Just Here To Read Fanfics

Dean knows something’s wrong the second you both stumble out of that warehouse, gravel crunching under his tired feet, sharp beneath the quiet night sky. Silence stretches all around, but it’s heavy, almost suffocating, and there’s a weight on his chest, pressing down with every shallow breath.

He forces in a deeper one, telling himself he’s just tired. He’s not twenty-five anymore after all. Step by step, he keeps up behind you until his fingers brush the cold metal of the Impala.

“Man… that was rough,” he exhales, sliding into the car and letting his shoulder slump against the leather seat. Another breath in, and then a glance your way, and another, just to make sure you’re okay. He has to make sure, and he has to double-check.

He sees your eyes do the same, scanning him quickly, and his chest tightens. Then he realises he can finally take a little more air in, and he nods to himself, swallows down the night, or at least tries to.

“What the hell was that?” you groan, slumping in the seat next to him. “I’m beat.”

“Yeah… you’re telling me,” he murmurs, turning the key in the ignition.

The road to the motel crawls beneath the tires. It shouldn’t feel this long, but every mile drags. 

The seats are comfortable, and the night sky presses down in quiet reverence. Normally, you’d drift toward the windows, imagining the lives inside the houses you pass. Not tonight. Tonight, your bones ache and your head feels too heavy to wander. So you just close your eyes and breathe, letting the darkness carry what little energy remains.

When you finally get to the motel and step into the warm shower, something nibbles at the edges of your awareness, prickling under your skin, weightless but warm, sliding inside. You rest your head against the shower door and breathe in, breathe out, letting the water wash over your tired bones, soothing with its steady passage.

It was supposed to be a quick job, in and out, easy for the most part. That’s why you hadn’t even told Sam. The guy deserved one weekend at Eileen’s without the job breathing down his neck.

And you and Dean… well, you were bored out of your minds, and Lebanon, Kansas, doesn’t exactly offer much in the way of fun. That was all the rationale you’d needed.

And now here you are, dragging yourself out of the shower like an eighty-year-old woman with arthritis.

Dean is staring off into space when you return to the room. Sitting on his bed, he frowns at… something. Probably his own thoughts; it wouldn’t be the first time. Then he looks at you, eyebrows scrunched. “You feel… weird at all?”

Oh, here we go. The start of every nightmare.

“Uh, just tired, I guess. Why? Something wrong?” 

“Nah,” he waves it off. '‘S probably nothing. Must be gettin’ too old for this crap.”

“Yeah, reading my mind,” you comment as he heads for the bathroom. 

The nagging feeling is still there, just a breath away, crawling toward your insides again, but you’re too damn tired to care. Whatever it is can wait until tomorrow, when your brain can handle more than one thought at a time.

So you lie down and close your eyes, letting the warm hum of water from the shower and Dean’s low, lazy humming lull you toward sleep. The sound is steady, grounding, and for a moment, it’s enough to make the creeping weight inside fade to the background.

The edges of the motel room blur soon enough, and you’re pulled into another world. You’re standing in a quiet field at dusk, the air soft, smelling faintly of wet grass and earth. An ache coils in your chest, tight and heavy.

You’re walking towards Dean, and every step takes effort, but with every inch you close the distance, the weight eases, melting under the warmth of his presence.

He stands a few feet away, hands loose at his sides, eyes fixed on you. 

You step closer, the grass brushing your ankles, and finally, your hands meet. His fingers curl around yours, firm and warm, and the ache dissolves, replaced by something else: longing, and a hint of fear that this feeling could vanish at any moment.

“So cruel,” he murmurs, “making me wait for so long.”

You lean closer, drawn to him, and he brushes a strand of hair from your face. His fingers linger, warm against your skin, and he whispers, “You don’t even know, do you?”

“Know what?” 

“How I feel about you.”

Your chest tightens, and you snap awake, gasping slightly, trying to draw in deep, steady breaths to calm yourself. The motel room is dim and quiet. Across the small space, Dean lies in the bed next to yours, chest rising and falling in a slow, familiar rhythm.

You shake your head at yourself, as if chastising the dream for affecting you so deeply. Slowly, you turn your back to him, curling slightly under the covers. You try to push the dream from your mind and sink back toward sleep, but his words keep returning, echoing through your mind, impossible to ignore.

Your breathing steadies, if only a little, and eventually, the darkness of sleep draws you back in, this time into a dream without him.

—

The morning drifts by soft and easy as you and Dean head back to the bunker, music blasting, wind lifting your hair out the open window. Dean drives like he always does, one hand on the wheel, steady, familiar. 

A full night of sleep has worked wonders, and you already feel clearer, lighter.

When you glance over, he’s tapping the rhythm out on the wheel, mouthing the lyrics, and something in your chest unclenches. You’re both safe, and you’re going home.

“You know, been thinkin’,” he says eventually, lowering the radio a notch. “Could do a little reunion tonight. Invite some folks over - Eileen, Charlie. Would be nice.”

“I’d love that, but… can we do it tomorrow?”

“Why?” His head snaps toward you, not sharply, just enough to show he’s alert. Worried. “Something wrong?”

“No, no,” you say quickly. “I just… have plans tonight.”

Another glance from him, this one slower. A crease forms between his brows. “Plans?”

“Yeah. The guy from the case in Lebanon last week.” You try for casual, shrugging. “He asked me out. Figured it wouldn’t hurt.”

Dean’s mouth tightens, just barely. “Didn’t know you were lookin’ to date. Far as I remember, you said you—what was it—‘can’t see yourself in a relationship.’”

“I did say that,” you admit. “I don’t know. Something about it felt… Right enough to try, I guess.”

“Yeah,” he says, one syllable, quiet. “Right.”

He nods, like he’s agreeing with himself, not you. His jaw flexes once. Then he turns the radio back up, not loudly, just enough to fill the space that used to feel easy.

He doesn’t drum anymore, doesn’t hum, doesn’t even glance your way.

He just grips the wheel a little tighter and stares at the long road ahead.

—

Sam’s already back at the bunker when you and Dean come down the stairs. He’s texting, smiling at his phone – no mystery there. “Hey, guys,” he calls, hearing your steps. “Where were you?”

“Just a hunt,” Dean says. He doesn’t offer anything else, doesn’t even slow down. He barely drops the duffel on the table before walking straight out of the room. His footsteps echo as he moves away. Maybe they’re not even that loud, maybe you’re just too tuned into him.

The second he crosses the threshold, though, something slams into you.

Your stomach twists violently, nausea climbing your throat. Cold sweat beads on your skin. You grip the table with both hands to keep yourself upright as your vision blurs around the edges.

Sam says your name sharply and is at your side in a heartbeat. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I… dunno,” you manage, breath hitching. “Don’t feel so good.”

He steadies you with a hand around your shoulders. “Sit down, c’mon.” He guides you into a chair, and you’re barely seated before he runs out of the room, toward the kitchen. “I’ll grab you some wa—”

He doesn’t finish. 

“Dean!” Sam shouts suddenly, and he’s running again… not toward the kitchen at all. “Dean, what’s wrong?!”

Fear surges so hard through you that you force yourself up, legs trembling. You manage only a step or two before another wave of nausea knocks the breath out of you. The room tilts, and you cling to the table, trying again, needing to move, needing to see.

Then Sam drags Dean into view.

He’s pale, ashen, and barely standing on his own. His knees buckle once before Sam hauls him upright again.

“C’mon,” Sam says urgently, arm locked around his brother’s waist. “C’mon, Dean, it's gonna be okay.”

The moment Sam drags him fully into the room—

Everything stops. Your nausea. The shaking. The fog eating at the edges of your vision. Gone.

You straighten instantly, breath clearing, as if someone just flipped a switch.

Dean blinks hard, like he feels the sudden shift too, and stands a little straighter, letting go of Sam’s arm. His breathing evens out, colour returning to his face. 

“The hell?” he mutters, looking down at himself.

Sam looks between you and Dean, eyes wide, concern tightening his jaw. “Okay,” he says carefully. “What is going on with you two?”

Though your vision has cleared and your legs are steady again, the moment holds you fast. It lies heavy in your stomach, thick with a fear you can’t name. Because when your eyes find Dean, breathing but shaken, you know this isn’t over. Whatever has marked you has marked him too, and it’s only just begun.

---

Part 2

---

Faint sounds of the regular office shenanigans danced around the bullpen; soft clicks of computer keyboards, Reid flipping the pages of some obscure novel at a super human speed, Andersen brewing a pot of coffee, and the scrawl of your pen on a case file all coming together to sing the corporate symphony.

One noise was missing though, the sound of Derek’s chair moving side to side as he talks to everyone and anyone possible rather than actually doing his work. His voice rings out from by the glass doors and your head rises from the manilla folder to see what’s going on. His eyes meet yours, an arrogant, self-satisfied smirk on his face, one that tells you he actually got the new receptionist’s number.

Morgan takes his seat across from yours, looking at you expectantly, awaiting your questioning of his absence or why he’s so happy. Instead, you shake your head at him but the smile on your face betrays your mock disapproval. With a soft sigh, your hand loosens its grip around the pen, letting it drop to the oak desk beneath you.

“Alright, I’ll bite. You got the receptionist’s number, I’m guessing?”

“Number? No, no, baby girl, I got a date and her number. You underestimate my charm.”

“Right, I forgot that you were such a CasaNova.”

“I prefer the term irresistible, sugar.”

“This actually works for you? The whole cocky womaniser thing?”

“I’m not cocky. It’s called confidence. And a little sweet talking.”

“Oh, I’m sure they all love your ‘confidence’. I refuse to believe any respectable woman would fall for that,” you tease, tone making it clear you’re joking.

“Oh, like you wouldn’t fall for all of this,” he retorts, hand gesturing from his face down to his torso.

“In all seriousness, I really wouldn’t. You’re not my type, D.”

“Not your type? Sugar, don’t play with me right now.”

“I’m not! I just wouldn’t fall for it, it’s not my thing.”

“Let’s make a bet, then. I flirt with you-“

“Absolutely not,” you scoff.

“Let me finish! I flirt with you, you flirt with me, and we’ll see who falls first.”

You ponder his words for a while, going through it in your head. Morgan’s physically attractive, sure, but almost everybody thinks that. With your time at the BAU, you figure if you were going to fall for him, it would’ve happened already. Fuck it, why not?

“You’re on, Morgan. Be warned, you’re gonna fall in love with me.”

That little bet was made 3 months ago. You remember it like it was yesterday because it was the day you subjected yourself to the worst fate possible. Falling fast and hard for Derek Morgan.

Now, every time he flirts with you and you flirt back, it just stings. It’s like a cruel snippet of what could be if he liked you back, if you swallowed your pride and let him win, if you would just tell him. Instead, you reciprocate the flirting, keep your pride intact by never admitting anything, and keep your feelings for him a secret.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

A ringing noise rouses you from sleep, the soft vibration of your phone reverberating throughout the oak nightstand to the left of you. It’s not the sound of your alarm, and based on how the only light your eyes had to adjust to came from your phone, you suspect it’s a phone call instead. Another case, presumably.

Tired limbs scramble to find the phone, your hands fumbling until they feel it beneath them, and you pick up without even looking at the contact name. Sleep has yet to leave your body, still lingering like a phantom, so your voice is groggy when you speak.

“Hello?”

“Hi, angel. You know I hate to do this, but Hotch needs everybody in the office in 30. Urgent case,” a soft, saccharine voice rings out, one you recognise as Penelope’s.

“M’kay. Be there soon, Penny. Love you.”

“I love you too, dear,” she says before the line goes dead, leaving you in silence once more.

As you pull the phone away from your ear, your eyes catch the time displayed on the phone: 2:36 AM. A groan escapes your lips when you realise it had only been 5 hours since you left the BAU, 3 of which you’d been asleep for. Being called in after just coming back from a case was annoying, but this soon was just infuriating.

By the time you were at the BAU, it was safe for anybody to say, profiler or not, that your mood was absolutely sour. Since Penelope had called you back in, your day had only gotten worse. While in a rush to get ready, hands flying everywhere to rag clothes on, you’d managed to lose an earring. On the way into work, someone had cut you off at an intersection, causing you to slam on your brakes, ultimately sending your coffee all over the passenger seat.

Operating on 3 hours of sleep was easy enough, standard for most FBI agents, especially for you. That wasn’t the issue here, no, it was the fact that you’d been called in after just returning from a week’s long case, the act somehow triggering an infuriating chain of events for you, leaving you earringless, coffeeless, and bitter.

Once everyone else had arrived, it was clear they could sense the sourness radiating from you, only sharing small greetings instead of sparking up a conversation. Hotch announced the briefing would be done on the plane to save time, prompting everyone to grab their go-bags and start to move.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

After shoving your go-bag into the overhead space, more aggressively than needs be, you take a seat around one of the tables and watch as the others follow suit. Everyone seems almost hesitant to sit next to you, hovering before sitting somewhere else, disrupting the order of everyone’s usual seats. It’s sort of understandable, it’s obvious that you’re in a mood of some sorts and they’re probably just trying to give you breathing room, but it’s only annoyed you a little more.

Morgan ends up taking the seat next to you of his own free will, considering there were still 3 empty seats he could’ve sat in. Usually, you’d be happy to have Morgan sit next to you, but most of your conversations involve playful flirting, something you’re not in the mood for right now.

What doesn’t help is your growing feelings for him; on a normal day, playful flirting is hard because you know it doesn’t mean anything, but today isn’t a normal day. Today, you’re pissed off and tired, and the thought of entertaining something that’s only going to make you feel worse is utterly dreadful.

Maybe he’ll spare you, you think, he knows that you’re not in the mood for it, so he might just leave it alone and not say anything. Hotch’s voice steals your attention from the thought, pulling your focus to the case at hand instead.

The briefing moves fast, ideas being bounced around like a ping pong ball being bounced off the pegs in an arcade game, everybody collaborating with different theories, or building on someone else’s. Garcia searches what she can based on the few things you can all profile for certain, but it’s clear that this case won’t be an easy one.

The killer is experienced, that much is obvious, but that means he’s killed before. Where, none of you are sure because VI-CAP doesn’t have a match for the M.O you’ve all decided on. It’s not looking good for the BAU, the case is probably going to span over a week and the thought makes you even more annoyed.

Garcia’s face vanishes from the plasma screen across from you as the team starts to spread out throughout he jet, following the end of the briefing. Majority of the time, you’d sit yourself at the back of the jet and listen to music until you fell asleep, or talk to somebody, but you’re too tired to move from this chair.

Apparently, Morgan shares the same sentiment, unmoving from the spot next to you. Any and all hope of him leaving you alone starts to dissipate, knowing that Derek’s chatty, especially with you, has you dreadfully anticipating his conversation. With your luck, or lack thereof today, it comes.

“Hey, pretty girl. How’s my favourite bombshell?”

“Okay. ‘M just tired.”

“You know I can tell when you’re lying, right, sunshine?”

“Morga-“

“-‘Cause, you haven’t given me any of those sweet names, you’re not even looking at me, and your body language is telling me you’re pissed. What’s wrong, sugar?”

Morgan’s analysis fills you with fear - sure, he’s a profiler and even if he wasn’t, it’s obvious you’re in a shitty mood, but it’s not that - you make sure to hide any tells of the anxiety you’re experiencing. If Morgan can rattle all of that off with so much as one look at you, he’s been profiling you for a while. That means he knows. He knows that you like him. And he still flirts with you anyway?

Even if you didn’t think it possible, you’re even more pissed off with that fact, hell, you’re angry. Who on Earth flirts with someone they know has feelings for them? It’s cruel, hurtful, and disrespectful, none of which you thought Derek was, but clearly you’ve wildly misjudged him.

“What happened to ‘we don’t profile each other’? God, you’re such a dick, Morgan.”

“Hey, what? Mama, what is going on with you?” He asks, clear exasperation and confusion written on his face. You bite down a scoff because of course, he’s playing dumb to it.

“The fact that you’re asking is evidence enough. So obsessed with your own pride that you can’t even see what you’re doing to the people around you? Really? God, Morgan, it’s like you don’t even have eyes,” you snap, tone sharp and cutting.

“Mama, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. Back up for a second, obsessed with my own pride? Is this you talking or are you in one of those ‘man-hater’ moods again?”

Morgan’s use of the words ‘man hater mood’ take you back to an incident last month. You bristle at the fact he’s bringing that up, even more so that he doesn’t believe you’re actually mad at him.

It was a Saturday night and you had a date planned, one that, due to the demands of the job, had been rescheduled three times. This time was lucky, though, because you had no case, no paperwork, and no reports due. The guy was lovely, so understanding every time you’d had to reschedule, and he was handsome, too.

Once you’d left work, giddy and smiling to yourself on the drive home, the only thing going through your head was how excited you were for the date. A week before that, you and the girls had gone shopping together, scouring D.C’s small boutiques and high end stores. While with Emily in one of the boutiques, the cutest outfit had caught your eye, it was perfect; your favourite colour, exactly your style, and looked incredibly flattering when you’d tried it on. The girls convinced you to wear it on your date, commenting on how gobsmacked the guy’d be, so you bought it.

After restyling your hair and slipping into the beautiful outfit, you were putting your shoes on at the front door. Midway through slipping your shoes on, your phone buzzed on the side table in the hallway, with bated breath, you crossed your fingers and wished it wasn’t a case. What was on the screen was infinitely worse, though.

date

hey, i don’t think this’ll work. you’re too unreliable for me. kinda crazy you cancelled 3 times for ‘work’ and can now suddenly meet up because we changed it to a restaurant.

To say you were in a foul mood the next day would be the understatement of the century. To cancel because of his reason was insane for many reasons, but the two that pissed you off the most stuck. One - that the date had changed on his accord. The weather wasn’t the greatest, so instead of the picnic in the park that was planned, he’d asked if you wanted to go to a restaurant instead. Two - that he cancelled right before the date, as if he’d just suddenly had a change of heart when he’d clearly summed you up as a gold digger long before.

As you’d walked into the BAU and sat at your desk across from Derek’s, he didn’t notice your mood straight away because he hadn’t looked up yet. So, he operated as usual:

“Good morning, angel. How’s the prettiest lady in the whole FBI?”

“Ugh, don’t even. I’m really not in the mood today, D.”

With that he looked up and his brows immediately furrowed in concern at the annoyed expression on your face, dark circles under your eyes, and the way the light in your eyes had dimmed.

“What’s up? Someone I have to beat up?”

“I hate men. Fucking hate them. They’re all so grimey and disgusting and fucking horrible.”

“Don’t generalise us, sweetheart. What have I ever done to you?”

Instead of giving him a verbal response, you just shot him a glare before turning on your computer and carrying on with your day.

Contrary to your own belief, you could get even angrier than you were, even more annoyed than you thought possible for the already shitty day you’ve been having, and Morgan’s the main reason for this revelation at the moment.

He’s still looking at you, awaiting your answer to his question with an unreadable expression on his face. Finally, you turn your head to look at him, tongue poking the inside of your mouth in some futile attempt to control it. It doesn’t work.

“Wow. You genuinely don’t believe that I could be mad at you, that it’s some other guy’s fault, huh? I’m not in a ‘man hater’ mood, I’m just mad at you! You don’t see what you’re doing Morgan, you’re oblivious to it, and it’s pissing me off.”

“Baby gi-“

“-Just leave me alone, Morga-“

“- Fine.”

A scoff leaves your lips, bitter on your tongue as it escapes because you know you shouldn’t have said it. You know you shouldn’t have opened your mouth, told him how you feel in such a snappy way. You’re in a bad mood, having let the small things get to you, and you like Derek so much that his pet names and his flirting spark fire where they should leave warmth.

As if on cue, he rises from the seat next to you and walks down the aisle in a huff, sits down in an empty seat, and shoves his headphones in. Great. On top of your so-far shitty day, you’ve managed to push away the one person who makes everything instantly better. Probably squashed the tiny chance of him ever liking you back, too.

A sharp pang in your chest leaves you feeling sick, the hurt manifesting itself as something physical deep inside, and you wish you weren’t so difficult. Instead of talking, just simply saying today was going horribly and it had affected your mood, you’d let your astringent tongue take over.

The child inside of you wants to curl up in the fetal position, cry a million rivers over a boy, feel sorry for itself while simultaneously picking at every insecurity she harbours. Instead, you opt for sleeping, a temporary escapism from the shitty position you’ve put yourself in, leaning your head back and closing your eyes.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

After landing in Montana, you’re woken up by Emily’s gentle hand on your shoulder, shaking you ever so slightly. The rest of the team was already making their way off of the jet, go-bags in hand, walking off in a line due to the small aisle. Once your limbs were a bit more awake, you stood up and followed suit.

The team went from the jet to the SUV’s, making their way to the Livingston police department. Your car was semi-silent, the only noises to be heard are the small murmurs of Reid and JJ in the back of the SUV and silent melodies from the radio.

You’re in the passenger seat next to Hotch, while Morgan sits to the left of JJ and Spencer. Usually, he’d be involved in their conversation, cracking jokes and laughing his ass off with them. Instead, he’s silent. The absence of his voice rings loudly in your ears, guilt taking root in the ashes of the previous anger that once burned. It’s your fault he’s not being himself, you just had to open your mouth when you were in a mood, didn’t you?

Eyes watch him discreetly through the rearview mirror, his arms crossed over his chest, half sunken into the leather seat, brooding. Derek’s demeanour and body language is far from how he usually is, distant and angry instead of present and bubbly. He looks so different when he’s like this; distant and angry, far from his bubbly self.

For the rest of the day, it stays the same, Derek seemingly not himself, the same surly expression on him all day. Every time you look at him, it hurts - knowing that it’s because you couldn’t control yourself, you let your emotions take over rational thought - and the pangs of guilt become excruciating by the hour.

By the time Hotch decides to call it a night and have everyone head back to the hotel, your heart physically hurts with all of the guilt that’s pressing on it and the longing tugging at it. All you’ve wanted for the past 3 months is for the flirting between you and Morgan to be real, to have him feel the same way about you as you do him. At some point, the flirting started to weigh you down, leave you with an empty feeling in the deep pits of your stomach, and a yearning so strong that it seemed pathetic.

Realistically, the silly ‘bet’ was only ever going to go one of two ways. The pair of you would have distanced, one of you would’ve pushed the other away so that you didn’t have to experience a taste of what could be before it was ripped away from you. Alternatively, all restraint one of you had would’ve snapped, the fight to not let the other win, the pride you both held so dearly would’ve lost i’s fuel, resulting in a confession from either side. In some weird, twisted way, it’d managed to be both of them on your end.

Without realising, a sigh escapes your lips as you walk in a huddle with the team into the hotel’s lobby, pulling you out of your own thoughts. Head snapping up from the red carpet beneath your feet, your eyes lock with JJ’s, who’s giving you a questioning look. You find yourself responding with a shake of the head to tell her it’s nothing, then averting her gaze before she can tell that something’s up.

The group of weary, exhausted agents make their way to the front desk, all of you moving in a similar fashion to that of a pack of zombies.

The view would be funny if all of you weren’t aching for some much needed rest. Majority of you collapse into some couches while Hotch and Rossi go to get the keys from the front desk.

Both men return to the waiting area in the lobby after about 5 minutes, 4 sets of keys in hand. When you finally look up at them, your face contorts in confusion as to why there’s only 4 sets of keys when there’s 7 of you. As your lips part in anticipation to start asking questions, your brain answers them for you, recalling the information that was relayed to you all on the way to the airstrip, seemingly forgotten in the haze of your guilty, self-deprecating thoughts.

Shit.

Considering the case was so last minute, there were only 4 rooms available at the nearest hotel, so Hotch let everyone know they’d be sharing. To avoid any arguments and prolonged delay to sleep, everyone had agreed to pair with the same person as the last time you’d all had to share rooms. Hotch and Rossi, Emily and JJ, Spencer got his own room because of his aversion to germs, and you and Morgan.

You and Morgan. In a room together.

Clearly, the universe wasn’t done with sending you a chain of awful events today, because this had to take the fucking cake. Being in a room with Morgan has never been a bad thing, but you’ve also never argued with him and basically confessed that you like him. The words never explicitly left your mouth, but surely he’d figured it out a while ago based on your body language, right?

Hotch distributes the keys to someone from every pair, snapping you out of your thoughts once more as he holds a pair out to you. Tiredly, you take it before standing up and grabbing your bag with your other hand. Today has been long, excruciatingly so, you can just go to the room and fall asleep in your own bed. You think, an attempt to ease the unease that’s residing within you.

A gloomy Derek trails behind you, almost reluctantly if your profiling skills were still intact while being this tired, the sight sends another agonising sting of guilt through your heart. As shitty of him as it was to have profiled how you felt and still carry on flirting, he isn’t the only one who has blame in the situation - you agreed to the bet, you could’ve called the whole thing off, confessed your feelings and let him win, but you didn’t - you had your share in the whole thing, too.

The door lock clicks when you turn the key, opening the door to your new home for god knows how long, but you drop said keys on the floor when you get into the room. Similarly, Morgan comes to a stop behind you when he takes in the sight before you both, silence enveloping the room as you both remain still.

In the middle of the room, in between two windows, stood a double bed with an oak headboard. Not two single beds, or two twin beds, hell not even a bunk-bed like the one you’d both had to share in some dingy motel, no, it was a double.

Sharing a room with Morgan was okay before, you’d done it plenty of times in smaller towns or when the coordinator messed up the booking, but the pair of you had never shared a bed. It was even worse now because you weren’t on speaking terms, now that you’d basically confessed your feelings for him, now that you’d figured he profiled it a while ago.

When you realise you’ve been standing eerily still for a while, you can’t move to break it. Fear consumes your limbs, blocking any and all signals from your brain to the central nervous system, keeping you in place. The only thing you can think about is Morgan’s reaction to this; what does he think about it? Is he mad? Is he gonna walk out? How does he feel about what happened on the jet?

Suddenly, you realise you haven’t even thought about his reaction to anything you’d said, only going as far as to read his body language and determine he wasn’t acting like himself. You hadn’t thought about whether it’d be the end of your friendship, that he’d stop talking to you every day, and everything the two of you were would just fade into the background.

Unbeknownst to you, your hands had started shaking, induced by the onslaught of thoughts swirling in your head, trembling by your sides as if in a deadly chill. Morgan, however, notices the tremors of your hands almost immediately and steps in front of you before dropping his bag and taking your hands into his.

“Hey, hey, angel girl, I need you to breathe with me, okay?” His voice is soft and soothing before he mirrors a deep breath, exaggerating the sound and movement of his chest to draw your attention.

In response, you nod your head before taking a shaky breath in unison with Derek’s strong ones. Something wet rolls down your face, a tear escaping your lash line that you hadn’t even felt forming. Your hands stay in Morgan’s as you take deep breaths together, the raggedness of yours drifting away with each new intake of oxygen.

Once Morgan has deemed your breathing to be stable enough, he drops one of your hands before lifting his, now free, hand to your face, thumbs scooping away your tears.

“You’re okay now, sweetheart. You’re okay,” he almost whispers, voice so soft and sweet it might make you start crying all over again as the previous guilt kicks in once more.

A sniffle comes from you while he walks you to the bed, hands still intertwined, which he uses to gently pull you into a sitting position next to him. His thumb caresses your knuckles, running over them in a soothing motion, soft skin on top of yours grounding you.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on with you now, sweetheart?”

“Are you gonna stop pretending that you don’t already know?” You quip, turning your head to the side to look at him.

“Y/N, I am telling you, I really don’t know. It’s been racking my brain all damn day. If I’ve done something wrong, you can tell me and I’ll fix it.”

Another quip is on the tip of your tongue, but as you look into his brown eyes, really look at them, you realise he’s being genuine. He doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. Oh god, you owe him the biggest apology.

“You really don’t know?”

“Not a damn clue.”

“God, I feel stupid. This is so dumb.”

“Hey,” he lifts your chin with his fingers, “nothing you say could ever be dumb to me, pretty girl.”

“I’ve had such a shitty day. Like a really, really shitty one where everything goes wrong and I just let it all get to me. And then you profiled me on the jet and I thought you knew, but you don’t know, and I’ve been so, so horri-“

“-Wait, hold on, stop. Know what, angel?”

“..that you won. I lost,” you bite your lip in anticipation, waiting to see the recognition in his face, but it doesn’t come.

“I like you, Derek,” it comes out so quiet and meek, it’d be a miracle if he even heard it, but of course he does.

His reaction isn’t what you were expecting at all, not in the slightest. Instead of some cocky smirk, or an ‘I told you so’, he’s smiling. Genuinely smiling, pearly whites out and all, looking at you like you’re the only thing ever. He laughs and shakes his head before caressing your cheek.

“Both of us won, sweetheart. I like you, too,” he confesses, still gazing into your eyes as if they’re full of everything he’s ever wanted. Morgan tilts his head to the side before asking, “Garcia really didn’t tell you?”

“No,” you shake your head as if to confirm it, and then his words fully register, “Wait, she knew?!”

Before Morgan’s had the chance to say anything back, your hands darted into your pockets, searching for your phone until you’re pulling it out of your pocket. Just as you’re about to call her, Derek’s grabbing at your phone, causing you to wave your arm around to stop him from getting it.

“Hey, no, stop. Don’t you dare. Not yet,” he laughs as he continues his mission to steal your phone from you.

“No, ‘m gonna call her. Would you stop that? Derek!” You manage between giggles.

With both of you moving around so much, he leans too far, body going towards the bed, and wraps an arm around your waist to bring you down with him. Both of you are laughing while fighting over the phone, a fight that you’re still very much winning. That is, until he starts tickling your sides causing your laughter to grow louder and your grip on the phone to grow looser.

The phone falls onto the bed above your head, and he doesn’t even try to grab it, he just resumes his ministrations in your poor sides, tickling away. At some point, he’d end up hovering over you, so when he stops tickling you, you just stare up at him while catching your breath.

Morgan brings one of his hands up to your face, pushing a rebellious strand of hair behind your ear, before caressing your cheek once more. Both of your arms come up, hands locking behind his neck, and the both of you are leaning towards each other. Slowly, he leans down, lips ghosting over yours.

“My pretty girl. It’s about time, huh?”

Without giving you the chance to answer, he captures your lips with his, moving them softly over yours in a sweet, slow kiss. You kiss him back with the same saccharinity, savouring the feeling of his kiss, hands moving from his neck to his cheeks instead.

Due to your previous shortage of breath following his tickling ministrations, the kiss ends sooner than you wanted it to with Morgan pulling away so that he didn’t suffocate you. A petulant pout forms on your lips, to which he just shakes his head.

“Impatient are we, sugar?” He teases, grinning down at you, eyes full of adoration for you.

You hit his chest softly, pathetically really, considering you’re trained in hand to hand combat but the intention was never to hurt him. It serves as a warning, followed by a verbal one, of course.

“You’re supposed to be nice to me, not be mean to me.”

“Oh, I’m not being nice because I want you to breathe? That’s some pretty good logic there, sugar.”

“You know, you haven’t actually asked me to be your girlfriend yet. I could find someone who’s nice to me, instead.”

“Don’t you even think about it, silly girl.”

When he sees the determination on your face he drops his head down a little bit and sighs, shaking his head in disbelief before he lifts it again to look at you.

“Do I really have to ask? That’s so high school.”

A scoff leaves your lips before you deliver another soft hit to his chest, seemingly shocked at his words.

“Yes! If you don’t ask, it’s not real. Did you even watch rom-coms?”

“Alright, alright. Baby girl, will you be my girlfriend?”

“I’ll have to think about that,” Morgan’s hands move to start tickling you again, prompting you to backtrack quickly.

“Morgan, no! Stop! I was kidding! Of course, I’ll be your girlfriend, now stop!”

A shrill shriek can be heard from somewhere in the room and you both jump up, bodies going into fight or flight. Morgan’s just about to reach for his gun in the holster when-

“FINALLY! OH MY GOD!”

Penelope’s voice comes from somewhere on the bed, loud and excited, but not loud enough to say she’s in the room with you both. Evidently, you remember faster than Morgan does because you pick up your phone from the bed to see that you had, in fact, called Penelope and she’d been on the line for 5 minutes. With a resigned sigh despite your smile, you and Derek just share a look that says; ‘Tomorrow’s going to be fun.’

Creak.

Derek’s eyes snapped open.

Creak. Again—slower this time, like someone was trying not to be heard.

At first, there was only the dark.

Not cozy, blanket-dark. No. This was the thick, swampy kind. Heavy across his chest, clinging to the walls, warping the shape of every coat hook and bookshelf into something not-quite-right. The curtains stirred slightly—no wind—and shadows from the tree outside jittered across the ceiling like restless fingers.

He held his breath.

Silence.

Too much of it.

The fridge wasn’t humming. The heater hadn’t kicked in. No faint upstairs pipes clanking in protest. It was the kind of silence that doesn’t soothe—it listens. That primal kind of quiet that precedes something awful.

Then— Creak.

The precise one outside the bathroom—that floorboard. The one that always squeaked unless you stepped on it just right.

Morgan hadn’t stepped on it.

You were still in bed. You’d dozed off curled into his chest, snoring like a kitten with allergies. If you were up, he would've felt it. And that step hadn’t been yours. Too heavy. Too slow.

That wasn’t the fridge. That wasn’t the neighbor’s cat. That wasn’t anything normal. That was a “get your ass stabbed” kind of sound.

He sat up fast, sheets hissing against the mattress, breath locked tight in his chest. Years of habit sent his hand flying toward the nightstand—

Gun? Gone. Badge? Not even close. All he found was a glass of water and the sad realization that this was the one night he’d let himself go off duty completely.

Hydrate or die-drate, you’d said with a grin. And now here he was—hydrated and about to square up with a ghost, barefoot and half-naked in his own damn house.

Another sound—a soft, almost polite shuffle. Then the quiet click of the bathroom door.

Derek froze.

Nah. Nope. You don’t just pick my house to rob. Not this house. Not with me in it. You think you’re gonna sneak in here, steal my TV, maybe grab a chocolate bar on the way out and leave like it’s DoorDash? Not happening.

He moved like instinct. Muscle memory. Silent, precise, deadly. His feet glided over hardwood. His breathing slowed. Even his heartbeat seemed to hold its rhythm.

I’ve tackled unsubs through barbed wire fences, strip malls, and once—once—during a bouncy castle birthday party. You think I won’t throw hands in my own damn hallway? In my socks?

As he moved, the fridge whined—a sudden mechanical sigh—and Derek nearly elbowed it on reflex.

He hissed under his breath.

God, I need to sleep more. Or maybe less.

A flash of a memory hit him—Chicago. An unsub had broken into a family’s home at 3 a.m., left the husband unconscious, and tied the mother up in her own bathroom. Morgan had shown up too late to stop the bruises from forming. That woman’s terrified eyes had been burned into his memory for years.

He wasn’t going to be late tonight.

The bathroom door creaked open.

A silhouette stepped out. Backlit. Slow. Unaware.

Gotcha, punk.

He surged forward in one flawless motion—tackle clean, grip tight, momentum precise. Years of FBI training kicked in as he brought the figure down, pinning them to the floor with a practiced hand and a sharp growl—

“Gotcha, punk—”

“THE HELL—?!”

There was a pause.

A beat of silence.

A very familiar groggy voice.

Your voice.

Derek blinked down, and sure enough—

There you were.

Hair sticking out in all directions, t-shirt bunched awkwardly around your waist, blinking slowly at him like a confused owl. You squinted up at him, one arm pinned, the other flopped dramatically beside you.

“…Babe?” you asked, voice hoarse from sleep, face squished against the tile. “Can we, I dunno… cuddle in bed and not on the bathroom floor?”

Derek froze.

Like a statue. Like a dumbass. Like a dumbass statue.

“…Oh my God,” he breathed, eyes wide, pupils dilating in horror. “Baby. Baby, I’m so sorry. I thought—I thought you were—Jesus, are you hurt? Are you okay?!”

You blinked up at him again, unimpressed.

“I woke up to pee, Derek.”

“I tackled you.”

“You tackled me.”

“I tackled my partner.”

“To the floor.”

“Yeah.”

A long pause.

“…Y’know what’s fun?” you said, eyes still mostly closed. “This tile is cold, and my spine hurts.”

That did it. Derek immediately scrambled to gather you into his arms like he’d just drop-kicked a newborn puppy.

“Nononono, come here—God, I’m such an idiot. I didn’t see—I wasn’t awake—fuck, I tackled you. Oh my God. You’re never sleeping over again.”

You let him scoop you up bridal-style, but your face was already pressed against his shoulder, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at your lips.

“I can’t wait to tell Garcia.”

That made him pause mid-carry. “You wouldn’t.”

You yawned. “Oh, I would. I’ll tell her you yelled ‘Gotcha, punk’ like a Saturday morning cartoon villain while I was barefoot and half-blind.”

Derek groaned. “You’re evil.”

“And you love it.”

He deposited you onto the bed like you were made of glass and his own unrelenting shame. He fussed over you—pulling the blanket up, tucking it beneath your chin, running his hands over your arms like he expected to find bruises.

“You sure you’re okay? Your back? Your neck? Baby, I could’ve—God, I didn’t mean to—”

You silenced him with a kiss. Lazy, warm, still sleep-drenched but affectionate.

“I’m fine,” you murmured. “Though…” You tugged him down beside you, a teasing glint in your eyes. “That was kinda hot.”

He blinked. “Hot?”

You grinned. “I mean, you did tackle me to the floor with surgical precision. Bit much for a midnight cuddle, but the form? Chef’s kiss. Nine outta ten.”

“...Nine?”

“Lost a point for trying to arrest me.”

Derek buried his face in your hair with a groan. “I hate how much you’re enjoying this.”

“Oh, come on, babe. We’ve had like two fights and neither involved a full-body takedown before tonight. Milestone achieved.”

“You’re never letting me live this down.”

“Top three most dramatic Morgan moments. Number one: tackling your half-naked partner. Number two: yelling ‘Gotcha, punk’ like you’re on an old cop show. No, I'm not letting you live this down.”

A long beat. You were drifting now, warm and safe in his arms, your breathing slowing.

Then, quietly, casually:

“…If you do wanna pin me down again though…”

Derek pulled the blanket over your head. “Go to sleep.”

Your muffled voice replied from beneath it:

“Love you, too.”

.

.

.

Of course, sneaking out at 6 a.m. had been its own mission. It took you twenty minutes to escape Spencer’s sleepy, koala-like grip. He kept murmuring thank-yous against your skin, kisses trailing from your collarbones to your jaw, like punctuation marks of affection. It had taken everything in you not to crawl back into bed with him.

Now, back in the briefing room, you had even more reason to catch this unsub.

"I got it." Spencer’s voice broke through the silence.

His head snapped up, and the words came pouring out of him like a dam breaking. Facts, patterns, dates, connections. The rest of the team, who had been working in silence, immediately turned their attention to him, hanging onto every word.

“Okay. Morgan and Reid—I want you with me,” Hotch announced the moment Spencer finished unraveling the unsub’s pattern.

Garcia’s fingers flew across her keyboard, sending the coordinates to their phones in a flurry of clicks. This was one of those rare, high-stakes cases where even she had to join them in the field. “Location’s live on your devices,” she said, her usual bubbly tone subdued. Hotch gave her a curt nod of thanks before striding toward the door, Morgan right behind him.

Spencer, however, seemed miles away as he snatched his brown coat from the back of his chair. His mind was already elsewhere, locked onto the unsub. Then, just before following the others, he turned to you.

You were still standing by the board, capping the dry-erase marker and watching him with a soft, worried smile. He seemed exhausted.

“Be careful,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

He blinked, as if snapping back into himself for just a second, and mumbled, “I’ll be okay. I’ll see you later.”

His fingers caught your chin, thumb beneath your jaw, index curled gently under your bottom lip. Time stuttered. His kiss was fleeting, achingly tender, and then his lips brushed yours again as he whispered, "I love you," like it was the simplest truth in the world. And then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

Silence.

Absolute, suffocating silence.

A pin drop would’ve echoed like a gunshot.

“Oh. my. god.” Garcia’s shriek could’ve shattered glass.

Your fingers flew to your lips, still tingling from the ghost of his kiss. The rest of the team was frozen, Rossi’s eyebrows had nearly disappeared into his hairline, JJ’s mouth was slightly open, and Emily looked like she was torn between laughing and demanding an immediate explanation.But you barely registered any of it.

Because Spencer had just said I love you. For the first time.And he’d done it in front of everyone.

Garcia was already flailing her hands, rapid-fire questions spilling out of her“Since when? How did I not know? Oh my god, the touching, the lingering looks, the—!”

But all you could hear was the echo of his voice, playing over and over in your mind like a broken record.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Your face burned. Your heart threatened to beat out of your chest.

You didn’t even notice Emily waving her hand in front of your face until her voice cut through the haze. “Earth to lovergirl,” she teased, grinning.

Blinking, you turned toward the team, all of them staring at you with varying degrees of shock, amusement, and sheer anticipation.

“What?” you managed, voice still breathless.

“That’s all you have to say?” JJ asked, plopping onto the edge of the desk in disbelief. She grabbed a Cheeto from an open bag, crunching loudly. Garcia was still gaping at you, hands pressed dramatically over her mouth. Behind her colorful glasses, her eyes were massive. Rossi sipped his coffee slowly, clearly judging the entire situation.

“Huh?” you repeated dumbly.

Emily’s smirk softened just a fraction. “You okay?”

You stared at her, still dazed, before muttering, “He said ‘I love you.’”

Another beat of silence. Garcia gasped. “That was his first time saying it?” Her hands flew away from her mouth, gripping the sides of her head like she might explode.And then chaos. Again.

“Oh my god—”

“Since when—”

“Wait, wait, wait—that was the first—”

You spent what felt like hours fielding an avalanche of questions, barely able to catch your breath between them. At first, you tried to dodge them, played dumb, gave vague smiles, busied yourself with the files on the table, but it was pointless. Garcia saw straight through you, pinning you with a look that practically screamed, You’re not getting out of this, sweetheart.

So you caved. “Six months,” you said quietly. There was a loud collective gasp. Garcia clutched her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. ( She was. ) “Six?! Six whole months? And you didn’t say anything?”

You winced. “We were trying to be subtle.”

“You failed!” she cried, throwing her hands up.

Emily laughed. “Okay, next—who made the first move?”

You hesitated, cheeks burning. “He did.” Another round of dramatic gasps echoed around the room. Even Rossi raised his brows, murmuring, “Didn’t peg him for the bold one.”

“He’s… not. Not usually,” you admitted with a smile you couldn’t quite suppress. “But with me… I guess he was.”

And on it went, question after question, as if they were making up for six months of missed gossip in a single sitting. It was messy, chaotic, borderline embarrassing, but it was also kind of nice. Being known. Being happy. Then came the final question.

JJ’s voice was quieter than the others, softer. “Do you love him too?”

You froze.For a moment, the whole room seemed to hold its breath. Even Garcia stopped typing. You looked at JJ, then down at your hands, then back up again. And nodded.

Garcia screeched, practically launching herself out of her chair. “I knew it!” she howled.

Emily beamed, her smile so wide it crinkled the corners of her eyes, and even Rossi let out a low chuckle, shaking his head like a proud uncle.You were a little overwhelmed, okay, maybe a lot, but underneath the chaos, you also felt a sheer amount of happiness that you've never felt before.

Hotch interrupted the moment by calling Garcia. “Unsub’s in custody. We’re on our way back. Everyone’s okay.”

Your breath left you in a rush. Spencer was okay. Your heart, though, it hadn’t quite gotten the message. It was still thundering in your chest, hammering against your ribs with every second that ticked by.

The others must’ve noticed the way you kept glancing at the door, because JJ finally nudged you gently toward it. “Go wait. We’ll clean up.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Garcia waved a dismissive hand. “Honey, please. You’ve got heart-eyes so intense it’s blinding. Go stand dramatically in the doorway like you’re in a movie or something. We’ve got this.”And so you did.

You found yourself hovering in the doorway of the conference room, a half-hearted folder in your hands, pretending to sort through paperwork as you stared through the glass. Watching. Waiting.

Then you heard it, the sound of the SUV pulling up outside. Every head in the room snapped up like it was choreographed. Honestly, for a team of professional FBI agents, they acted like a bunch of high schoolers most of the time.

You glanced back over your shoulder. Sure enough, all of them were watching you, wide-eyed and waiting like you were the final act in a romantic drama. You rolled your eyes with a half-smile, dropped the stack of files onto the table and walked out of the conference room.

As you left, you heard Emily mutter, “Garcia, don’t follow her.”You didn’t wait to hear the response.

The moment you reached the main hallway of the precinct, the doors opened and there he was.

Spencer stepped inside, his curls slightly mussed, cheeks flushed from the cold, and as soon as his eyes found yours, he smiled. That gentle, crooked smile that always made you smile.You barely registered Derek behind him, hand gripping the cuffed unsub and throwing you a confused look when you didn’t even acknowledge him. Even Hotch glanced over in surprise as you made a beeline for Spencer.

“Hey—wait, what—?” Spencer managed, eyes widening as you grabbed his arm and all but dragged him down the corridor.

You shoved open the nearest empty office, tugged him inside, and closed the door firmly behind you, leaning back against it.

“Did you mean it?” you asked, your voice urgent, breath a little uneven.

Spencer blinked. “Mean what?”

You stared at him in stunned disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“What?” he said again, completely baffled. “What did I do? Did Morgan tell you about what happened in the field? I know I wasn’t supposed to go near the unsub without backup, but I swear, I had it under control—”He started to ramble, hands gesturing as he pouted in that way he did when he was simultaneously nervous and a little too proud of himself. “He had a weapon, but I de-escalated him. You would’ve been proud.”

“You did what?” you interrupted, your mind now juggling two emotional crises.

Spencer blinked again. “Wait—so Morgan didn’t tell you?”

“No,” you muttered, your voice flat with disbelief. You shook your head slowly, trying to process it all. The nerves, the kiss, the I love you, and the fact that Spencer genuinely hadn’t realized what he’d done.

Spencer’s expression shifted from confusion to concern in a heartbeat. “Hey,” he said softly, stepping closer, his hand reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Did I do something wrong?”

His voice was careful, gentle, and far too kind for how scrambled your brain felt. “Can you tell me what it is?” he added, tilting your chin up just enough so your eyes met his.

Your mouth opened slightly, but the words were stuck. How could he not know? How could he be looking at you like that, all wide eyes and soft brows and pouty lips, and not know?

“Spencer,” you said finally, his name sharp on your tongue.

“Yes?” he replied immediately, those puppy-dog eyes locking onto yours like he was bracing for impact.

“You kissed me.”

His brows pulled together. “I’m—I’m sorry?” he said, clearly confused.

If you weren’t so worked up, you might have laughed at his face. But your heart was hammering, and your nerves were tangled in knots.

“You did it in front of everyone,” you clarified. And then you said it , softly, barely above a whisper. “And then you said—”

“I love you.” His voice cut in before you could finish.You watched as the memory clearly snapped back into place. Realization washed over his face, followed immediately by a bright, burning blush that crept up his neck and across his cheeks.

“Mhmm,” you hummed, nodding slowly, your teeth sinking into your lower lip as you studied his reaction.

Spencer rubbed the back of his neck, eyes wide, flustered in a way that only made you want to kiss him senseless. “Oh,” he breathed, glancing away for a second before meeting your eyes again. 

“Yeah… oh.” you repeated. Both of you stayed silent for a second.

“I did mean it,” he stammered out.

A smile tugged at your lips, finally. After an hour and a half of bouncing knees, chewed lips, the words you’d been dying to hear had finally landed.

“I love you,” Spencer repeated, a little firmer this time, like he needed to hear it aloud again to make it real. Like maybe saying it twice would help his brain catch up to his heart.The warmth that bloomed inside you was instant. You weren’t sure you’d ever felt this happy in your entire life.

Then, of course, Spencer kept talking.

“Did I say it too soon? I’m not sure. On average, men say it around three to three and a half months into a relationship, while women usually wait closer to four months,” he rambled, already blushing furiously, eyes darting anywhere but your face. “And I know we’ve been dating for six months, so technically it took me twice as long, which isn’t statistically ideal, but honestly I almost said it on our first date, which definitely wouldn’t have been optimal and—”

He was spiraling. Fast.

So you did the only thing that would shut him up. You stepped forward, gently grabbed his face in both hands, and said, soft but certain: “I love you too, Spencer.”

He stared. Just stared, like he was trying to memorize this exact moment, burn it into his brain with all its warmth and disbelief and wonder. You watched his expression shift, first stunned, then relieved, then something so bright and boyish it made your heart lurch.You’d never seen him so happy before.

Well, once. That first time you kissed him. He’d looked a little like this, dazed and blissed out. But now he looked like his whole world had just clicked into place.

“Yeah?” he breathed, voice shaky with excitement, his grin stretching so wide it practically crinkled his entire face.

“Yeah.” You laughed through the word, nodding, the emotion bubbling up in your chest and spilling into every part of you. Your smile was a mirror of his.

Spencer let out a breathy laugh and pulled you into him, arms wrapping tightly around your waist as if he couldn’t stand the idea of space between you anymore. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, grinning against his skin.

“This is real, right?” he asked into your hair, voice muffled. “I’m not dreaming? Because sometimes I do dream about you saying that and then I wake up and it’s just—”

You cut him off with a kiss to the warm skin of his throat.“It’s definitely real,” you mumbled against him.

Spencer let out a shaky breath and held you tighter. You stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, both of you grinning like idiots. It felt absurdly, wonderfully perfect. Then you muttered into his neck, “You do know you outed our relationship to everyone, right?”

Spencer’s arms stiffened around you just slightly. “Yeah. Totally. I knew that. I did it on purpose,” he lied, too quickly, voice pitched a little too high.

You giggled and pulled back, hands still resting on either side of his neck. “You’re a terrible liar, Dr. Reid.”

He didn’t even bother to defend himself, just gave you an adorable, crooked grin and leaned in to peck your lips. “Yeah, I am,” he mumbled, brushing his nose against yours.

You kissed him back, just once, then poked a finger into the center of his chest. “Also, we’re going to talk about your little superhero stunt at home.”

Spencer blinked. “Right,” he echoed, suddenly very aware of his earlier reckless attempt to talk the unsub down without backup. “Are you mad?”

“I’m not not mad,” you replied, giving him a look. “But I love you, so I’m saving the full lecture for later.”

He winced slightly, then smiled. “Fair.”

You let your fingers drift through the curls on his forehead, brushing them back gently. “Well,” you sighed, “for now, we have to go out there… into the land of chaos and gossip.”

Realization dawned slowly on Spencer’s face. His eyes widened. “Oh no. Garcia definitely filled Morgan in already.”

“And Rossi’s probably already told Hotch,” you added grimly.

“And JJ and Emily—”

“—were there when it happened,” you finished.

You both stood there in mutual silence for a moment, dread creeping in. Spencer cleared his throat. “Maybe we could… go out the window?”

You laughed, smacking his chest lightly. “Nice try, genius.”

He gave a helpless little shrug. “I had to try.”

Taking a deep breath, you grabbed the handle of the door behind you. “Ready?” you asked.

“Absolutely not,” Spencer said without hesitation.

You squeezed his hand anyway. “Come on, lover boy.”

To say that the conference room was chaos would’ve been an understatement.Garcia let out a sound that could only be described as a squeal-gasp hybrid, immediately launching into a breathless barrage of questions that involved timelines and pet names. Morgan clapped Spencer on the back so hard he nearly stumbled, muttering something about “my boy finally growing up.” JJ just smirked from the corner, quietly sipping her coffee.Hotch had walked by at one point, muttered something that suspiciously sounded like “About time,” and kept moving without missing a beat.

The jet ride was somehow worse.

You’d sat next to Spencer, hoping for a quiet, post-case decompression. Instead, you were subjected to Garcia and Morgan playing twenty questions from across the aisle. Rossi, pretending to read, chuckled behind his wine glass the entire time. At one point, you tried to rest your head on Spencer’s shoulder, and he’d blushed so hard you thought he might combust.

You weren’t sure if he was embarrassed from the attention or just overwhelmed from finally saying what he’d been keeping in for months. Probably both.

But the days that followed? Even worse.

Because the teasing never stopped. Emily sent you heart emojis during briefings. Morgan kept calling Spencer lover boy, which you regretted giving him the vocabulary for. Garcia had created a mood board on her computer and refused to delete it. Even Hotch raised an eyebrow when you asked to share a rental car with Spencer.

But through it all, Spencer stayed by your side. Every awkward joke, every embarrassing comment, every not-so-subtle glance,he never flinched. If anything, he leaned into it. He held your hand in the bullpen and he kissed your cheek at the end of the day. It was domestic chaos.

He’s asking if you’re good to go, of course, seeing as the surgeon already briefed Spencer on how the surgery went, and likely in far more detail than she would’ve explained to the average person picking up their loved one from a odontectomy after Spencer began asking more detailed questions. He was also asking the dental assistant – Katie, her scrub top suggests – seeing as your brain was likely still more than slightly warm and gooey from the sedation.

You answer for her, though.

“It’s terrible.” He makes out in your adorably garbled oration. A terrible, horrible part of Spencer wants to squish your cheeks; stuffed with cotton and more than a little swollen, you look like the most adorable chipmunk he’s ever seen. He knows it’s natural – cuteness aggression – though he wishes the English language had a more appropriate name for it. There’s a word for it in Tagalog; gigil, a strong urge to physically express affection albeit slightly aggressively or forcefully. He longs to force his affection on you.

He settles for a verbal response to your statement. “What’s terrible?”

“They took all my wisdom out, Spence. Now I’ll never be able to keep up with you.” You explain solemnly, eyes wide and glassy as you subconsciously list forward, causing Katie to plant her feet more solidly and strengthen her hold on you.

Spencer reaches out to relieve her of the duty. Or, that’s what he pretends it’s about; it’s rather selfish, really, Spencer just wants his hands on you.

“You keep up with me fine,” he assures you, pushing a few stray hairs away from your temple to press a kiss to it, “you’ll keep up with me even better once the sedation flushes out of your system. Considering your height, age, weight, and health, you could be back to normal by bed time, or it could take twenty-four hours to completely work itself out of your system. Benzodiazepines work by interfering with your neurotransmitters and attaching to GABA receptors which decrease your brain activity. Your brain is feeling slow right now, but it’ll catch up to you.” 

You blink at him; once, twice, and then you turn to look at Katie – now watching the two of you with a hint of fascination – with an expression that seems to read “see!?”

“He just knows stuff like that!” You explain to her about two decibels too loud to be in a quiet dental office’s waiting room. 

“The surgeon went over post-op care with you?” Katie asks Spencer then as she fights against a smile at your expense. 

“She did,” he confirms with a somewhat self conscious smile, “thank you.”

Katie nods and begins taking a few steps backwards. “If you have any questions or concerns, feel free to call.” 

“Thank you!” You call back with a very dramatic wave of your arm that nearly sees you toppling over from the effort. “She’s so nice. She was so nice, wasn’t she Spence?” 

“She was.” He agrees as he begins the slow, arduous task of ushering you to a seat so he could put your shoes on. This was, apparently, a new protocol; patients are rid of their shoes to prevent them from seeing themselves out of the front door before their caregivers were ready for them. 

He’s glad you’re as agreeable as you are, seeing you sit dutifully and only needing to be reminded twice to stop kicking your feet excitedly as he ties your laces. 

“Oh! I know!” You almost shriek as you sit stock still; your back pressed so straight that Spencer's surprised he didn’t hear the thoracic portion of your spine crack. “You can just share some of your wisdom with me!”

Spencer really can’t help but smile up at you from his place on his knees, giving your foot an affectionate squeeze before he ultimately lets it go. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you quite this animated before and he’s desperate to soak it all in, even if it means remaining on the floor of the dental office for a few more minutes. 

“Why are you so worried about your wisdom?” He asks you fondly, seeing you push your bottom lip out in a very theatrical pout. Spencer doesn’t even wince at the dried blood there. 

“Oh, Spencer.” You sigh like he couldn’t possibly understand your plight. “You have no idea how hard it is to be with someone so smart.” 

“Hard?” Spencer queries, his brows forming an indent between his eyes as he cocks his head at you. He’s equal parts sad for you and distressed at the thought that he might be hard to be with. 

You hum in the affirmative, unnecessarily nodding your head so emphatically that you nearly lose your balance while seated. “Lovely,” you amend, “but hard. You just- I must be so boring!”

“You’re not boring!” He argues; now he’s the one speaking slightly too loudly in a quiet dental office waiting room. “You’re not boring at all, lovely.”

“But you know everything!”

“That doesn’t make me wise.” He presses, rising from his crouched position in favour of sitting on the bench beside you; you turn your body towards him, knees clacking against his own. 

“It doesn’t?”

“God no.” Spencer laughs, trailing his thumb from your temple, lifting the pressure as he draws a line down your jaw before he returns his full touch to your neck. “No. I’m smart, I guess, for knowing things. But I’m not wise at all. In fact, in that regard I’m probably quite lacking.”

You gasp; a sharp, loud, breathy thing that actually has Spencer’s other hand rising to steady you, ready to shove one of his hands down your throat should you inhale a wad of cotton. “Really?”

Spencer’s really laughing now, and while he thinks he ought to feel somewhat guilty for laughing at his currently enfeebled girlfriend, you don’t seem to be perturbed by his reaction at all. “Really. Honest; you’ll have to ask Derek if he thinks I’m wise.”

“Can I ask him now?” You ask immediately, apparently eager to have confirmation that your boyfriend is not, in fact, wise at all. 

“How about” Spencer starts as he stands, holding his hands out to you to help you do the same and steadying you when you sway once at your full height “we get you into the car first, and then you can call him from there.”

Spencer’s once again glad you’re as agreeable as you are, allowing him to guide you out of the building and towards your car while you tell him all about how you had been so certain that you would never need your wisdom teeth removed since most people had them removed much younger, and you felt like you did a good job hoarding all your wisdom in those two troublesome teeth just for someone to yank them from you.

He’s also glad that you forget to call Derek once he has you buckled up in the passenger seat.

You’re content to observe Remus silently for the time being. Ever since you became aware of him, you can’t not be. You’ve become intimately acquainted with the way his tongue pokes into his cheek when he’s fighting back a smile. You notice the little curl that he tucks behind his ear whenever his hair gets too long, and you imagine what it might feel like to do it for him. You’ve begun to anticipate when his eyes will cut sideways to share sly looks with his friends. He does it now, glancing at Lily when Slughorn announces you’ll be pairing up to make the veritaserum antidote.

“Ah ah! Stay where you are,” Slughorn announces. He levels Marlene with a look. She sits down with a huff, pouting in Dorcas’ direction. “I won’t have an encore of last week; I’ll be assigning your partners. Black, you go with Evans.”

Sirius makes a sound like a wounded puppy. James looks equally as distressed, the two of them parting like forbidden lovers, with blown kisses and arms outheld longingly. 

“Potter, with Diggory. McKinnon and Vance, Trelawney and Meadows, Prewett and Fawley…” 

Skimming over the instructions for your potion, you don’t think to be concerned until you hear your name. You look up, unsure who was called before you, to see Remus making his way over. 

Your stomach plummets. 

“Hello,” he murmurs as he sits on the stool beside you, beginning to arrange things on the desk. 

You nod back. 

“I know this one is brewed in two parts, so hopefully today’s portion should be fairly simple.” He looks at you from the corner of his eye and gives you a small smile. “Would you rather chop or stir?” 

You pick up the small knife, holding it up in answer. Merlin, this is awkward. Remus gives you a second look for your silence before shrugging as if to say fair enough. 

“Right, we’ll need six of these minced, then.” He slides some sprigs across the work table to you.

It’s a struggle not to snark back I can read the textbook, too, thanks. You roll your eyes to yourself and get to chopping. 

Something admittedly pleasant and rather convenient about Remus is that he doesn’t have to fill silences. You work together with relative ease, no speech needed so long as you keep him supplied with his ingredients when he needs them and he keeps changing the direction of his stirring when the book says. It’s only when your potion is left to simmer and you’re preparing the herbs for the next step that you run into problems. 

“No—sorry, those need to be sliced, not diced.” Remus’ hand lands on your wrist. You still as he moves closer to you. “Here, can I?”

You step back mutely, allowing him to slip the knife from your hand. 

“Thanks,” he says. “You want to slice it in ribbons, like this, see? More of the juices get released that way. Can you see alright?” Remus looks back at you, standing a healthy distance away to peer around him. “Come on, you try.” 

You take the knife from him again. Remus doesn’t allow you half as much space as you had him, hovering over your shoulder as you slice the herbs just as he showed you. 

“That’s good.” He’s close enough for you to feel his breath on your ear. “Perfect, thanks.” He gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze and returns to his place in front of the cauldron. 

You nod at him again in an attempt to convey some gratitude. Wince at how stilted it feels. 

Remus looks at you sideways. “You alright?” 

You try not to wince again, humming. 

“You sure?” He tries to get a better look at you. “Have I ticked you off somehow?” 

You shake your head.

“You’ve lost your voice?” 

Shake your head again. 

“Cat got your tongue?” 

You send him an unimpressed look out of the corner of your eye. Remus’ tongue pokes into his cheek. 

“Come on, then, what is it? I know you can speak, I’ve heard you before. You have a nice voice.” 

Now, why couldn’t those have been his first words to you?

“Frog in your throat?” 

You’re fighting a smile, now, too. The evidence of it makes Remus’ eyes spark with amusement. His lips turn up at the corners. 

“If only you were this quiet in study spaces,” he mutters, teasing. 

It’s so unknowingly dead-on that it shocks a laugh out of you. “Oh, fuck off!” 

Remus’ smile dissolves at the edges. His brow tightens, the spark in his eyes turning to something else. When you realize what you’ve done, you couldn’t speak even if you wanted to. All the air has stolen from your lungs. 

“Did you…” 

“Shit,” you say. 

“It’s you. You’re it.” 

“Fuck. Merlin’s tits. I’m sorry, Remus.” 

“You…” He shakes his head, eyes scrunching shut. You know the feeling. When he opens them again, Remus looks resolute. “Come with me.” 

Slughorn hardly seems bothered that you’re leaving in the middle of class. James calls after you, “Moony?” to which Remus responds, “Loo!” and continues dragging you from the room. 

Only in the empty hallway does Remus drop your hand. The contact has sent warm funny goosebumps all up your arm, which isn’t a soulmate effect you’ve heard about before but it must be one. Remus looks at you like you’ve stolen all his air, too. 

“You just told me to fuck off,” he says. 

“Oh, come on.” You try to smile. “It can’t be the first time someone’s told you that.” 

“But you—” Remus tugs at his trousers, bringing them up just enough for you to see the light pink script around his ankle. “Did you know?” 

Any thoughts you’d had of attempting levity sputter out in the face of his upset. “Yeah,” you admit. “I knew.” 

“For how long?” 

“Not a long time.” 

“What’s—when did—” Remus passes a hand over his face. He often looks weary, you’ve noticed, or exasperated, but you’ve never seen him so frazzled. A worm of guilt wriggles in your gut. “Where’s yours?” 

You take a breath, beginning to loosen your tie and unbutton your shirt. As flustered as Remus already is, his face grows a tad pinker. You roll your eyes. 

“Fuck off, Lupin, I’m not undressing for you.” 

“You’re rather keen on saying that, aren’t you?” he mutters. “It’s a wonder I didn’t find you before now.” 

You unbutton just enough to pull your collar to the side, showing the words written in pink beneath your clavicle. 

“Do you…” he reads aloud before trailing off, mouthing the words to himself. His eyes flicker up to yours. “I remember that. That was months ago.” 

You rebutton your top, shrugging. “Yeah.” 

“Why didn’t you say anything to me?” 

“I think that’s obvious.” You focus on your tie to avoid looking at him. “It’d give me away fairly quickly, wouldn’t it?” 

“And?” When you don’t say anything, Remus blows out a breath. “Why wouldn’t you want me to know?” 

“I didn’t want to find out about us,” you say honestly. Not caring if it stings. 

When you glance up, you see that it has. The pinch of Remus’ brows radiates hurt. “You didn’t think I deserved to?” he asks you. 

You shake your head. “I’m sorry. I just wasn’t ready.” 

“Ready for what?” 

A breathless little laugh leaves you. “For everything. For any of it.” It feels like your insides are shriveling, and all you can do is look at Remus, pleading for his help. “I didn’t think I’d find my soulmate this early. I’m still trying to figure out my own shit. I don’t—I don’t know anything about love, or relationships, and I’m not ready to start making decisions about my life based on someone else. Doesn’t it scare you?” 

Remus has stepped closer, into a sheet of sunlight coming in through one of the hallway’s tall windows. It makes his amber eyes appear warm and melty. Even when they’re narrowed at you, they’re melting.

“It doesn’t scare me,” he says frankly. “I’m not asking you to move in with me straight after school, or change your plans to suit mine. I don’t think it has to be all or nothing like that.” 

You can feel your heart bumping in your stomach. “No?” 

“No.” Remus’ expression gentles. “It’s not like we’re shackled with each other now. Having a soulmate, it’s still a choice, isn’t it?” 

“I don’t know,” you admit, voice softening. You’ve never known anyone who’s talked about it that way before. Every soulmate meeting story you’ve been told has ended in them starting their new lives together, bound in harmony for the rest of their days. 

“I think it’s a choice,” Remus murmurs. “I’m not ready to change my life, either. But I’d like to get to know you, if you’re alright with it. We could take it slow.” 

You wet your lips. “You mean as friends for now?” 

He offers you a small smile. “It’s somewhere to start, isn’t it?” 

You nod, strangely breathless. You feel as if your life might be changing already, but despite all your misgivings you’re alright with this bit. 

“Oh, come on.” Remus’ lips curl some more. “Don’t do that again. I know you can still talk.” 

“I’m afraid I might tell you to fuck off again,” you manage. 

Remus’ laughter is unexpected and bright, and lovely enough that you instantly want to make him do it again. 

It makes for a lot of time spent alone, which is fine by you, and a good amount spent alongside whoever else is having trouble that night. There’s always someone; almost a year into being The New Avengers, the team is tight-knit and heavily traumatized. Everyone knows that if they can’t sleep, they can come find you to keep them company. It’s a weekly debate between Bob and Yelena on whether or not you’re actually nocturnal, and it’s not helping the vampire allegations from Alexei.

When it’s Bucky, the two of you catch up on the long list of movies and music that you’ve missed out on over the decades— everything you enjoy he hates, and vice versa. With Bob, you swap books, forcing him to stomach your questionable horror schlock, while you trudge through yet another sci-fi novel about space fascism. You and Ava smoke on your balcony, even if it doesn’t do much for you thanks to your metabolism, but it soothes her pains, physical and mental. It’s rare that Alexei can’t find rest, but when it’s his turn, the two of you split a bottle of vodka and share war stories— he can’t get enough of your Avengers tales, and the anecdotes you have of Nat. Yelena likes video games, technology that escapes you but you partake in anyway to give her the satisfaction of victory that keeps her mind occupied. You have a secret little routine with everyone at this point, something that stays with just you.

And then, there’s John.

It’s been six weeks since your heart stopped and things changed between the two of you. Vitriol and insults traded for longing glances and stilted conversations. You’re learning how to be around him now that it isn’t a battle, your first instinct still to lash out. But you know that’s not what you are anymore, so as the mockery dies on your tongue, the silence settles, because you aren’t ready to acknowledge what you are.

Your midnight routine with him is new, ever evolving, and mostly by accident. It always starts with running into him in the dark, when John is too tired to keep up the pretense of not wanting your comfort. Usually, neither of you speak, sitting in the silence of everything left unsaid, alone together. Sometimes, you muster up enough guts to ask him what’s wrong, and he’s brave enough to answer.

Tonight, you find John in the kitchen, staring aimlessly into the fridge for so long that the alarm for the door starts beeping sharply, and you can’t bear to turn away. He straightens up with a muted curse, shutting the door, and almost jumps when he notices someone. His shoulders relax when a second later he realizes it’s only you, but he still rolls his eyes.

"Jesus, Red. You’re gonna give me a heart attack," he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his forehead. "You hungry, or just here lookin to bug me?"

He’s been feeling the shift too. Sometimes, all he sees when he looks at you is the memory of your cold and broken body. Other times, it’s the glimpse of the real you that you’d given him that night, still only half-alive in his doorway just to make sure he was okay. He doesn’t know what’s harder to grasp; the fact that you rose from the dead or that somewhere deep down you care about him. You made him tongue tied before everything, but it’s even worse now, and he can’t find the line between brushing you off and letting everything out all at once.

“Well, if you go into cardiac arrest, I can stop it.” you quip, fingers fiddling with the tie of your satin robe.

You push past him to lean against the edge of the counter. Despite your teasing nature, there’s not a hint of humor in your irises, only wide-eyed exhaustion. Dark circles line them, and your entire body is tense, muscles taut like a bowstring. It was a night where you’d tried to rest and were made to regret it immediately.

John knows that look.

During the day, you’re all sharp remarks and steadfast confidence, but he’s been watching you long enough to know when you’re not okay. He knows the exhaustion, the way you hold yourself, the fidgeting. It used to be a version of you that he didn’t care for, but with each accidental encounter he longed to do more about what was plaguing you.

"Nightmare, or just insomnia?" he asks, and it feels like knocking down a wall.

“Nightmare,” you answer without hesitation, but don’t elaborate, your voice hoarse. There’s a deep understanding between the two of you, even if neither one knows what to do with it. You meet his gaze, and your grimace softens. “How about you? What was it tonight?”

"Insomnia," John replies with a rough sigh, leaning against the opposite counter, his arms crossed over his chest. He regards you, the silken robe you’re wearing, one shoulder barely exposed to the room. He tears his gaze away reluctantly, focusing on the hectic collection of magnets on the fridge. "Same as usual."

You raise an eyebrow. "You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine?" You hide your request for vulnerability— for connection— behind the teasing. You’ve noted it’s easier for both of you to digest that way.

He lets himself look back over at you, amused by your smart mouth. "You gotta go first."

Your shoulders lift in a languid shrug, the gesture meant to be nonchalant but only serves to make the restlessness more obvious. Your eyes flick up from the alternating tiles on the floor to him, contemplative. You pause for a moment, a brief hesitation before the floodgates open, pushing yourself up to perch on the countertop. It feels like a turning point.

"Dreams of Hydra mostly," you admit, a bitter edge as the words echo in the dim kitchen. "Of waking up strapped down in some cold room, being injected with god knows what. Things I should be over by now."

John is surprised by the rawness. He wasn’t actually expecting a genuine answer, and definitely not one that made his chest ache in ways he can’t rationalize. He remembers your terror in The Void. Seeing you afraid is enough to rattle anyone, but he witnessed it almost firsthand.

"It’s not something you can just be over,” he responds a little too decisively. The idea of you beating yourself up for the crime of being used like that isn’t one that sits well with him. He sighs, shaking his head as if it will clear his racing thoughts. "I still dream about Afghanistan. About… about the orders we followed.” The silence hangs heavily in the room, broken only by the intermittent sound of the freezer rattling in the background. He doesn’t often talk about his time overseas, the story of what he did in the name of defending a country that never once intended to protect him. “Sometimes, Olivia pops up too. Reminds me how much I screwed that up." He glances up. “But the part that makes me feel horrible is the fact I don’t regret it.”

“Why don’t you regret it?” you ask quietly, appreciating the way he’s taken the spotlight off of you.

After several beats, he answers with a weary exhale, his shoulders slumped. “We got married because it was just another thing we were supposed to do. High school sweethearts, family pressure, society. It wasn’t long before we grew apart and both felt trapped. Eventually, it all came crashing down. And I just…” His words trail off into another heavy sigh, the guilt weighing him down, even after all this time. “I guess I got tired of doing what was expected of me. Of being who they all wanted me to be. That’s why I don’t regret letting her walk. Because it felt like the first time I’d done something for myself.”

You’re silent for a moment, letting his words sink in. You understand the weight of expectations; the pressure to be something different. The need to escape the mold other people had created for you. To steal back any bit of control you could, even if it put a wrench in things for others.

John huffs out humorless laugh, shaking his head.  “Just... I wish I hadn’t gotten it all so wrong.”

Your voice is a gentle counterpoint to the weary acceptance in his when you respond. “I won’t deny that you made quite a few mistakes to get here, but when you aren’t given the room when you’re small, you make worse ones when you’re grown. Your country put you under the emotional equivalent of a hydraulic press and then had the nerve to dump you at the first sign of fracture."

The weight of your assertion hits close to home. Your insight into his life—his struggles—is unsettlingly accurate, almost uncanny. You see right through all the bravado and defensiveness, straight to the root of the wounds that might not ever heal.

"I..." he starts, voice hoarse, "I never really thought of it that way." He takes a beat, observing your expression carefully. "Is that what it was like for you? In the Red Room?"

Your focus falls to the floor again at his question. The memories of the Red Room— the pain, the isolation, the never-ending missions— flash through your mind. You take a deep, steadying breath, gathering the strength to give him a piece of yourself in return, something more than a flippant remark.

"In a way," you reply quietly. "I was an orphan in the middle of a war-torn country when they snatched me up, and suddenly I wasn’t alone anymore. I felt a duty to them, even if I didn’t agree with it. They told me who I was, what I was supposed to do, when I was supposed to do it. And I did it perfectly."

John listens intently, the furrow of his brow deepening as you explain. He hesitates for a moment, considering his next words. "But you fought back eventually, didn't you? Broke free." He says it with so much hope, as if he doesn’t already know how your story ends.

"That’s the funny thing," you scoff, "I didn’t. Not from the Red Room at least. I knew I was different, a mutant. And I managed to hide that from them for a long time. I was the best they had then, but the second I couldn’t hide my power anymore, they pawned me off to Hydra. I felt betrayed."

John can’t imagine what hiding must have been like, having to walk through life in fear of being found out, when you’re the strongest person he knows. He’s endlessly impressed by the way you’ve taken the way they trained you and turned it into something that’s all your own. Your brutality is an expression of love. Your criticism is borne out of care. That you give everyone on the team these pieces of yourself over and over, never letting them give in return. You’re so much more than what they made you, but he doesn’t know how to tell you. He realizes he’s been staring too long— captivated by the line of your jaw, the unguarded look in your eye, and the soft curve of your lips— and clears his throat, his gaze dropping from your face.

"Do you ever think..." he falters, the words sticking in his throat. "Do you ever think that maybe if we’d met under different circumstances… we wouldn’t have been such assholes to each other?"

Your eyes narrow curiously. His question hangs in the air, an unexpected deviation. The last time you heard him say anything so sincere was when you were barely cleared from your deathbed. You search him for any hint of falsehood or sarcasm, but find only the same sincerity from that night. You consider his question for a moment.

"I doubt it," you say bluntly, the familiar sharp edge in your tone returning. "We’re both stubborn, and we get on each other’s nerves, and… you make me want to stab you more often than not," you pause, eyeing him up and down, your gaze calculating. "But you know, we don’t have to wait for another life to be different."

He chuckles at your honesty, expecting nothing less, raising an eyebrow at your words. "What, you think some miracle’s gonna happen and suddenly we’ll stop pissing each other off?"

His genuine laugh is the last straw, making your knees feel weak with an emotion you don’t want to stifle by naming. You prop your palms behind you on the counter, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other, your robe shifting.

"Or maybe it’s worth looking into a different method to shut each other up," you taunt, low and tinged with that playful sarcasm you’ve mastered.

John scoffs, rolling his eyes, anything to not look at you right now. He’s used to your teasing, your mockery, and at first, he thinks that’s all this is. But then, he realizes you’re looking at him the same way you did that day in the gym, the memory of you underneath him flashing in his head. Still not entirely sure what’s happening, he takes a cautious step towards where you’re sitting on the counter, crowding into your personal space. He leans in, hands braced on the marble on either side of you.

You tense at the proximity, eyes flickering over his face, the disbelief. You’re caught off guard by the raw intensity of the moment, the sudden shift from the solemn conversation to the magnetic pull between you. Then, he drags one hand up your thigh, robe falling out of his way.

"John…" you rasp out, your breathier than you’d like, his given name a halfhearted warning. You can feel your pulse thrumming faster, cheeks flushing. He’s so close, his body warm and solid over you. The sound of his name on your lips, the way your body responds to his touch, ignites something deep within him, and he can’t keep it locked away any longer.

"You gonna tell me to stop?" His hand on your thigh moves higher, his thumb continuing its lazy circles, inching under the hem of your robe. Your breath hitches, heat pooling low in your stomach, mind at war over the urge to either pull back or give in. You know it should be the former, that you need to maintain the boundary, no matter how fragile. But the feel of his touch, the way he's looking at you... it's like you’re caught in his gravitational pull.

"This…" you manage in a low voice, "is a bad idea." John can see the hesitation in your eyes, the battle between desire and sense. But he can also feel you pressing into his touch, see the flush in your cheeks.

“Maybe it is,” he murmurs, his hand drifting higher, his fingers precariously close to your inner thigh. Your legs part for him like it’s second nature. “But does it matter?”

You can hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears, can feel the heat of his breath across your skin. Every rational thought vanishes from your mind, replaced by a rush of heated anticipation so intense that you can’t think straight.

“John,” you whisper again, but it’s not a warning. It’s permission. The sound of his name is like a spark to gasoline.

And he’s gone.

John’s mouth crashes into yours, hungry, desperate, impatient. You’ve been dancing around each other for months— longer than he’s even willing to admit to himself.

The stress practically bleeds from your shoulders as you kiss him back, like you’re relieved, giving him just as much as he’s giving you. It's all teeth and tongue, his grip on your waist tight enough to make you wish the bruises would stay. His other hand tangles into the hair at the nape of your neck, cradling your head gently.

He groans as you pull him closer, the sound horribly needy, and he’d be embarrassed in any other situation. Your bow into his touch, legs encircling his hips and pinning him between your thighs. He nips at your bottom lip, catching the sound of your gasp and licking into your mouth. He’s been dying to taste you again since that day on the mat.

Your pulse races as John changes course and his lips move down your jaw, and you can sense how his heart speeds up to match yours. He lingers at the sensitive spot under your left ear, sucking and nipping until you’re pulling him to your waiting mouth. He hauls you up, and in one swift movement he’s carrying you down the hall.

He gets you to his room in record speed, every step fueled by desperate need, slamming the door shut behind you. He wastes no time, pinning you to it, your back pressed firmly against the wood. He captures your mouth in another kiss, hard and needy and you can’t get enough.

Wandering hands explore him further, slipping under his t-shirt and grazing over the ridges of his abs, tracing the trail of hair under his navel to the waistband of his sweatpants. In return, John tugs at the tie of your robe hastily until he can push it off your shoulders, and you shuck it away, revealing nothing underneath but your— very obviously soaked— panties. He crowds you, grinding his hips into yours so you can feel exactly what you’re doing to him.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this, Red,” he groans.

“I—" you breathe, little more than a whine as you tug at his sweatpants. “I need you. Now.”

Biting back another embarrassing sound, he turns and crosses the room to his bed, tossing you onto the sheets. He pulls away to just look at you for a moment, staring like he’s committing you to memory. His gaze roams over you slowly, the curve of your waist, the flush of red on your chest, and the hitch of your breathing.

"You're so beautiful," he husks, laced with awe.

Then, he’s straightening out and tugging his shirt over his head, and you’re able to make your stunned reaction to him calling you beautiful look like it’s about him undressing instead. His chest is more sun-kissed than you were expecting, subtle freckles dotted across his shoulders. A set of dog tags rest on a thin chain at the center of his chest, framed by lean muscle on all sides. None of his strength is for show, meticulously honed over his years of service and there long before any serums. His pants are stripped off next, and he wastes no more time before crawling over you. He’s straining in his boxers, aching for you, his mouth finding yours again with fervor.

His hands and lips are everywhere, and it’s so much all at once. You’ve been alone and cold and untouched for so long and now, finally, you’re letting yourself have him. You’ve never been held like this, never felt wanted like this, like he can't breathe without you. You’re not supposed to want this, want him. But God, you do. More than anything else in the world.

Your head falls against his pillows, savoring the weight of him over you. The touch of his lips, his beard scraping your skin, all heighten the buzz running through your body, so much better than any of your fantasies. His cock is hard and insistent against your thigh, practically begging for your attention.

You arch your back, pressing your chest to his, a command for more. There’s something feral in the way he responds, hands cupping your breasts, squeezing firmly. He can’t get enough of you. He kisses you hungrily, his hands gliding across your sides, your shoulder blades, everywhere, desperate to touch as much skin as possible. His lips find your neck again, leaving hot, wet kisses that trail down your torso, detouring only to lap over each peaked nipple with dedication. He continues lower, his nose burying into your navel, inhaling deeply. He glances up at you, his eyes clouded with desire, the question on the tip of his tongue. You beat him to it, spreading your legs wilder, beckoning him closer.

"You wanna taste me, baby?" you purr.

John feels the heat in his gut flare at your words, your voice, your body. His tongue traces a path over your hip bone, down to your inner thigh. He takes a moment to marvel at the wet patch on your panties, pressing a kiss over the soaked cotton before urging them down your legs and flinging them to some forgotten corner of the room.

He’s homed in on your dripping cunt, and you swear he licks his lips. "Oh, I'm gonna devour you, Red."

He gets on his knees at the foot of the bed, pulling you to the edge by your hips, and tosses your thighs over his shoulders. He starts agonizingly slow, his tongue tracing slow circles through your folds, teasing, savoring. It doesn’t take you long to realize he knows exactly what he's doing, and it’s unexpected, but you’re sure as hell not about to complain. Every sound that slips from your lips only encourages him further, determined to prove something to you that he can’t quite put a name to. He alternates between broad, languid strokes and focused, pointed flicks, finding all the right spots that make you grind your cunt into his mouth.

“John,” you gasp again, hands tangling in his hair, your grip unrelenting. “You’re so good at this… so fucking good.” You swear you can feel him fighting a smug smile between your legs. But before you can call him on it, John flattens one hand over your lower stomach, holding your hips down, while the other circles your entrance. He teases only for a moment, sliding one finger, and then another inside. Your thighs clamp around his head as he fucks you with his fingers, curling them at just the right spots, his pace relentless. He watches you through it all, completely mesmerized by the way you look, how he’s the one making you feel so good.

“That’s it, baby—“ you sigh, the endearment slipping out without a thought. “Fuck. Keep going.” You’re a trembling wreck, your senses overwhelmed by his skilled tongue. The coil of pleasure tightens inside you, a breadth away from snapping. It’s so much, minding your reactions slips your mind, the moans and curses coming freely now. You’re incredibly vocal, constantly singing his praises, trailing off into unintelligible cries that only serve to push him further.

“I’m so close,” you choke out, “you’re gonna make me come.”

So fucking close.

And then, he does something with his fingers, a subtle crook as his lips wrap around your clit, and that's it. You shatter, your body arching off the bed, head thrown back, a strangled cry escaping you.

"J-John," you weep, shaking with the force of your orgasm. "Oh my god, fuck, so good.” John doesn’t let up, lapping at your cunt to draw out your high for as long he can. You have to pull him away once the overstimulation kicks in, reluctant to part with the taste of your release. The soft praises, the way you’d cried his name ringing in his ears, his cock uncomfortably hard, just from eating you out.

His eyes roam over your form, taking in the sight of you, debauched and flushed, chest heaving with each ragged breath. He doesn’t deserve this. Deserve you.

You lie there, still gushing through the aftershocks, your mind fuzzy and utterly sated. Every nerve ending crackles with electricity, your breathing shallow, skin damp with sweat. It feels like your body has been wrung out and put back together again in the best possible way.

You glance at John who’s patiently waiting for you to come down, but you catch the hint of doubt etched into his brow. Not regret, but the shadow of inadequacy. It brings a momentary gloom over you, baffled by how he could be insecure after giving you the best orgasm of your life.

“I take back what I said about you going down.” You grab his hand, the one that’s still covered in your cum, pulling him closer before he can wallow any longer. John goes willingly, his body settling over yours, and his eyes go wide as you bring his damp fingers to your mouth, tongue darting out to clean yourself off of them. “I guess your mouth is good for things other than running it.”

Your lips find his next, tasting more of your pleasure on his tongue and in his beard. He’s wound tight, the hunger thrumming beneath his skin, but the feeling of your kiss— and your characteristically vulgar compliments— settles the doubt within him.

“Fuck, you’re amazing,” you continue, pulling him into you with your legs around his waist. He rolls his hips yours, grinding his leaking cock brushing your cunt, both of you chasing that friction.

"You’re so goddamn perfect," he murmurs against your lips, rough with need. His hips speed up, soaking up the wetness at the apex of your thighs, even though the barrier of his boxers.

“You’re wearing too many clothes.”

You flip your positions suddenly and swiftly, just like that day in the gym, straddling his hips. Your weight settles over him, tugging his waistband down until his length is freed from the stifling cotton. That day, you’d felt him through his sweats, made up a picture in your mind of what he’d look like underneath. But nothing compares to seeing him in the flesh.

Your hands wander over him, appreciating every contour of muscle, every scar— even the one near his ribcage that was very likely your doing— every faint freckle that dots his shoulders. The way you caress him is firm and deliberate, and you’re lost in the moment, the reality of what’s between you settling heavily over your head.

John watches through half-lidded eyes, the rise and fall of his chest shaky as your lips and teeth trail over his chest. You leave little marks in your wake, making sure to leave your brand on him, even if he can’t do the same on you. He feels the shift too, and he’s terrified, but he never seems to know when to keep his mouth shut around you.

"I’ve wanted you since I first saw you,” he confesses suddenly. “You wouldn’t even give me the time of day back then." He knows it was wrong, that he was supposed to be happily married at the time, and it was something he never intended to act on.

And then, fate— better known as Valentina Allegra de la Fontaine— shoved you back together and locked you in a bunker and forced you to make nice to stay alive. He never thought it would actually end with you in his bed.

"That was three years ago,” you point out, his admission still sinking in. Your heart hammers in your chest, the reality of this hitting you in full and all at once. The depth of the desires he’s been denying, the need you’ve been ignoring.

"I’ve been holding back for years." John pushes himself up on his elbows, leaning against the headboard to be level with you. You’re both in anticipation as you scramble for the right way to respond, wide-eyed and entirely focused on the other.

“Stop holding back.”

And your wish is his command. He relaxes at the tentative acceptance of his feelings, and it’s more than enough when he’s still not sure how to describe them. He leans into you, and this time his kiss is slower, thorough. Your thighs cage his in, all of you on display just for him, his cock throbbing as you start to move your hips. He almost can’t handle the feeling, and he tries to ground himself as to not come in three seconds, and a different issue occurs to him instead.

“Are you on the pill— or something? Or do I need…” he trails off, wondering if he even has any. There’s been no one since or before Olivia, no reasons to be prepared.

Your stomach drops, John’s question sobering in a way you know he didn’t intend. You hadn’t really considered the fact that he was unaware of the Red Room’s ‘graduation ceremony’. It’s been such a constant in your life for decades— less of a sore spot and more of a mild ache that flares up on occasion— but one that doesn’t often cross your mind anymore. A bitter laugh almost escapes you, but you bite it back. You know you don’t technically owe him an explanation, but you decide he deserves one.

“I’m not— but—“ you start, faltering on how to put it into words without completely ruining the moment. “I can’t— I don’t have the equipment.”

John is struck still by the disclosure, his hands pausing where they were gliding over your sternum. It takes a second for his brain to catch up to what you’ve said, but then his eyes flick down, spotting the faint scar that runs vertically through your lower stomach. He puts together the pieces that he should have realized before now.

“It wasn’t my choice but— it’s fine, it was a long time ago,” you insist. It happened before the serums that made you invulnerable, making it permanent. You want him to trust that it’s safe, but don’t want to talk about it, don’t want to linger on another thing that they took from you— autonomy. 

“Red—“ he starts, and you mistake his concerned tone for pity, interrupting him before he can continue.

“Don’t worry about it,” you plead. “I’m fine. I want to feel you.” You’re desperate for this to not turn into another therapy session, so you try to resume the friction with a shift of your hips, but his grip holds you still.

You say it all so flippantly, like it doesn’t matter, and he has to forcibly stop the groan that’s building in his chest as you rock against him. The need to make you forget everything that’s ever been done to you is overwhelming. His grip loosens, no longer possessive or rough, and he runs his knuckles over the sensitive skin of your stomach, meant as a comforting gesture.

“I’m sorry they did this to you, sweetheart.”

His voice is so warm. Your heart swells at the use of the term— so tender and familiar, so at odds with everything you feel you are— and you want more. But he’s still looking at you with worry, like what happened doesn’t sit right with him.

“Don’t look at me like that. I don’t want to think, I just want this… you.”

He can't deny you anything, not now. He has to give you what you need, and it’s this. Him.

You need him.

“You have me, Red. You have me.”

His grip on your hips loosens, no longer holding you in place but lightly kneading your flesh. You’re moving again, but it all feels heavier now, and you keep the pace languid, looking into his eyes. He’s content to give you the control, his body moving on your lead, driven by a need to make it good for you.

It’s not until you decide you’ve reduced him into a desperate mess underneath you that you finally change course, angling your hips so that the tip of his cock catches your entrance. His hips jerk and he can’t help it, driving up into you, groaning into your mouth. His hand tangles in your hair and you echo his sounds as you sink down on him, the stretch euphoric.

"God, you’re perfect," he growls, “you’re so goddamn perfect." The feeling of being inside you, of losing himself in you… it isn’t something he’d ever thought he’d experience, something he can’t put into words.

You lean up to capture his mouth, your tongue sliding over his, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer, wanting him as close as you can get him. The world around them disappears, nothing but the feel of him inside you, the taste of his moans on your tongue.

“Fuck,” you whisper. “You feel so good, filling me up so well, so deep."

Your little praises and the curses are more than enough to drive him crazy. He can’t think, thrusting up into your heat on pure instinct. He’s never felt like this, with anyone, like he’s enough. And as you gasp his name, your face clouded with pleasure, it hits him like a ton of bricks.

“I can't get enough of you," he pleads without any clear request. "Can't get you out of my head, out of my system…."

You can feel it building in your body, the heat and sensation coiling tight, pleasure building as you ride him vigorously, thighs flexing, your hands on his shoulders for leverage. You set a rougher pace, lost in him, drowning in the sounds he’s making. He kisses you again, mouth hungry and demanding. You can feel him growing closer, the way his rhythm is turning erratic, his blood is pumping, and you know he’s on the edge.

You cup his face, making him look at you, the words coming out in gasps of breath, “You’re so close, aren’t you? Are you gonna come for me?"

His eyes snap open, his expression raw and primal, his body coiled tight. His fingers dig into the meat of your hip firmly, leaving bruises that heal quicker than he can make them over and over, but it only adds to your bliss.

He cries out your name, thick with emotion. “Please.”

The word hangs in the air. He’s asking for something more than just this physical moment. You trace his swollen, kiss-reddened lips with your thumb.

“Please, what?”

He closes his eyes, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his body trembling under yours.

“Please,” he repeats, a ragged whisper, his lips brushing against your neck, “please don’t leave me… don’t leave me, please.”

He’s not sure he can bear the answer, but he needs you to know, to understand, that he needs you in a way that’s so much more than this moment. You suck in a breath, the words catching you off balance, your heart constricting in your chest. You want to tell him you won’t, that he’s stuck with you, just as much as you’re stuck with him. But the words stick in your throat, the truth feeling too big, too real. Instead, you wrap your arms around him, holding him close, pressed up against him, wordlessly offering yourself.

You’re giving him something he didn’t know he even needed, something comforting and safe and he doesn’t remember ever feeling this known before. He buries his face deeper into your neck, a small shudder running down his body. It’s too much, too intense, but he can’t stop it, can’t hold back.

“I’m gonna come,” he gasps, “baby, can I— please…” Your name on his lips, the low pleading, almost desperate edge to his voice.

“Go on. Inside.”

That simple, filthy command— it’s all it takes for him to snap, and his orgasm is crashing over him. It triggers yours a moment later, the way he’s filling you and the gravely way he cries out completely irresistible. Your name is on his lips, foreheads pressed together as you both come.

“Red… Baby, baby… God. You’re — You’re so good, you’re so goddamn perfect.”

John lays his head on your shoulder, snuggled close, the heat between you cooling to a simmer. You’re both still shaking slightly, the last waves washing over, and you stay this way for what could be hours, your fingers gently running through his hair.

You’re so goddamn perfect.

It rings in your head over and over, and you’re not sure if you want him to say it again or if you even want to respond at all. You don’t know what to do about this feeling, this feeling of wanting more.

He’s not moving, not yet, not ready to lose this contact, this moment. He’s always been a straightforward person, but all he can think of is how damn good this feels, your fingers brushing in his hair, the way you hold him, your praises echoing in his mind.

He finally lifts his head, moving just enough so that he can look at you. And he’s not expecting what he sees.

Your eyes are welling with tears.

Red flags are screaming in his head at the sight of your tears, his mind flashing over all of the ways that he could have hurt you, if he’s pushed too hard, if your wounds are still too fresh. He pulls back, panic making him tense. “Baby? Why are you—“

“I’m not sad,” you reassure him quickly, giving him a watery laugh, shaky as you reach up to dab at your eyes. Two months ago, you probably would have killed him for seeing you like this. That time seems so far away right now. “It was just— a lot, that’s all. I’m not sad, I promise.” And you mean it— you’re not sad, you’re completely overwhelmed with a million different emotions you don’t know how to deal with. You look at him, the concern on his face so unusual and sweet that you can’t help smiling.

“I’m not normally like this, I just— I was expecting a quick hate-fuck, not…” you trail off, terrified to be the one to voice the feelings first.

His concern eases slightly at your admission, his brow still furrowed with worry, but he lets out a shaky laugh. He had been thinking the same, a quick roll in the sheets and the usual brush-off he’s used to. He hadn’t been expecting you to let him past your defenses, or for every damn thing you say and do to make him want you more and more.

He reaches a hand up to your cheek, gently stroking away the tears from your skin. His hand is tentative, as if he’s unsure he’s doing the right thing.

“Maybe it’s a surprise for both of us.” His eyes roam over your face, taking in the way you look, all flushed and sated. “Can I— can I hold you?”

Your breath catches in your throat at the question, your heart fluttering like an over-excited kid. You’d never allowed yourself something so soft, not since you can ever remember, and you’re terrified of how much you want it.

Your response is low, like you’re trying to make sure you don’t scare anyone away. “Please. Yes.”

Relief washes over him, the tension in his body disappearing. He gently pulls you into his arms, settling against the pillows, shifting until you’re lying on his chest. Pulling the blankets over your tangled forms, John runs a hand through your hair, his touch so incredibly tender it feels foreign.

You tuck your head under his jaw, wanting to be as close as possible to listen to and feel the beat of his heart. He’s holding you like you’re something precious, something worth caring for, and it makes your throat tight again.

He’s quiet for a long time, his fingers tracing absent lines across your scalp.

After what feels like forever, he finally speaks. “What’s your favorite kind of ice cream?”

You’re caught so off guard by the question that you burst into a fit of laughter. You pull away so that you can look up at him, the question completely unexpected.

“That’s what you want to know right now?” you ask, an eyebrow raised quizzically at the question. “My favorite kind of ice cream?”

The sound of your laugh is like music, sending a jolt through his chest, and you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He grins down at you, his gaze filled with something adoration.

“Yup.” He grins wider at your skepticism. “Ice cream. It’ll be important for when I take you out.”

Your stomach does a flip. When.

You’ve never been one to entertain anything like the idea of a relationship, too caught up in life-or-death situations or your own baggage and grief to even consider the possibility.

“Neapolitan,” you answer simply, biting your lip to keep yourself from looking too enthusiastic. He can see it on your face, the way your expression turns sentimental at the thought of it.

“Neapolitan, huh? I should’ve guessed. You seem like the kind to have trouble making decisions.”

You playfully smack his shoulder, scoffing. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean? Let’s hear your favorite, then.”

His face contorts into a borderline theatrical facade of pain, his hand moving up to rub dramatically at his arm.

“Rocky road,” he says, trying not to crack while feigning hurt. “It’s a classic. And apparently, a sign of a stubborn personality.”

“So, I’m indecisive, but your favorite ice cream is the one with the most crap in it?” You rest fully on his chest, wanting to be closer to him, wanting to soak in the feeling of his touch. “It’s overcompensating,” you tease, tinged with affection.

He lets out a quiet oomph as you lean against him, his arm shifting to wrap more securely around your back as he brings you closer. The boyish smirk on his face grows at your obvious teasing. “It’s not overcompensating,” he argues, full of mock protest, “I think you just experienced firsthand how much I’m not overcompensating, actually. Compensating perfectly adequately.”

You can’t help but snort at that, your head lifting to see the self-satisfied grin on his face. It’s so unexpected, the banter, the lighthearted flirting. But it feels good, so good, in a way you didn’t know you were capable of.

“Oh sure,” you say dryly. “So, when are you taking me out then?”

His hand runs up and down your spine, his touch gentle, touch is so light it’s almost ticklish. “Tomorrow night.” His tone is so soft, so different from how he normally speaks. “There’s this barbeque place not too far from here, pretty good for New York,” he scoffs. “And then, ice cream.”

Your heart stumbles over itself, and for once you have no witty retort. Because he’s making plans. With you. For a real, actual date.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “That sounds… nice.”

He’s not sure how this is happening, but he’s sure as hell not about to question it now. “It’s a date, baby.”

You once thought the strangest thing you’d ever done was go through space and back in time to resurrect your friends. But really, it’s feeling safe and happy wrapped up in the arms of John Walker, and agreeing to go out on a date.

“You know the team is going to never let us live this down, right?”

That gets more laughter to bubble out of him, a wide, genuine smile on his face as the thought of the team seeing you together hits him. You’re right, of course. They’re gonna have a field day with this, and he’s going to have to take the brunt of their trades, because most of them are still   a little bit scared of you.

He presses another gentle kiss to your forehead, smile lingering. “Think we can keep it to ourselves for a little while? Just us?”

You aren’t used to asking for things, but you want this, and you let herself be honest with yourself for once. “They mean well, and probably already have a betting pool running behind our backs— but I don’t want them to mess this up before we can figure it out.”

John nods, his own heart swelling at your words. This. He wants this too, more than he’s ever wanted anything, and he’s not ready to share it with anyone else.

“They’ll notice something is up if we aren’t constantly at each other’s throats, you know,” you add, a reminder that only a few hours ago the two of you had been feigning hate for each other for months.

John chuckles, because if anyone knows how hard you’ve been denying the truth, it’s yourselves. He’s not ashamed to admit that it was a bit like pulling teeth, lashing out at you when all he could think about was kissing you senseless.

“I’m sure we’ll still find enough to bicker over to make it look convincing.”

You’ve never wanted someone, not like this, and you know he’ll be able to see it all over your face if he looks. So, you bury your head into the crook of his neck, trying to hide the way you’re beaming as you respond. “We do a rather good job of hating each other, usually.”

He gently lifts your chin, tilting your face up so that he can see you clearly. He's not letting you hide, amused by how damn obvious you are, a reprieve from your typical cold demeanor.

“Don’t you dare hide from me, Red.”

You aren’t used to feeling so exposed. Your forehead rests against his, John’s hand moving to cup your cheek as you lean in, responding with a kiss gentler than the ones you’ve shared previously.

His breath catches at the soft brush of your lips, at the feeling of you under his hands.

“Say you’ll be here in the morning.”

You can hear his sincerity, the sound of it going straight to your heart. 

You smile, an unfamiliar and tender smile, so delicate it’s like sharing a secret.

The way Bucky stares down at you, a haunted expression on his face. How he tells you he's here to help, you'll be okay. His certainty not reaching his eyes. He never told you who he saw that night, he couldn't and you'd never pushed him.

Bucky's there when you wake, your whole body riddled with pain. A deep ache in your stomach where you still feel the blade. You hardly hear him while he explains they had to operate on you, the knife narrowly missing your liver. You had broken ribs, internal bleeding, a fractured tibia...

He says you're lucky, could have been much worse. You break down then. Yet Bucky stays, he listens, asks if you knew the attacker. You only remember his eyes, cold and dark. You don't expect to see Bucky again, but he visits you every day. Brings you books, sneaks you coffee, tells you of his new team and their crazy missions.

One day he brings you a mask made of a special one-way material. Once you get used to the sensation, when you learn how to breathe, not panic. It's the first time in years you've felt even close to normal, being able to speak to people as yourself.

You've longed for a purpose for years, a way to make up for the things you'd done. So when Bucky offers you a lifeline, a place on his team, you didn't hesitate. Two weeks pass and it's finally the day you're discharged. You've waited all morning, your possessions fitting into a small bag. Your side still aches, the stitches still sore and you can't stand for longer than a minute on your fractured leg. You don't care, though. You're so relieved to be getting out of this room, to breathe fresh air.

Bucky's called away last minute and he brings Walker to drive you to your new apartment. From Bucky's stories, he's still trying to make up for the bad choices he made. That and he irritated the hell out of Bucky. The first time you hear his voice, he's bickering with Bucky in the corridor.

"Why does she get her own apartment?"

"Because I said so."

"I saved a hundred kids the other day Bucky, just sayin'."

"Just be nice."

“I'm always nice.”

You know Bucky's rolling his eyes and you smile when he pokes his head round the door, coming to sit beside you.

"Hey, you ready to go?"

Walker pushes a wheelchair into the room and steps back to lean against the door frame. You weren't sure what to expect, but you weren't expecting him. His lips set in an amused half smile, neatly trimmed beard and styled hair you could run your hands through. Bucky didn't mention Walker was this good-looking. Though it's his eyes that draw you in, a pearlescent blue, they have that shine old movie stars had. 

You're glad he can't see your face heat up when he looks you over. So intense and curious when his gaze lands on your mask. You raise your hand to your face to check it's still on, that he can't actually see through it.

You squeak out a barely audible, "Hi." and Bucky gives an amused huff.

"This is Walker." 

"What's with the mask?" Walker asks and it's the first of a lot of questions that day. 

“I told you about this… I'd better go, you'll be okay?"  Bucky looks pointedly at Walker, he huffs and crosses his arms, annoyed at Bucky doubting him. 

“I'll be fine, I'm in great hands, right Walker?” You’re not sure where that came from, why it sounded so flirty. Neither is Bucky. He stifles a laugh and raises his eyebrows at you.

Walker stands up straight, not sure what to say, “Yes?”

“Okay then, I'll drop by tomorrow.”

After an awkward moment you shuffle to the end of the bed, attempting to drop down into the chair. Walker stops you, lifting you gently, his hair falling into his face as he sets you down. You really want to brush it back into place, feel the soft strands between your fingers. Wait, what the hell is wrong with you? You're glad it’s only a short drive, your apartment a block away from the Avengers Tower. He lifts you back into the chair and you take the elevator to the tenth floor.

“Home sweet home.” He grins and hands you the keys, letting you push open the door, watching for your reaction. 

“Wow.” The place is beautiful. Modern open plan, huge windows and doors to a small balcony overlooking Manhattan.

“Bucky asked me to make you something,” he wheels you into the living room and starts pulling things out of the fridge, "hope you like sandwiches." 

"Sounds great." You haul yourself out of the chair, holding onto the couch to balance yourself. You had to try the balcony out, you'd always wanted one. Clumsily, you make your way across the room. Till you run out of things to hold onto and your damn leg gives way, “Shit.”

“Woah, think you're supposed to use these?” Walker's at your side in an instant, strong arms around your waist, steadying you and you curse at the way your stomach flutters.

“Sorry.” He lets you lean on him while you hook your arms around the crutches.

You hobble out to the balcony while he makes you both coffee. You let yourself relax, taking a breath and listening the city sounds, so different from the bleak hospital you'd been in the last few weeks. 

After a few minutes Walker brings out the coffees and the biggest sandwich you'd ever seen, the smell making your stomach rumble. He sits the other side of the table, sliding the sandwich over to you. Where was this asshole Bucky talked about? He's been more gentle than you expected him to be, more attentive. Maybe that's why you feel like a school girl with a new crush? Had it really been that long? 

You can sense those curious blue eyes on you again, “Can you eat through that?”  he asks, gesturing to your mask.

"It's the only downside, that sandwich looks so good."

"I can..." he holds his hand up blocking his face, then peeks through his fingers at you and you wish he could see your smile.

"Too risky, I'll eat it later."

“This is a great view, hey, you can see the tower from here.” He takes a drink of coffee and you hold yours, letting the cup warm your hands.

“Do you have to wear it all the time?”

“Only around people.”

“How does your thing work?”

“My thing?”

"Yeah, what if you're in a dress? Do girls see a guy in a dress? What if he's got a beard? Are you like, a guy's head with a girl's body?”

You laugh at the image and sharp pain shoots up your side, “Ow, don't make me laugh…” he reaches over, but you wave him off.

“I'm not sure myself, they see the whole person though, it's sort of like I make them hallucinate?” 

“Can I try?” He seems genuinely interested. Yet you hesitate, you liked this normality. Having a conversation without the lovey-dovey eyes, knowing he’s talking to you, not who he wants you to be.

“Is there someone you want to see?” 

He stares down at his wedding ring with a sad smile, turning the band around his finger, “Doesn't matter, she wouldn't take me back, anyway.” 

Great, now you feel bad for asking, “I did some pretty shitty things before Bucky found me…I feel like I don't deserve all this…”

“He must think you're worth a second chance…I mean, he gave me one so…”  he checks his phone, getting up to leave, washing his cup and giving the apartment a last checkover.

“I guess you're all set…” he leans your crutches closer to you, scribbling on a piece of paper, “here's my number, in case you need anything."

“Thanks Walker.”

“And tell Bucky, great hands.”

You crease up laughing, side hurting again and he mouths ‘sorry’, with an apologetic smile. Closing the door quietly behind him. You close your eyes, sighing. Not a good idea y/n. Catching feelings for a man still pining after his ex-wife. A guy you just met. Your messed up heart though, it never listened to reason.

Back to the present and you're working your first undercover mission alone with Walker. Intel led you to Nebraska, chasing the hellfire stone. A nasty alien artifact that could cause chaos in the wrong hands.

Bucky's jet comes in to land over the bleak terrain and Walker has you in stitches for the tenth time that day. Complaining he thought it would be the real Crete in Greece when he agreed to come on the mission. Not the tiny airport in Nebraska. 

You hated flying and landing; that terrified you. You grip onto the seats as the plane bumps along the runway, and practically run to open the doors. The warm, humid air greets you as you step off the jet and down the rickety metal steps.

“Bucky said it's CPD 704?”

“You've got to be kidding me.” You glance up from your phone to see the disgusted expression on Walker's face. You follow his gaze to the beaten-up old Ford Bucky rented. Rusted over with faded red, white and blue paint, stars spread over the doors.

“Maybe he wants us to blend in?” Bucky likes winding Walker up almost as much as you do. You silently curse him when you twig the number plate.

“Yeah, you stick up for him.” Walker pulls the keys from under the wheel rim and the doors creak open. Your nose crinkles at the smell of the musty leather seats, full of stains.

“Let's see if this thing even starts.”

Thick black fumes fill the car as the engine stutters into life and you roll open the windows, both of you spluttering and coughing.

“I'm gonna fucking kill him.” Walker hisses behind his sleeve and you burst out laughing, him joining you. After a few minutes, he manages to get the car going. You breathe in the fresh air and send Bucky a text.

“I hope you're telling him he's a dead man “

“Nope, telling him how much you love the car.”

"Urghh."

“Did we have to park so far away?” 

“It's ten minutes, don't you trust me?”

You side-eye him, knowing his ten minutes and yours are vastly different. The air is getting cooler now, clouds forming and you wish you'd brought your jacket. You hug your arms to yourself as you walk.

“Like I did in Rio?”

“That wasn't my fault!” 

"Yeah, yeah."

When he'd had you wandering the streets for hours, exhausted because he wouldn't admit he was lost. You'd never admit that it was one of your favourite memories with him. You ended up on the beach by Copacabana, drinking awful cocktails and talking. About what you can't remember, though you remember his eyes sparkling in the moonlight, his smile easy. Watching the stars and listening to the waves till you fall asleep. An angry Bucky and Ava finding you early the next morning. The four of you watching the sunrise. No missions, no worries, only calm for a few moments.

Finally, you make it to the main road, the red neon lights of the Foxhole Tavern almost welcoming.

"I'm gonna check round back, you wait for him inside. Don't draw any attention, okay?”

"Yes sir."

He walks off, mumbling to himself, and you smile after him a second. Waiting till he's out of sight to drag your mask down, relishing the breeze on your skin. The place is old-fashioned, quiet. Stuffed foxes drink wine over the bar, benches and tables lining one side. You head over to the bar, surveying the room. A few locals and students, no one out of place yet.

“Just a beer, please.”

“It's on me, beautiful.” The barman winks and places your beer down on the bar. You leave money anyway and choose a table near the back, pretending to look at your phone.

“I can see why he chose this place. An actual alien could walk in and no one would bat an eye.”

The doors rattle and your target, Thomas Miller, strolls in. A former shield agent turned black market trader. He's not even trying to be discreet, wearing an expensive suit, ugly sunglasses and loudly ordering the most expensive whisky.

"He's here."

You watch him sit at one of the benches near the windows, another guy dressed more casually sits opposite him.

“Oh, here we go.”

They're not exactly subtle, the most obvious clandestine meeting you've ever observed. He's either stupid or too confident.

“Can you hear them?”

“I'll try to get closer.”

You order another drink and set it down in front of an old bearded guy. He's been staring at you since you walked in, trying to catch your attention. He flashes you a smile, all black and broken teeth as you sit down. He's the only person close enough to hear their conversation, so you fake interest in him. Smile, laugh at the right times, pretending to be his ex-wife, ‘Aileeeen’. He talks away while you listen to Miller and the buyer, giving away every detail of their plans.

“Got the info. The buyers leaving out back, camouflage jacket.” You whisper while the old guy goes to get more drinks, you haven't touched the last one yet.

“I'll tail him, you stay on our guy.”  He's using that serious, spy voice and you love it. The old guy thinks your smile is for him when he slams two beers on the table, sitting even closer to you.

“You wanna go back to my place?” he drawls, voice low, “hey, I'm talking to you.”

"Not tonight." You keep your voice level, conscious of not drawing attention. Specifically, Miller's attention onto you.

"Sure, yeah, we don't need a bed, there's a restroom-”

“I said no, sorry.” Your voice is firmer this time and you move to stand, his hand clamping down on your thigh, forcing you back down, dirty nails digging in.

“Let me go.” You warn him, he doesn't listen. He leans over and tries to kiss you. Acrid sweat and stale alcohol radiates from him and your stomach lurches.

“You know I'll be good to you, just like old times.”

Nope. Fuck this. You pull your arm back, punching him hard in the nose, the crack of bone going through you.

“Fuck!” He falls backwards over his chair and straight into a guy at the bar. Setting off a chain of events even you weren’t prepared for.

Oh Shit, Walker's gonna be mad.

You watch on in shock as the whole tavern dissolves into a bar fight. The stuffed foxes off the bar are being flung around as weapons. Even the barman's swinging on someone's back, punching the man beneath him. Miller slips out in the chaos and you don't follow him, there's no way you'd get to him through this mess.

“I lost him on Elm Street, I'm on my way back to you.” Walker sounds breathless, rushing to get back and you panic.

“What a nightmare? Erm, wait outside for me?”

The old guy charges at you out of the crowd, holding out a broken beer bottle. His face covered in blood and screaming. You grab the nearest heavy object and brace yourself.

“Why? What's that noise?”

“What noise?" You yell, ducking out of the guy's path, he's scarily fast, spinning around to charge at you again.

Walker pulls open the doors at the moment you're smashing a plant pot around the old guy's head. He falls onto the bar, sliding down to the floor with a thud. This didn't look good. How did Walker get here so fast? Oh yeah, damn serum. 

“Y/n, what the fuck?!” 

You pull up your mask before he sees you, turning to shrug at him. Inside you're cringing, “We should probably go.“

He's wide-eyed at the fighting still going on, at the blood and beer everywhere, before his angry eyes fall back onto you. You're never going to hear the end of this.

“You think?!” Walker grabs your arm, pulling you out of the bar.

The sky opens up as you step outside, droplets bouncing off the pavement as you weave through the streets and houses. The wind picks up making the air that much cooler, it doesn't cool Walker down though. He's not stopped scowling at you.

You follow him across train tracks and into the patch of forest that leads to your car. The rain is a little less heavy here, the fresh smell of earth in the air.

“Look, I'm sorry, I asked him to leave me alone." 

The dry soil has turned muddy underfoot, your sneakers slipping trying to keep up with him, walking faster now he's angry.

“That's not, I mean, how did it end up in a bar fight?!”

You take a deep breath before you speak, “Well, I punched the first guy and he fell over a chair into another guy, who fell into another guy, then that guy hit the second guy with a bottle. His buddies took offence to that, the punching started and the first guy decided it was my fault.”

He stops walking as you're talking, staring at you perplexed, “Jesus, y/n.” 

"I should have brought an umbrella." You mutter, trudging through the mud now, the rain starting to soak through your clothes.

“You'd probably knock that guy out with it.” He smirks, squeezing out his sleeve and flicking water at you.

"What's wrong with being resourceful?” 

“It was supposed to be recon tonight."

“Yeah and I reconned that plant pot right up his-”

Oh fuck. Your feet slip from under you, so fast you can't grab onto anything. Your ass splats into the mud and you slide down along the path away from Walker.

He stops dead, looking around for you, confused, "Where'd you go?"

“Down here…” You've managed to stop yourself from sliding, grabbing onto a rock, but you're stuck. The ground too slippery to get a grip.

He burst out laughing then and you throw mud at him, "Shut up, Walker!"

"Oh fuck...are you alright?" He holds his hand out to you in between laughs and your eyes meet Walker's as he pulls you up. Your heart drops, realising your mask must have rolled down when you fell. He pulls you flush against him, reaching up to cup your face, his eyes wandering over your face with that familiar lovesick smile. 

You'd always longed for him to look at you this way and it feels all the more cruel now. You struggle to get a grip in the mud and nearly slip again. He holds your waist, lifting you as if you weigh nothing, and carries you over onto more solid ground. You back away from him, brushing yourself off and waiting for the inevitable.  

“I get it now, the birthmark." 

"Wait, you said birthmark?" You hold your arm out to stop him, the wind whipping his hair and he's staring at your neck.

"Yeah, just there it's erm, cute, sorta like cupid?" He reaches out, fingers brushing over your birthmark, so cold they make you shiver.

“You can see me?" You exclaim, sure he must feel your heart hammering in your chest. 

"Err, yeah?"

"That's impossible..."  You're staring at him in disbelief, your mind not catching up quickly enough. How could he see you? This can't be possible.  You hold his arms, examining him for anything weird, anything different from everyone else who had looked at you.

"Are you high right now?"

"But you had the same reaction as everyone else."

"Yeah, you're pretty, I guess." 

"What the actual fuck, Walker?!" You're so excited, so freaked out, how can he not know how insane this is? Hang on, he called you pretty? You do a little jump and now he definitely looks at you like youre crazy.

"You're really freaking me out y/n."

"I'm freaking you out?" 

"That's what I just said!" 

"Will you calm down?”  You smack his arm, and he shoves your hand away. Such a child.

"Don't tell me to calm down!" 

“What are you two arguing about?!” Bucky mutters in your ear, shit, you'd forgotten you were supposed to check in. 

Both of you speak at the same time, “Bucky he can see me?! How can he see me?!” “Is she insane?!”

You catch up to Walker and you can't contain your excitement, walking backwards in front of him, “What's my hair like? What colour eyes do I have? Can you see this scar on my jaw?”

He just walks faster till he’s in front of you, whispering into his com like it hides his voice from you, “Bucky, you've sent me to the middle of fucking nowhere with a crazy woman!”

“I can hear you, Walker.”  

He stops and turns around, arms raised with that annoying smirk, “Good!”

“Come on, you're both idiots, take a breath for god's sake.”

You're both shivering now, the cold and rain starting to chill your bones. Walker huffs and pushes you forwards “Keep going crazy lady, l don’t want to freeze to death. “

“But-”

“Car. Now.”

A few minutes later you make it to the car, still huffing at each other, both of you soaked through. Walker sticks the heater on shaking his head, water flying everywhere, then smooths his hair back. You wipe stray droplets from your face, glaring at him and he starts the engine.

"You got mud, well...all over there..." he tries to hide his grin, wiping your cheek and smudging the mud, making it worse. You grab a towel out of the glove box, wiping it away yourself.

Rain patters on the roof, running down the windows and the wipers screech into life as Walker drives down the dirt road. Your excitement starts to fade, anxiety at what him seeing you actually means. Either he's immune or... no way, not Walker. Of all the people in the world, the only person you actually like? That would be too good to be true.

"You still cold? Here." You hadn’t realised you were shaking. He passes you his spare hoodie off the back seat, and you pull off your soaked jumper. The soft fabric is so comfy and smells of the aftershave you bought him for his birthday, something earthy and unique to him that you can never quite describe. So warm contrasted to the damp cold of your t-shirt, and you have to resist the urge to snuggle into it.

"So, I'm really the first guy to see your face?”

“Since I was eighteen. Everyone sees their ‘perfect love’, but you can see me, so I guess it doesn't work on you, it's weird.”

“Yeah, weird.”

“Least I don't have to wear this thing around you anymore…it's so damn hot…. “You throw your mask onto the back seat, not catching the change in his voice. How his jaw ticks, hands gripping the steering wheel harder.

"They're meeting tomorrow at the terminal building in Lincoln, using the auction as a cover. I've sent Bucky the details already."

"Okay. Thanks.” His voice flat, too controlled while he pulls onto the highway, only bleak prairies around you, darkness peppered with faint lights.

"Okay? Thanks?" You parrot back to him, why is he talking to you like a stranger? He doesn't answer and you sink back into your seat.

"Okaay then. How far to the motel?"

"Twenty minutes. Place called Beatrice."

Walker concentrates on the road, keeping his eyes anywhere but you. Usually you're never awkward, the quiet always calm. You want to ask him what's wrong, too afraid of what his answer will be. So you spend the time messing with the radio, every bump sending it off station.

The rundown motel is in near darkness when you pull up, and you pass at least two much nicer hotels before arriving at this one. You grab the keys from the front desk, cringing when the lady hands you the keys to room sixty nine. Damnit Bucky. 

Both of you scoff at the decor, the place hadn't been decorated since the seventies. Crazy carpet, pink walls, bright yellow and green bathroom. The only relief there are two queen-sized beds, at least Bucky didn't go that far. You flop down on the nearest one exhausted.

"You shower first, just gonna lie here a thousand years...."

"Such a drama queen. I did all the legwork…" Walker mutters under his breath, shrugging out of his soaked hoodie and t-shirt before he steps into the bathroom.

You want to give him a smart remark back, your words lost in the air. You'd never seen him shirtless before and all you can do is stare. Noticing freckles on his back, the moles on his neck in patterns like constellations, all you can think about is tracing them with your fingers.

The bed vibrates beside you, phone ringing and you smile down at Bucky's forehead, “Hey Buck, tilt the screen...there you are.”

"Heyyy," Bucky frowns and pinches his nose, “damn it.”

"Sorry, want me to put-"

“No it's not your fault." He smiles again, he's one of the only people who could fight off the haze. Well, him and Walker now.

“Where is he?” he asks, and you want to call him out, but you don’t want Walker to hear. They were always telling you there's something there and you're always reminding them he's not interested in you like that. No matter how hard you wished for it.

“Shower.”

“You gonna be okay tomorrow?”

“Yeah, recon went mostly well, just one guy that couldn't keep his hands to himself.” You kept the bar fight to yourself, not technically lying.

"I meant with Walker."

“Sure, I know he'll have my back.” 

There's silence a moment. Alexei, Bob and Yelena appearing behind him, “Sooo...he sees you huh? You know what that means?”

“That he's immune?” 

“Or, you know, you're his dream girl?” he snickered and Yelena cracks up giggling, Bob giving you a thumbs up and Alexei his trademark big grin.

You quickly turn the volume down, "Fuck off Bucky. He might hear you. I'm just glad I don't have to sleep in that damn mask.”

"Whatever you say, let me know when you're ready, I'll set everything up. Sleep well.” He winks as he clicks off the call.

The bathroom door opens, steam billowing around him, water still dripping down his chest, wearing only sweats and drying his hair absentmindedly. Was he actually trying to kill you?

“Bucky just called.”

“I heard.” He snapped and threw his towel on the bed, rummaging around in his bag for a shirt. Huffing and puffing like he hadn't organised everything in there.

Was this grown man sulking? He starts hanging up his wet clothes and your stomach rumbles, reminding you you hadn’t eaten since before the flight.

“Want some food?” 

“Uh huh.“

You order delivery on your phone and meet the guy in the parking lot. Not going back to the room till he's driven away. That and you need air. You're tempted to go for a drink in the sports bar next door, deciding not to push it after earlier.

“Hey got you that pizza you like, you know with extra broccoli?” You smirk as you hand him the box, remembering that time you'd watched Inside Out with him and Hobie. Hoping to get a reaction; a roll of the eyes at least, it doesn't even register.

“Thanks.” He hardly looks up at you, scrolling on his phone while he eats. You click on the old tv to fill the silence.

You're reading too much into it; you have to be. He's probably tired. Yeah, of you. Now there's no mystery anymore, your face as boring as you are. He can't imagine you to be beautiful, to be interesting…and you're a fool for thinking you'd be enough. You should never have come here. Your breath catches and you grab your bag, heading in for a shower before you lose yourself to those thoughts again.

He's already asleep when you're finished, spread-eagled over the bed. He'd not even made it under the covers. You pad around the room, grabbing a blanket to cover him with. He stirs and you think you've woken him, until he wraps himself up in the blanket, mumbling incoherent words and turning over.

You turn off the tv, the lamp and plug in your phone. Finally sitting on your bed, shrugging back into his hoodie. Warm under the thin itchy quilt and try to sleep. Hear the old clock ticking, tap dripping, the buzz of the extractor, but worst of all is the pneumatic drill sleeping next to you. You cover your ears, turn over, stick headphones in - nothing blocks out the noise. Walker turns to face you and the volume is unbearable.

Throw a pillow at him, he doesn't even stir, “Shut up Walker!"

“What?!” He jumps up and you can sense his frown even in the dark.

“The rooms shaking.” You protest and throw another pillow at him, he throws it back, hitting you right in the face.

“Shut up and sleep.” 

“With your snoring?"

“I don't snore.”

“My poor eardrums would disagree.”

He grunts and turns onto his back. You can just make out his face in the dark. Hear his uneven breathing, you know he's not asleep and you start to feel a little bad for waking him.

“Walker, are you okay?” You ask softly, leaning on your arm to face him.

“I'm fine.”

"Just you've been acting weird since, you know…since we got here.”

“I said I'm fine, get some sleep.”

He's so not fine, he's never spoken to you that way before. You're always annoying each other, you loved your teasing. He's never been so dismissive, so cold with you before tonight.

You're sure he's just immune, things shouldn't change between you. If anything, they should be easier. You didn't have to hide. He didn't have to wonder anymore. It's not long before he starts snoring again and you resign yourself to remembering to buy earplugs. 

Lightning flashes through the curtains, a low rumble of thunder in the distance almost discernible from Walker and you giggle to yourself.

You're not sure when you drift off, woken up from a dreamless sleep to the hot sun filling the room. Walker steps inside carrying coffee and bagels. A lovely image until he practically throws them at you, dropping down onto his own bed.

“Thanks, what time is it?” Despite his mood, he still remembered your favourite and you smile to yourself, sipping the hot latte.

“Gone ten.”

“Shit, you should have woken me up."

“Looked like you needed it.”

“Yeah, well…you sounded like you were drilling a hole to the centre of the earth.” You grin and he doesn't return it, back on his phone again.

“Whatever.” You mutter to yourself, taking a bite of the bagel. Warm egg and bacon, and it's the best thing you've tasted since yesterday.

The rest of the morning you go over files, read fics on tumblr, watch him check your equipment. Both of you in near silence, and it's not comfortable. Your mind gets away from you, going over and over what he said last night. ’Pretty I guess,’ if he thinks you're his perfect girl, how disappointed he must be, and you get it. He was probably hoping to see Olivia, not you. The annoying girl who loved to get under his skin.

Another cruel irony in your life, that he'd grown on you. That he's the only man in years that made you feel anything at all. Making him laugh was the highlight of your day, the way he'd fight it, eyes crinkling and then he'd pull that face, breaking into an adorable grin, though he'd hate it if you called him that. 

The way you helped each other through bad days, after missions go wrong, you try to keep each other from spiralling. You spent so many evenings on your balcony, sometimes you'd talk until the sun rose, other times you listened to the city below. Both of you glad for the quiet, a little time to breathe.

Yelena always says 'he's better with you around. Why is he never an asshole with you?' and there's moments you think you see a flicker of something.

The first time you see him in the suit and you think you'll combust. An “Oh, hello” escaping your lips before your brain can engage. Much louder than you'd intended. Everyone hears and you're so embarrassed, you run the other way, not even sure where you're going. Bucky still teases you about that one, tells you how much Walker was blushing.

You're all in the jet, heading back to the tower and they're teasing Walker about the suits, Steve Rogers filling them out more than he did...you roll your eyes at them and whisper in Walker's ear, “ignore them, it looks better on you.” That same flush spreads over his cheeks and he swallows hard, shifting away from you a little. The moments always passed though, you always thought you'd imagined them.

He was so excited the first time Olivia let Hobie stay over at the tower. Dragging you around all day, helping him attempt to toddler-proof the tower. The kid must have thought it was his birthday. He's three now and curious about what his daddy does. Always asking so many questions and he's so funny, he charmed all of you. Made everyone see Walker that bit less annoying.

You liked that playful side to him, building forts, play fighting, you loved seeing him happy. The day he'd been running around after Hobie all day, begging you to read a bedtime story. This supersoldier that could spend days on missions exhausted by a three year old. They're both passed out before you read the third page and your heart aches at the sight of them, wishing for something you could never have.

If all it took for him to pull away would be to show him your face? You'd have done it that first day in your apartment, saved yourself from this dread you were feeling now. You always refused though, him complaining you'd let everyone else see behind your mask, why not him? You couldn't tell him the real reason. You were selfish, you didn't want to lose him, your friendship.

Red fabric flows to the ground as you pull out the dress Yelena gave you. Way more fitted than you're used to, way too fancy. It will be hard to hide a bullet vest under this thing, never mind weapons, you hated going undercover.

"I'll go get changed."

All you get in reply is a grunt. When he's fighting you loved those noises, now he was just annoying you. He's itching to get this done, to be away from you. You can take disappointment, it's not his fault he doesn't feel the same. It’s the way he’s rejecting you that hurts the most. Before anything, you thought you were friends. 

You go through the motions, strap a handgun to your thigh, knife in your bra, com in your ear…put on your lipstick, not knowing why you bothered. People just see who they want anyway.

You walk out of the bathroom to him sat on the edge of the bed, buttoning his dress shirt. Those butterflies plaguing you again. Your eyes follow the curve of his waist and down to the black suit trousers fitted tight on his thighs, before snapping them back up to his face, clearing your throat. Get a grip, y/n.

“You scrub up well, Walker.” You offer and he almost smiles, his eyes wandering over your face again. Then he remembers himself and looks away, putting on his suit jacket and taking his wedding ring out of the pocket.

He'd not worn it since the day Olivia told him she was seeing someone. He'd tried to hide how devastated he was, but Olivia was his first love and you felt so bad for him. 

He notices you watching him and he can read your thoughts before you say anything, "It's just a ring."

“Do I look okay?” You smooth down your dress, conscious of the way it hugs your figure, he doesn't answer, grabbing the car keys and heading out the door.

“Sure, let's go.”

Deflated, you send Bucky a text. He's hacked into the cctv, sent you access codes, got you on the guest list and he'll be there on comms. Walker, even though he's disappointed, he’ll keep you safe. Yet you're still nervous, you always are. 

The city's so different from the vast empty prairies you've been driving through. He parks a few blocks away from the imposing terminal building, similar to the old buildings in Manhattan.

“Remember our story?”

“Yeah, you're my annoying husband, Daniel Morgan, big time IT guy in New York. I'm your doting wife Maya, or whatever they want to call me.” 

“I'm not that annoying. Plan?” He questions you like you hadn’t been through it a thousand times today. The only time he'd even acknowledged you were there.

“Follow them, knock them out, take the artifact, get the hell out. Easy.”

You slip the cheap wedding band over your finger, knowing nothing about this would be easy, especially now, “Is this about the mask? I can put it back on when this is done, you know you're just immune right?”

“Sure I do.” He dismisses you again, and you both walk the short distance along the busy street.

“Time to put on a smile, honey.” You tease him, and he rolls his eyes, though you feel how tense he is when you take his arm.

You get past door security easily, Walker introducing you as Mr and Mrs Morgan. You walk up the stone steps and into the main hall, filled with businessmen and their wives. 

"Wow, those are ugly," Walker motions to the huge chandeliers, "you'd think they could afford the nice ones."

"Money doesn't buy you taste I guess, there's so many people here." You expected it to be busy, but not so packed you could hardly move, so much inane chatter and false adulation.

"Drink darling?" he's kidding, putting on the smarm yet your stomach does flips when he calls you darling. You just nod, and he grabs two champagne glasses from a passing waitress, thanking her.

“Wow, this is strong stuff.” The taste is akin to acid, fizzing on your tongue and you fight the urge to spit it back into the glass.

“Do these people actually like this?” Walker does spit his out, his disgust plain on his face.

“It's an acquired taste.”  A silver-haired man with sharp features approaches you, followed by his immaculately dressed wife. He takes your hand giving it a wet kiss and you step away from him, wiping your hand on your dress.

"I'm the mayor here, good to meet you, dear."  

"Mrs Morgan, and it's our pleasure." You flash him a sweet smile, and he finally takes his eyes away from you to Walker.  

"Mr Morgan." Walker shakes the mayor's hand, gently moving you, putting a barrier between you and the lecherous mayor. You could get used to the way he's holding you to him protectively.

“She looks just like my wife at that age, so beautiful." He glances back at his wife, the insinuation clear in his voice and you feel for her.

"And she's stunning now, I love your dress. It's beautiful."

"You're too sweet." She flashes you a surprised smile and brushes it off. Though you knew that look, as though it's the first time in an age anyone has complimented her.

"Sweet as sugar." Walker gushes and you have to cover your splutter while taking a drink.

"Hmm, if only I was a few years younger." The mayor carries on ignoring his wife, and Walker's struggling to hide his annoyance.

“I'm afraid she's all mine, aren't you darling?"Walker drawls and hugs you to him.

"All yours, honey." You put on your sweetest voice, leaning up on your toes to kiss him on the cheek. His grip on your waist tightening.

There's static in your ears before Bucky speaks, “He's here, you never mentioned he had that many bodyguards.”

"Excuse us?" Walker pulls you towards the target, and you're thankful to get away. Miller's surrounded by about ten bodyguards escorting him through the crowd. Suspicious-looking briefcase in his hands, everyone's eyes on them.

“Wow, they're as bad as you at keeping a low profile.”  Walker jokes and you elbow him.

“New plan?”

You wait for Walker to think, weighing up your odds, “No, we’ll just have to be stealthy, think you can do that?”

”It's my middle name.” You grin and Bucky laughs in your ear, Walker huffs.

“Just follow me.” He guides you through the crowd, hand at the small of your back. Making it appear you're just another couple, slipping away somewhere quiet. You head through the doors that lead down to the basement.

As soon as you're out of sight, he moves away from you. He's not looking at you, keeping his distance again now he doesn't have to pretend. You know this isn't the time. Yet you can't keep going on this way, you need to know, even if it's what you're afraid of.

“You're disappointed, aren't you? If you're not immune, your perfect girl is me?” There's more sadness in your voice than you intended, making him stop and turn to you.

 “I'm not disappointed, come on.” He carries on down the stairs, checking the dark corridor, pulling you back when he hears the group of guards.

You take them down, almost too easily, "Then why are you being so weird?"  

He's standing over the last unconscious guard, breathing heavy and hair in his face, “I'm not being weird.”

He sneaks up behind the guard stationed at the door to the basement stairwell. Covering his mouth and choking him until he's unconscious, lowering him to the floor, "I'm not disappointed. You are."

You input the access code and follow him through the door, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I saw your face, once it sunk in. You wish it was anyone else and I can't blame you. Let's just get this over with."

That's what all the sulking has been about?  He thought you were rejecting him? He couldn't have got everything more wrong.

“No, John, you don't get it.” You call after him but he's already taking out the last bodyguard stationed as lookout.

You both hide just outside the door, watching the trade-off. Twenty million for a device that can burn you to ash from the inside. Seemed almost cheap for the Hellfire stone. That thing could burn through cities in the wrong hands.

Miller puts it back into the briefcase, holding it out to hand over and you walk over to them, catching their eyes. Distracting them long enough for Walker to knock the buyer out and grab the case full of money. 

You hold your gun out, “Can we take that?”

“I knew it was you.”

That voice, so familiar. Your skin crawls at the sound of it. Miller takes the stone out of the case, turning it over in his hands. 

“You don't steal my things, y/n, especially my wife.”

You falter at his words, fear rushing through you as it dawns on you who he was. His eyes that cold, dark shade of brown that haunted your dreams.

“I'd do it again, you were hurting her.” Your hands shake and you want to shoot him, more than anything.

The only good deed you'd done in years and it nearly got you killed. You'd met his wife in a cafe, her seeing her lover. She begged you to help her get away from her abusive husband. You agreed, pretended to be her while she escaped, leaving the country. All you had to do was keep him on the phone. You never asked his name, not wanting to be tied to them, you should have been more careful. Should have known it was a trick when you got her text asking to meet weeks later.

“How did it feel bleeding out in that alley like the dog you are?” 

He'd grabbed you from behind, hand over your mouth, driving the knife into you. The pain not registering until he slowly drags out the knife, twisting, torturing. He kicks your leg, forcing you to your knees, and drags your head back, hissing in your ear. Those eyes void of any emotion and he punches you on the side of your head with such force that your vision's black. Your body becoming numb to the kicks and punches, waiting for him to stop, if he'll ever be done with you.

You try to clear your head from the memory, Walker moving in front of you, holding your arms, “That's the guy that hurt you?”

You don't have to answer, he rolls his shoulders, face set in anger and storms straight for him. Roaring as he goes to punch him, using all his strength. Miller presses a symbol on the stone just before his punch lands. Walker screams in pain, clutching his abdomen. 

“John?!” 

”I'm, fuck, not fine, very not fine!” He drops to his knees, groaning in agony. You want to run to him, but you're scared of Miller increasing his pain, causing more damage.

“Turn it off!” Panic laces your voice and Miller's enjoying every moment. You fire at the wall behind him, his bitter laugh echoing around the room.

“How about I make you watch him die in agony? Then I burn you, slowly? No?”

You fire at him again, the bullet grazes his arm and he touches the wound, examining the blood on his fingers, "You'd kill me for John Walker?"

“In a heartbeat.” You throw your gun aiming for his head, it lands with so much force he staggers back in shock, falling over the briefcase.

Before he can react, you kick the artifact out of his hand. The stone smacks against the wall, clattering across the floor. Miller scrambles for the stone and you grab for the empty case. Running back to stamp on his wrist. You twist your heel as you put pressure down and the bone starts to crack. Miller screams, dropping the artifact long enough for you to grab it. You lock it back in the case, hoping that would stop it. 

"Give me that you fucking bitch!” Miller yells, clawing at your leg, trying to pull you over.

“Okay.” You crack the case round his head knocking him out cold, kicking off his hands.

“Asshole.” You spit, then run to Walker, relieved when he gawps up at you with a sort of admiration, "See? Resourceful.“

“Wow, what even was that?”  

You wrap your arms around him, holding him close, leaning back to hold his face, wiping hair out of his eyes, “Are you okay?”

His eyes are still dazed and you check his abdomen for a wound, relieved there's no blood, no burning.

“Did you mean that?” 

“I should have killed him. Come on, let's get out of here ”

You grab the cases, pulling his arm over your shoulder and letting him put his weight on you, “Have you always been this heavy?”

You take the stairwell up to ground level and out the back fire exit. The passageway is only lit by the street, cars go past and people walk by. You lean him against a wall to catch his breath, your hand staying on his shoulder. 

"You're exactly how I pictured you, okay?” His voice is breathy, quiet, and you're not sure you've heard him right. 

"What?"

“Cute, fucking annoying, but perfect.”  He's staring at you with that half smile, he stands up straight still using the wall for support.   

“I thought you wanted to see Olivia?” your heart not catching up, not quite believing him.

“What? No. I thought you wanted someone else, better than me.”

“Shit, we are idiots.” You share a smile and he rests his forehead to yours, your heart skipping a beat when his hands sweep around your waist, pulling you flush against him. Holding you there, gripping onto you, his breathing shallow as though he's expecting you to push him away, to reject him.

“I've wanted to be Mr Cupid for a long time.”

“Mr Cupid?” you tilt your head, biting your lip, stopping the giggle forming in your throat. 

“Hey, that's a great line.”

“It is.” You smooth your hand over his chest, slipping under his collar feeling over his collar bone and up to his neck. His soft skin flushed under your touch, heartbeat fast under your fingers. Your thumb traces his parted lips and his eyes flutter closed, letting out a soft moan.

You tilt his head to you, "Can I kiss you?" your voice husky, full of need. Your breath caught as he opens his eyes, glazed over like he can't believe you're asking him, that you want him so badly.

"Jesus, y/n." He gives in first, slow and deliberate, savouring you, like he's waited too long and you melt into him. Until your fingers card through his hair and your tongue traces his lips and he gives in, kissing you hungrily. Hands gripping onto you, pulling you as close as he can, and he's the only thing keeping you upright.

Hear the shouts and commotion heading your way and reluctantly, you pull away from him, catching your breath, “I've wanted to do that forever.” 

"Walk with me, cupid?" He holds hand out to you with a grin and you take it, your fingers wrapping around his. walking close back to the car. You feel his eyes on you, and you can't stop smiling. You throw the cases onto the back seat and he pulls you in for another kiss, pressing you against the car. 

“We should get those back." Walker grumbles, opening the passenger door for you. 

“Can we stop by the store first? I need earplugs.” You tease him.

“For the last time, I don't fucking snore.”

“You keep telling yourself that, honey.”

"You need to stop calling me that.” his voice low and wanting, eyes dark. His hand resting on your thigh squeezing and you lean closer, whispering in his ear.

“Only if you call me darling again.”

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