you've lost your muchness

you had been the one to move out. things had been tense between you and joaquin for a while now, and you don't know if you'd call it divine timing or the universe beating you when you're already down, but all signs were pointing to you to leave. you truly hadn't expected anything to come of it -- you had only applied to that international art scholarship as a joke -- kind of. i mean, you just wanted to see what would happen. you never thought you would actually get it.

but there you were, holding the letter with shaking hands as your eyes reread the lines congratulating your acceptance to one of the most prestigious art institutes in the entire world.

in london.

i don't know, maybe things would have been different if you and joaquin weren't...where you were. you had agonized over your decision for days, by your lonesome. because who were you going to turn to now? you and joaquin can hardly spare each other a glance these days, much less talk.

but despite the deep sense of dread swirling in your gut and the weight of a million rocks in your stomach, you knew what you had to do. you and joaquin couldn't keep this up anymore.

you had to go.

you had broke the news to him late one night. joaquin had come home way past his usual hours, but that's what he does now--avoids you. the lights had all been off, as the lights always have been as of late, except for the faint glow of the kitchen bulb.

"hello?" joaquin had called out, tentative. he wanted to ignore it at first and just head straight to his room, but when he saw your shadow spill into the living room he had a bad, bad feeling that he couldn't ignore.

call it intuition, or maybe it was just logic that you had been waiting for him, but part of him knew something was wrong.

what started off as the two of you skittishly moving around one another and carefully choosing your words soon turned into a full fledged fight, not un-similar to the one you had a few months ago.

joaquin had been mad. really mad.

"why are you doing this to me?" he shouted, holding the crumpled letter in a clenched fist.

"i'm not--" you huffed, as though the sigh would expel some of the anger you were feeling. "i'm not doing anything to you--"

"yes you are!" he had accused.

the distance between you and him couldn't have spanned more than a few feet, the wooden table acting as a physical barrier between the two of you, but you've never felt so far from one another before.

"it's my dream, joaquin! you get to be the falcon every damn day and i've always supported you!" you screamed at him.

joaquin had shook his head, in denial as he told you, "it's not the same." his jaw was clenched tight. "it's not. and you know it."

when you had let out a scoff and turned away in exasperation, joaquin shouted, "it's not! i come home to you," his voice cracked, "every damn night. and you--" the papers hit the table with a slam. "you're leaving! you're punishing me for loving you! that's not fair," he cried.

you turned back to look at him, tears unshed as you bit the inside of your lip. your chest had never felt as heavy as it did in that moment. there was nothing for you to say that you hadn't before. "no." you concluded. "it's not."

-

i don't know should i do it??? is that fucked you guys...everyone asked me to get them together and i'm tearing them apart..

“And that’s Bob.” 

Bucky’s voice had cut through the hum of pre-mission chatter, booming off the walls and commandeering the space in a way only the Winter Soldier can. It came out tired, almost expelled as a sigh as his thumb pointed casually over his shoulder. Your eyes shifted over, fleeting and casual. It was an acknowledgement of Bucky’s words with as minimal attention as you can garner to avoid being accused of not paying attention. You hadn’t even lingered, flickering away from Bob as quickly as they landed. 

But then your eyes shot back. 

Because in the briefest of seconds that you had looked at him, Bob, whoever he was, smiled at you. 

The realization of it had your interest piquing, but by the time your eyes reached for him again, Bob’s gaze had already shifted elsewhere (namely, to the ground in front of him). 

The smile was small and polite. The kind that barely pulled at the corner of his mouth, but that was all it took for him to capture your attention. You don’t know what it was, maybe there was something about it—so quiet and sincere—but it held you for a second longer than it should have. 

You really think that if that was all the situation had to offer, a quick quirk of his lips in recognition, things wouldn’t be the way they were now.  

But then Bob had lifted his head again, and he caught your eye. Strangely enough, he was the one who had become flushed, as if he was the one caught staring when it so clearly should have been the other way around. 

It made you smile this time. 

It wasn’t much. Barely more than his own. A brief tug of your lips and a soft tilt of your head, but it was nice. 

Like you had said earlier: in the moment, you hadn’t thought much about it. But now, looking back, you can see it—the way his expression held something quiet and hopeful, like he hadn’t expected you to smile back. That was the moment the thread had snagged, when something invisible hooked between you and tugged. 

You remember how Bucky had kept rambling on, further explaining everyone’s roles in the mission in a no-nonsense cadence that you eventually learned to not be intimidated by, but it had shifted into somewhat of a persistent buzzing in your ear. You weren’t really listening anymore (not that you really were to begin with), and standing there, you found yourself oddly aware of the man tucked so subtly behind Bucky. 

He wasn’t supposed to be there, that much was obvious. You could tell in the way he held his hands, fingers wringing nervously around themselves as he listened intensely to every word. You caught it in the way Sam raised his brows, just slightly, and the way Bucky had given a small shrug that sort of said “I know, but we need him” when he was first introduced.

Bob clearly wasn’t part of the usual lineup, and you had wondered if he would even be able to handle the rush of adrenaline or the direct line of danger you’d likely find yourselves in. Something odd, like a sense of worry, flooded you—for a stranger you haven’t even really met. But the longer you watched him, the more you realized that maybe he had advantages of his own. Bob moved carefully. Deliberately. Like someone who really thought before speaking, like someone who didn’t expect to be heard at all, really. 

You remember the thought that plagued you in that moment, one that crept into the edges of your mind without your permission, how different he seemed from…

You had physically shook your head as the thought invaded you, forcing it out and effectively snapping your eyes away from Bob in the process. 

God it’s ridiculous, the way you felt your body naturally gravitating towards another’s in the room. You hated yourself for it…but you couldn’t help the way you snuck a peek through your peripherals anyways. 

There he was, standing off to the side with his arms crossed loosely over his chest, nodding along to Bucky’s briefing with that familiar crease in his brows—the one he always got when he was trying to commit something to memory. His mouth was set in a hard line, focused. Calm. 

Your eyes had lingered longer than you meant them to, different in the way they lingered on Bob, because this stare wasn’t just curious. No. It was instinctive. You swallowed a bitter taste in your mouth. It was longing. 

At that point, you and Joaquin still hadn’t spoken. With your bags hiked up over Joaquin’s shoulder and the townhouse door shut behind you, the two of you had left that night behind along with everything left unsaid with it. You barely looked at each other going through TSA, and exhaustion had crept up on the both of you once you were in the air. Landing in Washington made it easy to go your separate ways, back on the safe land of your home, and so you did. 

You forced yourself to look away, and it took more effort than you’d like to admit. Refocused on the rundown for the upcoming mission and Bucky’s clipped voice, you strain your ears to listen in on the dull droning. God, you really hoped this wasn’t anything that serious, but you had pivot your energy into anything but the weight of silence between you and Joaquin or else you’d go insane.

But just as you managed to tune into the outside world again rather than the thoughts in your head, you came to the realization that Bucky had already wrapped up. The room had begun shifting: people moving and talking, the murmur of multiple conversations casting a hum across the small space. Your eyes glanced back at Joaquin, who was now in a professional conversation with Sam about whatever it was that you were supposed to be listening to for the past hour, before they flicker over to Bob.

Bob, who was standing patiently against the wall. 

Bob, who was looking around strangely, with clear discomfort on his face. 

Bob, who you still haven’t said a word to. 

You moved before you could talk yourself out of it, catching his wandering gaze in the process. With his wide, shifting eyes, you could have sworn Bob pressed himself closer to the wall behind him. It made you laugh softly.  

“Hi,” you offered quietly, with an intentional care to not spook him once planted squarely in front of him. He so clearly seemed like the queasy type. 

He looked up, startled for a moment, before returning your smile with something just as gentle. “Hi,” you hear the hesitation in his voice. “I’m Bob.” 

Taking his extended hand, you shook his palm. The warmth spread through his fingertips to yours. After sharing your own name, you told him, “Looks like we’ll be working together on this one. It’s nice to meet you, Bob.” 

You didn’t think much of it in the moment. It was just another polite introduction, another warm hand. 

But later, in hindsight, when you reflect on the way the air between you two shifted and things started meaning more than you could’ve realized—you’d remember the way Bob looked right here. 

Like someone hopeful. 

Like someone who would never take your attention for granted. 

-

You were spending so much time at the Watchtower just to prepare for the upcoming mission, you swear. It had absolutely nothing to do with your new friend. Nothing to do with the fact that he’s nicer, more communicative, more outwardly happy around you than someone else who you’re still not speaking to. 

No, it has nothing to do with that at all.

You were simply being a good teammate. Diligently covering all your bases to ensure the smooth sailing of finding and arresting this new-found villain—as is your job. 

There’s no reason for anyone to be suspicious of you, right?

“Hey, there you are,” a soft voice snaps you out of your daze. You turn around to a face you’ve been all too familiar with this past two weeks, eyes zeroing in on the two cups he holds in his hands. 

“Bob,” you greet cheerfully, hand already reaching out for the blue whale mug you’ve designated as your own, stolen from the kitchen cupboard, “Good morning.” 

“You’re only being nice to me because I’m bringing you your coffee, freshly brewed,” Bob sighs as he takes a seat next to you, crossing his legs into criss-cross applesauce before swiveling his chair to face the monitor you’re seated in front of. 

You let out a quiet gasp in false offense. “I’m always nice to you!” 

Bob raises his brows in mock skepticism, holding the mug just out of your reach as a test of your friendship. The sight of your nose scrunching has him letting out a soft laugh, placing it squarely into your hands and you revel in the way the warmth seeps into both palms of your hands. 

The chuckle he let out is more of a huff of air than anything, the corner of his lips quirking upwards before Bob takes a sip of his tea. 

“Any news?” he asks, eyes tracing the side of your face before flickering to your screen. 

You sigh, turning to him with a pout. “No. This guy is impossible to track down; it’s like he disappeared into thin air. Last Bucky’s heard, he was at some motel in Michigan, but he was gone before we even landed.” 

“Oh,” Bob managed. When he looks down and begins to pick at the sleeves of his sweater, you can’t help but reach over, placing a gentle hand on top of his.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get him eventually,” you reassure. 

All Bob can do is offer a timid, strained smile back. 

A loud SLAM has you jumping, drawing your arm back in a flash out of sheer surprise. With a swift turn, you and Bob search for the source of the sound, leading you to be met with a frowning Joaquin who wasn’t even looking in your direction accompanied by a chirpy looking Sam. 

The two of them move quickly into the room after making the door fly into the wall to announce their arrival. 

“Morning lovebirds,” Sam calls out, his quick, steady steps making their way towards you. 

The glare you shot at him was ineffective; all Sam does is laugh in satisfaction by your reaction. You turn to look at Bob with the same unamused glance only to be met with blushing cheeks. It’s so unsurprising of Bob to grow flush at such an innocent comment that you can’t help the smile that starts to build on your face. 

Joaquin trails wordlessly behind Sam, shoulders tense as he fiddles with something on his touchscreen pad. It’s impressive, really, how he’s capable of looking so irritated just by being within the same room as you, before you’ve even managed to even say anything. 

You’re so sure he was just chatting it up with Sam on the way up here. You just know it. Since your last mission, it’s become abundantly clear that Joaquin just has an aversion to you. 

“Morning,” you reply brightly, bypassing Sam’s lame attempt at a joke. You can see Bob offer a polite nod from your peripherals. 

“Get Bucky’s text?” Sam asks, not even bothering to give you a chance to answer before telling you anyways, “Briefing room in five, looks like we finally got something.” 

It doesn’t mean much to you, but from beside you, you can feel Bob’s posture stiffen. His shoulders start drawing closer to his ears as he processes Sam’s words.  

“Is it…did they find him?” Bob asked, quiet and tight, like he’s already bracing for an answer. 

Something in the air shifts with his question, and you watch the way Sam’s expression softens. Not in pity, just understanding. “No.” He doesn’t sugar coat. “But we’ve got movement. Missouri Highway patrol saw someone matching our BOLO heading South.” 

“Missouri?” Now you chime in, echoing in confusion. “That’s…far,” you frown before turning to look back at your monitor, checking to make sure you’re remembering the data right. “That makes four states in two days.” The nod of confirmation from Sam makes you sigh, hand coming up to rub against your forehead. A headache was already starting to form.

“There’s more,” Sam adds grimly. “They say he was cutting through the forest at about thirty miles per hour." He pauses. “On foot.” 

When Bob lets out a sharp exhale, your hand reaches out and lands on his forearm in an attempt to be a comforting presence. 

Joaquin’s eyes flicker to your movement, just for the briefest of seconds, before abruptly turning to address only Sam with his arms crossed over his chest. “Guess that Everford Serum’s more than some cheap knockoff.” 

The comment makes Bob’s forearm flex underneath your palm, and all you can do is squeeze his arm as a reminder of your presence. 

You watch as Sam gives Joaquin a chiding look, but no one says a word about Joaquin’s poor jest. Instead, he lets out a sharp exhale, announcing that there’s, “More details at the briefing. Let’s head upstairs.” 

“I’ll go help Bucky upload the coordinates.” It’s all Joaquin offers before he turns sharply on his heel, breezing out of the room with much more speed than when he was walking in. 

The room feels quiet after he leaves, and you know that it’s not just because there are fewer people in it. 

Bob shifts from beside you, his arm flexing under your palm, but you don’t move right away. You pretend it’s because he needs the comfort. You pretend it’s not because you do. 

The loud sound of Sam clapping his hands once is sharp enough to break the fragile stillness. “Alright. Five minutes means five. Move like you want answers.” With that, his sneakers squeak against the floor as Sam makes his exit. 

The sound of your and Bob’s chair wheels rolling against the polished concrete floor fills the room, and as you straighten, your fingers finally loosen from Bob’s sleeve. You watch as his hand twitch, just a bit, like he was bracing for the loss of contact. 

“You okay?” he murmurs. 

You shrug. “Not really. You?” 

He shakes his head. “No.”

-

“Jesus, these stupid planes never get any more comfortable,” you complain, shifting dramatically in your seat. The military jet vibrates jolts beneath you, as if it was retaliating against you for your grievances against it. The dumb thing is probably held together by duct tape and prayers. “Bucky’s fancy government privileges couldn’t get us a nicer ride or did he just not care because he didn’t have to fly on this death trap?” you gripe, hand clutching onto the thin fabric they had the nerve to call a seatbelt. 

“Could be worse,” Sam shouts over the loud engine, looking relaxed as ever, much to your chagrin. “You could be strapped to the outside,” he teases. 

“That an option?” Joaquin grumbles, but it cuts through the noise loud and clear. His gaze is focused on the tablet resting on his thigh, but the implication of his words, and who they were directed at, was not lost on you. 

You roll your eyes, but choose to bite your tongue. This bumpy plane ride was already giving you enough heart palpitations, the last thing you want to do is concern yourself where Joaquin Torres is involved.  

Beside you, Bob sits rigid, hands tightly clasped between his knees with his gaze solely on the metal floor beneath him. His heel is tapping a nervous, rhythmic pattern and you’re not sure if it’s the ride from hell that’s getting to him or the mission ahead. 

Leaning in, you murmur against his ear, “You okay?” A sense of deja vu hits you. It seems like that’s the question always being asked between you and Bob.

His eyes snap towards you, and for a split second his expression wobbles, like he wanted to hide the fear on his face but he wasn’t quite strong enough to do it. It makes your heart ache. Patiently, you wait for his answer. 

“I, um…I just. I haven’t seen him,” he nods awkwardly, “In years. It’s been years, and…” 

“You don’t know what you’re walking into?” you gently offer. 

Bob looks up at you, nodding in appreciation. “Yeah.” He averts his gaze, biting his lip as he admits, “He was nice before. Well, as nice as someone like that could be, I guess.” 

“So…not the kind of guy that the government has to chase through multiple states?”

He laughs at that, “No. He was a lot of things, but…not this.” 

After that, the two of you settle into a strained silence. You wish that there was more you could say, something perfect that might fix the distress that sits so clearly on Bob’s chest, but you can’t. 

You’ve never really had a way with words. 

Eyes flickering over to Joaquin, your heart sinks. 

Across the aisle, Joaquin shifts, leaning his head back with his eyes closed. His head rests against the wall of the plane, exposing the smooth skin of his neck. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and you find yourself having to gulp yourself.

It’s so, impossibly evil—how attractive you still find him despite the fact that he hasn’t even spared you a glance in weeks.

Your eyes shamelessly trail the sharp of his jawline, the one he so infuriatingly keeps clenching around you. It falls to the soft supple skin of his neck, the same territory you’ve familiarized yourself with again and again and your mind grows hazy from the flashbacks. Your gaze slowly makes its way up to his strong nose and your finger twitches with the need to trace it, and just when you’ve begun to admire his long lashes—

Tug. 

The abrupt interruption has you jumping, head whipping over to a timidly smiling Bob, whose brows were raised in blatant disbelief. 

You flush, cheeks growing rather warm at being caught in such a compromising position. Sinking deeper into the uncomfortable seat, you groan. This plane ride is really going to be the death of you. 

-

“Ugh,” you huff, foot sinking into the mushy mud beneath you. Fists clenched at your side, your teeth grit as you hold back another complaint. You were starting to get underneath everyone’s skin—you’re socially aware enough to know that much—but you don’t have enough self control to not bitch and moan. 

You can’t help it. You’re uncomfortable. And sticky. 

The Missouri Backwoods are disgustingly humid and you’ve been trekking through them for the better half of two hours with no definitive lead. It’s exhausting. 

Normally, you’d be a much better sport. You’re a combat field operative for Captain America for God’s sake; you’re trained well enough to hold your own. The real reason you’re being so miserable was not just because mosquitos the side of your fist are tearing up your ankles. 

Remembering the truth behind your sour mood makes you pause, eyes landing on the strong, rippled back in front of you. 

The way he managed to make a sweaty, fitted green military tee look like a five course meal should be illegal. Forget the psycho you’re after, someone throw Torres in a jail cell now before you lose your mind. 

The two of you had just landed back in Washington before Bucky called Sam (ergo calling you). The most you had was one much needed shower and approximately six hours bundled in your own comforter before you were dragged back to work. Talking to Joaquin wasn’t even an option, even if you wanted it to be. 

Though, realistically, even if you had the time, you’re not sure if anything would have been said. You don’t know what you were hoping for, honestly. After all, you and Joaquin swore that what happened in Arizona “changes nothing.” 

What a man of his word, he was.  

You scoff out loud.

It draws the attention of Bob, who looks over at you with a curious glance, and you jerk your head away from his gaze, embarrassed by the idea of being caught thinking about something Joaquin-related again. 

Tentatively, you sneak a gaze back to Bob to ensure his attention is facing forward once more before moving your eyes to Joaquin again. Striding ahead, he moves with purpose—like someone whose limbs aren’t aching and eyes aren't burning from lack of sleep.

He doesn’t look back. Of course he doesn’t look back. Joaquin Torres would be nothing if he wasn’t someone who couldn’t compartmentalize you into a neat, inconvenient little box. Which was fine at first, when the same could be said for you about him.

But that was at first. 

And like you admitted to him the night before everything went sideways…you bit off more than you can chew. 

Drunken nights and post mission celebrations turned into more, and much to your absolute horror, you actually started to like him in a way that was deeper than pure chemical attraction, more than just as a body to keep your bed warm at night. The thought makes your stomach twists painfully, and just when you’re about to expel another dreaded sigh—

Sam raises a closed fist, signaling everyone to slow. “The last thermal reading is here.” 

You glance around, met with nothing but trees and buzzing insects. Wiping at your cheek, you brush away moisture that you’re unsure is sweat or the air itself sticking to your face. Whatever lingering thoughts you had on your pathetic love life evaporated as soon as Sam snapped you back to the reality of where you are. 

Joaquin hums under his breath, “Drone picked up some body heat in this area about forty minutes ago.” He taps the tablet. “But nothing within a ten mile radius other than small animals now. Definitely no heat signature big enough for a super human.” 

“Great,” you mumble, kicking a small rock underneath your foot. “We just hiked through the Amazon’s redneck cousin for a ghost.” 

Sam shoots you a warning look over his shoulder. It’s not like he was particularly thrilled about it either—someone’s gotten particularly comfortable with flying instead, but that was an immediate no-go once you guys landed in this thick, dense blanket of trees. The only difference between you and Sam is that he hasn’t been constantly complaining about it.

“It wasn’t a glitch,” Joaquin continues, easily breezing over your words as though you hadn’t spoken up at all. “Somebody was definitely here.” 

“But they’re not anymore,” Bob says quietly to verbally accept the results of tonight.  

Everyone pauses, taking a minute to collect themselves after the strenuous effort it took to get here just to find nothing. 

Taking a deep breath, you work on gathering your own thoughts. “Alright,” you start, eyes closed as your brows furrow to take in the bad news. “Let’s think about this. We know that he broke out of Everford two weeks ago with nothing but the clothes on his back. Like, quite literally broke down the door and ran. Science experiment gone wrong. Superhuman strength. Weirdly enough, not a first for us,” you shrug at Sam and Joaquin, who just nod in agreement.

You pause to look around, squinting through the canopy of trees as if it might give you a clue before continuing on your verbal puzzle. “So far he’s had minimal contact with the public, opting for back alley rivers and swamp trails instead,” you describe with distaste. “So we know his goal isn’t to hurt people.” 

Gesturing at your surroundings, you continue to hypothesize, “He has no supply chain. No contacts. No tactical equipment. What the hell is his plan, what are we missing?”

Joaquin shifts his weight, propping one knee as he takes in your words. “To not get caught by the government, probably.”

You send him a deadpan look, not even having the energy to sarcastically thank him for pointing out the exceedingly obvious. 

“He’s probably just scared.” Bob interjects, voice soft but certain. When all attention turns to him, he shuffles uncomfortably. Swallowing, he states, “I don’t…think he’s trying to be strategic. He’s just running to survive.” Bob looks away, staring off into the distance, as if he can see the man you’re after, escaping through these very trees. “Running from something he doesn’t understand.” When he looks back at your trio and sees everyone staring at him, he quickly tacts on with bumbling words, “Probably. I don’t—I don’t know. I’m just guessing.” 

Everyone goes quiet, and something like sympathy twinges in the thick, humid air. 

You may have only just met Bob, but something about his comment is so exceedingly him. It doesn’t surprise you in the slightest, that out of you four, Bob would be the one to empathize with a man on the run. The crazy scientist injected himself with some basement kit made serum and turned into an anomaly, but Bob can see past that.

You don’t have the heart to tell him that the man he knew all those years ago likely doesn’t exist anymore, that whoever he was then and whatever he’s become now are so entirely different that Bob’s memories of the scientist have become just that: memories. Still, you shrug, offering with as much kindness as you can, “Maybe.”  

Looking back at you, Bob offers you a quirk of his lips that’s not much more than a strained grimace, seeing through your very poor attempt at humoring his theory. 

A beat passes, and you turn just in time to see something in Joaquin’s expression flickers. He masks it as soon as it flashes across his face, instead choosing to turn his tablet towards the three of you before outlining your target the same way you were. “Everytime we get close, he disappears into terrain no normal human can get through. Marshes, storm drains, flooded creeks.”

“Yeah, but he’s not normal.” It slips past your lips before you mean for it to, and you guiltily shoot your eyes over to Bob. 

Joaquin narrows his eyes at you, lips parting to expel what you have no doubt is some sassy remark, but Sam chimes in before he has the chance to. 

“Bob’s right. He seems desperate,” Sam states simply. You tilt your head to the side a bit—not exactly what Bob meant, but sure. “Mercer’s managed to survive this long. We can only assume that whatever he juiced himself up with can be thanked for that.” 

Everyone falls silent at the horrendous realization. It was a blatant reminder that you truly have no idea what you’re dealing with.

Looking upwards at the treetops, Joaquin announces with a defeated sigh. “There’s maybe twenty minutes of sunlight left until we’re hiking in pitch black.” 

“I am not navigating this death zone by a battery operated flashlight. Some of us aren’t making it out of here if a bear decides it wants to hunt them for dinner because—” you snap a look over at Bob, “—some of us don’t have superpowers.” 

He gives you a sheepish smile at that, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “I’d at least try to save you.” 

Sam lets out a laugh, “Man, so forget the rest of us then, right?” 

“You guys can fly,” you state plainly, defending Bob in a light hearted manner. 

“So can Bob, technically” Sam raises a brow. 

“Exactly, and he’s the only one who offered to heroically save my life,” you smirk, satisfied with your line of reasoning. Though light is limited, you can feel Bob getting redder with every passing second. “Isn’t that right, Bob?” It was just too easy not to mess with him.

Just as Sam parts his lips to offer a retort, Joaquin cuts him off.  “Let’s fall back,” he proposes, loudly, effectively bringing a halt to the conversation in a way that makes you roll your eyes. 

Someone obviously isn’t in a joking mood. 

Conceding to him, Sam lets out a long and resigned exhale, any sense of humor dissipating. “Yeah, alright. There’s a town a ways over. If we move fast we can make it before sundown.” 

That was all it took for everyone to fall in, trudging along without so much as another word. 

-

If misery had a Yelp page, this place would have five stars. 

From the peeling wallpaper that looks like it was last updated in the 70s to the fluorescent light that hummed quietly overhead like a white noise machine, you really have no choice but to rank this as one of the most bottom tier accommodations you’ve been forced into for a mission. 

Feet digging into the carpet, you grimace at how stained it was. Even the air smelled stale; it’s incredible how they’ve managed to accomplish that.  

Sam had left the three of you to idle in the dingy motel lobby while he walked up to the front desk to work on room arrangements, and to say the silence that fell over you was uncomfortable was a sheerly gross underestimate. 

Still, you were too exhausted to care. For a second, you even considered collapsing into one of the armchairs they had set on the floor, but upon second glance at the mysterious brown splotches and fabric so faded you’re sure it was manufactured before you were born, you decided to pass. Just when you were contemplating what diseases you’d contract if you sunk into the carpeted floor, Sam comes back holding two keys. 

“They’ve only got two rooms left,” he announces. 

You blink. Surely the exhaustion of today’s events has you mishearing things. “...Two?” 

From her place at the front desk, the older woman smacks her gum slowly and obnoxiously loud, as if daring one of you to say anything about it. 

“They can’t possibly be booked out, Sam.” You argue. “Seriously,” you wave your arms around. “Look where we are.” 

Turning back to look at the receptionist, your group watches as she files her nails. Not even bothering to spare your foursome a glance, she calls out, “Like I told him. Convention in town.” 

“For what?” Joaquin retaliates, the long day leaving his patience thin, too. 

Lazily, she glances over at him. With pursed lips, she looks at all of you impassively, “Tractors.”

“Oh my God,” your head falls into your hands. 

“You heard the lady,” Sam looks back at your rag-tag team. “We got a room with one bed and the other has two. So I—” he exaggerates, before tucking one key into his jacket pocket, “—will be in Room 6. Which leaves you three—” he slaps the remaining key into Joaquin’s hand, “—in Room 7. Good luck and goodnight.” 

It’s the last thing he offers before he starts breezes past you.

“Sam, wait, which room are you—” Joaquin shouts after him, only for Sam to hastily skittish out the doors, backpack on his shoulders as he exits through the lobby doors and toward the hall of rooms. With his actions speaking louder than any words could, Joaquin raises his arms outwards before dropping them against his thighs with a resounding clap, yelling after Sam. “Come on, bro! There’s no way!”

When Sam doesn’t bother to even glance back at your trio, Joaquin lets out a defeated sigh. Turning back, he offers you and Bob a quick glance before his eyes drops down to the brass key in the palm of his hand. 

Silence.

Bob clears his throat and shuffles awkwardly on his feet. 

You can’t help but react similarly, scratching your elbow as you direct your gaze toward an ugly painting hanging on the wall. 

“Well,” Bob starts, brave enough to speak up first in his particularly humiliating situation. His lips roll inward as he offers a thinly amused smile, “Who’s ready to test the limits of human patience in a 200 square feet motel?”

No one attempts to answer Bob’s rhetorical question.

It’s the last of your exchange before the three of you wordlessly drag yourselves down the dim hallway. The patterned carpet crunching unpleasantly beneath your muddied boots like it’s been bathed in soda for several decades. Room 7 isn’t a far walk, as the motel itself isn’t exactly a grand resort. You do have to fight the urge to break down Sam’s door when you hear him snickering as you pass Room 6, though. 

Joaquin unlocks your door with a sigh before pushing it open, but he stands in the hallway to let you and Bob in first. 

Bob steps to the side, gesturing for you to enter the room. 

With tentative steps, you move forward.

The room is…fine. A simple room with two beds, the space filled with a boxy old TV sitting atop a rickety dresser. There’s a door to your right and you’d bet all your cash that it leads to some cramped, questionable bathroom with awful yellow lighting.

You walk further in, instinctively drawing the curtains shut and flickering on all the lights possible. Amidst your inspection, the sound of the door locking and the chain sliding into place is the only other noise that fills the room and you know without looking that it’s Joaquin’s doing. You can’t help the huff of air that leaves your nose - such a well oiled machine, the two of you. 

Once again it’s Bob who speaks up to break the tension. “Um,” he starts quietly, lifting a hand as though you were in a classroom, “I don’t mind the floor.”

Your head snaps toward him. “What? No. You’re not sleeping on the floor.”

He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “I mean, I’d probably be fine. I don’t…sleep much anyway.”

You exchange a look with Joaquin, and the two of you share some silent agreement that the man’s been through enough trauma as is and should definitely not be relegated to beige motel carpeting that smells faintly like cigarettes.

“No,” Joaquin says firmly. “Two beds, three people. We’ll figure it out.”

Bob smiles softly, appreciative and a little shy, and sets his duffel down near the foot of one of the unclaimed mattresses. 

You toe off your boots and shrug off your bag, kicking them into one corner of the room without much care before testing out one of the mattresses with a cautious press of your palm. You shrug to yourself before turning back to look at the boys, who were already looking at you. “It could be worse.” 

Joaquin lets out something that was almost a laugh. Almost. You try not to think so hard about the way your heart skips a beat at the sound of it. Then, matching your own movements, he kicks off his own boots into the corner near the door before shrugging off his backpack and dropping it at his feet with a loud thud. Shrugging off his jacket, he flings it onto the dresser carelessly.  

Between the two of you, Bob just sits tentatively on the edge of the mattress that holds his duffel. 

Clearing your throat, you finally concede and bite the bullet everyone has been deeply dreading. “Okay, so…logically, two people on one bed and one person on the other.” 

Joaquin crosses his arm as he stands by the door and his biceps flex in a way that makes your mouth run dry, “Yeah.” 

You force your eyes away from the way they strain against the sleeve of his shirt. Gaze flickering between the two men, you start to propose, “So…you two could just…”

Before you even finish that sentence, Joaquin and Bob’s heads turn sharply towards one another. They share a look. 

One that’s immediate. 

One that screams that’s absolutely not happening. 

Bob’s eyebrows jump somewhere toward his hairline. “Oh! Actually…I really don’t mind the floor—”

Joaquin’s arms drop, hands starting to gesture as he half-heartedly explains, “I mean, the beds are pretty small. I don’t know. Just, I don’t think we’d fit—”

Your own sentence dies on your lips as the two of them overlap one another, eyes rolling at their childish behavior. “Alright,” you draw out. 

The humor in your chest dies as quick as it flickers, though, because now…that only leaves you two options. 

Your eyes slide over to Joaquin, who’s already looking at you. Humor in his eyes slowly shifts into something stormier, boring into your face as if he was trying to read you. You scan his features, trying to make something out of it yourself, only to be met with stoicism. Whatever amusement he found in sharing a bed with Bob was squarely gone as he expressionlessly stares at you in expectation, like you’re the one who holds all the power here.

God, since when was reading him so hard? It makes your stomach churn in a way that almost hurts, and you can’t help the frown that makes its way onto your face as you look at him. Quickly, you avert your eyes. 

You’re not used to doing this with Joaquin. 

It was always so easy before, back when the two of you were first introduced and you joined Sam’s team. Back when Joaquin Torres was just sunlight in human form to you. The worst parts of you start to ache, missing the way he used to smile at you and he’d crack jokes through the comms like you weren’t about to jump face first into the worst dangers. 

He was someone who made everything so simple. 

He was someone who was effortless to like. 

You swallow a bitter taste in your mouth, still not brave enough to look back at him. Joaquin is someone who’s so easy to understand when you’re not on the receiving end of his ire. But now the distance between the two of you was impossible to cross. 

Still, you know his heart hasn’t changed. You just wish he’d open it to you again. 

“I’m g’nna hit the showers.” Joaquin announces, voice tight. 

It snaps you out of your daze, blinking rapidly. You avert your eyes away from Bob, who accidentally became the victim of your stare as you daydreamed. That’s the third time Bob’s been tangled up in your Joaquin-induced trance today alone (not that he really noticed the latter two times), but you offer him a small apologetic smile anyways. 

He returns the smile—tentative, and a bit confused, but still kind in a way that makes you feel guilty for dragging him into the crossfire of whatever you and Joaquin are. Or…aren’t, you suppose. 

From across the room, Joaquin makes more noise than you think is necessary. Rustling through his backpack, he quickly pulls out clean clothes and hygiene supplies before striding into the bathroom and slamming the door shut so loudly it rattles the fragile infrastructure of the place. 

It’s as if he couldn’t get away from you sooner, as if the idea of sleeping beside you was so awful that he had to run away from you. Again. 

You huff, rubbing your eyes tiredly.

The tension doesn’t leave with Joaquin. If anything, it thickens, settling over the room like another layer of motel dust. 

You sit on the edge of the bed beside Bob and another sigh escapes before you can stop it. Next to you, Bob hovers for a second. He’s awkward and very unsure, as he usually is. The foot of space between the two of you doesn’t do a great job at hiding Bob’s nerves. 

He glances at the bathroom door before quickly looking back at you. Quietly, Bob asks with furrowed brows. “Is he…still mad?”

The confession about what happened between you and Joaquin came about three days after you first met Bob. One late night at the Watchtower going through piles of data and a plate of leftover lasagna that Bob made for dinner was all it took to have you unraveling. 

Technically, Bob had been the one to initiate it; you imagine that it’s easy to be perceptive when you spend most of your time silently watching others as Bob often finds himself doing. So when he asked you what the deal was between you and Joaquin and why it was so damn uncomfortable every time the two of you were in the same room—you cracked. 

You let out a small sigh, “Joaquin’s…complicated.”

Bob thinks about it for a moment. Then, with all the soft earnestness in the world, he asks, “...Is it something I did?”

You blink, stunned for half of a second, before you let a laugh escape. “No, Bob, trust me. It’s not you.” Your eyes glance over at the bathroom door, silently listening to the loud pattering of the water running. Biting your lip to stop them from trembling, you softly admit: “It’s me.” 

-

You let out a soft groan as you stretch awake, yawning as your mind quickly works to pull you out of your sleep induced haze. Peering past Bob curiously, you frown when catching sight of an empty bed with nothing but the crumpled motel blanket and rustled pillows. 

Joaquin is already gone. 

There wasn’t much of a discussion last night after Joaquin took the first shower. The exhaustion had gotten to everyone, and physical fatigue had overcome emotional turbulence, forcing you all to just do what needed to be done to get to bed. All anyone cared about was getting clean and into comfortable clothes. Bob had been courteous enough to let you shower next, and it wasn’t as if you could go sit with Joaquin on his bed while Bob was busy scrubbing the grime and dirt out of his hair. 

So…you opted for the empty bed. Which quickly became not empty once Bob came out. 

The pillow barrier he had politely placed between the two of you was sweet, even though it now lays abandoned on the floor. You’d try to tell him it wasn’t necessary, but Bob insisted anyway. 

Beside you now, he lays still, fast asleep. Curled toward you on his side with one arm tucked under his pillow, Bob looks the most peaceful you’ve ever seen him. His breaths come out soft and steady, and you have to bite back a smile at how endearing he looks like this. Unburdened. 

Glancing toward the pillow on the floor, you sigh quietly through your nose. Bob had been apologetic almost, ears blushing faintly red as he placed it between the two of you. 

It’s all but dramatically discarded now—intentionally abandoned through the throes of sleep or by gravity naturally, you’re not sure, and against your better judgement, your thoughts flicker to Joaquin. 

Your mind flashes with the way he looked last night when he realized you and Bob would be sharing a bed. You may have imagined it. You probably did imagine it. But when Bob came out of that small bathroom, steam trailing behind him in a curl of smoke, and he took a seat at the edge of your bed while towel drying his hair…you could’ve sworn. 

You glanced over at Joaquin, morbidly curious and masochistically hoping for some kind of reaction. He froze. For a fraction of a second, something had flickered in his eye like he was reading too far into the space between you and Bob. His lip had twitched, as if about to form a scowl, and his brows had dipped, just a fraction of a centimeter. Joaquin’s eyes had flickered over to you, and you caught his gaze, unbashful in your staring due to exhaustion hazing your judgement. There was a moment, just a fraction of a moment, where it looked like he would actually say something. 

But it disappeared. 

And Joaquin parted his lips just to call out a strained goodnight to you both before laying down and tugging the blanket over his head as he turned to face the wall, away from you. 

Quiet rustling has you snapping out of your flashback, and your eyes rest on Bob again. The faint smell of motel soap is clinging to his skin, probably in the same way it’s clinging to yours. His hair is still damp from when he went to bed, and now curls slightly towards the ends. Not a deep of a curl as Joaquin’s—

You grit your teeth in frustration. 

Just as you’re about to chastise yourself for your constant delusion, Bob shifts slightly, breath catching before his fingers brush against your forearm in the smallest unconscious movement. It makes you feel bad about having to wake him. 

Still, the morning’s been long enough for you, and you still have a job to do. 

Reaching over, your hand lands on his warm bicep, squeezing slightly. “Hey,” you whisper, “Time to get up.” 

He blinks awake slowly, soft and harmless, before looking up at you with a sleepy smile. 

Morning affairs move as quickly as the two of you can manage, and by time you both got ready for the day, got all your things packed, and stepped outside, Sam and Joaquin were already in an intense deliberation in the parking lot. Though, intense might be an understatement. 

You and Bob surely couldn’t have slept in for that long, rays of sun were barely starting to peak through the horizon. Something must have gotten Joaquin riled up, quick. 

His shoulders are coiled tight, brows furrowed as he speaks rapidly. His hands wave animatedly, and you can’t help but trail along the vein on the back of his hand towards his long nimble fingers. Even though his head is tilted, eyeline landing below the brim of his cap, you could feel the conflict brewing in his eyes. 

You’re not close enough to hear words, but their tone certainly carries through the pavement and across the parking lot that’s made up of exactly one rusted pick up truck, your rental vehicle, and a vending machine that hums loudly in the corner. Tractor convention your ass. Their conversation floats, with Joaquin frustrated and Sam patient. 

But by the time you and Bob step up to them, the conversation snaps shut. 

Despite the thin fog and slightly chilly morning setting quite an ambient mood, Sam turns and flashes the two of you the biggest grin you’d ever seen. “Well how did you two sleep?” 

Bob, ever polite, nodded at him. “Really well, actually. Thanks.” 

Before you can ask the two of them what was going on, the lights on the car flash and a loud beep fills the air as Sam unlocks the doors.  “That’s great, Bob.” He acknowledges him before turning to Joaquin with the same, wide smile, “Breakfast anyone?”

The younger hero just looks away.

-

The four of you manage to squeeze into a corner booth at the back of the diner. Early morning sunlight filtered weakly through the large windows. Thankfully, the only other patrons were a couple of long haul truckers who were nursing black coffees and a waitress who looked like this shift would be the one to do her in.

“So what’s the plan?” Joaquin asked around a mouthful of pancakes and sausage. It should be disgusting. It is disgusting. But stupidly enough, you find it awfully charming in a way that makes you frustrated with yourself. 

Bob traces the rim of his tea mug. “Are we going back to New York now?” He’s hardly touched his own stack of pancakes, and you briefly wondered if he’d let you have a bite. 

“I don’t know,” you shake your head, fork reaching over to tear a piece of blueberry pancake before even asking. Not that he cares. Bob pushes the plate closer to you and you flash him a cheeky, grateful smile. “It feels like a waste of a trip,” you continue, “He might still be in Missouri.”

“I agree,” Sam added. 

You glance at him when he replies to you and almost miss the way he elbows Joaquin in his side. When you look over, Joaquin’s eyes meet yours for a split of a second. Just barely, like you were one second too late, before they snap down to his own pancakes which he’d suddenly abandoned.

Your brows furrow, curious, but Sam moves forward quickly, leaving you no time to analyze. “We should try to stay close to him. Flying back to New York and waiting for his next move will just get us further, not closer.” 

Bob exhaled, slow and tolerant. “Another night in that motel. Fun.” 

Bumping his shoulder, you ask half-jokingly, “Bet you wish you were with your actual team in Lithuania right about now, huh?”

He huffs out a chuckle, before responding with equal sarcasm, “And miss out on the great state of Missouri with you? Not a chance.”

You both knew it was a cover—humor, thinly masking the fear twisting in Bob’s stomach about facing Dr. Mercer again. It was the most support you could offer, and selfishly, trying to help Bob feel better gave you something to distract yourself from your own personal dilemmas. You could only hope it’s actually doing something to make Bob feel better. 

“Alright,” Sam says, pushing his empty plate aside. “Let’s regroup. Chat up some locals, maybe someone’s seen something.” 

When your face twists into a scrunch of hesitation, Sam quickly assuages your concerns. “I know,” he admits, “He’s been evading public spaces. But who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky.” 

“Why don’t we split up?” Joaquin chimes in to suggest. “Maybe some of us should look at the forest trail again, he might’ve left something behind yesterday that we missed.”

Sam perks up at the idea, turning slowly to Joaquin with a sly grin, “That is a great idea.” When his eyes glance towards you, your stomach sinks in anticipation. “Why don’t you two go together?” Sam suggests, tone light and casual, though you can deduct that it’s anything but. “Bob and I will hit up the locals.”

You don’t dare to look at Joaquin. 

You don’t have to. 

The tension in the booth shifting tells you everything that you need to know.

-

The woods are quieter than what you remember from yesterday. You wish you could blame it on the late morning, with the sun just beginning to cut through the canopy in thin, uneven ribbons, but you know it has nothing to do with the time and everything to do with your company for the day. 

Damp leaves cling to your dirty boots as you follow Joaquin along the narrow trail. It’s obnoxious how considerate he was being despite everything, going out of his way to hold large branches and wave giant spiderwebs out of your way as you cross. 

His kind actions were a sharp contrast to his words. Which, namely, were none. It infuriates you how easily he avoids your gaze and commits the two of you to silence whilst playing the gentlemanly role that he self-committed to. 

It’s about twenty minutes into your stifling tranquility before Joaquin manages to say his first words to you. “Watch out for that poison ivy.” 

You grind your teeth. God, he’s so frustrating! You step over the batch that you saw long before he commented on it without a word before following him over a rotting log. 

Stupid Sam and his stupid idea to pair the two of you up. 

A sharp huff is exhaled through your nose, fist clenching at your sides. You’re clearly projecting because, technically, it’s not a new idea. The two of you have been partners for the better part of some years now, but you know that Sam knows that you and Joaquin are not on speaking terms right now, so…Sam’s in the wrong. Figure that mental puzzle out. 

It’s defensive of you, you’re well aware, to morph your deep sense of embarrassment into anger towards Joaquin. Despite that, you don’t intend on changing your behavior. There was only so much patience you could practice before you started to retaliate against Joaquin in your own way. 

You were about halfway through your list of ways you could incapacitate him and leave him in the woods by his lonesome when the sound of Joaquin’s throat clearing snaps you out of your daydream. 

“I asked Sam to pair us up today,” Joaquin says without looking back. When your eyes furrow in confusion, he rushes to continue, as if he could feel how your gaze changed behind him. “This morning. Before breakfast.”

The confession makes you recoil in surprise, brows furrowing. Stupidly, your body reacts before you can stop it and your heartbeat stumbles in your chest, filling with something silly like hope. 

“Oh…?” It comes out like a question, and you wince at how uncomfortable it sounds. 

“Yeah,” Joaquin replies, equally as awkwardly. “I just,” he kicks a wooden stick out of your path, “I figured we’d have to learn to work together again eventually. It shouldn’t be weird forever, right?” 

Oh. 

Whatever expectations you conjured were squashed as rapidly as they appeared. You quickly swallow your own words about the annoyance of Joaquin’s silence, because you certainly felt a lot better stewing in your anger and being left in the unknown.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you wet your lips before letting out a quick, forcefully light-hearted, “Yeah.” 

You hate how small your voice feels, but there isn’t enough gusto in your spirit to rectify it, not when Joaquin’s so casually slid a knife right between your ribs. 

The two of you continue down the path in tense silence again after that. There was no other invitation for conversation, not when his words are weighing so heavy on your shoulder. You wonder if this was Joaquin’s way of saying this was it between the two of you. That whatever existed between you—whatever you had clung to in plain, stupid optimism—it all lands squarely in Joaquin’s past. 

You picture him pushing all of it—all your almosts, the heated moments after missions, the quiet confession in the dark of his room—into a neat little box to the back of his brain just to gather dust. 

Maybe you deserve it. It’s your own fault, after all, for being the idiot that wants anything more than what you both silently agreed to. 

Still. You wish it would hurt a little less. 

Only two minutes pass before Joaquin speaks up again. “For what it’s worth…” you hear him swallow. “I wasn’t trying to make things weird.” 

For a second, something in your heart aches. Because of course he wasn’t. Everything about this was cruel, but Joaquin wasn’t purposely trying to be. He never is. Still, you can’t help the small humorless laugh that escapes. 

“‘Weird’?” you quote sarcastically before pushing past him. “Why would it be weird?” 

It takes annoyingly little effort for Joaquin to catch up to you, his shoulders brushing yours as he falls into step next to you. “Don’t be like that. I just want us to be functional again.” 

“Well. You’re doing a great job,” you sarcastically applaud. Whatever walls Joaquin managed to tear down while in between your sheets those few weeks ago were slowly coming right back up. 

You feel his shoulders tense beside you before he glances over, briefly, just enough for you to see the frown on his face before he turns back around. “That’s not—” he huffs. Joaquin drags a hand through his hair before it falls back down in anger. “That’s not fair.”

You stop dead in your tracks, whipping over to stare directly at him. Fist clenched tightly by your side, you tilt your head toward him with narrowed eyes. Your voice is deep, filled with rage as you seethe. “‘Fair’?” 

The nerve of him! You can’t tell if it’s the frustration, hurt, or humiliation boiling under your skin that makes you ball your hands into fists at your side. You put yourself out there, made yourself vulnerable in more ways than one, and now he’s standing in front of you, telling you that you’re not being “fair”?

You step forward until you’re toe to toe with him. Pressing a stern finger into his chest, you declare to him. “You don’t get to say that! You shut me out.” 

Joaquin freezes, stumbling back for the briefest of seconds before quickly recovering, as if it was the surprise of it all that had him tripping over himself and not the pressure from your push. That only made you more annoyed. Shoulders squaring, he steadies himself, keeping the two of you toe to toe. 

Undeterred, you stay rooted where you stand, looking up at him defiantly with a glare on your face. 

When he finally manages to reach your eyes again, his jaw is clenched. For a moment, neither of you say anything. All he does is look—at the finger you have pressed against his chest to the frown on your face—Joaquin just stares. It shouldn’t make you angrier, but it does, his silence. 

Still, you don’t back down. Your pride is getting the better of you, and you don’t know truly what you two are standing off for, but you’d be damned if you stepped away first.

When Joaquin continues standing there saying nothing, you can’t help the way you grind your teeth together. 

It’s too much. You drop your hand with a frustrated huff when—

Warm, strong fingers grasp your wrist in a flash. 

Your breath gets stuck somewhere in your throat when Joaquin holds you in place. Glare faltering, your expression morphs into something softer when he slowly, deliberately, loosens curls his fingers around your wrist. Not enough to let go. 

Firm.

Just enough to keep your hand pinned to his chest. 

“God, you don’t make anything easy.” He finally speaks, controlled through grit teeth. The words hit harder than you expect, and your chest tightens the same way his grip on your wrist suddenly does. “I know I’m not handling this the way you want,” Joaquin continues, slower and much more careful this time. 

Your heart is in your throat when his thumb lightly traces over the side of your wrist. His eyes are downcast now, and he ducks his head, lips almost brushing against your skin and you feel him breath the words, aching and soft, “But I’m trying.”

Trying. 

You swallow, pride evaporating into the dense forest air. His touch is familiar in a way that still knows exactly how to undo you. For one dangerous second, you almost let yourself believe him. Almost let yourself lean into the warmth of his grip, into the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your palm, into him. 

Almost. 

“You’re trying,” you echo quietly, eyes flickering up to his face. Your eyes meet him now, as he lifts his head high enough for you to see a sliver of warm, honey brown, just underneath the brim of his cap. The same eyes that always just look at you, never saying anything more, never saying what you need. 

Jaw clenching, you break your gaze away from him. Abruptly, you tug your wrist away from his hold. It’s sharp and jarring, like stepping off something solid you didn’t realize you were standing on. “I didn’t realize my feelings were something that needed to be ‘handled’.” 

His brows furrow immediately, “That’s not what I—” 

“Oh, no?” you snap, already turning away from him as you start down the trail again. Your boots crunch louder now, steps uneven, betraying how unsteady you feel. “Because from where I’m standing, it kind of sounds like you’re apologizing for how inconvenient this has been for you.” 

“That’s not what I said!” Joaquin says angrily, footsteps hurrying to catch up with you. You can hear it in his voice now—tight and strained—like it always gets when you’re in the field and he feels like he’s quickly losing control of a situation. Matching your pace, you feel his stare on the side of your face, hands waving as he shouts, “You’re doing it again—”

“What?” you cut in, voice raising despite wanting to remain cool in appearance. “Not being fair?”

“Yes!” Joaquin fires back, seething through grit teeth. He looks stunned, genuinely stunned, like he didn’t expect this to explode the way that it has. “You’re mad, I get that! But you’re the one who started talking to other—”

CRUNCH. 

The sound is sudden and unmistakable underneath his boot. You both come to a grinding halt. A hand swings over to steady you instinctively with an irritatingly protective touch. You slap him off of you, and he just looks over with his lips pressed in a thin line and eyes that are screaming at you to be cautious. Slowly, he lifts his foot and the two of you take a step back in sync.

Broken glass. 

Whatever Joaquin was about to say hangs unfinished between the two of you, swallowed by the quiet of the woods, heavy and unresolved as you both stand there, breathing hard like you’ve finally hit something neither of you knows how to navigate. 

Your pulse spikes for a different reason now as adrenaline climbs up your spine. 

Joaquin looks around carefully before pulling out his phone with stiff posture. He makes quick work before confirming in a low voice, “No thermal heat signatures.” Other than yours—you fill in the unsaid.

You nod. “Okay,” you let out quietly, eyes scanning your surroundings with the utmost surveillance, “That’s…good.” Your eyes look at the trees, every rustle and shifting shadow. You hate how aware you are of Joaquin beside you—of the calm, steady presence he always becomes in moments like this. You wish he didn’t make you feel so…safe. 

“Hold on,” Joquin starts before crouching low, inspecting a patch of disturbed soil with light fingers. “There’s footprints. Fresh ones.” 

You step closer towards him despite the warning nudge he gives you, a poor attempt at holding you back. “Are they human?” 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “But…the stride’s uneven. Like whoever left these were limping.”

“Or dragging something,” you pessimistically contribute, though you know that’s not something to be truly concerned with, as there were no other tracks to indicate such suspicions. Your stomach flips naturally in suspense, just for a second, but then…Joaquin stands and takes a step back, invading your space much closer than necessary. You don’t know if it’s intentional, but soothes your worries regardless. “You think it's Mercer?” 

Joaquin nods once, eyes scanning the treeline with sharp, focused eyes that you’ve seen more times than you can count on the field. He’s focused. Closed off. Wearing that same look that he always has on missions—one that leaves no room for anything personal. “Probably.”

Without another word, the two of you begin to track the footprints left in the dirt, off of the pathway. 

The silence is different now. 

Wherever you and Joaquin were heading before this new development arose remains unsaid, placed on the backburner as the two of you try to shift into a more professional dynamic. But it lingers. Tight, coiled in suspense, because the two of you know that it doesn’t end here. Just on pause, because something more dangerous demands your attention. 

Work mode takes over, but the tension doesn’t disappear. It’s just waiting. 

-

Trailing the new set of footprints doesn’t take long, and it’s only a few minutes later when Joaquin stops abruptly. “There,” he points. 

Following his finger, your eyes find a structure half-hidden by overgrown vines. The wood looks like it’s been consumed entirely by moss. It holds up a collapsed tin roof and a door barely hanging on by its hinges. 

A shiver skims down your spine that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with intuition, a certainty that something behind that door will lead you to Mercer. 

The two of you exchange a wordless glance. 

Your steps are quick as you move in, Joaquin reaching the door first and shoving it open with a strong tug. The wood lets out a groan of warning as he swings it open, but the two of you heed it no mind as you disregard the large “NO TRESPASSING” sign. 

It’s the smell that hits you first. 

Rot, wet wood and old, rusty metal. It’s enough to make you recoil and enough to confirm that the place hasn’t been touched in years. But there’s something else, faint enough to go unnoticed by the untrained nose. But you’ve done this long enough to know better. The distinct scent of copper: fresh blood. 

You step in right after Joaquin, boots silent on the warped floorboards. You do your best to squint, forcing your eyes to adjust since the only light available were slivers of sunlight peaking in through the cracked wood walls. 

Click.

A faint yellow light fills the small shed. You turn to Joaquin on your left, and you catch him just as he’s lowering his hand. A singular camping lantern strung on top of the metal roof swings precariously from his disturbance from when he yanked the thin chain to turn it on. 

With the shed now dimly lit, the full state of the place becomes painfully clear. 

Shelves overturned. Wooden crates split open. Dust and dirt scraped aside in chaotic, uneven streaks. 

You hum, “Sam was right. Someone was definitely desperate.” You drag a finger across a shelf, frowning at the dust before rubbing your fingers together to flick it off. Eyes gazing through the small space, your head tilts curiously when you notice a trail of red dots. Few short steps lead you to a bench holding a first aid kit that’s been ripped wide open with its contents nearly empty. 

“Desperate and hurt apparently,” you whisper to yourself. Moving closer, you move carefully to not disturb whatever pattern the blood left behind. The kit’s metal hinges are twisted, like someone pried it open with more urgency than strength. Gauze wrappers are shredded, antiseptic bottles are drained, and bandage rolls are unraveled into sad, limp ribbons. “He was bleeding pretty bad,” you murmur absently. 

“Yeah,” Joaquin replies, from the other side of the shed. “But he treated it. At least, he tried to.” The last part is offhanded and you nod absentmindedly in agreement. This rinky old shed isn’t exactly a level five trauma center; there was only so much Mercer could do here.   

Your gaze drifts across the space again to find another bench on the far side where Joaquin was standing. Bypassing the dusty jars of mysterious liquid, boxes of unknown content, and fishing equipment that looks like it's been around longer than you have, you manage to find what Joaquin is referring to. A strip of several pieces of gauze lie crumpled in the corner near the wall. Some of them were heavily soaked in a dark liquid you can only assume is more blood. You continue observing, scanning across until you see other pieces, soaked but not fully saturated. Until you land on the last piece: clean. Only its edges speckled. 

You exhale through your nose. “With an injury like that, he can’t have gotten far.” 

Continuing to compartmentalize your findings, you continue around to seek for anything else disarranged. Other than some tools he knocked over, a stack of old magazines scattered out of place, and a box of bait, there was not much else to note. 

It seemed clear enough. Mercer tore through the place with one objective and ignored everything that wasn’t directly useful. 

Taking another step, your foot nudges something thin and shiny beneath an old box. Instinctively, you crouch down and pinch the corner, sliding it out with ease. You trace the piece of paper cautiously, delicately touching its waxy surface. 

A folded map. 

“Joaquin,” you call out. 

“What is it?” he crosses the room in two quick steps before he even finishes asking his question, beside you immediately with his posture alert. 

“Not sure.” Flipping the paper over, you notice how crisp it is. Other than some slight wrinkles from being handled, there were no untorn corners, no stains. Definitely not coated in the same dust that’s now in your lungs. 

This was recently dropped here.

You and Joaquin share a look, coming to an understanding. 

Joaquin’s eyes narrowly watch as you unfold it, and you smile in satisfaction when you realize your assumption was right. Light from the lantern sways, creating patterns over the highways, borders, city names until your eyes reach something. 

Your eyes start to scan the page before they automatically draw to a thick red circle carved around a single point with such force that the ink bleeds through the back. Large and unmistakable and so criminally-predictable in a way that almost makes you laugh, you stare at the giant clue Mercer left behind. Seems like the mad scientist tied up his end goal in a giant box and placed a shiny bow on top for you to find, and Missouri isn’t his last stop. 

You turn to Joaquin slowly, holding out the map. “He’s not running from us.”  

Joaquin exhales through his nose, slow and steady before lowly concluding with grim realization, “He’s running to something.” 

You can’t help the wide smile that makes its way on your face. It’s the first real lead you’ve had on the deranged scientist in weeks. “Looks like we’re checking out of that motel afterall.” 

-

The sound of gravel crunching underneath your feet starts long before you see Sam and Bob, the crumbly pavement of the street leading to the motel parking lot and excitement coursing through your veins makes it difficult for you to keep steady. 

You don’t look at Joaquin as you move, but you’re painfully aware of him anyway. His stride matches yours, close enough that you can feel the shift of air when he moves. It’s distracting. And irritating. But you force yourself the shove that thought aside, the excitement of moving forward with this godforsaken mission doing wonders to quell the nerves. 

When you round the metal gate, you find Sam leaning against your rental vehicle with his arms crossed and sunglasses perched on his nose in a way that makes him seem all-too casual. Strikingly contrasting him is Bob, who sits on the edge of the trunk with his shoulders hunched over, hands folded in his lap. 

“You were right,” Sam shouts from across the parking lot as the two of you approach. “Talking to the locals was a bust. No one’s seen or heard anything matching our guy.” 

Bob stands, hopping off of the trunk when the two of you had made it close enough. Relief brightens his features before he masks it with a small, polite smile. “You’re both safe,” he says gently. 

The knot wrapped so tightly around your chest loosens a bit. You offer him a small smile in thanks, his concern filling you with warmth despite the rest of the turmoil you feel. 

Turning to Sam, your adrenaline reasserts itself as you disclose what made you text the ‘911’ to meet back here. “We found something.” It comes out a little breathless from the brisk walk of anticipation you took. 

Sam’s brow raises, eyes sparkling in interest. You feel Joaquin shift beside you and you glance over just in time to catch the way his head tilts, sharp jaw clenching. 

“It’s a map,” Joaquin says, short and clipped. 

You don’t let his attitude deter you and the sound of rustling fills the air as you pull the piece of paper from your back pocket. As soon as you manage to unfold it, the sunlight disappears—Sam stepping closer, Bob leaning in, and Joaquin angling just enough that your shoulders almost brush. Your skin tightens at the proximity, bracing yourself for his touch in a way that you refuse to unpack right this moment.

“There was a shed,” you explain, words rushed. “Off the path we took. He was looking for medical supplies and dropped this.” 

Lifting the sunglasses from his face, Sam reads out-loud to himself, “El Paso, Texas?”

You nod excitedly. “El Paso, Texas.” Looking around, you note the lack of enthusiasm on everyone’s faces. The map slaps against your thigh in exasperation, “Guys, really? Nothing? If we leave now, maybe we can get there before Mercer. Come on, let’s hit the road.” 

You turn toward the car, already mentally calculating the drive time, contingencies, what you’ll do when you finally get him—

You only make it two steps towards the car before Sam’s spinning you back around to face everyone again. “Hold on, slow down.” He raises a hand in surrender, like he was declaring peace before you’ve even said a word. Flickering over to Bob and Joaquin first before he turns to you, Sam says with a sigh, “We need to think about this.” 

“What is there to think about?” you ask genuinely, confused by his interruption. 

Sam lets out a small chuckle, crossing his arm across his chest. “For one, how do we even know that the map is Mercer's?” 

You mirror his stance without thinking, arms folding tight in a similar manner. You don’t offer Sam a true answer, the deadpan look on your face does it for you. 

Rolling his eyes, Sam concedes with a half-smirk, “Alright, fair point. But even if that is his, there’s no way we make it there before he does. He’s had, what, a twelve hour head start?”  

“He was injured.” Joaquin chimes in with a short declaration. 

You point at him exaggeratedly, as if to say ‘exactly!’ without a word at all. “Who’s to say we can’t make up for lost time?” you state with raised brows. 

Sam raises his brows back, rocking on his heels. “Okay. Say we make it to El Paso. Then what?” He pauses for a split second, and you don’t even attempt to answer the clearly rhetorical question. “It’s a big city. Mercer’s proven that he can hide pretty damn well.” 

“We can figure it out once we’re there,” you argue in frustration, unable to comprehend Sam’s disagreement. “Like you said this morning, we should try to stay as close to him as we can.” Admittedly, Sam does have valid points, but it could all be resolved later, so long as you’re in the same city as the guy.

“It could be a trap,” he responds. “Maybe he dropped it on purpose, wanted us to find it.”

“I doubt it,” Joaquin steps forward, standing next to you in a way that was almost instinctive, but he stood far enough to signal just support, not personal alignment. “He was injured pretty bad. He’s erratic. I don’t think he’s thinking straight.” 

“You’re underestimating him. That’s a weak assumption,” Sam shakes his head. “We can’t speak to his sense of mind. With the super serum—”

“This is the only tangible piece of evidence we’ve found in weeks. We finally have something more than just catching a glimpse of this guy through some blurry CVV cam. Why are you so adamant against following this lead?” you push.

“I’m not saying I’m against it. We need to be logical, figure something out before we run to El Paso, guns blazing.” Sam retorts.

“I mean, it’s not really guns blazing if we take hours to get there,” Joaquin shrugs. 

Voices start to raise as you, Sam, and Joaquin all start to overlap one another. Contention about the next steps start to spill over, words stacking on top of each other until none of them mean anything at all. 

“It’s just a little bit reckless—” Sam starts.

The words were so eerily similar to what Joaquin said to your last mission, you can’t help but snap, “‘Reckless’? Really? Take that one from Joaquin, did you? This is bullshit, we can’t just sit here and wait idly for this guy—”

“Woah, what’s with the driveby?” Joaquin turns to you with a glare, “I’m on your side here—”

“We shouldn’t underestimate him, he might be smarter than we think—” Sam insists. 

Everyone continues to spiral, each sentence sharper than the last. The motel parking lot was already small in and of itself, but with the words that you throw at each other, it feels suffocating. Almost as if the open space isn’t able to hold it all. 

You grip the map in your hand, gesturing wildly as the paper crinkles under your grip. “This is so dumb! Let’s just go to Texas—”

“We will, I’m just saying let’s take a beat—”

“Come on, Sam. Do we really need to? This is the first time Mercer’s directly left us any sort of clue. I think we should go—” Joaquin prompts. 

“No, I don’t think—”

The map starts to tremble in your hand, though you don’t realize it until Joaquin reaches out, steadying your wrist. It has you swallowing your next words, hand dropping in defeat. Just when you start to turn your back, away from Sam and Joaquin, a quiet voice speaks up for the first time since the argument began. 

“I think we should go,” Bob whispers. 

The strife comes to an immediate halt. 

You turn back around to look at him. 

He stands a little apart from the rest of you now, seemingly rooted in the same spot as earlier whilst the three of you migrated away in the midst of your quarrel. Though he’s standing, Bob’s shoulders are still rounded, hands tucked into the sleeves of his jacket as if he was trying to make himself smaller. His voice wasn’t loud. You’re not sure Bob is even capable of being loud. But he cut through to all of you so clearly that all attention lies on him.

For a reason unbeknownst to you, Sam doesn’t seem to want to argue against Bob, leaving all three of you just watching him in silence, waiting for his next words. 

The parking lot still hums with distant traffic and the buzz of the vending machine, but none of it seems to touch this space that Bob’s carved out with just a single sentence. You scan his face, and though he doesn’t meet your eyes, you can see it: something heavy swimming inside them. 

You feel your grip on the map loosen as you wonder how long he’s been thinking about this before speaking up. 

Suddenly, the debate that was so heated feels smaller than it did before. 

“I think,” Bob starts before stopping himself, eyes squinting as though he recalled a bad memory. Shaking his head, he continues with more confidence. “I know why he’s in El Paso.” 

“How?” you’re the only one who dares to ask, gently, as you step closer to him.

Bob’s fingers tighten around his sleeve. For a second, you think he might shut down and retreat back into himself. 

But he doesn’t. 

Bob slowly exhales. Looking up, he meets your eyes as he admits. “He used to talk to me. At night. When he used to observe me he’d…ramble. There were these ideas that he just couldn’t let go of.” You watch as he swallows the lump in this throat, but he never looks away from you. “El Paso was one of those things.” 

You can hear Sam shift his weight from behind you, but he stays silent. Joaquin is impossible to miss, the way he’s watching your back instead of looking at Bob. Still, no one moves or speaks. 

“There was a lab there,” he continues. “It was his first one. Where he started—” Bob gestures awkwardly to himself, like he was making a poor attempt to bring humor to the situation, “—this whole experiment.” 

You part your lips, ready to offer some sense of comfort, but Bob strives forward before you can. 

“The antidote.” Bob clenches his jaw, snapping his gaze from you and choosing instead to look in the far distance. His arms wrap around himself as he finishes, “It’s there. I know it.” 

Everyone falls into complete silence. 

A car passes somewhere beyond the motel. 

The hallway light flickers. 

A soft breeze sweeps through the four of you. 

Sam lets out a long tired sigh. “Well why didn’t you just say so?”

-

The highway stretches out in front of you, long and dark. Its yellow lines blur together as mile after mile slips by. The dashboard clock glows, illuminating some ungodly hour of the night, and the inside of the car is dim except for the occasional wash of white from passing streetlights. 

No one said much after Bob’s grand reveal; everyone quietly slipping into the car without a word. It wasn’t out of anger, not at all, but truly because Bob’s confession left everyone’s minds reeling. There was just too much to think about—the reality of what’s in El Paso, the darkness of Bob’s backstory, all the unknown that’s waiting for you in this unregulated lab. 

It drained you so deeply that you didn’t have the strength to slip into that protector role for Bob. Though, you’re not sure he would even be receptive to it, with the way his face clouded and he tucked into himself the second he hit the backseat. 

Now, Joaquin’s hands are steady on the wheel and his stare is fixed solely ahead, which you only know by glancing at him through your peripherals. 

You don’t look for long. You think you’d die of mortification if he caught you actually staring. So, gaze averting, you look through the rearview mirror only to be met with Sam dead asleep in the back. Your lips press into a thin line, unamused by the way his head is tipped back against the window, mouth slightly open, one arm flung awkwardly across his chest. He looks ridiculously comfortable for someone who was putting up quite the commotion only hours prior. 

Somehow, Joaquin notices your look. 

For a second your heart lurches in your chest as you wonder if he’s going to say something about earlier, the almost argument. 

But he doesn’t. 

“It’s kind of impressive,” he starts, voice low as his eyes stay on the road. “Guy had an entire room to himself last night, probably got the best sleep out of all of us and somehow he still roped us into driving.” 

You snort before you can stop yourself. 

The sound feels strange—a bit too loud in the quiet car—and Joaquin’s eyes flicker towards you. Then a corner of his mouth lifts. It’s small. Careful. But it’s there. 

His words came at you in surprise, and his comment landed softer than you except. It was lighthearted, almost…casual. You can hear it in his voice, a careful balance he was treading, like if he said one word wrong, the two of you might go spiraling again. Joaquin is testing the waters with you. Reluctantly, you lean back in your seat, letting him. Like he said: he’s trying. Maybe you’ll let him.

A small pause follows.

Joaquin clears his throat as he shifts in his seat. 

The air between you now is certainly not uncomfortable, but it’s definitely uncertain. 

Matching his movements, you also shift in your seat again, pretending like you’re trying to settle when really you’re just moving around awkwardly. Looking away from Sam with a roll of your eyes before focusing on the crinkly plastic bag in your hand. The family sized bag of sour candy was quickly heading towards empty, much faster than you’d like to admit, and a flicker of hesitation flashes through you as you stare at the small, circular treats. 

Swallowing your nerve, you tilt the bag towards Joaquin in a silent offer. 

It feels strangely intimate for something so small, and for a split second you consider pulling back. 

He glances over at you when he catches your movements. 

Streetlight and starlight catch on the side of his face, softening the exhaustion etched there, and for a second, your breath catches in your throat. The harsh lines you’ve grown so used to seeing the past few weeks seem to melt away in the quiet. Dim lights smooth him out, turning him gentle again, the way you really remember him. 

You lick your lips when they suddenly feel much drier than they did before. It’s like this version of Joaquin only exists now, in this briefest of moments, when the world’s narrowed down to just the two of you in the front seat of this random car with nothing but the low whirl of road flashing by you. 

Joaquin’s lips curve into a small, crooked smile as he reaches into the bag, his fingers brushing against yours through the plastic in a way that makes your skin burn. 

It’s nothing. Barely even there. 

But still. It’s enough to send a quiet jolt up your spine.

“Thanks,” he quietly murmurs as he pulls out a handful. 

Instinctively, your brows furrow. “Take the whole damn bag, why don’t you?” 

Joaquin stares at you with wide eyes, shocked for a second before throwing his head back as he lets out a loud laugh, the sound cutting clean through the quiet of the car. 

For the first time in a long time, Joaquin sounds unguarded around you. Easy in a way that you haven’t heard from him in what feels like forever. It startles you just as much as it warms you. 

“Hey,” he grins, eyes flickering to the rearview mirror just in the briefest of movements when he remembers the two sleeping bodies in the back. “I need it. I have another six hours ahead of me. How are you going to justify going through half that bag just sitting in the passenger seat?” 

You huff, shaking your head as Joaquin resettles comfortably in his seat and shaking the fistful of candy in his hand so it rattles. 

“I don’t need to justify anything,” you retort. “I had the insight to pick a good roadtrip snack. Unlike some people.” 

He gives you a sharp glare. “Beef jerky is a perfectly respectable roadtrip snack.” 

“Whatever,” you roll your eyes, popping another candy into your mouth as you turn to face forward again. “Enjoy gnawing on your raccoon meat.”

Joaquin scoffs, shaking his head, though you know there’s no bite behind it because it quickly morphs back into that smile, because Joaquin still gets you. The realization has your heart beating just a little too quickly in your chest. 

This conversation feels dangerously good. Like it isn’t weighed down by guilt or the unspoken frustration that’s lingered so insistantly between the two of you for weeks. For the first time, it was like you were really talking, in a way that isn’t in arguments or the pressure of the mission. 

Just the two of you, side by side. You can almost pretend that this is how it used to be, back when silence didn’t mean tension just…you and Joaquin. 

You glance at him again, catching the lingering smile at the edge of his mouth. 

“Thanks for having my back earlier,” you faintly confess. 

He turns to look at you, eyes sparkling as he says back just as quietly, “Always.” 

The word shouldn’t mean so much. You try to tell yourself not to reach for it, not to read in between his lines. Still, your chest tightens the way it always does around him.

For the briefest of moments, the two of you settle into this strange rhythm between you. 

One that almost feels normal. 

-

The gas station comes into view way before you actually pull up to it, the bright white fluorescents cutting through the dark like an artificial sun. It’s the first real break in the drive in hours, and given the unusual time, the building sits alone, humming against the emptiness around it. 

A soft click-clack click-clack fills the car as Joaquin turns his signal on, despite there being no one else on the road for miles, and the pebbles from the pavement crunch beneath the tires as he parks near the pumps. 

A sudden quiet fills the car as he cuts the engine. 

Joaquin exhales slowly, one hand lingering on the steering wheel like he hasn’t quite decided what to do with himself yet. You just watch him without a word. 

For a moment, it feels like the car is holding its breath with the two of you, windows quickly fogging up now that the ignition is off. 

He swallows, opening his mouth for the briefest of seconds before pressing them into a thin line, his tongue briefly pressing to his cheek like he’s rehearsing something in his head and he isn’t sure if it should be said out loud. 

Heart beating loudly in your chest, your fingers tighten around the edge of your seat in anticipation. 

Just when Joaquin parts his lips, Bob shifts suddenly, a soft grunt leaving him as he rolls against the door. 

It makes the gentle atmosphere snap.

“I’m g’nna grab gas,” Joaquin hastily announces, already unbuckling his seat belt, one hand on the door handle. 

You nod once, stiffly, reaching for your own door. “Bathroom.” 

For a split second, both your hands hover over the center console, Joaquin reaching for his wallet and you for the empty bag of candy to dispose of. 

You both freeze. 

With messy, quick movements, Joaquin swiftly snatches his wallet from beside your bag and rushes out of the car with a clear of his throat. The driver side door shuts behind him with a loud thud, the sound echoing in your ears. 

Lingering in the passenger seat for a moment, you watch him through the windshield as he starts pumping gas. He moves almost automatically, arms crossing across his chest as he stares as the numbers rapidly increase on the screen. 

He’s distant again. 

You frown before sighing quietly to yourself. Pushing the door open, the chill bites at your skin and the scent of gasoline hangs thick in the air as you head toward the 24/7 convenience store, not daring to look back at him. You wonder if that version of him in the car was real, or just something the dark road tricked you into believing.  

The bell chimes above your head when you step inside, the place empty save for the teenager behind the counter who doesn’t even bother to look up at you. 

You don’t spare it a second thought, heading straight for the bathroom.

The lock clicks behind you, loud in the too-small space. Bracing your hands against the sink, you stare at your reflection. Fluorescent lighting has never been kind to anybody, but it seems especially cruel to you now, washing you out in a way that makes it difficult to recognize yourself. The bags under your eyes are deep, but your eyes shine like they’re too awake. 

Your mind hasn’t caught up to the fact that you haven’t slept all night, too high strung from the energy of just sitting next to Joaquin, delighted in the almost camaraderie you shared. 

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. 

It’s stupid. So stupid to let a quiet drive and a handful of sour candy undo weeks of carefully maintained distance. As if one quiet laugh and brush of finger can change anything at all. 

Except it did. 

For you, at least. Because that’s all it takes from Joaquin to have your walls come crumbling down again. 

Splashing cold water on your face, you force yourself to be grounded. The sink creaks as you lean harder into it. 

Get it together. 

When you step back into the store, you start sweeping snacks off the shelves and pluck drinks from the fridge into your arms, both absentmindedly and hurried. 

Something chocolate. Another bag of jerky. Sour candy again because who cares if the inside of your mouth is already blistering. Some energy drinks.

Your arms fill quickly, and you drop the mountain of junk in front of the cashier who still doesn’t bother to look up at you. Finger tapping impatiently against the counter, you count down the agonizing seconds between each beep of his scanning. After paying, you let out a quiet thanks before scooping up the bags he hands you. 

When you open the door to exit, the cold hits you sharply. 

You find Joaquin leaning against the car despite the gas pump already nestled neatly into its respective home. One shoulder rests against the driver’s side door, arms crossed loosely over his chest with his gaze fixed on the concrete beneath him like he’s stuck in thought. 

The harsh station lights carve him into something sharper, much sharper than the way he looked in the car. Here, his edges are defined again and his posture is stiff. Whatever softness that managed to slip through on the highway has been tucked away again, locked up tight. 

You try to convince yourself that it’s easier to see him like this, that it’s easier to breathe around him this way if anything else. But the way the air constricts in your lungs tells you that you’re just lying to yourself.

Your footsteps crunch softly against the gravel as you approach, and he straightens when he notices you. Pushing himself off the car, his eyes flicker to the bags in your arms. 

Before he has the chance to say anything, you riffle through one of them. Holding up a bag of jerky, all you offer is a slight shrug before tossing it over the car for him to catch. 

He catches it easily, muscle memory taking over, and for a split second his eyebrows knit in surprise as he stares down at the bag in his hands. “...Thanks,” he says quietly. 

You nod once, noncommittal, before reaching for your own door. 

“Wait,” Joaquin calls out just as your fingers grasp the cold metal. “About before,” he starts, looking at you. 

Your chest tightens despite what you just told yourself to do in the bathroom mirror. Keeping your expression as neutral as you can, you wait for Joaquin’s next words. 

“Not just now but…” You watch his brows furrow, frustration etched on his face. “Before Arizona,” he stumbles over his words. A loud huff escapes him, wisps of cold air blowing out of his mouth. “Look, I’m just having a hard time with—”

A car door creaks open loudly. 

“Oh,” Bob groans, voice thick with sleep. “I thought my legs were going to cramp permanently.” He stretches as he steps out of the backseat, one arm braced on the roof of the car while the other presses into his lower back. He squints at the station lights like they’re personally offending him. 

You watch as Joaquin’s shoulders visibly tense, snapping tight like a reflex.  

Behind Bob, Sam stirs, peaking his head out from Bob’s side. Blinking blearily around the lot, he calls out, “Why are we stopped?” Sam is halfway out of the car before anyone can answer. “Please tell me there’s coffee involved.” 

You look back at Joaquin, who’s looking anywhere but you now. The moment collapses in on itself, whatever he was about to say clearly already gone. 

The sound of movement has you looking back over at Sam as he fully steps out of the car, rubbing his hand over his face with a stretch. 

Bob lets out a small, breathy laugh from beside him, already shuffling toward the entrance with his jacket pulled tighter around himself. “I think I see a machine inside,” he offers. 

“Thank God,” Sam mutters, clapping a hand on Bob’s shoulder as the two of them steer toward the door. 

Once the two of them disappear inside, bell chiming peacefully behind them, you and Joaquin are left alone again. 

Silence envelopes the two of you, except it’s heavier now, thick with unsaid words. 

Joaquin stays by the driver’s side, eyes fixed somewhere past the pumps like the answer to whatever stands between the two of you would be written out in the dark. He drags a harsh hand against his jaw, rubbing the tense muscle thoughtfully before it drops uselessly to his side. 

You shift your weight, plastic bags crinkling softly in your arms. Words are crawling up your throat, but they stay stuck there, because you don’t know what to say to him. “So,” you start, not exactly knowing where you’re going, “Coffee crisis averted, I guess…” You glance away from him, cheeks starting to grow warm despite the cold air in sheer embarrassment at your pathetic attempt at starting the conversation. 

You hear him exhale through his nose, that soft almost-laugh that he’s been doing. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “Lucky us.”

Another pause ensues. 

You shouldn’t push; you remind yourself of the pep talk in that small gas station bathroom. But then you look at him. 

The way his shoulders are still tight, the way his jaw keeps clenching like he’s biting something back, sharp and honest. It’s just so unlike him, and despite your better knowledge, you sigh through your nose. 

You just want the old him back. So quietly, too quietly to take back, you push. “You were saying something. About Arizona…?” 

Joaquin turns to you, and for a second you see it, his walls slipping. It’s in his eyes, the same unsettled look from the woods. One that screams he’s standing on the edge of something dangerous. His gaze lingers on you, unguarded, searching like the words are right there—

He swallows. 

“I just—” he starts. Then stops. Joaquin lets out a deep breath of his own, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jackets as he turns to fully face you. “I don’t want to mess this up more than I already have.” He shakes his head slightly, a small bitter smile on his face. “That’s all.” 

Your chest tightens painfully, like you’ve swallowed something too big to breathe around. Whatever this is between you, is or was or threatens to turn into, is already fragile. Lump forming in your throat, you wonder what his words mean, when you’ve already put yourself out there. 

Searching his face for something more, you wait for him to crack, give a confession that he doesn’t know how to give. 

The station lights are getting more painful by the second, and you can only imagine what your exhaustion looks like underneath them, but Joaquin’s eyes are fixed on you now. His gaze is soft, much softer than it has been for the better part of half a month. You’d recognize that change in him anywhere. It’s so subtle, you don’t think you would notice it if you didn’t know him the way that you did.

And suddenly, you realize he’s waiting. 

Your throat tightens, unable to give him the reassurance he’s seeking, because Joaquin keeps looking at you like you’re the one who has the answer here. Like you’re the one with the power. But you’ve done your part. You confessed. And he turned you down. 

You don’t owe him anything. 

A small shrug. “We’re fine.” 

Something flickers across his face—disappointment, maybe—but you can’t tell. 

You hate how badly you want to close the space between you, how natural it feels to want him close. 

Your fingers curl tighter around the plastic bags in your arms, grounding yourself after the clear lie you told. 

“Right,” he murmurs, a quiet concession. 

You think to yourself: ‘This is it. This is the end.’

But then you watch the way Joaquin’s hand flexes in his pocket. Then he stills. “No.” He suddenly shakes his head, laughing in clear disbelief. “I’m sorry, that’s just,” he looks up at you with a shrug. “That’s just not true. I can’t accept that answer. I know you—”

“The coffee here is disgusting,” Sam announces to no one in particular as he screams from across the parking lot. “I didn’t know it was possible to burn coffee, I mean,” he let out a loud scoff.  

Both you and Joaquin flinch at the sudden interruption. 

You respond as casually as you can, forcing your voice to be steady as you tell Sam, “I bought some Red Bulls.” Your eyes stay on Joaquin. It’s weird how you feel as though you’ve just been caught doing something wrong, when you and Joaquin are doing nothing more than barely having a conversation across the expanse of an entire vehicle, but the feeling is there. 

Still, you don’t look away from Joaquin. And he doesn’t look away from you.

The world narrows again, impossibly, to just the two of you standing opposite one another. His eyes search yours for something, but for what, you can’t tell.

“Isn’t that stuff, like, really bad for you?” Bob mumbles before tumbling into the car, the entire thing shifting underneath his weight.

This time, no one bothers to respond. 

“We should get going,” Joaquin finally murmurs, almost reluctantly. 

“Yeah,” you reply, just as quietly. 

“Hey,” he calls out, just as you look away. There’s something tentative in his voice that has you glancing back up at him. “We’ll talk later?” It comes out hopeful. Cautious. 

Your chest tightens again. Nodding once, you agree. “Sure.” 

A small promise for now. But maybe one that gets the two of you in the right direction.

-

Exhaustion still plagues you when you step out boots first onto El Paso soil. The few hours of sleep that you got did nothing to undo the weeks of all-nighters you’ve been pulling, and coupled with the non-conversation you had with Joaquin, your rest wasn’t particularly restful. You thank your lucky stars that you didn’t actually have to sit next to him for the remaining hours, Sam jumping in to take the wheel after his busted coffee break. Still, despite the increased distance, you got little respite from Joaquin’s stares as he constantly flickered to the backseat where you were trying to get some rest beside Bob. 

You look over at the disheveled, aforementioned man. Despite seemingly getting more sleep than you, Bob somehow looks worse. Not that you’re surprised. This mission has done nothing but open Pandora’s box for him and after weeks of turbulence and uncertainty, you’re now only minutes away from finally confronting the villain plaguing him.

There was a moment, in the car, when you leaned in close and tried to check in on him. But the space was small, cramped in a way that made it feel too suffocating, too intimate of a thing to discuss with Sam and Joaquin within arms reach. Bob had stiffened the second you came close, his gaze flickering to the window like he was bracing for impact. 

So you backed off. 

Now, standing under the relentless Texas sun, you regret it a little. 

Bob rubs his face with the heel of his palm, deeply, before letting out a shake of his head. He hasn’t said much since you arrived, and what he has offered came out so quiet and measured. 

“Almost there.” Sam looks back at Bob for confirmation, and the nervous man just offers a small nod. 

The lab sits a short distance away, low and nondescript against the desert stretch. Its concrete exterior is cracked and mossy, like it's been abandoned for a long while. No signage. No movement. Just a building that feels wrong in a way that settles deep in your gut. 

Your fingers tighten against the gun on your waistline. 

Joaquin steps closer, instinctive, his presence sliding into place at your side like it always does in times like these. You don’t need to look at him to feel him there, solid in a way that’s maddening. 

“Same pairing,” Sam murmurs. “You and Joaquin take point. Bob, with me.”

Joaquin shifts besides you just slightly, but you beat him to answering. “Copy,” you confirm, voice firm and professional. It lands like a closed door, with no room for dispute. 

Moving quickly, you advance toward the building with Joaquin falling into step beside you without argument. The air changes the closer you get, and heat presses heavier against your skin, the wind drops until everything feels unnaturally still. 

From your peripherals, you watch as Sam and Bob move slyly toward the back of the building, Redwing on their sixes. 

Pulse loud in your ears, you roll your shoulders once, just to loosen the tension that’s been living there for days—to roll off the unbecoming silence between you and your partner. 

It doesn’t work. But at least you tried. 

Reaching the entrance, you and Joaquin share a silence look with each other. The metal door hangs crooked on its hinges, scarred and rusted, as if something heavy tried to force its way through. 

Leaning in close, Joaquin hovers in your space just enough that you can hear him over your own breathing. “Slow and steady,” he encourages you. 

Nodding, you shift your weight as you angle your body toward the doorway with your weapon raised. Taking the opposite side, Joaquin’s shoulder brushes yours for the briefest of seconds before he moves. The contact is light, accidental, but it sends an unwelcome spark up your spine in a way that forces a sigh from you. 

Focus. 

Joaquin counts down from his fingers. Three. Two. One. 

He slams the door open with his shoulder and the two of you push inside, cold air slapping against your sweat-damp skin. The temperature change is jarring, enough to make your breath hitch for half of a second before you force it steady. 

The lab smells like chemicals and dust, sterile and rotten all at once. Some fluorescent lights flicker overhead, others dead, a few buzzing weakly, all casting uneven shadows down the hallway.

Your footsteps echo despite your care. 

You and Joaquin move in practiced meticulance; you sweeping right while he takes left, movements perfectly synchronized. Old equipment litters the floor from bare metal carts to scattered paperwork that are now yellow with age. Doors line the corridor with small windows granting views inward that you observe carefully, scanning for any potential threats. 

“This place is giving me the creeps,” Joaquin mutters. 

You can’t help but smile at his commentary. “Eyes up, Torres,” you reply, rolling your own. 

It wasn’t so unsafe to engage in work banter—that the two of you could do. 

As you pass the rooms one by one, something catches your eye. Slowing just a fraction, you peer through cracked glass. Inside, a metal gurney bolted to the floor with restraints hanging loose. Dried blood stains the dark surface. Dark, but not dark enough. 

Deeper inside, the air hums faintly, electricity running somewhere in there. 

Stomach turning, your grip on your gun tightens. 

“Do you hear that?” Joaquin asks quietly. 

Before you can answer, a crash rings out from somewhere ahead, and you and Joaquin whip toward the source. The sound echoes down the hall, metal against concrete, followed by a sharp strangled noise that raises every hair on your body. 

“Sam,” you press a finger to your comms. “Status.”

Static crackles for a second too long when suddenly— 

“Contact,” Sam snaps, voice strained. “Mercer’s here. He’s—shit!” Another loud crash. “Shit, he’s not right!” his voice yells. 

Joaquin turns towards you, eyes blazing with motivation before he calls out, “Go.” 

Matching him instantly, the two of you break into a run, boots pounding down the path you just took as adrenaline floods your veins. Every argument, every unsaid word between you and Joaquin disappears under the weight of the moment because there’s only one mission now. 

But somewhere, in the back of your mind, uninvited and unwelcomed, a single thought lingers: What if you don’t get a chance to say what you’ve been avoiding? 

-

Multiple sharp turns lead you to what used to be the lab’s main testing floor. You recognize it immediately—not because you’re that good, but because it’s clear. Large, overturned metal tables littered all over the space like discarded bones. Equipment smashed beyond recognition. Monitors cracked and blinking with dying lights. 

At the center of it all: Mercer. 

He’s on his knees, hunched over like his own body has betrayed him. With one hand braced against the floor, the other claws uselessly against his chest. Vials lie shattered all around him, green liquid spilling all over the floor. One syringe still dangles from his fingers, empty. 

“No,” he chokes, voice raw and cracking. “No, no, no.” 

His body convulses. 

You don’t hesitate, moving in closer. “Mercer! Hands where I can see them, now!”

He lets out a laugh. Or maybe a sob. The sound is twisted enough that you can’t tell the difference. 

From the corner of your eye, you see Sam and Bob at the opposite entrance—Sam with his weapon raised, Bob frozen behind him. “Bob, stay back,” you hear Sam whisper to him. 

Mercer looks up then, and you see how whatever is left of him completely fractures. 

“You,” he gasps, staring straight at Bob. “I—” His eyes are bloodshot, wild, veins standing out violently along his neck as his face contorts into something like horror. “You were there. You were the first! You—” 

Before anyone can react, Mercer slams his palm into the ground and the entire floor shudders. Everyone is thrown off balance, stumbling in the wake of his actions. He moves fast, too fast for anyone to truly realize what’s happening before it’s too late.

You hear Joaquin shout your name as Mercer launches himself toward your direction, body moving wrong, joints snapping into place with sickening precision. You fire instinctively, shots ringing out as Mercer barrels past, clipping a table hard enough to send it skidding into the wall. 

“Take him down!” Sam yells. 

And the room explodes into chaos. 

You and Joaquin split without another word, flanking on opposite sides as Mercer slams Sam into a supportive beam with enough force to knock the air out of his lungs. Bob ducks instinctively, scrambling backward as debris rains down around him. 

Mercer turns, locking eyes with you. 

For a split second, you see something almost human flicker in them. 

Then it’s gone. 

He charges and you brace for impact, firing again. The shots stagger against him, but they don’t stop him. Colliding into you, you fly into a wall, hard. Pain blooms across your shoulder as your grip on your gun falters. 

But then Joaquin is there. 

He tackles Mercer from the side, the two of them crashing into a metal door at the far end of the room. Joaquin grunts as Mercer fights back viciously, punching and elbowing him hard enough to draw blood. 

“No!” you scream, the adrenaline from watching him go down enough to snap you out of your daze. You raise your gun again, but the two of them are simply a blur of bodies as the two of them battle each other. 

You stumble forward, vision swimming, forcing your focus through the ringing in your ears. Joaquin and Mercer are locked in a violent tangle of limbs—too close, moving too fast. Joaquin’s shoulder slams into the door again with a metallic groan as Mercer drives into him, teeth bared like an animal. 

“Joaquin!” you scream again, voice cracking raw. He hears it. You know he does, because his head snaps just enough for his eyes to find yours through the mayhem. That’s all the warning he needs. “Down!” 

He drops instantly—pure instinct, pure trust. 

You fire. 

The shot cracks through the room, deafening. Mercer howls as the onslaught of bullets tear through his side, the impact snapping him backward with a force that should have dropped him. 

Except it doesn’t. 

Instead, Mercer screams—an unhinged, furious sound—and something in him completely snaps. He roars, veins standing out violently as he surges forward again, grabbing Joaquin by the collar with impossible strength. He throws him, not away from you, but through you. 

Joaquin slams into you just as you’re mid-step, the force knocking the two of you clean off your feet. You crash together into the adjacent room, bodies a mix of limbs as you hit the floor hard. 

Then suddenly—

SLAM.

A heavy metal door crashes shut. You hear the locks engage immediately, one after another in sequence before the last one clicks like a final verdict. It resounds through the room.

You gasp, breath punched from your lungs, sprawled beneath Joaquin as alarms scream somewhere beyond the walls. Dust rains down from the ceiling as the building shudders again and you can hear Sam shouting at Mercer whilst Bob yells out your names. It’s all muffled, distant. 

From above you, Joaquin groans, bracing one arm beside your head as he tries to push himself up, only to hiss sharply and freeze. “Shit—” 

“Don’t,” you exhale, hand coming up to automatically steady him, fingers gripping his jacket, coughing out the words. “You’re bleeding.”

He exhales, hard, forehead dropping briefly toward your shoulder before he forces himself to shift just enough so he’s not crushing you anymore. You’re still close, legs tangled, with his weight warm and solid against you. 

His eyes find yours in a way that’s wild and intense, still brimming with adrenaline. 

“You okay?” he breathes, like nothing else matters. 

Chest heaving, your heart tries to claw its way out of your ribcage. “Yeah,” you manage. “Yeah I—” you swallow. “Are you—”

Another violent impact slams into the door from the other side, Mercer’s roar reverberating through the metal. Joaquin’s hand comes up to shield you without thinking. He angles his body instinctively, like he can still put himself between you and the danger even with a metal door in the way. 

The sound fades, footsteps pounding and voices shouting orders, but it all starts to feel distorted, swallowed by thick steel. Whatever is happening out there, it’s no longer something you can reach. 

Your ears ring as alarms continue to wail, red lights flashing overhead in frantic pulses that make the room feel smaller with every second. 

Sucking in a breath, you try to move, only to be answered with immediate pain. A sharp, protesting ache blooms through your side as you shift beneath Joaquin, forcing a quiet gasp from your throat. He feels it, instantly. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, tension snapping through him as he stills. “Easy.”

He moves off you carefully, easing more of his weight away as he rolls just enough to brace himself on his good arm. The space between you widens by inches, but it feels too far, when you’ve gotten so used to his warmth atop you. Almost as if he can sense your thoughts, Joaquin chooses to keep close, your knees still brushing and your shoulders barely apart. 

You blink harder this time, vision finally starting to clear as you fully take in the room. It was a simple four concrete wall space, no windows. A control panel is by the door, its screen glowing a dark red. Thick locking mechanisms are embedded into the frame, unmoving and unresponsive. 

Sealed. 

“Okay,” you breathe out, pushing yourself upright despite the protest from your entire body. “Okay, let’s move. We need to get that door open.” 

Joaquin nods once, already scrambling his feet and you try not to let his wince of pain go straight through your heart. Adrenaline is still rushing through your veins and you have to put it to use. 

The two of you hobble over to the door and Joaquin grabs the handle before attempting to yank with all of his body weight, letting out a loud groan of effort. You think his efforts are futile, so you focus on the panel instead, tapping insistently on the screen that just flashes at you in disamusement. 

Joaquin tries again, harder this time, muscles in his forearm standing out as he throws everything he has into it. “Fuck,” he grunts, nearly slipping backwards. When the door doesn’t budge, he turns to you with a boyish look, already knowing that he’s going to be stating the obvious. “Yup. Definitely locked.” 

Another crash echoes from somewhere beyond the wall—voices shouting, boots pounding, chaos so clearly spilling through the lab. 

Frantically, the two of you begin to look around the small room. Other than a bunch of overturned equipment and a set of cabinets built into the wall that contains God-knows-what with a countertop covered in nothing but debris, the room offered no help. 

Scanning the walls, you try to find something, anything that can lead you out to the next room. Maybe you and Joaquin can climb some vents again, for old times sake. 

Quickly, you process that you and Joaquin are stuck in some glorified supply room, which could only mean one thing. 

“Damn,” Joaquin curses, coming to the same realization at the same time. 

There was no way out. 

“Sam!” you yell, fist pounding against the door as a last resort. “Bob!” 

Joaquin joins you, the two of you yelling for attention as your fist rap desperately against the metal. 

The sound of greater commotion, one that seems much louder than when you two were in the room trying to take Mercer down, has the two of you turning to each other with a grim look. 

Several minutes go by with the sound of doors being broken down, gunshots, and horrific shouts, all of them drowning out the sound of you and Joaquin calling out for help. Just when you’re about to give up and try to find another way, footsteps skid to a stop on the other side. “Hey! Hey—are you, are you two good?” A shaky voice calls out, cutting through the door loudly and urgently. 

“Bob!” you shout in excitement, hope radiating through you at the sound of his voice. “Yes! Yes, we’re okay. Are you—”

“Where’s Mercer?” Joaquin cuts in, unintentionally, as he panics breathlessly. 

“Don’t worry. He’s down!” Bob manages to stutter out, like he had to look around the room to confirm first. “Backup,” he attempts to explain, “And Bucky. Bucky’s here, too, now.” 

Relief floods you first—sharp and dizzying at the confirmation that Mercer is down, that the immediate threat is over—but it quickly morphs into guilt, hot and heavy in your gut. You weren’t there, not when it mattered most. You can only imagine how Bob feels. 

“Bob,” you call out softly, voice dipping unintentionally. “Are you okay?”

There’s a pause on the other side of the door. You can hear fabric shifting, sneakers scuffing against the tile like he doesn’t quite know where to stand. You hear it all, focused only on Bob on the other side. 

“Yeah,” he answers, a little too quickly. Then, quieter, almost more honestly, “Yeah. I think so.” 

You shut your eyes, forehead resting briefly against the cold metal. You try to ignore Joaquin watching you from just one step away, close enough to notice the way your shoulders sag and the way your hand curls into itself at your side.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, not even sure if Bob can hear it through the door. “I should’ve—”

“No.” Bob cuts in, hurried. “No, it’s okay.” Another shuffle. “I’m just glad you guys are okay.” 

The sigh you let out is resigned. 

Before you can settle into the silence, begin unpacking between the lines, footsteps approach the door. Much faster than Bob’s, swift with purpose. 

“Everyone okay over there?” Sam pounds on the door once, in solidation. 

You push away from the door slowly, arms folding across your chest like you need something to hold you together. Joaquin steps in without hesitation, positioning himself closer to the door, between you and whatever's coming next. 

“We’re…” you can feel Joaquin’s eyes flicker to the side of your face. “Stable. Some minor injuries. What’s going on out there?” 

“You sure?” Sam asks. 

Joaquin glances you another look before answering with false confidence. “Yeah.”

“Alright,” Sam accepts. “Listen, I’ve got good news and bad news. Good news is we got Mercer. Bucky got Joaquin’s message when we were on the road and sent some guys down. They’re taking him to a secure facility just a few minutes from here.”

Your shoulders loosen just a smidge, the weight of stress diminishing just a bit. 

“And the bad news?” Joaquin presses.

When you hear Sam let out an audible exhale, you tense back up, suspicion creeping up your spine. Slowly, you step back up to the door. “Sam…?” 

Cautiously, Joaquin asks in slow words, “What’s the bad news?”

“So…look—”

You and Joaquin let out loud, painful groans, your partner even going as far as slamming his forehead against the door in fake anguish, dramatically. 

“Some security override kicked in when Mercer tossed y’all in there,” Sam tries to explain. You can imagine him now: with a twisted smirk on his lip, finding the situation funnier than he should. “And we’re a bit preoccupied right now.” 

As Sam has the universe on cue, a loud slam echoes through the building followed by the rustling of metal chains. 

“So what does that mean for us, Sam?” Joaquin asks dreadfully beside you. 

Your shared mentor takes longer than you’d like to answer that question. “It means,” Sam starts off strong, voice loud and clear initially before slowing down in a way that you did not like. Quiet and rushed, words almost slurring together, Sam spits out, “We can’t get you out of there any time soon.”

“Sorry, what was that?” Joaquin asks.

“Huh?” your voice overlaps his without meaning to, the both of you unable to hear him clearly. 

“I think Sam’s trying to tell you,” you hear Bob gulp, “Get…comfortable.” 

“‘Comfortable’?” Joaquin questions, brows furrowing in confusion. “As in—?”

“Through-the-night kind of comfortable,” Sam grimaces. 

A moment of silence as you let the words wash over you, settling until your stomach drops. “You’re kidding,” you breathe out in a near-whisper. 

“Wish I was, kid.” He doesn’t offer any other comfort, just a straightforward, “Try not to kill each other. We’ll be back in the morning.” 

“Wait, back in the morning?” Joaquin clings to the door desperately, as if Sam could see him through the inches of steel. 

You hear Sam let out a chuckle because even though he can’t see Joaquin, he can definitely hear the sheer despair in his voice. “Relax. You two are safe. Blueprint shows that the room you’re in is isolated. It was just used as storage.”

“Are you sure about that?” Joaquin yells out, brows raised as he looks around the room. “I don’t know, man,” he expresses, shifting around you to jab at the now locked screen that was previously flashing. “These locks are, like, pretty excessive for just a supply closet.” 

“Well, he did store some pretty valuable stuff in there,” Bob chimes in sheepishly. 

“His serums,” Sam cuts in with an efficient explanation. “He stored his test serums in there.” 

You and Joaquin meet each other’s eyes in mutual panic before slowly turning around to take in the room, as if another botched Super Soldier was hiding behind the red biohazard trashcan. 

Instead, you were met with an overturned mini fridge in the corner, toppled over on its side with its sad extension cord laying limply beside it. The front glass of the door gave you insight to the empty fridge. Eyeing the thick layer of dust covering the entire thing, you know that its position on the floor wasn’t a consequence of the fight.

“That thing looks like it’s been here longer than Mother Time,” you deadpan, only meant for Joaquin to hear. 

“There aren’t any more,” Sam explains, oblivious to your comment. “Obviously.” A small pause before he resumes, “Alright, well, have fun you two. Locks aren’t lifting anytime soon, so try not to get jabbed with any mysterious liquids in the meantime. Bob and I gotta go; gotta keep an eye on Mercer.”

Frustrated, you groan. “We survived Mercer just to be defeated by a glorified panic room.”

“We’ll be back before you know it,” Bob attempts to assuage. 

“See?” Sam piggybacks. “You’ve got it.” 

“Sam,” Joaquin starts, exasperated. 

“Goodnight,” Sam cuts him off much more cheerfully than you think is warranted. 

It’s the last you hear from the pair before footsteps retreat down the corridor. 

Time passes in a blur after that. The sound of voices, boots, radios—all of it fades slowly until there’s nothing left but the low hum of the facility and the ringing quiet that often follows after a storm. 

You can’t tell how long it takes for everyone to clear out. All you know is once everyone’s truly gone and the flashing lights in the room finally shut off, leaving just a cast of red light, you and Joaquin share one unified, knowing look. 

It’s going to be a long night. 

-

“Maybe…another month?” he answers after some careful consideration. 

Raising a brow, you don’t hesitate to point out, “Sam’s held longer grudges for much less. Remember when you took Redwing for a joyride, broke both his wings, and Sam didn’t talk to you for two months?”

Joaquin’s head tilts, hand coming up to rub his jaw in lighthearted inquisition, “Yeah, you have a point.” You watch as he shudders before murmuring to himself, “That was rough.”

You hum, head tilting to stare at the wall in thought. “I think he’ll give Bucky hell for another year before he even considers getting back together.” 

He gives you a horrified look, “A year?”

Shrugging, you lightly double down. “Minimum.”

The conversation comes to a dwindling stop as the two of you fall into a comfortable silence again, the same way it’s been picking up and falling back down for the better part of an hour. 

From across from you, Joaquin presses his back into the metal door, head dropping back as he lets out a tired sigh. 

After the hustle and bustle had settled down, the two of you found yourself in a mirroring position, only with your back pressed against the counters. In between the constant radio chatter and aftermath silence, you and Joaquin had come to a mutual, unspoken agreement. The night would be too long if the two of you continued on the way you were before, and for the sake of a relatively peaceful night, you came to an armistice. 

Your legs are outstretched in front of you, same as Joaquin’s, and you try to not let the proximity get to you. You don’t know if the room is just small or if Joaquin is big, but your boots almost brush against each other, so close you could nearly touch. For your sanity, you’ll pretend it’s the room size. 

A couple minutes pass where neither of you say anything, and for the first time in a long while, neither of you feel like you have to fill the silence.  

The red emergency light casts everything in low contrast, softening the sharp edges of the room that it almost makes you forget that you’re stuck in some deranged scientist’s facility. Suppressing a shudder, you force the thought away. 

Joaquin exhales slowly. “So,” he says after a beat, head tilted with lazy curiosity. 

“So,” you copy, drawing out the word without much thought, focused instead on rolling your shoulders to alleviate some of the aches and pains while you await his query. 

“How are…things?” he finally draws out. 

You roll your head, chin tucked down as you stare at him through hooded eyes. “‘Things’?” 

He chuckles, licking his lips. Adjusting his position, Joaquin’s boots scrape against the metal floor as one knee bends just enough for him to prop an elbow on it. The movement draws your attention much easier than it should. “Yeah,” he says easily. “Things.” Joaquin shrugs. “You know. Work, life, just…things.” 

Casting him a look of hesitation that’s shrouded in humor, you don’t offer a real response. 

When Joaquin catches your gaze, he shrugs an innocent shrug, corner of his lip lifting as he holds back a smile. “I’m trying.” 

The words soften you in a way it shouldn’t.

You realized it when Sam said it, that you and Joaquin would have unbuffered, uninterrupted time together in a way that you haven’t even come close to in the past couple weeks, and it stirred up a nauseous feeling in your stomach. But now, in this moment with him, you feel…safe. 

Almost like for the first time in a long while, you can breathe. 

And maybe it’s the after effects of the adrenaline talking, or maybe it’s a foolish illusion, casted by how deeply you yearn for you and Joaquin to be okay again, but part of you can tell he feels the same way. 

You flex your fingers once before letting your hands rest loosely on your thighs. “Things are…” you start, quietly, but honest. “Fine.” You shrug, not looking at Joaquin. “Same as always. Work has been a lot of this,” you gesture around. 

“What? Getting locked in some decrepit building because Bucky sent us on a mission as an excuse to break ‘no contact’ with Sam?” Joaquin jests. 

“Exactly,” you laugh. 

He lets the moment settle, chuckling alongside you before it draws to an end. 

There isn’t much else you’d like to add, but just when you thought the two of you would fall into the stillness again, giving you a chance to sink into your thoughts, Joaquin calls out—

“And Bob?” 

His tone is casual. Almost too casual. 

Brows furrowing, you look up at him with a confused frown. “What about Bob?”

Joaquin shifts, boots scraping again as he adjusts himself against the door. “Just asking.” 

‘Asking?’ you wonder. You blink at him once. Then twice. Processing. If this was some kind of subtextual question, it’s sailing right past you. 

“He’s…good,” you answer slowly, thinking through it as you go. “I think. This whole Mercer thing has been a lot for him, but,” you scratch your elbow as you give Joaquin another shrug, “It’s been a lot for all of us.” 

Gaze drifting, you’re unfocused as you add, “He sounded okay earlier.” You glance back to Joaquin, searching his face for agreement, “Don’t you think?”

His jaw tightens, just enough that you notice. Nodding slowly, Joaquin gives you an unofficial answer, like he’s weighing something much heavier than the question you thought you were answering. 

“Yeah,” he finally says after a moment too long. 

Your heart sinks. Something in his voice feels off. Not like he’s upset, but it’s thinner. Less certain than it had been a few minutes ago. 

Cautiously, you wonder, “Why are you asking me about Bob?” 

Joaquin exhales through his nose, a half-laugh that doesn’t quite land. “No reason.” 

His answer doesn’t sit right with you. You watch as he drags a hand down his face, fingers briefly catching at his mouth before it drops back to his lap. His knee bounces once, then stills once he realizes what he’s doing. 

It clicks. 

“Joaquin,” you say carefully. “If there’s something you’re trying to ask me—”

He looks up at you then, really looks at you, and his mask slips. “I’m just making sure you’re okay.” Joaquin looks right at you, deep brown eyes shrouded in a mask of red, but he still sees through you. “That’s all.” 

A pit forms in your stomach. “I’m okay.” 

“Okay.” 

Joaquin tries to let the moment pass, you can tell by the way he looks away from you, fingers drumming against his propped up knee as he stares anywhere but your face, and for a second you think you just might let him. 

But you can’t look away. You feel like this mission has aged you by years, and you can see it on Joaquin’s face. The dried blood dotting his hairline and the split skin at his knuckles crack you open in a way you know it shouldn’t. There’s tension in the slope of his shoulders that haven’t fully left since that night before Arizona, even now. 

It’s not just awkwardness, or bad timing, or too many near-misses. The past few weeks have been a constant of both of you pretending like if you don’t name it, it’ll go away eventually. And you can’t do that anymore. 

“Joaquin…” 

“We should get cleaned up.” He cuts you off cleanly, efficient, as he hastily jumps to his feet from his seat. “Here,” he offers quietly, extending a hand out to you as he effortlessly pulls you from your spot in a way that was all too gentle for your liking. 

Joaquin moves towards the cabinets behind you, the same ones you were leaning against just a second ago. The sound of hinges squeaking and wooden doors opening and shutting are the only noises that fill the room now. You watch him rummage, movements sharp and purposefully like if he keeps moving, he can brush off your words. 

“Joaquin.” You try again, resound in the small room.

A cabinet slams shut as he straightens himself up to his full height. The muscles in his back ripple through the shirt, tense as Joaquin lets out a short exhale. “I know.” A hand runs across his face as he breathes out, “Just give me a second, please.” 

You fall silent.

You offer no assistance as Joaquin continues to look through with little consideration for being methodical. Instead, he practically tears through the miscellaneous items until he finds whatever he deems useful. 

A curt exhale and a slam on the countertop reveals a large medical kit that Joaquin quickly pops open. 

Seems like this Godforsaken room is providing just everything you need. Gauze. Antiseptic. Decreased proximity between you and Joaquin. 

“Here,” you say, finally moving forward and pushing him out of the way. “Let me.” 

He doesn’t bother to resist, perching himself atop the counter without a glance your way, like it was safer to stare anywhere else than look directly at you. 

You reach for the alcohol swabs, tearing one open with skilled fingers. “Take your shirt off.” 

Joaquin’s head snaps upwards in a look of pure shock, making you roll your eyes. 

“You’re bleeding.” You point with the wipe in your hand toward his stained suit, a patch of dark blood that had been slowly seeping through the fabric for the past few hours. 

His eyes flicker down to his shoulder, as if double checking your statement before letting out a defeated sigh. He peels his suit jacket off slowly. Then his shirt follows, tugged up and over his head with a quiet grunt before he drops it somewhere near your feet. 

It’s prudish, you know, but you can’t help the way your eyes avert up to the ceiling at his movements. It’s also illogical, given that you so selflessly offered to patch him up and you were seconds away from touching the skin you suddenly find yourself too shy to even look at. But there you were, analyzing the tiles above you as the stoic man sits patiently in front of you. 

Joaquin calls out to you, your name coming out as a low whisper. 

Before he can say anything else, you clear your throat and step into his space. You try to ignore the way he spreads his thighs, making space for you to stand between them as if it were a second nature.

“This is going to sting.” The words come out quieter than you mean for them to, and with mechanical movements you dab the wipe onto his wound. 

If it hurts, Joaquin does a great job at hiding it, not even doing so much as flinching at your less than hospitable bedside manner. 

The cut isn’t too deep, superficial at best, so it takes little effort to clean. Of the hundreds of wounds you’ve stitched for him, this one was certainly the least troubling. 

So why were you moving so slow? 

You’re sure time passes in a similar way, the seconds ticking by tediously as you gently tended to Joaquin. The silence that envelopes is different than the one from before—no longer comfortable, now charged with words that linger between the two of you. You try not to let the frustration get to you; the constant ups and downs with Joaquin these past few weeks was growing to be too much. 

Joaquin calls your name softly, so quietly that you might have just missed it if it weren’t for the way his hand reaches up to grasp yours so gently it feels like whispers against your skin. His fingers wrap against yours, pulling your hand down, away from his chest, but almost as if he couldn’t bear to let go, he clutches your hand tightly in his lap. “Stop. I can’t keep doing this.” 

Your heart hammers rapidly in your own chest, his words mirroring so closely to the thoughts in your head that for a second you wondered if he could see right through you.  

His words come out steady. “I can’t keep pretending like I’m okay with this.” 

A frown tugs at your lips, heart sinking at his words. You’re not sure how you’ll make it through the night with him if he rejects you once more.

“I want you to be happy. And I know…” He hesitates, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he tries to find the words. He shakes his head, as if to start over. “Bob—” His mouth tightens as he exhales the name, like it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “—seems nice. But I don’t know how to be this close to you when you’re—”

You yank your hand away from his like he’s just burned you. “Bob?” you ask in confusion. ‘What the hell is he bringing Bob up for?’

Joaquin flinches at his name, leaving you even more confused. “I get it. I messed up, okay?” the words come out almost pleading. “That night before Arizona when told me you—” he huffs, teeth biting into his bottom lip as he abruptly stops himself. 

A beat of silence passes and something heavy settles in your chest. 

“Is it so bad?” you can’t help but whisper, taking a step back from him. The words leave your mouth softer than you expect, landing heavy. “Accepting that I have feelings for you?” 

His head snaps up, eyes widening in complete shock, his hand reaches out as his eyes search your face but you move just a fraction out of his reach. “Bad? What? No…that isn’t—”

“Then what is it?” You press, hating how small your voice is, but there’s nothing that you can do in the moment. You're tired, in every single way. Chest tightening, you try to ignore the sharp presses against your ribs. “Because you’re standing there acting like me having feelings for you is something so…awful.” 

“It’s not! Hold on, wait. That’s not what I’m doing,” he says quickly, hopping off of the counter and stepping into your space. Joaquin’s hands find yours, gripping them desperately, but you pull back. 

“You didn’t say anything,” you press, unable to hide your hurt as it bleeds through. “I told you how I felt, Joaquin. Yes, I know we said we’d keep things casual but it stopped being that way for me a long time ago and I thought you were owed the truth. Was that so wrong?”

“No!” he refutes, “It wasn’t!”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” you shout, pushing him away from you. There was only so much misdirection that you can take from him before finally snapping. 

“I didn’t have a chance to,” Joaquin pleads. “Let’s pause for a second, okay? You did nothing wrong. I messed up, I see that now. I shouldn’t have let you walk out that night and I regretted it the second I did, but then Arizona happened, and then Bob—” 

“Bob?” you intercept. “Why do you keep bringing up Bob?” You resist the urge to scream! Are you going crazy? 

He freezes, like he was confused about your confusion. “Because,” he exhales sharply, growing frustrated with himself. “You and Bob…after Arizona…” he lets the words trail off. 

For a second you just stare at him. 

Then it finally clicks. 

And something in you snaps. 

With your heart beating loudly in your chest, you can’t stop the disbelieved scoff you let out. 

“You know what?” You start to stutter, shaking your head. It’s finally your turn to glance away, anywhere but Joaquin, “I changed my mind. I don’t want to talk to you.” You try to ignore the slight tremor in your hands as you turn your back to him, preoccupying yourself with tidying, though you don’t actually organize much, more like slamming things around. “I don’t want you,” a huff is let out, a lump forming in your throat as you brace yourself for the hard conversation, “I don’t want you to do this here. Now. Just because you’re stuck in here and you’re having some sudden guilt of conscience or something.” 

“That’s not why I’m—”

“Isn’t it?” you shout, turning back to him with a sharp glare. Your eyes soften without meaning for them to, because they always do when you stare at Joaquin, you let the heavy silence settle over the two of you for a second that felt too long. “You never talked to me about it, Joaquin. That’s the bottom line,” you shake your head at him in defeat. 

“But…there wasn’t any time…”

“Oh fuck off with that,” you scoff. “Message received, okay? I don’t need you to say this just because you think I’m seeing someone else, which I’m not—” 

“You’re not?” Something like hope twinges his words and all it does is makes you angry. 

“You are unbelievable, Torres!” you shout. “I put myself on the line for you and you gave me nothing. And now you’re standing here like a kicked puppy because what? You think I moved on?” 

For once, the talkative man is stunned into silence. The expression on his face is truly nothing short of looking like a kicked puppy as you’ve said, brows furrowed as his lips turn downward into a deep frown. 

You pay it little mind, needing to get it all off of your chest. Glare sharp, you throw out the words that have been weighing heavy in your chest. “I’m the one who put myself out there. I’m done humiliating myself for you. You want to be normal? Fine, I can be normal. Just partners, like the past few years never happened. Just like you want—” 

“I’m scared! Alright?” his words cut through like a blade. “All the time!” he screams, not at you. No—Joaquin would never. But his words bounce off the walls, voice bleeding in a way so desperate and unlike the usual confident, carefree man that you have no choice but to recoil backwards, taking his words in. 

“Since the day I’ve met you,” your name falls off his lips with a cracked voice. “I’m The Falcon, I’m supposed to be brave. But you…you’ve plagued me, every part of me. God you’re so intoxicating, you’re in me. Every time we get in the field, do you know how terrified I am that something will happen to you? Do you know how  it feels to see you walk into something I know I can’t control?” He chokes out, hands flexing by his side like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “Out there, if I’m one second too slow, make one bad call. You’re—” 

He cuts himself off, like even saying it out loud would be too much for him. 

“And if that’s how you make me feel, just as partners. Just as professionals, I—” Joaquin shakes his head, a humorless smile on his face as he recalls, “And that one drunk night happened a few years ago and I thought ‘maybe I can do this. Maybe I can have you at arms length because’…”

Your anger falters, something else taking its place instead. 

“If I love you…if I love you—I’ll never stop,” Joaquin pants, locking eyes with you. His expression is dark, his usually soft brown eyes a shade much darker, much more dangerous. His next words come out breathless, in a whisper that rushes out, “But I guess it’s too damn late for that now.” 

With that, he surges forward and before you and blink, his hands are in your hair, pulling you into him with such desperation, as if he doesn’t feel you on him now, right now, he won’t make it. 

He presses his lips to yours, breathing in your air like it’s the only thing he needs to keep him alive. 

For a split second, you’re frozen and you know he feels it too in the way Joaquin hesitates. But you’ve never been good at pushing him away, it's what got you here in the first place. The idea of him pulling away sends you into a panicked spiral and before you can think, you’re kissing him back. 

He exhales into your mouth, a moan and sigh of relief all into one. 

You tell yourself it’s not because you want it, it’s because of how much he does, but the way your stomach flips and an oh-so familiar tingle begins to build tells you otherwise. 

It all crashes into you all at once, the force of it. His desperation is undeniable. Weeks and weeks of restraint and distance snap clean in his grip as one hand tightens its hold on the back of your head while the other glides down your body like he just needs to feel you, squeezing anything he can before it settles on your waist. He tugs your body into his with one sharp pull, pressing you flush against him so that you can feel just how much he means what he’s confessed. 

He anchors you to him, and you’re sure you need it, convinced that without him holding you upright you’d sink straight to the floor. But Joaquin doesn’t mind, not at all, with the way he groans into you, biceps flexing as he keeps you up and against his limber body. 

The kiss turns sloppy quick, and you try not to let the sound get to your head when Joaquin whines at you pulling away, just so you can take a breath. Your chest heaves, his scent already clouding your mind and making all rational thought go out the window. 

He doesn’t let you get far, breaking the string of saliva between the two of you as he trails his lips down the side of your throat. The heat of his mouth makes your heart thud loudly in your chest. 

It’s a familiar dance, the two of you like this. Joaquin knows your body in a way that’s infuriating, his lips hovering over the junction of your neck and shoulder, just the way you like it. 

But this wasn’t your usual hookup. 

And you both knew it. 

The air was charged with something far more sinister than it usually has, the guise of “no strings attached” no longer protecting the two of you from your very real, very unfiltered feelings. 

No more hiding. Not this time. 

“Just let me make it up to you. Please,” his voice cracks as he begs, the breath tickling over the one spot he knows makes you weak. He wets his lips, and he’s so close to your skin that his tongue touches the curve of your neck in a way that makes you shudder. Warm and wet, he continues. The choice is yours. It always is. “I can make it up to you, I promise. I can’t lose you, I—” 

“Shut up,” you gasp, finally snapping out of your daze. Your hand comes up to his cheeks, grabbing his face in both of your hands as you smash both of your lips back together. It’s aggressive, bruising almost. But neither of you mind. 

It doesn’t take long before his lips are gliding past your lips and takes even less time for you to let him in, no permission needed. His tongue is hot and heavy in your mouth, swiping inside before he takes your tongue into his mouth and sucks. 

The moan you let out is involuntary, and he lets go with an obscene smack, pulling his tongue back before he kisses you over and over and over. 

He moves faster than you can think, leaving you a hot mess. The patch of wetness in your panties only continues to grow when he hikes you upward, forcing your legs around his waist. 

Before you can process it, Joaquin has you pressed against the cold metal door. He’s angled you just so, his bulge brushing right up against you, but not enough so that there’s real pressure, just the subtlest of skims, so that you know he’s there. It drives you crazy, and you can’t help the displeased whine that you let out. But he just shushes you. 

“I know, pretty girl, just let me…” his words trail off, his lips preoccupying themselves with your collarbone instead. 

The cool door is a stark contrast to the blazing heat that your bodies were letting off, so you throw your head back against it, trusting him to take over as you breathe through this. 

You don’t even smack him away like you usually do when you feel his teeth come out to nibble on your skin, and you feel his lips curve into a smile when he realizes. No marks, you had always said. But this time isn’t like the rest. 

He takes the opportunity you give him, sucking and biting, leaving evidence of himself all across any skin he can reach before Joaquin decides he needs more. 

Pulling his torso back, he props you up against his knee. With quick movements, Joaquin peels off your shirt with mechanical practice. His lips press against your exposed skin in appreciation, kissing any spot he sees before licking a long strip from the dip of your cleavage to the base of your neck. 

It’s obscene. 

You're slick with sweat and grim from your mission but Joaquin doesn’t care, letting out a loud moan at the taste. Pressing into you again, he presses his face between your breast, leaving hickies all across the exposed swell while his nimble fingers back quick work of unclasping your bra. 

“Joaquin,” you pant from above him, fingers digging into his thick curls as you try to pull him back, the sensation growing to be too much. 

“Please,” he just begs, letting you pull his head back. His lips are swollen and red, pupils blown wide as he stares up at you. Joaquin’s eyes grow teary, like being away from your skin for this long is wrecking him, like he needs to be back on you. Both of your chests are heaving, your bra straps being held up by the crook of your elbows. It barely covers your chest anymore, but Joaquin doesn’t care. He needs more, because it’s not enough. It’s never enough when it’s you. 

The way he looks up at you has your blood rushing to your head, a sick sense of power taking over when you come to the realization that Joaquin really does need you in the way he said he does. 

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, but you can see that he doesn’t have the words right now. Eyes half lidded, staring down at him, you swipe your thumb over his bottom lip, pressing down, appreciating how red and puffy they’ve become. 

It doesn’t help your power trip when Joaquin’s lips part silently, taking your finger into his mouth, sucking on the appendage like he has something to prove. You draw your thumb out, his lips letting go with a pop! 

Not breaking eye contact with him, you slowly drop your arms. Your bra falls to the floor in near-silence, but it’s loud to the both of you. You watch as Joaquin’s breath grows heavier, not daring to look away from you and toward your chest like you know he wants to. 

Taking mercy on him, the hand that grips the back of his head slowly guides him to the place you know he wants to be most. It takes nearly no effort from you at all, his head moving on his own accord once Joaquin realizes that you’ve given him permission. It’s all he needs, the slight nudge of your hand, before his lips wrap around your left nipple and he lets out a loud moan. 

One of his hands comes up to massage your other breast, rolling the nub between his pointer and thumb whilst his tongue swirls circles around the other nipple. 

It makes you moan right along with him, arching your back into his face as Joaquin buries himself into his chest. His hips buck upwards like he can’t help himself, pressing his thick, aching cock right against your clit. You feel it, feel him, even between all your layers of clothes. 

He doesn’t stop, can’t stop, his tongue flicking over your nipples again and again as he sucks like his life depends on it. It doesn’t take long before he’s switching sides and your entire chest glistens with his spit. 

Hands clasped on his shoulders, your head is thrown back in pleasure as he ravishes you. The damp spot on his pants quickly mixes with yours, and after only a few minutes you’ve decided you’ve had enough. You need him now. 

It takes more effort than you had in you, to pull him off your chest. But after a few weak shoves, Joaquin finally gets your message and pries himself off of the spot above your breast that he had been sucking a hickey into. 

His lips don’t stray far from your skin, though, as he trails it back up towards your face and envelopes your lips in his as Joaquin slides you down until your feet meet the floor again. If he notices the way your knees buckle, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he rasps against your lips, “Sit on my face.” 

It was a demand, not an ask, and any other day you’d be more than happy to comply. But not today. 

Maybe it was the weeks without feeling his touch, or maybe it was the words he said to you earlier that ignited something in your stomach, but you needed him now. And you told him as such. 

“No,” you whisper in between kisses, hands pressed against his chest to push him away from you. You try to ignore the whimper he let out, trying to stay strong in your own pursuit. “I need you, Joaquin. I need you in me now.” 

The words trigger something in him, Joaquin freezing for the briefest of seconds before he lets out a choked, “Okay, yeah. We can do that, baby. That’s not a problem.” 

With little regard for the catastrophic room you’re in, you and Joaquin quickly make work of taking off your remaining fabrics. Normally you’d wince at the way your panties stick to you, so wet in a way that almost makes you feel embarrassed, but when your eyes flicker to Joaquin and the way his thick, heavy cock slaps against his stomach, tip dripping in precum, you can’t find it in yourself to care. 

Before you’ve even managed to fully step out of your pants, boots discarded somewhere in the room, Joaquin is on you again. He’s being helpful, he’ll claim later, as he nearly rips the remainder of your dangling clothes off of you to press your naked body against his. 

Like it was instinct, your thighs part, letting his weeping cock slide between them. His beads of precum act as lubricant, pushing in between your thighs like it was made for him. The groan Joaquin lets out is pornographic, all from the feeling of your plush legs wrapped around him, and he thrusts before he can stop himself. 

It makes you moan too, the feeling of him between you, tip nudging against your clit when he pulls back. 

His hands are back in your hair, lips on yours in an instant, your moans mingling together as Joaquin fucks your thighs. 

“I missed this,” he pants, biting your lower lip. “I’ve missed you,” he grunts, “So, so much.” Joaquin emphasizes each of his words with a thrust. “So perfect for me,” his curious hands trail down to your waist, squeezing you there in a way that makes you yelp. He swallows the sound, smacking your ass with a strong palm before massaging the cheek in apology. 

“Joaquin,” your nails dig into his back. Pathetically, you whine. You’ve had enough of his teasing, “Need you now.” 

He lets out a low chuckle, pressing a kiss into your neck. “Alright, baby. Alright.” 

Joaquin maneuvers you until you're flat on your back, laid on top of your pile of clothes that he managed to push all together in between your heated moments. He’s quick to climb on top of you, barricading your head between his thick biceps. 

Quick, flushing movements turn into something softer with the weight of him on top of you and you on your back like this. As if it were second nature, your legs wrap against his waist, arms coming up to circle around his shoulder, playing with the hair on the back of his head. You softly twirl his curls in the way you know he loves, and love it he does as he bites back a choked groan. 

With a steady hand, Joaquin softly brushes your hair out of your face, revealing yourself to him in your entirety. 

Gazing down at you, chin dipped, Joaquin whispers, “You’re so beautiful.” His lips come down, pressing sweetly against your cheek and his face nuzzles against you, “Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.” He trails, slowly, to tell you the words soft and slow against your ear before playfully biting the lobe. 

It shouldn’t be so easy—him making you melt like this, but you can’t find it in yourself to resist him. Despite everything, you trust Joaquin. He might not have all the right words all of the time, but he’ll never tell you a lie. So you let him whisper sweet nothings against your skin, growing warm and wet as he says all of the right things.  

One of his hands softly finds purchase against your outer thigh, supporting you and pulling you flush to his waist, as if he needed all parts of you pressed against him. It makes his tip nudge against your entrance, and all you can do is let out a quiet moan, arching into him. 

Joaquin lets out a quiet chuckle, the hand on your thigh coming up to press your hips back down. “Not yet, pretty girl,” he mumbles. “Been a while since we’ve done this. Gotta get you all ready for me, yeah?” he asks. It’s rhetorical, you know it is, the way his voice is teasing, but you nod helplessly anyways. “Yeah, I’m g’nna get you nice and ready for me.” 

It’s the last thing you hear before his warm, calloused palm slides toward where you need him most. With experienced fingers, he spreads your lips apart with such ease that you’re almost bashful. But that thought quickly dissipates when his finger nudges itself against your tight, wet hole. 

When he finally slides his middle finger in, both of you let out a loud moan. 

“So fucking wet,” Joaquin comments, the feeling of you gripping against just one finger alone enough to send him into a frenzy. “She missed me, huh?” he asks, and you don’t have the energy to give any response this time, moaning as he makes quick work of thrusting that single digit in and out. His hand curls, palm coming up to rub against your clit as his middle finger works you open in a way that has you preening against him. 

The sound of it is absolutely obscene, the squelch of your wetness against him as he silently adds another finger. You roll your hips, needing more. It felt so good, your mind is growing hazy until all you feel is Joaquin. 

“Look at that,” Joaquin mumbles against your throat, sucking on your skin in a way that’s dizzing. “This pretty pussy’s made for me, fucking dripping all over my hand right now.” 

You have to ground yourself, so your nails dig into his shoulders, but Joaquin doesn’t care one bit, too preoccupied with the way you pulse around him and the way your tits bounce with every thrust of his fingers. 

Your body hums with pleasure as he skillfully works you open. Eyes shooting open, you gasp when you feel his lips wrap around one of your nipples. Instinctively, your hand grasps the top of his head and yanks his hair by the root. He lets out a pained grunt but truly pays no mind, continuing his ministrations. 

“Joaquin!” you moan, the onslaught of him fingering you within an inch of your life and suckling at your tit was just too much.

With a loud gasp, you announce, “G’nna cum, g’nna cum—” 

That seems to get his attention and he quickly pulls his fingers out without another word, detaching from your breast with a displeased hum. Just when you’re about to pout in protest, he cuts you off with a kiss that takes your breath away. 

“None of that, baby.” He declares, voice husky with need. “Need you to come around my cock, need you to cream all over me, yeah? Been too long,” Joaquin’s nose nudges against your cheek, like he’s asking you for permission, when in reality he’s already decided for the both of you. 

With that, one of Joaquin’s hands grips the back of your knee and presses it deep into your chest. He slides his pulsing cock into you with one slow, smooth thrust. It enters with much more ease than you’re willing to admit, but it fills you so well that any complaint dies in your throat. 

Buried to the hilt, Joaquin drops his head against your knee as the two of you let out a simultaneous groan. 

“Fuck me,” he mumbles under his breath. “You’re g’nna be the death of me.” His blunt nails dig into your knee before he sets a brutal pace. He pulls all the way out before slamming back into you again in a way that makes your breath catch in your throat. 

It takes only a handful of thrusts before Joaquin finds his rhythm, his balls slapping against your ass again and again and again as he sets a consistent pace. The tip of his cock hits that spongey center inside you each time, and all you can do is lay beneath him, letting out a gasping moan whenever his hips connect with yours again. 

Your thighs shake, stomach tight as he turns you to putty in his hands. One hand grips the clothes beneath you, twisting the fabric as you grapple onto it for dear life. The other finds his hair, sadistically pulling on his curls.

Salicious sounds fill the room and the air in the room turns humid as your wet slick and Joaquin’s precum creates the best lubricant, making each of his movements slip with ease. 

“God,” Joaquin throws his head back, teeth biting into his bottom lip as he pounds into you. “I’m so sorry, baby,” he groans, words coming out hurried but no less sincere. “I’m so, so sorry.” Each word enunciated with a thurst. “I fucked up, yeah? Such an idiot,” Joaquin groans above you. 

He drops your knee and you don’t realize just how much it was aching until he shifts you. Dropping so either of his elbows bracket your head, his sweaty forehead meets yours. The two of you huff, moaning as Joaquin continues to pistol into you. 

“Forgive me,” he pants into your mouth. His lips come crashing into yours as his movements start to get more sloppy. “Please,” Joaquin moans into your mouth. “Don’t know what I’d do without you. Need you so fucking bad,” he practically chokes. 

The kissing is messy, saliva dripping down the side of your face as you’re too slackjawed to truly say anything. 

His large palm finds itself on the top of your head, pushing any hairs that stick to your sweaty forehead away as he anchors himself on you. With every slap of his hip, Joaquin applies slight pressure to the top of your head, forcing your body down to meet his cock halfway as he sets the brutal pace. 

“Joaquin,” you call out, clenching down tightly on him. 

“Say you forgive me,” he asks of you, sounding so debauched you nearly lose your mind. It’s as if he needs to hear you say it. 

Fingers finding themselves back on his shoulders, your nails dig into him as he bounces you on his cock. “I—” you start before being cut off by a loud moan crawling up your throat. “Fuck,” you cuss, eyes squeezed shut when his thumb finds itself on your clit. 

“Say it,” he demands, panting above you. 

“I—” You feel it now, the familiar coil in your lower stomach, and your hips move on their own accord, trying to chase that high. He’s mean with it, making consistent circles against the sensitive button while he continues to thrust into you with a brutal pace. 

“Please!” he begs you, moving faster as if he has to prove something to you.  

“I forgive you!” you all but shout. You’re going to leave scars on his shoulder, surely, with how tight your hold is on him. You come with a startling gasp, waves of shock tingling from the tip of your head all the way down to your toes. You’re loud, so loud with it as Joaquin continues his brutal pace. 

“Shit!” Joaquin comes right after you, just as loud as you are as he fucks you through both of your orgasms. 

It leaves you delirious, the feeling so all-consuming that you practically see stars. You get addiction now, because here? Coming on his cock like this? God, you don’t think you’ll ever get enough. 

His shoots thick, warm ropes of cum into you, you can feel it. It fills you in a way that leaves you speechless, even more so in the way he continues at his quick pace. 

It’s almost too much, letting out a whine as you try to pull back. 

But Joaquin doesn’t let you. Instead, he grips your waist with both of his hands, pulling you back onto his cock as he fucks you through it. It’s good, too good. You moan and gasp as he fills you up, mercilessly thrusting into you.

After however long it takes for him to finish cumming, Joaquin finally begins to slow. 

The sound of him finally pulling out of you is filthy, and even though it was so overwhelming, you can’t help but frown when he’s out. God, you’re aching, but you wish that he was still inside you, filling you in a way only he can. 

Joaquin’s chest is heaving as he planks on top of you. He lets out another string of curses, as if he’s still feeling the aftermath, as his head finds its home in the crook of your neck. 

Gently, he places a kiss there, making you shudder. 

Rolling over so he was also on his back, Joaquin let out a loud breath, needing to fill his lungs with air.

In a condition not much different than him, you lay still there, catching your own breath. 

For a second, fear flashes through you, but then Joaquin’s hand finds yours. Without a word, he interlocks your fingers in his…and it grounds. 

And when he brings your interlaced fingers up to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand in a way that can only be described as sweet, you know that there was truth to it: you forgive him. 

-

The sound of loud machinery and heavy grunting was the last thing you heard before the giant metal door swung open with a groaning creak. 

On the other side, you’re greeted with a heaving Sam and behind him, a timidly peaking in Bob. 

“Well, good morning, you two,” Sam greets, stepping into the room. “Glad to see you both alive and well twelve hours later. Not so bad, I assume?” 

You and Joaquin had already been awake, not that the two of you had gone to sleep in the first place, really. After everything, the two of you had sat and talked for what felt like hours about it all. Where you would go from here, what it would mean for the team—in the span of a few hours, you resolved what the two of you had avoided for weeks. Just two idiots, the both of you came to realize. After all, it was so simple. You love each other. What more was there to it? 

“Sure. You could say that,” Joaquin retorts as he lends you a helping hand, pulling you up. 

You only offer him a coy smile, Joaquin’s eyes sparkling at the inside joke the two of you were hiding. 

“Wait,” Bob speaks up quietly. “Is that…” he squints at you, head tilted inquisitively. “Are you wearing Joaquin’s jacket?” 

All you can do is cast Joaquin a knowing look, only for him to shrug at you in response. Too wrapped up in gazing at each other, neither of you can hear the loud groan that Sam lets out, nor do you see the bright blush that coats Bob’s face. 

College, then a career, marriage, and after several comfortable years, maybe children could enter the picture. You were, after all, eighteen, and the prospect of kids had felt astronomically far away.

(Isn’t life funny sometimes?)

Then the car crash happened.

You don’t remember much of it—bits here, pieces there, some flashes if you thought hard enough that it makes your head hurt—just that one moment you were in the backseat of your family’s car, buckled in and drifting to sleep, and in the next, you were staring up at the ceiling of Hawkins Memorial.

You had survived with some broken bones and a nasty concussion. 

Your family did not.

You were eighteen and alone, having graduated high school only a few weeks prior. And between all of the injuries that you’d sustained (it wasn’t as though dorm halls were exactly wheelchair accessible) and the sudden lack of family to help pay for tuition, you were forced to drop out of college. Your days were instead spent planning funerals from a hospital bed, handling lawyers and life insurance and inheritance. You threw yourself into physical therapy and, once your leg healed, forced yourself into a car, refusing to let yourself vomit from the anxiety of being behind a wheel once more.

You survived it all, and you came out a stronger person on top.

Different, maybe, but stronger.

And throughout it all—through the long hours in the hospital and longer hours rebuilding your strength—was your boyfriend, Mark Lewinsky.

Mark was sweet. Mark was kind. He filled your recovery room with flowers, and once you were discharged, his parents allowed you to stay at their house as you recovered.

But Mark also had a life outside of yours completely crashing down around you, and in August of ’85, he swept off to Purdue without a glance backwards.

The two of you went long distance, with the onus on you to make the hour and a half drive to Lafayette to visit.

And life moved on. Injuries healed, you moved back into your family’s home, and your days were spent with sorting through their belongings, figuring out which items you wanted to keep and which items would be better loved in another home.

Mark called often. Of course he called often! He was your boyfriend, the love of your life, and was even starting to talk about rings and weddings and marriage, and even if your life hasn’t gone the way that you thought it should, at least you could still have the other parts, right?

It was just as things were starting to feel normal again, that you were settling into your new existence, that the earthquake happened.

Mark spent the summer of ’86 bouncing between his parents’ house and your place, filling out the copious amounts of paperwork that the military required for him to be released to go back go college, and before you could wrap your head around it, he was gone.

He was gone, and you were left in this new, strange world by yourself. No Mark, no family, no friends.

Alone.

And it was fine. It was fine.

It was fine up until the military doctor informed you, during one of the mandatory checkups, that you were pregnant.

And then, suddenly, everything wasn’t fine, because it was October of 1986, the military was breathing down everyone’s necks, and you were scared and pregnant and alone and all Mark could say over the phone was, “Babe, are you even sure that it’s mine?”

You seethed. Of course you seethed—you were faithful! You’d been nothing but faithful for two years! You hadn’t even looked at another man, not since Mark asked you out during your senior year! And now you were pregnant with his baby, stuck in a nightmare scenario, he changed his phone number, his parents had moved from town, and you were alone.

Mark, clearly, did not care.

In fact, he didn’t really seem to care until long after you gave birth, not until your daughter, Mia, was nearly two, and he came skipping back into Hawkins after he graduated college, demanding a paternity test.

He demanded a lot of things, really, that you were too exhausted to fight him on. Not with the money behind the Lewinsky name. Not with the way you hadn’t slept for a full night since giving birth. Not with living through a military occupation, abandoned and scared, with a baby who depended on you for everything. 

So you got the test done, and wouldn’t you know it? Mark Lewinsky was, in fact, the father. Except Mark Lewinsky was no longer your boyfriend, and he had a nice, new woman at his side with a nice, new shiny ring on her finger and a nice, new lawyer to demand shared custody.

The only thing you refused to budge on was changing Mia’s last name from yours to Mark’s. You were, after all, the person that carried her in your body, the only parent she knew for the first two years of her life, and you were the one she cried for after nightmares. You were the one that snuggled up next to after you rented Cinderella from Family Video for the umpteenth time and you knew exactly how she liked her pancakes made. 

She was yours in every way that mattered and nothing was going to change that.

And before you knew it, years passed, and Mia grew faster than you could keep up with. She developed thoughts and feelings and opinions—god, so many opinions that it makes you laugh—and, suddenly, an interest in sports.

(You’re not quite sure where that one came from, seeing as Mark’s athletic prowess had been comical at best and you were too busy in high school with other extracurriculars to even try.)

Which is how you find yourself here, the early June sun beating down on your neck, at Hawkins Middle School with an excitable Mia clutching your hand, surrounded by the newly formed Hawkins Little League Softball Team.

A team that had been spearheaded by none other than Steve Harrington, a familiar face that you hadn’t seen in a long, long time.

Shock spreads across your body at the sight of him jogging towards your ragtag group, and the first thought that crosses your mind is that he looks good. Better than he did in high school, back when the two of you spent a summer fooling around with one another like there was nothing better to do with your time. His hair is a bit shorter than it was back then, a little less styled with the tips curling from humidity, and a white shirt already drenched with sweat sticks to his chest.

Your throat goes dry at the sight of what should be considered indecently short athletic shorts and hairy legs stopping in front of the crowd, and not for the first time, you find yourself regretting that the two of you drifted apart once Mark became a more stable presence in your life.

(Were you ever really friends? You’re not sure, but you gave a piece of yourself to him that summer, and you’ve never once regretted giving it away.)

You rip your gaze away from his legs, tracing the line up his body—which is both so similar and so different from your memory—and find that he’s smiling sunnily at you, recognition crossing his face.

And then, he greets the kids and practice is started.

You make yourself way to the stands with the other parents, watching with no small amount of amusement as Steve corrals a gaggle of five year olds who want to do nothing more than sprint in dizzying circles around him. He takes it all in stride, however, and you find yourself impressed at the everlasting patience he has for the girls with no attention span. 

It would be a lot for any person to handle, you think, but somehow, Steve has a knack for getting the kids to listen to his instructions.

The first practice goes fine. Great, even, for a bunch of hyperactive, uncoordinated give year olds. And even though there isn’t a single kind who actually manages to hit the ball with the stupidly expensive softball bats, but afterwards, Steve gives each and every girl a high five, tells them that he’s proud of them, and reminds them all to drink plenty of water once they get home.

You watch Mia bound over to you, her twin braids flying as she yells, “Did you see? Did you see?”

“I saw!” you laugh, catching the bundle of energy in your arms as she babbles on excitedly about how much fun she had and how much she can’t wait for the next practice.

Your heart sinks, because despite how uncomfortable the metal bench was, you really enjoyed watching her tumble her way across the field. But… the next practice is next week, Mark’s week, and he was already reticent to pay for half of the fees. Would he even stay to watch? Would his wife—a lovely woman in her own right—stay to watch? Will there be anyone to cheer Mia on as she runs in circles? You’re not sure, and it makes your chest hurt to think about that.

Before you can dwell on it too long, though, a shadow crosses over the two of you, and you look up, up, up, to find Steve Harrington in all of his sweaty glory, your name dripping from his lips, and he asks, “Hey! It’s been awhile. How are you doing?

“I’m good,” you say at the same time that Mia, a clingy child on the best of days, does her best to burrow her way into your skin. “I was actually a little surprised to see you here. Didn’t know that you were moonlighting as a coach now, but it looks good on you.”

“Yeah?” he says, a little bashful as he pushes the hair from his eyes. “I coach the baseball little league, too, and was kind of annoyed that the girls didn’t have their own sport, so… yeah. Anyway, is this your niece?”

You open your mouth, ready to respond, but it’s in this moment that Mia chooses to peel herself from your arms and beat you to the punch.

“Uh, this is my mom, Coach Steve. Duh.”

“Mia!” you scold. “God, Steve, I’m so sorry, she’s a little—I mean—”

A booming laugh cuts you off. You watch, stunned, as his head tilts back, the evening sun catching on the column of his throat, the corners of his eyes crinkling from the force of his mirth. Everything about him screams All American Boy as the delight spills from him, and a knot in your chest that you didn’t even know was there eases.

“You’re right, Mia,” he says, holding a hand out to her as a peace offering. “I should’ve known better. Will you ever forgive me?”

Mia sniffs imperiously, eyes him a little warily, but clearly decides that he passes some invisible test when she places her little hand in his large palm. “I guess.”

You take this moment to pry her from your lap, instructing, “Go get a snack from the car, sweets. I’m going to talk to Steve real quick.”

She grumbles something under her breath, shooting you a sour look, but does as told, scampering towards your old sedan.

“So…” Steve starts, hands placed firmly on his hips and his gaze firmly trained on your daughter, as though he’s making sure that she doesn’t run into any trouble in the perilous twenty foot distance between you and her. “Daughter?”

“Long story,” you offer.

He raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”

You pause, thinking, and realize dimly, Oh, he should know. Especially if Mark drops her off next week. “Well… no, actually.”

You give Steve the abbreviated version—as abbreviated as it can be, anyway, for a tale that is both short and rather uninteresting. Knocked up at nineteen, gave birth at twenty, share custody with her father, Mark Lewinsky, so he’ll be the one at practice next week.

If possible, Steve’s brows raise higher at the mention of Mark. 

“The bench warmer?” he asks, then flushes as if he wasn’t supposed to say that.

But it’s your turn to laugh. “Yeah, him.” Glancing to make sure that your daughter is still out of earshot, you add, “Wouldn’t have been my first choice in fathers, but I got Mia out of it, so… Worth it, in the end.”

“She’s a good kid,” Steve says. “Picked up on what to do faster than the other kids. And I’m not just saying that to, like, stroke your ego or anything. She’s smart.”

“Yeah,” you smile. “She is, isn’t she?”

Life persists and summer continues to grow, the heat swells until it presses into every corner of your life, and the humidity wraps itself around you like a second skin. 

As always, Mia is at your house one week, goes to her dad’s the next, and inevitably she returns with her light a little dimmed and a trembling smile on her face, climbing into your bed every Sunday night after her dad drops her off.

(It breaks your heart, but what can you do? It’s not like they’re mistreating her or anything. She just doesn’t like going out over to Mark’s house, especially not since Mark’s wife announced her own pregnancy.)

And, against all odds, Mia sticks with softball, throwing her tiny little body into practice and drills. She takes to spending every evening with her bat in the backyard, swinging it around wildly as she asks, “Do you think Coach Steve can tell that I’m doing this?”

“Of course,” you reply amiably from your spot on the deck, a book propped open on the table next to you. “Coach Steve is very smart, you know.”

She preens under the thought of praise, and you heart clenches with gratitude that you get to be her mother.

Practices get bumped up to twice a week, too, meaning that every other week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, your evenings are spent in the stands at your old middle school, watching your daughter flail across the field with the grace of a newborn kitten.

There’s a certain amount of affection that wells up in your chest whenever you watch Steve interact with her. He corrects her with a gentle efficiency, lifting her elbow into place, showing her how to stand. It’s hard not to notice just how much she blossoms under his roaring cheers from across the field when she manages to hit the ball, her little legs pumping as she sprints to home base. 

And then—faster than you can process it—she slides her way to the home plate. Tries to slide her way to the home plate, and it’s immediately evident that it completely went wrong when a shrill cry pierces the air. Your blood freezes, and in the next second, Steve’s at her side before you can even stand, scooping her sobbing form up. His big hand settles on her small back as he jogs towards the first aid kit. 

You scramble from the stands, forcing your way through the other parents, and as you make your way closer, you hear him say, “I bet it hurts a lot, Mia, but it’ll be okay. See? It’s just a little cut, don’t worry.”

“But—but—” Her lower lip wobbles, fat tears falling from her eyes. “What if I can’t run anymore?”

If this shocks Steve, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he reaches out gently, dragging a thumb across her cheek as he wipes the tears away, promising in a soft voice, “You’ll be able to run again, I promise. You think a little scrape can prevent that? Come on, Mia, you’re a strong girl. You can do anything you want.”

Your heart melts at the assurance as you slip onto the bench next to her, tucking Mia into your side as he finishes cleaning and bandaging her skinned knees, saying, “There, all done. Look! No more blood. How about you sit here with your mom for a bit, okay? If it hurts a little less, you can come back out, but no worries if not.”

She nods, presses her face into your shirt, and Steve offers you a soft smile before turning his attention back to the rest of the team.

You offer her soothing words and squeezes, smoothing a hand down her back throughout the rest of practice, trying desperately to ignore the way your stomach flips at the mental image of her coddled against Steve’s chest.

It’s inappropriate, you think, to feel so electrified after seeing how kind his is with your daughter.

(But is it really your fault? You’ve seen Mark with her when she’s injured, the way he tends to hand Mia off to his wife when all she needs is a hug, a kiss to the forehead, and an assurance that all will be well. Because Mark is awkward and never quite adapted to fatherhood, and Steve—)

(Steve just seems so naturally step into that role, even for kids that aren’t his own.)

After practice, you stay sitting on the bench, watching as the rest of the team disappears in the parking lot and drives off. It’s only once the last family has left that Steve makes his way back over to the two of you, checks on Mia’s knees and opens his arms up. “Will you ever forgive me, Mia?”

She giggles and throws herself at him, wrapping herself tight around his neck as she buries her face into the crook of his neck.

“I guess,” she says in a way that you know, from experience, means yes. 

Your throat tightens at the sight, trying to remember the last time you’d seen her actual father treating her with so much tenderness.

Steve’s eyes, warm and brown, meet yours, and he asks, “Can I make this up to you? Both of you? There’s a new diner nearby that’s supposed to be good, and it’ll be my treat. I should’ve shown Mia how to safely slide before she ever attempted it, and…”

“Oh, Steve,” you say. “You really don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he says firmly. “Please?”

“Please, Mom?” comes your daughter’s muffled voice.

You glance down at Mia, at her face still filled with baby fat tucked into his shirt, and find yourself nodding. “As long as Mia wants to, I’m fine with it.”

The smile Steve sends you is blinding.

He leads the two of you towards his car, having insisted on driving, with Mia held close to his chest after she demanded that he carry her as payment—where she learned that phrase, you’re not quite sure—and you find yourself shocked to find a silvery blue pickup in place of a maroon BMW, and you blurt out, “You got rid of the Beamer?”

Steve pauses where he’s opening the passenger door, glancing back at you with something unreadable on his face. Carefully, with a tinge of sadness in his voice, he says, “Figured that it was time for something better.”

“Still, we had some good memories in that car,” you say without thinking.

Steve coughs.

You freeze, face burning.

“Oh my god,” you say. “I’m so sorry, that just—”

“It’s fine,” he wheezes, his cheeks turning a rosy red. “Can’t say you’re wrong, can I?”

And Mia, ever the nosy child, finally puts two and two together. “Mom, did you know Coach Steve before softball?”

“I did, sweets,” you say. “We were friends in school.”

(Which isn’t exactly the truth, but, well, you’re not exactly about to tell your five year old that you and Steve hooked up between relationships, are you?)

“Your mom was the prettiest girl in our grade,” Steve whispers conspiratorially, easing Mia onto the bench seat and nudging her towards the center.

“Mom’s the prettiest girl now,” Mia asserts.

“You’re right,” he seriously replies. Then, as your brain struggles to catch up with the conversation, he turns to you with a hand held out, saying, “Alright, Prettiest Girl, let me help you in.”

Your face feels hot as you slip your hand into his, an electric shock racing up your arm at the contact. His palms are warm and calloused, assured in the way he grips your fingers as his other hand settles on your lower back, helping you up into the passenger seat.

He lingers for a moment, peering up at you, the setting sun making his eyes appear more honey than brown, and he says, “Not so bad, is it? Not as nice as the Beamer, but she’s a sturdy gal.”

And for a moment, you’re sixteen years old again, having your chin tilted up by Steve Harrington at Mayor Kline’s 1983 Fourth of July bash, his chapped lips brushing against yours at the peak of the Ferris wheel. You’re sixteen, and your biggest worry is whether or not your friends will believe you when you say that King Steve kissed you, and his hands are warm and steady on your waist as you wind your arms around his neck, his voice hoarse as he whispers, “God, you’re beautiful.”

You blink, and you’re twenty-five once more, with Steve Harrington—who has long since fallen from his throne—giving you a shy smile as his hand slips from your back, and for a moment you have the delirious thought that he still sees you as you, not the role you’ve filled for the past five years. He sees you as the teenager you once were, stealing kisses in the summer sun, making the windows of his Beamer fog up. He sees the person who once stole seven of his shirts in one night—shirts that still sit in your closet—and the person who once snorted lemonade out of your nose in his backyard.

 And then your daughter shifts next to you, clearly antsy, and his gaze dips down to her, reminding you of the person you are now, before meeting your eyes once more.

As if he can sense your thoughts, he quietly asks, “You alright?”

You force yourself to nod, saying, “Yeah, of course. Just, uh, hungry.”

Because if you don’t, you’re going to ask him, Do you still see me as me? Or do you only see me as a mother like everyone else does?

(You’re not sure if you could handle the answer, no matter what it is.)

The drive to the diner is filled with endless chatter from your daughter as she fills Steve in on how she’s starting kindergarten in the fall, every thought and excitement and fear she has pouring from her body, and you watch. You watch the way his fingers curl around the steering wheel, you watch the way he leans over to ruffle Mia’s hair. You listen to the low, soothing timbre of his voice when he assures her that kindergarten isn’t hard, that she’ll have no problem making friends, that she’ll be okay no matter what. 

And for a moment—

For a moment, you wonder if this is what your life could’ve looked like, in another universe.

But you don’t let yourself dwell on that long, because in another universe, Mia wouldn’t be your daughter, and the thought of that makes your chest crack wide open from pain.

Steve helps the two of you out of the truck, doesn’t comment when Mia grabs his hand as well as yours, and holds the door open to the restaurant, ushering you both in and settling you into a corner booth.

Mia orders a stack of waffles—and you note the anguish that flashes across Steve’s face when she announces this to the waitress, wondering but not asking—and you order a sandwich, cautious of not spending too much despite his insistence to not worry about it.

It’s… it’s fun. It’s fun in a way you haven’t felt in a long time, a burden that you didn’t know was there easing from your bones. 

Steve, clearly, is phenomenal with kids, never flinching when Mia’s voice gets too loud or her stories too rambley. He meets her at her level like it’s the most natural thing to do, and you know from experience that it’s not. She’s a precocious child, too smart for her age and always getting into something, and it’s a common complaint you’ve heard from her father when he drops her off at your house. That she isn’t always controllable, as if it’s a crime to let a child roam free, as if a child is meant to be controlled.

(You can’t think about that one without righteous indignation burning through your veins.)

And when the food arrives, he waves you away when you move to cut up Mia’s food, saying, “I got it, just enjoy your meal.”

You think that you could cry.

Dinner passes without incident, and you’re nowhere close to surprised when Mia nods off onto your arm, her snores filling the space between you and Steve. He huffs out a quiet, affectionate laugh, goes to pay the bill, and when he comes back, he leans down to gather her into his arms, asking, “You ready?”

He’s quiet as he takes you back to your own car, contemplative, and he wordlessly helps buckle Mia into her car seat, biceps flexing as he protects the top of her head from bumping against the roof of the sedan. 

It should be odd, you think, to let him do this. To let him take care of your daughter without question.

But it’s not like you don’t know him. It’s not like he’s never treated you with the same gentle reverence, either.

(Because you remember high school. You remember your first big breakup, sophomore year, and Steve finding you crying behind the bleachers in the outfield. You remember him sitting next to you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling some napkins from his coat pocket to dab at your mascara stained cheeks. You remember his kindness, back when he was King Steve and you were someone on the outskirts of his universe. You remember him driving you home afterwards and helping you into bed. You remember coming into school the next day to see your ex with a black eye and fat lip, and the warmth in your chest that, for the first time, someone had taken care of you.)

“Thank you,” you say, even if it falls far short of anything else you really want to say. “This… this meant more than you know.”

Steve straightens, gently shutting the door. “It’s no problem, honestly.”

“Still,” you say. “You don’t need to be so nice, Steve. I know I’m just your…”

Your former fling. Someone you filled your afternoons with before Nancy Wheeler broke your heart. A person you probably haven’t thought about in years.

“My friend,” he gently finishes. “You’re my friend.”

You blink, taken aback. “But we haven’t—”

“I know,” he interrupts, still in that soft, soothing tone of his. “But I never once stopped considering you a friend. And…” He pats around the pockets of his jeans, pulling out a scrap of paper. “I’ve been trying to figure out a good time to give this to you.”

You take it, looking down to find a phone number scrawled out.

“I live in a place up near Forest Hills Park now,” he continues on. “Up in northeast Hawkins? Not the trailer park that has the same name, it’s on the opposite side of town. So my number’s obviously changed, but if, you know, you ever want to talk, I’m almost always home around eight. To catch up.”

“Oh.” Your throat feels uncomfortably tight. “Oh, this…”

“You don’t have to,” he quickly says. “Just figured I’d offer.”

Something in your chest warms at the thought. Catching up. Even if you’re confident that there’s nothing in your life interesting enough to catch up on, he’s looking at you so earnestly, so ardently, that you can’t deny him.

“I will,” you promise. “I will. And—my phone number never changed, so if you still remember that—”

“I do.”

You pause, smiling. “You can call me anytime.”

A shy, sheepish grin peeks from his face. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah. And for what it’s worth, I’m still living in the same house I did in high school.”

“Really?” he asks, following you around the car as you reach for the driver’s side door. “What’s the story behind that?”

“I don’t know,” you say coquettishly, slipping into the seat. “You’ll have to call and find out, won’t you?”

Sunday comes, and Mia gets whisked off to her father’s house like she always does, and you’re once again left wandering around your house, trying desperately to fill up the time and space that’s usually allotted to parenting. It’s never easy to ignore the way that being a mother has been hardwired into each and every one of your molecules, a small tick tick tick that’s sounding off in the back of your brain like you’re somehow doing something wrong by curling up on the couch, watching reruns on the television instead of reading your daughter a bedtime story.

A few days pass, and Mia calls like she does every night when she’s at her dad’s, telling you about softball practice and feeling the baby kick and what she ate for dinner.

“I don’t think Dad likes Coach Steve,” she whispers over the line. “He always sits in the car at practice and never says ‘hi.’”

This doesn’t surprise you, but you’re not about to tell her that Coach Steve and Dad once got into it over Dad not being good enough at basketball to get off the bench in high school. 

“I’m sure he likes Coach Steve just fine,” you instead say. “Anyway, what else did you do today?

She continues to ramble, you continue to listen, and eventually, Mark takes the phone, saying, “Hey, listen, I had a question for you.”

You sit up straighter. “Yeah? What’s up?”

“I know this is short notice,” he begins. “But my parents bought plane tickets for me, Lisa, and Mia to visit them in Florida next week. They wanted to see everyone before the baby comes, you know? Anyway, I told them that it was your week, but they insisted on it.”

Something in your gut curdles.

And here’s the crux of the issue:

You don’t dislike the Lewinsky's. Sure, they did threaten to sue you into oblivion had you not agreed to the current custody arrangement between you and Mark, and sure, they ignored your calls when you were pregnant, trying to get in touch with Mark after he changed his number. But you can’t forget how they took care of you after your family’s death, either, nor can you forget that they’re your daughter’s family.

(As much as you might think they’re reprehensible people, that’s for Mia to decide when she’s older, and you do your best to keep your opinions away from her.)

You stay silent long enough that Mark says, “And so you don’t lose your time with her, I figure that when we get back, you’ll get the next two weeks before we go back to our normal schedule.”

You purse your lips together. “I’m not happy about this.”

“I didn’t think you would be,” Mark replies. 

“I’ll agree this time,” you say. “But don’t make a habit of it. Have you told Mia? She’s going to be upset.”

“Wanted to ask first,” he says. “Could you pack a bag for her, by the way? I’ll swing by Friday evening to pick it up, and she can say bye to you then.”

“Fine,” you tell him shortly. “Please take some pictures of her while you’re down there and send me the copies.”

“You got it,” he says. “I’ll make sure to set some time aside for her to call while we’re down there, too.”

That’s the least you could do, you think bitterly, but force yourself say, “I appreciate it. Give her my love.”

And the line goes dead.

You let out an aggravated sigh, too annoyed to keep sitting. You make your way to the kitchen, aggressively scrubbing the scant dishes you’d left from breakfast. Laundry gets thrown into the wash before you climb upstairs, looking around your daughter’s room as you find a bag, tossing in clothes that Mark’s parents are the least likely to judge, tucking her favorite book in alongside in the fabric, and for a moment, you’re lost.

Adrift.

You’ve never spent two weeks away from your daughter. You had never gone more than seven days without her wrapping her small body around your chest, without hearing her mumble as she dreamed or watching her sleepily walk into the kitchen for breakfast. 

Your life, since May 1987, has entirely revolved around the role of Mom.

Who are you when you aren’t that?

You aren’t sure, and that scares you more than it should.

The rest of your evening is spent aimlessly, listlessly, as you try to find something to fill your time. Your time away from Mia is generally spent catching up on laundry and cleaning and getting ready for her to come back, making sure you have enough food in the house for her lunches and some new books from the library.

What did you do for fun before you were a mother?

You genuinely can’t remember.

Before you can consider it too deeply, your keys are in your hand, sandals are slid onto your feet, and the next thing you know, you’re in the parking lot at Family Video, easing your way inside the familiar store and nodding at the bored teenager behind the register. 

For a moment, you stare at the red curtain in the back, illuminated by the neon sign proclaiming ADULT above it, and you’re tempted. Really tempted. Honestly, when was the last time you had time for yourself like that? But the last time you’d been behind that curtain was the summer that Mia was conceived, when you’d snuck behind it with Mark, giggling like the children as you whispered the names of different titles, mocking and young and so, so in love.

If you go back there now, you’re not sure that you won’t meet the ghost of your former self, still being spun in a circle and covered in kisses with not a single care in the world.

So you pivot left, in the opposite direction of the pornos, towards the new releases and ignoring the door opening behind you as you search for something to fill your evening.

Rows of tapes surround you, some sticking out, movies you would’ve rented without second thought for Mia like 101 Dalmatians and The Brave Little Toaster. Films that are kid friendly, ones you can enjoy alongside her as you wait for a re-release of The Little Mermaid and fight half of Hawkins to snag a copy.

Just as a copy of Father of the Bride catches your eye, a warm voice behind you says, “Hey.”

You jump, spinning around, coming face to face with none other than Steve, who’s smiling down at you like it’s the most natural thing for him to do.

“Oh! Hi, Steve,” you say, clutching your chest. “What are you doing here?”

The second the words are out of your mouth, you feel like a complete idiot. What are you here for? What else would someone go into a video store for?

But he only shrugs, saying, “I caught sight of you walking in as I was driving home, so I figured I’d stop in. I was just about to call you, actually.”

Your heart beats harder than it should at the admission as you thump his arm softly. “Okay, creep.”

He laughs, and your gaze snags on his Adam’s apple as he tilts his head back, carefree in a way you haven’t felt in years.

“You got me there,” he admits. Glancing around, he asks, “Is Mia at her dad’s this week?”

“Yeah,” you say. “And, uh, next week, too. Last minute vacation to Mark’s parents’ place in Florida, apparently, so she won’t be at practice.”

There must be something in your tone—a sadness you can’t force away—because Steve catches your wrist, his thumb pressing comfortingly into the pulse point where your heart flutters against your skin, his voice full of empathy as he says, “That sounds rough.”

You nod, blinking back the torrent of emotions threatening to overpower you. “It’s kind of weird having no kid around, if I’m honest.”

“Hence the movie?” he asks, tilting his head towards the racks.

“Yup,” you say. “Hence the movie.” 

An idea pops into your head, then. And, well, Steve is the one who said that he still considered you a friend, right? 

“Hey, uh,” you flounder for a moment. “Would you want to come by for dinner on Friday? If you’re free? I can cook, you know, to make up for you buying our dinner. We could, uh, watch—” Your eyes cut to the tape next to you, and you snatch it from the shelf. “—Father of the Bride together. Maybe drink beer or something?”

His shoulders soften, and he fixes you with a look that has your knees weak and your stomach flipping as though you were a teenager once more.

“I’d love that,” he murmurs, his thumb worrying a path down to your palm. “But let me get the beer, alright? I’ll feel bad not bringing something.”

“I can agree to those terms,” you say, suddenly giddy. “You said you’re usually home by eight, right? Or—if you want to come home—I mean, come by earlier—I get back from work around four.”

“Is five okay?” he asks. “I’m helping a friend build something during the day, so I want to make sure I can shower before I come over.”

“Five’s perfect!” A grin stretches across your face before you can stop it. “You haven’t developed any allergies since high school, right?”

He shakes his head. “No, and before you ask, I do still eat anything that gets put on a plate, so just make whatever you’d usually eat.”

You already know that you are going to make something nice, and you’re pretty sure he can tell, too, but you lead him towards the register, slapping the tape down on the counter and digging through your purse.

But while you’re pulling your wallet out, Steve’s already handed a ten dollar bill over, telling the cashier, “Have a good night, man.”

“I was going to pay,” you say as he leads you from the store. “Seriously, Steve, let me give you money for it.”

“No can do,” he says. “My mother raised me to be a gentleman, honey. She’d rip me a new one if she knew I made someone as beautiful as you pay.”

You stumble, heat coursing through your body, and his hand quickly puts you right, a steadying presence as you splutter out, “Hold on, are you flirting with me?”

“I’ve been trying to since I saw you without a ring on your finger,” he confesses. “But I’m glad it’s working now.”

You splutter incoherently. “Steve!”

Embarrassment flushes at your skin, and in the next moment, it feels as though your entire being is overpowered by him. He leans down, his nose brushing against your own as the smell of his cologne, something deep and woodsy, fills your head. Fingers skim down your arm, and you can practically taste the sweat on his skin as he murmurs, “I wasn’t lying when I said that you were the prettiest girl. And, well…” His gaze very obviously drops down to your lips. “I’d like to rectify that and say you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

“You’re just saying that to be nice,” you breathe, heart beating erratically against your rib cage.

“Am I?” he asks.

For a moment, you think he might do something more, and you feel like that sixteen year old who spent her summer wrapped up in his arms, but the only thing he does is press a chaste kiss to your cheek.

You touch it gently, blinking up at him, and he whispers, “See you Friday?”

And then you’re left standing in the middle of the parking lot, Father of the Bride clutched in your hand as you watch him drive off.

You don’t remember much of the drive home. You don’t remember much of anything, really, just that the second your front door is locked, you’re climbing the stairs to your bedroom, arousal burning it’s way through your entire body.

It’s been so long since you’ve felt this way—since you had the freedom to feel this way—that it crashes into you all at once, almost blinding you with how much you want. Want Steve, want pleasure, want something.

Your shirt gets shed first, your bra is thrown towards the hamper in the corner, and you kick your underwear and pants off in one fell swoop before collapsing onto the bed. 

There’s no slow buildup the way you might have once done it, no teasing of your breasts, no swirling around your clit, because god, you are wet and aching in a way that you haven’t felt in years.

While one hand roughly grabs your own tit, your other creeps down to the apex of your legs, drifting through the thatch of pubic hair to swipe through your slit, gathering slick on the pads of your fingers. 

You remember, suddenly, the first time you ever slept with Steve, a few months after that breakup in tenth grade. How he had gripped your hips with his big, warm hands—hands that were soft and free from callouses at the time—and brought his mouth down to your cunt, licking a stripe from your hole up, sucking your clit into his mouth and hollowing out his cheeks in a way that had you seeing stars. How you had never felt such pleasure before, how you’d never had someone pay so much attention to you wholeheartedly before, and it’s the image if him peaking up at you from over your pussy that has you plunging two fingers inside, using the heel of your palm to grind into your clit.

It’s messy. It’s hot. It’s mesmerizing, becoming reacquainted with a part of your body that has long lived dormant inside you, to have the thrill of desire run so freely through all of your senses. To have your breasts peak in the cold air of the bedroom, to be able to moan loudly and freely, to so unabashedly become reacquainted with yourself once more.

You pinch a nipple between two fingers, twisting it in a way you once remember Steve doing, gasping breathlessly as your hips jerk up into your hand.

It’s intense, and your orgasm builds faster than you’ve ever felt before. Your toes curl as heat pools in your stomach, your core aching, and with one more circle of your clit, everything explodes.

You lay there, panting, as the aftershocks of pleasure fissures through your limbs, pulling your soaked hand from between your legs.

If there is one thing that you know, you cannot wait for Friday to arrive.

The rest of the week passes quickly, and you find yourself thrumming with anticipation at the thought of Steve coming over.

(Not that you’re expecting anything, but you can’t even find it in yourself to feel guilty for fantasizing about the feelings of his hands against your thighs.)

Mia still calls every evening, and any happiness of the thought of seeing Steve gets doused when she quietly admits, “I wish I could spend the week with you.”

“I know, sweets,” you tell her. “But you’ll have so much fun with Nana and Grandpa. And I’ll take a week off of work, so we can have a whole week to ourselves when you come back, okay? Plus I’ll give you such a big hug and so many kisses when you come to get your bag tomorrow that you’ll be set for a whole week of hugs and kisses.”

“Mom, I don’t think it works like that,” she whines. “Don’t be silly.”

“Uh, it absolutely works like that,” you say. “Are you questioning me? The same person you called the smartest person in the world?”

“You’re not being smart when you’re being silly!”

You sigh dramatically, shaking your head. “I love you too, Mia.”

It isn’t until later in the night when you’ve finished washing your face and have slipped into pajamas that it hits you.

Mark is coming over. Tomorrow. When Steve is going to be at your house.

Fuck.

You scramble for the phone on your nightstand, punching in the number to Steve’s house that’s sat by your alarm clock since he gave it to you, and you hope and pray that it isn’t too late for you to call.

And for once, luck is on your side.

His voice is a little rough when he answers with, “Henderson, I swear to god, I love you, man, but I haven’t gained any opinions on quantum physic theories since you asked me twenty minutes ago.”

“Well, good for you,” you wryly say. “I’m not here to ask your thoughts on quantum physics.”

There’s a silence, a spluttering, and then Steve chokes out, “Yeah, you weren’t who I thought was calling.”

“Clearly not.” You sit down on the bed, running a finger along a fraying thread on your quilt. “I, uh, needed to warn you about something.”

“Ominous,” he says. “Hit me with it, honey.”

Your face warms at the epithet, and you quickly explain the scheduling blunder you made, rushing to say, “Just—if you’re here when Mark and Mia come over, could you—uh—stay hidden? I’m not embarrassed or anything, but, well, you are Mia’s coach, and Mark has been kind of weird when I’ve had men over before—and you two do have a history—and you can park in the garage and everything so Mia doesn’t see the truck, and I’m so sorry to ask this of you, and—”

“Honey,” he gently interrupts. “I get it. You don’t need to worry about offending me.”

“Are you sure?” you ask, worrying your lip between your teeth.

“Am I sure?” He huffs out a laugh, soft and full of affection. “I was sure when we were sixteen and you pushed me into my pool. I was just an idiot back then, but, you know, I had to thump my head a few times to figure it out.”

“I just…” You press your eyes shut. “I haven’t… it’s been a long time, Steve, and I don’t want to mess this up, but… I’m not the same girl you knew back then. ”

“You won’t,” he assures. “And I’m not the same boy you knew, either. I want the woman you are now, in whatever way you’ll let me have you.”

Something in your chest eases at the admission, and you whisper, “Okay.”

You can hear the grin in his voice as he says, “Maybe we can talk more about this tomorrow? In person, over some beers?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Of course. Of course—just—I’ll leave the garage door open for you, okay? And you can come in through the side door. Just shout so, you know, I know when you’re in my house.”

“Anything for you, honey,” he says. “See you then?”

“See you then,” you promise.

The next day passes slowly, and you end up taking a half day, feigning illness convincingly enough that your boss lets you go without complaint.

Your house gets scrubbed from top to bottom, new bedding gets spread across your mattress, dinner is prepped, and you take a gloriously long shower, scrubbing every inch of your body until you’re satisfied.

You make your way back into your bedroom with a towel wrapped around your body, digging through your dresser to find something, well, sexy to wear.

(Not to be presumptuous or anything, but… you didn’t want to be caught off guard, either.)

It’s as you’re dabbing perfume behind your ears when you hear the creaking of the screen door. Seconds later, Steve’s voice calls out, “Honey, I’m home!”

You roll your eyes, affection blooming in your chest, and you call back, “One moment!”

With one more glance in the mirror to make sure everything is where it’s supposed to be, you make your way down to find Steve in the living room, a six pack of beer in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other, smiling nervously as you make your way closer to him.

“These are for you,” he says, thrusting the flowers towards you.

You take in the sight of him slowly, savoring it as your fingers brush against his, accepting the bouquet. His hair’s curled at the ends, like he’d taken a shower and didn’t dry his hair all the way afterwards, and he has a nice, linen button down tucked into dark wash jeans, clearly having put effort into looking nice.

For you.

“You look handsome,” you say shyly.

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “You look beautiful.”

You shake your head, moving past him towards the kitchen. “You have to say that,” you say. “I made you dinner.”

“I’d say that even without the promise of food,” he tells you, falling into step behind you. “But I won’t lie, the food is a motivator.”

It should be a little awkward, a bit uncomfortable, but the only thing you feel is safe.

It’s easy, you think, to share a space with Steve. Even if you hadn’t talked to him in nearly a decade, even if the shape of your life has changed so much since you first befriended him, he still knows you at your core. He knows what makes you laugh and what you like. He remembers how to work your oven, preheating it for the ziti that you prepped, and he slides an open beer across to you without prompt, bumping his foot against yours underneath the breakfast table you’re both sat at as you wait for the pasta to bake.

It’s almost enough for you to forget who you are outside of this small bubble you’ve created, for you to forget the person you’ve become in the years you didn’t see Steve. 

Almost, up until the doorbell rings, and Steve hangs back as you bring the bag of Mia’s clothes to the front porch, easing the door shut behind you.

You’re not shocked when Mia throws herself at you, tears already streaming down her face as Mark taps his foot impatiently behind her, blubbering incoherently about missing and sad and Mom in a way that has your heart shattering into a million, tiny pieces.

“Oh, sweets,” you murmur into her hair, holding her tightly to your chest. “It’s just a week, sweet girl. You’ll be home before you know it, and you’re going to have so much fun.”

“But I don’t wanna,” Mia sobs, little hiccups bubbling from her. “I wanna stay here, Mom, I don’t wanna go to stinky Florida!”

Mark scowls. “Amelia, honestly. This behavior is ridiculous. I’ve already told you that we’re visiting Disney. Don’t you want to meet Minnie Mouse?”

You shoot Mark the nastiest glare you can manage. 

“Not without Mom!” wails Mia, gripping your shirt even tighter.

“Baby,” you try again. “It’ll all be okay. You won’t even have time to miss me!”

“You’re lying,” she shouts, though her words are muffled from the way her face is pressed into your throat. “I always miss you!”

(And if that doesn’t make you want to pull her into the house and lock the door.)

Mark lets out an exasperated noise, glancing towards the idling car, and you know it’s time for them to go. Forcing yourself to stand, you gather Mia up in your arms—even if she’s just a bit too heavy for you to comfortably carry—and make your way towards the backseat.

She screams the entire way, tiny fists pounding on your back as you pull open the door. Mark’s wife, Lisa, gives you a sympathetic look when you’re forced to pull Mia’s hands from the fabric of your shirt, choking back your own tears as you buckle your daughter into her booster seat. You capture her face between your hands, pressing kisses to every surface of her face that you can reach, even as she screeches in protest.

You barely manage to utter out one final I love you so much, sweets before Mark nudges you out of the way, slamming the door shut as he says, “If you didn’t coddle her so much, she wouldn’t act like this.”

There are plenty of things you want to say. You could say, words that have been simmering under the surface for years. Insults, injuries, all sorts of horrible thoughts you’ve buried ever since Mia came screaming into the world on an early May morning, but you choke all of it back, snapping, “Have you considered that, maybe, if you’d wanted to be a father when she was born, she would have more of an attachment to you, Mark.”

“The town was in lock down,” he argues.

You shake your head, not pointing out the fact that he changed his god damn phone number so you couldn’t to reach him. “You could’ve tried, asshole.”

“Yeah, well,” he snips, stomping his way over to the driver’s side. “At least I’m not an uptight bitch.”

The only thing that stops you from losing it entirely is the knowledge that your daughter will hear it, and you refuse to be the parent who does that to her. Instead, you say, “You better call once you’re settled at your parents’ house. I want to make sure she’s okay.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grunts, slamming the car shut, effectively cutting the conversation off.

You stand there, waiting in the driveway as he pulls out, memorizing the shape of your daughter’s face pressed against the window, the way her little fingers claw at the glass, and you hold yourself tightly, trying desperately to not let her see just how much pain this situation is causing you.

(You would do anything to prevent her from shedding another tear again, and it kills you to be the cause of her anguish now.)

Once his car disappears from sight, and you force yourself back into the house, kicking the door shut behind you. 

Steve looks up from his place on the couch, takes one look at your face, and opens his arms up in the same way he had for your daughter just a few weeks prior. It’s easy, then, to crawl onto his lap the way you once did in high school, to let yourself be held tightly, to press your ear against his chest and listen to the sound of his steady heartbeat. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks softly, dragging a hand down your back.

You sigh, pressing your eyes shut. “Mark’s just an asshole, and Mia hates spending more time with him than she has to, but there’s nothing I can do about it. She’s still so young, and even if I had the money to take him to court for full custody, it would be hard to when the courts wouldn’t take her opinion into consideration. I try my best, but… but seeing her cry, I don’t know. Makes me wonder if I’m doing the right thing by not letting her choose now, you know? But despite everything, they’re her family, and she should know them.”

“What a douche bag,” Steve bluntly says. 

A laugh bursts from you, unbidden. “Did I ever tell you that he accused me of cheating on him when I announced that I was pregnant?”

A scandalized noise erupts from his throat. “No.”

“Yes!” You sit up, meeting Steve’s eye. “And because he was at Purdue, I had to call him. He asked, ‘are you sure it’s mine?” then changed his number so I couldn’t contact him! He only showed up when Mia was two and demanded shared custody after the paternity test showed that he was the father.”

“Seriously?” Steve scoffs. “What an asshole. You know, he never watches Mia at practice, either, and always looks annoyed when she tries to talk to him about it. I’ve even told him that she was really good and he just glared at me! Glared! He doesn’t deserve her.”

“No,” you agree. “He really doesn’t.”

“You know…” A small smile crosses Steve’s face. “I bet the reason he’s so pissy about it is ‘cause he’s mad that she’s better at softball than he ever was at basketball.”

“I bet you’re right,” you say. “He can’t handle the blow to his ego.”

A beat passes, his grin widens, and before you can stop it, giggles spill from your lips as all tension leaves your body. 

It feels good to talk to someone about your daughter’s shitty father, to have Steve so easily validate every annoyance you’ve ever felt towards the man. It feels like you’re not as crazy as you feel half the time when interacting with the man, to know that you’re not as alone in the world as you felt even five minutes prior.

The timer on the oven goes off, and the two of you make your way into the kitchen. Steve pulls plates from the cabinet, talking about the baseball team he coaches as you pull the baking dish from the oven, putting it on the breakfast table while he sets silverware down.

And dinner is…

It’s nice.

It’s simple, and it’s easy, and you feel like you, but in a way that doesn’t feel at war with your role as a parent. Like Steve sees both sides of you, understands that they are two sides to the same coin, and he likes you that way.

He talks about his life since high school. A shitty job at the mall, a shittier job at Family Video once the mall burnt down. The years spent working weird jobs, taking care of a gaggle of kids you vaguely remember seeing him with in high school. He tells you how he lied to his parents about how he couldn’t get into college, having not known what to do with his life and not wanting to disappoint them.

“I guess I thought they’d find it easier to accept that I was too stupid to be accepted,” he explains. “Though, as it turns out, they wouldn’t have had an issue with me just saying that I wanted to take a gap year.”

“Did you end up going?” you ask, sipping at your beer. “To college, that is.”

He leans back in his seat, stretching his arms behind his head. You don’t miss the flash of tummy, the trail of hair leading south that had not been there the last time you saw it. 

“I did,” he says with no small amount of pride. “Graduated this past May, actually. Got a degree in physical education from Ball State. I’m starting at a gym teacher at the middle school in the fall.”

“Holy shit!” You reach over, squeezing his leg. “Congrats! That’s huge!”

He beams, but shrugs bashfully, anyway. “It’s no big deal.”

“Don’t be modest,” you scold. “That’s amazing. Mr. Harrington, gym teacher. Has a nice ring to it.”

“You think?” He leans forward, resting his forearms on the wooden tabletop. “So… you told me to call and ask why you’re still living here. Do I still need to do that, or can I ask now?”

“Hm.” You pretend to contemplate it, dragging your gaze across the kitchen, your eyes catching on the fridge covered in your daughter’s drawings. “I guess I can tell you, but I have to warn you, it’s not a fun story.”

“Not everything has to be,” he says.

And that’s all the assurance you need.

He listens attentively as you describe the car crash you don’t really remember, the one that ended the lives of your family just a couple of weeks after you graduated high school. The physical therapy, the fact that you lost your spot in college from all the medical issues. The way you planned to go once you healed, just somewhere closer to home, somewhere more affordable so you didn’t blow through the money you inherited. But then one thing led to another—the earthquake, the quarantine, the pregnancy—and your life had once again flipped upside down.

You talk about the early years with Mia. The labor that had lasted for thirty-one hours, the nurse who all held your hand as you pushed, the one for whom you named Mia after. The exhaustion, the late nights and early mornings, how you felt so, so much love for the tiny creature that you created from nothing, who felt so alien and so familiar at the same time. You tell him about her first laugh and first words and first steps, her propensity to get into trouble even from such a young age. How you bawled at her first birthday party, an event that was only attended by neighbors because, at that point, all of your friends had moved on with their lives while yours was completely centered on Mia.

You tell him about the day that Mark came crashing back in, the fury that you felt, how you had screamed at him so loudly that a neighbor came over to see if they needed to call the police on him for trespassing. The way you felt so small when his parents came in with money and lawyers and more things than you could ever provide your daughter on a meager salary, how you’d been bullied into giving up more of your time with Mia than you ever wanted. 

You tell him everything that you can think of, and when you’re done, you steel your nerves, look Steve straight in the eye, and say, “There’s another thing.”

He nods. “Yeah?”

“I can’t…” You chew on your lip. “I won’t do anything to hurt her, Steve. I can’t have you in my life as… as someone who’s flirting with me, or doing something more. Not if you don’t understand that we’re a package deal. She’s everything to me, and I would rather die than have her hurt over a choice I made. And I know this is a lot, and I know this is intense, but—I’m telling you right now. You’re either all in or you’re out. We can be friends, and we can hang out, but if you want anything more… you have to understand that she will always come first.”

“I know,” he says simply. “I wouldn’t expect anything less, honey. Whatever you’ll let me have, whatever parts of your lives I can be in, I want that. I want you. Both of you, in whatever way you’ll have me.”

Slowly, he leans in, the gap between the two of you closing, and he whispers, “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut.

And his lips crash into yours.

Your fingers scramble up, gripping his chin as he pulls you forward, off your chair and onto his lap.

It feels as though you’re on fire, sparks shooting across your skin with every rough drag of his lips, with every nip of his teeth. You tilt his head so you can have a better angle, and when he lets out a wanton groan, you feel alive.

His calloused palms skim their way under your shirt, settling on your waist as you moan into the kiss, open mouthed, drawing his tongue in. 

It’s messy, and it’s a little clumsy, but you find that you don’t care. Not when you can feel him hot and hard against your leg, and not when he whimpers against your lips as you tug on his hair.

“Honey,” he whispers. “Don’t torture me.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” you say, pulling away. A trail of spit connects the two of you, and you take in just how incredibly wrecked he looks already, with his pupils blown wide and a heavy flush on his cheeks. “Would you… do you want to go upstairs?”

You stand and capture his fingers between your own, tugging him through the house and up the stairs.

It isn’t until you enter the expanse of your bedroom that the nerves start to get the better of you, and you put your hands on his chest, stopping him from ducking down to kiss you once more as you say, “I have something else to tell you.”

“What is it?” he asks, pressing his forehead into yours.

“Just… I…” You squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassment flooding your system.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me, honey. Are you having second thoughts? We don’t have to do anything—honestly, I wasn’t expecting—”

“It’s not that,” you quickly interrupt. “It’s not—it’s just that—I’m different now. My body—it looks different from how you remember it. It’s softer, and I have stretch marks, and—I’ve had a baby. I don’t look the same.”

A kiss, gentle yet effervescent, is pressed into your temple. “That doesn’t matter to me at all. You grew a person. You think I’m supposed to feel anything other than awe over that?”

“I’ve had—other people have told me it’s gross,” you confess. “I just… I wanted to prepare you, is all.”

“Oh, honey.” It’s said so softly that you barely hear it. “I could never be grossed out by you.”

Your eyes fly open. You see the honesty on his face, along with the unbridled desire as his gaze dips down, and before you lose your nerve, you reach for the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and off and tossing it somewhere out of sight.

The reaction is immediate.

It’s gratifying, honestly, how clearly he wants you. How clearly he desires you, and everything that comes with it. Enough so that you’re pushing your pants down, asking, “Am I the only one getting undressed tonight?”

He grabs the end of his shirt with a fervor, completely and utterly uncoordinated, and you can’t help but giggle from his enthusiasm.

That is, however, until you see his chest. The way a forest of hair has completely taken over, yes, but the mottled silver scars that cover the tanned skin, tracing down his sides and stopping mere inches from his boxers.

You want to ask, but when you look back up at his face, you recognize the situation for what it is: A conversation for a different time, a different day, where you have the time and space to become reacquainted with one another on a deeper level.

He steps closer, then, and you remember thinking how much of a man Steve had seemed back in high school, back when you were just a girl yourself and he was the most grown person you’d slept with. All confidence and bravado and hard lines, a tendency towards your pleasure before his own like it was his solemn duty. But you had been utterly wrong about whatever masculinity that you assumed he had back in high school. 

The boy he was then has nothing on the man he is now, the kind of man who has grown into his own body, who is comfortable in who he is above all else. One that’s softer, less toned, but somehow more powerful than before. Covered in the kind of hair that can only come with life experience and age, a surety in his hands that no one else has ever had as he reaches for your hips.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he warns, his lips brushing over your own.

You tilt your chin up, grinning, and he presses forward.

It’s softer now, less frenzied. He takes his time mapping every part of your face as he presses you back into your sheets, covering your body with his own. You reach behind you, unclasping your bra and tossing it away, desperate to feel the wiry hair on his chest brush against your nipples, and you mewl at the sensation. 

Steve huffs a laugh into your mouth, planting his lips down your chin, ghosting his teeth over the column of your beck and down to your collar.

He pauses, then, one big, calloused hand coming up to cup your breast, his thumb dragging over the peak, and he whispers, “I know I keep saying this, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone more beautiful than you are.”

“You’re cheesy,” you say.

“Only for you,” he replies.

A kiss is pressed onto your sternum, then a little bite, and before you can process it, your entire nipple is sucked into his mouth, his tongue lavishing circles around the bud as his hand comes up to play with your other breast.

“Fuck, Steve,” you gasp, threading your fingers through his hair.

He peeks up at you, his brown eyes glowing in the darkness of your room, and grins with your tit still in his mouth.

It’s obscene, yet you feel so, so hot, especially as his hand travels down your body, making its way to your wet, aching core.

“So pretty for me, honey,” he murmurs, releasing your breast with a pop. “So, so pretty.”

He traces a path down, his tongue leaving a trail of spit as he goes, and for a moment, you think he’s going to just dive in, ripping your panties off and feasting the way he once did, but he doesn’t. He stops at your stretch marks, and carefully, begins to plant a kiss on every single one that he can find, mumbling beautiful and gorgeous as he goes. 

Your entire head goes fuzzy at the sight, and you think he can tell by the dopey grin he shoots you as he asks, “Do you still think I don’t love this?”

“You’re a perv,” you moan, his thumb pressing down on your clit through your panties. “And a freak. I can’t believe—”

“Only for you,” he promises. “Only for you, honey.”

Fingers come up to the elastic of your underwear, and with your permission, he begins the torturous process of peeling them down your legs, tossing them to the side without a care before spreading you open once more.

You aren’t surprised when he pampers kisses along your inner thigh, easing his way towards your core, to where you want him the most. You can feel the mess you’re making despite the fact he’s barely touched you, and you see the delight on his face when he makes his way home, stroking a hand through your pubic hair before spreading your lower lips apart.

“I missed this,” he says, then dives straight in.

The next thing you know, his tongue is everywhere. Dipping inside your cunt, swirling around your clit. He flattens it, licking a long stripe up as he peers at you through the thatch of hair, and you feel completely and utterly incoherent as pleasure builds faster than you’ve ever felt before.

Two fingers nudge their way inside, curling, finding the spot that has your thighs squeezing Steve’s head. You can feel his laugh, rather than hear it, as it vibrates against your pussy in a way that has your hips jerking up, desperate, chasing—

“That’s it,” he says, twisting his hand. “Come for me, honey.”

And you do.

Loudly.

A moan is ripped from your throat, bouncing around the walls as you tangle your fingers into his hair, stars shooting across your eyes as he holds you in place.

You feel like you’re on fire, like you’ve somehow been born anew as he works you through your orgasm, brushing a thumb against your clit as you shake and shake and shake, coming down slowly from the highest high you’ve ever felt in your life, until slowly, finally, your limbs stop trembling, and every single one of your muscles goes lax.

“Wow,” you whisper, forcing your eyes open and down towards the man still planting kitten kisses against your pussy. “Wow, Steve. You got—a lot better at that.”

“Yeah?” He shoots you a lopsided grin. “I’m glad.”

You tug on his hair once more, pulling him back up your body. “Come here.”

He follows, and you pull him towards your mouth, savoring the taste of you on his tongue as he kisses you deeply.

It’s perfect.

You reach down, hooking your thumbs into the elastic of his boxers, and he pulls back suddenly, saying, “Uh, when I said I wasn’t expecting anything—I meant it. I don’t—I didn’t bring protection.”

“It’s alright,” you say. “I have an IUD.”

His eyes blow wide open at that, and the next thing you know, his lips are crashing into yours once more as he helps you shuck his underwear. You take him into your hand, finding him warm and somehow bigger than you remember, but still so utterly him and utterly real.

His hips stutter as you give a few, testing pumps, and he whimpers against your mouth, pleading, “Don’t tease.”

“Not teasing,” you say. “Just feeling.”

His forehead drops to your collar as you continue to stroke him, up and down and up and down, dragging your nails across sensitive skin, soaking in the way he moans so beautifully under your ministrations. 

“Honey,” he groans. “Please, please, may I fuck you?”

“Well,” you giggle. “Since you asked so nicely.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

You yelp when he catches you under your knees, pushing up, up, up until you’re practically folded in half, the tip of his cock dragging through your folds, gathering wetness. He looks up, locking his eyes on you, before slowly—torturouslyslow—he pushes in. 

Your mouth drops open as a loud moan is punched from your throat, savoring the feeling of how he drags against your walls, filling you up in a way that you could go crazy over.

He eases out, testing, and gives a shallow thrust, testing, teasing, as he carefully fucks each and every single inch back into you until finally, finally, he bottoms out, his hips flush with your pussy.

And for one, small, excruciating moment, you know what it feels like to be home.

He leans over your body, capturing your hands in his own, winding your fingers together as he presses your foreheads together, the obscene sound of him fucking you gently filling your head.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs against your open mouth. “So, so beautiful, so mine—so lucky, honey, I’m so lucky—”

Tears of pleasure spring in the corners of your eyes, falling down your cheeks, and you let out a breathy laugh when he licks them up, loving the feeling of his tongue against your oversensitive skin. 

It’s never, not in any of your years of sleeping with people, made you feel as whole and complete as you do now, with Steve making space in your body for himself, with the unbridled pleasure he gives you with each and every thrust. 

It almost slips from your lips—an inappropriately timed expression of love—and you think he can tell, because he whispers, “I know, honey, I know.”

“Steve,” you gasp. “Steve.”

He picks up the pace, his hips snapping against yours faster, punching the air from your lungs as bliss lays claim on every single one of your senses.

“Please,” you babble, “please please please, come in me, please—”

“Fuck,” he grunts, then captures your lips so roughly that they’ll no doubt be swollen by the time morning rolls around.

He gives a last few, harsh, stuttering thrusts as warmth spills inside you before collapsing on top of you entirely.

It takes a few minutes, ones you spend stroking a hand down his muscular back, becoming reacquainted with the feeling of his skin, before he pulls out and rolls off, saying, “I could do that every day.”

You tilt your head, giving him what is no doubt a dopey smile.

“Yeah,” you say. “Me too.”

It takes a bit for the two of you to clean up, with Steve insisting on carrying you to the bathroom and laughing when you slip from his sweaty grip.

He finds a wash cloth in the linen cabinet, taking care to be mindful of any sensitivity on your end as he drags the cloth through your folds, washing his spend from your skin,

He also, in the years apart, had lost all sense of shame and insists on staying in the bathroom as you pee, holding your hand like you were at risk of flying away if he were to turn away for just a single second.

It should be embarrassing, but you find that you’ve long since moved past any sense of shame when it comes to Steve Harrington.

Back in your bedroom, he tugs soft pajamas from the dresser and insists on dressing you, kneeling on the ground as he helps you step into underwear, his hands warm against your legs as he pulls up the fabric. 

The two of you move back to the bed, crawling under your old quilt, and instinctively you reach over to the alarm clock, flicking on the radio as Jimmy Lee’s Late Night at the Squawk plays.

“You know,” Steve murmurs against your cheek. “One of those weird jobs I mentioned earlier? One of them was at the radio station.”

“Yeah?” you ask, a little too sleepy to say anything else.

He nods, his hair ticking the soft ski of your face. “Uh-huh. Back during lock down, in ’87. I did the late night set at the Squawk, Monday through Friday.”

Everything in your body stills. “Are you serious?”

His eyes peel open, fixing you with a curious look. “Yeah. Robin—my best friend, she handled the morning show—always said that she had to put me late at night, ‘cause my music choices were too boring.”

“No, it’s not—” Your heart pounds erratically, and it feels as though flowers have wound themselves around your ribcage, blooming under the admission. “Steve.”

“Yes?”

“Mia was born in ’87.”

“I know,” he says.

“No, no, you don’t—”

A laugh bubbles from you, and he hitches himself up on an elbow. “I’m missing something.”

“That was you!” you say between giggles. “Oh my god! No wonder she likes you so much!”

“Honey?”

“After Mia was born,” you start, grinning like a madman. “When it was just me and her, the only way I could get her to sleep was by tuning the radio to the Squawk whenever your show was on. But I had no idea it was you—I was so exhausted, you know?—and your voice—oh, god, your voice—it was the only thing that ever soothed her to sleep without fail.”

“Are you…” He licks his lips, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Are you serious? She…”

There’s something in his expression—hesitation, wonder, affection—that brings tears to your eyes, because you know that look. You know it intimately, because it’s the same way you feel every single time your daughter does something that surprises you, every time she grows just a little more into her own person.

And it’s a look that you have never, not a single time, seen on Mark’s face when he looks at her.

Something in you bursts, a swell of tenderness, of hilarity, over the fact that it took so long to find someone who might even remotely feel the same way about Mia that you do. And that person—that man—the one who so carefully cleaned her scraped knees, is the same man who once applied the same, careful precision to wiping tears from your face when you were nothing but a stranger to him.

It took so long, and he’d lived so close the entire time.

“You know,” he says, sounding rather choked up. “I—don’t kill me for saying this, but—I wish I’d run into you sooner.”

You find his hand in the dark and squeeze, hoping and praying that it conveys every single thing that you feel.

He threads his fingers through yours and squeezes back. 

“I’ve wasted so much time that I could’ve spent with you, with her,” he whispers. “I… I was serious earlier, when I said that I’ll take the two of you, in whatever way you’ll have me.  I’m all in, honey. She’s just—god, she’s an incredible kid, and you—I don’t even know where to begin, but—fuck.”

But he doesn’t need to explain.