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@bringmeabagel
main blog | bridgerton | hellaverse
currently obsessed withâŚ
: ĚĚâ literally everything Ryan Gosling has been in

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I feel like Ryland would get Colt to visit him at school and get him to put his stunt work to uses to demonstrate some laws of science like inertia and show the behind the scenes of certain stunts. For science! (To do silly things with his brother)
Also Thereâs a tiktok Iâve seen where a teacher is on rollerblades on a cart and has a student move the cart back and forwards to show she wonât move because of inertia and I feel like thatâs exactly the kind of thing the twins would sent up for Rylandâs students!
the blind date trap
pairing: colt seavers x reader
synopsis. colt owes ryland, so he cashes in the favor by going to a blind date and pretending to be his twin brother. the problem is, he thinks he mightâve just met the love of his life but she keeps calling him ryland! (4.0k words)
Itâs the end of autumn when Ryland Grace finally takes advantage of the favor his brother owed him a few years back. âHey Colt. Remember Sydney?â
The man in question, currently halfway through stealing orange juice from Rylandâs partition of the fridge, pauses in his heist to blink up at his brother uncomprehendingly.
âThat doesnât really narrow anything down.â
Ryland sighs before adding, âThe rooftop?â
The memories flash by Colt in the blink of an eye, and his face clears from the confusion it held earlier to one of mortification. âI donât like where this conversation is heading.âÂ
He empties the carton of orange juice in a glass, desperate to flee the scene of the crime, but Rylandâs already halfway towards the kitchen to try and corner his older brother of a few minutes.
âRemember what you told me? Exact words.â
âRylandââ
âExact words.â He pushes, intent on what heâs asking. Colt can all but grimace at the memory.
Setting the carton of orange juice down, he sighs and slumps dramatically as if he was physically pained by the concept of the accountability of his words and actions. âI said I owe you one.â
âGood, there you go.â Ryland mimics the tone he uses on the kids he teaches when heâs trying to get a point across, and Colt all but shoots him a glare at being babied. âWell, Iâm gonna need that favor now.â
âNo.â
âI havenât even asked yet!â
âDonât care. I know that voice.â Colt points at his brother suspiciously with the empty carton. âThatâs your âthis is about to ruin my eveningâ voice, and I donât think I appreciate the sentiment.â
Ryland ignores him. âListen. I have a blind date tonight, but apparently Ilyukhina is unaware of the blind aspect of a blind date so she showed her a picture of my face.âÂ
Coltâs mouth drops. And for a moment, he just stares at his brother. Until a few seconds pass and he starts to laugh. And he keeps laughingâin that mouth wide open, head tilted forward, hands clutching the stomach kind of laughter. âOh, absolutely not.â
If murder wasnât illegal, one wouldâve already been committed in this very moment.
âWeâre twins. Itâs not like sheâs going to knoâ okay, will you stop laughing?â
âRy, you have to understand how insane this sounds. Come on, that sounds like the plot of a really bad sitcom.â Coltâs shaking his head, trying to wipe away the remains of laughter in the corner of his eyes, but his mouth is still twitching a little from the aftermath of laughing a little too hard. âBesides, why canât you just go yourself? Are you chickening out?â
âI am not chickening out. I got pulled into a meeting.â Ryland exhales sharply through his nose, voice deeper when he says 'not' and currently visibly trying not to strangle his brother with anything within reach, which is quite a number of thingsâthe rag cloth, the strings of his hoodie, his own hands.Â
Instead, he continues speaking, âJust pretend to be me for an hour. Iâll try to make it after the meeting.â
And with the gravity of the situation, he adds one last word, â...please.â
Well, that one definitely lands and Colt has to pause from gulping down the orange juice heâd stolen. And he thinks he should relish in this moment longer, his brother begging him. It doesnât happen very often. Heâs usually reprimanded by his twin, not pleaded with.
âOh, youâre desperate.â
Rylandâs eye twitches, and he resists the urge to pinch his nose bridge. âAll you really have to do is show up, smile, donât flirt too muchââ
âImpossible restriction.â Ryland drops his face into his hands, groaning loudly at his brotherâs response, and before he can reply with a snide remark, Colt asks, âWhat if she asks a question I canât answer?â
âColt, youâve known me all my life.â Ryland deadpans, heaving a stage-worthy sigh.
âFair point.â Colt sighs. âYou're really asking me to commit identity theft? You think this is going to work?â
âYes. So, will you do it?â
Colt ponders on the question because technically, he did owe Ryland a favor, and he was only asking for an hour of his time. And, in all honesty, Colt thinks he can pull of a perfect Ryland Grace so it was a way to boost his own ego. And what was a date anyway? Heâs been on multiple dates before.Â
Even with an answer, he lets the silence stretch for a few seconds more, just to be annoying. Just so he can see the way Ryland anxiously taps on the kitchen counter with his fingers, or his feet on the ground. And when Colt has enough satisfaction, finally, he says, âFine.â
Ryland visibly relaxes. âThank you.â
âBut if she falls in love with me, thatâs on you.âÂ
The relaxed features on Rylandâs face contorts into a somewhat disgusted face. âYouâre ridiculous.â
The air is cool in that early-evening way that denotes the slow tipping of autumn into winter. The city glows a warm orange, and thereâs laughter spilling out from crowded restaurants whenever the doors open.Â
Colt checks his phone again. Ryland had given you his number, claiming that heâd suddenly had to change numbers due to scammer calls and phishing schemes. And he all but stares at the same message reflecting, that you were on your way.Â
It stares back at him.
He rubs the space between his eyes and sighs. This is a terrible idea, a terrible terrible idea. Still, Colt thanks Fuck for choosing the day heâs not masked in his own injuries or little scars from stunt work, picks a day where he actually looks like he has his shit together, and not a man about to commit identity fraud.Â
âRyland?,â a soft voice. 10 jars of honey in the way you speak, but Colt recognizes that this was about to be the start of an evening full of lies. And then he sees you, and Colt looks beyond amazed.Â
Suddenly, heâs nearly convinced there is something significant standing behind him, because what is the connotation of the beauty heâs being subjected to, the same beauty who is looking up at him with a hesitant smile.Â
Colt pauses, which if Ryland was here to see it would know that it was always a bad sign because it means heâs thinking, really thinking. And he is, he knows this is the exact moment he could stop everything.Â
Instead, he says, âyeah.â
Your smile widens just a little, and thereâs something endearing about the way you press a hand briefly against your chest. âOh good. I was terrified Iâd accidentally agreed to meet a serial killer.â
Colt snorts. âWell, disappointing start for you, then.â
âYou joke,â you say, narrowing your eyes slightly as you step closer, âbut statistically speaking, I was taking a real risk tonight."
You look up at him, looking up at his disheveled hair from the wind outside. It curls slightly near the ends, stubborn in a way Rylandâs is too. "Your hair's a little longer than in your photo."
âHa, you know hair. Grows⌠grows at no specified rate." Woah, what the hell. He didn't even mean to perfectly imitate Ryland in that moment. "Sorry, could you remind me how long do blind dates usually take before one person decides to fake a family emergency?â
You laugh, and Colt feels something shift in the air. âMaybe around twenty minutes. Sorry, weâre still a little ahead of schedule. Youâre still stuck with me for 17 minutes more.â
Colt canât help but smile back at you because the thrill in your smile is too wholesome not to. âShall we head inside then? Got to make those 17 minutes count.â
âYeah. That would be ideal.â
The hostess leads you toward the patio seating, and itâs quaint, but incredibly breathtaking. The warm lighting does a great deal at creating an almost comfortable environment. And itâs the perfect spot that the blurred headlights and the city lights reflect just at the huge glass window behind you. Really, perfect for a first date.Â
Colt pulls out the chair for you, something thatâs just taught in the How To Be A Gentleman handbook, and tucks you into the table before he takes his own seat.
âI should tell you right now that Iâm a little terrible at first dates.â You say the moment you're settled in.
âYou seem fine.â
âThatâs because you just met me. Itâs only been like five minutes.â
He smiles despite himself. âIt gets worse?â
âDramatically worse.â
âGood. Iâm excited to see that.â
The waiter assigned to you arrives with two menus and a bottle of service water, and you thank him politely as you take a copy, flipping through it without really reading.
And by the time you order your drinks and the food, a few conversations have already passed.
âWere you nervous to come here?â You ask more for yourself, but youâre still curious what his answer would be.Â
âMaybe a little.â Nevermind the reason for his nervousness was the identity theft he was committing. Heâs still trying to get used to you calling him Ryland without it surprising him each time.
âGood.â You mirror his response from a few minutes earlier, and he canât help but huff out a laugh. Though, despite his laughter, he still notices the way your shoulders visibly loosen at his response, like youâd almost hoped that would be his response.
âGood?â
âYeah cause I was nervous too. It makes me feel less stupid to know you were too, even if it was just a little.â
Colt watches the way you fidget lightly with your sleeve as you speak. Your fingers keep smoothing the fabric over your wrists before immediately letting go again.Â
âYou shouldnât feel stupid.â He interjects, trying to ease your nerves.Â
âThatâs easy for you to say.â
âWhat do you mean?â
âI havenât told you what I did yet.â
He smiles. Thereâs something about the way you say it, like youâre about to change his life, tell him the craziest story. âWhat did you do?â
âI changed outfits three times.â
âThatâs normal.â
âFour times.â You glance at him, your cheeks pink, and he has half a mind to tell you just how strange the sight makes him feel.
âStill normal.â
âAnd I arrived way too early so I had to walk around the block twice. And then I almost cancelled.â
This time Coltâs smile softens around the edges. Youâre so honest and so easy to talk to, and so quick with conversation. Youâre someone who can make anyone feel at home, and youâre charming without intending to be, and that's exactly the problem. Colt has known you less than an hour and somehow you're already slipping through his walls.
"You know," he says, leaning back in his chair, "I don't think I've ever met anybody who admits that on a first date."
You groan immediately. "See? This is why I almost cancelled."
"No, I mean it." Colt shakes his head. "Most people would've taken that information to the grave."
Your smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. He watches it for a second before asking, "Why'd you almost cancel?"
âI donât know,â you admit quietly, glancing down at the table. âI always think things will be awkward before they happen.â
âAnd does it feel awkward right now?â
You look back up at him then with your head tilted, and you can almost picture the glint of hopefulness in his eyes but you donât want to assume. âJust a little.â
Colt leans further back in his chair like heâs relaxed. He isnât, really. But he wants you to believe he is because a few minutes into the date, youâd already turned him into a sap. And relaxed is way cooler than sappy.
He really does not want to think about how sappy he feels right now. He doesnât want to think about the feeble stutter in his heart whenever you laugh. He's already lying to you. Developing feelings on top of that feels like building a second bad idea on top of the first one.
âOh, youâre a science teacher, right? Whatâs that like?â
Right. Jesus, he forgot he was still pretending to be Ryland. You really have to stop smiling at him like that. Heâs starting to like you, and itâs not good on his conscience that heâs pretending to be his brother, and that you think he is his brother.
âItâs uh, good.â Colt says carefully.
You rest your chin against your hand. âWhatâs your favorite thing to teach?â You ask like youâre genuinely curious, and for a second Colt has the answer, but youâre looking at him so intently that his brain empties completely.Â
Think, Colt. You attended your brotherâs graduation, what the hell was it that he studied? Astronomy? No, itâs something with little things and life.Â
âMolecular biology!â
Your eyes widen with immediate interest. âReally? For eighth graders?â
âYeah,â Colt says, nodding like a man moments away from being exposed from a grave sin. âI love molecules. Tiny organisms. Cells. Little⌠science fellas.â
You stare at him for exactly one second before breaking into laughter, and Colt finds himself watching, drinking up your movements. You just, you laugh with your entire face, and your happiness just spills into everything and itâs so infectious. The way your eyes widen slightly, the way your shoulders fold inward, like youâre genuinely delighted instead of politely amused.
Fuck, he wants to keep making you laugh. He wants to keep hearing your laugh.
Something warm twists in his chest, and Colt has the deeply alarming realization that there is something blooming inside of him and itâs akin to romance. He certainly did not expect to meet someone like you tonight. And shit, his heartbeat is doing something genuinely humiliating inside his chest.Â
âYou donât really talk like a teacher,â you say after a moment. âCome on, little science fellas?â
âThatâs the official term.âÂ
âStop lying to me!â He laughs at your being flabbergasted, eyes turning into crescents.Â
âOkay, okay. Here, Iâm gonna talk like a teacher.â Colt straightens immediately in his chair.Â
Your smile turns teasing. âOh yeah?â
âHere it goes.â He clears his throat dramatically. âThe mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.â
He delivers it with complete sincerity. Smug for exactly one second. Then your laugh breaks loose again and his expression softens helplessly.Â
âOh my god,â you say.
âSorry. Thatâs all I got.â
âNo, that was perfect.â You shake your head, grinning down into your drink. âYou looked so proud of yourself too.â
And the scene of you smiling that greets him is so gentle, so soft, that it takes him a moment to catch up to what youâre saying. He knows you mean something else, that he should be proud of his stupid joke or for remembering something he learned in high school, but he looked proud for an entirely different reason.
Heâd made you laugh again. Heâd heard you laugh again.Â
So, he replies, in a little white lie, âI really was.â
Colt realizes immediately after, with that same deep undertow of shame, that he is caught in the jaws of a trap entirely of his own making. And he canât stop walking willingly deeper into it.
He thanks Fuck that not long after, the food arrives and for a moment, the sounds of the city accompany the pair of you as you eatâsilverware clinking somewhere inside the restaurant, distant traffic below, the low hum of conversation from nearby tables. It allows him a moment to catch himself, to try and stabilize his heart.
But how can he really when you keep looking at him. Then quickly looking away. Then back again, before darting away again. Finally, you sigh. âSorry.â
âFor what?â
âI keep looking at you.â
A smile twitches on Coltâs lips. âI think thatâs supposed to be my line.â
You laugh quietly, ducking your head in the palms of your hands. The sight of your smile makes him laugh a little too.
âWhy are you looking at me?â He inquires, his grin lopsided as follows the lilt of your movement, the way you hide your face in your hands, and he canât help but seek for your eyes. âDonât hide from me.â
You lower your hands slowly, peeking at him through your fingers first before finally answering in such a clear, and almost sweet tone. âYou just look really pretty, and youâre really good at paying attention to everything.â
Coltâs stomach twists as his ears registers your words and somewhere during it, he grows redder than before and his palms are suddenly becoming clammy and heâs rubbing the back of his neck. How do you always catch him off guard like this?
He blinks once. Then twice. And maybe ten times more.
That's genuinely the nicest thing anyone's said to him in a while. "Oh."
Heâs still looking at you even after the silence that follows, amazed and flattered that someone could ever say that about him, that you could say that about him. And heâs trying so hard not to look like heâd just been called pretty.
âSorry,â you say quickly. âAm I talking too much?â
âNo.â He immediately interjects, coming back to look at your eyes. Something inside him is still stuttering as he tries to focus after youâd just complemented him.
âI usually do.â You glance away briefly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear and Colt personally has to fight down the urge to reach out and tug the slip of hair back down to your face. âIâm doing it right now.â
âThen keep doing it.â
You pause, and a smile slowly starts to creep back on your lips. âReally?â
âYeah.â
âYou know, I noticed itâs been more than an hour since our date started. Do you no longer have that family emergency you have to fake?â
Colt smiles at the repetition of the joke heâd said earlier in the evening, before realizing youâre waiting for him to say something. Thereâs still that same softness pulsing inside of him, slowly growing and growing and growing. âIâm invested now.â
âIn what?â
He lets out a soft breath, shoulders hunching forward slightly as he bends over to be a little closer to you. His expression changes into something more serious. âYou."
Your smile changes thenâsofter, crooked, almost shy. Your limbs are starting to feel loose, and your chest tightens and blooms with warmth.
âThatâs a very nice thing to say, Ryland.â
The name lands wrong in his chest, but he doesnât want to dwell on it. He can pretend much longer, especially after receiving a text from his brother earlier that the meeting would run later than expected. Colt had you for the night, and he intends on making it last.
âWell,â Colt says, âI like you.â
Your eyes widen slightly, and you flush at the sudden confession. Your lips part, wanting to say something, but all the vowels and consonants twist in your mouth, and all you can manage is a small âOh.â
Shit.
You watch as the color rushes into his face, like spilling wine on a paper towel, and heâs covering his mouth with his hand, and heâs struggling to meet your eyes.
âThat came out weirdly fast,â he says immediately, trying to catch himself. His eyes are wide and almost panicked, and itâs so endearing because he looks like heâs ashamed of the way heâs softening and coming unraveled and untangled in front of you.
âNo, itâs okay.â You smile. âI just wasnât expecting you to say it out loud.â
He pauses, and you see him filing through potential responses or excuses but give up midway.
âYeah,â he chooses honestly instead. âNeither was I, honestly.â
âMost people wait until at least dessert.â You tease, glancing at him over the rim of your glass, and this time, when he looks at you, his face is full of nothing but fondness twinged with embarrassment. You donât know how the two emotions are able to coexist on his face at the same time.Â
âI feel embarrassed. Was that intense? It was, wasnât it?â
âA little.â you say softly.Â
âJust a little?â
âOkay, maybe a moderate amount. But it was nice.â
You smile at each other, and neither of you are able to keep the blush from your own cheeks.
By the time dinner ends, the city outside has morphed into a blue-black evening with stars littered randomly in the blanketing sky. The cold air rushes in as the two of you step out onto the sidewalk together, and Coltâs hand brushes lightly against the small of your back while guiding you around another couple exiting the restaurant.
The touch lingers half a second too long.
You notice.
âIâm glad I came,â you admit quietly.
âYeah?â He asks, almost too quiet to catch, almost like he canât believe it.Â
âYeah.â
âEven after changing outfits four times?â He nudges your shoulder with his, and you laugh.
âFive actually.â
âFive? I think you failed to mention that.â Thereâs a ghost of a smile on his lips, and heâs trying so hard to fight the grin thatâs threatening to show, but you just have that effect on people. Youâre just so earnest. âWhich outfit won?â
You gesture down at yourself. âThis one.âÂ
You say it with such happiness and enthusiasm that Colt canât help but stare at you and the cold that catches pink along your cheeks, and your hair thatâs shifting softly in the wind, and how bright your eyes look under the streetlights. God, he really thought he was doing his brother a favor by coming here, but Ryland mightâve accidentally done one for Colt instead.
His heart gives one hard, helpless thud against his ribs as his eyes travel up and down your outfit.
"I've been meaning to mention it all night, but you look really pretty."
The blood thumped so loudly in your ears that you almost didnât hear him. âThanks. You don't look so bad yourself."
A comfortable silence falls, like neither of you want to leave quite yet. And then, "Ryland?"
"Hm?"
"I'm really glad tonight wasnât as awkward as I thought it would be,â you admit.
Colt blinks. âSo you still think itâs awkward?â
âYeah,â you say thoughtfully. âBut like⌠the good kind.â
âThereâs a good kind?â
âYeah.â
âWhatâs that?â
You look at him for a second. âWhen youâre nervous because you want someone to like you.â
Coltâs heart nearly stops. That was the final blow. Of all the things you couldâve said, this was not something Colt couldâve ever braced himself for. He looks away immediately, rubbing at the back of his neck again. Itâs really not in his nature to falter, but then again, he really canât help it with you, can he?
Not when this is what your heart is like. Like thereâs no need to put pressure when itâs something as warm and easy as this.
âYouâre blushing, Ryland.â
âI canât really help it when you say things like that.â
He lets out a helpless laugh at the name. He has half a mind to tell you he actually goes by âColtâ even though it couldnât have been further away from âRylandâ.
Still, he swallows it to enjoy these last final moments with you.Â
âGoodnight, Ryland.â
âGoodnight.â
A silence falls between you both before you take a few steps away. He mirrors your actions, albeit a little more tentatively.
âRyland?âÂ
Colt immediately turns back at the interjection of your voice, looking at you with that same look from earlier. Itâs almost fond, almost hopeful. And Colt hovers there, waiting.Â
âDo you want to walk me home?â
Youâre trying so hard to keep your voice monotone. Heâs trying so hard not to smile, and in all honesty, he should absolutely say no, he should tell you the truth right now before this turns into something impossible because he knows that if he continues to know you, he wonât be able to stop falling for you. Instead, he answers almost immediately, âIâd want nothing more.â
And while walking home, he finds himself glancing down at your hand, wondering what it would be like if he could just reach over and intertwine his fingers with yours, or kiss your cheeks, or make you laugh again.
And somewhere between the restaurant and your apartment, with your shoulders brushing once accidentally, then a few more on purpose, and your footsteps falling into tandem next to his, and your laughter warming the cold night air around him, Colt realizes he is completely, catastrophically fucked.
close quarters.
summary: physical contact on the hail mary is at a premium. you hold yourself a little too highly to ask grace for help. (based on this ask // @z-0m-bi-3)
pairing: ryland grace x gn!reader
word count: 3.2k
tags: fluff and humor, lightly hurt/comfort (?), insomnia, close proximity, banter, awkward tension, overall clumsiness, touch starved!reader, sharing a bed, so not timeline compliant gn!reader
cross-posted to ao3
Youâre feeling a little frustrated. Itâs almost comparable to growing pains in the kind of restlessness you feelâtossing and turning in the middle of your sleeping pod like thereâs something wrong in your bones, your skin, you. Itâs always like this when youâre trying to sleep. Between you and Grace, youâve been trying to stick to a semi-consistent sleep schedule. Maryâs set to keep you both on as close to a Circadian rhythm as possible. Itâs near impossible though, with the way youâve been feeling, to adhere to any sort of routine.
It isnât about the dying stars; that you know for certain. Youâre confident that you and Grace will be able to figure out some kind of solution, seeing as youâre stuck permanently in space to do just that. The worry that youâve been festering in the past couple of weeks has to do more with yourself than anything else. The sensation comes in waves, worse at ânight,â whenever youâre in bed. Thereâs too much thinking involved, which you think worsens the condition.
Itâs contactâor lack thereof. You need contactâskin-to-skin, or at least something warmer than your own body. Thereâs only one way to get it, and you just canât bring yourself to do just that. Itâd feel like a surrender of your dignity to ask Grace outright to touch you. Sounds vulgar enough as is, regardless of intention.
When you think it couldnât get any worse, the thought of him being in the sleeping pod right over from you, no less than ten feet away, is driving you up a wall. In the night, sometimes, you think you can hear Graceâs light snores. Heâll talk in his sleep on occasion about the most random things; heâs discovered heâs a schoolteacher, and youâve deduced that he dreams in lessons. Itâs a sweet presence to be by, and itâd be even sweeter if you were laying together.
â
The first time youâre able to gauge your little issue isnât climactic by any means. Itâs a minuscule action, on Graceâs part, that makes you realize that thereâs something wrong.
Trying to get yourselves more organized, you find yourself trying to take stock of the pantry that youâve been sent up with. Itâs a very generous area of storage, boxes upon boxes, contained behind white gridded netting and secured by carabiners. Youâre convinced that thereâs a printed manifest somewhere detailing the contents of the pantryâand you just canât find it. So, the two of you have been on a manhunt, because neither of you are keen on counting out all the astronaut food thatâs been packed for you.
âThis is definitely on me. I mustâve tossed it out somewhere,â Grace sighs, taking his glasses down to rub his eyes. You donât doubt it. When youâd woken up and found the Hail Mary in a state of disarray, it wasnât difficult to map out. Grace panicked. Heâd emptied out a generous number of shelves in an attempt to make sense of his surroundings. Heâd also been searching desperately for clothes and foodâand rifled through the belongings of your now-deceased captain and engineer. Only a day or so after, when youâd been roused out of your coma by the shipâs computer, he was embarrassed beyond repair. He spent a couple of hours straight trying to tidy up his trail of mess.
âItâs really not a big deal, Grace. We know that itâs on the ship somewhere. Itâs not like it has anywhere to go.â Youâre on your tip-toes, trying to rifle through the creates and shelves. It must be a binder. Or, a folder. At the least, itâs a stapled stack of papers. Whatâs important is that itâs in this general proximity. Youâre sure of it. âThatâs a benefit to being air-locked, right? The stupid thingâs not getting in or out.â
âThat is a creatively positive twist on, âWeâre stuck in space indefinitely,ââ Grace tells you, lightly surprised and largely sarcastic. He doesnât know how you come up with them.
âThanks. Iâm flattered.â Youâve been building up a good rapport with Grace in the past week, too. Youâd call it flirting if you werenât so hell-bent on keeping your space. For whatever reason youâre up on the Hail Mary, you donât think the powers that be intended on you being intimately involved with your now only crewmate. Youâre still rustling through the shelves, arms shoving around different gaps between the crates, when you see something. âOhâthatâs got to be it.â
Itâs peeking out only slightly over a high shelf, a grayish-blue binder with a stack of papers clipped inside the rings. Itâs utterly out of place, maybe easier to grab if you were in a different gravitational pull. Grace, whoâs since been searching on the other side of the room, comes over to you in a hurry. He traces your eyeline all the way up, before noting the binder in its very impossible position. âHere,â Grace volunteers, â I think I can get a better reach than you.â
âI think I can manageââ The sight of Graceâs muscled arm nearing your eyeline, shooting up just over your head to grab from that unreachable shelf, makes your words die in your throat. His hip collides recklessly with your own as he reaches for the binder. Though itâs just a mere brush, nothing more, itâs enough to make you pause. Grace is warm. You pivot around hastily, fast enough to catch the sight of him tugging the grayish-blue binder with his hand. He brings it between the both of you, blinking softly. Graceâs brows are furrowed together, a little concerned at your frazzled appearance. You take the binder out of his grasp with a murmured âThanks, Ry.â
âSure.â Grace looks down at the binder. No labels. âIs that it?â he asks. You open it between the two of you. Grace is making an exerted effort to read the pages upside down as you flip through. You can only think about how this binder is the only thing separating your body from his. The few words youâre able to focus onâramen, coffee, vodkaâalongside their respective quantities and weights, is enough to confirm it.
âYep. This is the one. I think Iâm going to go read through it upstairs,â you say committedly, shutting it close with a loud thwack. âMaybe do a couple calculations for how we should ration.â
And, with that, youâre rushing straight out towards the projection deck. Grace can barely keep up with you. One second, youâre right at his side, and the next, your back is to himânimble feet carrying you through the circular frame of the corridor. âOkay. Iâll⌠tidy up here.â Grace narrows his eyes. Youâre being flightyârarely in a rush to get away. Warily, he shouts to you down the corridor: âI left the white-boards in the lab. And the pencils.â
You can only shout back, âIâll do mental math.â
â
A few days later, youâve sorted out the entire rations situationâbut you havenât been able to do a thing about that empty feeling on your skin. Itâs been a bit cruel, all things considered, that youâve felt an unconscious separation from Grace for this reason. It isnât his fault. Heâs been nothing but patient with your sudden withdrawal, probably under the assumption that youâre going a little stir-crazy. If it means youâre more likely to conceal the issue altogether, so be it.
Youâre in separate rooms, him in the lab and you in the crew quarters, when the announcement rings out over the shipâs comms. Maryâs computerized tone rings through the hull. âDiagnostic check required in cockpit.â You can feel your stomach drop at the sound. Youâre quick to hurry out towards the corridor. You nearly jump out of your own skin when you realize it; Grace is running towards the ladder up to the cockpit with just as much urgency as you are. You nearly collide togetherâand probably would if you werenât so quick to push the brakes on your own sprint. Youâve both rushed to fix the issue, and now, youâre at a standstill.
Grace stands back, looking between you and the cockpit. âThis is a new one,â he says in a nervous chuckle. âI hope she doesnât want to self-destruct.â Heâs only half-kidding. After trying to get yourselves organized with the cockpitâs various sliders and buttons, on top of the shipâs built-in computer, Mary hasnât ever required a diagnostic. Heâs rightfully concerned.
You make sure to grab onto the ladder first. âYou stay here,â you insist. âIâll resolve the tech issue.â Itâs more dismissive than youâd like, but being crammed in that tight space with him is a no-go.
Still, Grace tilts his head. âThereâs two seats.â He could easily accompany you, make sure youâre all good up there. Youâre luckyâitâs conceivable enough for you to fix it yourself. Even without a proper grasp on why youâre there on the Hail Mary, you still have the intuitive mind of a pilot, more so than Grace. He knows it, too. Itâs the only reason why he wonât push harder to join you.
âJust stayâitâs probably nothing. Iâll click around and fix it.â You donât give him another chance to ask, turning to climb up the ladder. Once in the cockpit, youâre slipping into the main seat. Itâs largely unnecessary, you think, to strap yourself into the seatbelt. âPilot detected. Please execute diagnostic test.â
âIâm on it, Iâm on it,â you mutter under your breath. Muscle memory carries you through the main interface, to the list of sub-interfaces. Your hand reaches for the spherical mouse, rolling the cursor down the menu. You calibrate onto one screen, a block of text scrolling along the singular black background. Itâs a quick read. You tap your forehead soft against the monitor. Itâs fine. Your being up in the cockpit is necessary only to start this diagnostic procedure, and take a breather from being around Grace.
Grace, whoâs very confused and looking straight up the hatchway of the cockpit from below. Youâre sure it sounds to him like a lot of rapid typing and clicks. âAre we going to implode?â
âNoâitâs just a systems check. Itâs probably going to take thirty minutes and itâll clear up on its own,â you yell down to him. âTold you.â
âGreat. Thatâs great news,â you hear Grace say. Once youâre sure that the loading bar is coming along nicely, without any additional pop-ups, you make your way down from the cockpit. Itâs a careful descent, one rung after the other. Youâre turning over your shoulder to look at Grace as you come down the ladder; heâs a little quiet, watching you, arms crossed.Graceâs glasses are sideways off his face, as if heâs gone through some kind of inner turmoil about this potential self-destruct scenario. Itâs difficult not to snicker at the sight of him. âWere you scared?â
âMaybe. I donât know anything about avionics.â
âIâm pretty sure weâll know if weâre ever going to get obliterated. Thereâd be⌠flashing lights and sirens.â Youâre almost towards the bottom when you miscalculate the last rung. A hand slides off. Then, a foot. Youâre falling inelegantly, and before you can brace for a fast fall, Grace steps over to you. His arms scoop up your torso, and you feel your hands instinctively grasp around his neck.
Heâs looking down at you with a worried, old look on his face, trying to make sure youâre not hurt. What you are is embarrassed. The sensation of Grace gripping your hips with his hands is making you short-circuit. âI⌠uhâŚâ Youâre acutely aware of the fact that Graceâs chest is pressed flat against yours, and that his fingers are held stiffly over the fabric of your shirt. Youâve never felt so hot in the face.
âWhoa,â Grace murmurs, âHi.â He immediately pulls you back, letting you steady yourself on your own two feet. You draw your hands back as fast as you can, pinning them to your sides. Per your recovery, you find Graceâs chest puffed. Heâs a little sheepish about the contact. âSorry.â Youâre not much better, hands shoved into the pockets of your mission hoodie; theyâd be shaky if they were left out.
âNo, itâs cool. I wouldâve sprained an ankle otherwise,â you tell Grace. âThanks.â You wish there were more air vents in the Hail Mary; maybe then, youâd be able to cool down the prickling feeling of heat rising from your cheeks. So much for keeping space.
â
You canât stop tossing and turning. Again, thereâs the unsettling feeling that youâve been having, the absolute need to feel the same warmth you felt in the storage room and at the bottom of the ladder. You canât stand it. No matter how many times you flip your pillows or stir around your sheets with your legs, it doesnât change. You still feel just as bare as usual. A last resort: you need to grab a cup of water from the dispenser, and maybe do a bit of pacing up and down the corridors. You push your fingers against the eject button on your pod, rustling out of your sheets as gently as you can.
Grace is mumbling. You stop in your tracks, trying to quiet down as best as you can. Itâs more coherent the second time he asks. âAre you okay?â So, Grace is awake. You shouldâve known.
âIâm fine,â you murmur. You swing your legs over the cot, still seated just over the edge.
âYouâve been rolling around in your cot for the past thirty minutes.â Grace hits the eject button on his sleeping pod next. He props himself up with one arm, before pushing up completely, upright posture matching your own. Face-to-face now, itâs difficult not to stare. Grace just looks so homely with his two-sizes-too-small Cats t-shirt and the blue-gridded boxers. Heâs shoving his glasses on just to get a better look at you. âIf youâre embarrassed about falling earlier, I think youâve seen me much worse. Weâre basically even now, when you think about it.â
âNo, Iâm notâIâm just turning into a bit of an insomniac. Itâs normal, I think.â You think he could buy it. It happens all the time when people go on vacation, and theyâre just not comfortable enough to sleep in their hotel beds. Except, of course, this is a permanent vacation. Itâs believable. With the hang of your head, you tell Grace, âYou sleep, Iâll walk.â
He doesnât make any effort to listen to your request. âI know that itâs not the most stimulating environment to be in. It isnât like anything changes outside the window,â Grace says, âAnd youâre probably not getting much out of me, either.â
You scoff. âIf you werenât here, Iâd probably drive myself crazy.â Heâs here, and youâre still driving yourself crazy. You wish heâd just get back in his cot.
âSo, itâs the environment then,â Grace deduces, the scientist that he is. He rolls his ankles, trying to mull it over. âWe could start watching more of those unlimited movies Mary has stocked upâdealerâs choice.â He pauses. âAnything but Interstellar.â Too close to home.
Youâre getting a little impatient, in a rush to get away. âOkay. I think Iâm having a personal issue. Thatâs all,â you sputter out. âIâve just been feeling a little bit⌠lonely? Physically, I mean.â
âOh. Okay.â The look on Graceâs face sends you into a fit of embarrassment. You bring your palms up over your face, groaning to yourself. This is a terrible turn of events. âHey. Itâs fine,â Grace tells you delicately, âI get it.â It really seems to irk you, how delicate heâs acting. Itâs sweet, obviously, but youâd hate to feel burdensome about this whole thing.
âIâm not asking you to fix it or anything. It is what it is,â you tell him, hands muffling your words. Youâre chewing on the inside of your cheek raw as Grace processes what youâre telling him. Itâs taking too long, and youâre just about ready to leave him for the cockpit.
âCould I⌠fix it?â Grace murmurs. Itâs indeterminable whether heâs asking if heâs able to fix your problem, or if youâll let him. Very possibly both. You canât tell, but itâs enough to make you lower your hands back down. Grace seems to let out a ragged breath at the sight of your tensed brows.
Slowly, you urge out a âNo. Maybe.â The bridge of your nose crinkles with embarrassment. This is the last thing that youâd want to happen. Air-locked in space, no way in or out, and your only source of human contact is finding that youâre some kind of poor, deprived soul. âI donât know.â
âOkay. How about thisâŚâ He slips off his mattress, white socks sliding across the padded floor of the crew quarters. Grace stops for just a moment, pulling the kaleidoscopic quilt from the middle cot, and bunching it up in his arms to bring over to you. He tosses it onto your lap spreading it over your top sheet as a makeshift comforter. âI can lay here. With you.â
You put a hand up as he approaches your cot. âYou donât have to.â âI want to,â Grace tells you. Itâs a mix of earnestness and concern that makes you let up. You scoot to the very opposite edge of your cot to try and make room for him.
Despite this, you still warn: âWeâre not going to fit, Grace.â Itâs a poor and unconvincing defense. Grace is still moving to get in with you. He lifts up the corner of the quilt and your sheet to settle beside you, his knees knocking against yours. As it happens, he does take up a lot more space than you do. Itâs fixable, one way or another. You feel like youâre on the verge of falling off the thing, and he can tell youâre still a bit reluctant about the whole arrangement. Youâre anxious to get any closer to him.
âCan Iâ?â As soon as you give him a curt, wordless nod, Grace nudges you over. âWe can fit. You just have to beâŚâ He takes your arm, and slings it over his chest. âHere.â He wraps his own arm around your back, using his free hand to tuck the quilt over the two of you. With your weight half-leaned onto him, itâs a lot easier to lay. As much as you want to be pissy with him, you can feel your body easing into this position. Heâs right. You do fit.
You and Grace seem to lay there in silence for a little while. You can only describe the two of you fitting together on this cot as bliss. Youâre listening to the pattern of him breathing in and out, soaking in the soft warmth of his body under the covers. Grace feels like comfort. You couldnât want for much more than this. You can feel the vibrations of his chest as he murmurs against you. âBetter?â
ââŚYeah.â You feel him sink his head a little lower, lips leaving a soft kiss just on your temple. Your eyes flutter shut with the sensation. âStill embarrassing, though,â you admit, stretching your legs out against his.
Sleepily, Grace replies, âItâs 2.7 Kelvin outside and youâre a human being.â He brings one hand up to the back of your head, fingers massaging deeply into your scalp. It conjures a soft sigh out of you, and you can feel Grace grinning a bit at the noise. He wins.
Though you could probably argue with him a little bit harder, youâre starting to drift off a bit. Itâll be nicer just to take this in. Youâre both here, coddled up under the same quilt, and a little bit less lonely. If youâre lucky, and you think you are, youâll have the same arrangement tomorrow.
Dude, your glasses

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puppy love
bradley bradshaw x fem!reader
summary: adopting a retired police dog from the local station seemed like a good idea. late night cuddles on the couch, early morning barks to start the day, and long runs in the park are now a normal part of bradley's routine. but what happens when his furry friend takes off one morning, leash slipping through his hand, and instead barreling towards someone new?
warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, unprotected sex, semi-public sex (not really but kinda), dry humping (i'm a freak), hand job, fingering, reader is shorter/smaller than bradley (he looks down at reader and picks reader up), strangers to lovers (guys don't fall for the cute guy with a dog ruse unless it's bradley), no use of y/n
word count: 11.1k
a/n: been a fiend for bradley ever since watching topgun again in theaters. that mustache does things to me... also this a very bradley centered fic! loved exploring him as a character in this! enjoy! :)
masterlist
Bradley doesn't know what stopped him on his way off base. Usually, he's barreling towards the exit, can't wait to get home and start his weekend, even if that means reruns of old sitcoms and quiet nights on his back patio alone. Maybe it was the bright pink of the poster, contrasting against the dark navy blue, kaki tan, and army green of the base. Or maybe it was the fact that the piece of paper was dead center on the communal bulletin board. But, ultimately, Bradley's pace slows as he gets closer to the board and catches sight of a picture of a group of German shepherds, all lined up in perfect order, but still somehow looking so happy.
Adopt me! Come by the Coronado Police Station this weekend to meet your new best friend!
Bradley pauses as he reads over the text, taking in the place, date, and time. Tomorrow morning, a fifteen-minute drive from his small two-bedroom house. He doesn't know why, but he reaches into his back pocket to take out his phone, snapping a quick picture. Bradley looks over his shoulder, seeing if anyone has caught him in the act. And just as quickly as he had stopped, he was off again.
The drive home should feel like any other; wind in his hair, aviators over his eyes blocking the rays of the setting sun, and soft classic rock from the radio. But Bradley couldn't help but feel like something was missing.
Phoenix went on and on today about how her family is visiting her for the weekend, saying how excited she is to see her parents again. Bradley smiled at her, genuinely happy at the news.
Bob had talked about staying in with his girlfriend this weekend, saying they were going to try out a new recipe of banana bread they saw on the Food Network earlier this week. Bradley had hummed, telling Bob to save him a slice and to bring it in on Monday.
Jake had even told Bradley about the long run he was going on with a few of the newest TOPGUN class recruits, saying he was going to put them through hell this weekend. Bradley just laughed and grimaced at this, thankful his time in the program hadn't been led by someone as ruthless as one of his best friends.
But as the keys hit the small dish on his counter, Bradley couldn't help but tune into the creaks and groans of his house. Nothing else, just the small and quiet sounds. Even as he cooked dinner that night, the boiling of the pasta seemed drowned out by the stillness of the kitchen, of everything that surrounded Bradley. The episode he had seen at least three times now seemed to go in one ear and out the other. Bradley only heard his breathing and the occasional dripping of the faucet.
The hot summer nights were grueling. Not only due to the heat of his sticky skin against the now warm sheet, but also because Bradley could hear every little bug from the window above his bed. Cicadas seemed to chirp, grasshoppers seemed to sing, and if he listened closely, he could even sometimes hear the buzzing of the fireflies. Too quiet, but so loud. Loudness from the wrong sounds, the ones nobody noticed. Loudness from the beating of his heart from underneath his skin. Loudness of the crinkling sheets beneath his grasp. Loudness from the unsteady breath that escaped his lips.
Reaching for his phone, Bradley looked at the most recent picture in his camera roll. Swiping out and clicking the clock icon, he set an alarm for 8 AM sharp.
ŕŞââ´
Bradley pulls into the parking lot and takes in the sight around him. Cars are already packed in the lot, despite it only being 5 minutes since the adoption event started. Minivans and SUVs are taking up most of the spots; his Bronco seems out of place among the other cars. The California sun is barely starting to warm up the air, but Bradley knows in an hour he'll be thankful for the loose Hawaiian shirt he wears.
Off to the right side of the building, he can hear children laughing and dogs barking. Tucking his keys in his back pocket, he makes his way towards the noise.
Like he suspected, families are standing around chatting with volunteers in bright pink shirts, the same pink on the poster from the base. Kids are wide-eyed and fascinated with all of the dogs they see. It's not just German shepherds, but smaller dogs too, and all types of breeds. He wonders why his poster only had the proud-looking line-up when there were so many other options.
But like a man on a mission, Bradley peers over the crowd of people and spots K-9 in big black letters near the middle of the scene. Sending small smiles and tapping his left hand anxiously on the side of his thigh, Bradley weaves through the crowd. Taking in the well-behaved group of dogs before him, he settles down a bit. There's only one volunteer over in this area, a woman with her back turned away from him. It only settles him more, giving him the space to really look over the animals. Some of the dogs are panting, as if being out on the grass has somehow exhausted them. Others are playing with each other, rolling around, and showing their bellies. But one dog sits near the woman, curled in on itself, head tucked into her side.
Without meaning to, Bradley watches this dog, missing the way the woman looks at him fondly.
"He's just a little shy, but I promise he's a good boy," your voice snaps him out of his trance.
Bradley doesn't think he's ever thought so hard about what to say next. You have a soft look on your face, eyes darting back and forth between him and the dog that sits so close to you. The morning light is peeking out from beneath the tree branches, golden rays dancing across your skin. Bradley is glad he doesn't have his sunglasses on right now.
"What's his name?" Bradley walks closer to you, and you turn your body towards him. The dog next to you perks up a bit at the movement.
You smile a little before saying it, "Ducky." Seeing the way his brows raise, you laugh a bit. "He's just a bit of an odd pup out, thought the name suited him."
Bradley couldn't help but feel like it was fate. Ducky and Rooster. It was almost laughable.
"You said he's shy," Bradley led on, looking up to you as he sat on his haunches next to the dog.
"Yeah," you hummed. "Definitely my sensitive boy out of the group. These guys are retiring K-9, but Ducky has a bit of a soft side, wasn't trained properly as a puppy." Your voice seemed to waver a bit at the end of your sentence.
Bradley watched as your throat bobbed before you spoke again. He could tell where this conversation was going, but didn't want to interrupt. The look in your eyes was fiercely protective.
"He was abused by his first owner. So he has some PTSD tendencies. Hyper vigilant, can get really avoidant and shy, whines a lot when he's feeling anxious," you tell Bradley, petting the dog softly.
But nothing in your expression tells him that you don't care for this dog, that you think he's broken because of all of these things. It makes his heart beat a little quicker.
"But Ducky's a good boy. You just have to put some work in to see that." As you say his name again, Ducky peeks out from where he's hiding in your side. You smile a bit at this, ruffling his ears. "You wanna say hi to the sweet man?" you ask in a soft voice, like you're talking just to the dog, like Bradley's not right next to you, hearing every word.
He holds his hand out slowly, knowing not to move too fast. "Hey, Ducky. I'm Bradley." As soon as he says it, he feels a bit silly. But the way your smile deepens makes him continue. "Looking for a home, buddy? I got a nice backyard."
"Oh, he'll love that. Runs around like a bunny when he's all riled up," you told him with a smile on your face, now looking only at Bradley.
Bradley smiles at that, only imagining the life this dog could bring to his quiet house.
Finally, Ducky nudges his outstretched hand, sniffing it first, then licking it softly. He hears you gasp lightly at the action, nothing big though, trying not to disrupt the moment.
"He never does that," you offer. Bradley can see your head shaking slowly as Ducky continues to push into the man in front of you.
Bradley feels his heartbeat steady. It's quiet around him. Even with the squealings of the children around him and the barking of the other dogs, Bradley only hears the little laps of Ducky's tongue against the skin on his hand. But this quiet is something he can get used to, something that grounds him.
"It's a 150 dollar adoption fee, right?" Bradley asks, not tearing his eyes away from the dog in front of him. Ducky's big brown eyes seem to bore into his soul, making him ask the question before even thinking about what he's saying.
You bite your lip before speaking, trying to hide the big grin on your face, even though you know Bradley can't see it. "Um, no fee for him. I already took care of it."
Your words confuse Bradley. He looks over to you for an answer but sees clearly why you had paid the fee yourself.
Quickly, a hand comes up to your cheek as you wipe the stray tear away from your face. "I just didn't want anything to deter someone from taking him home." Bradley's heart clenches at this as you offer him a smile and you fan your eyes.
"Well, what do you say, Ducky? Wanna come home with me?" Bradley finds himself talking to the dog again, not feeling as silly this time around.
ŕŞââ´
Bradley looks at the large, fluffy cream colored dog bed lying next to his and the brown wicker box overflowing with colorful chew toys with a small smile. Ducky had been a little hesitant to leave your side at first when he realized what was happening, but with some whispered assurance and a kiss on the tip of his wet nose from you, he jumped into Bradley's Bronco, settling in the passenger seat.
Ducky had whined when Bradley peeled out of the parking lot. The man had glanced over at Ducky as he stuck his head out of the window and looked in your direction. His eyes found your figure in the mirror, blue denim, and a sweet pink-colored top catching his eye. He saw the way you brought one hand up to your heart, and as the other wiped at your cheeks. You loved this dog, every bit of your being told him that.
Bradley couldn't help but feel bad as the dog's whines continued throughout shopping for essentials, the drive home, and the arrival at his house.
Ducky had opted to lie in Bradley's brown leather chair as soon as they got into the house, and he decided to take it as a good sign. But as the day continued, Ducky had barely left the spot, and small cries were coming every few minutes.
Opening up the sliding glass door to his backyard, Bradley called Ducky over, beckoning him to come out and play. But the swings of the bright blue and purple rope and the energetic movements from Bradley weren't doing anything to move Ducky from his spot.
Even when making dinner, Ducky had barely budged from his spot on the recliner. With the wafting scent of the food on the stovetop, Bradley was sure that Ducky would appear by his side sooner rather than later. But nothing came of it, even with the temptation of a seared ribeye with Ducky's name on it.
He had tried speaking softly like he had seen you do earlier that day, but Bradley didn't want to push the poor dog more than it seemed like he already did. Instead, he turned on the television and sat in the company of the shy dog.
It wasn't until Bradley was tucked under his sheets that he heard the faint noise of shuffling paws on his hardwood floors. Ducky sat next to the side of the bed, noticeably avoiding lying on the dog bed next to him. Bradley laughed quietly at this, furrowing his brows a bit.
He wasn't quite sure what to do, to be honest. Growing up, he never had dogs or cats or anything of that sort in the house. He figured it was hard enough being a single mother of a toddler; the added stress of an animal just wasn't feasible in his situation.
Sure, his friends growing up had dogs. He recalled throwing around a tennis ball with one of his friends and their black lab in their backyard almost every day during the summer before 7th grade. But Bradley had never lived with a dog. Never had to deal with big brown eyes looking at him as he lay underneath the sheets.
"You okay, buddy?" he asked in the otherwise quiet room.
To this, Ducky started whining.
"Oh, come on. I thought we got over that a few hours ago," Bradley groans, rolling up to sit in his bed now.
Bradley was man enough to admit it was hard to drag Ducky away from you during the adoption this morning. Ducky's whines as you gave him a few last pets and spoke gently to him, did tug on Bradley's heartstrings. Bradley was sure the dog next to him couldn't stop thinking about your kind eyes and sweet disposition; he certainly couldn't.
Bradley's hands were rougher than yours. He felt the softness as you handed the leash to him this morning. You had explained to him a routine that Ducky usually had with the unit, your hands animated as you looked between the pair in front of you with a smile. Occasionally, one would come down to rub the top of his head. Ducky was probably missing that, missing you.
On top of that, when Bradley smiled at the dog next to him, he couldn't help but think of how goofy he looked compared to you. Your smiles were gentle, drawing him and Ducky in from a few feet away. He could tell you had that kind of magnetism, that kind of energy that just took hold of people and didn't let go. Bradley struggled to think of what the dog in front of him thought as he shot him another small smile.
And Bradley couldn't let go of the way you switched from talking to him to Ducky. How you had described Bradley with a soft tone and warm look in your eyes. You didn't even know him. How did you settle on "sweet man" from what Bradley was giving you this morning? It was a little too mind-boggling to think about for too long.
Shaking away the memories of this morning, Bradley was brought back to the dog that sat at his side. With a small sigh, he pointed to the bed next to him. "That's your bed, Ducky. It's time to go to sleep."
This only got him louder whines.
Bradley sighed and shook his head. He felt clueless.
"Do you want to come up here?" he tried, patting the comforter near his feet.
Within seconds, Ducky was jumping onto the bed and taking claim to the opposite side of the bed.
"Unbelievable. I try to get you to listen all day, and this is what you respond to," Bradley laughed as he looked at Ducky with a smile, not able to get mad at the dog as he cuddled up similarly to this morning with you.
The whines had stopped now, replaced with steady breathing and a small huff. The buzzing of the bugs outside his window that seemed so loud yesterday was now quiet. Bradley was only keying in on the ups and downs of Ducky's chest, something more grounding than he realized.
"Alright, Ducky. Time for bed," Bradley spoke again to the dog, stroking the fur on his back gently. Lying his head back down on his pillow and continuing his movements, Bradley was asleep within minutes. Soft snores from both him and Ducky fill the house with a comfortable, peaceful energy.
ŕŞââ´
It was a bit daunting at first. That first week with Ducky was definitely a learning curve. Trying to adjust his routine to best suit the dog's needs hadn't been quick or easy.
The first morning, Bradley woke up to licks on his face and playful growling. At first, Bradley thought Ducky wanted attention, some pets, and cuddles. But as soon as he sat up in bed, Ducky was bolting to the front door.
Sitting in front of the door with the green leash in his mouth, Ducky whined as Bradley slowly made his way down the hallway.
Still adorned in his slippers and ratty college football shorts, Bradley closed the front door and took off with Ducky as the sun rose in the distance. After a few minutes of tugging Bradley down the block, Ducky broke out into a trot, urging Bradley to keep up with him.
That's how Bradley ended up running barefoot in his neighborhood at 5 in the morning, slippers in one hand and leash in the other. He had passed Mrs. Greene, Mrs. Johnson, and Mrs. Nguyen on their morning aerobic walk with a small nod and smile. The older ladies had laughed at the scene, something Bradley couldn't help but join in on.
An hour later, they ended up back at Bradley's house. This time, Ducky barked happily as he opened the sliding glass door out to his backyard, running circles in the yard much like you had said he would. Bradley found himself watching with a disbelieving smile on his face, wishing he could somehow tell you that you were right.
A few weeks later, Bradley runs shirtless, tennis shoes on his feet now, with Ducky on an early May morning. The sun is just starting to peak out from the greenery lining the trail they take every morning. Bradley's grateful for the cool morning air as sweat wicks at his lower back and hairline. A combination of the morning dew and perspiration rolls down the muscles of Bradley's body as he jogs.
Suddenly, Ducky pauses once they reach the familiar park. Bradley looks down at his dog and then up to see what he could possibly be stopping for.
Seeing nothing but the group of older women with small hand weights and crows in the trees, Bradley bends down to Ducky's level. "What's up, buddy? What do you see?"
But as soon as Bradley settles down next to the dog, Ducky's leash is slipping through his fingers. He reaches out to grab onto anything, his dog, his collar, his leash, but ends up grasping at the air instead. Ducky is taking off in a sprint before him.
Rising to his feet and going after him. Bradley swears under his breath and calls out loudly, "Ducky!"
He finds himself weaving through the playground, wood chips kicking up in his wake. But his eyes widen as Ducky zeroes in on a group of women at the edge of the park.
He sees them all stretched down in downward dog as Ducky gets closer and closer. Again, Bradley calls out, "Ducky!"
At this, he sees a few heads turn towards the sound of his voice. But only one woman looks in the direction of the blur of fur coming straight for her. A yelp is heard as Ducky barrels into her, knocking her from her place on the mat. Gasps are heard from the surrounding women, and Bradley's chest heaves as he sprints to catch up to his dog and pull him off the stranger.
But as he gets closer, his heart calms at the sound of laughter. Ducky is lying on top of this poor woman, but at least he's not attacking or barking or anything of that sort. No, he's just licking and nuzzling into the figure on the ground.
"I am so sorry. I don't," Bradley gets out quickly, stuttering a bit as he looks around at the group with an apologetic smile. "He never runs away like that, I'm sorry. Ducky, get over here!"
But the dog stays put, and the laughter doesn't stop. But finally, Ducky is pushed up from the figure on the ground, and Bradley's heart races once more when he sees your face peeking out from behind the ball of fur.
"Oh, it's you." He doesn't know why he says it, but it comes from him like a breath of relief.
You laugh at this, not even taking in the way Bradley scolds himself at the odd behavior.
"And it's you and Ducky!" Your attention is on the dog in front of you, petting him and smiling brightly, only glancing up at Bradley once before returning to the panting dog rather than the panting man.
Bradley kneels down next to you, sweat still rolling down his skin. He doesn't catch the way your cheeks flush as you take in his build. Muscles are a mix of the perfect summer tan and red rosy dusting, no doubt from the sprint he took off on to get here. His arms strain as they go behind him, veins jumping out from his skin. From this position, his tight stomach is also on full display, ridges and divots begging for your attention.
What you don't realize is that Bradley is doing the exact same thing to you, drinking you in fully. You're in flow yoga pants, calves peeking out from the wide-legged flare of the pants. And your top half is barely hidden, only wearing a sports bra, pretty and pink like the top he had seen you in a month ago. The straps dig into your shoulders, and Bradley takes in the swell of your breasts as he follows the scoop of the top.
A bark from Ducky snaps you both back into reality. Some of the women around you laugh.
"You guys seem to be doing well," you spoke softly, voice just as sweet as Bradley remembered.
"Mm, yeah. We've got our routine now, he's been great," Bradley tells you, reaching to pet his dog.
You watch the action fondly, seeing the way Ducky leans into his touch now. The moment is sweet and completely yours, at least that's what it feels like as you and Bradley make eye contact and share small smiles. But a voice clearing is heard as you and Bradley remember where you are.
You turn to a young woman next to you, speaking quicker than Bradley has ever heard before from you. "I'm gonna go with them, I'll be back soon." She nodded at you with a gleaming look in her eye that Bradley didn't quite understand. But you turned quickly towards him, grabbing Ducky's leash and apologizing to the other women around you.
As soon as you had walked away from the group, they resumed their positions, some of them craning their necks to watch the scene a few feet away from them unfold.
"I'm so sorry about that, again," Bradley told you, grimace on his face as you handed him the leash.
But you just shook your head and smiled. "No, no. It was nice seeing you guys again. I was wondering how he was doing with you," you told him. Bradley hoped you didn't catch the way he swallowed hard at your words. Leaning down a bit, your hand came down to Ducky's face. "But you like the sweet man, huh? I knew you would."
Bradley's cheeks flush at the repetition of your description of him, yet again.
The sun paints everything a nice golden color, pinks in the sky still dancing a bit in the distance. But Bradley can't peel his eyes away from you, and it seems like you are having the same problem.
"I should probably get back." Your head is pointing in the direction of the class, now moving through another pose.
"Yes, yeah. Sorry," he doesn't know why he apologizes, but the smile on your face doesn't make him think about it for long.
"Well, bye, Ducky. And bye..." you lead off, looking for him to pick up the end of your sentence.
"Bradley," he says, hoping you say it back to him.
"Bye, Bradley," you tell him, turning away from the pair, but not before sending them one last glance over your shoulder. And Bradley doesn't realize how long he stands there and hangs onto your words, only focusing on the way his name sounded coming out of your mouth. It had never sounded better, sounded sweeter from you.
Begrudgingly, he turns, ushering Ducky to follow him.
"I know, Ducky. Come on," he says, starting off in a slow jog as his dog turns back and begins to follow him. But as the day continues, Ducky's whining starts up again, and Bradley can't help but think of you.
ŕŞââ´
Pool balls clack up against each other as Bradley misses yet another wide-open shot.
"Jesus, Rooster," Jake laughs loudly. "Missing your dog so much you can't even focus on one little game of pool?"
It was partly true. It was Bradley's first night out since getting Ducky; he had been opting to spend the nights and weekends at home with the dog rather than out drinking with the squad.
But before Bradley could defend himself, mouth already opening to fire back, Bob had cut in, "No, he's definitely distracted because of the girl."
Bob sipped his soda innocently as the group of pilots turned in his direction with peaked interest.
Looking at Bradley, Bob grimaced; he was always a little loose-lipped after his 3rd soda of the night. "Shoot. Sorry, Bradley."
This set off a chain of questions from the group as Bradley's head hung low, hand coming up to the back of his neck to rub harshly at the skin.
Bradley had confessed his feelings to the WSO earlier this week, not being able to get the image of you out of his brain the entire weekend after Ducky had run you down in the park. He just had to tell someone, and Bob seemed like the logical choice. Smart, level-headed, in a stable relationship. But the words from the WSO only sent him into a spiral as he had finished describing you.
"Sounds like your perfect woman."
Bob's voice seemed to be on repeat the entire week. And God, he was right. You were perfect. More importantly, Bradley felt like he was going through withdrawal. Every time he looked at Ducky, he thought of you. He reasoned that getting out of the house and spending some time with his friends would be good for him.
Evidently, his secret being outed wasn't what he had in mind for tonight.
"Idiots, shut it!" Phoenix's voice rang out above the others. The group was now silent, all looking to the woman. "What girl?" she asked hesitantly.
With a sigh, Bradley's shoulders slumped. "The woman who I got Ducky from. I ran into her again last week, doing yoga at the park on one of our morning runs. And I don't know," he says, face twisting, not even sure why he's volunteering this information to his friends. "I just... I can't stop thinking about her."
The group is silent, understanding and hearing the sincerity in Bradley's voice.
Jake lets out a whistle at this. "Let's get you another drink, lover-boy." And at this, the group seems to hum in agreement.
The blonde clamps a hand down on his shoulder, guiding him to the bar.
"And you don't have her number?" Jake asks as they weave through the crowds of people.
"No, man. I mean, I don't even know her name. The adoption paperwork happened quicker than I expected, and I was just standing there like a dumbass the second time," Bradley grumbles, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
"Yikes. Any chance she's gonna do yoga again this week?" Jake asked as they sat at two open seats.
"I looked, it said the yoga happens the first Saturday of every month. So, I just have to wait," Bradley explained, feeling a little embarrassed at the admission.
"A month?! Good luck, my friend. You've gone crazy after only a week," Jake laughed. Bradley rolled his eyes at this and groaned, knowing Jake's words held some truth to them.
"Hello, gentlemen. I've got a drink here for you, Lieutenant Bradshaw," Penny's voice makes Bradley's head snap up. Her hand is pointing in across the bar, and when he follows it, he can't help but swear.
"Holy shit," Bradley laughs, turning to Jake with a smile and wide eyes.
"Holy shit, that's her?" Jake asked, looking at you and your friend at the opposite side of the bar, taking in the way she poked your sides and laughed.
"That's her," he spoke breathlessly. Penny grinned at the scene unfolding in front of her.
"Go, dumbass. Go!" Jake pushed him off the barstool, both hands guiding him in your direction.
Bradley recognized the girl sitting next to you, the same one at the yoga class the other day; she was probably your best friend if he was guessing. The way you smiled at her, cheeks flushing as she spoke, and sent you a wink made Bradley giddy. She grabbed her purse and hopped off the stool, gesturing for him to come take her spot before squeezing your hand and leaving.
"Hey," he says, sitting next to you, disbelief on his features.
"Hey, you," you tease back. "Are you in the Navy?"
Bradley takes in the way your eyes narrow at him, like you're trying to put pieces together. He nods and smiles, "I am, TOPGUN graduate."
"So you saw the poster I put up? For the K-9 unit?" You were smiling brightly now, like you had guessed correctly.
"I did. The pink's what got me." Bradley's eyes met yours. This conversation seemed different than all the other you had in the past. Before, you were calm and collected, but here you were excitable and giggly.
"I totally thought you were a firefighter," you spoke honestly. "I put the K-9 posters up at the base, the fire station, and places like this," your finger wagged as you spoke, gesturing to the bar.
"Disappointed?" he asked, a teasing smile on his face.
You held your hands up in faux surrender. "No! Not at all. Impressed actually."
He grinned at this, settling into the conversation more and more. "And what do you do? Not a police officer, right?"
"No, vet actually. I just work pro bono with the police department, specifically for the K-9 unit. Those guys are hard workers, and usually get roughed up after big jobs," you told him with a small smile.
Bradley put together some pieces of his own. How you knew so much about Ducky, why you had gotten so close to him. You had probably gotten to see the pup at his lowest.
Bradley nodded, "Now I'm impressed." You smiled wider at this, laughing at his words.
For the first time since sitting with you, Bradley fully took you in. Your denim shorts that rode up just a bit and your white tank top, the V-neck framing your collarbones and chest perfectly. Your cheeks had a slight blush to them; he couldn't tell whether it was from him or from the fruity drink you seemed to be working on.
Again, you did the same thing. This time, though, Bradley was in a tight white T-shirt and jeans that seemed to strain against his thick biceps and thighs. His hair wasn't as windswept as it had been that day in the park; now it was pushed back slightly, a single curl coming down on the left side of his face.
The squad watched as the two of you talked, Jake practically skipping back to the group to tell them the good news. Every time they glanced over, you and Bradley had gotten closer and closer, fully leaning into each other.
You both sported matching smiles and flushed cheeks the entire night, despite letting both of your drinks sit and become lukewarm. The alcohol couldn't be to blame for the way you were acting.
They saw how Bradley's eyes softened as they met yours. How his shoulders relaxed after each laughing fit. How he opened himself completely in front of you.
You had talked about everything. It seemed to flow so easily out of Bradley, even the hard things. When you asked about his family, you must have noticed the way his face dropped slightly, instantly placing a supportive hand on his thigh. He had told you about his family, the squad, about Maverick. It was nice. You asked questions, not the kind that he had an automatic response for, but ones that made him think.
"Who on the squad is most like a sibling to you?"
"What dish instantly brings you back to childhood?"
And his favorite, "What's your favorite story about your dad?"
He asked you about school, and you indulged him in crazy stories from your early days in the profession. How you had worked out on a farm in Wyoming one summer and helped with the births of calves. It had been a lot more physically exhausting than you would've imagined. How you had studied in Australia for an exchange year, learning all about marine wildlife and how to care for them. The way your eyes lit up when you told him about a baby turtle hatching you had witnessed had him giddy.
You had told him about all the adventures you had gone on and all the ones you wanted to do in the future. Swimming in Baja, Mexico, with the Whale Sharks was at the top of your bucket list, and while Bradley was a bit scared of deep waters like that, he had to admit it didn't sound as scary if you were going to be by his side.
In exchange, he told you a few things about his time in the academy. The risks he had to take on missions, the close calls that happened more often than he would like. He saw the pain this job caused his mom, and he didn't want you to go into this without knowing the risks. But the way you bit your lip and told him that you thought what he was doing was so brave made his heart race and a wide grin break out on his face. You had hit his shoulder lightly at this, saying you were serious, but Bradley just smiled wider.
"Is there anything else I can grab you two tonight?" Penny asked, wiping down a glass as she looked at the pair, effectively popping their bubble.
"Oh gosh, I'm sorry. We stayed way too late," you spoke, digging into your wallet to pull out some bills to give the kind woman.
"Sorry, Penny," Bradley chuckled, handing her a handful of cash before you could even finish fumbling with you wallet. Your eyes met him, mouth about to open to argue, but he just offered you a hand as he hopped off the barstool.
"Goodnight, you two," she called as you both walked out with sheepish smiles.
You hadn't dropped Bradley's hand as you led him through the parking lot to your car. He relished in the warmth and softness; the feeling was vaguely familiar as he recalled the earlier touches from when you had first met.
"This is me," you told him, as moonlight danced across your features. Bradley couldn't help but run his eyes over your face, thinking to himself how beautiful you looked.
"Can I get your number?" he asked brazenly, a tad louder than he needed to. You giggled at this but nodded regardless, hands reaching for his phone as he stared at you.
Despite the cold breeze that came from the ocean just a few meters away from you both, Bradley felt a deep warmth spread in his chest. He opened your car door, closing it softly as you waved through the window. And once you backed out of your spot, Bradley found himself smiling all over again at the paw print stickers on your back window.
ŕŞââ´
3 months later...
You and Bradley sprawled out on his couch as the movie finished up in front of you, Ducky sitting by your feet. Lying on Bradley's chest, you couldn't help but listen to his heartbeat beneath you.
These past few months with Bradley had been nothing short of perfect. He had texted you the morning after you had sat at the Hard Deck for hours, asking if you were free for dinner that same night. You remember laughing at his eagerness to yourself, but agreeing nonetheless.
He appeared at your door at 6:30 PM sharp, taking you out to a nice dinner on a beach patio. You teased him about not bringing Ducky, saying you thought they were a package deal, but you quickly paused the teasing after seeing how nervous he was by the way his cheeks flushed brightly.
He asked you about your career out here, only really talking about school last night with you. He said he wanted to learn more about you now. It was more thoughtful than you had expected.
Halfway through the dinner, you moved your chair over to Bradley's side of the table, something that caught a glare from the hostess. But you had to, as you scrolled through pictures and pictures of animals on your phone. You told him each of their names and all the little quirks they had, told him about the family you had worked with, and how much each of these animals meant to people. You hadn't noticed, but he smiled the entire time, not really looking at your phone but instead at the way you lit up when you spoke about the animal you've worked with.
When the date wrapped up, you told him that you'll just have to see his dog another time, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before you closed the door to your apartment. He hadn't seen you peek through the curtains, but you saw the way he pumped his fists like a dork while walking to his car. You couldn't help but fall even harder for the man.
Two days after your first date, Bradley had asked you to meet him in a little coffee shop near your apartment. He had apologized countlessly for the timing, seeing as he had requested 6 AM as the time, saying it was okay if you wanted to wait for the weekend, but his training schedule was just a little hectic at the moment. But you insisted it was okay, saying you had your own share of early mornings too and that you wanted to see him.
As he walked you to your car after a quick coffee and pastry, you smiled at him. Leaning against your car, you tugged him down by the collar of the familiar plain white tee he wore, pulling him in for a kiss. Bradley's hands found purchase on your hips, fingers giddy against your scrubs.
It was the fifth date, and both of you opted for a night in, where he promised to cook for you. It had also been the first time you had been in his apartment, Ducky clinging to your side the entire night.
Bradley had asked you to be his girlfriend before dinner was even finished, too distracted by the way you sat on the countertop to focus on the food simmering around him. You laughed as he flushed from the question and the sound of the smoke alarm going off, but ultimately said yes with a smile as he leaned down, caging you against his firm chest and the cabinets, to capture your lips in a deep kiss before waving a towel in front of the alarm. You couldn't help but laugh as you moved to open the sliding glass door to let the smoke out of the little house and to get some fresh air for yourself, too, after feeling how Bradley's hands rested on your thighs.
Recently, though, you had been having your fair share of sleepovers with the tall aviator. The first time he had slept over, you had shared one too many glasses of wine over sushi takeout from your favorite place downtown. After glancing at the clock and the empty bottle between you, you asked quietly if he wanted to spend the night.
Bradley hadn't ever seen you so shy before, but he figured the rosiness of your cheeks definitely matched his own and said nothing. Instead, he nodded, kissing your forehead sweetly as you further pushed into his hold.
He remembers feeling your soft face up against his bare chest as you dozed off, not being afraid to lean into his side once you had settled under the covers. The smell of your shampoo and lotion was strong, wafting off of you after your shower. Bradley lay there for a few minutes. Not daring to close his eyes, he instead wanted to take you in as you slept on top of him. The combination of your sweet smell and soft skin had the man reeling.
Now you lie on the couch at his apartment, and Bradley sees your eyes blinking away sleep as you curl up to his side. With a kiss pressed to your hair, your eyes widened as Bradley ushered you to the bedroom. Big hands coming up to your sides to support you, strong chest pushed against your back to guide you.
It was the first time you had slept over at his. But after grabbing a quick shower, inspecting all of the hair and body care products he had available, you took your place in bed. Bradley's sheets were softer than yours, and you wondered why it had taken so long to sleep over at his.
But before you were about to call out and ask him, the answer came jumping onto the bed next to you, taking Bradley's spot. You laughed softly as Ducky turned on his back, urging you to rub his tummy.
Getting out of the bathroom, with nothing but a tight towel around his waist, Bradley groaned. You giggled at this, but Bradley shook his head you and Ducky all cuddled up already.
Walking into the small closet on the other side of the room, your eyes tracked Bradley. The way the small towel around his hips was working to show off his deep V-line had you squirming in your spot on the bed. You watched his back muscles push and pull as he rolled his neck and stretched a bit while walking. Maybe you could offer to work out the knots; it'd be a win-win situation for you and your boyfriend.
As he emerged from the closet in nothing but a pair of boxers, you urged yourself to calm down. It wasn't like it was your first time seeing him in this state; you did have sleepovers at your apartment quite often. But it was the first time that you could actually do something about it.
There had been countless times when you and Bradley had been pretty handsy, but all of them seemed to be interrupted. Whether it was an emergency call from the clinic or an alert on Bradley's phone that Ducky had knocked over another vase in the house, something always tore you away in those moments.
You had felt Bradley's frustration, seen it firsthand. The way his jaw ticked each time, and his hands got all grabby before either of you had to leave. You didn't blame him, often finding yourself rubbing your thighs together after your time together was interrupted. Maybe even having a wandering hand shoot down your panties if he was the one who had to go.
But tonight you might have him all to yourself, whether that means deep kisses or holding each other tightly and finding sleep. That was until Ducky refused to move.
"Come on, Ducky, off the bed tonight," Bradley told the dog, standing over him.
"You let him sleep on the bed regularly?" you asked with a playful look on your face. Bradley caught your tone quickly, sending you a lighthearted eye roll.
"Yes, because I love my dog," he spoke, ruffling Ducky's ears.
"But what's the big bed for then?" you questioned again, smile growing bigger with every second.
Bradley wanted to lean over and kiss it off your face. But with the big dog in his way, he just shrugged. "He didn't like it."
You giggled at this, Ducky turning to you at the sound. "Gosh, he's a big softy, huh?" you told Ducky in a sweet tone, something that made Bradley suck his teeth and grin.
But with Ducky's attention elsewhere, Bradley was able to shift the dog to the end of the bed. Getting under the covers, Bradley reached for you automatically. Instead of feeling the cotton of your pajama pants that you usually wear, he instead felt your warm skin.
Seemingly watching the confusion spread across his face, you offered an explanation, "Your sheets are nice. And it's a little hot out."
If nice sheets and 90-degree weather were what it took to get you in the little lacy pink underwear your wore now, Bradley would buy a set in every color and run his heating system even on hot nights like tonight.
But instead, he just hummed, fingers tracing over the lacy trimming of your panties.
On top of this, you wore one of his old Navy shirts. Not expecting to sleep over, you had limited options available. Bradley had never been more thankful.
"Let's go to bed, pretty girl," Bradley told you as he saw the way your eyes started to blink closed again. You nodded sweetly at this and settled under the covers as he turned off the lamp on his nightstand.
Settling under the covers, Bradley's big hands found your stomach, pulling your back into his chest. From this position, sure, his hands could roam all over you, and he could touch anything that begged for his attention. But what stopped him in his tracks was the smell of his body wash on your skin.
It made logical sense. You had showered before getting in bed while he washed up the dishes and straightened the living room, but it didn't hit him until this very moment that you were fully his. The woman he had pined over for a month, not even knowing your name, only remembering your kind eyes and soft touch. Now, you were in his bed, falling asleep next to him in his shirt after washing yourself with his body wash.
What did he do to deserve you? You who cared for animals so much that you made a career out of it. You who held his hand and kissed away his tears when he finally told you about what happened to his father. You, who at every chance were unapologetically yourself, either dancing in the kitchen while making dinner or sobbing your eyes out while watching Marley & Me for the hundredth time.
He loved you. Bradley realized in that moment that he loved you. More than he had ever loved anyone like this before.
At the thought, his hands had squeezed your waist tightly, and you stirred next to him.
"Baby, are you okay?" you asked, voice laced with sleep.
Letting his grip on you loosen, he was quick to come down and kiss your neck in an apology. "Sorry, just thinking about you. Didn't mean to wake you up."
You hum, shifting against him slightly. Your neck is now on full display, and Bradley just couldn't help himself.
Feeling his warm mouth work against your sensitive neck made you squirm against him. Bradley's mouth was relentless, biting and licking underneath your jaw and down the side of your throat. Your breath hitched as he moved a spot near your pulse point, chest rising and falling dramatically.
Bradley's hands wrapped around your stomach once more, but this time, one of his hands snaked underneath your shirt. "Can I touch you like this?" his voice was deep, breath hot against your ear.
"Yes, please," you whispered.
Suddenly, his mouth was back on your throat, and your hips pushed back further into his now hard length. His hand came up to grab your tits. They were in the perfect position for Bradley, who was able to pinch and roll your nipples in between his big fingers.
"Oh gosh, Bradley," you huffed, eyes fully rolled back into your skull as his hand worked against your puffy nipples and he ground his length into your ass.
"Yeah, baby, feels good?" he asked in a cocky coo, watching the way you bit down on your bottom lip and nodded up and down at his words.
Your mouth opened, not quite knowing exactly if you could speak with the way his touch seemed to intensify in mere seconds. But still, you tried, aching for him now, "Touch me, please. Down-"
A loud bark had you jumping out of your skin. Ducky growled at Bradley, starting to shield you protectively.
You laughed at his dog's actions, and Bradley looked at you in disbelief.
"Ducky, down! Off the bed!" Bradley's voice was loud, but it carried no real weight to scare the dog. Ducky instead settled down in between you two, almost pushing Bradley off the bed.
You laughed again.
"This is unbelievable," Bradley scoffed as he threw the covers off his body and got out of bed. From here, you could see the way his length strained under his boxers.
But it wasn't long before Bradley was over at your side of the bed and scooping you up into his arms.
"What are you doing?" you asked, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.
"Trying to give my girl what she wants. This time uninterrupted," Bradley huffed, sending a glare at Ducky on the bed as he carried you outside the bedroom.
But when Bradley closed the door, Ducky only started scratching and barking even louder. You looked at him with a small smile, pressing a kiss to his temple to calm him.
"I've got an idea," he spoke, something dancing in his eyes. "Go open the door to the patio."
"Bradley, no! You can't leave him out there!" you chastised with a small frown on your face.
He hummed, head falling into your shoulder. But just as quick as it fell, it came back up again.
"Okay, you go outside then. Wait for me," he told you, planting a searing kiss on your lips that made you forget any questions you had. Bradley placed you down softly and watched as you padded over to the back patio, underwear now clinging to your skin in a way that almost looked uncomfortable.
But as soon as he heard the click of the sliding glass door shutting. He opened the bedroom door and let Ducky inspect the living room.
"I don't know where she is, buddy," he told the dog, shoulders shrugging, really trying to sell the bit. Ducky sighed and made his way back into the bedroom after a few sniffs and laps around the couch.
After seeing him settle back into the bed and toss and turn for a few minutes, Bradley crept out the back door, swiping the big, soft blanket you liked so much, on his way.
"What'd you do?" you asked the man as he came up to you and draped the blanket around your shoulders.
"He's sleeping. Do you really think so poorly of me?" he teased, hands once again coming to your waist.
"I never said anything," you shot back, failing to hide the small smile on your face.
Bradley walked backwards until he reached the little love seat on his back patio, pulling you down so you were sitting on his lap. You smiled at the eager look on Bradley's face, giggling to yourself.
"Hi," he said, leaning in to press his lips against yours.
"Hi," you teased back, meeting his lips halfway.
Bradley's mouth moved in a delicate, yet passionate way. His hands were planted firmly on your hips; you could feel his thumbs pressing into your skin as the kisses turned more intense. You gasped as Bradley dragged your core across his hard length, cotton rubbing together to create a dizzying friction.
Taking advantage of your open mouth, Bradley pushed his tongue into your mouth, licking into it with urgency. The noise that came out of your throat at his movements was quiet, but Bradley heard it nonetheless. Groaning into your mouth, Bradley moved your hips once more, going a bit crazy at the feeling of your heat against him.
"Come on, baby. Show me how much you need me, huh?" he broke the kiss to speak, eyes searching yours. But all he saw was the gloss already over them as you nodded quickly and threw your arms over his shoulders.
Bradley kissed down your neck as your hips started to move back and forth against his length. Your pace was slow, but he heard the hitches of your breath and decided not to push you just yet. His hands instead crawled up underneath your shirts and began to toy with your nipples again. At this, you captured your bottom lip between your teeth and nuzzled your head into the crook of Bradley's neck.
"So sensitive for me. Doing so good. You like it when I touch you like this?" he asked, nudging your head out from its hiding place.
With another nod of your head, Bradley grabbed your chin, quickly swiping your bottom lip out of its hold.
"Wanna hear you, please, baby," he begged, kissing your face sweetly. It was the exact opposite of how his other hand moved under your shirt, twisting and rubbing your pebbled nipples like they were his own special toys.
"Feels so good, Bradley," you said breathlessly. At the sound of his name falling from your lips, Bradley's hips jumped to meet the steady rhythm of yours. You yelped as he did so, but he was quick to capture your lips in another deep kiss, keeping his hips pressing harshly into your heat through the cotton of both your underwear.
"You're driving me crazy," he confessed, hand coming up to the hem of the old Navy shirt you were wearing. Looking to you for permission, you nodded wordlessly and felt the shirt being taken off your body.
Bradley threw the shirt across the patio and drove straight into your chest, taking one of your nipples between his lips. He lapped and sucked, feeling your hips roll with more urgency across his length at his ministrations.
"So beautiful, baby," he spoke in a low tone before switching to your other breast. One hand snaked around to hold onto your lower back, helping you with the drag. The other pinched at your now wet nipple softly.
"Bradley," you warned, eyes rolling to the back of your head at the combined feeling of his mouth, hands, and hips. The new pressure from the hand on your back was now pushing your hips in the perfect position, feeling his tip make contact with your clit through the cotton.
The man watched as you became consumed with pleasure, lip wobbling as your hips moved back and forth. He felt your fingernails dig into his shoulder blades, surely leaving marks.
His mouth popped off your nipple and made its way up to your open mouth, licking into it once again.
"Gonna come for me, baby? It's okay, I wanna feel you come. I'm right here," he spoke softly to you, watching your brows furrow and face twist.
The words and the intense look in Bradley's eyes made the tension in your tummy snap, hips moving fast to chase your high. You tried collapsing into your boyfriend, but with a firm hand that stayed on your jaw, you were forced upright, looking straight at Bradley as you came on his lap.
Your bare chest heaved as you came down from your high, pressing into Bradley's warm figure. His hand traveled from your lower back up to your hair, stroking it sweetly while placing soft kisses on your hairline.
"Can I feel you?" Bradley asked, fingers now toying with the lace on your underwear again.
"Yeah, but I wanna feel you too," you told him with a small smile on your face, bringing your fingers down to the waistband of his boxers. He chuckled at your actions, but still brought you into a sweet kiss.
Your hands pushed down his waistband and grasped his length in your hands. He was heavy in your hold, twitching as you rubbed a finger down the side of his member, tracing a prominent vein.
"So big," you whispered, more so to yourself, but the way Bradley's fingers moved to push into the front of your underwear made you think he must have heard you, too.
You felt one hand plant firmly on your waist while the other cupped your heat softly. His middle finger circled your entrance, rubbing little circles and spreading the wetness around, something that had you squirming in his hold. Bradley's thumb rubbed similar circles on your clit as you hunched over into his hold.
Your hands worked to rub at his tip, one hand coming up to your mouth to collect some spit, making the movements more fluid. Bradley shuddered as you found a steady pace, feeling your fingers continuously working over his sensitive head.
A finger pressed into your entrance, stretching you in an unfamiliar way. You whined into Bradley's neck at the feeling, tensing up for a moment. But he was quick to keep rubbing little circles against your nub, relaxing your muscles.
The finger pumped in and out of you at the same pace as your hand. Bradley's lips find your neck once more, now breathing heavier and lapping at more of your skin. As you ground down on him further, he moved to push another finger inside your wet entrance.
"Jesus, baby. Feel so fucking good around my fingers. Can't wait to have you on my dick," he groaned, feeling you clench and squeeze around his fingers. You moaned at his words, pushing further into him to rub your breasts against the hard muscles of his chest. Your nipples rubbed harshly against him as you moved your hand more quickly to keep up with the rhythm of his fingers.
"Need you, please, Bradley. Now," you gasped, feeling your stomach wind up again. He nodded at your words, pulling his fingers from your entrance and instead picking you up off his hips, pushing you up against the wood railing of the patio.
"This okay, baby? You okay with me taking you like this?" Bradley asked, referring to your back meeting his chest, taking you from behind. Your stomach jumped at his words as you braced your hands against the railing.
"Yes, please, Bradley." The words were barely off the tip of your tongue when you felt Bradley tug down your underwear, leaving you completely bare in the warm summer breeze. He quickly did the same with his own underwear, fully allowing his member to spring free and rub on your ass.
One of his large hands came to wrap around your hips while the other guided his cock into your entrance. Feeling your breathing pick up, Bradley placed sweet kisses on your neck before whispering, "Breathe for me, baby. I got you."
Taking a deep breath, you exhaled as Bradley pushed into you. It was only his tip at first, but the way you pushed your hips back at the feeling of him drove his hips further, pushing in fully.
Gasping at the stretch, your head lay back on Bradley's broad chest as he snuck his other hand around to toy with your tits. Your nipples were still sensitive from his actions earlier, so this only caused you to push further into his hold.
"Can I move? Are you okay? Need to hear you, talk to me, baby," Bradley told you, kissing the top of your head softly.
"Feels really good, please, Bradley. Need you to move," you complied, as he nodded, pressing his hips into you before drawing out and pushing in again.
You whine as he sets a steady pace. His hands roam all over your body, trying to grab onto every part of you. Your tits, your thighs, your throat. You feel your eyes cross once his thumb lands on your clit once more, squirming and crying out in a nonsensical plea.
Bradley watches as you start to fall apart on him. His hips are moving to piston his hard length into your warm heat, finding it hard not to fully bend you over the railing and have his way with you. Instead, setting a pace that had you crying out every few seconds, mouth open, and eyes closing at his deep movements.
The crude sounds of his hips meeting your ass were filthy and the loudest thing in contrast to the otherwise quiet night. The extra squelching sounds surely come from the previous orgasm you had. Bradley wondered what you tasted like, but he'd have to save it for next time.
"So good, feels so good. My pretty girl," Bradley groaned, head dropping to kiss along your exposed jaw line, hand pushing your tummy to arch you even further into his hold.
You moaned in response, feeling him deeper, feeling more pressure. "For you, only you, Bradley," you told him, head turning to capture his lips in a kiss.
Bradley felt a surge of energy at your words. His thumb worked in tighter circles against your clit, the kind that had you shaking earlier on the loveseat.
"Yeah? This is my pussy, baby? Gonna let me fill you up?" he asked, spit mixing with yours as he bit harshly on your bottom lip.
"Mhm, please. All yours," you cried out as his other hand came to hold across your hips, helping him push you to the edge by bending your frame even more than it already was. Your back arched away from Bradley as your hips and head pushed back to meet his solid body.
"Fuck, baby. Can't say shit like that," he scolded, but his hips kept pounding into you.
Bradley's filthy mouth was somewhat shocking to you. The only other time he had cursed around you was when he had stubbed his toes on the corner of your bed 3 weeks ago. So his words sent a chill down your spine despite the heat of the summer air.
Bradley's thumb stayed in its spot, working your clit and making you twitch and begin to thrash in his hold. But his other arm thrown around your hips made sure that you still felt his deep thrusts.
"Bradley," you breathed out, head tilting back to look at the man. Sweat dripped from his hairline, but he still moved to swoop down and catch you in a searing kiss.
"I got you, I got you. Come for me, baby. Wanna feel you come on my dick." His words pushed you over the edge as he licked into your mouth once more after speaking. The constant rub from his thumb and deep thrusts had you shaking as you worked through your high with him.
Seeing the way your body tensed, your tits bouncing with every movement, and your thighs shaking, had Bradley releasing in you with a low groan. His hips canted into you, slowing down slightly with each thrust, only moving to help you both work through your respective highs.
He had neglected to turn on any porch lights to not alert any neighbors or even Ducky, but the way the moonlight streamed through the trees and painted your features was something Bradley wished he could remember forever. Your lips were still parted, taking labored breaths. Your eyes were glossy, like you were trying to focus and come back into your body. Your cheeks flushed a deeper shade of rosy pink than he had ever seen on you before.
You were beautiful.
Bradley leaned down to kiss your cheek, and he felt you smile against his lips.
"Feeling okay, that wasn't too much, pretty baby?" he asked, genuine concern making his brows furrow.
You moved a thumb up to smooth the creases, kissing him softly on the nose with a small giggle. "Felt really good, Bradley. Gonna need some help walking, for sure though."
He chuckled at this, kissing your lips this time, deep and slow.
"I can help with that," he told you as he pulled out, both of you wincing at the loss. He quickly picked you up bridal style and carried you into the house, only letting your feet touch the ground as he set you down on the edge of the guest room bathtub.
Bradley moved to start the water, running his fingers under it to make sure it wasn't too warm or too cold before plugging the tub.
His big hands came down to frame your face, fingers a little wet, but you leaned into his touch regardless. "Gonna go grab our stuff outside and start a pot of tea and come back, okay?" he asked, searching your eyes. You smiled at him, and he leaned down once more to capture your soft lips between his own, the brush of his mustache making you giggle into the kiss.
"I love you, Bradley," you told him, lip now pulled between your teeth as you looked sheepishly at him.
But the man smiled wider than you had ever seen as he began to pepper kisses all over your face and head. You giggled at this, hands coming up to hold his which still framed your face.
"I love you so much," he told you, coming down to peck your lips once more, but the sound of the whine made you and Bradley turn towards the entrance of the bathroom.
Ducky huffed, lying on the cool hardwood, making you and Bradley laugh.
"We love you too, Ducky," the man teased, sending you a wink as you bit back a grin at the sight in front of you.
how to explain to people that i love top gun in an enemies to lovers/ found family way and not in a military propaganda way?
just confess
pairing: ryland grace x reader
synopsis. in which ryland asks his twin brother, colt, for help on how to confess to you or where colt harasses his brother to just confess
word count. 1.7k words
note. i might make a part two of the actual confession .. lmk if you guys would want that or if this is enough !
part 2
There are very few things Ryland Grace can admit to without shameâthe love he has for his kids, how teaching has been such a great outlet for him, his hard spent years studying Microbiology, to name a few.Â
What he canât say is a slightly longer list, and if that list was made and kept somewhere, heâs sure this very moment with his twin brother would be at Number One. Yes, even above calling the leading scholar in his field a staggering waste of carbon.Â
It was this moment, asking his fuckass twin brother Colt for help on how to confess to you.
He thought he could do it himself, thought of so many ways to talk to you. But when time came to actually do it, he found that heâs grown two pairs of feet and everything but your eyes were the most interesting thing heâd ever seen.
So, he needed help. Because as much as he enjoys spending time with you, grading papers together and sneaking conversations between classes, there are times when all he really wants to do is wrap his arms around you after a long day of work, or brush away that stubborn strand of hair that always seems to fall over your eyes, or kiss the creases that form on the skin between your eyebrows when youâre deep in concentration.
But he canât.Â
Because even after knowing you for three years, he just canât look you in your eyes and tell you that he is so fucking in love with you. He instead resorts to small gestures and acts of service so youâd hopefully be able to tell that he wants to spend the rest of his life with you.
It doesnât work.
And then heâll have to pick himself back again and have will-induced conversations, laughing at the pathetic corner of love inside his head. Heâll have to look you in the eyes again and pretend he isnât affected when you look up and smile at him, or when you whisper a little too closely during shared library visits with your students.
Heâll be stuck at square one again.
And quite frankly, Colt canât handle it anymore. If he has to listen to Ryland laughing at himself again for his inability to confess to youâwhereby laughing, itâs melancholic, lonely chucklingâhe will throw himself off the window of their shared apartment.
Which is something Colt can definitely do, and will do if he has to hear the heavy tone of love laced in his brotherâs voice as he talks about you (because apparently, you are Top 5 Topics in their shared space) again. Besides, Colt has always been his polar opposite. When Ryland hesitates, Colt just does it.
âYouâre too hesitant.â Colt says, grabbing a few papers Ryland has yet to grade on the living room table to look over what he was checking. He returns it immediately with no interest.Â
Ryland is stressed, his glasses askew on his face and his hands pulling at the ends of his hair. âI know I am! Itâs not like Iâm not self aware. In fact, Iâm too self aware and thatâs the problem.â
âJust go up to her and tell her you like her.â
Ryland really wants to strangle his brother right now. âThatâs easy for you to say. YouâreâŚ.you! You jump into fire and fall out of tall buildings without hesitation. Iâm notâ Iâm not brave like you.â
Colt nods sympathetically, whispering an âI amâ, and murder is almost committed. Instead, Ryland chooses to just drop his face into his hands. This plan was futile from the beginning. Colt doesnât know shit about giving advice. He has approximately one brain cell. That is almost close to none.
âRyland.â His twin brother tries to get his attention, and Ryland slowly peels his hands off his face. âJust tell her. Tomorrow. Get it over with.â
âNo, not tomorrow.â
âOkay, then how about next week?â
âNo. Thatâsâ itâs too fast.â
âBefore the end of the world?â
âUh, yeah. I can⌠I can do that. I like those chances.âÂ
âGood. Glad we're narrowing it down.â Colt sighs so loudly that the sound resonates through the room. In return, Ryland throws his pen at him in irritation, but it's caught one-handed by his brother without even looking. This only pisses him even more.
âYou are approaching this like it's one of those big scary conferences you nerds like going to. Itâs not. Itâs way simpler than that.â
âActually, Iâd argue conferences are way fudging easier than confessing. Iâd be backed up with evidence and years of research, but this?! Itâs like Iâm going in naked. Thatâs never a good thing.â
âEw, donât say that. I donât want to picture you naked.â Colt cringes, and twists his face especially more at the self-censoring. âBut didnât you write a step-by-step process on what to do when she rejects you written on the whiteboard in your room?â
âThat is for emotional preparedneâ wait, you were in my room?!â
âDude, youâre doing too much. Youâre already assuming she doesnât like you back before giving it a chance. And youâre refusing to give it a chance by not confessing to her. Youâve liked her for three fucking years, and Iâve had to listen!â
Ryland opens his mouth to say something, but words donât come out. Because Colt was right, it had been three years of rambling about you, of assuming you could never feel the same way, of refusing to confess because heâd already feared the worst.
âSo just,â Colt says after a heartbeat passes, stressed out of his goddamn mind. âOkay, how about this? Walk me through your ideal confession. Iâm sure youâve played this out in your head multiple times, so just tell me.â
Rylandâs eyes widen tenfold, shaking his head with so much adamancy, even with his hands flouncing around. Youâd have thought somebody had asked him to go skinny dipping in front of all his co-workers.
âNo way. Absolutely no way. No no no no no.âÂ
âWhy not?â
âBecause you'll make fun of me.â
âI make fun of you regardless. That's unrelated.â
Ryland stares at him in a deadpan. Colt just stares back, shrugging his shoulders.
The staring contest is a battle Ryland loses, and with a sigh, he says, âI'd just want it to be ordinary, I guess.â
His brother listens intently, chin propped on his hands and perched on the living room table.
âOrdinary how?â
Ryland picks at the end of the paper heâs currently checking, rolling it and unrolling it and folding it and unfolding it. âI don't know. Maybe after work.â
âOkay.â
âWe're grading papers.â
âVery romantic.â A playful smile tugs on Coltâs lips.
âShut up.â
âGo on.âÂ
âAnd maybe she's making tea.â
âShe drinks tea? I thought she drank coffee.â
âObviously she drinks tea.â
âHow is that obvious?â
Ryland rolls his eyes at the smirk forming on his brotherâs lips. âNevermind that. Sheâs making tea, okay? And then I just tell her. That⌠that I like her.â
Then, he backtracks. âBut I canât do that. I mean, statistically speaking, that's a terrible plan. If I tell her, sheâll reject me. Then I lose my best friend. Which leaves you as my only friend, and no offense, but if the entire social structure of my life can be represented by a sample size of one, something has gone horribly wrong. Like horribly wrong.â
âI feel like I should be offended. Wait, youâre trying to change topics on me. Ryland.â
âColt.â He repeats.
âBuddy, you spend every single day together. She likes you.â Colt pushes himself out of the couch, suddenly acting like he just cracked the case. âAnd! And most of all, she laughs at your jokes.â He points accusingly. âYour terrible, god awful jokes. Sheâs into you.â
Ryland is defensive. âPeople laugh at my jokes!â
âLetâs not kid ourselves. JustâŚâ Another exasperated hand is thrown around as Colt tries to embed the thought in his brotherâs mind. âStop acting like she's doing charity work by spending time with you. Sometimes you forget youâre the best thing thatâs happened to a lot of people too.â
Colt grimaces as the room grows quiet, and heâs aware heâs suddenly gone sappy over his little brother (by four minutes), but Colt has never known a life without his brother, and itâs getting real annoying listening to him be so self deprecating as if he doesnât have a doctorate in Microbiology, as if a million single mothers havenât had crushes on him.
âWow.â he says. âYou just said something nice about me. I feel⌠weird.â
âDon't act like I donât ever say anything nice about you.â Colt says, not unkindly. Because he has, on multiple occasions even. Heâs always stood up for Ryland, even since they were little kids. âNow ask her out before I have to hear another two hour monologue about how she likes her coffee. Though, apparently, she drinks tea now. Unrelated. The point is I literally know everything about her, and I havenât even met her!â
Ryland opens his mouth.
Colt points a warning finger at him. âJust do it. Do the whole world a favor and just confess. Or just do me the favor."
The room falls quiet and a moment later, Colt disappears down the hallway readying himself for another early day tomorrow, leaving Ryland alone in the living room with half-graded papers and a pit at the bottom of his stomach when he comes to the realization that his brother might actually be right.
Not about everything, obviously. Colt is wrong about a lot of things. Most things, actually.
But maybe he was right about this.
Because for three years, Ryland has done nothing but wait. Three whole years of lingering after work just to talk to you for ten more minutes, of remembering every single story youâve ever told him, of finding any excuse to be with you.
And another three years would pass exactly the same way if he didnât do anything.
The thought makes him grimace, makes him want to vomit. Because Ryland Grace has done things far and beyond a simple conversation. He has a list of things he can admit to without shame, and even those with shame. He could do it.
And to hell if he'd go on another day without the permission to kiss you, and hold you, and take your hand in his.
The feeling still sits heavy in his chest, but it's different now. Less like dread and more like standing at the edge of a diving board, but this time, heâs a little more ready to make the jump.
And if by some miracle you feel the sameâ
Oh. Could you imagine?
Ryland can't help the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth at the possibility.
Maybe heâll finally listen to his brother for once in his life and tell you how he feels. Tomorrow.Â
For now, heâll keep grading his papers and writing romances with you in his head during the few minutes of break he allows himself.
Maybe This Time
Summary : John Walker trying to manage his anger issues accidentally turns into a second chance at love.
Pairing : New Avengers! John Walker x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Tower-ish fic? FLUFF!!! divorce, co-parenting, you are John's crisis de-escalation trainer, workplace romance, Olivia has a new boyfriend, you are mentioned to have a sister and a niece, shooter mention, dental anxiety, food. (Let me know if I miss anything!)Â
Word Count : 17.3k
Requested by : Anons! This is a combination these requests: X X
Notes : First time writing a full fic just for John! I swear I intended it to be 5k words but I am incapable of restraint when it comes to writing, apparently. Enjoy!
John didnât want Olivia back.
He didnât sit outside her place mourning the life they had lost. He didnât picture himself walking back through the front door, walking back into her life like no time had passed, picking up where they had left off. There was nowhere to pick up from. There was no bookmark wedged between the pages of their nonexistent marriage, waiting for them to find it again.
There were too many dead versions of them scattered between the two teenagers they used to be and the two adults they had become. The high school sweethearts to military couple pipeline was simple enough. What came after, though? The serum and whatever he was now? No, they simply were two different people. They simply grew apart.Â
John had made peace with the fact that they were over. The problem was that Olivia had started dating again first. Which meant she was winning the divorce.
Which was insane.
He knew it was insane. He knew divorce wasnât a sport. He knew healing didnât come with a scoreboard, and there was no prize for being the first person to look normal again. But this was John Walker weâre talking about, and Olivia moving on like a functional adult meant that she was beating him at life. And John was nothing if not competitive. As far as he was concerned, Olivia had points on the board and he didnât.
John had government-monitored rage incidents and a search history full of âhow to not hate your ex-wifeâs boyfriend.â
Every other weekend, John would pull up to pick up his son, prepared to be mature, steady, and reasonable. A father, a grown man, a person who had done therapy-adjacent breathing exercises with Bob and therefore considered himself emotionally evolved.
Then the front door would open, and Oliviaâs new boyfriend would be there.
The guy wasnât even easy to hate. If he had been smug, John could have worked with that. If he had been condescending, or handsy, or one of those guys who tried too hard to prove he was comfortable around another manâs kid, John could have filed him away as an asshole and let the anger fester without feeling guilty.Â
The boyfriendâs name was Nathan, and Nathan wore clean sneakers and quarter-zips and had the calm face of aman who had never once been dragged into an international incident. He had neat hair, good posture, and a normal job. John didnât know what the job was, because asking would imply interest, and John refused to be interested in Nathan on principle.
Nathan opened the door with his sonâs bag on his shoulder, âHey, John,â like they were neighbors.
Nathan remembered the stuffed dinosaur. Nathan knew the diaper bag needed the blue cup, not the yellow one, because the yellow one leaked if it tipped sideways. Nathan crouched to zip up tiny sneakers with patient hands while Olivia gathered a jacket from the hallway closet. So every time Nathan handed over the bag, John felt the score shift. Bing bing bing! 2-0!
Olivia: one emotionally stable boyfriend who knew the snack schedule.
John: one tactical vest in the trunk.
Nathan smiled at him one Saturday morning with a mug in his hand in Johnâs old kitchen.
He had signed the papers. He knew the house was Oliviaâs now in every way that mattered. But his body hadn't received the update. Some stupid, territorial part of him still recognized the front hall and the little hook where his keys used to go. And then there was Nathan standing barefoot on the tile with coffee like he had spawned there naturally.
âMorning,â Nathan said. âGood to see you, man.â
John almost laughed. âYeah,â he said instead. âYou too.â
It came out flat enough that Olivia looked at him tilting her head.
His son squealed from the living room, and John stepped around Nathan to get him.
The kid launched himself at Johnâs legs with complete, reckless trust, and for half a second the whole world rearranged itself around the feeling of small hands gripping his jeans, his son shouting, âDaddy!â like John had never been anything other than wanted.
He bent down and picked him up.
There. That helped. That always helped.
For three seconds, the scoreboard didnât exist. Then Nathan came out with the diaper bag.
âPacked extra wipes,â Nathan said. âHe had a thing with the applesauce earlier.â
When John took the bag, his hand closed around the strap too tightly. âGreat,â he said.
Nathan smiled politely. If he had been insincere in any capacity, John couldnât spot it. âNo problem.â
John wanted to bite through concrete. He hated that Nathan had packed the wipes. He hated that Nathan had been there for the applesauce thing. He hated that he knew there had been an applesauce thing at all. He hated that Nathanâs mug said something stupidly wholesome on it, probably from a farmerâs market. He hated that nobody was doing anything wrong.
Still, he knew Olivia was allowed to date. Nathan was allowed to be nice. Their son was allowed to be comfortable in the house he lived in, and in fact, John was relieved that he was. But that must mean John was allowed to feel complicated about it, too, right?
He was not, however, allowed to turn the whole thing into a personal war.
When he buckled his son into the car seat and glanced back toward the porch, Olivia and Nathan were standing side by side in the doorway. Olivia lifted a hand in goodbye, and Nathan did too.
John lifted his hand back because he wasnât a monster. Then he got into the driverâs seat, closed the door, and sat there for one second too long with both hands on the wheel.
Winning. Sheâs winning!!! The thought flashed hot and stupid behind his eyes.
His son babbled a Bluey song in the back seat.
John looked at him in the rearview mirror and forced his grip to loosen. âYeah, buddy,â he said, calming down almost immediately. âWeâre going.â
He drove away like a normal person.
He made it three blocks before he muttered, âGoddamn Nathan,â under his breath like it was a curse.
His son repeated, âI call him Nay-fin because he has pet fish!â
John winced. âDonât do that.â
âNay-fin!â
âBuddy, please.â
âNay-fin, Nay-fin, Nay-fin.â
By the time John pulled into traffic, he was considering whether crashing the car very gently into their mailbox when he came back counted as a setback.
â
There had been incidents, but not capital-I Incidents. John would have made that distinction very clear if anyone had been brave enough to stand in front of him and call them that.Â
They were simply⌠small things. Stupid things. Yes, he mightâve put a dent in the elevator panel because the doors stalled. Yes, he mightâve cracked a mug in the kitchen because Ava had asked him if he was âcopingâ. Yes, he mightâve punched a training dummy hard enough to take out half a weapons rack, which, in his defense, was what training dummies were technically for.Â
If anyone saw them as individual, isolated incidents, none of it would be considered catastrophic. Nothing made the news, no one got hurt, no country issued a statement. No blurry civilian footage hit the internet with his name trending in all caps. But together, apparently, it made his teammates raise an eyebrow.
Bob noticed first, which made it worse. Bob didnât make accusations or corner John and tell him to get his shit together. He just stood in the training room after the dummy incident, staring at the wreckage with those worried eyes like the dummy had a soul. Later, he told Yelena that he thought John was âhaving a hard time.â Yelena told Mel because of course she did. Mel told Valentina because she was contractually obligated to, and Valentina, naturally, couldnât have cared less. John breaking things barely registered as a crisis to her. It was just another line item in the budget, somewhere below ammunition, blackmail, and whatever Alexei kept charging to the company card under âteam morale.â Then Bucky overheard.Â
So Bucky Barnes, of all people, ended up standing in front of him with his arms crossed and that irritatingly calm look on his face, like he had become the emotional adult in the room through some administrative error. Bucky, who had once looked like therapy was a foreign intelligence operation. Bucky, who had trauma spanning two centuries and nine decades. Bucky, who now apparently had the nerve to look John in the eye and say, âYou need help.â
John laughed because the only other option was putting his head through drywall. âYouâre lecturing me about anger?â he asked, because there were very few moments in his life where the universe felt this committed to humiliation.
Buckyâs jaw ticked, but he didnât take the bait. âYeah,â he said. âI am.â
âThatâs rich.â
âMaybe,â Bucky said. âDoesnât make it any less true.â
Bucky didnât sound smug or superior. He sounded like someone who had already crawled through the same swamp and hated recognizing the mud on someone elseâs boots. John hated being read like that. He hated that Bucky could stand there, calmer than him, more put together than him. His life had to be spectacularly fucked if the Winter Soldier was now the emotionally stable one.
âIâm fine,â John said.
âYou punched an elevator,â Bucky replied.
âIt got stuck.â
âFor eighteen seconds.â
âIt was still stuck.â
Bucky blinked at him in a way that made John want to throw something just to justify the conversation. âYou hear yourself, right?â
Unfortunately, John did. He could hear exactly how insane he sounded. He could hear the pattern Bob had noticed. He could feel the way everyone had started looking at him, measuring the distance between him and the nearest breakable object in the room. It made his skin crawl.
Bucky sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. âLook, I donât care if youâre pissed. Be pissed. But we canât have another international incident involving you.â Bucky stepped closer, voice dropping, and John hated how serious he looked. âSo youâre off missions unless you do a couple of crisis de-escalation training sessions.â
There it was, the leash. It didnât belong to Val this time, who made him go on various suicidal black ops mission. It wasn't even the militaryâs. It was his own teammateâs.
âYou canât do that,â John said.
âI can.â
âSince when?â
âSince the team agreed.â
The team, huh? Is that what this has come to?
Johnâs nostrils flared. For one stupid second, he wanted to swing at him. Not really, and not all the way. It was just an old reflex, the urge to make the nearest solid thing pay for how cornered he felt.
Bucky saw it. âDonât.â
John hated him for that, too. He hated everyone because they were right. John had been angry for weeks, if not months. He had been angry before, but this wasn't battlefield angry. Not useful angry. Not the kind of anger that pointed toward an objective and burned through it.Â
This was different. This was ugly, sour, domestic anger. Divorce anger. Nathan-knows-where-the-extra-wipes-are anger. It had nowhere honorable to go, so it kept finding walls.
âWho am I seeing?â John bit out.
âSomeone I worked with during recovery,â Bucky said.Â
John scoffed. âGreat. So youâre outsourcing me to your therapist?â
âSheâs not a therapist,â Bucky shook his head, âshe does oversight, thatâs all.â
âYour anger babysitter, then.â
Bucky looked exhausted. âYouâre really making my point for me.â
John stared at him. Bucky stared back. Neither of them moved, and then John snatched the file out of his hand because apparently that was what his life had become. Mandatory rage oversight, arranged by Bucky Barnes, because even a former Russian asset had managed to become more emotionally regulated than him. Fantastic. Wonderful. Humbling in a way that made him want to chew glass.
âFine,â John said.
Buckyâs eyes narrowed. âFine?â
âIâll go to the stupid sessions.â
John looked down at the file. Your name was printed neatly across the top, along with your credentials. He hated the font. He hated the folder. He hated the idea of sitting in a room while some calm, professional woman asked him where he felt his anger in his body. He felt it in his fist, obviously. Â He tucked the file under his arm and turned to leave.
Behind him, Bucky said, âFor what itâs worth, she helped.â
John swallowed. That was it: proof standing right behind him that a man could crawl out of worse things and still become steady enough to lecture somebody else.
âYeah,â he muttered. âWell. Good for you.â
Then he walked away, already certain you were going to be the worst person he had ever met.
â
Two days later, John attended his first mandatory rage counselling session in an empty conference room on the thirty-second floor of the tower.
He had spent the entire morning in a foul mood about it. He had woken up angry, showered angry, gotten dressed angry, drank coffee angry, and glared at the file Bucky had given him angry.
The conference room was empty when he got there, because of course he was early. Not because he cared. Not because he was nervous. John didnât get nervous about talking to some government-approved feelings babysitter in a glass-walled room with a bad view and a table long enough to host a hostage negotiation.
He was early because being late would have given Bucky something to say.That was all.
He stood near the window with his arms crossed, watching the city move beneath him like he had somewhere better to be. Which he did. Literally anywhere. A mission, a sparring mat, a shooting range, his truck. Nathanâs front porch, even. Jesus, that was how bad this was. He would rather stand in Oliviaâs doorway and watch her boyfriend hand him the diaper bag than sit in a room and answer questions about his anger.
The door opened behind him.
John did not turn right away. It was petty, but he had already committed to being difficult, and there was no reason to abandon the theme this early.
âJohn Walker?â Your voice was not what he expected.
It was steady, but not cold. Professional, but warm. He turned, already prepared to be unimpressed, already prepared to hate the woman who thought she was brave because she could sit across from an angry man and ask him to breathe.
Then he saw you. And his first thought was: Sheâs cute.
John actually felt his brain snag on it.
You stood in the doorway with a bag on one shoulder and a folder tucked under your arm, dressed like someone who did home visits all the time. In this case, Tower visits. You looked composed without looking stiff, kind without looking naive.
John blinked. Then, he forced himself to snap out of it.
No. Fuck no.
That meant nothing.
He was just touch-starved, that was all. Recently divorced and hadnât gone on a date in a while. A pretty woman walked into a room and his brain did the humiliating male thing it had been biologically programmed to do. That didnât mean anything, right? That wasnât a crush. That wasnât even a thought worth dignifying.
He was just being a guy. A tired, divorced guy with bad impulse control and a mandated appointment.
You gave him a small smile, âThanks for meeting me here.â
John looked around the empty conference room. âDidnât really have a choice.â
âNo,â you said, setting your bag down near one of the chairs. âYou didnât.â
Huh. He had expected you to soften the blow, to say something like, I know this isnât ideal, or I understand this must be frustrating, or some other fluffed little statement designed to make the whole thing feel less like punishment.
John narrowed his eyes slightly. âThatâs it?â
You glanced up from your folder. âWere you expecting me to pretend this was voluntary?â
âNo.â
âGood. Then weâre already starting from a place of honesty.â
He hated that he almost smiled.
You pulled out a chair, but you didnât sit at the head of the table. You sat along the side instead, leaving the chair across from you open. Not a power move, as John had learned to read. For a second, John had to remind himself that you had no reason to take an interrogation setup. John stayed standing.
âI understand Mr. Barnes spoke with you,â you said.
John scoffed. âThat what weâre calling it?â
âWhat would you call it?â
âA threat.â
âWas it?â
âYes.â
âWas it effective?â
John stared at you. You looked back, patient but not passive, pen resting lightly between your fingers.
He hated that question, but the answer was yes. Bucky threatening to bench him had been effective. Bucky telling him he was becoming a liability had worked because John could argue with feelings all day, but he couldnât argue with being taken out of the field.
He pulled out the chair and sat down. âIâm here,â he said. âThatâs what matters, right?â
âItâs a start.â
He leaned back, folding his arms. âAnd what, youâre gonna fix me?â
You didnât flinch. You didnât look wounded or challenged or impressed.
You just looked at him for a second, thoughtful in a way that made him feel more seen than he wanted to be, and said, âNo.â
John blinked.
You opened your folder. âIâm going to help make sure you stop throwing government property through walls.â
For one full second, John could not decide whether to be offended or laugh. Offended won, but only barely. âIt was one wall.â
You looked down at the page. âAccording to the report, it was two walls, one elevator panel, one training dummy, a mug, three chairs, and a decorative glass installation.â
âThe glass was ugly.â
âIâll add that to the mitigating factors.â
He did smile then, and you saw it. Even more unfortunately, you were kind enough not to look victorious about it.
Instead, you made a small note. âI want to be clear about something before we start.â
Johnâs shoulders tensed. âHere we go.â
âThis isnât therapy,â you said. âIf you want a shrink, get a shrink. I have a recommendation list the size of a novella, but I am not that.â
His eyes narrowed. âI know.â
âGood. Then you understand Iâm not here to hold your hand through a breakthrough.â
John stared at you.
You continued, voice even. âIâm not here to humiliate you. Iâm not here to decide if youâre a good man or a bad man. Iâm not here because the director of the CIA cares about your emotional well-being.â
John let out a humorless breath. âAt least you know that.â
âOh, I know that very well.â You clicked your pen once. âI work risk management and crisis de-escalation. I used to work in personal coaching, but now I work for corporate. I am not new to enhanced individuals. Iâve worked with soldiers, fighters, mercenaries, people who can turn a bad mood into a property damage claim. My job is to make sure you donât cause another PR incident.â
âSo Iâm a liability.â
âYouâre behaving like one.â you said. âUnlike therapy, Iâm allowed to be harsh. Iâm allowed to be direct. Iâm allowed to be mean if mean keeps you from putting your fist through another wall. Got it?â
John leaned back, arms crossed. He still looked pissed off, obviously. That seemed to be his default setting. But now he looked interested too, against his will.
âSo what?â he said. âYou train me like a dog?â
You looked him dead in the eye. âIf that worked, Mr. Walker, Mr. Barnes would've brought treats.â
For one second, he only stared. Then he laughed. You made a note.
His eyes dropped to your pen. âWhat are you writing?â
âThat youâre trainable.â
â
By the second meeting, John had convinced himself the first one had been a fluke.
It was a weird day. He was in a bad mood and drank too much coffee. Of course John had noticed you were pretty. Anyone with a heartbeat and a preference for women would have noticed. That wasnât a character flaw, nor was it a problem. That was certainly not the beginning of a little crush on the woman assigned to make sure he stopped damaging government property like an overgrown toddler with security clearance.
Except then you walked into the conference room again, two days later, with your bag on your shoulder and your folder under your arm, and Johnâs first thought was, oh, good.
Not, oh, fuckinâ great, therapy. Not, look, the feelings police have arrived.
You smiled at him. âYouâre early again.â
John looked down at his watch like this was news to him. âTraffic was light.â
âYou live in the building.â
âElevators were fast.â
âYou took the stairs,â you said, âI ran into Mr. Reynolds in the lobby. He mentions something about you always taking the stairs after the⌠elevator incident.â
His eyes ticked a bit.
You sat down across from him like you hadnât just dragged him by the collar into the truth with one hand. âSo. We can start with why you feel the need to lie about it. Panels in this building cost taxpayer money, and frankly, John, you are not interesting enough to justify a renovation budget.â
John leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed. âAre you always this charming?â
âNot always,â you said. âSometimes Iâm much worse, but I try to save that for people with better excuses.â
He hated that you were funny. He hated that your voice stayed even when he pushed. You let his attitude lay itself on a silver platter, looked at it, and then kept going like it was mildly inconvenient rather than intimidating.
John hated that you were basically a leash on him. He hated the way you could walk into a room, say his name once, and suddenly everyone expected him to behave like a domesticated pet with paperwork. He hated that you were basically a corporate muzzle with a company badge. Most of all, he hated that it worked. He hated that you were good at crisis de-escalation, that when you told him to sit down, he sat.
That session was worse than the first because he talked more. Not willingly or gracefully. John didnât spill his guts; he leaked under pressure and acted indifferent when anyone noticed the puddle. But you were good.Â
You didnât say, âTell me about your feelingsâ like a shrink would. You asked practical things. What happened before the elevator stalled? What did he think before making the decision to do it?
He told you the elevator made a noise. He told you the noise reminded him of a transport door jamming during a mission that went badly.
You nodded.
John hadnât realised until now, just how much that helped.
By the end of the session, he had only snapped at you twice, which apparently counted as improvement.
âThat was progress,â you said, clicking your pen closed.
John scoffed. âBarely.â
He stood too quickly, because staying seated under your steady almost-smile felt too intimate. He picked up his jacket, glanced at you, then glanced away.
âSame time next week?â you asked.
âYeah,â he said, and then, because his mouth had apparently decided to ruin his life, he added, âWorks for me.â
Works for me. Like he was looking forward to it. Like this was a coffee date. Like he was not going to spend the next ten minutes in his room mentally punching himself in the face.
That night, he dreamed about you.
The first dream was almost merciful because it was vague. Your voice, mostly. The conference room, dimmer than it should have been, the blinds drawn over the glass walls. Dream-you said his name in his ears, and it sounded sensual.
John woke up annoyed at himself.Â
Fine. Whatever. People had weird dreams. That meant nothing.
Then it happened again. And again.
By the fourth dream, his subconscious had apparently lost all interest in being PG-13.
In the dream, you were still in the conference room, but you werenât sitting across from him anymore. You were on the edge of the table, folder abandoned somewhere behind you, your knees bracketing his hips as he stood between them. His hands were on your thighs, warm through the fabric of your skirt, and he knew even then that he should not be touching you. He knew there were rules.
But dream-you did not care.Dream-you looked at him with your head tilted, eyes steady in that same infuriating way you looked at him in real life, except there was nothing professional in it now.
âYouâre very good at pretending you donât want me,â dream-you said.
Johnâs hand tightened on your thigh.âIâm not pretending,â he lied.
Dream-you smiled, and hooked one finger beneath the collar of his shirt and pulled him in like he weighed nothing at all.
The kiss was filthy. It was hungry and open-mouthed, your fingers in his hair, his body crowding yours back over the table until the folder slid off the edge and papers scattered across the floor. He could feel your legs tighten around him. He could feel your breath break against his mouth when he dragged one hand under your shirt and you said his name like you were giving in.
John woke up hard, furious, and staring at the ceiling like God owed him an explanation.
âNope,â he muttered to the dark.
Fuck! Â
He spent the morning in the gym punishing a punching bag for crimes it did not commit, then took a cold shower and told himself, very firmly, that this was normal. He had been through a lot. You were pretty, direct, and unfortunately the person his idiot brain would latch onto after being emotionally starved for a year.
That didnât mean anything.
It especially didnât mean anything when he got dressed for the next session and changed shirts twice.
The fifth meeting was where you noticed.
Not the dreams, obviously. Christ. He would have walked into the Hudson before admitting those. But you noticed something.
âYou seem tired,â you said.
Johnâs hand tightened around his coffee cup. âIâm fine.â
âYou have shadows under your eyes.â
âI have a face.â
You paused, then you smiled down at your notes, and it was so small he almost missed it.
âOkay,â you said. âYou have a face. Gotta do better than that if you want to be on the full mission roster again, John. I might have to tell Barnes you should work strictly recon only.â
He hated you.
Liar, liar, liar.
Still, he was starting to like the rhythm of the session. You didnât chase him when he dodged, but you also didnât let him disappear completely. You remembered details from the last session without having to flip at your notes. You asked about his son without making it feel like a test. You said Oliviaâs name carefully, like you understood there was history there but didnât assume the whole story.
You asked about Nathan once, asking how much of a liability he made him. John groaned so hard you actually laughed.
âIâm sorry,â you said, still smiling. âI shouldnât laugh.â
âNo, go ahead. My pain is hilarious.â
âIt is a little pathetic that you hate him mostly because he packs a good diaper bag.â
âI donât hate him.â
You looked at him and lifted an eyebrow.
John sighed. âFine. I hate him a little.â
âWhy?â
âBecause heâs there.â
You didnât write that down right away. You let it sit.
See, you never rushed to dissect the truth. You didnât pounce like you had caught him revealing evidence. You just let the truth breathe for a second. Then you said, âBecause heâs where you used to be?â
John stared at the window. His reflection looked back at him, eyebrows furrowed, shoulders too tight. âYeah,â he said finally. âMaybe.â
It was the first time he had admitted it without turning it into a joke.
You didnât say that was progress immediately, which was good, because he might have thrown himself through the window. Instead, you said, âThat makes sense.â
John looked at you. His muscles loosened so suddenly it almost pissed him off. That was all he wanted, apparently. Not permission. Just someone saying the feeling itself was not insane.
Then, after the talking part of the session, came the training part of it. Thatâs the whole point of these meetings, right?
You werenât gentle with him. You didn't treat his temper like a tragic creature that needed to be understood by candlelight. You treated it like a workplace hazard. Like bad wiring. Like a loaded weapon left too close to civilians.
âAgain,â you said, tapping your pen against your clipboard. âYouâre in a hallway. Civilian contractor panics. He raises his voice and gets too close. You do what?â
âTell him to back the hell up.â
You sighed. âTry again.â
He looked at the ceiling like he was praying for patience, which was funny because you had been fairly sure God had blocked his number.
âI create distance,â John said tightly. âI keep my hands visible and lower my voice.â
âBeautiful,â you look pleased. âLook at that. A whole adult sentence.â
âDo you have to say it like that?â
âYes,â you said, sipping your cold brew. âItâs how I stay awake.â
You circled him once, unimpressed, watching the set of his shoulders, the way his hands curled when he got annoyed, the way he always shifted his weight forward like every conversation was one rude comment away from becoming a contact sport. âThere,â you said.
âWhat?â
âThat.â You pointed your pen at his right hand. âYou made a fist.â
âI didnât.â
âDonât lie to me when Iâm literally looking at the problem. Thatâs embarrassing for both of us.â
John looked down. His hand was, in fact, half-curled. He didnât even realise. He flexed his fingers open, irritated.
âThat,â you said, âis the part we fix. Not your childhood. Not your marriage. Not whatever patriotic hellscape lives in your frontal lobe. That. The two seconds between insult and impact. That is my jurisdiction.â
You stepped closer, lowering your voice just enough. âWhen someone escalates, you do not match them, do you understand? You donât get to make it a dominance contest because your ego gets lonely. You create space, you name the behavior, and you give one clear instruction.â
He looked unconvinced.
You sighed. âFor example: âStep back. Lower your voice. We can talk when youâre calm.â See? Simple.â
âI know how to talk to people.â
âYou know how to issue commands,â you corrected. âThatâs not the same thing. Golden retrievers know how to bark. We donât make them hostage negotiators.â
His mouth twitched up into a smile before he could stop it.
You caught it instantly. âOh, good,â you said. âThereâs a sense of humor under all that rage.â
âAre we done?â
âNo.â
You made him run the scenario again. And again. And again.
You played the panicked contractor. Then an angry civilian. Then a reporter shoving a phone in his face. Then a teammate ignoring his order. Every time he got too mad, you stopped him. Every time his posture turned threatening, you pointed it out. Every time his voice dropped into that dangerous register, you made him start over.
âLess divorced drill sergeant.â
He tried again.Â
âBetter. Still terrifying, but now in a way HR can plausibly defend.â
John looked like he wanted to throw your clipboard through a wall. But he didnât.
By the end of the session, he had forgotten to be hostile for nearly ten whole minutes.
â
Unfortunately, everyone else noticed him being weird about these sessions before he did.
It happened after the eleventh meeting.
He had put on some fancy cologne. Maybe he had sprayed once more than usual. Maybe twice. Maybe he had stood in front of the mirror afterward, frowned, and changed his shirt because the first one looked too tactical and the second one looked like he was trying too hard, which meant he had landed on the third shirt, which looked like he was trying exactly the right amount.
Whatever.It wasnât a thing.
He walked into the common area afterward feeling, unfortunately, good. The session had gone well. You had smiled at him twice, called him out on his bullshit once, and told him he handled a frustrating call from Olivia better than he would have a month ago. He had pretended that meant nothing when it meant everything.Â
He was still thinking about it when Yelena looked up from the couch and sniffed the air.
John stopped walking. Ava, sitting beside her with a bowl of cereal, paused mid-bite.
Yelena sniffed again. âOh,â she said. âInteresting.â
Johnâs eyes narrowed. âWhat?â
Ava looked him up and down. âThatâs a lot of⌠smell.â
âItâs cologne,â John said flatly. âI wear cologne.â
Yelena leaned back against the couch, pleased. âPeople wear cologne. You are marinating in it.â
Ava looked him over, not unkindly. âThe training went well?â
John pointed at her. âDonât.â
Yelenaâs grin sharpened. âOh, it went very well.â
âIâm leaving.â
âYou wore the good shirt,â Ava pointed out.
âOh!â Yelena made a delighted little sound. âHe knows it is the good shirt.â
John felt heat crawl up his neck. âI don't know what the hell you guys are talking about.â
âYou have many shirts,â Yelena said. âMost of them say divorced military action figure. This one saysââshe waved a hand vaguelyââplease think I am emotionally available.â
Ava snorted into her cereal, which by the way, she was eating at four in the afternoon.
John stared at them both, wishing briefly and sincerely for a mission, an explosion, a portal to hell, anything. âI donât have to stand here and take this.â
John left before he could prove exactly why Bucky had sent him to counseling. But he did not slam the door.
â
John had a dentist appointment that day, and he only found out his regular dentist was on leave while he was already in the chair.
Great.
He already hated the dentist on a good day, but most people did, though. Nobody liked being tilted back beneath a blinding light while someone told them to relax with cold metal in their mouth. Nobody enjoyed lying flat and useless with their mouths forced open, unable to swallow properly, unable to answer questions, unable to do anything except stare at the ceiling tiles while the scrape of instruments were shoved in there. It was an inherently vulnerable place to be.
The angle of the chair was bad enough. The bib against his chest, the plastic suction tube pulling at the corner of his mouth, the hygienistâs polite voice telling him to open wider, the scrape-scrape-scrape of metal against enamel was worse.
He had one hand curled around the armrest and kept telling himself he was being ridiculous.People did this every day. Accountants did this. Schoolteachers did this.Â
John was already in a bad mood when the hygienist leaned back, pulled off her gloves, and said, âDr. Hayes will be in to do the final check.â
John went still. Hayes?
It was a common last name. That was what he told himself first. It could be anyone. New York was full of Hayeses. Thousands of them. Maybe millions.
Then the door opened.
The dentist stepped in wearing scrubs, gloves, a mask, and magnifying loupes pushed up over his forehead. For one glorious, stupid second, John didnât recognize him. The mask hid enough. The entire situation was absurd enough that his brain tried to protect him by refusing to connect the dots.
Then the dentist looked at the chart and said, âHey, John.â
Johnâs soul left his body.
Nathan.
Nathan Hayes, D.D.S., apparently.
John knew he shouldâve listened to what he did for work.
Of course Nathan was a dentist. Of course Oliviaâs boyfriend had a respectable job where he helped people and owned tiny mirrors and probably lectured about gum health with sincerity. Of course John had somehow ended up flat on his back, jaw aching, beneath the one man in the city he least wanted to see, while said man held a small, gleaming instrument between gloved fingers. There were levels of hell, apparently. This was a new one.
Nathanâs eyes crinkled above the mask in what John assumed was a smile. A normal smile. A professional smile.
âDr. Millerâs on leave this week,â Nathan said. âI know this is a little weird. I can keep it quick.â
A little weird. Ha!
John stared up at him, pinned by the chair, pinned by the light, pinned by his own bodyâs immediate reaction to being trapped.
The overhead lamp hummed. The air smelled like mint paste, latex, antiseptic, and the sterile bite of metal, though it just smelled like a fresh magazine of bullets. The tray sat beside Nathanâs elbow, lined with instruments Johnâs brain catalogued before he could stop it: Probe. Mirror. Scaler. Suction tube. Polisher. Little hooked things. Silver points. Thin handles. Glass jar on the counter. Cabinet door half-open. Exit to the left. Nathan on the right.
Johnâs fingers tightened around the chair until the vinyl creaked.
He wanted to break something, but he didnât, not even in a million years, want to accidentally hurt Nathan.
He didnât want to hurt anyone. He just wanted out. Out of the chair, out of the room, out of his own head, out of being compared and found lacking by a scoreboard nobody else knew existed.
Nathan just adjusted the light and asked, âYou okay?â
John felt the breath catch in his chest. âFine.â It came out too flat.
Nathan paused, just barely. The hygienist glanced between them. He didnât push, though. He nodded, lowered the loupes over his eyes, and said, âAll right. Open for me.â
John almost laughed because there was no way this was his life.
No way Nathanâs gloved hand was braced near Johnâs chin, steady and gentle, while Johnâs whole body buzzed with the urge to move, to sit up, to take control of the room by force simply because lying still felt unbearable.
Still, opened his mouth.
The first touch of the dental mirror against his teeth made his spine twitch.
Nathan told the hygienist something about the back molars. He heard the scrape of the instrument traveled through his jaw in a way that felt too invasive and too loud. John stared at the ceiling and tried to breathe through his nose, but even that felt wrong, like he was barely holding the lid down on a volcano.
Then, Nathanâs phone rang.Â
He said something about being done anyway, and told the hygienist to take over as he went outside to take the emergency call.
Then he heard Olivia outside the room.
He caught it by accident. The door wasnât shut all the way, dammit. Itâs not like he was actively trying to eavesdrop.
âHey, Liv. Everything okay?â
Nathanâs voice was quieter now, but John could still hear it, because the serum made sure there was no privacy from the things that would ruin him.
âYeah. No, I can help. Give me twenty minutes. Is he still fussy?â
Johnâs vision narrowed around the ceiling light. His son.
Olivia had called Nathan because she needed help with his son, and Nathan had answered like that was normal. Like he was allowed to be the easy call. Like John was not sitting there twenty feet away with mint on his tongue and a paper bib on his chest.
The hygienist said something about rinsing. John did it automatically.
He wanted to break something. A tray. A light. The plastic cup. His own knuckles if that was what it took to keep the feeling from becoming bigger than the room.
Then your voice came back to him. You weren't there, but he remembered your advice: Name the feeling before it names you.
John squeezed his eyes shut for half a second.
Fear. Loss. Control. No. Lack of it.
Thatâs it. He felt out of control. His normal dentist already made him feel out of control, and Nathan holding metal near his mouth while Olivia trusted him with Johnâs son made him feel like control was a house fire and he was standing there with a cup of water.
His hands shook once against the chair.
He breathed in. Four counts. Held. Out for six.
He had mocked the breathing exercises when you taught them to him. He had called them tactical breathing with better marketing. You had looked at him and said, âMock it while you do it correctly, then. You think youâre helping the team with that mouth?â He had almost smiled. He had done it badly on purpose. You had noticed.Â
Now he did it the way you had taught him. Again. Again.
By the time Nathan came back in, John hadn't broken anything.
By the time Nathan finished the appointment, John hadnât said anything cruel.
By the time he got to his car, John could finally breathe normally again
He sat behind the wheel with both hands gripping it, staring through the windshield at nothing. His mouth tasted like fluoride. His teeth ached. His heartbeat was still too fast. He hadnât shoved the tray over. He hadnât crushed the armrest. He had recognized that he was standing on the edge and backed away from it.
So why did he feel like he was breaking apart?
â
He did not remember deciding to drive to your place.
Your address was in the file, because you, for some reason, hosted emergency sessions for selected individuals. Because you were a professional and John had no business using that information because he felt like he was coming apart.
But the thought of going back to the tower made his skin crawl, and you were the only person he could think of.
When he reached your building, there were two cop cars outside.
John stopped on the sidewalk, every nerve going cold.
Then the door opened, and two uniformed officers came out, speaking quietly into radios. Behind them, you stood in the entryway with one hand on the doorframe, your hair a little loose, your shoulders set. You looked⌠tired.
You looked up and saw him. âJohn?â
It was not your session voice. It was just your voice, surprised and worried all the same.
His throat tightened so suddenly he almost looked away. âI need to talk about something,â he said.
Your eyes moved over his face, quick and careful. He watched you read him the way you always did. âJohn, this isnâtââ
âI know,â he said quickly. âI know I shouldnât be here. I know itâs not appropriate. I justââ His voice cracked, and he hated that it did. âI didnât know where else to go.â
And because you were kind, you sighed and stepped aside. âCome in.â
The second your apartment door shut behind him, the effort of holding himself together finally gave in. He did not explode. Instead, he just stood there in your entryway, too broad for the narrow space, breathing too hard through his nose, eyes burning.
You turned toward him.
He reached for you before he could stop himself.
It was not a romantic gesture, at least not yet. Not like this. But it was too desperate to be anything casual. His arms came around you, and for one terrible second he held on like you were the only real thing left in the world.
You went still.
He felt the professional calculation, the boundary, the line drawn and redrawn in the beat between one breath and the next. Then your hand settled between his shoulder blades.
You hugged him back just enough to keep him from falling apart.
He closed his eyes. His face turned slightly toward your shoulder, not buried, but close enough that some aching part of him wanted to stay there. He wanted to press closer. He wanted to let the day end inside the mercy of your hand on his back.
He pulled away first because he had to. Because if he didnât, he might forget himself.
Your eyes searched his face. âSit down,â you said gently.
He did.
You brought him water.
He sat on your couch like a man trying not to collapse through it, staring at the glass in his hands while you took the chair across from him.Â
âWhat happened?â you asked.
He laughed once. âMy dentist was out on leave.â
You blinked.
He rubbed a hand over his mouth, then dropped it. âNathan was covering.â
Your face changed. âThe Nathan?â
âYeah,â John said. âThe Nathan.â
âOh.â
âYeah.â He let out a breath that almost shook. âOh.â
Then it came out of him in pieces: The chair. The light. The tools. The fact that everyone felt a little powerless at the dentist, but for him it had been worse, because he could hear too much and see too much courtesy of the serum and his body kept cataloguing exits and weapons like everything was a threat courtesy of the military training. He talked about Nathan holding tools in his mouth. Oliviaâs voice outside. Nathan saying he could help with Johnâs son.
He stopped there.
For a second, all he could do was stare at the water glass.
âI wanted to break something,â he said, voice low. âThere were so many things in that room. And I knew where all of them were, and I hated that I knew. I hated that my head went there.â
You were very still.
âBut I didn't want to accidentally hurt him,â John said, and that broke slightly on the way out. âI didnât. I donât. Heâs not doing anything wrong. Heâs good to Olivia. Heâs good with my son. Heâs justââ He swallowed hard. âHeâs there. And I hate him for being there, and then I hate myself because heâs just being a good boyfriend and a good dentist and Iâm sitting there thinking about breaking the tray.â
He dragged a hand over his face. âI felt like I was losing control.â
You didnât rush him. You didn't jump in to make him feel better. You didn't perform comfort.
Then you said, âBut you didnât.â
John shook his head. âIt felt like I did.â
âJohn.â
He looked at you.
Your voice was gentler now, but no less firm. âYou were in a setting that already makes people feel vulnerable. You had someone in your personal space holding metal instruments, and then the person holding those instruments was someone tied directly to a major emotional trigger. You recognized that. You recognized that you didnât want to hurt him, or yourself. You used the breathing exercises. You left without escalating the situation.â
He looked down.
âYou came here,â you added, trying to hide the painfully obvious amusement and failed. You chuckled a little, âAnd we do need to talk about that boundary. But the dentistâs office was not a setback.â
He stared at you.
âIt wasnât even an incident,â you said, almost proud. âBecause you handled it.â
Oh. Right. This was the point.
Still, tears came before he could stop them. Not many, but a few hot and furious tears that blurred his vision before he wiped them away with the heel of his hand. âFuck,â he muttered.
You tilted your head and gave him a box of tissues, and that somehow made him want to cry harder.
âIâm sorry,â he said.
âFor crying?â
âFor showing up here.â
âIâm glad you looked for someone,â you said, a faint smile along your lips, and it was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen.
John looked at you. Someone, you had said, someone?
That was a polite way of saying it. It was professional, safe enough to sit between you without making him admit what was probably painfully obvious on his face.
That someone had been you.
He couldâve driven around the city until the anger burned through the soles of his shoes. He couldâve wandered Manhattan like a lost man, fighting the urge to snap a street sign in half or put his fist through the nearest lamp post. But he had not done that. He had come to you.
You.
And there was a hint of something in your face when you said it that he couldnât quite read. Professional concern, sure. But beneath it, he couldâve sworn he caught something warmer. Something that had no place in reports or progress notes or mandated training in empty conference rooms.
Fondness, maybe. Affection?
No.
No, he couldnât do that to himself. He couldnât convince himself of that. That was just heartbreak in a bottle, because thereâs no way you feel the same about him, right?
Right?
â
After a while, when his breathing stopped sounding like it was trying to crawl out of his chest, John started noticing your apartment.
He didnât even mean to. He just needed somewhere to put his eyes that weren't you.
The place was warmer than he expected. You didnât seem like the sort of person who arranged throw pillows for emotional fulfillment, but there was a lived-in clutter that was almost charming. Books were stacked near the couch, a mug was abandoned by the sink. A cardigan was draped over the back of a chair, one sleeve turned inside out. Shoes had been kicked off by the door like youâd come home in a hurry and forgotten.
It was endearing, how human it all made you.
Of course you were human. You had a kettle. You had overdue-looking mail on the counter. You had a slightly crooked lamp and a blanket folded badly over one end of the couch. You probably had preferences about laundry detergent and favorite takeout and stupid little routines you did when no one was looking.
Then he saw the photos on the wall.
Sam Wilson, smiling beside you with VA badges around both your necks. You with Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers, caught mid-laugh. You with Natasha Romanoff in a theme park somewhere. And beside them a photo of you standing next to the late King TâChalla of Wakanda, doing a peace sign together.
Huh.Â
Apparently every person designed to make John feel like an underqualified replacement came with a personal connection to the old guard.
âYou know them too?â he asked.
You followed his eyes and nodded. You looked almost embarrassed for a second. You, who had no problem calling him a patriotic parking violation to his face, suddenly shy because he had noticed your wall of impressive friends.
âOh,â you said. âYeah.â
He turned back to you, eyebrows raised. âYou said that like itâs normal.â
That you knew two of the other Captain Americas, and yet you didnât tell me.Â
For once, he wasnât really angry about it. For lack of a better word, he felt blank. Like great, nothing I ever do will impress her.Â
You looked down at the mug between your palms, thumb brushing the handle in a small, unconscious circle.Â
âI used to work for Homeland as a hostage negotiator,â you said, as if it was nothing. âThen I worked with Sam at the VA for a while. Yâknow, reintegration and risk assessment.â You glanced toward the photo of Sam again. âSam was better with people than I was.â
Yeah, tell me about it, John wanted to say, but kept his big mouth shut for once and listened.
âHe still is,â you said. âHe could sit down beside someone and make them feel like they had room to breathe. I was moreâŚâ
âMean?â John offered.
You looked at him with half a scowl. âPractical,â you corrected. âAfter that, he asked if I could consult with Steve and Nat on a few things.â
You shrugged, like any of that was casual.Â
His eyes flicked back to the photo of Bucky and Steve. âSo thatâs how this became your⌠niche?â
You huffed a small laugh. âEnhanced individuals with authority issues? Yeah, it pays very well.â
âOh,â John said. It was a stupid answer, but the only one he had.
You looked down again, and he could have sworn you were hiding the beginning of a smile, and not even a professional one. Not the weaponized one you used when you were about to call him a liability in three syllables or less. This one was private. As if you were amused by him and trying to be decent about it.
He looked toward the door, partly because he needed to put his eyes somewhere else, and partly because the police cars outside had finally pushed their way back into his mind. The flashing lights had been turning the street blue and red for long enough that he had almost forgotten to ask the obvious question. âWhat were the cops about anyway?â
You sighed and looked down. You were anxious, and that set off the slightest alarm in his head. âYouâll probably see it on the news.â
John straightened. âWhat happened?â
You were quiet for half a second too long. Then you said, âI was on the subway earlier.â
John waited.
âThere was a shooter in my train car,â you said. âI had to talk him down.â
Shit.
For a second, John couldnât speak. His mind gave him the picture before he could stop it: Crowded bodies pressed too close together, nowhere to go, doors shut, the violent metallic shriek of the tracks. He saw a gun in someoneâs hand pointed to you, standing there with nothing but your voice and the infuriating calm you used on guys like him when they were too angry to know they were scared.
Anger rose in him so fast it scared him. Not at you, but at the world. At the train. At the man with the gun. At the fact that you had been there, trapped underground, while he had been sitting in a car losing his mind over a dentist appointment like an idiot. At the fact that someone heâŚ
Someone whose apartment he had come to, had been in danger. You had been in danger, and he hadnât known. He hadnât been there. He hadnât been able to do a single thing with the useless, violent instinct that roared awake inside him now.
His eyes moved over you before he could stop himself: Your face, arms, torso. He was searching for blood. Bruises. A limp. Anything that signalled that you were anything but okay. âAre you hurt?â
âNo.â
âYou sure?â
âYes, John.â His name sounded different when you said it like that. You werenât irritated. You were trying to reassure him.Â
It made the anger worse for a second because he had nowhere to put it. He couldnât hit the past. Couldnât storm onto a train that had already stopped. Couldnât grab time by the throat and drag it backward until he was there between you and the danger.
He could only sit on your couch with his hands curled uselessly around his knees. And he could tell you knew what was happening, too. But you werenât in a great state of mind right now, so maybe you couldnât waste your energy to tell him to come down.
So he did a new-ish coping mechanism. He cracked a joke. âKids these days, huh?â
He hated that that was what he said. He hated it even more when shook your head.
âNo,â you said quietly. âHe was a vet. Vietnam, I think.â
Johnâs attempt at humor died immediately. âOh,â he said.
For a while, the room was silent.
The anger didnât leave him. It lost the directionless edge and became⌠more familiar.Â
He looked at you again, at the fatigue under your eyes, the tension still sitting in your shoulders. He wondered how long you had been holding yourself still while he ranted about his stupid Nathan.Â
You had let him into your apartment while your own hands were still shaking.
âAre you okay?â he asked.
You gave a small laugh, but it didnât quite reach your eyes. âYouâre not my shrink, John.â
âYouâre not mine either,â he said. âAnd yet.â
That got him half a smile.
You leaned back slightly in your chair, studying him with that careful, cutting attention he had learned to dread. âWhy do you wanna know?â
John swallowed.
Because you were in a train with a gunman. Because I care. Because the thought of you being scared makes me want to tear the world apart, and that is exactly the kind of thing you keep trying to train out of me.
He said none of that. He wasnât brave enough. Not yet. âIâm asking as a friend,â he said instead.
Friend. The word felt small the second it left his mouth. But it was the only one he was allowed to use. Even that felt like reaching across a line.
You looked at him. Then your eyes dropped briefly to his hands. When you looked back up, your eyes had changed a little.Â
âYeah,â you said finally. âYeah, I am.â
John nodded once. He didnât believe you completely. You seemed to know that, because your mouth curved faintly.
âMostly.â
It was not what John wanted.
He wanted to do something. To fix something. To stand in front of something. To put his body between you and every terrible thing that had already happened, which was useless and stupid and exactly the kind of impulse you would probably write down in your notes with a little disappointed frown. So he just sat there, close enough to notice the tremor had started to fade from your hands.Â
And because you also used humor as a distraction, you gave him a sad smile. âThe gunman has nothing on me, John,â you said, âIâm actually good at my job.â
John chuckled.
That, you were.Â
â
The next meeting was supposed to be easy. You had prepared a mandatory mission readiness evaluation for John. It would maybe take forty-five minutes, and be made up of observation notes, updated risk profile, and recommendation to Barnes by end of day. You had printed the forms. You had set up the conference room. You had brought three different colored pens because, apparently, somewhere between Homeland, the VA, and corporate risk management, color-coding had become very important.
Then your sister called. Which was how you ended up standing in the middle of a government training room with a clipboard in one hand, a half-eaten protein bar in your mouth, and your four-year-old niece sitting cross-legged on the floor beneath the evaluation table, coloring a dinosaur pink.
Her parents were both paramedics. This meant their lives existed in a state of organized chaos: Shifts changed and childcare fell through, so you had babysat her before. Sometimes, someone got stuck transporting a patient across town. Someone else got called in because two ambulances were down and the city, apparently, was held together by caffeine, duct tape, and exhausted women with emergency medical certifications.
Your nieceâs name was Mina. She was four and a half and you loved with all of your heart.Â
You really did, but not in the way people were when they wanted credit for liking children. You didnât coo or perform sweetness. You didnât become a different person around Mina.
You were still you, efficient and as practical as a legal memo. But your hand automatically moved the juice box farther from the forms before Mina could knock it over. You noticed when she chewed on the end of the crayon and swapped it out without hesitation. You opened her apple slices one-handed. You brushed purple crayon dust off her cheek with your thumb, and Mina leaned into it without even looking up, like that touch was ordinary.Â
âYes, I can take her for an hour,â you had said to your sister on the phone. âNo, I cannot take her for six. I have work. Actual work with unstable adults.â
Your sister had said something frantic.
âFine,â You had sighed. âAnd no, that was not a dig at your child. Mina is emotionally more regulated than half my roster.â
And now here you were. Mina was under the table, humming to herself as she gave a stegosaurus what appeared to be purple lipstick. Her plushie sat beside your shoe, slumped with the weary dignity of a stuffed rabbit who had survived a lot of childcare emergencies.
âYou can use blue,â Mina said, holding a crayon up toward you without looking away from her dinosaur.
âIâm working.â
âYou can work in blue.â
âI canât evaluate a federal asset in crayon.â
Mina looked up at you, deeply unimpressed. âWhy not?â
Hm. That was a good question.
âBecause,â you said finally, âcorporate is joyless.â
Mina nodded like this made perfect sense (it didnât) and went back to coloring.
That was when John appeared in the doorway. He stopped dead when you looked up.
He looked at you. Then at Mina. Then at the juice box on the table. Then at the open packet of baby wipes beside your neatly stacked mission readiness assessment forms.
For several seconds, nobody said anything.
Mina looked him up and down with the suspicion of a tiny secret agent. John looked like he had walked into the wrong room.Â
You took the protein bar out of your mouth and said, âBefore you speak, choose your words with the same caution you should be bringing to crisis de-escalation.â
His eyes came back to yours. âShe yours?â
âDo I look like I have time to produce children?â
His mouth twitched.
You pointed your pen at him. âNo.â
Mina crawled out from under the table just enough to examine him properly. She had your sisterâs eyes, which meant she could look judgmental without trying. It was honestly impressive and slightly unsettling.Â
John noticed her staring and immediately adjusted. He shifted his weight back and lowered himself just a little, enough to seem less like an unwelcome wall.
âHey, buddy,â he said. His voice was gentler than you expected.
Mina narrowed her eyes. âWho are you?â
âJohn.â
She looked at you. âIs he in trouble?â
Johnâs eyebrows rose.
You took a slow sip of coffee. âConstantly.â
Mina nodded with grave understanding, like she too had dealt with federal compliance issues. Then she held up her stuffed rabbit. âAuntie works with people in trouble.â
Johnâs gaze flicked up to yours. âIâm not in trouble,â John told Mina.
Mina considered this, then looked at you for confirmation. You tilted your hand. âHeâs in evaluation.â
âWhatâs eval-vul-wation?â
âIt means we check whether someone can behave in public.â
Mina looked back at John. John looked at you like he was trying very hard not to smile.
Mina held up her stuffed rabbit. âThis is Mr. Bun. He has anxiety.â
Johnâs attention shifted immediately to the rabbit, not fake attention and patronizing adult attention. He gave her real attention, serious enough that Mina seemed to approve of it.
âMr. Bun,â he said solemnly. âGood name.â
âHe gets scared when people yell.â
Johnâs eyes flickered to you, and you just smiled brightly. âDonât look at me. I didnât train the rabbit.â
He didnât quite laugh, but some of the tension left his mouth. His shoulders settled by a fraction. He looked down at Minaâs coloring page and, without thinking about it too much, picked up a green crayon she had abandoned near his boot.
âWhatâs the dinosaurâs name?â he asked.
Mina looked pleased, because this was apparently the correct question. âPrincess Stomp.â
âStrong name.â
âShe bites bad guys.â
âUseful skill.â
âJohn,â you said.
He looked up, innocent in a way that did not suit him at all. You went back to your clipboard immediately.
âMission readiness evaluation,â you said. âSlightly modified.â
âModified how?â
âMy niece is present, so we will do our written evaluation first and the practical one next week. It means no shouting, no tactical demonstrations involving doors, no threats, no furniture damage, and no saying anything that will get repeated to my sister in law while sheâs holding trauma shears.â
John looked at Mina, and she smiled back at him with a colourful crayon mark smeared on her cheek.
John looked back at you. âTrauma shears?â
âBoth my sister and her wife are paramedics,â you said. âWhich means Mina can identify a tourniquet, tell you why you donât move someone with a suspected spinal injury, and constantly asks grown adults why they look tired.â
Mina, without looking up, confirmed, âHe does look tired.â
John stared at her.
You pressed your lips together to hold back a smile. âSee?â you said. âGifted.â
John cleared his throat. âIâm fine.â
Mina looked at you. âHeâs lying.â
You sighed. âWeâre working on that, honey.â
John gave you a look. You gave it right back.
This should have been irritating. One more stupid thing shoved into an already overpacked day. Instead, John stood there with his hands loose at his sides, and Mina pushed a spare coloring page toward him like she had decided he was permitted to exist.
âYou can color if your work is boring,â she told him.
John looked at the coloring page. Then at you. He picked up the green crayon.
Oh?
âYou do realize,â you said, âIf you draw during a mission readiness evaluation, I will include it in the report.â
John looked down at the paper. âWhat if itâs good?â
âThatâd be more concerning.â
Mina leaned over to inspect his work after approximately fifteen seconds of scribbling. âThatâs not a dinosaur.â
âItâs a tank.â
You looked up from your clipboard. âJohn.â
âWhat?â he asked defensively. âItâs not armed.â
âIt has a turret.â
âItâs decorative.â
Mina frowned. âMake it a turtle.â
John paused. Then, in grave resignation, he drew legs and a head on the tank. Mina nodded approvingly. âBetter.â
You stared at him. John did not look at you, but the tips of his ears had gone slightly pink.
You wrote something down.
John tried to look annoyed, but he was terrible at it with a child in the room.Â
He was not awkward with Mina. He was good with her. He listened when she spoke, even when she was explaining that Mr. Bun couldnât sit near the door because he hates doors. He didn't laugh at her or rush her. When she dropped a crayon, he bent and picked it up without comment, placing it back beside her little hand like it mattered.
John Walker, who could turn a hallway into a warzone, somehow knew not to make a four-year-old feel small.
You hated that your heart noticed before your brain could tell it to stop.
John seemed to notice things you did for her, too: The apple slices you had cut into careful half-moons because Mina liked them that way. The way you reached down without looking when she leaned against your calf, your hand landing briefly on the top of her head before returning to your clipboard. The way you were brisk with her but never careless. Practical, but never cold.
You told Mina not to wipe her hands on your trousers, then handed her a napkin before she had to ask. You fixed the little cardigan slipping off her shoulder with one hand while reading Johnâs file with the other. You were not nurturing in an obvious way. You were efficient love. Competent love.
The kind that remembered snack preferences, packed extra socks, and still said, âNo, you cannot lick the marker, even if it smells like grapes, because capitalism is trying to kill you.â
John watched you do it and felt his brain go very still.
Oh shit.Â
His crush had been manageable when it was only about you being hot. It was easier when he only thought of sinful things when he looked at your mouth. But this was worse.
This was you with a child leaning against your leg. You with crayons and classified paperwork sharing a table. You telling Mina no with the same clean confidence you used to tell John to unclench his fists.
Johnâs mind, apparently determined to ruin his life, supplied an image of you in a kitchen, feet kicking over the edge of a counter as he cooked dinner.Â
Oh, no, he thought. No, no, no.
No, because now he was thinking about coming home to you, and not even in the fun, stupid, crush way. Not in the sheâs pretty when sheâs mean to me way. Worse. So much worse.
Desire was simple. Embarrassing and inconvenient, sure. But it was simple. This was not simple.
Now he was thinking about the sound of your keys in a lock. About your shoes kicked off by the door. About you by a dining table, practical and beautiful, telling him not to hover while you cut apple slices into moon shapes because a child liked them better that way.
Now he was thinking about your coffee going cold because you got distracted helping a child zip up her cardigan. About your hand landing automatically on a childâs head when she leaned into your leg.Â
And then his mind went somewhere sweeter. His son.
Oh, God.
John imagined bringing him around you. He imagines the way you would speak to him like he was a person, not a prop in Johnâs life, not a fragile little extension of his failures. You would be direct with him, gentle in that dry, practical way that made care feel less like pity and more like a crutch.Â
You would remember what he liked. You wouldnât let John dote, like he always did . You would probably look at him over his son's head after you woke up in his bed and say, âStop making that face, John. Heâs eating cereal, not defusing a bomb.â
Oh, no. Because that was it, wasnât it?
He didn't just want to sleep with you. He wanted to build a life with you.
He wanted mornings, errands, and arguments about nothing. He wanted your jacket over the back of a chair. He wanted a second chance at something he hadnât even let himself admit he still wanted.
Family. Not the perfect kind. A patched-togethed, difficult one.Â
And that was when John realized, with a stomach-dropping horror, that this was not a crush.
It had probably stopped being one weeks ago. Maybe it stopped being one the second you let him sit on your couch after the subway and asked for nothing from him but the truth.
He wanted to be with you.
âJohn?â
He blinked hard.
You were watching him, clipboard lowered, a bit concerned because he usually didnât space out this long. âYou okay?â
âYeah,â he said too quickly. âYeah. Iâm fine.â
You clearly didnât believe him. Before you could say anything else, though, Mina tilted her head, looked from him to you, and said, âI think he likes you.â
John forgot how to breathe.
Mina hugged Mr. Bun to her chest. âLike likes you.â
John cleared his throat, desperate for a way out. âI donât think sheâs qualified to make that assessment.â
But you werenât laughing. You just looked down at your clipboard, and there was⌠a flush on your cheeks.Â
For the first time since he had known you, you looked shy.
Johnâs heart did a stupid little flip.Â
Mina leaned against the table, peeking over it, pleased with herself.
You lifted the clipboard like it could still save you. âBack to the evaluation.â
John nodded once, and neither of you looked at each other for the next several seconds.
Mina sighed as if she was the only adult in the room.
â
By the time the written evaluation was done, the room had settled into a strange middle ground, where your printed leg forms sat beside Minaâs half-finished coloring page, and John sat still, trying not to look too pleased while you reviewed his final notes.
You read in silence for a moment, pen tucked between your fingers, your mouth composed in that way he had learned meant you were thinking rather than judging. Mina was near your chair, humming softly to herself while trying to fit Mr. Bun into your tote bag. She was failing, but Mina wasnât one to give in easily.Â
John kept his eyes on the floor for as long as he could. It lasted maybe three seconds before he looked at you again.
You had that slight crease between your brows. The one that appeared when you were concentrating. Your jacket sleeve had ridden up your wrist, and there was a faint crayon mark on the side of your hand where Mina must have gotten you earlier. You hadnât noticed. Or maybe you had and decided it wasnât worth the battle.
Finally, you lowered the page.
Mina seemed to notice as she appeared beside your knee and leaned her whole weight into your leg. âIs John done?â
You set your pen down and rested a hand lightly on top of her head without looking. âHe is.â
âDid he do good?â
John raised his eyebrows.
You looked at him for half a second, then down at Mina. âHe did,â you said.
Oh.Â
Good. John let out a deep breath he didnât even realise he was holding.
Mina nodded, satisfied, then looked up at him with a thumbs up. âGood job.â
He swallowed a smile. âThanks, Mina.â
You seemed to notice his voice changed for her. It made you pause for just a breath while packing your clipboard into your bag.
John wanted to offer something. Anything. He wanted to stay in the orbit of this little half-chaotic scene for a few seconds longer, which was insane because he had spent most of the session being dismantled by a woman with a toddler snack container in her bag. âI can walk you to the elevator.â
You paused again, just enough for him to wonder if he had overstepped. You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. âSure.â
His heart made a hopeful jump.
Mina immediately lifted both arms toward him. âUppies.â
John froze.
You looked down at her. âMina.â
âMy legs are tired.â
âYou have been sitting on the floor for an hour.â
âThey got tired from coloring.â
âThatâs not how legs work.â
Mina only held her arms higher.
Johnâs gaze flicked to you, careful now. He was asking without asking.
Your eyes softened, assessing, like you were checking a bridge before letting a loved one cross it. Then you nodded. âMy sister said any Avenger I trust is allowed to give Mina uppies.â
Any Avenger I trust.
You said it lightly, like it was just logistical. Like it didn't matter.Â
How well had he done on that assessment?
Because youâre not just tolerating him. Youâre not just professionally managing him. You trusted him.
He must have looked as pathetic as he felt, because your smile softened by half an inch before you covered it with impatience.
âWell?â you said. âSheâs not going to levitate.â
John crouched in front of Mina. âYou sure?â
Mina nodded fiercely. âUppies.â
So he picked her up carefully. Mina settled against him immediately, one arm looping around his neck, Mr. Bun squished between them. John adjusted his hold with the caution of a man who knew kids were not fragile exactly, but precious.Â
Your eyes glittered before you could stop it.
John saw it. He looked down at Mina quickly, like that might save him.
Mina rested her cheek against his shoulder and pointed toward the door. âElevator.â
You cleared your throat and reached for your bag. âBossy,â you murmured.
John looked at you over her head, a helpless sigh at his mouth. âShe learns from her aunt.â
You shook your head and started walking out of the conference room.Â
And John followed you out with Mina in his arms, feeling trusted and doomed in equal measure.
â
That night, John Walker paced into the common room like a race car doing 200 laps in the Indy 500.
He wasnât even sure when he had started. One minute he had been standing in his room, staring at his own reflection in the dark TV screen with his arms crossed, and the next he was out here, walking the same ugly little path around kitchen island like a man trying to wear a trench into corporate flooring.
Do not ask out your crisis de-escalation trainer. He turned at the window and came back. Do not ask out your team-mandated crisis de-escalation trainer.
He stopped, dragged both hands over his face, and made a noise between a groan and the beginning of a breakdown.
Because, sure. Fine. He could admit it now, in the privacy of his own head, where nobody could testify against him later.
He liked you.
No, actually, that was stupid. That was insulting. He didnât just like you. Liking you wouldâve been manageable. Liking you wouldâve been noticing your mouth when you smiled, or standing a little straighter when you said his name, or feeling vaguely pathetic because you wrote a note down and he wanted it to be good.
This was worse. This was full-body, humiliating, high-school-level idiocy with the added horror of being a grown man with a divorce, a child, a government file, and a history of public property damage.
He liked you so much it made him feel unstable. He liked you so much that your approval pulled a physical reaction out of him. It got under his ribs. It made him want to show up on time and do the exercises properly. It made him want to be better in a way that had nothing to do with mission clearance and everything to do with the way you looked at him when he managed not to be the worst version of himself.
John resumed pacing.
And then there was the other problem. The worse problem. The problem so embarrassing he almost said it out loud just to hear how pathetic it sounded.
He hadnât asked a woman out since high school.
High school.
He had no idea how to do this now. What did people even say?
Hey, I know you were assigned to me because Iâm a liability, but have you considered dinner?
No.
What if he was bad at it? What if he came on too strong? What if he didnât come on strong enough? What if you gave him that calm face and told him this was inappropriate in the same voice you used when he had to restart a de-escalation scenario?
John stopped again and stared at the ceiling.
âJesus Christ,â he muttered.
âJesus is not here.â
John turned.
Alexei stood in the doorway wearing a robe and sweatpants. He had a bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other, like he had wandered in for a snack and discovered live entertainment.
John stared at him. âWhat are you doing?â
âEating cereal.â
âAt 9PM?â
Alexei looked down at the bowl as if this explained itself. âYes.â
John exhaled through his nose and turned away. âForget it.â
âNo, no.â Alexei stepped farther into the room, eyes narrowing. âYou are pacing.â
âIâm not doing this.â
âYou are thinking about woman.â
Johnâs shoulders went rigid. How the fuck did he know?
Alexei gasped, delighted. âAh! It is woman.â
âNo.â
âIt is the trainer woman.â
John closed his eyes. Great. So everyone knew before he did.
Alexei pointed his spoon at him. âCrisis lady.â
âDonât call her that.â
âOh-ho.â Alexeiâs grin widened. âYou defend title. Very serious.â
John turned back. âI said forget it.â
But Alexei had already moved to the kitchen island, and John was suddenly reminded that Alexei had never once taken a hint as anything but a challenge. âSo ask her out.â
John stared at him like he had suggested setting himself on fire for morale. âI canât just ask her out.â
âWhy?â
âBecause sheâs my crisis de-escalation trainer.â
Alexei shrugged. âSo be very calm when you ask.â
John blinked at Alexei, who looked pleased with himself.
âThatâs notââ John stopped, dragged a hand over his mouth, and tried again. âThere are rules.â
âAlways there are rules.â Alexei waved his spoon. âRules for missions. Rules for weapons. Rules for not microwaving fish in common kitchen. Rules can be respected. This does not mean you die alone.â
John hated that there was a point somewhere in there. Sure, you were his trainer, but you werenât his counselor. You werenât his therapist, or his doctor, or some sacred keeper of his deepest psychological wounds You were corporate. A well-paid professional brought in to stop enhanced idiots from turning emotional dysregulation into infrastructure damage. And honestly? People dated at work all the time, didnât they? Accountants dated other accountants. Lawyers dated other lawyers. Half of corporate America was probably one badly timed office romance away from an HR seminar. So, yes, there were rules. But this wasnât impossible. It wasnât simple, but it wasnât forbidden by the laws of God and man either.
âSheâs assigned to me,â he said anyway. âItâs not like I can just show up and sayââ He cut himself off.
Alexei leaned in. âSay what?â
âNothing.â
âSay it.â
âNo.â
âYou want practice?â
âI will walk into traffic before I say it to you.â
Alexei nodded sagely. âBad opening line.â
John glared.
Alexei ignored him and set his bowl on the counter. âYou go to her. You say, âHello. I like you. I understand this is problem. Can this be problem later, when you are not making me less angry?ââ
John stared at him for a long second. âThat is the worst thing Iâve ever heard.â
Alexei shrugged, just a little. âYou are allowed to want things, Walker.â
Johnâs throat tightened. For a second, the common room felt too quiet. The city glowed cold beyond the windows. John stood in the middle of the room, feeling too big for his own life and too old to be this scared of a woman saying no.
Alexei picked up his spoon again. âWorst case, she says no.â
John looked at him.
âIf you do nothing,â Alexei said, pointing at the floor, âyou keep moping. Then we all suffer. I am already suffering.â
John looked toward the hallway.
He thought of you in the conference room. He thought of Mina announcing his feelings to both of you like she had been appointed by the God of crayons. He thought of the flush on your cheeks.Â
Maybe he was being stupid. Maybe this was a terrible idea.
Maybe he was about to ruin the one thing in his life that had started making him feel like he could actually become something other than angry.
But then again, maybe he wasnât.
John grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair.
Alexeiâs eyebrows shot up. âYou are going now?â
âYes,â John was already heading for the door. âBefore I change my mind.â
â
By the time John reached your building, the bravery had started to wear off. That was inconvenient, considering he had already parked.
He sat in his car with both hands on the wheel, staring through the windshield at your apartment building like it was an enemy compound.
He wasnât going to lie, he considered leaving.Â
He shouldâve gone home. He shouldâve sent an email, which was what normal people with impulse control probably did when they developed feelings for the person assigned to help them stop behaving like an angry forklift with a gun license.
John let his head fall back against the seat and shut his eyes.
âOkay,â he muttered to himself. âYou can still not do this.â
Then he pictured Alexeiâs disappointed face if he came back.
Nope. Not coming back to that.
John got out of the car.
The air was cold enough to bite through his jacket, which helped a little. It gave him something else to focus on besides the fact that he was walking toward your front door. He had faced down armed men with steadier hands than this.
By the time he reached your door, he had rehearsed and discarded six different openings.
Hi.
Too casual.
Can we talk?
Too ominous.
I know this is inappropriate.
Great start, Walker. Lead with the lawsuit.
I have feelings for you.
Jesus Christ, no. Absolutely not. Was he twelve? Was he about to hand you a folded note in the homeroom?
He stood outside your door for three seconds too long, staring at the chilled paint on the frame. Then he raised his hand and rang the doorbell before he could lose his nerve.
The apartment stayed quiet.
For one second, relief flooded him. You werenât home. Great. Perfect. Act of God. He could leave and pretend he had made an attempt.Â
Then the lock clicked.
Johnâs spine straightened.
The door opened just enough for you to look out, and he immediately forgot every reasonable thought he had ever had.
You were in home clothes. You were wearing a loose sweater, your hair gathered messily away from your face, one sleeve slipping down your wrist.Â
Your eyes widened slightly when you saw him. âJohn?â
âCan I ask you something?â he said abruptly
Your brow furrowed, and you glanced behind you into the apartment before looking back at him. The hallway light caught the side of your face, and John thought it was the most angelic sight he had ever seen. âWhy are you here?â
John opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Amazing. Wonderful. He had made it all the way across the city and failed at the first hurdle.
Your eyes moved over his face, reading him. He watched concern take over. âAre you okay?â
âYeah,â he said quickly. âIâm not- uhâ this isnât a crisis.â
You sighed, relieved. âOkay.â
âItâs not that kind of thing.â
âJohn.â
He swallowed. You were already drawing the line. He could see it happening. The professional part of you stepping forward because that was the safe thing, the right thing, and he knew it. He respected it.
He hated it.
âI know,â he said. âI know this is probably crossing every line.â
Your face went still.
Behind you, he could see the dim gold light of a lamp. There was a small pair of tiny shoes near the wall outside your unit, Minaâs, probably, because her parents were still clocking in a late shift.Â
âMinaâs asleep,â you said quietly. âSo if this is going to be loudââ
âNo,â John said, too quickly again. He lowered his voice at once, almost wincing. âNo. Iâm not here to be loud.â
Your eyes flicked back to him, and your pupils in them softened. âThis,â you said, still quiet. âIs usually not the beginning of a calm conversation.â
âI know.â He looked down. âI know. Iâm sorry.â
And he meant it.
John took one step back, creating more space between you before you had to ask him to. Â
He couldnât make this worse by standing too close to you in a hallway like a man who didnât understand how doors and boundaries worked. âI can leave,â he said. âI should probably leave.â
You didnât say yes, though. In fact, you looked like you wanted him here.
Huh.
You didnât step back and close the door. You didnât give him the clean professional dismissal he had probably deserved. âWhat do you need to ask me?â you asked.
John let out a short breath.
This was it, then. The line was right there. He could still back away from it. He could make something up. He could say this was about his next session, or his evaluation, or some bullshit about the remaining paperwork. He could spare both of you.
Instead, he looked at you and found he was tired of being brave in every direction except the one that mattered.
âOkay,â he said, more to himself than to you.
Your mouth twitched into a small smile. âThatâs not a question.â
There was that dry little edge he was so fond of. Fuck, he was done for.
âNo,â he said. âItâs me trying not to make an idiot of myself.â
âIs it working?â
âNot even a little.â
You chuckled, looking over your shoulder again, listening for Mina. Your unit remained quiet. When you looked back, your voice dropped even lower. âJohn, whatever this is, you need to say it carefully.â
Did⌠did you know?Â
âI know.â John gulped.
âI mean it.â
âI know.â
âNo, I donât think you do.â Your fingers tightened around the doorframe. âI am still assigned to you.â
He nodded once. âI know.â
Your eyes searched his face.
That was another thing you had taught him, even if you had never meant to. How not to crowd. How not to fill the room just because he was nervous. How not to make the size of his feelings everyone elseâs emergency. So he stood there, hands visible, shoulders tense but back, voice low.
âIâm not asking to come in,â he said. âIâm not asking you to make this easier for me. Iâm not asking you to pretend this is normal.â
You tilted your head in curiosity, and he took another breath.
âI just need to say it. And then you can tell me to shut up, and I will.â
For a second, you said nothing.
The silence was deafening. He could hear someoneâs television through a wall somewhere down the hall. A car moved along the street outside.Â
John immediately lowered his voice even more.
âI like you,â he said finally.
The words came out rough.
âI like you,â he repeated, because apparently he needed to make sure he had really done it. âAnd I know this is inconvenient.â
You didnât smile, but he could tell you felt something.
It was not nothing.
It was so clearly not nothing that John felt his chest loosen, just a fraction.
âI donât like you because youâre nice or some shit,â he said, trying to keep his voice steady. âYouâre actually pretty mean to me.â
You looked down, cheeks burning with a smile you couldnât help anymore. He almost smiled back, but he was too terrified to let himself have that much.
âAnd not because youâre helping me,â he added. âNot only that. I mean, yeah, maybe thatâs part of it. You got stuck with me at a bad time and somehow made me feel less like a walking lawsuit, so Iâm sure thereâs some stupidpsychology in there.â
Your eyes narrowed faintly. âThat was self-aware.â
âDonât start.â
âSorry,â you whispered, not sounding sorry at all. âContinue.â
Fuck, you were awful. He still adored you, though.
John looked away for half a second, then back at you. âYou donât let me get away with anything,â he said. âAnd I know I need that. I know thatâs the whole point of why Barnes brought you in. But itâs not just that. You donât look at me like Iâm already a lost cause.â
Your face grew very still again.
This time, he knew it was because he had gotten too close to something real.
âYou see me,â he said, and the words were quieter than he meant them to be.
Your breath caught on something that almost became a laugh.
He looked at you then. Your hand was still on the door. Your thumb moved once against the painted wood, a nervous motion. Your hair had slipped loose near your temple. You looked like you were trying to keep every feeling behind your teeth, and for the first time since he had known you, it didnât quite work.
âYou shouldnât have come here,â you said.
âI know.â
âYou really shouldnât have.â
âI know.â
âYouâre making this difficult for me.â
His heart flipped. âAm I?â he asked, before he could stop himself.
The hallway seemed to shrink around the two of you.Â
Your voice, when you spoke again, was very quiet. âYes.â
Oh.
John forgot how to breathe for half a second.
âYou need to understand,â you said, âthat me saying that doesnât change the rules.â
âI know.â
âI canât encourage this.â
âOf course.â
âI canât say anything that blurs the line.â
âYouâre not.â
You looked back at him then, and the look on your face nearly ruined him.Â
You were being so careful.
You were so obviously trying to do the right thing, but the right thing looked like it hurt a little.
âAnd I canât invite you in,â you said.
He nodded. âIâm not asking.â
âBut I alsoâŚâ You stopped. You closed your eyes for one brief second, like you were annoyed with yourself. When you opened them again, your voice had become a teeny bit more professional. âI also donât want you to think Iâm⌠dismissing what youâre saying.â
John swallowed.
Again, not nothing.
âOkay,â he said, because his vocabulary had apparently been reduced to one-word responses.
Your mouth softened. âOkay?â
âYeah.â He nodded once, then again. âI know there are rules. Iâm not asking you to break them. Iâm not asking you to do anything you donât want. But if thereâs a way to transfer me to somebody else, or close this out, or whatever has to happen so this isnâtâŚâ He grimaced, searching for the least terrible phrasing. âA whole ethical disaster.â
Your lips pressed together. He could tell you were fighting a laugh.Â
âA whole ethical disaster,â you repeated quietly.
âIs that not the technical term?â
âNo,â you said. âBut itâs vivid.â
âIâm trying to respect the seriousness of the situation.â
âYou drove here at night to confess feelings to the woman.â
That time, you did laugh. Then your eyes widened slightly, and you glanced back into the apartment unit.
Both of you froze.
From somewhere inside came the faintest sleepy rustle, then silence again.
You turned back to him, relieved.
It was stupid, how much that he wanted you, even when you were just standing there in the doorway, trying not to smile because Mina was asleep, because rules existed, because the world was inconvenient.
John said the next part before could stop himself. âIâd like to take you out.â
This time, there was no joke to hide behind this time. No self-deprecation.Â
Your eyes changed again, and he saw the answer before you said anything.
And then your gaze dropped, just for a second, like you needed somewhere safer to look. When you looked back up, you had pulled yourself together.Mostly.
âJohn,â you said softly. âYou canât ask me out while Iâm training you.â
âHow many remaining?â He asked.
âFour.â
John stared at you. âFour,â he repeated.
âYes.â
He looked briefly toward the ceiling like patience might be stored there. He thought the next session was the last, but apparently three more had been added for whatever fucking reason. He assumed Barnes had something to do with it (he was right).
You folded your arms loosely, still half-hidden behind the door, and there was something almost teasing in your eyes now. The kind that kept both of you on the correct side of the line while acknowledging that, unfortunately, the line was very much there and both of you could see it.
âYou survived worse,â you said.
âPeople keep saying that to me.â
âMaybe you should start believing them.â
âIâd rather complain.â
âHa.â
He looked at you again.
Your emotions were unguarded second, and he could see the things you werenât saying. It wasnât permission. It wasnât a promise. It wasnât you reaching across the line.
But it was interest.
John lowered his voice. âWhat happens after?â
You went quiet.
Inside, Mina slept on, blissfully unaware that the adults were being stupid in the hallway. Thank god.
You looked at him for a long second, and he watched the argument happen behind your eyes. He watched you measure ethics against honesty, professionalism against whatever had just happened between you. He watched you decide exactly how much you could give him without breaking the rules you clearly cared about.
Then, finally, you said, âAfter four sessions, you can ask again.â
John nodded like you had just handed him coordinates for rescue. âYeah.â He breathed out. âI can do four sessions.â
Your smile broke through.
Suddenly, he felt the bright, aching, want-to-be-good-for-you feeling climbing up under his ribs and made a home in his heart. The same feeling that made four sessions feel less like a punishment and more like a mission he intended to pass with honors.
He stepped back, giving you the space again.
âI should go,â he said.
âYou should.â
Neither of you moved.
Your fingers were still curled around the edge of the door. His hands were loose at his sides. The hallway light hummed above you. Somewhere inside your apartment, Mina made one tiny sleepy sound and then went quiet again.
You lowered your voice even more. âAnd John?â
âYeah?â
âCall me first next time, like a normal person.â
âI can do that.â
You lifted an eyebrow.
âI can learn to do that,â he corrected.
You smiled again and he felt hopeful. âGoodnight, John.â
He swallowed. âGoodnight.â
Then, before either of you could make it worse, you stepped back and closed the door gently, careful not to wake Mina.
John stood in the hallway for one second after the lock clicked.
He didnât move.
For once, it was not because he was frozen or furious or trying to wrestle his way out of his own head. He just stood there, staring at your closed door while his heart skipped several beats, in a good way.Â
He could do four sessions. He could wait. He could earn it.
He could do it right.
For you, he wanted to do it right.
John turned toward the stairs with the stupidest smile of his adult life pulling at his mouth.
And for the first time in a long time, John wanted to be patient.
He didnât throw anything through a wall that week, or any of the weeks after.Â
He did, however, spend the next day thinking about you the entire drive to pick up his son.Â
And when Nathan helped carry the diaper bag out to the car, John managed to take it and say, âThanks, man,â without sounding like he was chewing glass.
Olivia noticed.
She gave him a small, knowing look while he buckled his son into the car seat. âYou seem better.â
John tightened the strap, smoothed a hand over his sonâs little jacket, and tried not to smile too much.
âYeah,â he said. âI am.â
â
Eight months laterâŚÂ
John was standing in your kitchen wearing an apron Mina had picked for him.
It had tiny unicorns on it.
He had argued, briefly, that he was a tough superhero and he didnât need to wear the unicorn apron. Mina had stared daggers at him, held it out, and said, âChefs wear aprons.â
So now John was wearing the Unicorn apron.
And for the last six months, that was your life.
He had held up his end of the bargain: he asked you out after the sessions were complete, kissed you on the first date, and never looked back.Â
You stood beside him in your apartment now, trying not to laugh while he stirred soup on the stove. His son and Mina were in the living room, sitting cross-legged on the rug, making Mr. Bun and a toy dinosaur get married under a blanket fort. Mina had been another last-minute addition, because your sister and her wife had a last-minute shift. John had only looked at you and said, âGood. More taste-testers.â
You kissed him then and there.
Olivia and Nathan came over, too.
That should have been strange. Maybe it still was, in tiny little ways. But it was also sweet. Nathan brought dessert. Olivia brought wine.Â
Somehow, against all sense and probability, you and Olivia had become friends. And not even polite co-parenting-adjacent friends. Not awkward, mature, âwe are all adults hereâ friends.
Actual friends.
It made no sense. You two were polar opposites.
Olivia was soft-spoken where you were snarky. Olivia asked gentle questions; you asked questions like you were trying to locate immediate weakness. And yet there you both were, basically best friends.Â
Olivia had started texting you pictures of terrible PTA emails. You had started sending her voice notes about work drama with all names redacted for legal reasons. The two of you had brunch without John once, which had made him pace the kitchen for twenty minutes until you came home and told him, very sweetly, that you werenât going to break up with him because his ex-wife aired all his dirty laundry. Because âremember, there was nothing Olivia could say that wasnât already in your file, honey.â
John made up for it by teaming up with your sister to make fun of your cute little snores. But anyway.Â
It was strange, but it had become one of the best things in his life, because his son had more people loving him in one room than John had ever known how to ask for.Â
âI canât believe you finally learned how to make vegetables taste good,â Olivia said, poking at her plate.
John pointed his fork at her. âDonât sound shocked.â
You leaned toward Olivia and said, âHe needs praise or he gets difficult.â
Olivia nodded solemnly. âI remember.â
John looked between you both. âI hate this alliance.â
âNo,â Nathan chuckled. âI donât think you do.â
He was right. He loved it.
He loved watching you and Olivia lean over the table together, laughing quietly while Mina and his son bartered potato cuts like tiny criminals. He loved that Nathan could ask him about his dental health without making it a big emotional event.Â
And when John mentioned wanting to join a veterans support group, it felt⌠easy.Â
âAfter listening to your subway thing,â he said, glancing at you. âAnd everything else. I think it might help.â
Your hand found his under the table first.
Olivia smiled at him sincerely. âI think youâd be good there, John. And I think itâd be good for you.â
Nathan nodded. âSometimes it helps to be around people who understand without needing the whole story.â
You just kissed him on the cheek. âMâ proud of you, sweetheart.â
John looked down, thumb brushing over your knuckles, clearly trying not to get emotional about everything.Â
Then his son looked up from his peas, very serious. âDo you get snacks at support group?â
John blinked. âProbably.â
His son nodded, satisfied. âThen you should go.â
Everyone laughed.
Later, in the kitchen, while the kids were distracted and Olivia was explaining something to Nathan, John caught you by the waist and pulled you gently toward him.
âHi,â he murmured.
You smiled. âHi.â
Then he kissed you.
It was supposed to be quickâ it was most definitely not. Your hand curled into the front of his shirt, and John smiled against your mouth like he still couldnât quite believe he got to have this. You, in his arms. Dinner in the next room. His son laughing. Olivia and Nathan not annoying him. Mina yelling something about Mr. Bun requiring surgery.
âJohn,â you whispered, laughing against his mouth. âChildren.â
âTheyâre busy.â
You rolled your eyes, but kissed him once more before slipping out of his hands.
Near the end of the night, his son got sleepy and serious, leaning against Johnâs side while Mina sat on the floor beside him with Mr. Bun in her lap.
âDaddy?â
âYeah, buddy?â
He pointed between himself and Mina. âAre me and Mina cousins now?â
Oh.Â
John looked at you. You looked back, before glancing at Olivia. Olivia looked like she was trying not to cry, which immediately made Nathan look concerned, because Nathan was Nathan.
You smiled first, a wordless permission without making it a whole thing.
So John shrugged, easy as anything, and kissed the top of his sonâs head. âSure,â he said. âThink of it that way, kid.â
His son beamed.
Mina nodded once, very pleased. âCan I be the in-charge cousin?â
âNo,â you and John said at the same time.
Olivia laughed. Nathan smiled. The kids immediately began negotiating cousin rules on the carpet.
For once, nothing in his life felt like a scoreboard. It didnât even feel like a competition.
It just felt like family.
âend.Â
ooooohh my god this is so SWEET!!! I loved every minute of this, absolutely adorable!
weight of the world.

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Listening to Andy Weir talk about eridians is so funny because fans are always talking about Rocky and Adrian as these âsoftâ adorable aliens but Weir wonât ever let us forget that their species are apex predators on their planet. Not like humans who became apex predators by inventing weapons, but natural top of the foodchain like lions or polar bears. So far I havenât found an interview where Weir explains who ate eridians in the ancient past that caused them to watch over each other while they slept; another predator species or rivaling eridians.
Grace is joking around with a selectively violent creature that can rip his soft squishy body apart in an instant!
But itâs also a lot of fun to hear Weir talk about all the stuff he wants to include in a possible sequel, like the fact that eridians can have several conversations at once even with the same eridian. He imagine Rocky and Adrian bickering in one conversation while having a nice conversation at the same time that slowly turns into a fight and all of a sudden theyâre yelling at each other in two conversations about different things.
He also says they have terrible spacial memory because they can see everything around them all the time thanks to their echo location so to them itâs crazy that humans can only see in one direction but still remember whatâs behind them and even what the last room they were in looks like. Apparently eridians mostly just remember that the room exists and that it has the computer in it but if you asked them where the computer is placed in the room theyâll struggle to give a precise answer.
And Rocky got scared when Grace hugged him because eridians donât have a concept of expressing affection with physical touch. To them itâs only neutral or violent because thanks to their hard shell they canât really feel much. They only use it to move each other around or to break through their preyâs shell to get to the soft insides. So in their inter-species friendship only Grace would feel any desire to touch Rocky. It makes it very cute that Rocky joins in on Graceâs hugging ritual. Itâs purely for Graceâs sake.
I like them a lot
lights, camera, action! (colt seavers x afab!reader) summary: tom ryder backs out of acting in a sex scene at the last minute. colt, tom's stuntman, graciously takes his place as a body double. the line between faked pleasure and real intimacy get a little blurry in the heat of the moment wc: 5.8k cw: kissing, grinding, lots of sex talk but no actual sex, faking sex while like 20 people are watching a/n: I couldnât get this stupid idea out of my head so yeah hereâs a full fic for this little imagine. Iâm sure parts of this are inaccurate as to how this kind of situation would actually play out on a real film set, so lets all just close our eyes if we notice those discrepancies
âWe have a Code Red!â
Charlie was a good friend of yours and a brilliant creative genius when it came to directing films. His eye for action, romance and then weaving the two genres together to make a gripping movie was what drew you to auditioning for one of his projects in the first place. Currently, he was the director of the film you were part of- a sequel to the blockbuster hit that youâd starred in a couple years prior (that Charlie had also directed) as the love interest of the main character.
Charlie was also terrible at knocking apparently, shoving your trailer door open and looking purely panicked in the soft lamplight. If it was anybody else, the sudden intrusion of your privacy wouldâve irked you, but Charlie was one of the only exceptions. Besides, he would only do it if he had a good reason. Usually upbeat and happy-go-lucky, it was concerning to see him look so worried about something.
You gave Charlie your undivided attention, scooting over on your plush couch to give him room so he could sit, setting down the script you had been meticulously going over. It was late, you were freshly showered and nearly ready to call it a night until his interruption. Sleep would have to wait, it seemed.
âWhatâs a Code Red?â
âA problem! A horrible, terrible, awful problem.â
It definitely mustâve been bad if he was this worked up. âOk⌠and that would be?â
Charlie fell onto your couch and put his head in his hands. His voice was barely above a whisper. âTomâs out.â
âOut? Of the movie?â
Tom Ryder- your co-star and the man with the leading role. After the first movie had been a booming success, he was quick to accept the offer to come back for the sequel. You didnât doubt it was for the large paycheck and the added fame. Given the publicity of this movie and the attention he would get when it released, it was hard to believe he would just dump the whole thing, especially since you were already more than halfway through filming. Then again, Tom was an interesting individual and you wouldnât put it past him to quit if he suddenly didnât feel like doing it. But Tom quitting the job would mean the whole project was doomed and the whole team was screwed. You couldnât go on without the leading role and it was too late to find a new actor to fill his spot this deep into production.
âNot the whole movie,â Charlie shook his head. Your chest deflated a fraction at that somewhat good news. âJust the sex scene weâre supposed to be filming in three days.â
That was another surprise. âTom Ryder- the Tom Ryder- doesnât want to film a sex scene?!â
Charlie flung his arms into the air. âApparently not! He called me an hour ago and just said he didnât want to do it. He didnât give me any explanation beyond that.â Charlie kicked his feet up on the coffee table with a groan and shrugged. âMaybe heâs nervous?â
You crossed your arms and shook your head. âI find that hard to believe. Heâs filmed sex scenes before so this wouldnât be any different. Itâs not even that intense of a scene, just a little kissing and action below the sheets you can barely see. Iâll be more naked than Tom is!â
âI know! Thatâs why it doesnât make sense.â
This was a conundrum. Charlie was obviously flustered and frantically trying to figure out how to fix this issue with his movie. Next time you saw Tom, youâd give him a passive aggressive piece of your mind (you still have a third of a movie to film, you didnât want to make it completely impossible to be around each other just yet. You could do that once filming wrapped and hope the audience didnât want a third movie).
âShit,â you breathe. âShit. Ok. So what does this mean? We just cut the whole scene?â
Charlie immediately shook his head. âNo. No no no. We canât cut it. Itâs a pinnacle moment in the characterâs relationship. All of their tension has been building up and up and up to this moment! The fans will riot if we donât deliver. The audience score will plummet and we wonât break even in the box office and poof! My career is up in smoke. They were already upset the two didnât get together in the last movie so theyâll be expecting it in this one. We canât cut it."
He wasnât being dramatic. The die hard fans of the series werenât above sending death threats if their favorite characters didnât get the ball rolling. âAlright so we canât cut the scene. What now? Without Tom, what options do we even have? CGI a fake Tom over a mannequin?â
âWe have to get a stand-in,â Charlie sighed, carding his hands through his hair. âThatâs the only option I can think of. If itâs even possible to find a body double who can act out a sex scene in less than three days, that is. Or maybe I just beg Tom to do it and offer him more money that we donât have. But, weâre already over budget. The studio will tear me a new one if I offer a bigger salary than heâs already getting. Fuck!â
You flinched and leaned over to put a hand on his arm in a manner that you hoped would help soothe him. He needed a calm, rational anchor. âOk so weâll get a stand-in. You donât need to find a perfect physical match Charlie, just someone who has the same body type and hair, right? Once you find someone and we shoot the scene, do shots from above so you only see my face and the back of the body doubleâs head. Shots from the side might need to be digitally altered a little; youâd have to put Tomâs face over the stand-inâs during post-production but youâre already doing that for his stunts so this wonât really be any different-â
âThatâs it!â Charlie flew up from the couch, whirling to face you. Your jaw dropped a little in shock at the sudden change of mood.
âWhatâs what?â
âColt!â
Oh.
Colt Seavers. Tomâs stuntman.
You knew Colt of course. This was the second movie youâd been in with the action actor who played Tomâs stuntman, so youâd seen him around set and basecamp. He was friendly, charming and naturally funny. He was also unfairly attractive.
Colt didnât go out of his way to demand attention from the rooms he was in, choosing to stay in the background until it was his time to shine on set. And God was he good at what he did. You didnât know how his body took those beatings, but you applauded him for it. It wasnât too hard for you to admit that your heart raced a little faster when you saw him, especially since he always looked ruffled and dirty.
âItâs not a bad idea but would he agree to it? Has he ever done scenes like this before? Heâs usually running around explosives and pulling off impossible feats, not kissing another actor and faking sex. It might be out of his comfort zone.â
âI donât know but it doesnât hurt to try! Iâll get on my knees and beg him if I have to. Iâll text you. Goodnight!â
Charlie was out of your trailer in less than 5 seconds and disappearing into the dark, the crunch of gravel following him as he ran away leaving you alone in the quiet.Â
-
Colt was in.Â
Charlie texted you only an hour after heâd left with the good news and a slew of extremely elated emojis.
You had a hard time sleeping that night.
You werenât new to the sex scene game, youâd been in many movies before with much more explicit content. As this was a PG-13 movie, the scene wasnât going to be anything crazy and easily something you could handle. So why was your heart in your throat?
Tom was not your most favorite person. You were friendly on set and apparently had enough chemistry on screen that the fans of the first movie couldnât tell that you had a sour taste in your mouth when you had to act with him. He was brash and rude- a bit of a spoiled brat in the movie industry and got jobs he maybe wasnât qualified for just because of his large following. He had some talent and a nice face, but a personality that was hard for you to be around.Â
Colt was the complete opposite of Tom. Besides, of course, general physical appearance.Â
The first time youâd met Colt had been during the filming of the last movie. It was snowy and freezing outside the warehouse where most of the set was. With the terrible weather, all you wanted was a hot cup of coffee. During a break between shoots, you seeked refuge in the craft services tent to find a drink.
The tent was packed with people you didnât know trying to stay warm but thankfully the coffee cart was mostly empty besides one, broad shouldered man. If you were being honest, you actually thought it was Tom at first glance. He had the same dirty blond mop of hair on his head that Tom did, and was treating the poor coffee dispenser like Tom would- beating on the lever to try to squeeze a drop out of the obviously empty container.Â
Then you remembered that youâd just seen Tom not two minutes earlier on set in the warehouse and unless heâd sprinted past you unseen, there was no way Tom had beat you to the tent.
So it wasnât Tom but someone who looked eerily similar to the actor, at least from behind. The red and black leather bomber jacket he wore wasnât familiar at all to you, but given the big âMiami Vice Stunt Teamâ printed on the back, you figured he was one of the dozens of stuntmen hired for the film.Â
Despite not being Tom, you still sort of expected someone with Tom's personality as you carefully moved to stand next to the stranger to quietly try your shot at getting a cup of coffee.
Colt had been surprised at your sudden appearance, shifting over half a step to give you room at the cart. When you went to try to get coffee out of a different dispenser than the one heâd been abusing, he shook his head sadly.
âTheyâre all out.â He had a nice voice. Smooth and low.Â
âAlready?â You frown, tapping your cup against the metal. This stranger did sort of resemble Tom, but he was much nicer to look at.
âRight? Three hours into filming and all of the coffee is gone. Youâd think this was the set for a high school film project, huh?â Funnier than Tom too.
âNo, a high school production would definitely have hot coffee readily available.â
Colt threw his head back with a laugh at your quip and nodded his agreement. He was charming in a way that Tom could only dream of.
Despite the absence of your preferred beverage, the pair of you stayed at the coffee cart as Colt made two cups of hot chocolate. There was no coffee but there was a thermos of hot water and little hot chocolate packets. It wasnât ideal, but when Colt brandished the warm styrofoam cups and told you to prepare yourself because you were about to have the tastiest hot chocolate of your life (because heâd made it with love), you realised you didnât care that there was no coffee. You would swear off coffee entirely if it meant Colt Seavers would serve you a cup of cocoa every morning.
You didnât interact too often after that, only occasionally saying hi when you passed each other between shoots or talking briefly once filming wrapped up for the day. Generally, if he was on set filming, you werenât. Colt was a stuntman doing action scenes (as Tomâs body double, you'd found out). If your character was in the scene too, you had your own stunt double for that. So, for the most part, you admired him from afar.
Even though you barely knew him, that didnât stop your itty bitty crush on the guy.
So now, knowing that youâd not only get to act in a scene with him, but a scene where youâd get to kiss and touch him? A dream come true.
-
Colt had never planned on filming a sex scene, no matter how tame.
He didnât even kiss during films, since they usually wanted the actual actors to do that.
When the director came knocking down his door at 11pm one night, spewing the tragic tale of Tomâs betrayal (not surprising), Colt was suddenly presented with the hard decision. Does he step out of his comfort zone and try something he had yet to do in his film career, or does he decline and tell Charlie to find someone else?
He considered saying no. In fact, he was seconds away from saying no. His sex prowess was not something he had ever planned on sharing with the whole world, no matter the fact that the general audience wouldnât know it was actually him performing. Plus, pretending to fuck in a room full of people didnât sound very appealing. Then, he remembered who heâd be acting the scene with.
âIâll do it.â
-
The intimacy coordinator on set, Tammy, met with you the day before the shoot to go over your boundaries- what you were comfortable with and where you drew the line.Â
You knew the script like the back of your hand and knew exactly how the scene was supposed to play out. It was simple- passionate kissing until you made it to the bed, Colt would be on top and perform general foreplay until you fake intercourse. It was nice and easy, not too intense.Â
Tammy went over the stoplight system and your meeting wrapped up in a clean 20 minutes. You didnât have any worries about acting the scene. You worried about Colt and how he would react to the new challenge more than anything.
If you were doing the shoot with Tom, you mightâve been able to think of boundaries to set up (i.e. no extra groping than what was necessary, because Tom probably would try to cross a line), but with Colt? You realized you didnât care at all if he got a little too excited and handsy. You would allow it for the 'authenticity of the scene', to make it look real. That and you just wouldnât mind if things went a little deeper than superficial if it was Colt doing it. You assumed Tammy went to speak to Colt after sheâd spoken to you and since she didnât come back to tell you any of his boundaries, he mustâve not had any either.Â
The day of the shoot, after hair, makeup and wardrobe where you stripped into practically nothing and shrugged on a robe, you walked into the fake bedroom set amidst a hoard of bustling crew members. Colt was already there, observing the room before turning to smile at you when you approached.
âHey!â Colt ran a hand through his mussed hair and gestured to your body. âYou look nice.â
You snorted. âSo do you.âÂ
You were both wearing the same exact robe.
While Colt glanced at a lighting technician that brushed past to adjust one of the warm lights shining towards the bed, you nodded your head at him. âThank you for being willing to step in for Tom, by the way. Youâre saving all of our asses; especially Charlieâs. We owe this movie to you at this point.â
Colt shook his head immediately. âNo, no. Please, I'm happy to help.â
âHave you ever done a scene like this before?â You questioned, adjusting your loose robe to make sure your chest stayed covered. Coltâs eyebrow twitched like he wanted to glance down to watch the movement but he didnât and shook his head instead.
âNope.â You werenât surprised. You assumed he hadnât. âBut, I can't imagine itâs any different than the real thing though, right? Just a little more orchestrated and,â Colt gestured to the crowd of people behind cameras, boom mics and monitors a step away. âa little less private. I donât know about you but I don't usually have this many people watching me perform in the bedroom.â
Your cheeks hurt from your smile. âNeither do I. Not in the privacy of my home, at least. I have done this kind of thing a couple times, though.â
Colt snaps his fingers. âOh yeah! In that one film uh- Rain? The one with the cowboy? Big fan of your work in that one.â
You quirked a brow and Colt backtracked. âNot just the sex scene obviously, the whole movie. Your whole character. Really likeable.â
Tammy interrupted before you could tease him. Charlie also approached and clapped his hands together so everyone around would listen.
âAlright, everyone! Weâre all familiar with the script so you should know how this scene will play out but just in case, weâll just go over it and walk through the shots weâre looking for.â
Charlie was animated, as he always was when describing the scene he was envisioning.
âEverything weâre recording today takes place after their huge fight.â He gestures to you and Colt. âWeâll film the fight later with Tom, but theyâve been arguing in the kitchen and the tension builds up and up and up until it snaps! The start of the scene will be the two of you bursting through the bedroom door, already kissing. I want passion! Youâve been pining for each other for years and itâs all coming to fruition today so let it show.â
You nod with a smile and Colt does the same.
âSince I want to obscure Coltâs face as much as possible, weâre going to have the camera follow you into the room from behind so Coltâs back is the only thing we can see. (Y/n), I want your hands in his hair, on his neck and shoulders, anywhere that can be seen by the camera.â
Charlie continued to walk through the open space, describing what he wanted from the two of you as he went. You would fall back onto the bed and Colt would follow. The actual scene in the movie was going to be a montage of tiny blips of footage instead of one, continuous shot so you didnât have to be perfect- you just had to give the editors enough to work with. To keep the PG-13 rating, the two of you were going to be under a thin bedsheet to hide everything from the hips down and most of the camera work was going to stay above the waist anyway, focused on your faces instead of your bodies.Â
From there, you just had to pretend to have sex with Colt Seavers.Â
That should be easy enough. You certainly felt more confident faking with him than you wouldâve with Tom.Â
Once Charlie was done going through the scene, some of the crew asked questions and everyone took their positions. It took a second for the crew to be ready, so Colt and yourself went out into the fake hallway to wait. Still in your robes, you got a little worried at the slightly bugged out look in Coltâs eyes.
âAre you alright, Colt? The intimacy coordinator went through the stoplight system with you, didnât she? If you ever feel uncomfortable and need to stop you just say red and weâll take a break or switch up the scene a little so itâs easier-â
A warm hand rested against your bicep. âIâm not uncomfortable, I promise. This is all just very different from what I'm used to. Iâm usually outside, throwing myself through a window or driving a huge truck over jumps. This is⌠much quieter and enclosed. Intimate. But I guess thatâs the point, huh?â
Coltâs voice was so warm and assuring- it slid down your spine like honey. You were suddenly worried that you wouldnât be able to handle the scene. Not because you would get uncomfortable, but that you would enjoy it a little too much.
âYeah, I guess it is.â
Tammy interrupted once again and gestured to your robes with a gentle smile. âReady?â
Apparently, your characters had shed all of their clothing in their passionate journey from their argument in the kitchen to the bedroom door because you're both almost completely bare under the robes. Since everything below the waist was going to be covered by a sheet, instead of a normal modesty garment, you both wore a skintight, skin-colored version of what were essentially biker shorts. Colt had no shirt on, as his torso was going to be one of the main stars of the shoot, and neither did you. Since some shots were going to be from the side, meaning your ribcage would be visible and maybe a hint of breast, you couldnât wear a bra. To keep a little bit of modesty, you had pasties keeping your nipples covered.
Colt kept his gaze respectful, only looking you in the eye as Tammy scurried off set and was instantly replaced by a gaggle of camera operators. You werenât shy about your body, not after acting in similar scenes dozens of times previous, but for some odd reason, doing this with Colt felt different. All of the actors youâd acted with in the past were people you respected and had no attraction to. But Colt? You kept your eyes on his face just like he had with you, but it was maybe the hardest thing youâd done thus far in your career.Â
Once Charlie deemed the dim lighting was perfect and the crew was ready to go, you turned your back to the shut door and looked up at Colt when he stepped closer so your bodies were just barely brushing. The heat of his eyes as they looked back and forth between yours had you grateful you were wearing shorts because you instantly became wet.
The set became silent as you waited for the go-ahead from Charlie. And once he yelled action? You experienced what you were convinced was the greatest onscreen kiss youâd ever get to experience in your career.
Coltâs lips were searing- passionate in every sense of the word. While his mouth rhythmically moved against yours, he reached behind you to open the door, shoving it out of your way and leading you backwards into the room as the camera crew followed. Colt knew just how deeply to tilt his head for your lips to entwine as firmly as possible and just where to place his hands on your spine so you didnât stumble over your own feet as he blindly led you towards the bed.
His scruff felt wonderful against your face, scratching but not painfully so. You absentmindedly decided that you wouldnât mind a bit of a beard burn. Your hands were eager to feel the parts of him you were allowed to touch, brushing over the broad planes of his shoulders and sliding up his neck to tangle into his hair. His chest rumbled against you when you fisted your fingers into the blond strands. It had been an accident, you didnât mean to tug on his hair, but Colt didnât seem bothered at all.
Coltâs torso was pressed firmly to yours, keeping your breasts hidden from view which had your heart warming in gratitude and had you kissing him harder, this time running your tongue over his. The only sounds in the room were your footsteps and the wet smack of your lips against Coltâs before your knees hit the bed and you fell back onto the mattress. The sheets were already perfectly rumpled thanks to the set design team whoâd meticulously staged it beforehand and the material was surprisingly soft against your bare back. Apparently, there had been room in the budget for silk sheets.
You werenât acting when you watched Colt stand at the foot of the bed, all 6 feet of him tanned and muscled and delicious. The camera crew stood behind him, only capturing his profile from the waist up and the ruffled mess on the back of his head thanks to your handiwork. Your ogling at his body was real but you forced yourself to keep your eyes above the belt, no matter how badly you wanted to look and see if the shorts he wore would leave anything to the imagination on what was hidden underneath.Â
Colt seemed to be enjoying his view too, pausing for a millisecond too long to hold your gaze. He still kept his eyes professional, as much as you wished he would let them wander now that the camera wouldnât catch him doing so, and let out a silent steadying breath.Â
There was no dialogue for the scene, as it would cause a hassle replacing Coltâs voice with Tomâs or dubbing Tomâs voice over the shoot later. Besides, with two perfectly good actors, words werenât necessary if the scene was done right.Â
For only being a stuntman, Colt was an expert at expressing emotion through body language.
The way he crawled onto the bed after you- twisting the sheets around his hips to hide both of your lower halves from view, the way his hands slid up your ribcage, then moved to your arms to trail up until his hands planted on the mattress to cage your head- all conveyed the intense hunger of someone immensely in love. His eye contact was red hot. He looked at you the whole time, even glancing down at your parted lips though he didnât need to.
Colt smelled tantalizing. There was a tiny hint of what you guessed was the spicy smell of his body wash, but other than that, you just smelled, what you assumed was, his natural scent. Most actors youâd worked with (Tom especially) drowned themselves in cologne, especially for scenes like this. You understood why, wanting to smell good when up close and personal with another person, but Colt hadnât done that. Heâd probably showered and gone straight to hair and makeup, meaning what you were smelling was purely him. There was something about that fact that had your eyes almost rolling back into your skull.
Your brain barely registered the camera over Coltâs shoulder that peered down at you to capture every expression you made, the boom mic that loomed overhead or the 20 other people in the room that sat not 30 feet away. Everything you could see and feel and hear was centered around the man straddling you.
While Colt busied himself with trailing his mouth up the valley of your breasts and keeping his face close to your skin, you threw your head back and your fingers found purchase in his hair once again. There was nothing fake about the squeaky gasps that escaped you.Â
A hot tongue laved over your throat, moistening the skin and pausing to feel your larynx bob with every sound you made. A cameraman now positioned at the side of the bed captured everything. Eventually, Colt moved to tuck his face into your neck opposite of the camera to nose at your jaw, pointedly keeping most of his face hidden from view. That was your queue to wrap your legs around his waist, which you happily did.Â
Despite having a broad torso, Coltâs waist was slim and muscular underneath your calves. It almost felt like he had no clothes on at all. There was a thicker layer of fabric and padding along the crotch of both of your shorts to keep any contact or stimulation between your bodies at a minimum. Or thatâs what they were supposed to do anyway.
Coltâs cock was straining against the shorts so much you could still feel him against your own covered pussy. You couldnât feel him as much as you wished- couldnât feel the heat of his skin or the veins along the shaft or the brush of hair at the base- but it gave you enough of an idea to have your hips moving up to tease him for more contact.
No one in the room knew what was happening under the sheet besides you and Colt, and that made it all the more fun. Colt nibbled your skin between his teeth, breath huffing over his drying saliva and began moving his hips. He started slow and steady, gentle gyrations that only gave you a fraction of what you wanted.Â
The camera above you kept its lens trained at Coltâs back and nothing below the waist besides the tiniest hint of the white sheet. The movement of his hips would be able to be seen but not explicitly so, just the tension in his back as he moved.Â
You were surprised when Colt let out a groan in response to your legs tightening around him, eyelashes fluttering over the shell of your ear. His thrusts started to get more confident. Not faster, since Charlie wanted the scene to be tender and heartfelt, but he started to press firmly into your heat, grinding when he did. You could barely feel him along your clit, only a fleeting pressure every time he drove forward, but despite the faintest trace of stimulation, you started to worry that you were about to be edged in front of a room of people. Colt didnât seem to be faring any better.
Since everything was covered with a sheet, Colt wasnât supposed to actually make contact between your hips if he could help it. As long as he made it look believable, he could thrust into the air and make a decent show. Heâd either forgotten that bit of instruction from Tammy or didnât care to follow it. You werenât about to stop him- not when it felt this good.Â
There was something exhilarating about knowing how aroused Colt really was- something no one in the room would know but you. If Charlie, Tammy or anyone else for that matter noticed how much the two of you were doing under the sheet, no one said a word. In fact, you were 100% sure they hadn't noticed because you were 90% sure that what you and Colt were doing was illegal. Some safety guideline was in place in the movie industry to prohibit such contact, no matter how eager and willing the two parties were to save from lawsuits or something. Surely someone would've put a stop to the shoot by now to save the production from a hoard of legal problems once they realized both of you were actually getting off. Oh well, you didn't care to think about that.
You brushed your lips over Coltâs cheek as his face hid in your neck, massaging the solid muscles of his neck under the pads of your fingers. He was tense, but not from stage fright. The arms caging your body that kept him somewhat upright were trembling against the mattress, the tiniest, most indiscreet tremors that you could feel against your back through the padding. He was having a hard time keeping himself in control too.
Truly, you couldâve laid there for hours. Part of you hoped Charlie wanted to rerun the whole scene several times so you could do it over and over again. However, you feared you were doing too good of a job and were about to pull it off in one take.Â
Colt mustâve brushed off the fog that clouded his mind and remembered where he was when his hips punched forward one final time and stilled. You made a show of your whimpers, faking an orgasm while Colt groaned in your ear, voice melding with yours. Hopefully that wasnât going to be a problem for the audio team if Colt sounded a little too much like himself.
The room fell silent once the ruffling of sheets stopped, the sound of your shared breathing the only noise on set.
You blinked when the quietness was suddenly broken with a burst of applause and remarks of awe, quickly remembering where you were and just how many people you were surrounded by. Colt seemed surprised too, lifting his face to look at you in shock and then looking over at the hoard of people coming your way.Â
âThat was amazing, you two! A perfect take! Fantastic job, Colt!â Charlie exclaimed, giving a firm smack to the stuntmanâs bare back in approval. Colt groaned at the sting and gave you a humorous smirk in response. Tammy rushed over with your robes and a thousand watt smile.
Colt slid off of you, albeit a bit hesitantly if your observation was correct, and quickly took the robe Tammy offered, tying it around himself with great intensity. You realized immediately it was an attempt to hide his erection from any prying eyes. His cheeks colored when you quietly laughed at him, a silent indication to him that you knew exactly what he was doing.
Charlie was elated, letting you put on your robe before throwing an arm around your shoulders and leading you over to the flustered stuntman so Charlie could throw his other arm around him. âYour on-screen chemistry is palpable! Just what we needed for the scene. I was worried weâd have to reshoot several times before we got everything we needed, especially since youâre not familiar with acting in these types of scenes, Colt, but youâre a natural!â
You couldnât help but smile over at the blond, drinking up his bashful smile. âThanks, Charlie. It was easy, really. Not too different from my average Friday night,â he joked, until his smile suddenly dropped and he tilted forward to look at you a little panicked. âI mean, not recently. I'm not seeing anyone right now, so my Friday nights are super free. If anyone was wondering.â
Charlie didnât bat an eye at Colt's words but you did, heart warming at his attempt to correct himself and make it clear to you that he was single and also not currently sleeping around. The cheery director led you off of the set towards wardrobe, still spewing his praises. Only after one specific comment did you feel your face really light up in a blush.
âI know youâre just a stuntman, Colt, but you should really consider taking up other forms of acting because that almost looked real!â
a/n: ngl I felt coltâs spirit possess me for this one, I cranked this bitch out in a couple of hours. I LOVE finding a prompt that Iâm super eager to write, it feels so satisfying putting my thoughts into words (even though they sound much better in my head) divider by @/strangergraphics
No Man's Sky: Chapter 1
Summary: You lost your boyfriend, Ryland Grace, on the Hail Mary. Now that the sun is saved, astrophage technology has led to the development of a starliner called the Saving Grace. Once, it was the backup in case Ryland failed. Now, it's a touring ship of the solar system for only the elite... and you're going to use it to get Ryland back. You can't do it alone, though: you have to convince his identical twin, Colt Seavers, to risk a global terrorism charge by pulling off the biggest Grand Theft Auto in human history, four years of isolation, and a deadly mission for someone who might be dead by now. Oh, and you absolutely cannot stand each other. Should be easy, right?
Warnings: Shameless bending of time and nothing is scientifically accurate, this is hastily edited, strong language, you two hate one another (but not really), slow burn love triangle??? I'm not sure what you would label this as.
Pairings: Coltland x Reader
Rating: M
Words: 9k
âItâs been four years since the Hail Mary launched.Â
Thanks to a group of scientists finalizing the studies of lightwarp speed thanks to the introduction and heavy study of astrophage, they have paved the way for a new ship: the Saving Grace. It will protect humanity if the Earth grows too cold to sustain us, they said.
With the safe return of the beetles, the Saving Grace has become a luxury starliner meant for tours of the solar system. Despite the fact that the ship is equipped for a hundred years of food and supplies for a max capacity of 1000 passengers, designed with entire greenhouse floors dedicated to crops, miniature forests, and mental health wards in case of a ship or engine failure of any kind that leaves the ship stranded on the edge of the solar system, the World Governments refuse to send the ship beyond our solar system.
Massive protests are held. Riots fill the streets. Why wonât they go get our savior, Ryland Grace, or at least bring him good supplies? Why wonât they go on an ambassadorial mission to Erid?
Too dangerous. Not enough astronauts with the coma genes necessary for a journey that long.
A crew of bipedal robots keeps the ship in order. There are swarms of guardbots, utilizing weapons powered by astrophage. Astroblasters, or simply blasters for short, capable of vaporizing someone on contact if turned to the highest setting. The ship pilots itself based on coordinates, and has a fully operational medical bay. It is equipped with starships small enough for groups of people varying between 1-5 people, meant for exploratory missions to the surfaces of other planets for fissionable materials. New exosuits have been developed with fully intelligent systems that monitor life support, suit integrity, atmospheric anomalies, and jetpacks meant for very short flight.
If the ship were to go dead, its prime directive is to return to proper functionality and return to Earth for full repairs, but fissionable materials brought to crewbotsâ if requirements are metâ can be used in place of Earth-made materials. If a threat were to infiltrate the ship, guardbots would run defensive and offensive operations, but a crewbot or medbot would ignore them and run as intended, treating threat or friend the same. It can recognize animals and differentiate pets from pestsâ so if someone's dog or cat gets loose, a guardbot won't harm it, but if it sees a rat, it will be vaporized. The ship itself doesnât know the difference between friend or foe, but will always course-correct to return to Earth.
The first day of launch is May 16th a little over a year from now. Day one, everyone's gonna EXPECT something to go horribly, catastrophically wrong. This has never been done before, but neither has a heist on this scale.Â
There will be hundreds of human guards outside, watching for the slightest sign of dissent.â
Stepping back from your huge whiteboard covered in various colors of dry erase marker, you circled the passenger quarters on the middle deck of the ship. âOnce we're here, we can hide in our rooms and trigger the ship's fire alarms. We can call in a bomb threat here and here, and the automated systems will believe the ship is under attack. They'll forcibly disembark the crew, evacuating everyone on board. That's where we hide in these vents here, using the coolant from the personal air conditioning units in each suite to hide our heat signatures from the guardbots. We'll stay hidden for 30 minutes until the ship enters lockdown mode, and after that we'll have to fight our way to the control room, where I can input new coordinates to take us to Tau Ceti.â
Aggressively, you circled a large red orb on the far edge of the whiteboard. A red orb 6 lightyears away where the love of your life currently is trying to save an entire alien species.
Done with your half-assed presentation, you turned to face your rapt audience: Your mother.Â
She sat with her hands folded in her lap, scrutinizing the plan with squinted eyes and a frown. She said nothing, however, prompting you to continue.
âWeâre gonna need a lot of training. A lot of it we wonât be able to do professionally, but some of itâ fighting, weapons, that kind of stuffâ we can. I already went and got my EMT certification; not exactly medical school, but the best we can do right now. Otherwise, weâve got deep pockets. Iâm more than confident we can do this.â
You were talking to a very silent crowd. Your mother lowered her gaze to her lap sullenly. She'd always been⌠as supportive one could be of their child going on a suicide mission. But she knew how much you loved Ryland. Enough to dedicate your whole life to a lost cause, apparently.
No one in their right mind, no matter how much they loved their partner, would risk a global terrorism charge by stealing a starliner to go rescue them. By the time you got to Ryland, heâd be much older than you, or possibly dead. So why go at all?
Because Earth was dying. After the astrophage farms in the Sahara, the bombing of Antartica, and World War III, astrophage became commonplace. The very reason your lover had been shot out of orbit was being used for everything. Bullet trains that could get you from San Francisco to New York in five minutes. Those astroblasters utilized by the militaries and guardbots on the Saving Grace. A genuine spaceforce; the first war fought in space looked like a meteor shower. It was an incredibly dangerous power; there were a lot of accidents in the first few years of astrophage technology development. Lots and lots of people died. Contaminants made certain areas toxic. Whole countries were blown off the map. Apparently that didnât matter to anyone as development kept steamrolling. Smog from the Saharan astrophage farmsâ which had been added toâ blanketed the lower atmosphere in a choking blackness that made daylights eternally gray and nights without stars. You couldnât even look through a telescope at Tau Ceti anymore and pretend to see the Hail Mary. And that was only in the last four years.
The construction of the Saving Grace had given people hope when it was to be used as an escape capsule, but it was only built for 1000 people, max. The elites. The rest of you were supposed to suffer. The beetles returned early last year, and now that the sun was âsaved,â it was just a starlinerâ a very expensive starliner.Â
Which was where you got stuck. You couldnât find another way aboard except for direct entry, and youâd studied the plans of the ship since Stratt had sent you all of Ryâs video logs. Youâd cried yourself to sleep every night then, grieving him all over again. But⌠Once you had this ideaâŚ
âY/NâŚâ Your mother said softly, as though she were trying to break the news to you very gently. âHave you even talked to him since Grace left?â
You drummed the marker against the palm of your opposite hand, biting your lip. âWell⌠No, butââ
âSo youâre just going to drop this plan on him and expect him to go along with it just because thatâs his brother?â Your mother had a very, very valid point.Â
Colt Seavers wasnât a very forgiving person. At least, not that youâd seen.
The stuntman was Ryâs identical twin brother. Sort of. Colt was beefier, his dark blond hair accented with frosted tips and he usually had more of a beard than Ry had. You could always easily tell them apart, but it wasnât exactly like they were attached at the hip.
When youâd met Ry, they were at odds. Their parents had died about a year before you met them, and Colt had apparently not shown up because of the production of the movie Metalstorm. It put a bit of a wrench in their relationship, to the point that Ry officially changed his last name to his middle name: Grace. It was kind of a dig at Colt, whoâd always made fun of his middle name when they were kids. It was no different than Coltâs middle name, Ry would always mutter; despite the fact that Colt would cheesily tell you his middle name was âdanger,â Coltâs middle name was actually Hope. You always found that morbidly funny. The motto had been coined shortly after launch: Believe in the Hail Mary, full of Grace. And now, Colt was your last hope of getting him back.
Granted, the brothers had made up after finding out the sun was dying.Â
And every. Single. Time. He was the most arrogant, annoying dick youâd had the displeasure of knowing. He always greeted you with condescension, like you were some sweet little thing made of glass. You could be sweet, but the second he started treating you like you were just a dainty thing that needed to be taken care of, oh boy. Ry had never seen you so angry. You could be dainty, but you could take care of yourself. It was something Ry had always admired in you, but Colt made it his mission to ragebait you into losing your cool, and the worst part was it always worked.
You really did like Jean-Claude, though. He was only a puppy last time you saw him, but you loved that dog.Â
Last time youâd seen Colt hadnât gone very well, either.
âY/Nââ Your mom sighed, standing abruptly from her chair. âDo you know where he is?â
Ah, a moment of small triumph. âYes, I do. I got his location from Jody. Heâs in L.A. right now.â According to your mutual friend, he hadnât done any stunt work since Ry had been forced onto the Hail Mary. Heâs been living in a hotel and drowning in grief, booze, and clubs.Â
Your mom glared at you from the kitchen island. âAfter last time, I donât exactly expect him to help you at all. That boy canât even help himself. And I thought you hated him, anyway?â
âI do,â You scoffed, tossing the marker back into the cup and joining your mom in the kitchen. âBut heâs the only part of Ry I have left.âÂ
âItâll hurt,â She warned, âHeâs got Graceâs face, and his voice.â Youâd already thought of that. You werenât sure how you were going to handle it, but it probably wasnât going to go well at all.
âYeah, I know. I donât know how Iâm gonna deal with it.â You rubbed your hands down your face. âIâm leaving for L.A. tonight. Colt wonât answer his phone.â
âHave you gotten anyone else on board?â Your mom started stirring her tea, using the cup to warm her hands after a moment. âIf Colt does go, you two will be the only humans for⌠How long?â
âFour years,â You answered, holding back the disgust and anxiety clogging your throat. âFour horrible, awful years of isolation with Colt Seavers. Because, no. Strattâs number doesnât work anymore, sheâs probably off-grid somewhere.â No surprise there. She was wanted worldwide. âJodyâs response was asking if I needed to be committed to a mental institute.âÂ
âMaybe you do,â Your mom sighed. She hated this. You knew she did. After Ry was gone and you shakily returned from Baikonur alone, youâd lost your house, your job, everything. Stratt had set you up with a considerable sum of money, but youâd stowed it safely away and only bought a kitten, a ragdoll mix you named Tau, and moved in with your mother to process the grief. And Tau only came along because your mother forced you to buy her as emotional support. Youâre glad she did. The cat followed you everywhere now.
Like now, as she wrapped around your legs and yowled for a snack, despite the fact that youâd just fed her this morning. âGoodness, Tau-Tau. Youâre gonna get chonky if you keep this up.â
Yowl. Absolutely no shame for her biblical levels of greed.
You smacked the kitchen counter decisively. âIâve gotta go pack to see my lost boyfriendâs identical copy who hates me. Iâll probably return empty-handed.â
Your mom only shook her head as you made your way up to your room.
When you got off the plane, the first thing you did was try Coltâs number one more time. You knew it was in vain, but you listened to it ring, and ring, andâ
âHello?â
He sounded⌠Gruff. Tired. There was loud music behind him, like he was at a bar. He probably was, honestly. But⌠God, he sounded just like Ry. Of course he did. Your heart clenched as your breath hitched. âColt?â
âYes. Obviously. Youâve called me six times today. What do you want?â
âYouâre so snotty, for absolutely no reason. Rude-ass.â Defense was your only protection right now. If you didnât snark, you might sob, and then this phone call would be ruined.
âDid you seriously call me just to berate me? What do you want?â You could feel him pinching the bridge of his noseâ no, no, that was Ry. Tears stung the corners of your eyes. This isnât Ry.Â
âNo. Sorry.â
âYouâre apologizing? Who the hell is this? This isnât Y/N.â
âShut up, Colt.â
âNevermind. There she is. Sorry, I was confused.â
âWe need to talk.â
âDo we? I thought the only reason we communicated in the first place was jettisoned into space against his will.â
You sighed through your nose. This was going about as well as you expected. âThatâs what we have to talk about. Please, Colt? Iâm in L.A.â
âYouâreâ whatâ ughhhhhhhhhhââ His huff turned into a trailing growl of frustration. âWhy?â
âI have a plan to get him back, Colt.â
There was silence on the other end for a minute. Well, at least, silence from Colt. The music still raged. You wondered if maybe heâd put the phone down and walked awayâ âYouâre fucking crazy. Iâm hanging up. Go back home.â
âHang up on me, and Iâll find you anyway and beat your ass back to stardust,â You snapped, harsher than you meant it. Adrenaline flooded your veins. You really did not want to drive aimlessly around the bad parts of L.A. looking for him. You had his location from 2 days ago, and according to Jody he didnât even have a car right now, so surely heâs not gone far; but still. âColt, please. Please, talk to me. Let me tell you my plan. If you donât like it, Iâll go back home and youâll never have to hear from me again.â
â...Must be pretty important if youâre begging like that.â
âIâm not begging.â
âSounds like it.â
âColtââ
âGo home, Y/N.â
âYou owe me,â The tears came now, harsh and hot and unforgiving as you struggled to keep your voice straight. âYou left me, Colt. I had nothing, I had no one, Ry was gone and I had no idea how to get out of Baikonur because Stratt and her fucking gang of goons left in a hurry to oversee the launch. I was trying to grieve and survive and I thought you would stay. We werenât close, I wonât pretend to that, but the least you could have done was helped me. I couldâve helped you. But no, you went and beat the shit out of Strattâs guys and itâs by her few good graces you werenât arrested for assault. I didnât even have a car, Colt. You fucking drove away, you couldâve at least taken me to the nearest city. I walked for two days to find a town and I almost got assaulted by a bunch of guys because you werenât there. I watched the Hail Mary launch alone. So before you tell me to go home, the least you could do is listen to me.â
Silence again. Your haggard breaths felt relieving almost as you tried to stop your sobs. You could still hear the music of the bar, but it felt distant as you relived the memory of Colt abandoning you just because Ry was gone. â...Iâm at the Vienna Pub. Iâll text you the address. They close at one, but Iâll wait outside for you if youâre not here yet.â You sucked in a breath of relief. â...Do you want me to⌠I dunno, do you want me to stay on the phone until you get here?â
The thought repulsed you. Thatâd be awkward. A spark of satisfaction lingered in your chest that you made him feel bad for leaving you that day. âNo, thanks. Iâm on my way.â You snatched your luggage and rushed for the entrance.
âJust⌠Keep your doors locked. Thereâs a lot of weird people around here. Look around at stoplights. Text me when youâre here, I donât know what youâre driving.â
âItâs a shitbox. The cheapest thing I could rent.â
âSounds like you to drive a shitbox.â
âFuck off, Colt. And for the record, I donât need you to be my guard dog now. Youâre a few years too late, buddy.â
âWell, for your records, Iâm sorry.â
âYou canât apologize when prompted to, asshole.â
âI really am⌠Sorry.â Colt repeated. â...I wasnât really thinking.â
âI already knew that. There are never any thoughts behind your eyes.â
You heard him sigh again. It reminded you of when Ry would get frustrated with one of his students. You wiped your tears away and sniffed heartily as you started searching for a taxi. âAre you crying?â
âAllergies,â You lied, which he didnât buy.
âIâm sorry for not talking to you, too. There, that one was unprompted.â
âYou want praise for apologizing? Taxi!â You waved down the yellow car nervously. Your phone dinged and you glanced at the text to see Coltâs number and an address.
âNo, Iâm genuinely sorry for not talking to you. Iâd just like it to be acknowledged.â
âItâs okay, you only ignored my 200 calls that first year Ry was gone.â
âEvery time I thought of calling or texting you, all I could see was him,â Colt admitted softly, âI just⌠It wouldâve been weird talking to you without Ryâs input.â
You climbed into the taxi and paid him, shielding the phone against your chest as you asked to be taken to the rental place. âAnd how weird do you think itâs going to be for me, huh? Itâs not like youâre his identical twin or anything.â
Colt hummed thoughtfully. âYeah. Yeah, I guess that is weird.âÂ
Anxiety twisted in your stomach. âI donât know how Iâm gonna handle it. It might not be great.â
âYou canât really handle much, so itâs not a surprise.â
âFuck you, Colt. I can handle quite a bit.â
âSure.âÂ
âYouâre ragebaiting me again.â
âAnd what if I am? You canât threaten me until you get here.â
âYes I canââ
âOh, yeah, I guess. Stardust. Right. My bad.â
âAre you drunk?â
âNo. Tipsy, yes. Iâve had a few drinks.â
âSounds like you always have a few drinks.âÂ
âSince Ry, I always have. It helps.â
âGuess Iâm driving.â
âIâd rather walk. You drive like you have one eye and a peg leg, so no thanks.â
âI really am going to kick your ass when I get there. After Iâve had a good cry because you look like him.â
âAt least youâve got priorities. So whatâs this plan of yours?â
âIâm not gonna tell you in the car, dumbass.â
âYouâre the dumbass. You said you werenât gonna stay on the phone with me, but I tricked you into⌠Twenty minutes of conversation. Really, itâs just insults, but.â
You paused, trying to comprehend what he was saying. Oh. Wait. Yeah, yeah he did. âYou motherfuââ
âOne secondâ what?â You heard him turn his head away from the phone. âI did not spill that drink on you, dude. No, Iâve been perfectly still.âÂ
Your heart dropped. The last thing you needed was for him to get in a fight. âColt?â
âListen, if youâre just looking for a fight, just say so, man. Okay, you know whatâ Y/N, how far away are you?â
You panicked. âI-I donât know, like thirty minutes? Donât do anything stupid.â
âDonât tell me what to do. Iâve gotta go. Hurry up, stardust.â
You didnât have time to tell him not to call you that or any nickname before he hung up. You let the phone drop. Great. Perfect. You might have to explain your plan from the hospital, but hey, at least he was talking to you now.
When you pulled up in front of the bar, you saw no sign of Colt. Rain had started on your drive here, and now it was pouring. You didnât want to find him dead in an alleyway somewhere, and worry started to claw at your chest. You didnât hate Colt that much. You texted him, with a picture of your car that you took before you left.Â
Where are you?
The passenger door ripped open and you bit back a scream moments before a bloodied, scruffed-up Colt fell into the seat, keeping his eyes ahead as he hurriedly shut the door. He was sopping wet, frosted hair dripping into his eyes. âI thought I told you to keep your doors locked.â
He didnât look at you for a minute. Long enough for you to take him in, to see Ryland in him even though they were so different, long enough for your carefully-rehearsed mantras about how this is Colt, not Ry to fly directly out of your head and fall apart. When he looked at you, finally, really looked at you with those deep blue eyes that were a copy of the ones that had been so full of love for you, thatâs what did it. You whipped your gaze away, fully aware of Coltâs intense gaze on you.
âSorry,â You choked, your leg beginning to rapidly bounce as you struggled to regain control of your emotions. Your vision blurred as you stared at the steering wheel. âYou just⌠Yep. Yeah. This is a lot harder⌠A lot harder than I thought itâd be.â
You jumped when you felt his hand on your back, rubbing gently; he squeezed your shoulder. You didnât even have the strength to tell him to fuck off, you just put your face in your hands to try and hide your tears. Ry, Ry, Ry, you could only think of him, memories youâd suppressed for fear of feeling his loss as palpably as you were now.Â
âY/N,â Ryâ no, fuck, Colt, Colt, Colt. Not Ry. Not. Ry. His voice was surprisingly soft, no hint of sharpness in his voice. This wasnât the time for grudges. You knew you didnât like each other, but youâre human. And you both lost the same person you both very deeply loved. You risked a glance at him and broke all over again. It was hard to tell with the blood and dirt and cuts on his face, but he was definitely crying, too.Â
âYou are four years late to comfort me, Colt.â
That didnât seem to stop him. He pulled you in for a hug you didnât resist, squeezing tightly enough to try and hide his own tears. âI know. Iâm sorry. I know.â
Even though you were both grieving humans, there was only so much hugs you could take from a person you canât stand.
You both pushed apart, wiping your tears away. You took in the deep cut on the bridge of his nose and his rainsoaked clothes and reached into your glovebox, taking out a handful of napkins to throw at him. âReally?â
âClean yourself up. Whenâs the last time you ate?â
Colt frowned at you, relenting as he took a couple of the napkins to his cuts as he looked in the mirror. âI dunno. This morning, I guess.â He shot you a glare. âGod, youâre still so damn bossy. I donât know how Ry dealt with you.â
âRy didnât consider it âdealing with me,â was the first step,â You quipped, pulling out of the parking lot and simultaneously putting in the directions for the nearest Waffle House. Even if Colt didnât eat, you were starving. âWeâre going to Waffle House.â
âOkay. Am I being kidnapped, is that what this is?â
âFor now, yes.â
âGlad I understand the situation.â He shoved the unused napkins back into the glovebox unceremoniously. âYou gonna explain your daring plan to travel across the universe to get Ry back?â
âItâs 6 light years. Hardly across the universe.â
You saw Colt roll his eyes out of the corner of his eye. âOh, excuse me, I forgot youâre a science teacher too.â You deigned not to respond to that one. âIt must be really out there if youâre coming to me for help. And this is all if heâs not dead, right? Which Iâm sure he is.â
âHe is not.â Your vehement reply was almost coded into your being, now. Every time someone dared to suggest that Ry was dead, you very kindly explained why he still has enough food. For now.Â
âOh? Really? When did you two talk last? Because last I checked, heâs in fucking space.âÂ
âDid you watch any of his video logs?â You retorted, glancing at him. Your heart clenched when you looked at him. âAt all? He should still have enough food, as of right now. After that, heâll figure something out.â
âWill he? Kind of sounds like heâll starve to death.â
âDid you watch them?â
Colt stared out of the window, shaking his head. â...No, I didnât watch them. I learned everything I needed to know from the news. That he turned around for that alien.â
âRocky.â Okay. Wow. Dissing Rocky was not cool.
Colt turned to you incredulously. âHe named it?â
âHim. Yes. He named him, but he already had a name, because heâs a sentient creature.â
âThat⌠Thatâs something heâd do.â Coltâs head fell toward his lap; you glanced over to make sure he wasnât passing out, but then you saw him rubbing his thumb over something small, metallicâ
Oh.
His Hail Mary pin.
Ry gave you each one. Heâd been so excited about those. Coltâs was rubbed to its gold base, so clearly fiddling with it was a common thing for him. Believe in the Hail Mary, full of Grace. Your chest hurt just looking at it. âNo. I didnât watch them. Every time Stratt sent something, I sent it right back. Eventually they stopped coming.â
You both remained silent on the rest of the drive to Waffle House. When you pulled in, you managed, âI have his videos for you, Colt. Iâll give them to you.â
âI donât need them.â
âShut up.â You unbuckled and got out without even waiting for him, rushing for the diner in the pouring rain so you didnât get too terribly soaked. Once in the lobby, you waited for Colt to step out of the car before you tapped the lock button.
Once inside, you found a table in the far corner of the room and waited for someone to come take your order. Colt shrugged off his jacket, clearly still soaked. He kept glancing at the notebook you pulled out of your own jacket; youâd tried to shield it from the worst of the rain, but some droplets did get through. Luckily, your notes seemed undamaged. âSo whatâs the plan?â Colt asked.Â
âItâs only the biggest heist of all human history.â
Colt rolled his eyes. âY/Nââ
âThe plan, in a nutshell, is to book passage to the Saving Grace.â His head fell into his hands, fingers clenching in his blond hair. âOnce weâre on board, weâll trigger the shipâs fire alarms and call in a couple of different bomb threats. The guardbotsââ
âY/Nâ stopââ
ââWill forcibly evacuate all passengers, but we can hide in the vents in our room with the coolant from the personal air conditioning units so they canât use their heat sensors to find us. Then we have to fight our way to the control room, where we can input the coordinates to Tau Ceti. But the shipââ
âY/N.â Colt slammed his hand on the notebook, silencing you as the waitress approached the table. She looked tired, understandably so. She didnât seem to notice how tense either of you were.
âHello, Iâm Lacy, Iâll be your server tonight. Can I get you two started on something to drink?â
Colt spoke first. âJust water please, thank you Lacy.âÂ
âSame,â You croaked, hating the fact that Colt was right to get you to shut up. âThanks.â
Colt watched her walk away, and once she was out of earshot, he leaned forward and lowered his voice. âSo you really are crazy.â
âProbably, yes,â You agreed. Thinking of stealing a whole-ass starliner was definitely insane.Â
âSo did you just pull this idea out of your ass or something?â Colt demanded, eyes flicking around to watch for the waitress. âYou just woke up one day and decided to steal the only functional starship we have? Are you serious? This is what you came to L.A. for?â
You slid him the notebook. âThis has everything you need to know. Stratt, when I could still contact herââ
âYou talked to her?â
You hated Stratt. You had to. You had to have someone to blame. But you also couldnât fault her for wanting to save humanity. She cared for Ry too, in her own kind of way. To Colt, you only lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. âShe could get me the information I needed. She wasnât on board with it, but she felt like she owed me. Canât be because she shot my boyfriend into space against his will or anything.â You tapped the notebook pointedly. âIâve studied ship schematics, how it works, the centrifuge center which makes the artificial gravity, the robots, the shipâs computer systems, everything. Iâve figured out what training we can feasibly get to help us and where weâll get it; Iâve already got an EMT license. Iâve been working some hospital shifts to get accustomed to emergencies, but it will only be you and me here. We can bring our pets when we first board, thankfully, so at least weâll have that. And if youâre worried about getting bored, weâll have mental health rooms with real grass and trees and everything, any video game, book, or movie ever made, an entire floor of arcades, thereâs an entire casino, thereâs rooms with ziplines and miniature roller coasters and all sorts of other rides. Itâs essentially a cruise ship, but in space. And about twice the size of a cruise ship. The ship is built to sustain a max capacity of 1000 people for 100 years, in case the ship goes dead on the edge of the solar system. It has crops, bots to maintain them, livestock, whatever, you name it, itâs got it. Itâs everything Ry should have had, but didnât because they rushed the Hail Mary.â
Colt just⌠Listened. He flipped through the notebook as he listened to what you were saying, dread in his eyes. The waitress came, dropped off the drinks, and took your food orders, and he still wouldnât say anything. â...Whatâs the goal of your plan, here?â Colt finally said, leaning back in his seat. âJust⌠Go get him? Hope he wants to come home? If heâs not dead? Go live out the rest of our days with him? How oldâs he even going to be, huh?â
âNot that much olderââ
âSo whatâs the goal?â Colt countered again.Â
âWe can either bring him home, or stay there with him,â You explained quickly, feeling rushed.Â
Colt shook his head, dropping his gaze back to the notebook. âHow long will we be out there?â
This was the tricky part. âSo, we wonât experience as much time as Earth years. Itâll be⌠Different. Weâll be following the Hail Maryâs course, and we can be in a coma for most of that time.â
âHow long, Y/N?âÂ
You shifted in your seat. â...Four years.â
Colt ran his hands down his face. âYou want me to spend four years alone with you of all people on a starliner in the middle of nowhere to go save a dead man?â
âYou donât know heâs dead,â You retorted softly, but the argument sounded weak even to your ears. Neither of you said much else as you ate. You paid separately, of course, which the waitress judged Colt for with her eyes. Not very gentlemanly of him, but you canât blame him. He quietly told you the address of his hotel, which you agreed to drive him to; it wasnât far at all, but it was still raining. As much as you dislike him, you canât fathom forcing him to walk home in the pouring rain.
Even though he allowed worse to happen to you, but that was beside the point.
You were nearly there before he spoke again.
"So... you want me to help you steal an entire spaceship and travel to god-knows-where in search of a dead man? And spend four years alone? With you?â Colt repeated your haphazard plan doubtfully, and highly paraphrased.
"You don't know he's dead," you snapped defensively, tired of him saying that. "By my calculations he should have enough food to keep him alive still. And when you say it like that, it sounds impossible."
"Because it is impossible," Colt mumbled softly, tracking raindrops down the windshield with only his eyes. "He went back for that alien." After watching the logs, you thought Rocky was amazing. You wouldn't have left him to die that horrible, painful death either.
"Rocky," you corrected snottily. For the second time. God, does this man ever listen to you?
"He's probably dead by now. He chose an alien--"
"Rocky."
"--Over coming home." He turned his deep blue gaze on you and for a brief second, a pang of grief stabbed at your chest. He looked so much like Ry it hurt, even if he was rougher and scruffier. Colt's voice softened a bit, like he was trying to lessen the blow you'd already been dealt. "You know that, right? He made his choice. And it wasn't us."
You two regarded one another carefully. Years of hate and distaste thrummed between you like an active bomb, just waiting for one of you to press the button and blow everything to hell. You've both done it before. You were both ready for it.
But... he was the last bit of Ry you had left. And you were his. It was a tentative relationship built on eggshells and thin glass over the course of the last hour, and each of you were carrying a sledgehammer.
Ry is still alive out there. You're certain of it. Or, you're not, but you know Ry, and you know the odds. If anyone could survive out there-- even against his will-- it would be Ry. In Ryâs final log to you that Stratt had sent, his words still rang in your head: "Iâm sorry. I love you. Live for me.â
So you will. Quite literally giving up your entire life to go get him and bring him home, even if it meant you'd be the only one alive on a ship full of robots. Even if Colt wouldn't help you. Even if Ry was already dead (he wasn't, he can't be), and even if he didn't want to come home. The Eridians seem nice. Surely, itâs better than Earth as long as youâre with Ry. You hated the idea of abandoning your mother, but Ry was a part of you.Â
You pulled up in front of Colt's motel then, parking near the door to his room. Paint peeled off of old walls, and you're pretty sure the group of people beside you were engaged in suspicious activities from the way they scattered. A grimace scrunched up your face at the sight of the decrepit place, which was conveniently next to the hotel youâd chosen. "You've been living here? When you've got all those royalties?"
"You act like I'm some big movie star," Colt scoffed, pushing open his door before the car fully stopped. "Most of it stays in the bank, anyway." Ah, yes. Good. He hadn't spent his last dime, the second biggest reason you needed his help in the first place. The tickets were too much for you and your science-teacher-turned-medic-and-factory-worker-just-to-pay-the-bills-salary.
Colt started to step out of the car until you lunged across the center console, snatching his jacket in your fist. He probably could've just easily pulled out of your grip, but he froze.
"The Saving Grace leaves port on the 16th of May next year on her maiden voyage. Everyone's going to be on edge, waiting for something to go wrong. It'll be the perfect time. Ticket sales open at midnight tonight. If you don't help me buy them, I'll find another way to get on board." You shoved the USB stick full of Ry's video logs for Colt and the napkin with your phone number in his pocket before he could resist. You wanted to watch them yourself, but it felt like intruding on a highly private moment. You could never bring yourself to do it. "Just watch these, will you? For Ry. Not for me. I'll be at the Hyatt across the street. Room 325. If you make up your mind, call me. Or just show up, I don't care. I'll be there till noon tomorrow."
Colt didn't say anything at first. He stayed where he was for a minute, hand stuck in his pocket like he was going to take what you'd put there and throw it back at you. A muscle ticked in his jaw; another thing Ry didn't do. They were very different if you looked past the surface level, but it was said surface level that tore your heart to shreds every time you looked at him. "We'll never even make it to the ship."
"If you help me, and we actually buy the damn tickets, we'll already be on board before they realize what we're doing." You let go of his jacket. âDuh.â
Colt turned to look at you over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes. "You want me to give everything up for a suicide mission and a dead man on the hopes that your plan works."
You chewed your lip, drumming your fingers on the steering wheel as you mulled over a good response. "...To be fair, Colt, I think we've both pretty much given up on everything else, anyway." You live in a hotel and drink your grief away. I live with my mother and want to steal a starliner. Neither of us are dealing with this in a healthy manner.
Colt said nothing in response. He stayed utterly still for a moment before he abruptly got up and slammed your door before storming into his motel room. He didn't glance back once, and threw the door close so hard it rattled his windows.
You sighed, puffing air into your cheeks and letting your head fall back against the seat. To no one, you begrudgingly mumbled, "Whelp... That went well."
Colt peered out of his curtains and waited for you to leave. He watched your tail lights disappear around the corner before he moved, releasing a deep sigh as he sat on the edge of the bed. A soft bark brought his attention to Jean-Claude, who trotted up to him with his leash in his mouth. âOh, hey. Yeah, I guess Iâve gotta take you out, huh?â He clipped the leash to the harness and begrudgingly stepped back outside, thinking over your conversation as he walked.
Heâd missed you. He wasnât going to lie. You got on his nerves more than anyone ever had, ever, but you were Ryâs girl. You were a piece of him whether he could admit it or not, and he really didnât want to admit it. He hated what heâd done to you in Baikonur. He hadnât thought that one through, at all. He supposed, maybe, because you were Ryâs partner on the Hail Mary project, that Stratt would have had the decency to give you a ride home instead of just filling your bank account; he wasnât sure if she gave him as much money as she did you, but even added together it couldnât put a price on Ryâs loss. Heâd only wanted to get away. He wanted to be nowhere near that damn ship when it took off, carrying his brother to the stars. Maybe he shouldâve explained that to you, but he doubted youâd care either way. He knew you hated him.
Colt didnât exactly hate you, though. He just loved pushing your buttons, because you fired back so quickly. Although you did annoy the hell out of him.
You looked drawn, like youâd spent every day since Ry left working on this plan. Knowing you, youâd probably spent an unhealthy amount of time on it.Â
As he walked back to his room, his hand found the USB in his pocket. Heâd been blocking losing his twin for so long. He couldnât stand the sound of his own voice or reflection anymore, because all he saw was Ryland. It hurt him all over again to see you, without Ry glued to your side.
Heâd never watched the logs before. After hearing Ryâs decision blasted on every news channel for weeks and hearing him hailed as a hero, Colt had a little thorn of resentment buried in his chest he couldnât get rid of. They werenât close after their parents died, but you? He chose to leave you too? It pissed him off. A part of him wanted to go with you, if only to punch his twin right in the face.
But, youâd never make it to the ship. It was a foolâs hope. That thing would be so heavily guarded youâd be able to see the defense from a mile away, not to mention all the defense you couldnât see. And fighting an army of robots equipped with vaporizing guns didnât exactly sound appealing, either.
Colt locked the door behind him and took Jean-Claudeâs leash and harness off. The dog climbed up onto the bed and laid down with a huffâ what would he do while Colt was in his coma? Would Jean-Claude be put under, too?Â
His hand found the USB again. He could almost hear Ryland in his ear, âWould you just watch it, man? Itâs not gonna bite you.â
âDo it for Ry. Not for me.âÂ
Colt stifled a groan and set up his laptop. When he inserted the USB, it brought up a list of hundreds of videos. Ry had cataloged everything. It made Colt grin a little; that was Ryland, for you. Hesitantly, he hovered the mouse over the first video and hit play.Â
âSo⌠I met an alien.âÂ
Immediately, the tears came. Colt slammed the laptop shut and paced away, trying to get himself under control. This was precisely why heâd never watched them in the first place. ButâŚÂ
Do it for Ry. Not for me.
Colt growled with frustration as he sat back down and opened his laptop, met with the face of his twin peering over the rim of his gold-framed glasses. Almost like Ryland was judging him for shutting the laptop. It made him chuckle slightly, but the tears were still coming. Sensing he was needed, Jean-Claude came and laid at Coltâs feet. âOkay. Okay, you can do this.â
He hit play.
For the next six hours, he watched Rylandâs journey on the Hail Mary. Rocky made some videos too, but Ry was always there. The worst one was seeing him remember you and Colt. That one was bad. Colt had to pause it again while he tried to keep himself together. Tiredness creeped into his bones, but he pressed on. He watched Ryâs decision to save Rocky, and still didnât get itâ but it was something Ry would do.Â
By the time he got to the last video, Colt felt drained. Heâd been crying all night, and despite how much water he kept down, he still felt dehydrated. His eyes were swollen and hurt to move.Â
âThis oneâs specifically for you, Colt.â Ryland sat in the pilotâs seat, in a white flight suit. Confident. He very rarely saw him like that. âSo⌠I know youâre probably gonna hate me for making the choice I did.â
âYes. Good call.â Talking to the videos as though his brother could hear him made him feel slightly better about all of this.
âYou probably wonât get it. I donât expect you to. Just make sure you donât die from whatever stunts youâre pulling, please? For the record, I donât hold a grudge against you. Whatever happened during Metalstorm to keep you away from Mom and Dadâs funeral, it probably sucked. So Iâm sorry I held it against you.â
âApology not accepted. You need to tell me to my face.â
âIâm glad we were friends again toward the end, man. We had a good run. I will never forget you, or everything you did for me. Whether it be picking me up when my bike was in the shop or keeping bullies away from me in high school, you were always there. Thanks. Just do me a favor, okay? Well⌠Three favors.â
âMaybe.â
âLive. Do whatever you want to do, whatever makes you happy, but donât mourn me too bad. Iâm okay. I made peace with it.â
Coltâs breath hitched. Talking to the video wasnât working anymore.
âI know by the time this video reaches you, youâve probably already put yourself through hell. Pull yourself together. I need you to be okay without me. The second favor, I need you to check on my kids. Theyâre probably grown up more by now, but I need to make sure theyâre okay. Please. Check on them every so often.â
Colt let out a sob. He had. He couldnât not. Heâd go to San Francisco every so often and check up on the class Ryland taught, and had anonymously given them each funds for college. Ryland loved those kids so, so much.
âMy third favor is kind of the one I feel like youâre going to have trouble with: Y/N⌠Sheâs not going to handle any of this well. She might try to do something stupid. Or reckless. Or both. I know you two were never on great terms, but for my sake, please⌠Take care of her, Colt. Make sure sheâs safe. For me. As long as youâre there, I know sheâll have someone looking out for her. Keep her out of trouble. And if sheâs intent on getting in trouble, just be there for her, please. Take care of Y/N.â
Coltâs heart dropped. He canât ask that. He canât. Heâs not going to steal a starship to go on a suicide missionâ
âRy was on a suicide mission. Heâd been forced to go. He had no choice.
âI love you, man. For better or worse. Take care of yourself.â Ry smiled then. A soft, warm smile. There were tears in his eyes. âThis is Dr. Captain Ryland Grace, signing off.âÂ
Colt threw the computer against the wall, shattering it before he sank to the floor. He missed his brother. He missed coming over every so often to see him and bicker with you and go on tense dinner outings because you three would just playfully bicker and make fun of each other. He missed picking Ryland up from school if you were at work, or sometimes even picking both of you up. He missed it. He missed all of it.Â
He shouldnât have left you in Baikonur.
He shouldnât have let Ryland join the project.
Ryland didnât have a choice in being forced to another solar system.
But Colt does.
Jean-Claude nudged up under Coltâs arm, and he scratched behind the dogâs ears.
Take care of her.
Colt fell back against the bed, not moving from the floor. He fell into a fitful, restless sleep as he tried to come to a decision.
You bounced your leg impatiently, checking your watch again. 11:52.Â
Surely, Colt would at least text you his answer, right? He wouldnât just entirely leave you hanging, rightâ
Well, no, he did once. Whoâs to say he wonât a second time?
Anxiety twisted in your stomach. You were waiting in the car, since check out was at 11. Youâd been here⌠54 minutes now, hoping Colt would pull through. You were asking a lot; giving up a semi-regular life on Earth for either death or isolation with the one person you really couldnât stand and danger at every corner was a lot.Â
58 minutes now.Â
Coltâs not coming, you realized with a sinking feeling. Could you even do this without the tickets? You watched them sell out and couldnât even buy one. They were just too much. Even if you spent everything in your bank account, you would come up short by quite a bit.Â
12:05.
12:10.
You started your car, dread filling your stomach as you hit reverse. Okay, so you canât buy the tickets. Surely thereâs another wayâ
âyou caught a glimpse of a surprised Colt in your rearview mirror seconds before you hit him. He went down like a sack of potatoes as you screamed. You threw open your door and rushed around to the back, kneeling beside Colt as he groaned and Jean-Claude barked unhappily. âOh my God, Colt, Iâm so sorry! I didnât see you!â
âNo shit,â He ground out. He was carrying a huge duffel bag, and your heart skipped a few beats.
Heâs coming with you, and youâve just injured him.
âI knew you drove like a dumbass, but damn.âÂ
You frowned. âYou know what? Stay right here, Iâm going to finish running you over. Put you out of your misery.â
âYouâre lucky you didnât hit Jean-Claude,â Colt grumbled, getting onto his back and rubbing his hip where youâd hit him.Â
Your heart sank. âYeah, I love your dog.â You extended a hand toward Jean-Claude, who tentatively licked you. âGuess heâs mad at me.â
âWell, yeah!â Colt hissed as he stood, bracing himself against the trunk of your car.Â
You ignored him. âSo youâre coming?â
âNo. I came over here specifically to get run over by a stupid driver.â
âDo you need to go to the hospital?â
âNo. Give me your keys.â
âExcuse meââ
Colt held out his hand, glowering at you. âWe need to go get my truck out of the shop. Weâre not taking a rental car all the way back to Minnesota. And you just lost driving privileges.â
âI barely grazed you,â You huffed, reluctantly tossing him your keys. âAnd I can drive separateââ
He sighed, snatching them out of the air despite the fact that you threw them away from his outstretched hand on purpose. âYou just hit a pedestrian. In your notebook do you not say that we can just stay with your mom while we do whatever training youâve figured out and wait for the ship to launch? Wouldnât it be easier if we rode together?â
You frowned, opening your mouth to speak, but he cut you off again. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. âIf weâre going to spend four years alone together, youâve gotta learn to survive a road trip first, stardust.â
âDonât call me that.â
âYou have officially cemented me calling you that into my psyche. Itâs your name now. Phone contact and everything.â
âFuck you.â
âIs that your response to anything you canât think of a good comeback to?â
âScrew you.âÂ
Colt walked around to the driverâs side door. âWould you just get in the car?â Reluctantly, you made room for Jean-Claude and Coltâs duffel bag in the car, making sure to buckle Jean-Claude in before you even got in the passenger seat. You couldnât hide your smirk, though. He was coming with you. Your plan was looking up.
Colt was grinning. âWhatâs so funny?â You demanded, biting your cheek.
âI really did change your contact to stardust. Just now.â His chuckles made you want to punch him.Â
Oh boy. Maybe this was a bad idea. Now you really want to hit him. âDid you buy the tickets?â
âYes, I bought the tickets. Lower-class was all I could afford, but I doubt itâs going to matter once we get on board. If we get on board.â Colt made a point of turning around in his seat to see out the back windshield. âDo you see what Iâm doing? You see how Iâm looking before I pull out so I donâtâ owââ
You smack his chest hard, making him recoil. âShut up, Colt.â
Colt pulls out of the hotel with that stupid grin on his face, but you canât hide your own any longer. This might just work. You glance at one another, making brief eye contact before tearing your gazes away abruptly. It still hurts to look at him. âYou missed me,â Colt said, but as a statement rather than a question.
âJust a little,â You admitted after a minute. Bickering with him was always fun, but he really did piss you off. âI wouldnât miss you if you hadnât left me at Baikonur.â
âI walked right into that.â
âYes, yes you did. You canât say you didnât miss me.â
âI didnât. There, I just said it. Donât dictate what I can and canât say.â You glared at Colt as he slid his deep blue gaze over to test your reaction. â...I missed you a little bit.â
You smiled again, turning to look out of the window as your heart started racing. This is it. Youâre going to see Ry again. Youâre going to steal a starliner.
Reality sank in a moment later, followed quickly by terror. Oh.
Weâre going to steal a starliner.
Well⌠If you survived the roadtrip, that is.
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AMAZING I love this!!!! The added piece of him leaving her in Baikonur, Rylandâs video log asking Colt to take care of her, the lingering hurt between them but also the hope of getting Ryland back oh my goshhhhh yes yes I am so excitedddd
Also their banter!!! Love it
Since the b99 bit with them worked so well. I decided to make more. enjoy! :p

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Help, I've fallen into the Human!Rocky hole and I can't get up! I hope you like this ridiculous comicđ§Ąđ
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