Probably sleepy

"A doctor will be with you in a minute." The nurse tells you. She props up the gurney so you can sit upright.

You nod as you lean back into it, managing a smile through the pain. It's already hard enough to breathe without the uncomfortably sharp smell of disinfectant, just barely blanketing the rusty scent of blood underneath. 

You've always hated that smell. Hated how it clung to her curls, how you'd find it burrowed deep under her skin long after she'd leave the wretched place.

Really, you hated all of it. But mostly how it called to her. How she couldn't stop herself from answering.

The curtains swish open, stirring air. You lift your head, unable to stop the twitch in your mouth when your eyes find hers. 

Bingo.

Baran's eyes widen, just the smallest bit, then dip down to comb over you. You feel every inch of her assessment as if her hands were prodding here and there, searching for wrongness she could fix.

"This is Y/N L/N." The nurse announces. "Came in for pain at the ribs, some trouble breathing."

Baran's gaze snaps back to yours. She blinks. You blink back. 

The doctor beside her gives her a sideways glance before she steps up to your bedside. "Hi, Miss L/N." She smiles. "This is my attending, Doctor Al-Hashimi. I'm Student Doctor Javadi. We'll need to take a look at your lungs, if that's okay."

You nod, pulling yourself straighter as she unwinds the stethoscope from around her neck. Discomfort prickles your skin, the kind that follows a heavy, prolonged stare. Your eyes dart to the figure still looming at the foot of your bed.

Baran clears her throat. You just barely catch the short breath she takes in, steadying herself. "Have you suffered a blow to the chest? A fall, maybe, or an—"

"I fell." You say shortly. Her head tilts, eyes sharpening. 

The silence grows. You reluctantly go on. 

"I was going down the stairs, my son's toys were everywhere. I slipped. Landed on my chest."

"Take a deep breath for me, please."

You take one and wince, the inhale cutting off midway through. Pain flares in your side, a sharp throb that lingers even after you breathe out. It beats white-hot. The med student apologizes, but she prods for another one, the metal of her stethoscope cold as she shifts its position on your chest. Your fingers curl into a fist.

"Anything to break the fall?"

You shake your head, your voice coming out wheezy. "It happened fast."

"No absent breath sounds." She says, leaning back. Baran's nod is stiff. 

"You'll need to check the area."

The med student turns to you. "Can I lift up your shirt?"

You do it yourself. The cold air of the ED is a small relief against your skin.

"Where does it hurt?" 

You don't know if it's the roaring in your ears, but Baran's voice is dulled. Softened. You don't look at her as you gesture to your side, careful not to touch the sore area. It doesn't matter anyway. The girl does it for you, feeling gently along your abdomen until her fingers find the spot. 

Your breath hitches. "Faint swelling," she murmurs, "…around the seventh rib… Let me know if you feel any tenderness." She hardly presses, but the pain responds anyway, too loud, too hot.

You inhale sharply.

"Stop." Baran's voice rings out. The girl snaps back on her heels, her hands raised. You sag back onto the gurney, letting your shirt down as Baran clears her throat and nods at the med student. "That's enough for us to know it's at least fractured." Her gaze shifts to you, not unkind. "We'll need to take you for an X-ray."

"Fun," you rasp. "Lead the way."

"I'll get you a gown." The nurse pipes up. The med student follows her out, saying something about coming back when the scan is done. 

The curtain swishes closed around them, leaving you alone with your ex-wife. She hasn't moved from her spot—still rooted to the foot of your bed with her arms crossed, like she's standing guard. There's tension along her shoulders. The familiar glaze of concern in her eyes.

Silence crowds, but you don't have the stomach for it.

"Hello." You say tiredly, a headache starting to pulse at your temples. This is not how you wanted today to go.

She seems to unfreeze with that one word. Arms dropping, she clasps them behind her back and takes two steps closer to your bedside. Her voice loses its edge. "How bad is the pain?"

"It's fine." You mumble.

She gives you a look.

"A seven," you relent. "…and a half."

A small fissure blooms on her face, faint cracks rippling through her composure. She sucks in a deep breath—quite mean to do in front of you, if you're honest—and swallows, her mouth set.

"Usually, for rib fractures, there's nothing we can do except prescribe medication. Your scan will tell us more, however the fracture will likely heal on its own. Extreme cases require surgery, but otherwise it's ice packs and rest—no heavy lifting, no lying down."

"Okay." You say blankly. "Good to know."

She continues as if you haven't spoken. "I can have them give you a shot of—"

"No." You shake your head. "No shots."

You have too much shit to do already. You'd planned on making use of your son's absence by getting the house in order, running the errands you've been putting off for weeks—but of course, of course, you had to end up here. The last thing you need is to have some medication messing with your head, slowing you down further.

Baran lets out a breath, her hands curling around the rails of the gurney. "The effect won't last long. Clearly, you're uncomfortable. You might as well take something while you're here." You stay silent, and she pushes, knuckles poking sharp through her skin. "Karim is with my parents, there's no reason why you should be refusing—"

The sigh is out of your mouth before you can stop it. "I have shit to do, Baran." You snap.

"How exactly do you suppose you're going to do anything if you can't even take a full breath on your own? What's so important, anyway?" Her eyes blaze. "Laundry?"

The curtain swishes open.

"Oh—" The nurse shrinks back. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

Baran lets go of your bed as if she'd been burned. Her eyes are still blazing as she turns and forces a smile, stiffer than the hand she lays on the nurse's shoulder. "Thank you, Emma." She says, deliberately even. "Please let me know when you get the result back."

She leaves without sparing you a glance.

-

You know the Pitt is notorious for its horrendous waiting times, but you still hadn't expected to wait an entire hour for the result of a simple X-ray. Hell, the actual scan itself had taken mere minutes.

You perk up when the curtain swishes open again, but Baran doesn't make for the laptop screen against the wall. Instead she approaches your bedside, a glass jar in one hand and a cup of tea in another.

"I don't suppose you've eaten." It's not phrased as a question. You hate that it's not, because she knows, and she's right. "The cafeteria food is terrible." She continues without waiting for your answer, her tone peevish. "Here."

You're not above accepting her offerings. The tea smells like the kind she used to make at home, minted and sweet. Its steam works up a lump in your throat.

It hurts, seeing her. It always does. Whether you've fought or not, whether you're civil or not. Just her presence is hard to swallow down. You still haven't gotten used to the distance, miles of oceans between you, no matter how physically close you are.

It's ridiculous. You've lived most of your life without her, and yet a decade and some have ruined you for the unforeseeable future.

The tea scalds your tongue. Baran is notably gentler as she sets the jar down on the bed along with a tissue-wrapped spoon. Overnight oats, if you had to guess.

"Thanks," you mutter.

She inclines her head in a nod and perches on the arm of the chair next to your bed. "I'm sorry you've had to wait so long. There's a holdup with the X-rays."

"I didn't expect to get special treatment." You give her a tight-lipped smile. She doesn't return it until you say, "This place seriously sucks, though."

"Yes, well." Her laugh is more of a huffed breath. "We're unfortunately not the most punctual." She frowns down at her hands for just a second before she looks back up at you. Her eyes dip to your gown.

"Do you need help getting that off?"

"I'm good."

Not.

She stands. "Baran."

"Button downs will be easier to wear," she says, reaching for your folded clothes. You'd managed your pants on your own, but you couldn't untie the gown without your vision flashing white. "Anything you don't have to pull over your head. At least for the first two weeks."

"Noted," you say, "but I can—"

"Can you stop," she breathes, fingers bunched in your shirt, "being so goddamn stubborn?"

Her eyes are always mesmerizing when she's angry. They darken several impossible shades, turn into shards of glassy obsidian. 

You drain the last of your tea, hand her the cup, and silently lean forward. Her exhaled breath hits the shell of your ear, low and desperately trying to stay controlled. You feel her finger hook into the messy bow at your back. Feel her tug it loose.

You peel the gown away. It's a scratchy, awful thing; you toss it further down the bed, quietly grateful as you turn back to Baran and take your bra from her.

"This could count as harassment, you know." You meet her eyes, hold the cups to your chest.

She only raises a brow.

It's enough to make you flush, your teeth grazing your bottom lip. Her hands are warm as they fasten your bra. The brush of her fingers nearly makes you shiver, but you hold it, force your shoulders back to keep the tingle from running down your spine.

And if goosebumps rise up on your flesh—well, the ED is cold. Your skin is sensitive. Baran's hands smell like sanitizer, harsh and clinical as she stretches out the collar of your shirt, helps you fit your head in. There's a brief flash of pain when you have to guide your arm through a sleeve, but it dissipates as you fully shrug the shirt on. You don't care to attribute it to the way her fingers linger on your abdomen, gently splayed over your side. They stay there even after you settle, fully clothed.

"Baran." You murmur, your heart kicking faster. Her head is ducked, eyes on your torso where her thumb draws circles.

"It will be…difficult to get around," she says, still looking down, "for a few days. The meds will only get you so far. You shouldn't overexert yourself."

"I won't."

"You could stay." The words are soft from her mouth, nearly mumbled. Baran doesn't mumble. "With me. Until it gets better."

She's looking at you now. You almost wish she isn't.

"Because that won't fuck with Karim's head."

Her lips thin. 

"You're hurt."

"I can manage."

"Karim can stay with my parents. They won't mind, they never do—"

"And when do you get home, Baran?" You wonder. 

She doesn't shy away from your eyes. "At least you'd have someone."

"I don't need someone." Your throat is unbearably scratchy. Your attempt at a laugh doesn't ease the ache—worsens it, actually, right where your pulse beats. "Jesus, you make it seem like I'm dying. I'll be fine."

Your conviction weakens with that last word, crumbling beneath Baran's gaze. Even years down the line, you could never quite get used to the intensity of it. She has warm, kind eyes—bottomless, all-consuming eyes; you've drowned in their depths, been warmed by their heat and burned from their fire.

Baran is unsmiling as she reaches for your face. She cradles your jaw in her hand—that rough, soft hand, antiseptic and long-washed lotion, cuticle oil rubbed around her short, clean nails, a freckle at the base of her wrist. Your breath hitches, comes out shaky through your nose.

You may be stubborn, but you're also unbearably weak. She's like a big, tender bruise imprinted onto your flesh. Just the press of a thumb—and you give, mouth open, gasping. It's been years, and the bruise hasn't healed. It hasn't shrunk. Sometimes you think it's only gotten bigger.

"Please." She says quietly.

Somewhere, beyond the curtains, you hear someone yell, "I need an attending!"

Relief and dread spread through you in equal measure.

You lean away from your ex-wife, tilt your head to the source of the sound. "That's you."

-

The med student comes back alone. You feel bad for not remembering her name.

"It's just a simple hairline fracture, so you won't be needing surgery or anything. Just ice it a few times a day for twenty minutes or so and make sure to rest, definitely don't lift anything heavy or do hardcore exercises."

You smile. "Got it."

She says a bunch of other things, only a few of which filter through. You thank her, pocket your prescription, and speed-walk out of the emergency room. You really almost make it, only three steps from the door when she calls your name.

And you, stupid you—you turn.

"Oh. Good," you blurt out before she can say anything. You take out her jar from your purse—emptied, the spoon rattling inside—and shove it into her hands. "Thanks for this, by the way. It was good. Didn't expect the chocolate."

"It balances out the acidity of the yogurt," she says, almost automatically as she takes the jar from you. It registers on her too late; she gives her head a small shake, a move that's, unfortunately, never stopped being endearing. "You have your prescription?"

"Yep," you answer, trying not to prickle. "We've got aspirin at home, so." You shrug, making room for a frazzled looking woman to pass through.

Baran nods. "Can I…" She pushes her shoulders back, the slightest bit. "Is it okay if I escort you out?"

You blink. "Sure," you say, too drained to argue.

She nods again. Holds the door open for you. You walk through, and despite your shallower breaths, you still smell the traces of coconut from her curl cream—the same one you'd lathered on your hands, raked through her hair when she'd be too tired to do it herself.

You rub a rough hand into your eyes, pressing hard enough to hurt, and make for the parking lot.

"Wait a minute—" Baran's shoes crunch on the gravel. "Did you drive?" She demands.

You let your hand fall. "Calling an ambulance seemed overkill." You say dryly.

Her face grows disbelieving. God, you wish she wouldn't do that, wish she'd stop caring, just stop it Baran, stop it, stop it, stop—

"I'll—"

"You'll what?" You murmur, pulling out your keys. "Take me home?"

She can't step out. You both know she can't.

"Call someone." She pleads. You can hear the underlying shake in her voice, you can feel it rattling your bones. She takes your hand, traps the car keys in your palm. "As your physician, I can't—Y/N, you shouldn't. You'll hurt yourself."

You let out a throbbing breath. Jesus, you just want it all to end. This day, this stupid distance between you that never seems to lessen, never seems to widen, never does anything but hurt. "There's no one to call, Baran," you say quietly. "I made it here, I can make it back."

She shakes her head. The sun catches in her curls, threads along her highlights and sets them on fire. You want them around your fingers. You want everything to go back to the way it was, but the closest you can do is say okay when she says she'll order you a car, because can you even say no? She's pulling the keys from your grip, her pleas warm against your face; she's saying azizam, azizam, come inside, I'll wait with you, and you feel your bones crumble and your resolve die and you do what you could never stop yourself from doing.

You follow her where she goes.

Hi, thank you so much for your support on my first Baran fic! If you liked this one, please consider leaving a comment or reblogging to lmk!! I'd love to know what you thought <3

The news of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon’s death brought a chilling silence upon the entirety of Dragonstone. Not a maid dares to whisper in the halls, no laughs slipped through the cracks of scullery doors, the guards, always stoic, stood grim. Joy was hard to find with the ongoing war between the usurpers and your Queen, but this was a tension no one had the authority to break.  

The images of your Queen, on her knees, shaking the body of the boy you raised, haunted you every day that has passed. You suddenly found yourself without purpose for the crown.  

Your own children had fallen into a slump from the death of their kind friend. Their spoons lifted from their bowls twice before dropping, unable to settle their stomachs and accept the loss.  

Your son, the newest and youngest addition to the Queensguard, has had to endure your pleas for him to manage his figure. His strength could not wane at times like this. But your words could never reach him. Your daughter, Princess Baela’s handmaid, fell ill within the first week of the crown’s devastating loss. The light in her eyes grew dim along with her uniform dresses now engulfing her.  

Day after day, your strength left you. You could only eat enough to see your son off in the early morning, care for your young daughter, and visit the fallen prince’s bedchambers.  

It hadn’t changed since you’d last seen him. His bed was made to perfection, courtesy of you awaiting his return. There was wood stacked on the hearth, curtains drawn back, and floor tiles unmarked by his rough shoes. The only thing in disarray was his desk. It stood there, letters askew and blank parchment waiting for ink to color it. His chair was still pulled out. There was no one left to sit in it.  

Atop the desk, right in the corner, sat a wooden dragon figure. You recognized it as something Arius had carved in his youth. He had given it to Jacaerys as gift on his ninth name-day. You pick it up and let your thumb glide over the scales, the texture grounding you in the moment.  

You heard the door groan and your heart trembled. There was only one person it could be. You hurriedly turned around to greet her, ready to lower yourself in her presence. She stops you with a raised hand.  

The Queen enters the space fully, closing the doors herself. You watch as she walks around the room, stopping here and there to stare thoughtfully at his things. Her hair catches the light that streams in from his chamber windows, and your breath quickens. Her head turns your way, as though hearing it. You can’t help but think of how dragon-like her features had become. Her heart was hardened by loss, and her eyes set ablaze by it, her jaw sharpened with age, and her movement had refined through maturity.  

Finally, she makes her way towards you.  

“There are rumors you tend to his room every day, what is it that you do?” She looks around, everything the same as he’d left it. Only now, you stand near his desk with a hand wrapped around a wooden carving.  

“I have no instructions, your grace. I follow only the words of two—your words are my only command.” You catch yourself too late, something you realize as her face drops.  

“I ask, what is it that you do?” She repeats, an edge to her voice this time. You place the wooden carving back on the surface in front of you and decide to speak wholeheartedly.  

“I stand here, and I wait for his return. I wait for him to ask that I bring him to Arius. I wait to fetch his teas, to watch over his lessons beside Lucerys, I wait to draw his bath and wait for a voice, his voice, that says he has finished. My Queen, I stand still in hopes I do not lose sight of his ghost. I see his figure after every corner I round, and yet I cannot hold onto the mere image. So, if you were to ask me again, what it is I do, your grace, it is nothing.” 

You feel your throat constrict. Regardless, you swallow your cries down. You were not his mother. How dare you cry in the face of the woman who carried him.  

Still, a tear falls. You lower your head, turning away not a given with your position. Rhaenyra sucks in a breath and steps closer. 

The silence between the two of you thickens by the second. Eventually, she’s right by your side, observing the carving you’d held onto earlier. Taking the moment, while her back is turned, to wipe your tears, you raise your head again and watch her.  

“In his passing...have you told your children?” She asks, hands now planted firmly on his desk.  

“I have noticed Arius thinning considerably, and I hear Amarra has fallen ill and cannot tend to Baela. Have you told the children?” Her voice firms at the end, urging you to answer her.  

“I cannot bring myself to do it, your grace. If they knew the life I had robbed them of—a family they could not touch—would it not be enough to loathe me? With their state, I find it best they never know.” You feel the guilt swell as you admit it.  

You finish. “It was enough that your boys were kind to them.” 

Rhaenyra turns at that, watering eyes meeting your own.  

“Do you, in turn, loathe me? I allowed them finery and gifts above their station, lessons of noblemen and highborn women, food and chambers any servant would envy...Was it enough in exchange for the life they should have known? I have placed a wall between your children and my own, knowing they share blood. I have trusted you to hold secrets that could mark the end of this war, a secret that could turn lords and houses against me. Does it not sit heavy, that I have asked this of you?” You could hear the anxiety creeping in as she questioned you.  

“I could never loathe you, your grace. I am loyal only to you. Nothing you ask of me could ever weigh more than the crown you are meant to carry.” You answer her earnestly.  

“So, it is because I am your Queen?”  

“No.” You huffed out, peeved that after all these years not once had she known your heart after stealing it.   

She accepts your short reply.  

Then, tears were falling. In seconds you are brought back to the day she received the news her mother had died in childbirth, when you stood behind her and watched as Alicent clutched her hand and dismissed you. It was the only time you had personally attended her during a mourning period.  

“I find it a comfort that you are here now. I could not bring myself to enter his chambers only to stand alone amongst what’s left of his life.” You hear the way her voice shakes as she speaks, and you feel yourself starting to choke up once more.  

You’d become so used to the Queen putting up a wall, in recent years, holding her back straight and speaking with a determined voice in front of her most loyal followers. It was unusual—the sight of her. You hoped you did not have to see her break at the end of this war. Hoped she would lose no more children.  

“If I may, your grace?” Rhaenyra raises her eyebrows, allowing you to continue. “You will never be alone in this loss. You were not when Lucerys came to pass. And you are not now. I will always be here, Rhaenyra. Just as when we were young. You bid me to come, and I will be at your side. I just question whether my person is what you truly need in this moment.” She flinches at her boy’s name and allows you to refer to her familiarly.  

“I believe that you are now the only person alive that understands the pain I have suffered—do suffer. My Jace is—” She sobs out her last words and falls to the ground. Her palms smack at her thighs through her dress as she attempts to catch her breath through a tightening throat and stuffed nose.  

“Rhaenyra!” Your cries fall alongside hers as you carefully lower yourself to the ground in front of her, grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her into your chest.  

Her tears start to soak the shoulder of your dress, and you rub across her back, wanting to console her but knowing this pain wasn’t one that could simply be hugged away. It was a loss that would sit with the two of you for the rest of your days.  

“He is gone!” You begin to rock her from side to side and smooth down the hair atop her head. “I want my son. My precious boy.” 

“I would do anything to bring Jacaerys back to us. I would trade my very life for his, if given the chance.”  

It was the truth. Having raised the boy alongside your own children, you felt some claim towards him. Though you understood this was never a thought you’d be able to share with another, the love you’d held for him, even before his first breath, was immense.  

Before you could stop yourself, you begin to reminisce aloud. “I remember the day his Vermax first hatched. Little Jacaerys found so much joy in watching him stumble about the nursery floor. It was the first time I heard him laugh so heartily. I think of it often these days—all his firsts.”  

Rhaenyra tries to take a breath in before she bursts into tears again. You let her feel it. Your heart breaks for her as you embrace her. 

You talk about his first name day, his first steps, the first time he tried to lift Lucerys in his arms, his first time picking up a sword, the day he got fitted for his riding gear, what it felt like seeing Rhaenyra teach him how to climb upon Vermax’s back, how wonderous a feeling it was to hear the alliances he secured in his mother’s name. She listened to it all, her breathing slowed, and her sniffling had nearly stopped.  

While you knew it would hurt to hear about her son who was no more, you believed there was comfort to be found in his memory.  

“Watching Arius become a part of the Queensguard reminded me of the days they spent in the training yards with Harwin. Looking over how your son jested with my own, how I’d stand aside as either of them bested the other, fetching cloths to cool them during the rare breaks they were allowed, I’ve committed every session to memory.”  

“Could you finally tell me what led to his and Jacaerys’s embarrassment in the Godswood? The two of them kept quiet on it for years. He begged me not to corner you. Was it truly so shameful?”  

You laugh warmly as you begin to recall the day Rhaenyra had mentioned. The boys were adamant about you not speaking a word of it. Unfortunately for them, you would never miss a chance to grant your Queen’s wish.  

“Let me accompany you back to your chambers, and I’ll tell you there.”  

You pull her to a stand and bend down to brush off the front of her dress. You use your sleeves to gently wipe away at her tear-stricken face. Her violet eyes were captivating as they scanned your features, you tried to avoid meeting her gaze, but it was too difficult. Your eyes fall to her lips, and you reluctantly look away before the focus on them becomes hard for her to ignore.  

The two of you take one last glance about the room before you’re pulling the doors open and offering an arm to her. You keep her steady as you walk her down corridors that would afford the most privacy. With the fragile state the Queen was in, the less people to interact with, the better.  

But of course, there was a final barrier between the both of you and the solitude her bedchambers would offer.  

Lady Mysaria.  

“I can assist the Queen into her chambers. You may be dismissed.” She reaches out her hand, ready for Rhaenyra to hold onto it.  

In a few words, you were back to the age of three-and-ten. Alicent had ran you away similarly after the death of the Queen Aemma. Being treated as though you could not offer Rhaenyra any true solace always left a bitter taste in your mouth.  

You start to remove your arm from Rhaenyra’s when she tugs you back to her side. The look on Mysaria’s face was anything but kind as she observed the closeness between you and the Queen. She eyed Rhaenyra intensely, initiating a silent conversation.  

“Mysaria, you may leave us.” She eventually decides. Her tone held both certainty and patience for the woman in front of you.   

“Your grace—” Mysaria’s eyebrows pull together with confusion. Neither of you understood her choice. Yes, you had started to reconnect, but surely you did not hold weight over the White Worm and her allure.  

“Please. And tell Daemon I require an hour to myself. We will continue our talks before we gather any members of the Black Council midday.” Mysaria nods and dips in place, stepping away from the door to allow you both inside.  

Your eyes never leave her back as she walks away unwillingly. She begins to turn the corner and pauses there. She peers at you with misdirected irritation before disappearing.  

You aid Rhaenyra inside her chambers and to the foot of her bed. She waits as you close the doors and return to her side. You know that, in order for proper rest, she should like to change into a dressing gown. But you didn’t know whether keeping your breath steady would be possible, so you hold it as she begins to undress.  

“Help me, here.” She points to her back.  

Your fingers shake as they work. Hesitantly grabbing at the fine fabrics and pulling them down, and away, from her body. When she is left in her small clothes, you turn to retrieve a white gown with a pearlescent bodice and velvet skirt.  

You lead her to the bed and make her stand back as you fold the covers towards the middle, set up pillows for a comfortable sit, and smooth the sheets down. She climbs into bed. You’re quick to make sure she’s snug and pulling the blankets over her legs, tucking them around her waist, then you’re off, moving about the room.  

“I do not know how I have gone on without you. You look after me with such great care.” She says, watching you bustle around her.  

It was astounding to see your mindfulness in action after so many years of not tending to her. You still remembered everything about her from the way she liked her pillows arranged to the angle she would request her curtains be drawn into. 

Wanting to see you at ease, she speaks again. “Sit with me. I feel your closeness is now the only thing keeping me afloat in this moment.”  

Rhaenyra pats the space beside her thigh, and you gather your dress to settle comfortably. From there, she makes you recount the silliest stories about Jace, including the ones with the twins and her younger boys.  

She finds her heart full in a way she hasn’t since the war for the Iron Throne started. The light in your eyes as you speak of your children together has her enraptured. You drew every scene out perfectly. It had always been a skill of yours to make her remember details lost to dreams and time. The Queen loved how quickly you assumed familiarity with her. She felt as though she were seven-and-ten again.  

She cuts you off in the middle of your story with a question that surprises her. It is not that she means to accuse you, only that you are unbelievably good to her. “What is it that keeps you from running? Have I not paid you enough for a return to Essos?” To you, the question of loyalty was absurd. 

“You were my friend, Rhaenyra! And though it is a time you seem to’ve forgotten, it is a moment I hold dear. I knew your heart, you held mine.” You set your gaze upon her with newfound boldness. “You hold it.”  

Her mouth opens, and before she can speak, you continue.  

“I have bore witness to your every misfortune, received your displaced anger in our youth, wiped your tears for the fortnight after dragonfyre consumed your mother and brother, read to you when you befriended me out of resentment for the Lady Alicent, I rid your bed of its sheets after your night with Ser Criston, I was the one to hold your robes before you wed Ser Laenor, you chose me to care for your heir. My life is you, Rhaenyra. Everything I have, and do, is because of you—for you. I could never walk away from you. I knew I was forever bound to follow you the very night you kissed me. Before you ever followed Daemon to that pleasure house, before you bedded your sworn shield, before Harwin. I recall feeling foolish back then, seeing you with the Lady Alicent too, and now when I see you with Lady Mysaria. I have no purpose without you. I was born to serve you. The only end I consider running to is one where I stand behind you.”  

Rhaenyra sat silent as she took in your confession, and though she already knows your answer, she asks you for confirmation. “Truly?”  

“I will forever stay by your side as whomever you want me to be, for as long as you will have me, my queen.” You promised her. 

She grabs your hand with a pleased smile on her face. “Then it is decided. You will accompany me for life.”  

It’s no secret that Natasha likes you… or at least, it’s no secret to everyone but you.

Tony is constantly rolling his eyes, Steve is always hiding a knowing smile when you innocently dismiss Natasha’s flirting, Wanda is endeared but growing exhausted, Clint keeps poking fun at you in ways that you never seem to understand, and Bruce just chuckles as he watches quietly from the sidelines.

You’ve been called it all: young, unaware, inexperienced, oblivious. It’s a running joke with the team now regarding your obliviousness to all of the large, loud, and very obvious blaring red signs that unmistakably point to Natasha Romanoff having heart eyes for you.

It’s not your fault. Not really. You’ve never been in a true relationship before—you’ve only been on a handful of dates in total, none of which went well—and the team learns to the full extent your inexperience goes on a random team bonding night.

Tony makes multiple trips from the kitchen to the common room, preparing everyone for what’s to come. Cups, ice, mixers, and alcohol… necessities, in his opinion.

“Alright, guys, drinking game,” he announces, voice firm, no room for objections, “What are we feeling? Truth or Dare? Spin the Bottle? Never Have I Ever?”

There are a few murmured protests anyway, the team clearly tired of his arguably concerning desire to bring alcohol into everything.

“Do we have to?” Natasha asks flatly, boredly.

“It’s a teambuilding exercise,” he retorts, waving a hand vaguely, “For boosting morale or, I don’t know, whatever.”

Spin the Bottle quickly gets voted out, and although it’s a close call between the other two, Never Have I Ever wins in the end.

And Clint starts off strong, jumping right into it. “Never have I ever joined the mile high club.” His eyes deliberately flit to Tony as if daring the billionaire to try and avoid drinking.

Tony isn’t fazed as he hears the prompt, as he notices Clint’s look, and he takes a large first gulp of his beverage, unashamedly admitting to his history of airborne debauchery.

“God, Tony,” Clint says, laughing, “I hope it was at least on one of your private jets.”

Tony simply smirks over the rim of his glass, neither confirming nor denying, and Clint fakes a gag at the nonanswer.

Wanda speaks then, keeping the game moving along. “Never have I ever had sex in public.”

More than just Tony’s drink is sipped with that one.

“Never have I ever had a one-night stand,” Bruce chimes in next.

Almost everyone takes a drink, all except Bruce… and you.

“Never have I ever lied about an orgasm.”

Natasha definitely drinks for that one.

The game continues, laughter and teasing comments getting thrown all around, but at a certain point, everyone else’s cups are at least halfway empty—Tony’s is almost completely empty—and Natasha’s brows furrow as she takes in the sight of yours: perfectly full, condensation forming on the glass, clearly untouched.

She glances over at you.

You’re not looking back at her, too engrossed in the game, in the fun of the night, in the entertainment happening around you.

She clears her throat then, drawing everyone’s attention her way. “Never have I ever had sex,” she says plainly, eyes still staring your way.

“What? Natasha, that’s too eas-” Tony starts, but she shoots him a look that gets him to shut his mouth before returning to you. No one understands her prompt of choice, but they play along anyway, every single one of them confusedly taking a small sip of their drink.

Every single one of them… except you.

She moves to something marginally more innocent. “Never have I ever gotten to second base.”

You still don’t drink.

The team turns to watch you along with Natasha now, finally catching on to what she’s doing.

“Never have I ever been kissed,” she tries again.

Your drink remains situated on the table, and you’ve fully noticed her attention, her pointed prompts. You give her a smirk.

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” you mutter good-naturedly, shaking your head, chuckling lightly to yourself at her figuring it out, “You got me. I’ve never been kissed. So what?”

Natasha’s eyebrows raise, and the resounding reactions from everyone else are a mix of shock, disbelief, surprise, and perhaps even concerned alarm from Tony. They begin talking over each other.

“Wait, what?”

“You’re fucking with us.”

“Seriously?”

“There’s no way.”

Despite the comments—you’ve heard them all before—you remain casual about the whole reveal, not at all bothered by the reactions you’re receiving or the fact that you’ve never had your first kiss. You shrug dismissively. “It just hasn’t happened yet.”

There’s silence as the rest of the team stares dumbly at you. They knew that you were mostly a stranger to romantic things, knew that you’d never had a real relationship with someone before, but this? This is newfound knowledge. No wonder all of Natasha’s attempts at flirting with you have been overlooked. You’re not just inexperienced; you’re inexperienced.

Tony breaks the quiet, blunt as ever, offering what he thinks is a simple solution… and if it means you kiss a certain redhead that’s been pining for you at the same time? Well, win-win. “You know what? Why don’t you just let one of us do it? Get it over with. I’m sure someone here is willing to kiss you.” He isn’t subtle with the way his eyes sweep across the others before landing and staying firmly planted on Natasha.

Wanda, although doing her best, is also not subtle, her gaze flicking back and forth between you and the Natasha, trying her best to communicate that now is the chance.

Clint is laughing, Bruce is smirking, and Steve is shaking his head at the antics unfolding before him. Everyone is in on something you don’t know of, but like usual, you’re blissfully unaware of the nonverbal conversation that is happening between your teammates around you.

After some more silent and not so discreet prompting from the others, Natasha takes a deep breath, forcing nonchalance into her voice and demeanor. “I guess I could do it,” she volunteers. Her attempt at acting casual is transparent to everyone else but you. “I mean, I probably am the best kisser here.” She tries to sweeten the deal.

No one refutes her statement. They all know it’s true.

But still…

“No, it’s okay. I’m good,” you answer her, giving the redhead a small, grateful smile, touched by the offer but unwilling, nonetheless. Your ideas surrounding your first kiss are more than just whatever tonight is. Then, you address the entire team: “But on that fun note, it’s getting late, so I’m going to bed. Goodnight, everyone. Drink some water.” Your last words are aimed at Tony.

You stand, grabbing your still full cup, and head to the kitchen to pour its wasted contents down the drain, placing the now empty glass in the sink and exiting the room, a handful of bewildered goodnights tossed out behind you as you go.

The confusion from everyone is palpable once you’ve disappeared.

And Natasha is almost… offended. You rejected her so easily, so effortlessly. You didn’t even seem to consider kissing her.

All eyes snap to her when you’re gone, everyone blatantly staring at the expression on her face as she tries to recover from your rejection.

“What just happened?” Natasha asks out loud.

“You, Natasha Romanoff, just got rejected,” Tony laughs, snarky and teasing as ever, “For probably the first time, I’m guessing.”

Natasha pauses. “That… wasn’t a legitimate rejection, right?”

“No, no, that definitely was,” Tony replies, “She literally said ‘nope’ and then left.”

“Tony,” Wanda hisses, trying to get him to be quiet, wanting to soften the blow for the redhead who is still clearly trying to understand everything that just occurred.

Natasha’s attention moves to Wanda now, wanting a second opinion. “Wanda?”

Wanda grimaces but answers honestly. “I mean… it wasn’t not a rejection”

Natasha lets out a loud groan at that, having been, albeit uselessly, hoping for another answer. “Fuck.”

“You know, I always thought that she was just extremely oblivious, but maybe she just doesn’t like you but doesn’t know how to turn you down,” Tony can’t help but continue.

“Tony!” Wanda exclaims again as Natasha groans another time.

Steve interjects before Tony can rub more salt in the wound like he is most likely planning to, the billionaire still smiling gleefully as if finding the whole situation beyond amusing. “Or maybe she just didn’t like the circumstances. I say give it one more good shot. Make it known that you like her, that you want to actually kiss her, that it isn’t just some silly drunken shenanigan to you.”

“I like Steve’s idea,” Clint comments, and Wanda nods her head in agreement.

“That’s just because none of you want to hear that-” Tony begins.

“Tony, enough,” Wanda grits out, “Get out. Go to bed. Go anywhere else. Just… shoo.”

Tony rolls his eyes but acquiesces, getting up and bidding everyone a goodnight before heading to his quarters for the evening.

Everyone else stands to file out of the room as well, sending Natasha a mix of sympathetic, encouraging, and pitying glances as they leave, Wanda’s hand making its way to Natasha’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture before she also walks away.

Natasha remains seated on the common room couch for a while after everyone’s exit, wallowing, lamenting, wondering what the absolute fuck happened tonight. She’s slouched against the cushion, her head flopped back and her eyes closed as she replays the look on your face as you rejected her, as she hears your little nonchalant “I’m good” on repeat in her mind.

It’s silent, the rest of the team already asleep by now for the night. Whether or not that’s a good thing as she’s left alone with her thoughts, she’s not sure, but she appreciates the peace and quiet anyway.

After some time, she sighs and reluctantly pries herself up off the sofa to return to her own quarters, shoulders slumped in discouragement as she goes.

She passes by your door on the way to hers and pauses right outside. The light is on, visible from under the door, and there’s quiet movement coming from within.

You’re still up.

God, Natasha isn’t sure her heart can handle any additional rejection from you tonight, but she finds herself knocking anyway. She needs to know.

Your door opens quickly and you peek out, head tilting in a silent question. “You’re still up?” you ask her.

The redhead doesn’t answer for a few moments, just looking at you. She doesn’t want to lie, but she doesn’t feel like she can tell you exactly what’s on her mind and preventing her from sleeping right now either. “Yeah,” she eventually says, and then a fake smirk appears on her face, “Just still trying to wrap my head around your rejection. It’s going to keep me up all night.” It comes out as a joke.

You hum, smiling at her words, taking her sarcasm in stride.

And then it’s silent.

And Natasha feels like the air is buzzing from all the things unspoken on her part, from all the confusion and uncertainty and discomfort that she’s experiencing by just standing here in your doorway. She wonders if you can feel it too.

“So, am I just that unattractive to you?” She breaks the quiet. Another joke.

That gets her a small laugh this time. “You and the word ‘unattractive’ have never been in the same sentence,” you respond.

That should make her feel better, but… “That wasn’t an answer,” Natasha points out.

“Do you really need one?”

There’s silence again as she considers what to say.

When she speaks up, it’s soft, confused, vulnerable, all smirks and sarcasm and pretenses gone. “Why didn’t you let me kiss you?” she asks, looking away as she talks.

You frown slightly at the shift in her behavior, her playful remarks and teasing from before now nowhere to be found, replaced with something that seems fragile, imploring.

Your words come out a murmur, trying to explain yourself, to soothe. “It’s nothing personal, Natasha. I just want my first kiss to be special. That’s all.”

“What would make it special?”

“Just… with the right person.”

“What’s the right person like?” Natasha presses.

“Oh, I don’t know,” you muse, pausing for a moment to genuinely consider your answer to the question, “I guess someone sweet and considerate…”

Natasha remembers how just this morning she brewed an extra serving of coffee so that you’d wake up to a fresh pot.

“…someone who makes me laugh…”

Natasha remembers how just a few days ago you two were laughing until you both couldn’t breathe at some inside joke that would be too complicated to explain to anyone else.

“…someone who’s there for me.”

Natasha remembers how just last week she stayed up with you through the night when you needed someone to help chase the nightmares away.

Her. You’re describing her, and you don’t even know it.

How can she get you to see?

“Anything else? Hair color? Eye color?”

“Wow, you want specifics,” you joke, still not understanding.

Natasha could curse your obliviousness right now, and her tone turns more deliberate, still gentle but with a push. “What about martial arts abilities? Any history as an assassin? Or, you know, superhero status?”

You glance up at her, meeting her green eyes with your own.

And then you remember how the pot of coffee was already ready for you just this morning.

And then you remember the inside joke that Steve found the two of you laughing and clutching your sides at just a few days ago.

And then you remember the nightmares Natasha swore she’d stay up to keep you safe from just last week.

“Oh,” you breathe out slowly.

Natasha nods, hope returning as she sees realization start to wash over you.

“So, the right person…” she prompts.

“Yeah…” you murmur back, knowing what she means this time, what she’s meant all this time.

“Does that mean I can I kiss you now?” she asks softly.

“Is this still about the game? I don’t want a pity kiss.”

“It was never about the game. I don’t know how you haven’t noticed, but I have the biggest crush on you.”

“You do?”

Natasha says your name, fondly, tiredly. “I’m completely smitten with you.”

“I never even knew.”

“I know you never knew. You’re the most oblivious person on the team, the most oblivious person on the planet. I’ve been flirting with you for months.”

You shake your head in disbelief, trying to come to terms with the fact that Natasha’s romantic pursuit of you has apparently always gone right over your head.

“So, can I kiss you?” Natasha asks again.

You nod, and then she’s moving in, giving you just the slowest and gentlest press of her lips to yours, your eyes closing immediately in response to the touch.

She pulls back after only a brief moment, not wanting to overwhelm you since it's your first kiss, but it still leaves you feeling dazed, lightheaded, your mouth parted with little puffs of breath as your eyes flutter open to gaze at her. Your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest, and your face is flushed from just that.

You wanted your first kiss to be special, and you succeeded.

“Was that… okay?” Natasha asks, taking in your slightly stunned expression.

You nod again, struggling to find your voice at first, and when you do, it’s barely there, breathy and shaky. “Can we- can we do that again?” It comes out like a plea, as if there’s a chance Natasha might need convincing.

Natasha doesn’t know how long ago you’d formed this routine, but she wasn’t a fan. A month apart and you’d somehow come up with the perfect way to annoy her right before bed. She doesn’t know why you still do it. She’s been back a week now, and you’re still hooked on it.  

“Milaya, please turn it off.” Her head was shoved into the crook of your neck, eyes squinting from exhaustion, and a hand already stretched out towards your phone.  

“It helps me sleep ‘Tasha. Could you just wait until I’m knocked out before you turn it off?” You hold the device further away from your body, effectively keeping it out of reach.  

“You say that every night. Then the minute I grab your phone you wake up and choose some other weird video to watch. It’s stupid.” Natasha stops trying and dramatically rolls onto her back. Her arms spread wide with one smacking against your abdomen, along with a hand and foot hanging off the side of the bed. 

“It’s not stupid. It lowers my cortisol.” You pout. 

Natasha deadpans. “Yeah, because a cranial nerve exam with a glitter wand is the perfect lullaby. Give it to me.”  

The redhead pops up and wrestles you for the phone. Her legs bracket your hips, and her hands lock around your arms. 

“Hey! No. Natasha, I swear if you don’t give me my phone back, I’ll—” You watch as she holds the phone above her head and powers it off. She places it on the nightstand near her side of the bed and flops onto you. Her body scoots down just enough for her temple to meet your clavicle. 

“You'll what? Can’t you just wear headphones?” She mumbles against your skin. 

“You know I can’t wear them to sleep. They’re uncomfortable. We’ve been over this.” Your hands come up to scratch lightly at her shoulders, and you feel her shudder against you. You didn’t have to see her face to know she’d rolled her eyes at your words.  

“And under. You know what else is uncomfortable? Hearing some random lady suck on wooden spoons just so you can sleep.” She snorts.  

“Unfair.” You pinch her.  

“Unfair? You couldn’t have at least chose hair brushing last night?”  

“I could tonight if you just give me my phone back.” You offer her.  

“No.” It’s quiet for a second as you thought of a good enough threat for the assassin.  

“Natalia, I’ll make you sleep on the couch with Liho.” The use of her formal name let her know that you were serious about this.  

“At least Liho doesn’t watch Avengers ASMR Role-play videos at midnight.” She retorts sulkily. She really couldn’t help but get another jab in.  

“But she does chew on your hair.”  

“Fine.” Natasha reaches back for the device. A picture of the two of you lit up the screen as she powers it back on.  

“Fine.” You mocked. “Don’t act like you don’t enjoy it.” The phone is snatched out of her hands the second she moves off you.  

You turn back on your side. Natasha’s arm falls around your waist as a peck, then a sigh, meets the nape of your neck. Then she had to ruin it.  

“Oh, yes malyshka. I love the spit painting with your snoring as adlibs.”  

You do not snore.  

“Couch.” There was silence for a moment.  

“You can’t be serious.”  

“Dead.”  

Before you pressed play on the next video, a curious meow reached your ears accompanied by a sleepy groan. You could easily imagine her tired form gripping a single pillow, and some random throw from your hall closet, under one arm as she glared at the cat swerving between her calves.  

“If I find pieces of my hair on the floor in the morning, I’m taking you to the groomers first thing tomorrow.” Her drowsy voice made you feel the tiniest bit of guilt. That was until your favorite creator made an appearance on the screen. 

 This was peace.  

A giggle of contentment escaped you as you turned over in bed, comfortable with the night’s sleeping arrangements and Natasha’s lack of complaints in your ear.  

—

It’s not like you were currently keeping eyes on HYDRA agents at some decrepit warehouse in a foreign country. It’s not like that at all. Not to Natasha. Natasha, who hadn’t slept for three nights. Not to Natasha who’d invited a black fur-ball of chaos into your shared bed that night, hoping to find some kind of natural melatonin between Liho’s breath that smelled like her last meal and the scent of you that’s started to wear off the sheets. And definitely not to Natasha, who’d picked out a burner phone to call you in the middle of surveillance.  

“So, let me get this straight.” You started, exasperated by your girlfriend’s actions. “You drove—what—probably halfway across the city to call me on a burner while I’m in the middle of a mission—in Santiago—about which ASMR channels I watch?” You were speechless.  

The anxiety you had as you picked up the phone, only to hear the faltering voice of the Russian, was immense. Now you knew the hesitation was a result of her embarrassment and you couldn’t be any more amused.  

“Don’t start gloating. Just give me a name.”  

“You call me, begging, at three am and expect me not to rub it in your face? Do you know who I am Miss Romanoff?”  

“Jane Doe if I don’t get a name. I wouldn’t even care if it’s the lady with the crappy mic, just need something before our window closes malysh, I’m tired.”  

You knew it was only a matter of time before your line was open for tracing, so you relented. The teasing could wait until you stepped back into the compound. It would be all you’d think about until the next time you see her.  

“Love you Nat. Rest—” The line went dead before you could wish her a good night of sleep.  

A light smile graced your face as you removed the SD card from the device and cracked the butt of your tactical knife against it. You swept the shards off and watched as they scattered on the ground below your station. After days of unrest yourself, the interaction had filled you with enough energy to get through the rest of the mission.  

—

You returned successfully seventy-four hours later. It was early morning when you stepped into your shared space. The scalding shower after touchdown soothed the aches in your body until your muscles were nearly mush under the heat. As you passed Liho, the cat resting over the arm of your couch, a small scratch over the back of her head was all you could muster.  

Natasha was sprawled out on your side of the bed, mouth parted ever so slightly as a limp hand propped up the phone in front of her. The comforter was pushed down around her waist as she slept on her stomach. Her head was turned into an awful position, and you knew she’d be concealing the crick in her neck within a few hours' time. The last few minutes of a fake makeup ASMR video played on the screen, soft whispering, taps, and brushing sounded out along with her small puffs of breath.  

Your actions were careless as you stripped down to hop in bed with your hypocrite of a lover. It’s a wonder how she hadn’t shot up the second your keys hit the kitchen island. But any questions she would’ve had for you could wait.   

“You’re so in for it later on.” You whisper sleepily, hands pulling the comforter over your body now. You fix the material up and around her shoulders and reach for the phone propped against her hand. There was no need for it when you were seconds away from drifting off.  

“No.” A tired, drawn-out, whine left your girlfriend's mouth. A surprised gasp of a laugh escaped your own. 

“There’s no way Natasha.” You giggled out.  

“If you don’t turn it back on, I’m telling Friday to lock the air conditioner on eighty-six and watch as you slow roast in your sleep.” The redhead stretched out a bit before groggy, and threatening, eyes met yours.  

“You can’t be serious.”  

“Dead.”  

“I hope you know you’re getting a mouthful later on, Miss Black Widow.”  

She groaned. “Don’t care. Give it.” Her hand was laid out in front of you, waiting.  

“It’s just one night ‘Tasha.” She pretended to think it over for a second before speaking.  

“Friday—”  

“Fine! Fine. Go back to sleep.”  

The look on her face was entirely too smug once you conceded. But any bit of irritation you might’ve had slipped away as she shuffled her way towards you, forced to rest on her side of the bed, and completely draped her body over your own with her phone in hand.  

A content hum filled the space between you two as you rubbed her back. The two of you were now staring intently at her screen through narrowed eyes. Natasha hit the refresh button on the app and lethargically scrolled through tens of videos with attention grabbing titles and quirky thumbnails.  

“Play the alien abduction one”—She swiped back up for you—“that one right there.” 

“You’re such a nerd.” Hands pulled at the loose hair near her nape in a teasing manner.  

You rolled your eyes as you watched the corners of her lips curl up. “Says the James Bond fanatic.”  

Her chin pressed into your skin as she turned to look at you, and mumbled. “You’re lucky I’m already comfortable.”  

“Mhm. Press play.”  

She clicks onto the video without further argument and hands you the phone to set against the lamp on her nightstand. You scratched across her shoulders and felt her body melt similar to the way Liho would when you massaged the back of her ears. The video started without the blaring of some obnoxious advertisement. Seconds passed by before you realized what had just happened.