of how raw you sounded. “I hate that even after everything, the silence, the letter, the fucking goodbye, I still see you and my chest hurts in a way that feels like home.”

Spencer’s lips parted, but nothing came. Just another tear trailing down.

“I used to think if you ever came back, I’d slam the door in your face,” you said, laughing bitterly through your tears. “But I didn’t. I let you sit here. I let you look at me.”

“I don’t deserve it,” he murmured. “I don’t deserve you. But I love you more than anything in the world. All I did was pray to a God I don't believe in for you to heal.”

“Then how could you walk away? Like I was nothing?”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles whitened.

“Because I was nothing in there,” he said hoarsely. “I was a number. A threat. A punching bag. Every day, I woke up wondering who I’d have to fight to stay alive. What part of myself I’d have to let die just to make it to the next hour. And the one thing that kept me going was you. The memory of you.”

You whimpered like the words had stabbed you.

“The only things I had in my cell were photos of you. That's all I wanted,” he said, his voice cracking with a fresh wave of tears. “When I felt human enough to read, I only read your favorite literature and poems.”

“Spencer--”

“I started with Jane Eyre. Because you said it was the first book that made you cry. I wanted to cry with you, even if you weren’t there.”

Your breath caught.

His voice was shaking, but steady enough to recite what he’d clearly read over and over, committing it to memory like a prayer.

“I have for the first time found what I can truly love -- I have found you. You are my sympathy -- my better self -- my good angel; I am bound to you with a strong attachment.”

He looked at you, his voice barely above a whisper now.

“I think you good, gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life, wraps my existence about you.”

Tears streamed down your face freely now. You remembered reading that line to him once, years ago, curled together in bed.

“I used to repeat that in my head just to fall asleep,” he admitted. “I read the book hundreds of times. It was your voice.”

You covered your mouth, shoulders trembling.

“I thought I could bury it. Bury you. But I couldn’t. I can’t. And if I never get to hold you again,” he said, crying entirely, “I needed you to know… you were never nothing. You were the only thing that made me anything at all.”

“Spencer, I'm begging you not--”

“Let me finish,” he pleaded, hands reaching out for you but not quite touching you. “If there's any chance at all, any chance you'd let me come home, I'd make it my mission to love you for the rest of our days on this doomed Earth.” He said, his words rushing out as if he couldn't control them.

You were silent. Shocked. Your jaw dropped, but lips still quivered.

“I'll go right now and buy a ring if that's what you want. I'll recite your favorite poetry every single night. I'll scratch your back without asking for it in return. I'll listen to your favorite song in the car on a loop every damn time we go anywhere even though I hate it.”

He was breaking open in front of you, pouring himself out in fragments: hopeful, desperate, all the pieces you never thought you'd get back.

“I’ll memorize every meal you’ve ever loved and learn how to cook it perfectly. I’ll fix the leaky sink. I’ll reorganize your bookshelf a hundred times until it makes sense to you again.” His voice wavered desperately, rising into something raw and aching. “Just -- please. Please give me the chance to make it right.”

You stared at him, stunned. That flood of emotion -- grief, fury, heartbreak, love -- came crashing down at once. Your body shook from it. You had waited for this moment for so long. You had dreamed of it. But now that it was here, you didn’t know if you could move.

Spencer inched forward on the porch step, slowly, as if afraid to scare you off. His hands trembled between you, still waiting for yours.

“I don’t want anyone else. I can’t want anyone else. You were it for me before prison. You were it every day in there. And you're it now. No matter what you say.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“What if you leave again if things get difficult?”

His breath hitched.

“I won’t,” he said, instantly but then gentler, more broken, “I can’t.”

You opened your eyes. He was looking at you like the question had gutted him, like he’d been waiting for it.

“I left because I thought it was the only way to protect you,” he continued, voice low and shaking. “But I see now -- God, I know now -- that hurting you to keep you safe wasn’t protection. It was fear. And I let it win.”

He leaned forward just enough for you to see how wrecked he was, eyes glassy and wide. “But I’ve lived through the worst thing imaginable. And it wasn’t prison. It wasn't Tobias Hankel. It wasn't Dilaudid, it wasn't those damn headaches, and it wasn't losing Maeve. It was the thought of you moving on, thinking I didn’t love you. It was living with the idea that I’d made you feel abandoned.”

His hand finally touched yours, featherlight. “So no. I won’t leave again. Not when things get difficult. Not when I’m scared. Not when I’m hurting. Because I’d rather face every nightmare in the world than ever look into your eyes again and see pain that I've caused.”

A pause.

“Please,” he whispered, “let me stay this time.”

You didn’t say anything at first. The silence was heavy, aching, filled with all the memories of the man he used to be and the one breaking before you now. His fingers were still barely touching yours, like he didn’t believe he deserved to hold your hand, only to beg for the chance.

Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. You had imagined this moment a hundred times. In the best versions, he came home with flowers, apologies, promises. In the worst, he never came at all.

But this raw, desperate truth from him was something else entirely.

“I don’t know if I can,” you whispered. “I want to. But I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”

Spencer closed his eyes, nodding like the words bruised but didn’t surprise him. “Then I’ll stay outside your door every day if I have to. I’ll write you letters I sign with love this time. I’ll sign my soul away to you if that's what it takes. It's yours now anyways.”

You looked at him, really looked, and saw him again. Not the hollow shell who’d walked out. Not the angry, scared man from prison. But the Spencer you’d loved. A little more broken. A little more changed. But still him. Still yours.

Your hand turned, slowly, fingers curling around his. He gasped quietly at the touch, like it shocked him.

“Don’t make me regret this,” you said softly.

His eyes met yours, glassy with hope. “Never again.”

And suddenly, you were yanked forward. A watery giggle, half laughing and half crying, escaped you as you were pulled into Spencer's chest, your cheek coming into contact with the gray threads of his sweater.

His arms wrapped around you like they were made for it: tight, trembling, like he couldn’t believe you were real. His face tucked into your neck, breath shuddering against your skin, and for a long moment, neither of you said a word.

You just held each other.

The night around you was quiet, broken only by the occasional hum of a passing car, the soft rustle of leaves, and the ragged breathing of two people who had survived too much.

“I missed you so much,” Spencer whispered into your shoulder, voice cracking. “More than I knew a person could miss someone.”

He smelled like memories. Like all the nights you'd spent cuddling on the couch watching old Russian romances that you didn't understand, but he translated for you in his soft, lovely voice. Like kissing in the rain, but being scolded for “common cold inducing behavior.” Like a long hug after an especially drawn out and difficult case.

He smelled like home. Your home.

You were so happy to be home.

[tuffluuhv]

A Thousand Times Before

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky travels to an alternate universe for the sake of a mission. But he doesn’t expect to come face to face with a version of you that loves him, completely and openly. Back in his own world, he is left with a truth he can’t keep to himself anymore.

Word Count: 16.5k

Warnings: alternate universe; multiverse; so much yearning; identity confusion; emotional distress; guilt; self-worth struggles; unintentional non-consensual kiss (non-violent, due to mistaken identity); angst; heartbreak themes; slight mentions of Bucky’s past; self-preservation; self-doubt; Bucky is a man in love

Author’s Note: This ended up being longer than I intended. Anyway, I’d love to hear what you think! Also, I’ve been toying with the idea of writing an alternate version where the roles are flipped. This time the reader travels to another universe where Bucky and your counterpart are already a couple. Let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in reading too! I hope you enjoy ♡

Divider by @cafekitsune ♡

Masterlist

The air smells of memory.

As though someone took the world he knew, put it through a sieve, and rebuilt it with hands that were almost - but not quite - shaking.

Bucky walks slow, even though his boots echo down a corridor that used to be silent. Used to be. In his world, the east wing of the Avenger’s compound is always cold, sterile, mostly unused. Here, the lights are warmer. Someone’s installed those vintage bulbs. They buzz faintly and flicker around.

There is a plant in the hallway. A real one. He steps past it. Looks down. A ceramic pot painted with little sunflowers. A tiny sticker peeling off the side.

This version of the compound is lived-in.

It’s unnerving.

He hates how it makes him breathe more deeply as though he is listening for something it shouldn’t. How everything is just off. The couch in the lounge is turned at a different angle. The vending machine is missing. There is a lavender-scented candle burning on the coffee table.

He doesn’t trust this. He doesn’t trust any of it.

Not the way the ceiling seems too low or how the hallways echo the wrong sound the longer he walks. The floor beneath his boots is almost the same. But almost is what gets people killed. And he’s not in the business of dying again. Not even here. Not even in a world that’s supposed to be some mirror image of his own.

It smells of lemon disinfectant and something faintly floral as though someone sprayed a bottle of room freshener and hoped no one would notice the rot underneath.

He runs his metal fingers along the wall as he walks, lets the vibranium whir quietly against the plaster. Feels the microscopic grooves in the paint.

In his universe, there is a crack near the main stairwell. Sam swears he didn’t do it. Clint insists he did. Here, it’s perfectly smooth. That bothers him more than it should.

He takes in this slightly different world as though maybe this is all some trick of the multiverse, some clever illusion designed to fool the worn-down man with the metal arm and the hundred-year-old ghosts. But the walls are still painted in the same color - off-white, barely warmed by the overheads. The hallway lights flicker golden. As though someone decided the compound shouldn’t feel like a facility. As though someone decided it should feel like home. His breath still fogs faintly in the colder patches of the corridor.

This could still be his universe somehow.

Even though it isn’t.

And even though he doesn’t want it to be.

He never wanted to be part of the mission.

He said no. Loudly. Repeatedly. With many adjectives and lots of glares. It didn’t matter. Fury said he was the only one who could go. That this universe had some piece of tech - some half-mythical Howard Stark prototype that their Stark never got the chance to build.

Something with the potential to rewrite temporal coordinates with precision. To fix anomalies. Maybe even to bring back the ones they lost.

He sat through the debrief like a man sitting on a bomb. Not moving. Not breathing more than he needed to.

And Bucky noticed, the way he always did, that you never ask quite so many questions during debriefing - unless the mission involves him. And this time, it’s only him. So that meant more questions from you. More concern you didn’t even try to mask.

And it made his heart clench.

You asked how they knew this tech even existed in that timeline.

You asked why Tony couldn’t just build it himself to which the man gave you a look.

You asked what would happen if Bucky saw someone he knew. If he saw himself.

You asked what exactly Bucky was going to walk into and what was expected of him.

You asked how much they even knew about this universe.

Steve had exhaled, hands braced against the briefing room table, blue eyes clouded. “We don’t know much,” he admitted. “This universe is close to ours in structure, but details are limited. No major historical deviations. No sign of HYDRA still in power. No active wars. Just small shifts. Choices made differently.”

Bucky had watched your face tighten as if the lack of data itself was a warning.

“SHIELD had a file on it, but nothing concrete,” Steve went on. “Stark’s readings say it’s stable - no time fractures, no reality collapses. Just another version of what we know.”

Bucky had listened, fingers flexing against his metal wrist. Close to theirs, but not the same. And he wonders, not for the first or last time, what choices this other world made for him.

The mission is simple. Locate the prototype. Extract it. Avoid unnecessary contact with variants. And get the hell back before anything breaks - him, the people, the timeline.

Bucky stopped listening entirely after receiving all the information he needed.

He only registered you shifting beside him, and it was the tiniest movement, but he noticed. You always get fidgety when something bothers you. He wanted to say something, reassure you, but he didn’t truly know if he even got this.

He knew you were worried. Knew you were angry. The kind that made your eyes too quiet and your hands too still. The kind that made Bucky feel like he was walking through a house where all the lights had been turned off, but every door was open.

When Dr. Steven Strange opened that portal, you stood in the corner of the room, watching him and giving him that guarded look that said you better come back whole. He couldn’t meet your eyes for too long.

And when the world rippled and bent, and the air shimmered as though it might break, and he stepped forward like a man walking into the sun with his eyes closed, he thought of you.

The stairs groan beneath his boots, familiar but not.

Same wood. Same color. But smoother. As though someone took the time to sand down the scars.

In his universe, the fifth step has a chip where Steve dropped a dumbbell. Everyone tripped on it at least once. Here, it is whole. Perfect. No history at all.

That’s what gets him. The lack of damage. As though this place hasn’t lived the same kind of life.

He reaches the second floor and hesitates.

The hallway is dim. Only the lights overhead are on, flickering just slightly. He hates the buzzing. It’s like something alive and trapped.

He turns left.

Your room is down this hall.

Or - your room in his universe is down this hall. He shouldn’t assume anything. Things are wrong here. Tilted just a few degrees off center. The kind of wrong you don’t see until it’s already unmade you.

But his feet are already moving.

It’s not like he’s planning to go in.

He just wants to look. Maybe see how different this version of you really is. Maybe see how different he is, through your eyes.

He reaches your door at the end of the corridor. It’s cracked open. That’s weird. You usually always have it shut.

Your voice isn’t behind it. You’re not laughing, humming, ranting about something. There is only quiet.

He steps closer.

The doorframe is covered in tiny indentations. Not scratches - these are deliberate. Someone’s been marking height on the trim. Two sets of lines. One lower than the other. Two sets of initials scrawled in black ink. Yours. And his.

He knows it’s yours. Because he knows your height. Like a number carved into his bones.

He’s memorized the space you take up in a room. Not just how tall you are, but the way your presence fills the air.

He knows where your head would rest if you stood beside him. Knows it would reach just beneath his chin. Knows the sound your footsteps make when you enter a room, and how the air shifts when you’re near.

He has painted you in his mind a thousand times before.

Eyes open, eyes closed.

In dreams, in silence.

In the echo of a laugh you left behind on a Tuesday.

He’s mapped you in the kitchen. Measured, in his mind, which cabinets you can stand beneath without hitting your head. Which shelves you can’t reach so he can be there, quietly, to help. So he can hand you that mug you always squint up at, the one you pretend you don’t need.

He knows how your arm swings when you walk.

Knows the rhythm of your stride. Knows your pace.

And sometimes, not often enough to be suspicious, he lets his hand brush yours.

Lets his fingers catch a hint of your warmth.

It’s not an accident.

It never is.

He carries you like a story he hasn’t told yet.

And he is aching, aching, aching to write you down.

Bucky stares at the markings like they might reach out and touch him.

He brushes his fingers against one. The ink smudges slightly under the metal pad of his thumb. Fresh.

He doesn’t understand.

Why would he-?

No. It has to be a coincidence. Just a prank. A weird joke. Someone else with your handwriting, maybe. Another version of him. One who doesn’t carry his past like a loaded gun. Or it’s just some odd inside joke he never got to know about in his own universe.

Bucky moves to step back, but his eyes catch on something else.

To the right of the door, hanging crookedly, is a small, square canvas. Acrylic. Textured.

It’s a painting. He knows it immediately. Your style.

He’s seen you paint a thousand times in silence, your jaw clenched, music too loud in your headphones. You always say you paint when you can’t say something out loud. When the words get stuck in your chest and rot.

This painting is familiar. A half-sky. A steel arm. Fingers open, reaching toward a red string that trails off the edge of the frame.

He knows what it means. He knows you.

But the painting doesn’t belong here. Not like this. It’s intimate. Meant for someone who understands the weight in your throat when you speak through colors.

Someone like him.

His stomach twists.

Maybe it is him.

He doesn’t like that thought. Doesn’t like how it makes his heart trip over itself.

He takes a step into the room because his brain told him to and his body didn’t want to argue. And he stops breathing.

Because you're not there.

But the room is.

The room is here.

And that’s almost worse.

It’s too familiar.

Not identical, not exact, but similar enough to tear him wide open.

The walls are a different color. Now necessarily lights. But just not how he remembers it. The books on the shelf are in new places, different spines, rearranged lives.

But the couch is the same shape, the same worn-out comfort.

The window still drinks in the light the same way - slanted, soft, forgiving.

And there’s a sweater messily folded on your dresser.

A book, face-down on the cushion like someone meant to come back to it.

Like you were just here.

Like maybe, if he stays long enough, you’ll walk back into the frame of this almost-life.

He doesn’t touch anything.

He’s afraid to.

Because this version of the world remembers you.

The shape of your existence lives here - in shadows and coffee rings, in the faint scent of something sweet and floral and you.

He walks the room like an intruder in someone else’s dream, eyes cataloguing the differences, chasing the sameness.

He notices that the cabinet doors hang slightly crooked in the same way.

And for just a moment he swears he hears your voice in the next room.

But it’s only silence, mocking him.

He wants to sit.

He wants to stay.

Wants to believe that if he closes his eyes, you’ll be beside him again.

He knows it isn’t true.

This isn’t his world.

This isn’t his home.

And this isn’t his you.

But the ache doesn’t care about reality.

The ache believes in the melodic sound of your laughter and the empty seat beside him.

There’s a coat draped over the back of a chair.

His coat.

Not one like it.

His.

The leather’s too worn in the same places. The collar stretched where he grips it with his right hand. There’s even the tear near the cuff that you stitched together with dark red thread, muttering that you weren’t a tailor but you’d seen enough war movies to fake it.

He steps inside without meaning to.

The room smells like you.

It’s your scent - soft, unassuming, threaded through with something sweet. Like worn pages and old tea and maybe vanilla.

It’s the same smell that clings to your hoodie when you get closer to each other on cold stakeouts to warm the other. The same one that lingers on your gloves when you pass him something, and he holds them a moment too long just to feel the warmth you left behind.

There’s a mug on the nightstand with faded text that reads I make bad decisions and coffee.

He bought that for you. In his world. As a joke.

You still used it until the handle cracked, and then you glued it back together and kept using it anyway.

He reaches out for it.

Stops.

His hand is shaking.

Bucky turns slowly. And sees the photo.

It’s not framed. Just pinned to a corkboard on the far wall, beneath torn paper scraps and to-do lists written in your handwriting.

It’s the two of you.

He recognizes the background - Coney Island. A bench by the boardwalk. Sunlight in your hair. His arm around your shoulder. His face not looking at the camera, but at you.

You’re laughing. And he looks-

He looks in love.

Like he has everything he ever wanted.

His breath hitches.

He steps back.

Back again.

Like distance might undo the gravity of what he just saw.

His ears are ringing.

None of this makes sense. Not fully.

He is stepping into a space he should not recognize but does.

The walls are a little brighter than in his world. Pale blue. Like the sky on cold days. There’s a candle on the windowsill—burned low and forgotten. Its wax has dripped onto a saucer, hardened into a small, messy sculpture. The bed is half-made. A throw blanket in a tangled heap at the foot of it. He recognizes that blanket. You two fought over it last movie night and then ended up sharing it.

There’s another book lying face-down, this time on the mattress. A knife on the nightstand. A half-written grocery list in your handwriting with his name scrawled at the bottom next to coffee and razor blades and more apples.

He stares at the list too long. At his own name like it sits in the wrong place. Like it’s foreign and familiar all at once.

His heart makes a quiet, traitorous sound in his chest.

He shouldn’t be here.

This isn’t his room. It’s not his place. Not his world. He’s just a shadow slipping through someone else’s life.

The longer he stays, the more it feels like the walls are leaning in.

He has a job.

A mission.

A very, very clear objective and a limited window to complete it in. That’s the only reason he’s here. The only reason he agreed to this whole ridiculous plan.

He doesn’t belong to this life.

He doesn’t belong to you.

Not like this.

Especially not like this.

He steps back. Slow. Controlled. As if the room might lurch and pull him in again, keep him held tight inside the heat of it. The scent of lavender on your pillow. A half-drunk mug of something still faintly warm on the desk. A soft blanket, folded neatly over the back of the couch by the window. Woven wool, pale grey, fraying just at the corners. In his world, that blanket lives in the rec room. He draped it over your slumbering body a few times already after you fell asleep somewhere between the second and third act.

The room creaks as though it knows he’s not supposed to be here.

So he leaves.

Each footfall measured like a soldier retreating from a line of fire. Not because of danger.

Because of what it could mean.

He closes the door behind him. Doesn’t let it latch.

He is leaving your room because he has to.

Because he’s still Bucky Barnes, and he still has something to do with his hands that isn’t letting them hover uselessly over photographs he never shot, or standing in the middle of a space that smells like your skin and wondering how long it would take before he forgot this wasn’t real. Or wasn’t his.

The hallway is still and dim. It breathes around him, too familiar and too wrong all at once. Different lungs, but the same bone structure.

His boots scruff over the same tile. The grooves on the walls are the same, the small imperfections in the paint still visible where someone - Clint, maybe - banged a cart too hard against the corner and then tried to cover it up with exactly the wrong shade of touch-up.

There’s a duffle bag sitting outside the laundry chute with a name tag stitched in crooked red thread: WILSON. Of course. Even this Sam never takes his stuff all the way in.

And there is a vending machine. It stands in the wrong corner, but it too has a post-it note stuck to it - out of order, again, thanks Tony - with a penknife stabbed through it, just like Natasha used to do when the machine ate her protein bar credits.

These things shouldn’t exist here. But they do.

Everything feels so carefully replicated, as though this universe is a reflection cast on rippling water - almost right, except where it wavers.

The picture frames are all straight here. No one’s taped up drawings on the elevator doors. But the dent in the wall by the training room door is still there - Tony left it during a particularly aggressive dodgeball game. And the pillow on the corner of the couch is still upside down. Steve never fixes it.

Someone’s sweatshirt is slung over the railing. Sam’s. Same one he wore for three weeks straight after the Lagos op. It still smells like burned rubber and that weird detergent Sam insists is “eco-friendly but manly.”

The common room has a blanket folded over the arm of the couch.

It’s yours.

You always fold it the same way. Two halves, then thirds, then smoothed flat.

The corners of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Just muscle memory of one.

He walks slower now. Like he’s afraid he’ll wake something up.

He turns down the south hall, toward the kitchen.

He tells himself it’s for the layout. That he’s retracing steps, building a map in his head, keeping sharp like they trained him to. But really it’s you. It’s always you. He knows you’re here, somewhere, and if he turns the wrong corner too fast he might see you in a way he isn’t ready for. Or worse - see you in a way he’ll never forget.

His hand curls into a fist. Flesh and metal both.

The light changes first.

The kitchen here is bigger. Airier. The windows seem to stretch wider than they should, the frame redone in something softer than steel. Someone left the lights low, warm glimmers buzzing faintly above, full of melancholy chords.

And then he freezes. Everything in him turns to stone.

He stops breathing.

Because there are you.

Standing with your back to him.

You are in fuzzy socks, standing at the counter, shoulders relaxed, a pot simmering on the stove, and a sway in your movements that hit him so hard his throat tightens. You shift your weight slightly, hip against the edge of the counter, your hand rising to tuck your hair behind your ear.

The way the light hits you from behind is exactly the same.

You are moving through a rhythm you don’t know he’s watching.

You’re cooking something - he doesn’t know what, can’t smell it through the barrier of this aching distance - but it all is so heartbreakingly familiar. The tilt of your head as you read the label. The absent little sway in your hips as you stir something in the pan.

It’s domestic.

Effortlessly soft.

The kind of moment he’s never had, but has imagined a thousand times before.

His body goes very still. Maybe if he moves, the moment might shatter.

But it cleaves him open.

Because you move the same.

You move the way you do in his world - as though every room bends slowly toward you. As though you don’t know how much of your soul you leave behind in your trail. As though the air makes space for you because it wants to. Because it has to.

He watches.

Rooted to the floor.

This is doing something brutal to him. Seeing you here like this, in this soft golden kitchen that smells like tomatoes and thyme and something slow-cooked with patience and love, tucked into his shirt as though it doesn’t tear his heart apart.

You’re not just wearing it to steal warmth or tease him, the way you’ve done before in his world - tugging on his hoodie after a long mission, smirking when he raises an eyebrow, pretending it was an accident. You always returned it too quickly. Always laughed too loudly when he was too nonchalant about it. Always looked away too fast.

But here. Here you wear it as though you truly mean to.

Here you stir sauce in his shirt and sway slightly to a song you don’t know you’re humming and taste the spoon as though this is just another Saturday. Here, the shirt is not a stolen thing.

The hem skims your thighs. The collar is stretched slightly. The cotton even moves in your rhythm. His name is ghosted into the shape of you, etched along your silhouette. It’s almost too much. It’s absolutely too much.

Your movements are familiar in the way only time can make a person. And God, you move the same way. The same way. Like the version of you he left behind an hour ago. Fluid. Quiet. Self-contained. You hum under your breath, just barely.

He feels it like a bruise forming under his ribs.

His hand curls at his side. Metal fingers flex.

You don’t see him.

He’s not ready for you to. He knows he shouldn’t let you see him.

Not here. Not like this. Not when you’re standing in a kitchen that looks like the one you always complained was too small, in a shirt that is his - or the other Bucky’s - cooking with your whole body curled in that same subtle tension like you’re thinking about something else entirely.

And for one breathless second, he forgets.

He forgets this isn’t his kitchen.

That this isn’t his world.

That the you standing there isn’t the one who left a hair tie on his wrist last Wednesday.

That you’re not the one who laughed at him for not knowing how to use your espresso machine but then proceeded to teach him with that sweet voice of yours he doesn’t mind drowning in.

But God, he wants to walk across the room. Wants to slide his arms around your waist. Rest his chin on your shoulder. Breathe in your scent and feel your heartbeat under his hands.

Because he’s seen you like this before.

In his own kitchen, in his own universe.

Not often. Just enough to be dangerous.

You, in fuzzy socks. You, humming softly. You, squinting into a pot like it might confess its secrets.
You, looking over your shoulder and catching him staring.

Smirking. Amused. But with a warmth in your eyes.

And now, he just watches.

This version of you doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t feel him standing there, made of want and memory and too much tenderness for a heart that was never meant to carry this much.

He grips the doorframe.

Tries to swallow the pain.

Because this is what he’s always wanted, but it isn’t his.

And it won’t be.

But he can’t stop looking.

He knows he should move. Now.

He’s not supposed to linger.

Not supposed to look.

Not supposed to feel.

He’s a shadow in this world, a breath not meant to be heard. A presence designed to pass unnoticed.

But you-

God.

You are gravity and he is weak against it.

You are the glitch in every rule, the exception in every universe.

And he can’t help it.

He looks.

He stays.

Because there is no version of reality where he walks past you untouched.

You are the only thing in this place that hasn’t changed.

The only thing that feels right.

And that’s the worst part.

Because you feel like home.

And you’re not his.

You might never be.

But he stands there, selfish and still, pretending the silence could make him invisible. Pretending this version of you isn’t real. That your shape, your voice, your hands wouldn’t undo him in ways the war never could.

You reach for the spice rack, standing on your toes just a little, the hem of the oversized shirt lifting slightly. His name is written in the way the fabric hangs off your frame. It’s branded into this whole place.

He watches you like a man watches fire from the other side of glass - warmed, lit, and ruined all at once. You move like morning through him - and he, all dusk and dust, knows he is never meant to touch such light.

You wear that shirt on your shoulders as though it is normal for you. As though you want it to be there.

Bucky watches it stretch across the curves of a body he’s only ever worshiped in dreams.

You still feel like you, he thinks and the thought is so sudden and so violent that he has to step back - just a fraction of an inch, just enough to pretend he didn’t feel it, just enough to pretend it doesn’t mean something.

He doesn’t understand how this version of you still reads like poetry he’s already memorized.

He backs away, so slowly, he wonders if time might forgive him for the moment. For his hesitation to leave.

For the way, he just stands there and watches you as though you are the last good thing in the world.

As though you are the world. His world.

You turn, slow, stirring spoon still in hand. You haven’t seen him yet. You’re focused, brow furrowed just slightly, lower lip caught between your teeth, and he knows he should get the hell away from here.

But he is frozen in place. His muscles aren’t working.

He sees the angle of your cheek, the line of your neck, the quick twitch of your nose as though you’ve caught a scent you know too well.

And then you look up.

You see him.

Bucky’s mind is running on empty cells.

Your whole face changes. Clouds lifting. Sun rising. Your smile is instant. As though seeing him is something your body wants to do.

Everything in you brightens. As though the sun cracked open inside your chest. Your whole body jolts. Just a fraction. In surprise, delight. As though seeing him is something that rearranges the air in your lungs and makes it easier to breathe.

He is not prepared for the way you breathe his name.

“Buck-” your voice is thick with shock and joy and something lighter than either. “You’re back.”

He doesn’t move. Can’t.

The word back rattles in his ears. Echoes. Feels like a lie made of gold. He is not back. He is not yours. Not in this life. Not in this room. Not in the way you somehow seem to think he is.

You don’t give him time to speak. You don’t give him space to even think.

Because you’re already closing the distance between you, fast and sure-footed, and he has just enough sense left in him to realize he should say something, before you launch yourself into his chest, arms flung wide, a soft gasp of excitement still spilling from your mouth.

You collide with him hard and certain and unapologetic, and your arms wind around his neck as though they’ve done this a thousand times. So easy with him. Knowing the shape of him.

He stiffens. Every muscle in his body locks up, heart ricocheting against his ribs. He chokes on his breath.

He’s too overwhelmed with this situation to hug you back. His arms stay frozen at his side. His fingers twitch, trying to reach for you but remembering they shouldn’t.

You’re warm. You’re so warm.

You smell like that candle on your windowsill. Like a version of comfort he hasn’t earned.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were back?” you murmur, voice muffled as you bury yourself into the crook of his neck, full of a joy so honest it makes his entire ribcage squeeze the life out of him. “I thought you were still stuck over there. I was starting to get worried. Were you trying to surprise me? Because you definitely surprised me.”

Bucky can’t speak. He can’t do a single thing and that’s absolutely pathetic. He wants to say something clever or distant or safe, but his mouth is a graveyard and the words are bones. He’s not sure he even remembers how to use them anymore.

Your breath fans across his collarbone, your nose brushing his jaw, and it’s too much.

The feeling of you against him is unbearable. You fit. Of course, you do. His body knows you, even if his brain is screaming that this is wrong, that this is not the life he is living, that this version of you is not his to touch.

But you don’t know that. You don’t hesitate. Your hands slide up his back. One of them tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck. The other rests against the curve of his shoulder. His flesh shoulder.

He feels like glass. Like a single breath could rip him to shreds.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

There is something tender in your eyes. Something known. Something that sees him without flinching. You’re beaming. And he is blinded.

You’re looking at him as though he’s something you loved for years and known down to the marrow.

And then, so quickly, so confidently - you kiss him.

Bucky freezes.

All the air leaves his lungs.

His heart stutters in his chest.

Your lips meet his as though the air between you has gravity, as though you have done this before, soft and sure, knowing how he likes it. You kiss him as though you’ve kissed him a thousand times and a thousand more.

Bucky is a rigid wall, thunderstruck.

But he doesn’t stop you.

He should. He knows he should. The second your hands touched his face, he should have stepped back. Should have told you the truth. Should have warned you that this isn’t him. Not the right one. That the man you think you’re kissing is a ghost wearing someone else’s memories.

But he doesn’t. He lets you. For a heartbreaking moment. Lets his mouth press to yours for the span of a beat and a half. Lets the warmth of you crack the ice he’s been carrying in his chest for too long.

Your lips are warm, soft, sweet, tasting of honey and cinnamon and nostalgia and the imaged version of a dream he’s buried too deep to name, one he’s never dared to reach for but still lingers in his bones. Bucky doesn’t know if he’s breathing or if that became something irrelevant.

He lets you press into him as though the whole world hasn’t changed, as though this you is not a stranger wearing your skin, your voice, your tenderness. And for a second, a small and selfish, shattering second, he melts.

His muscles go slack and his eyes fall closed and the universe falls into place. Your lips on his feel like relief, like the end of war, like something he didn’t earn. He lets himself sink into it, into you.

You kiss him as though you know him. As though you know the hollow places and where they go. As though your body is working off muscle memory forged from love he was never around long enough to deserve.

Your hands are on his face and you’re kissing him as though this means something and he wants to pull away, he does, but not for one split-second. He folds like wax in flames, pliant and helpless under your affection.

His heart stutters - skips, crashes, burns.

Your body is pressing forward as though it’s coming home.

His mouth moves with yours, slow and stunned and melted, like a man learning to breathe in a language he doesn’t speak.

This is what he has imagined. This is what has haunted the spaces behind his eyes when he lets his guard down. He has imagined this. Wondered what your breath would taste like when it caught between your mouths, how your fingers would feel fisted in his hair, how it might feel to be wanted by you - openly, without hesitation, without shame.

But then you whisper against his mouth, soft and breathless and full of joy.

“God, I missed you.”

And everything collapses.

The words strike like ice water down his spine. It’s like being shot. He grows tense again. His eyes snap open. His mind catches up to his heart. The sweetness goes sour in his mouth. The warmth becomes poison under his skin. Because it isn’t real. This isn’t real.

You’re not his.

Not his to kiss. Not his to miss him. Not his to touch him with that bright look in your eyes as though he is part of your story.

You think he’s your Bucky. The one who - as Bucky would imagine - kissed you on every hallway in this place, whenever he could. The one who knows which side of the bed you sleep on. The one who earned your trust, your touch, your history.

And so he breaks the sky.

He pulls away - rips himself out of paradise with shaking hands and a jaw clenched so tight it might snap. The breath that leaves him is ragged, torn.

Every muscle in his body is tight. This is not your kiss. Not yours to give or his to take. Not when you don’t know. Not when you think he’s someone else.

And even though it’s you - your warmth, your voice, your heartbeat fluttering against his chest - it’s not the version of you he’s imagined this with.

And it’s not right.

The guilt punches him all at once, shame and grief and confusion he’s never quite learned to survive. He recoils - not even fully on purpose - but instinct, instinct that tells him he has stolen something you didn’t offer him.

He’s just a stranger behind familiar eyes.

You freeze. Blink at him. Confused. Concerned.

Your smile falters. Disappears.

His chest heaves once, twice, too fast, not able to breathe properly with your taste still caught in his mouth. His hands curl into fists at his side, trying to remember what they are for.

And then he sees it - your worry folding into something smaller, something more ashamed.

And it murders him in slow motion, one heartbeat at a time.

Your hands drop away from his face and flutter against your lips for the smallest second as though maybe you’re the one who crossed a line.

And he watches, helpless, as the light behind your eyes dims.

You take a tiny step back, shoulders inching inwards as though you’re suddenly unsure of yourself.

And then your eyes widen, and the guilt spills out of you now, sharp and immediate.

“Buck, I-” you start, your voice soft and hesitant. “I’m sorry. That was… I shouldn’t have just- I didn’t mean to- God, you probably needed a second to just settle, and I-” you trail off and take another step back as though you think you hurt him.

Your face crumples, not dramatically, not completely. But enough to look a little wounded. Vulnerable in that way you only let him see when no one else is around. Even here. Even in this life that isn’t his.

It’s killing him.

That pain in your eyes. The sheen of doubt and confusion that he put there.

You wrap your arms around yourself, retreating inward, your expression far too close to shame.

His chest caves as though something vital just got torn out, and his body hasn’t caught up yet.

Because even if you are not his - you are you. And hurting you, even by accident, even like this, feels like peeling the skin of his ribs.

He feels it in the hollow beneath his ribs, a wound that won’t stop bleeding.

“No!” he forces out quickly, voice low and rough and all wrong. “Hey- no, no, you didn’t- You weren’t- I’m not-”

But he doesn’t know what to say.

He wants to tell you it’s okay, that you didn’t do anything wrong, that it’s him, it’s all him, it’s always him, it’s never you.

He wants to scream that his bones are made of want, that his blood sings only your name, that he is drowning in everything you don’t know you’ve given him.

But none of this is simple. None of it is clean.

And all he does is stand there.

Breath shaking.

Heart breaking.

Hands curled so tightly to keep from reaching.

Because you didn’t give this kiss to him, not knowing who he was. You gave it to the man you think he is. The man you trust.

And he accepted it anyway. Let it happen. For just a split second, but still, he let himself have it.

He feels sick.

And now you look like you’re folding in on yourself, and all he wants in the world is to pull you close and undo every second of pain.

“I just got excited,” you say timidly, even softer now, eyes dropping to the kitchen counter. “I missed you and I didn’t- I thought you’d- Never mind. I’m sorry.”

You’re already turning away, trying to tuck the moment back into yourself, trying to pretend it didn’t just break the air between you. As though you haven’t just handed him a piece of your heart and watched him flinch from it.

And Bucky feels like the worst kind of monster.

Because it’s not your fault. This version of you, who somehow but clearly loves him, who thought she was greeting the man who has kissed her a thousand times and more. Who thought this was welcome. Who probably counted down the days until he walked through that door.

He knows because he does the same thing although his you and him aren’t even a thing.

Because in his world, you’re his friend. Just that. A friend with soft eyes and sharper wit, someone who argues about popcorn toppings and sings loudly in the kitchen when you know he needs some cheering up. You’ve patched him up after missions. You’ve watched old movies with him in silence, both of you staring too long at the screen and not long enough at each other. You’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder. You’ve tucked his hair behind his ear when it stuck to his cheek after a nightmare. You’ve told him - more than once - that you’re here for him.

But you’ve never kissed him.

You’ve never touched him as though you owned the moment.

You’ve never stood in his clothes and cooked dinner for the version of him who let himself be yours.

And god, he wants to hate this version of himself. This man who found the courage to step forward when he only hovered on the edge. Who earned the right to be held by his dream girl like a homecoming.

And now you are ashamed. Now you are hurt.

Because he couldn’t be the right Bucky.

He steps forward, frantic, needing, desperate to fix it, to say something, anything that would wipe that hurt look off your face.

“No- no, hey,” he rasps, voice frayed. His hands are hovering. He wants to touch you. He wants to hold your face in his palms and make this better. “It’s not your fault. It’s not you. I just… I mean, I didn’t think-” He knows he’s not making this better at all right now.

He sighs, mouth open but language failing him, and he scrubs a hand over his jaw as though he can erase the hesitation you saw there.

You search his face, your eyes too deep.

A trembling nod.

“Okay,” you say. “I just thought- I don’t know what I thought. I was just really happy to see you. But I should’ve given you a moment.”

And there it is.

The softness.

The part of you he has always tried to guard. The one he’d go back to Hydra to protect. The one that makes his chest ache and his hands shake at his sides.

He wants to tell you everything. The truth. The mission. That he’s not the man you think he is.

He almost does.

But his throat is choked up.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and that only breaks him in a new way.

Because you think you did something wrong.

“No,” he starts again, firmer this time, softer too. “You don’t need to apologize, sweetheart. I-” he hesitates, and you see it. “I missed you, too.”

He screwed up. Completely.

You bite your lip, unsure. Your eyes flick down to your shirt. His shirt. Not really his shirt. But Bucky’s shirt. You tug at the hem as though it suddenly doesn’t belong to you anymore.

And Bucky knows that this moment will haunt him long after he leaves this world. Long after he goes back to the version of you who wears his hoodies just to tease, who touches him only in passing, who is his friend despite him wishing for you to greet him the same way this you greets her Bucky. For the rest of his life.

You look at him as though he’s a wound.

As though he’s something tender and broken and half-open, and not in the way that frightens you but in the way that makes you reach for the first aid kit. As though you’ve seen the blood already, and you are not afraid to get your hands dirty to make him whole again.

Your voice turns softer now. Maybe trying not to shake the walls around him. Like you’ve already seen him flinch once and you’re afraid of making it happen again. He can hear the thread of caution in your throat, stretched thin with concern.

“Buck,” you say, slow, quiet. “Are you okay?” you ask and it’s not just a question. It’s a doorway. A key turned in a lock he hasn’t let anyone touch. You’re peering through the walls he built up as though you have done it before. Maybe you know all his hiding places. Maybe you’ve kissed every scar on his soul and memorized the way his silences mean different things.

But not this version of him.

Not here. Not now.

And it does something sharp to him.

Because he’s not okay. He is a thousand feet below the surface, lungs full of water and salt and regret. He is standing in a version of his life that is too soft for the callouses on his hands, and you are looking at him as if he means something to you, as if he still matters even after he’s flinched from your kiss, after he’s stood there in a borrowed skin, giving nothing in return.

He wants to say yes. Wants to lie because it would be kinder. Because maybe it would make your forehead smooth out and your mouth curl back up and your shoulders drop from where they’ve crept up near your ears. But the words catch in his throat. He can’t swallow them. He can’t spit them out.

You step closer, slowly now, more careful than before, and the guilt rises more than ever.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, as though you’ve asked him this a thousand times before. “Water? Food? A shower? A-” you falter, “- a second to breathe?”

Your eyes are so gentle he could cry. You’re hurting and you’re still soft with him, still reaching across this invisible crack in the earth, still offering care with both hands like it won’t burn you if he doesn’t take it.

He doesn’t deserve this.

He doesn’t deserve you.

Not when he’s not the man who earned the right to walk through that door and be met with your affection like sunlight. Not when you looked at him like a miracle and he gave you nothing back but a statue.

His hands remain in fists. His chest is too tight. Too small. His own skin is too loud.

“I’m fine,” he answers. Too fast. Too clipped. He regrets it instantly.

Your face drops a little, enough for him to feel it all over again. Another weight, another reminder that he is ruining something delicate, something not meant for him.

“Oh,” you murmur, nodding too quickly, stepping back as though your warmth was a mistake. “Okay.”

And there it is.

That thing he can’t stand.

That thing you do - both of you, all versions of you - when you feel shut out. That pull inward, that retreat behind your own ribs, as though maybe you’d overstepped, and now you need to fold yourself small enough not to take up space.

It crushes him.

Because he made you feel that way.

He made you feel as though you’re making it worse by caring.

He swallows hard, sorrow burning down his throat.

He doesn’t deserve your tenderness. He doesn’t deserve your care. He doesn’t deserve the way you’re moving again, back to the counter, shoulders tense. You’re trying to give him space and comfort in the same breath and it hurts to watch.

You stir something in the pan. Wipe your hands off a towel that looks as though it’s been used too many times. Domestic. Familiar. This life is familiar, too much so, and he is standing in the middle of it like a trespasser.

“I’m almost done here,” you note sweetly, glancing back at him with that look - gentle and worried and wounded. “If you do want something.”

You say it as though you’ve fed him before. As though he likes your cooking. As though this is something you fall into easily, the kitchen your common ground, your voice echoing off the same cabinets.

Bucky can feel his heart cave in.

You’re still looking at him like that. As though he’s someone you’d give your last spoonful of soup to. As though he isn’t just standing there like a coward with your kiss still on his mouth and your concern sitting in the hollow of his chest.

Even when he pulled away, even when he didn’t say a damn word, you didn’t get angry. You didn’t accuse him of anything. You just worried. And you’re still here. Still cooking. Still offering pieces of yourself like they’re nothing when they mean everything.

It makes him feel like a thief.

Because he’s not your Bucky. And he doesn’t know what yours did to earn you, but he can’t possibly live up to it.

His guilt is a creature now - gnawing and breathing heavy in his chest, pacing in circles behind his ribs. He feels it crawling through him, scraping at the back of his throat, making it hard to speak, hard to swallow. You are being careful with him, and all he can think about is how he should have stopped the kiss the second you leaned in.

You wouldn’t have kissed him if you knew who he really was.

And still, he wants to say yes.

Wants to sit at the kitchen table as though he belongs. Wants to take the plate you’d hand him and eat every last bite and listen to your stories and pretend just for a moment that this is his.

But it’s not.

It’s yours.

And it’s his job to leave it untouched.

“I’m good,” he lies, voice a gravel-dragged croak.

You pause, spoon in hand, frowning softly.

He hates that look.

That little line between your brows. The tilt of your head. Maybe you know he’s not telling the truth but don’t want to press. Maybe you’d rather hold the silence in your hands than make him bleed more words than he has.

“Okay,” you say again, quiet but still open, still gentle. “Just let me know if that changes.”

And you turn back to your pan, shoulders remaining to stay curled in. Like a window closing just enough to keep the cold out.

And Bucky just stands there.

Mouth dry. Hands shaking. Jaw tight. Chest full of something that feels like grief and guilt and anguish all tangled up in barbed wire.

And you’re cooking for a man who doesn’t exist in your world.

And the worst part - the part that scrapes down the back of his throat - is that he wishes he could deserve you.

He wishes this was real.

He wishes it were him.

He wishes it more than he’s wished for anything in his life since he lost it.

Since he became something else, since he forgot his own name, since his hands were turned against the world, against himself. Since all he’s done is survive.

He watches you like a man starving for sunlight. Terrified it might disappear if he blinks too long.

The way your shoulders move as you stir. The curl of your fingers around the wooden spoon. The tuck of hair behind your ear. The shift of your weight from one foot to the other.

He watches you move like he’s memorizing. As though this is the last time he’ll see you in motion. Like your movements are things he can bottle and carry with him, tucked deep into some pocket where the world can’t steal it. Where time can’t take it. Where even regret has no reach.

Your fingers fuss over something inconsequential now. Adjusting the position of a mug that didn’t need to be moved, opening a drawer, and then closing it again. You’re pretending not to look at him but he sees the way your eyes keep falling over, the way you keep folding and unfolding yourself. You’re waiting. Giving him the space he didn’t ask for and that he doesn’t actually want but knows he should take. Giving him something kinder than he’s ever learned to give himself.

And you are so familiar. You’re the same here. Even in this place that’s slightly sideways and tinted in colors, he doesn’t recognize. You move the same. You speak the same. You care the same way.

Even if your kindness isn’t meant for him.

Even if your kiss was meant for a version of him he doesn’t even understand.

Because this Bucky - the one you seem to love here - he must have done something right. He must have looked at you one day and not looked away. He must have let himself have you. He must have been brave enough to reach for you with both hands and hold on.

Bucky doesn’t know how to be that man.

He wants to be.

But he doesn’t know how.

Not in his own world. Not where he loves you from afar and pretends that’s protection. Where he swallows the way you laugh like it’s medicine and doesn’t let it show on his face. Where he listens to your questions in briefings - always you, always asking the most, as though you know people better than they know themselves - and he lets the sound of your voice guide him through the fog in his head like a rope he can follow back home.

But he never says anything. Never answers unless he has to. Never tells you how often he thinks about you, about your hands and your hair and your smell and the way your eyes find his in a crowd like a lighthouse built just for him.

Because what would he even say?

Hey, I can’t sleep unless I replay the way you laughed when Sam dropped popcorn all over the floor last month. I still have the napkin you folded into a crane at that terrible diner. I know the shape of your handwriting better than my own.

And what would you say to that?

Would you smile?

Would you run?

He doesn’t know. He’ll never know. Because he never asked. Because he never tried.

But this Bucky did.

And now this is the price.

Standing in the compound’s kitchen that smells of roasted garlic and too many things he’s never had. Watching you move around as though this is all so very familiar to you.

He wonders if you’d greet him like this every day if he were yours. If you were his.

If you’d light up like that every time like he was coming come and not just showing up, arms open, voice warm, like there was no place he could be safer than here with you.

If you’d wear his shirts as though they are yours because of what he means to you, not because they are soft or convenient or too clean not to steal.

He aches with the idea of it.

He wants this.

He wants you.

And not just in the sharp pain that lives under his ribs. Not just in the sleepless nights and the imagined conversations. Not just in the way he stares too long when you’re laughing or how he makes excuses to sit beside you on the couch.

He wants this.

You, warm and open and lit up from the inside. You, the way you could be if you saw him like this. If you let yourself. If he ever earned the right for you to let yourself.

But he hasn’t. He knows that.

He’s just your friend. The one you trust with your coffee order and your spare key and the heavy things you don’t want to talk about until 2 am. The one you steal clothes from, but always give them back because they don’t actually belong to you. The one you fall asleep beside during late movies without worrying about what it means because it doesn’t mean anything. Not to you.

Not like it means to him.

And still, he always watches. From doorways. From shadowed corners of rooms that dim the moment you leave them. Not to possess you - but because to look away would be a small death he cannot bear.

You laugh, and he holds the sound like contraband. You glance past him, and he lets it wound him sweetly. He’ll love you like that forever - at a distance, in silence, in awe. A man carved hollow by devotion, wearing his yearning like a prayer no god will answer.

And this version of you belongs to someone.

Even if it’s just a different version of him, it’s not him. Not this one. Not the one still lost in the burden of everything he’s done. The one who still wonders if the blood on his hands will ever wash off. The one who doesn’t know how to be soft.

He doesn’t know what the other Bucky did to deserve this version of you. Doesn’t know how he got so lucky. Doesn’t know what he offered you, what words he spoke when you were doubting yourself, afraid of being too much.

He’s not sure if he even knows this Bucky. It sounds weird as fuck. But maybe he doesn’t. Because it seems impossible to Bucky that this guy actually managed to get his girl. To get you.

Though he sure as hell would start a fight if the other him ever took this for granted. If he ever walked through this kitchen distracted or tired or in a bad mood and missed the way you smile when you think he’s not looking. If he ever left you waiting too long.

Bucky thinks he’d kill to have what that punk has.

And he hates himself for that.

But he can’t help but watch you, and it feels like the axis of something turning. Like time folding in on itself to offer him one brief, borrowed breath of what could have been.

It feels like being kissed by a future he lost, and forgiven by a present he never dared to ask for.

Because he knows that if you knew his thoughts, if you knew what he is feeling right now, you’d feel betrayed. You’d feel wronged. Because this wasn’t yours to give and it wasn’t his to want and now you’re both tangled in something made of shadows and parallel paths that should never have crossed.

But you’re here. And he’s here. And the moment still smells of cinnamon and citrus and something sweet, like safety, like you.

And he can’t stop wanting.

He wants it so badly he feels like a child in his chest. Like a boy in Brooklyn again, heart too big, hands too empty. Wanting something too beautiful for his fingers. Afraid to touch it in case he ruins it.

He wants this kitchen, this quiet, this life. He wants to be the Bucky who you wrap your arms around without thinking. Without hesitation. The one you miss. The one you think about. The one you care about so deeply. The one you kiss without asking because of course he wants you to.

He wants to be the one you light up for.

He wants it so bad it hurts.

But you are too soft for the ruin of his hands. Too bright for the rooms he lives in. You drink from fountains he was never invited to approach, speak in tones that his rusted soul cannot mimic.

And this is gutting him. To know the shape of your intimate kindness, the tilt of your adoring smile, the poetry of your presence - yet remain nothing more than a silent apostle to your orbit.

And maybe that’s why he finally moves. Why he tears himself away, footfalls too loud in the silence, heart thudding wildly in his chest.

He can’t stay here, not with you standing in the soft yellow light looking like everything he’s ever tried not to need.

He clears his throat, tries to make his voice sound normal, even though nothing about him feels human right now.

Your eyes lift to his. Wary. Still warm. Still worried. Still too much.

“I should, uh,” he mutters, nodding toward the hallway. “I’ve gotta take a shower.”

He bites his lip in frustration at himself.

Your lip twitches. Tugs down ever so slightly. It splits him open.

“Okay,” you say, quiet. There is disappointment in your tone, you weren’t able to overshadow. “You’ll tell me if you need anything?”

He nods too fast. Too tight. “Yeah.”

And then he leaves.

Because if he doesn’t, he’s going to do something worse than kiss you back.

He’s going to beg.

And he knows he has already taken too much.

And he needs to turn away.

Because he has something to do.

Because this world isn’t his. And he wasn’t sent here to collect the storyline he’s too afraid to build on his own.

He’s here for a mission.

He wasn’t sent here to linger in your doorway and let his bones dissolve into longing.

He walks away with you still behind him. He feels your gaze on his skin and with every step, it’s like he’s leaving something behind he’ll never quite be able to touch again.

He almost turns around.

Almost says your name.

Almost asks what this Bucky did - how he said it first, how he reached for you, what it took.

But he doesn’t.

Because he doesn’t get to ask.

So he keeps walking, heart in his throat, your taste still on his lips, and the echo of your smile carved into his spine like something sacred he was never meant to keep.

****

“Did you run into anyone while you were there?”

Steve’s question comes as casually as a bomb dropped from the sky.

Voices rise and fall in the conference room - wooden chairs squeaking under shifting weight, pens clicking, someone’s fingers drumming absently on the table.

The room is too bright. The lights overhead white and clinical, burning a little too harshly through his eyes and down into the back of his skull.

The air smells like ozone and burnt coffee. The kind that’s been sitting in the pot too long, scorched at the edges.

Bucky sits at the far end. Back against the chair but not relaxed, never relaxed, spine too straight, jaw too tight, metal fingers tapping once against the glass of his water before he clenches his hand and stills it.

And he knew this was coming.

Knew from the moment Strange opened that cursed slit in the fabric of the universe and Bucky stepped through like he was boarding a train to nowhere. Knew the second he saw your face - your face, but not yours - that this would catch up with him. That this would unravel under fluorescent lights and scrutiny.

Every muscle in his body coiled tighter. A reflex. A learned thing. His mouth is already dry.

The table is crowded with Avengers, coffee cups clinking, files half-open and untouched because no one is really looking at the paper.

The prototype sits in the center of the table, carefully sealed inside one of Tony’s vacuum-shielded cases. A long-forgotten Howard Stark fever dream, something meant to bend energy fields into weaponized gravity. Or something. It doesn’t matter.

They have it. He got it.

But that’s not what anyone is talking about right now.

Not when Sam is already side-eyeing him. Not when Doctor Strange is seated in his dark robes like the warning label on a grenade, fingertips tented, waiting. Not when you’re sitting two chairs down - his version of you - and you’re watching him with that same knitted expression you always wear when something doesn’t sit right.

“Bucky,” Strange says, voice low and still too loud. “I need to know. Did you encounter anyone significant while you were there? Interacting with alternate selves is risky. Prolonged exposure can ripple. If you spoke to someone who knows you-”

“I know the damn rules,” Bucky mutters, sharper than he meant to, and instantly hates the way your brows lift at the sound of it.

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. Tries to breathe. His body is still holding something that didn’t belong to him. Your smile. Your voice. The feel of your lips, pressed to his like they had every right to be there. Like you knew him.

He can’t stop thinking about you.

He doesn’t want to talk about it.

He dreads talking about it.

“There was someone,” he says, and the room quiets.

You sit a little straighter. Sam leans forward. Even Clint lowers his cup.

He can feel you watching him.

You, his version of you, sitting across the table with your arms crossed and your head tilted just enough to catch the shadows under his eyes. The real you. The only important you. And it’s so difficult to just look at you because he swears there’s a phantom echo still lingering in his chest. Of another you. Of another kitchen full of light.

“Who?” Strange asks.

Bucky exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the table. The grain of it. The scratch just under his knuckle. He imagines digging his fingers into it, splinters biting through skin, anything to ground himself.

“You,” He meets your eyes when he finally says it, and it feels like swallowing gravel. “I saw her.”

You blink.

“You ran into Y/n?” Sam asks, something like a smirk in his voice.

Bucky nods once. It feels like rust grinding his neck.

He can’t look up anymore. Can’t look at you.

He doesn’t need to look to know your breath has caught. He can feel it in the air. The absence of it. Like the moment before thunder.

He pushes through.

“She was there. She saw me.” His jaw clenches, his fists curl under the table.

Bruce exhales, pushing up his glasses. “That’s not ideal.”

Tony makes a sharp noise in his throat.

“Did you talk to her?” Strange inquiries, voice tighter now, more urgent. And Bucky has to refrain himself from wincing.

He sees you shifting in your seat in his peripheral vision.

“Yeah,” he sighs, quieter now. “We, uh- we talked.”

Silence.

Strange’s eyes are boring through him. “How close did you get?”

Sam leans forward. Bucky doesn’t look at him.

You’re staring at him now. Open. Quiet. You haven’t said a word. Your silence feels worse than anything else.

“I don’t think that matters-” Bucky starts, but Strange interrupts.

“It matters exactly. If she saw you, if you talked, if you touched, if anything that could destabilize your emotional tether occurred-”

Bucky laughs, but it’s hollow, breathless. Rotten. “What the hell is an emotional tether?”

“It’s you,” Strange answers simply. “And her. On a metaphysical level. The same person in different timelines can act as anchors. Or explosives.”

“Jesus,” Bucky mumbles, dragging a hand down his face.

His palms won’t stop sweating.

He hasn’t felt this kind of sick since HYDRA used to strap wires to his temples and ask him how many fingers they’d need to break before he forgot his own name.

The conference room is too still. Too sharp. His chair feels wrong under him, too stiff, too narrow. The soft, predictable sound of conversation from earlier has dropped into something tighter. Focused. Hunting.

He doesn’t want to lie. Not about you. Not when you touched him like that. Not when you said his name like that. Not when it almost felt like it could be true.

So he swallows hard and pushes words through his locked jaw.

“She hugged me.”

A pause.

He doesn’t look at anyone. Just the table. That one dent from Steve’s shield. The scratch Clint made with a fork because he talks with his hands. A small, folded paper crane tucked under your fingers. He doesn’t know where you’ve got that from but your fingers are bending the wings back and forth. He doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it.

“She hugged you?” Sam repeats, brow raised. “Like… greeted you?”

Bucky nods slowly, heart thudding in his ears. “Something like that.” He can feel your gaze like heat pressed against the side of his face and it almost burns to meet it, so he doesn’t.

“What happened before that?” Steve wants to know, eyes narrowing.

“I-” Bucky starts, and then stops, scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I walked into the kitchen. She was cooking something. Then she saw me. She thought I- he- was back. From something. A mission. I don’t know the details.”

“And she hugged you,” Steve adds.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs.

He doesn’t mean to look at you, but he does. For a second.

And you’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. Something still. As though you are trying to understand.

“And you just let her?” Sam presses, not unkind, but relentless in the way only Sam can be. “You didn’t say anything?”

“What do you think I should have said?”

“Well, I don’t know, man-“

“Did I say anything? Or… she?”

It’s your voice.

And it makes his stomach flip.

His eyes snap to you. But you’re not looking at him directly. You look at the edge of his shoulder. The hinge of his jaw. The tension written across his face.

He shifts in his chair. “You- She asked why I hadn’t told her I was coming back. Thought I was surprising her.” His hands are pressed flat against his thighs as though he can keep himself from shaking if he stays grounded.

“And?” Steve asks, too gently.

“She kissed me,” Bucky manages finally, and the room stiffens around him like a held breath. His voice is almost flat now. Hollowed-out. Maybe he’s trying to bleed the memory dry so it stops spreading in his chest.

There is a momentary lapse of silence that feels like someone dropped something delicate and no one wants to be the first to point it out.

Clint exhales slowly, muttering something under it. Sam leans back in his chair, maybe trying to decide if this is funny or devastating. Steve just blinks.

And you go completely still. Not a twitch of movement. Not even your fingers on the paper crane.

“She kissed you?” Natasha says, brows high.

Bucky exhales. Nods.

“What kind of kiss?” Sam blurts, leaning forward again. “A welcome-home kiss? Or a- like a real kiss?”

Steve sighs exasperated.

“No, I mean- we gotta know. This matters.”

His hand is aching. Flesh thumb pressing hard against the knuckle. “It was- not friendly.”

And the room really freezes. Stunned.

Until Sam lets out this sharp, incredulous sort of whistle, and Clint groans, dragging a hand down his face.

You glance down at your lap, jaw clenched, breath held so still it barely moves your chest. And it twists something in Bucky’s stomach, the way you sit there trying to disappear. He’s not sure who it hurts more - you, hearing this, or him, saying it. There is shame curling behind his ears. Shame and something like grief. And it’s all turned inward.

Sam’s eyes narrow. “So she kissed you thinking you were the other Bucky.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s trying to keep still. Trying not to flinch. Trying not to look left. Trying not to look right. Trying not to look at you.

Because he feels the air around you shift like the press of a coming storm. It’s not anger. He knows that heat, and this isn’t it. It’s just quiet and tight and uncomfortable. A subtle withdrawal as though you’ve stepped behind some invisible wall only he can see.

And he hates it.

Bruce clears his throat carefully. “That implies a romantic connection. At least in her mind. Probably in his, too.”

Tony makes a face. “So we’re saying that Barnes and our girl are a thing in that universe.”

“Looks like it,” Natasha muses, eyes sliding toward you.

“Holy shit,” Clint remarks unhelpfully.

They say it so easily. As though this is nothing. As though this doesn’t wreck something fundamental in Bucky’s ribcage.

And suddenly everyone is quiet. Even the noise of the lights seem muted. It’s hot and awkward and strangely intimate.

Bucky stares down at his hands. They look like someone else’s. He can still feel your touch on them. Still feel the heat of your mouth against his. The softness. The way your lips pressed with such intention.

He says nothing.

He feels terrible.

Because a part of him still wants it.

Still aches with it.

Not the kiss. Not the accident.

The life.

That version of himself who gets to love you out loud. Who gets to be yours in daylight, in kitchens, in the moments that don’t demand heroism but just presence. That version of him that doesn’t have to swallow the way your voice makes something flutter in his chest like a broken-winged butterfly. The one who can kiss you because you already know him. Trust him. Want him. Miss him.

He wants that version to exist so badly.

And it makes him feel like a monster.

You’re sitting just far enough to be untouchable, just close enough that he can feel the space between you aching like a wound.

You are you. You are right there. And you don’t even know that in another universe, you loved him so much you ran into his arms without hesitation.

The light from the high windows drips in thin streaks across the long table, catching on Bucky’s knuckles, the tightness of his body.

There’s a long pause.

Then Tony exhales. “Well, that confirms it. Barnes is getting some in another universe.”

“Tony,” Natasha warns lowly.

Tony holds his hands up in mock innocence, but Strange interrupts them, turning to Bucky with a roll of his eyes. His cloak rustles.

“Did you tell her anything?” His voice is edged. “Did she suspect something?”

Bucky doesn’t answer immediately. He shifts in his seat. His back is too straight, and still, and his hands are bracing for something.

“No,” he relents. His voice is raw and rough like gravel pulled from the bottom of a riverbed. “I didn’t tell her anything.”

Strange’s eyes narrow. “Nothing?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Strange tilts his head slightly. His expression is unreadable. Calculating. “Her behavior. Did she seem disoriented? Odd? Suspicious? I assume you know Y/n well enough to tell if she’s acting off.”

The lump in his throat settles as though it lives there.

“She was hurt,” he admits, and the words punch out of him. “I froze up. She thought she’d done something wrong. But she didn’t suspect anything.”

Across from him, you shift. A small movement. But he feels it in his bones. He looks up. Meets your eyes.

You’re watching him as though you’re trying to learn something about yourself from inside of him.

He swallows hard.

“I didn’t tell her anything,” he says again, and it’s not for Strange this time. It’s for you. “I didn’t compromise anything. I was careful.”

“You were compromised,” Strange says, not unkindly, but without sympathy. “Emotionally. Whether you said something or not.”

Bucky doesn’t argue.

Because yes. He was. He is. He doesn’t even know how to be anything else anymore. His chest still echoes with the memory of your laugh - not your laugh, but close enough to trick him. His arms still remember the shape of your body, the way you buried yourself into him. As though you’d been there a thousand times before and would be a thousand times again.

He wonders what that other you is doing now. If you are still standing in the kitchen, perhaps waiting for him. Still hurt. Still confused. Still so worried.

He wonders what that Bucky is doing now. If he’s back. If he’s home. If you’re in his arms, asking what took him so long. If he knows what he has. If he’s grateful. If he deserves you.

And he wonders too, if you - the you here, right across from him now, quiet and tense and real - will ever look at him that way.

Your eyes are on his and it seems as though you want to say something, as though maybe you’ve been wanting to say something for a while now.

He doesn’t hear the others anymore.

They’re voices in a room, sounds in space, language and logic pressing against the outside of a window he’s no longer looking through.

Because your eyes are on him and they are too open, too careful.

And, unfortunately for him, this is where the hope begins.

Small. Thin. Stupid.

Because there is a version out there who loved him already. Who ran to him as though he was safety and home and joy all wrapped in one reckless heart and it had been so easy for her. Natural, even. Like a reflex. Like a need.

And he has to think that if she could, then maybe you could too.

Maybe - if he just keeps showing up, if he keeps giving you pieces of himself even when it’s terrifying, even when he thinks he has nothing worth offering - maybe you’ll see something in him that you’ll want to keep.

Maybe he’s not beyond that.

Maybe he’s not on the edge of the world after all.

His heart stumbles inside him, a sharp jolt under his ribs, and he realizes too late that his breathing has gone shallow. His palm is sweating. His chest is aching in a way that is not just pain, but hunger, longing, desperate weightless wonder.

Strange is talking. Something about dimensional instability and neural resonance and all that science talk - but Bucky is no longer a soldier at a briefing.

He’s a man staring across a room at the person who has made his worst days survivable, and he’s remembering how it felt to see you in his shirt in a different kitchen, how you stood there with your back to him waiting for him to wrap his arms around you, how your lips tasted like things he should never know but can’t ever forget.

You shift again. Your knee knocks lightly against the leg of the table as you tuck your foot beneath you. And your hair falls forward, soft and a little tangled from the wind that always sneaks through the compound’s side doors. Your lips part, as though maybe you’re going to say something in front of everyone, and he braces for it, all of him going still like a wolf spotting something too delicate to touch.

But you don’t.

You break eye contact and tuck your hair behind your ear as though you caught yourself doing something you shouldn’t.

But Bucky doesn’t stop hoping.

Because he watched you do exactly that in a very different universe. Such a small gesture but it means so much to him.

Because yes, maybe he is not the Bucky she thought she kissed.

He’s not the Bucky who wakes up with you tangled in his sheets.

He’s not the Bucky who lets himself believe he could be loved without earning it first.

But maybe he could become that man.

Maybe if he tries hard enough, he too can get the girl.

Maybe if he works at this more than anything else that matters, you’ll love him too. Not just in some alternate world, but here.

In this one.

In your voice, when you say his name.

In your laugh, when he says something without meaning too.

In your eyes, when you don’t look away.

And he knows he would do anything to earn that.

He would do anything to be enough for you in the only universe that matters.

His fingers twitch. His shoulders square slowly, almost unconsciously, as though some decision has clicked into place without needing permission.

The room is still full. Voices layered over voices like shadows that haven’t realized the sun moved. Chairs creak beneath shifting bodies, Sam’s laughter breaking loose and grating on Bucky’s nerves.

The idiot is grinning, leaning back in his chair as though this whole situation is the best thing to happen this week. “Alternate-universe you is in a relationship, Barnes. What do we think about that, huh?”

“Sounds like he’s living the dream,” Clint mutters, giving Bucky a jab to the arm. “You finally got the girl, Barnes. Took a whole damn reality shift but you got there.”

Someone chuckles. Tony, maybe. Or even Steve. He can’t tell anymore. He can’t hear much over the buzz in his ears, over the sound of his own heart pounding behind his ribs.

“Hell, maybe all our multiverse selves are having better luck,” Sam remarks, amused.

Clint chuckles. “Ah, Barnes just grew a pair.”

“Well, that’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it?” Natasha, calm as ever, lifts one elegant eyebrow.

“Alternate-universe Barnes has game,” Sam says delighted.

“Lucky bastard,” Clint mutters under his breath.

They mean well. They always mean well. This is how they show they care. With ribbing and teeth-bared grins, with shoulders nudged, and things they don’t say louder than the ones they do. It’s how they keep their own wounds in check. How they keep from bleeding all over the carpet.

But Bucky isn’t laughing. He isn’t smiling. His lip twitches but only with frustration at his teammates.

He notices your stillness. The lines around your mouth have gone soft and tight all at once. Your hands are folded too carefully in your lap and your gaze is pinned to the table.

With every mention - every offhand comment, every teasing jab - he can see it.

The way your shoulders stuck in closer to themselves. The way your breath grows quiet and shallow. The way you can’t seem to look at him anymore.

He swallows around it, the sharpness in his throat, but it doesn’t go down.

Everyone else seems to think this is a strange, mildly awkward, maybe slightly endearing detail in a weird mission story.

But Bucky feels sick.

Because he’s seen it on your face. The way the information about the kiss struck you like a misfired bullet. A shadow in your eyes, the small breath that caught in your throat, the way you shifted your legs like you needed to move, to run, to put distance between yourself and what you heard.

God.

He’s such a fool.

A lovesick idiot.

Because he let that brightness curl in his chest. The hope that even though you have every right to feel nothing at all, even though he’s spent so long training himself not to want this, not to wish for things he can’t have - he truly thought that if there was a version of you that looked at him that way, that reached for him without fear, then maybe this version, this you - maybe there was something possible here too.

But now he is watching it close again. Watching you feeling uncomfortable, retreating into yourself, folding inward like the paper crane you left behind. And he knows the fault lines are his. That even his silence can crack things apart.

When the meeting finally breaks - Strange dismissing everyone with a calm nod and a list of inter-dimensional protocols Bucky doesn’t hear - you stand before anyone else. Quiet. Not hurried. Just deliberate.

As though you’ve made a decision.

You don’t look at him. Not once. Just gather your notes and your coffee and the sweater you left draped over the back of the chair.

And you leave.

No goodbye. No glance back. Not even that half-smile you offer when the day has left you tired and the silence between you feels soft instead of loud.

Bucky is on his feet before he realizes it. He ignores Sam calling after him, something about needing to finish signing off the tech. Doesn’t respond to Steve’s “Buck?” Doesn’t glance at Strange, who’s looking at him as though he already knows where this is headed.

All Bucky sees is the hallway.

You, disappearing around the corner, just a whisper of your hair and the sound of your boots against the polished floor. And all he can think is no.

Not like this.

He walks fast, with his pulse in his mouth and panic blooming in his chest.

You’re so graceful even when you’re upset, even when your body is stiff with tension. You carry yourself with that strength that’s always pulled him in, and he hates that he knows it. Hates that he can read you this well, because it means he knows you’re hurting.

He walks fast enough to catch up, to not give himself time to think about it too much. His hands are cold again. The way they get when he’s unsure. When something matters more than he knows how to handle.

“Hey,” he calls out, and his voice comes out too soft. Almost hoarse. “Wait- can you- can we talk?”

You stop. Slow, reluctant. As if the last thing you want to do is this but some piece of you can’t help it.

You don’t turn around at first. You’re breathing hard. He can see your shoulders rise and fall too quickly, your jaw tight, your arms folded across your chest as though you are trying to keep yourself together.

You turn.

And it’s worse than he thought.

Because your eyes are shiny and your expression is made of glass and restraint and you’re biting the inside of your cheek in that way you do when you want to pretend something didn’t bother you.

He hates this. Hates that he did this to you, even accidentally.

But god, you still are beautiful in a way that feels like gravity. Like the ache in his chest could drag the stars down to meet you.

You watch him as though trying not to give too much away.

“Can we talk?” He repeats, breath catching somewhere between hope and despair.

You shrug, not cold, not angry. Just tired. “If you want.”

He steps closer. Not too close. Careful. Always careful with you.

“I know it probably sounded bad in there,” he says, voice rough. “I didn’t want it to come out like that. Like I was… caught up in something.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Bucky,” you say quickly, voice too neutral. “You didn’t know. I get it.”

But he wants to explain. Wants to lay it out, piece by bloody piece. Wants you to understand that for a minute there, he forgot how to breathe because of how you looked at him. That he hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

“I didn’t tell you- I mean, tell her,” he blurts, breathless. “I didn’t tell her who I was. Or where I came from. I didn’t say anything.”

You blink at him. “Okay.”

“She thought I was him. I- I didn’t say anything because I- I wasn’t supposed to engage and I wasn’t planning to. I swear I wasn’t planning to.”

You say nothing. Just stare at him with that sweetly confused expression.

Bucky steps closer. He’s aching, head to toe, something brittle in his chest like cracked glass.

“You kissed me,” he continues, and you bite your lip, looking away, “but I didn’t- I froze. It felt wrong. And when you said you missed me, I panicked. It felt like I was stealing something. From you. From you both.”

He stops. Swallows.

And there it is again. That dangerous spark. That sharp, flickering thing that’s lived inside him ever since he saw that other version of you, ever since your arms wrapped around his neck and your mouth pressed to his and your voice filled his chest with something whole.

He wishes for a version of that hope here, too.

But not if it means breaking you to find it.

You’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. He can’t tell if it’s pain or disappointment or confusion or all of it. He just knows it’s tearing him apart.

“I know it wasn’t me she kissed,” he goes on, quiet, every word dragging out of him as if it doesn’t want to be spoken. “And I know it wasn’t you, either. But it made me think that maybe-” He breaks off, exhales. “I know it’s not fair to say it, but-”

“Then don’t.” Your voice is soft when it comes.

And he flinches as though you touched a nerve.

But your face isn’t cruel. It’s sad. Honest. Tired in the way people get when they’re holding too many emotions all at once.

“I’m not her,” you clarify, but there is something fractured in the way you say it, like the words are paper-thin and barely holding shape. “I’m not whatever version of me you saw, whoever she is to you, that’s not me.”

“I know,” he croaks out. Bucky steps closer, just once. Not touching. Not yet. He doesn’t dare.

“No, I don’t think you do.” Your arms unfold slowly, but not in surrender. You gesture at yourself, the smallest movement, but there is steel in it. “She looks like me,” you go on. Your voice is tight. Bitter. It’s not like you. Not how he knows you - the warmth, the patience, the fire and calm and kindness all mixed together. “She sounds like me. But she’s not. She’s not me, Buck.”

And then you turn as if you’re about to go. As though you can’t stand another second of standing still in front of him.

“No- don’t,” he pleads, and before he can stop himself, he reaches. His hand finds your wrist, not tight, not rough, just enough to stop you. “Please.”

You pause again, with an exhale that is sharp and hurt and too loud in the hallway.

He is closer now. Close enough to see how tight you press your mouth together to keep it from trembling. The twitch of pain in your brow, the soft crease between your eyes he knows only shows up when you’re trying really hard not to cry.

Guilt and desperation roll through him, thorough, like a tide pulling everything warm away. It unspools him from the inside.

“What?” There is no weight behind your words. Your voice is worn. Defeated.

Bucks swallows. His voice feels like rust trying to be rain.

“She hugged me. Said she missed me. She kissed me like she’d done it a thousand times before.” His voice is shaking, even if he’s trying not to let it.

“And I didn’t stop her. Not for a second,” he goes on, quiet. “I should’ve. I should’ve pulled away sooner, but I-”

You pull your arm back, but he doesn’t let go.

“Why are you telling me this?” you question him, voice breaking in the middle. “What am I supposed to do with that, Bucky? Be happy for some other version of me?”

There is so much pain in your eyes, so much confusion and hurt and jealousy and heartbreak and it cuts him right through the heart. He feels it bleeding into his organs.

He closes his eyes, forgets how to breathe for a moment.

“I didn’t stop her,” he says lowly, slowly, “because, for a second, it felt like you.”

The silence between you is thick enough to drown in.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“For a second, it felt like something I’ll never have,” he confesses, barely audible now. “And I was selfish. I let it happen. Because it wasn’t just a kiss to me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t move. Your chin trembles.

You look at him as though you want to say something but can’t trust yourself to do it.

“I’ve been trying to bury it,” he admits, voice strained. “This thing in my chest. This want. It’s been there for a long time. And I kept thinking- if I just waited long enough, maybe it would go away. Maybe you’d never have to know. But I saw what it looked like when I had it. When I had you. Even if it wasn’t really you. And I- I didn’t want to come back here and pretend I didn’t feel it anymore.”

You don’t move. Just stand there. Staring at him as if you don’t know what to do with the version of the world he is handing you.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he adds quickly, voice thick and gravelly. “Not expecting anything. I just- I couldn’t let you walk away thinking it didn’t mean anything. Because it did. But not because of that other you.”

Bucky loosens his hold on your wrist the way someone lays a weapon down.

Slowly. Gently. Like an offering. Giving you a choice. A chance to run. A way out, if that’s what you need.

His fingers brush fabric as he lets go, every inch of skin unthreading from yours just another stitch in the fabric holding him together.

He steps back. Not far, but enough. Giving you the room to run if you want to. Because he would never cage you. Not you. Not the girl he’s tried so hard not to need and failed so spectacularly at not loving.

The cold creeps in like a punishment.

He swallows, breath shallow, heart trying to climb out of his chest. He doesn’t look away.

“It meant something,” he breathes, and the words are low but steady, dragged out of some buried part of him where he’s kept the truth folded up too long. “It meant something because I love you.”

The words hang there. Open. Unarmored. His voice doesn’t shake but he feels the quake underneath it. He is already bracing for the ruin of it, for the way your silence might cut him down. It’s too much. He’s too much. Too much and too late and he’s saying it anyway, because what else can he do now, what else is left to do but burn with it.

“I love you. You. Only you,” he repeats, and this time it’s quieter, as if speaking it softer might hurt less if you break him.

He is bracing for your silence. For the recoil. For the slow turning of your back and the slam of a door, he won’t ever be allowed to knock on again.

But you don’t run.

You just stare at him.

Wide glassy eyes, lips parted, your whole face carved out of disbelief. Your chest rises with shallow, trembling breaths, and for a second, it’s like the hallway has no oxygen at all. Just the two of you standing in a vacuum made of shattered timing and aching things laid bare.

You look like someone trying to decide if the ground beneath you is real. If you are dreaming.

And Bucky is not breathing.

Doesn’t know how he will ever take in a breath again.

Then you move.

Fast. Sharp. Certain.

You close the distance between you with a speed that knocks his soul out of him, and before he can even process the intention behind the storm in your eyes, your hands are in his collar and your mouth is on his.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not careful.

You crash into him as though gravity has finally won. As though your body has been held back for too long and now it’s surging forward with years of restraint snapped at the root.

It hits him like an impact. Like a whole damn earthquake disguised as your mouth on his.

He makes a noise - somewhere between shock and surrender - and for the barest second, he is frozen.

He’s still.

Because this is you.

You.

One breathless, startled second he forgets everything - his name, the room, the hallway, the mission, the multiverse - and then he’s moving.

He melts.

His arms are around you in a heartbeat, tight, desperate, finding your waist, your back, the edge of your jaw, greedy and trembling and too careful all at once. He pulls you in, tighter, tighter, one hand threading into your hair, the other locking around your waist.

And then he is kissing you back with everything he has, with everything he’s been holding back, with every version of himself that ever wanted to belong.

He is kissing you back as though he’ll never get the chance again.

His whole body folds into yours, heart slamming into his ribs, mouth pressing against yours, like a question he’s been dying to ask. He kisses you like an apology, like a promise, like he’s been holding his breath for a century and only just remembered how to exhale.

It’s not a careful kiss.

It’s years of aching packed into the space between your lips. It’s soft lips and a metal palm and your nails digging in his jacket and his thumb shaking against your jaw. It’s a kiss that tastes of every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every time he looked at you and wondered what it would feel like to have you.

The second your tongue touches his lower lip, a low and tortured sound rips from somewhere deep in his chest. He answers you with open-mouthed hunger, tilts his head just enough to draw you in deeper, slants his mouth over yours as though he’s living out every dream in which he’s imagined this before.

He feels the warmth of your lips and the way you lean into him, the way you give yourself over completely, and he pulls you even closer, as though he’s trying to kiss every version of you that exists in every universe just to get back to this one. You. Here. Now.

His tongue brushes yours and everything goes tight inside him - his stomach flips, his spine arches ever so slightly, his body not knowing whether to hold steady or fall apart entirely.

Your lips are sweet and urgent and you make a sound - quiet, somewhere between a sigh and a gasp - and it knocks the air in his lungs every which way.

His mouth moves faster when your fingers curl into him tighter and tug him closer, dragging him under. His metal fingers are splayed over the small of your back, and his flesh fingers are tangling at the nape of your neck, holding you still as his tongue licks into your mouth, gentle but full of everything he’s feeling.

He moans softly into you, doesn’t even realize it’s happening until he feels the sound buzz against your lips. His pulse is pounding in his ears. His knees feel untrustworthy. There is heat spreading through his chest, through his limbs, and he wants to live in this moment forever, suspended in the place where you chose him.

When you finally pull back, your lips are swollen, flushed. He presses his forehead to yours just enough to breathe, but not enough to let you go. Never that.

His hands are on your face. His thumbs brush under your eyes. His breath shudders out against your lips.

When he opens his eyes, slowly, he is met with yours. Glistening and wide and so full of feeling it almost floors him.

He stares at you as though he’s seeing the sun rise for the first time.

“I love you too,” you breathe against him.

Bucky shivers.

It lands like a heartbeat he forgot to hope for.

Pleasure surges through his veins, straight to his heart. His eyes fall shut, lost in it.

And something in him tells him he will hear this at least a thousand times, maybe even more, if he’s lucky.

“I loved her not for the way she danced with my angels, but for the way the sound of her name could silence my demons.”

- Christopher Poindexter

[tuffluuhv]

[tuffluuhv]

Remember It All

📃Masterlist || WC: 4654 || Standalone

📚 Spencer Reid x BAU!Reader

📚 Warnings: Angst. Fluff. Mentions of miscarriage. Everything all at once.

📚 Context: Spencer and BAU!Reader have been married for years. Loosely based on the Truth or Dare Episode.

📚 Author's Note: No JJ hate here please! She's one of my favourite characters (even though that episode was sort of questionable). I know that she could've lied but she was also just trying to live.

The red and blue lights pulsed, reflecting off the wet pavement, their rhythm almost mocking the stillness that had settled over the crime scene. The sirens blared faintly in the background, the faint hum of them buzzing through your bones.

You stood there with the team, the air thick with tension and the unspoken weight of it all. You had done this so many times, seen so many cases, but this one felt different. Spencer was inside that store, with JJ. Held hostage by an unsub, playing a twisted game of Truth or Dare.

And even now, with Casey down, dead, the relief you’d been waiting for didn’t settle into your chest. Not really. It felt like the moment was suspended, like something was wrong and you couldn't place it.

You should have been relieved. You were relieved. But the feeling didn't reach the parts of you that mattered.

Spencer, your husband, was still in there. The man you loved.

And JJ—she was in there too, her life, her family hanging in the balance. Her boys. Will. Everything. The gravity of it pressed down on you, crushing, because it wasn’t just about strangers anymore. It was about families, about real, breathing lives on the line, about futures that had barely begun to take shape.

And it reminded you, too sharply, of the life you’d begun to build with Spencer.

You had known, from the first time you walked through the door at the BAU, that danger was a constant. That risk was built into the very fabric of your life. You had accepted that somewhere deep down—that there was always the chance you might not come home. That you could kiss Spencer goodbye, step out that door in your home, and never walk back through it again. It was a fear you could never shake.

The day you made the promises. The day you stood before him, your heart beating louder than anything else in the room, and spoke vows that meant everything. The vows weren’t just words—they were everything. They were the soft, unspoken promise to build a life together, to never let go of what you were both creating.

And somewhere in that promise, somewhere in those quiet words, your life shifted. No longer was it just about surviving the next case, the next danger. It was about the future—the future you both had dreamed of, the one you didn’t even know you had wanted until you both stood there in front of him, pledging forever.

When you and Spencer promised each other everything, it was more than just a ceremony. More than a ring on your finger. It was the promise to build a home—your home. A place with laughter echoing through its walls, with shared dreams and memories tucked into every corner. The promise of a house, not just as a place to live, but a home—where the floorboards creaked under the weight of your growing family, where your future children would run and play.

It was the promise of raising them—those little hands reaching up for yours, those sleepy nights spent rocking them to sleep, teaching them to walk, to speak, to love. The promise of becoming the parents you had always wanted to be.

And somewhere between the wedding vows and the stolen glances you’d shared in the years before, those quiet moments that once seemed insignificant had turned into eternal promises. Each gaze between you, each whispered word, had woven a future together, stitched it into the very fabric of your being. You weren’t just two agents anymore, running headlong into danger. You were two people who had everything to lose. You were family, and that was the kind of love that could make everything feel both precious and perilous.

You hadn’t known what it meant to really fear until now. Not until you stood there in front of him, making that promise, holding that future in your hands. It was a fear that came with loving so completely, with knowing that your heart was no longer just your own. It was tied to him. It was tied to the life you would one day build together—the house, the kids, the shared mornings, the shared everything.

It was a fear so heavy it felt like it could crush you if mishandled.

And that was the same fear Hotch had felt. The fear that had driven him away from the team, away from the job he had given his life to, to protect his everything. His son, Jack. Because when it came down to it, the job didn’t matter. The cases didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was the promise he’d made. The promise to come home. To protect his family.

And you felt it now, too—the weight of that promise, the depth of that fear. You were people, holding your lives in your hands, knowing how fragile it all could be. And somehow, that made everything feel like it was always on the verge of breaking.

You both had everything to lose now.

But standing there, outside, with nothing but a radio and your own thoughts, the anxiety curled in the pit of your stomach.

Then, you heard the shot.

Your heart stopped, and every cell in your body felt like it shut down for a split second. A gunshot. Not one of the standard shots you’d heard before—no, this one was sharp. Different. Final.

You braced yourself, waiting for someone to call it. A report. But it wasn’t long before the words Casey dead came through the radio.

They were alive. Spencer. JJ. They were alive.

Relief flooded through you, but it felt like you were floating, as if you weren’t really here, not fully present. And yet, despite the fact that they had made it out, you could still feel something nagging at you, pulling at the edges of your thoughts. Spencer’s face, his eyes—there was something wrong.

You spotted him before anyone else, his silhouette just visible against the flashing lights, standing stiffly next to the police car. The paramedic was wrapping his hand, probably from the glass he’d been holding onto during the hostage situation. You knew that he was alive, but you didn’t know if that was enough anymore.

His hair was a little longer now, more messy than before. But you’d never really noticed it.

It was strange, how these small changes crept up on you. The slow, quiet erosion of things you once thought were permanent. Spencer's hair was the least of it, though. The thing that caught your breath wasn’t the mess of his curls or the way his shirt had ridden up on his sleeves. It was the distance in his eyes—the subtle shift that you didn’t quite understand, but felt all the same.

It was a change you hadn’t noticed until now, when you stood face-to-face with him, after everything.

You thought back to that night in the NYC courthouse, years ago—before Gideon had passed, before anyone knew. Just the three of you in the stillness of the court, hidden away from the world. The wind howled outside, but inside, there was only silence. The kind of silence you could only find in moments that mattered. The kind of silence that held your promises, quiet but unbreakable.

You and Spencer had come to him that day, just the two of you—already married in your hearts, already bound by something deeper than a piece of paper, but still wanting to make it real. You had tracked him down on your own, the two of you still new to this idea of forever, eager to share that secret moment with him.

It hadn’t been a traditional wedding. No church bells, no bouquets. Just the quiet hum of the courthouse, the officiator’s voice low and steady. Only the three of you—Spencer, you, and Gideon. His presence had been the grounding force, the one witness who’d seen the two of you in your most raw, unguarded moment. He was the only one who knew the depth of the promises you’d made to each other.

It had been the best secret, the one thing you could keep just between the two of you. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust the team. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to share it. It was simply that in this world of chaos and uncertainty, this quiet little secret was the only thing you could hold onto, the only thing you could protect. You couldn’t afford to let anything slip through the cracks—not when your lives were so intertwined with danger.

A wedding certificate that no one would ever see, buried deep within your personnel records. You had shared it only with each other, locked away in your hearts.

Your steps quickened, though your heart had already started to beat faster. You fought to steady yourself, to push down the anxiety rising in your chest, but it felt impossible. It felt like you were sinking into something, into a space too dark to escape. And if it weren’t for the active case still unfolding around you, you might have just let yourself drown in the panic.

Focus, focus, focus.

“Spence!” You barely recognized your own voice as it came out, louder than you intended.

His eyes found you instantly, but they were distant in a way you hadn’t seen before. Not just because he was a victim, not just because he’d been through hell, but because something was different. His gaze lingered on you for a second too long, flickering, like he was unsure of what to do with you.

He pushed himself off the car slowly, his body stiff as if he’d forgotten how to move like he used to. The hesitance was there, obvious, and your stomach twisted as you tried to convince yourself it was just the shock, just the trauma of what had happened. But you couldn’t shake it. The feeling that something had been broken. You just didn’t know how to fix it yet.

He lifted his hand, and for a moment, you thought he was going to touch your face like he used to. But the touch felt more like an apology, or worse—a question. His fingers brushed your cheek with a gentleness that almost stung. He was trying so hard to be okay, to act like everything was fine.

You let him pull you in, just for a second, just enough to feel his heartbeat against yours. But the kiss was wrong. It was slow, tentative—like neither of you knew how to begin anymore. Normally, a kiss after a case like this was a reflex. But not this time.

You pulled back, just enough to see his face, searching it for some sign that he was still him. But when you looked up at him, you saw only a shadow of the man you had married. That flicker of guilt was still there.

“Thank god you’re okay,” you said, but the words barely left your lips before your chest tightened again. You almost felt like you couldn’t breathe, like the air was suddenly too thick, too hot. It felt like panic was crawling up your throat, suffocating you from the inside out.

But you had to keep it together. You had to.

He whispered into your hair, his voice too soft, too shaky. “I love you.”

You didn’t reply right away, though your heart was pounding, every beat a drum against your chest. You heard it, and you knew he meant it, but there was something off about it. Something in the way he said it, as if it were a confession more than a declaration.

It took a beat longer than usual for the words to leave your mouth. And when they did, they felt heavier than they ever had.

“I love you too.”

There. You said it. You had to say it, even if you didn’t fully understand the words. Even if it was starting to feel like you were just saying words to fill the silence, to fill the space between you.

He pulled you closer, his arm wrapping tightly around your shoulders, like he was trying to hold everything together. You could feel the tension in his body, the way his breath hitched just slightly, as if he were terrified to let you go, terrified to let the connection slip any further.

The paramedic finished with his hand and started to pull away, but neither of you moved. You just stayed there, standing in that fragile moment, still holding on to each other, pretending that nothing had changed. Pretending that it was all okay.

But you knew. The words, the unspoken ones—JJ’s confession—it was hanging between you two, pressing down on you both. He knew. But you weren’t sure if he knew that you knew. He hadn’t said anything about it. You hadn’t said anything about it.

And you couldn’t. Not yet.

You just stood there, and for a moment, it was enough. But only for a moment.

You squeezed your eyes shut, focusing on your breath, trying to steady yourself before the panic could fully take over. But it was already there, crawling under your skin, itching at the edge of your consciousness. If you weren’t in the middle of an active case, you would’ve collapsed right then and there.

And so, he stood there holding you tighter, as if overcompensating for everything that was about to happen – everything that already happened.

But the weight of everything between you both was starting to break through, piece by piece, until neither of you knew how to fix it.

It had been a week. Seven days since Spencer walked out of that jewelry store alive. Seven days since JJ said it.

And in the silence that followed, everything between you and Spencer had started to bend. Quietly. Painfully.

The bandages on his hands were gone now—just raw pink skin left behind. But you knew better. Some wounds didn’t close. Some sat inside your chest and festered, no matter how hard you tried to forget they were there.

Dinner had been quiet. Too quiet. He kept glancing at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice, like he was bracing for an explosion.

Now you were at the sink. You washed. He dried. A rhythm you’d done a thousand times before. It used to mean comfort. Love.

Tonight it felt like going through the motions.

You reached for another dish. Your hand trembled—barely, but enough. The plate clinked sharply against the sink. Not enough to break. But close. Too close.

Spencer turned his head slightly. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m fine. Just tired.” Too quick. Too flat.

He dried a bowl that didn’t need drying anymore. “You’ve been saying that a lot.”

You shrugged. “It’s been a long week.”

He was quiet for a moment, but you could feel it—the shift in the air. His gaze getting heavier, more pointed.

Then came the break in his voice. “Why are you mad at me?”

Your hands stilled under the water. The faucet ran, hot and loud.

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” he said, more firmly this time. “You’ve been cold. And I’m doing everything I can to keep things... normal. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, and I’m trying, but—”

You turned, slow and tired. “It’s not about you doing something wrong.”

“Then what is it?” he asked, exasperated. “Because I feel like I’m losing you in our own home.”

You hated that your breath caught. That your heart gave away how close to the edge you were. “We’ve been through worse, Spencer.”

“So then talk to me. You’re my wife—”

“Don’t do that,” you snapped, the words sharper than you intended.

His brow furrowed. “Don’t do what?”

“Don’t throw our titles at me like they’re shields.” Your voice cracked, and your hands were still wet with soap and water and something deeper—something angry.

Spencer stepped closer. “I’m not— I’m trying to remind you that this—” he gestured helplessly between you, “—this was built on trust. On honesty. We promised each other everything.”

“And maybe that’s why it hurts so much!” you cried, stepping back. “Because I gave you everything, Spencer! I stood outside that damn jewelry store thinking you were going to die, and all I could do was hold it together so I could bring you home. And then she—” you choked on it looking out the window onto the dark streets of D.C., “—she says that to you, and it’s like suddenly I’m not enough.”

His expression twisted, like the words had physically struck him. “What? You’re more than enough, you know that. That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” you said bitterly. “She told you she loved you. And you didn’t say a thing. You didn’t tell her no. You just... stood there.”

“I was in shock!” he said, louder now. “JJ and I—never even happened, you know that, come on—”

“But it meant something,” you interrupted. “It meant enough for her to say it when she thought she was going to die. And don’t tell me you didn’t feel anything when she said it. Because I saw your face after. I know you.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, jaw clenched. His voice, when it came, was low and trembling. “And I know you. I know when you’re hurt. But this guilt you’re holding over me? It’s not mine to carry.”

You let out the breath you were holding, taking another step away from him. “Maybe not. But I’m the one left carrying the image of you standing there, silent, like she cracked open something in you I’ve never been allowed to touch.”

“That’s not true.”

“Really?” you said, tears spilling freely now. “Because we can talk all day about how she was scared and how you were caught off guard, but none of it erases how it felt. And how it still feels.”

He stared at you, hands shaking now, like he was grasping for something that wouldn’t come. “So what do you want me to say? That I hate her? That I regret going in there? That I should’ve died instead?”

“Don’t you dare,” you hissed, voice raw. “Don’t you ever say that.”

The silence that followed was frustration.

You turned away, wiping at your cheeks, your breath uneven.

You walked out the kitchen, towards the bedroom you both shared. You closed the door behind you, crying hot tears, unsure of how to fix anything.

That night, he slept on the couch.

At Work

Yesterday night’s outburst quietly seeped into the workday like a slow, unspoken bruise.

You didn’t mention it. Neither did he. But everything about the way you moved around each other said enough.

You didn’t sit beside him during the morning briefing. You didn’t touch the coffee he poured for you out of habit. You didn’t make a face when he misspoke mid-profile, didn’t gently correct him under your breath like you used to. And in the kitchen—where laughter and late-night case notes once lived—you simply never crossed paths. Not by accident. Not anymore.

You talked to Emily. To Tara. You stood beside Luke during takedown strategy. And when Penelope came by with pastries, you offered her your last smile of the day.

Spencer didn’t push. But you felt his eyes.

It wasn’t until hours later—after a long, limping day and a half-hearted debrief—that you found yourselves back in his car. Or maybe it was still your car. You didn’t know anymore.

The drive home was quiet. No music. No usual podcast playing softly from his phone. Just the rumble of the engine and the tired hush of two people who used to be everything to each other, now barely breathing in sync.

He cleared his throat once. Lightly.

“Do you think Rossi’s gonna move?” he asked, tentative.

You stared ahead for a second, then muttered, “No.”

Another stretch of silence. Trees blurred past the window.

“What do you want for dinner?” he asked gently, like maybe if he said it soft enough, it wouldn’t land with a thud.

You turned your head toward the passenger side window. “I’m not that hungry.”

That was the one that broke him.

He stopped talking after that.

His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. He didn’t say a word the rest of the way home.

You both got out of the car like strangers who just happened to live under the same roof.

That night, he moved back into your shared bedroom.

No words about it. No conversation.

Maybe a part of you had been waiting—for the ache to settle, for the silence to feel less like punishment and more like space to grieve. The grief of something shifting. This wasn’t about JJ anymore.

You got into bed first. No goodnight kiss. No shared book resting on both your laps. Just you, pulling the covers up, turning your back to him, your body curled at the very edge of the mattress.

This was the bed that held years.

The one that knew your whispered I love yous, the quiet laughter after cases that nearly broke you, the soft murmurs in the middle of the night when nightmares pulled one of you from sleep, and the sleepless nights.

Now it held the absence of touch. The distance between bodies that used to fit without trying.

He climbed in slowly, like the weight of everything still clung to his shoulders. You could feel the mattress dip beside you, but you didn’t move. You couldn’t. You stared at the wall like it might offer you answers.

Spencer exhaled, shaky.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he said, voice small, careful.

You didn’t reply. Because if you did, you might start crying again. And if you started crying, you weren’t sure you’d ever stop.

It was probably 2 a.m. when you woke up again. The room was dark, moonlight barely slipping through the cracks in the curtains. Somehow, sometime during the night, Spencer had pulled you closer—his arm wrapped tightly around your torso like his subconscious couldn't bear to let you go.

You stayed still for a moment, listening to the way his breath hitched just slightly in his sleep. Like even unconscious, he was holding something back. Like maybe he was breaking too.

Quietly, gently, you peeled his arm away from your waist and slipped out of bed. Your feet hit the cold floor with a small thud. You didn’t look back.

The kitchen light hummed softly as you flicked it on. D.C. was sleeping beyond the window—its usual chaos muted in the hush of the early morning. The kettle sat on the stove, waiting. You filled it with water and turned the burner on. Steam began to rise.

You stood there, gripping the counter like it was the only thing holding you up.

When the kettle started to sing, you reached to turn it off—but before you could, arms slid around your waist from behind. Spencer’s body curved gently into yours, his head coming to rest on your shoulder like it belonged there.

“Can’t sleep?” he murmured, voice raw with exhaustion.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Instead, you stepped forward, out of his embrace, reaching for the hot water bag on the counter.

Spencer didn’t push. He just took the kettle from your hands without a word. “Let me,” he said quietly.

And you let him. A small gesture. But he noticed. He always noticed.

He handed you the filled water bottle, then leaned against the counter, arms folded loosely across his chest. Watching you. Waiting.

“Can we talk about it?” he asked, tentative. “Please?”

You sank onto the stool by the kitchen island, staring at the warm bag in your lap. Then nodded. “Yeah. Sure, Spence.”

“Walk me through it,” he said. “I want to understand.”

You exhaled slowly. The truth had lived in your chest for days now, suffocating. It came out shaky at first, like your lungs weren’t used to forming the words.

“You were in that shop,” you whispered. “You could’ve died. I was standing outside thinking the next time I saw you, you’d be gone. And when she said it… when she said she loved you—” your voice broke, and you looked away, blinking hard. “I thought, maybe she knew something I didn’t. Like she had some right to say goodbye to you that I didn’t.”

Spencer opened his mouth, but you stopped him with a small shake of your head.

“I tried to understand,” you said, quieter now. “I tried to believe you when you said it didn’t mean anything. But Spence… it felt like she was mourning something that wasn’t hers. And I hated her for it. I hated myself for hating her.”

He looked like the air had left his lungs. His voice cracked when he finally spoke. “You don’t have to protect her feelings, or mine. You’re allowed to be angry.”

You nodded, slowly, tears beginning to slide down your cheeks. “I was angry. But not just at her. At everything. At the timing. At the universe. Because…”

You clutched the hot water bottle tighter.

“Because I- I was pregnant.”

The silence was immediate, deafening. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“Was?” he echoed, the word almost breaking in his throat.

You nodded, barely. “It was early. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to make it real until I was sure. I took a test and... it was faint. I thought maybe it was a mistake so I went to the doctor to confirm it. I didn’t want to tell you and then lose it. But I think I always knew. I knew that it was over before it could even start.”

Spencer moved toward you then, slowly, like you were made of glass. He knelt beside you, resting his hand on your knee. “When?”

You bit your lip so hard it shook. “Before we went down to the jewelry store. I was spotting. Cramping. I thought I was just tired. I went to the doctor the next day, and she said... it was an early miscarriage, just a little over 8-9 weeks.”

Spencer’s eyes filled, overflowing before he could even blink them away. “You went through that alone?”

You nodded. “I didn’t know how to tell you. And then everything with JJ happened, and I didn’t know how to breathe, let alone grieve.”

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you down into his lap on the kitchen floor, holding you like his world had caved in and he was clinging to the only thing left standing.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, over and over, into your hair. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” you sobbed. “But I didn’t want you to look at me like I failed, like I couldn’t keep it together, keep myself together, for our unborn child’s life.”

“I would never,” he breathed. “Never, never, never.”

You cried into him, your body shuddering as the grief finally poured out of you. And he held you through it all. His own tears soaked into your skin. “We lost something,” he whispered, voice shaking. “But I didn’t lose you. We’re still here. You and me.”

You nodded against his chest. “We’re still here.”

Eventually, your tears slowed. The silence between you felt softer now—less like distance, more like the air needed to begin again.

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the wetness from your cheeks.

“We’ll try again someday,” he said. “When you’re ready. When we’re ready. And if it takes time... if it takes forever, we’ll still be here.”

You pressed your forehead to his. “For better or for worse, right?”

He smiled through the ache. “In sickness and in health.”

You kissed him then, slow and full of sorrow, but also full of love.

And in the dim light of your kitchen, with grief tangled between your bodies and hope stitched into your fingertips, you held each other. Everything slowly fell back into place.

[tuffluuhv]

I really want to read The Selection books again even though I am probably too old for them, but damn the way those books had me up at 4 am sobbing under the blankets because Maxon was so precious and America so stupid